Gravediggers Read Free Page B

to his mouth. It’s like the room is growing smaller with every second of this phone call.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I ask.
    â€œNo coming after me,” she snaps. “You’ve got to follow your training. Prepare for whatever comes your way. You three are too important, too talented. I can’t have you risking that for me.”
    â€œO’Dea, what’s wrong?” says PJ.
    â€œJust remember what I’ve told you,” she cries, the banging growing louder. “Don’t be scared. You’re powerful and dangerous, no matter what happens to me. I’m just your teacher, but you three, you’re the chosen ones—”
    The banging turns into a crash, and O’Dea screams, straight-up lets loose at the top of her lungs. As my head goes all wobbly and I feel behind me for my bed, the phone lets loose a loud booming noise, and then the scream cuts out just as the phone drops from Kendra’s hands and tumbles to the floor. For a few minutes, we’re all silent, and my heart pounds and my mouth goes dry and I wonder what could’ve made the strongest person I know, who spends her days looking after a horde of zombies, scream like that.
    Kendra’s phone buzzes on the floor. My hand snaps out and grabs it before anyone else’s can, and when I see the screen, I can’t help but gasp out loud.
    â€œIan?” asks PJ softly.
    The picture message shows O’Dea, her face beaten purple and bloody. She’s lying on the ground, chin pulled up. A huge hand in a black leather glove is pressing the blade of a massive hunting knife into her throat.
    Stay out of my way , reads the message, or the warden dies.

Chapter Two
    Kendra
    O ’Dea’s visage, battered and threatened at the end of a cruel blade, is all I can see out the bus window. Every passing billboard or solitary gas station looks like our Warden brought low. It is what has kept me focused as we’ve arranged this bizarre ride and made our inexperienced and bumbling phone calls and emails: the thought that our friend and mentor is in mortal danger. Time is of the essence. We must act.
    The bus driver, corpulent and unshaven, eyes us warily as Ian, PJ, and I all step out at the hotel’s drop-off area, and I am unable to make eye contact with him in fear that such a personal gesture might rouse his suspicion. Thankfully, as we exit the bus, I hear the doors close and the vehicle rumble to life, and soon bus, driver, and worry all wheeze through a roundabout and drift out of sight.
    â€œWhat time is our return bus?” says PJ softly, his expression one of both exhaustion and determination.
    â€œNine,” I tell him, calling up our itinerary on my phone. “We arrive back home at ten-twenty.”
    â€œAnd you’re sure she’s meeting us here?” asks Ian.
    â€œThere’s no way to be positive,” I tell him. “The email she sent me was from two days ago, from an internet café in San Juan. For all I know, she was stopped and interrogated at customs. But this is without a doubt the right hotel.”
    We trudge our way across the front lot toward an airport hotel, its modern design sleek and pointed, like that of a luxury car. A doorman wishes us a good night as we push through the glass doors and enter the brightly lit lobby, full of soft leather furniture and lilting (five! When I get home, I have to strike that off the vocab list for this month) elevator music over the stereo.
    At first, all I see is the occasional guest trailed by rolling luggage and the well-dressed clerks behind the check-in desk looking expectantly at us, and then a figure from the lounge area stands and waves. We all blink for a moment, startled by her outfit—the last time we saw Josefina was on an island off Puerto Rico, dressed in cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt. To see the sweet-faced girl dressed in pants, a winter jacket, and tight-laced boots is startling.
    After she hugs