“Look closer.”
Will squinted, but obliged. “A circle with stuff in the middle.”
“Really, you should share your brilliant powers of deduction with the world.”
Will opened his mouth to respond, but my phone exploded into an annoying series of chirps. I glanced at the text.
“Circle with stuff in the middle my butt! According to Lorraine, that’s a symbol of protection. It’s usually found on talismans. The pattern is called Luaithrindi, and these”—I drew my finger over each of the crossed lines—“are swords. The eight Ciphers of the Angels. This part where they interlock forms a—and I quote— powerful shield of protection.”
Will crossed his arms in front of his chest. “So a girl goes missing a year ago. She turns up with carvings all over her body.” He gestured toward the desk. “Do we know if this symbol showed up?”
I bit my lip and shook my head. “Not that I remember.” My stomach roiled. “Not that I want to remember.”
“One year to the day another girl goes missing. Her clothes are dumped and lit on fire. Same thing with Cathy?”
“No. I don’t think Cathy’s clothes were ever found.”
Will pressed his lips together, using his index finger to tap his clean-shaven (a rarity) chin. “So, how do we know that this”—he mashed his finger against the symbol—“has anything to do with our case?”
I could feel the adrenaline beginning to well. “Sampson suspected witchcraft. We find a symbol of protection carved into the desk, and earlier today . . .” I raised my eyebrows, assuming he’d finish my thought.
“Earlier today what?”
Of course not.
“The book—Miranda’s book of protection spells. She’s afraid of something—or someone.”
“So Miranda settles into her seat here in the back and carves herself some protection.”
I stopped cold, clamping my mouth shut. Then, “This isn’t Miranda’s desk.” I swallowed. “Up until last week, it was Alyssa’s. Now its Fallon’s.”
Will cocked a smug grin. “Well, then I guess we know the school’s not evil—just the students.”
I blanched, thinking how any girl—especially one not even old enough to vote—could be warped enough to kidnap, murder, and maim, whether or not she thought she was a powerful witch or just wanted to be.
I rested my head in my hands and massaged my scalp. “At least, for the first time in years, I’m not the one they’re aiming to kill.”
“And now it’s done.” He threw up his hands.
I looked up at him; he stood with arms widespread, a look of clear disappointment marring his hazel eyes.
“What’s done?”
“You. You are. You’ve essentially double-dog-dared every Vessel baddie in the known world to come take a swing at you.” He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “I really didn’t want to get these shoes scuffed.”
“Fine. Change into your defensive shoes while I go to the bathroom. Then we’re going to Cathy’s house.”
Will looked surprised. “On a bombardment mission?”
I rolled my eyes. “Her mother knows we’re coming. I called her between classes and got her address.” I produced the scrap piece of paper I had written the Ledwiths’ address on. “There was no answer at Alyssa’s, so we’ll have to search her place another time.”
Will left on a sigh.
My phone chirped just as I exited the classroom.
“Hey, Neens, what’s up?”
“I have great news,” she said, breathless.
“Really? Awesome. I could use some good news right now.”
“Well, first things first, I dumped
A little starburst of joy shot across my heart.
“Aw,” I said in my best that’s-too-bad-voice. “What made you decide that?”
“I suck at writing music. And you know what rhymes with Underworld Detection Agency? Nothing.”
“So . . .”
“So I have a new plan. And this one is legitimate. I am going to be writing, casting, and directing
“Do you cast a documentary?”
“Sampson was muttering something about our need to drum up more business, so I thought what better way to do that than to advertise? And what better way to advertise than to make a commercial?”
I bit my thumbnail. “And the documentary comes in where?”
“See, that’s the great thing. I’ll have the camera people following me while I make the commercial. Isn’t that going to be incredible?”
I knew better then to remind Nina of all the enormous loopholes in her new project—she couldn’t be seen on film; the clients, and existence, of the Underworld were supposed to be kept under non-major-media wraps— so I just gave her my most enthusiastic, “That sounds amazing!”
She paused for a beat, and I knew that she was biting her lip on the other side of the phone line. “Just one totally little teensy thing.”
My hackles were going up and my tolerance was going down. “What?”
“I just may need to use the apartment for some non-apartment-related things.”
I was imagining hobgoblin slobber soaking the carpet and blood spattering every wall—Nina was nothing if not incredibly theatrical and the documentary would be that times a thousand. “Like what?”
“Writing, storyboarding, meeting with the crew, casting.”
A whoosh of relief went through me. “As long as I don’t walk in on you on the casting couch with some hot little actor, that’s totally fine with me.”
“You’re the best, Soph.”
I clicked my phone off and put a little hop in my step. Things would work out. We were going to find Alyssa and solve this case and my alma mater would be no worse for the wear. High school was terrifying enough without adding a cache of teen witches—and Mercy didn’t have any, anyway. I smiled to myself. By this time tomorrow I could be peeing in the comfort of the Underworld Detection Agency, right next to the tiny pixie stall, with Nina giving me advice from her perch on the sink where she stared at her non-reflection.
I was disgusted—yet slightly comforted—to see that the girls’ room in the Junior Hall hadn’t changed since my years of hiding from my tormenters there. The tile was still that same horrid, milky pink with once-white grout that had endured years of pens and fingernails being driven into it. I tried not to breathe in, lest the stench of canned potpourri and industrial-strength cleanser stick in my lungs.
I flushed, and was mentally picking out tomorrow’s outfit when the overhead light started humming. It crackled, and my heart stopped beating while the light did one of those horror-movie flashes before going back to normal. I laughed at myself and yanked on the stall door, and nothing happened.
I jiggled the handle. I jiggled the lock. I yanked. I pushed. I pulled.
“Hello?” I called in the universal come-kill-me-now fashion.
The lights buzzed and flashed again, and heat zipped up the back of my neck. I started to panic, clawing at the cold metal door, kicking it, throwing my full weight against the chintzy lock. It gave at the same moment the lights went out. I stumbled over my own feet and barrel rolled onto the cold tile floor, gagging at the thought of bathroom floor touching skin and whimpering at the all-encompassing darkness. The room was pitch black and deadly silent, the only sound the heavy beating of my heart and my own open-mouthed panting.
And then came the sound. A bristling howl—primitive, inhuman—and deafening. I clapped my hands over my ears, trying to press the brain-numbing sound out, but it only got louder. I hunched down into myself as each stall door barreled open on its own accord, the metal slabs clanking against each other. The toilets were next— one, two, three—exploding pistols of water straight up toward the ceiling. A chilling blue light swirled with the water and I pushed myself up, steadying against a sink as water swirled around my ankles.
I gaped. The mirror was smeared with angry slashes of red, the words GET OUT scrawled across the
