Rachel gestures to Mercia.
“Oh, hell no. This is your idea,” she whispers.
Without another word, Rachel makes her way to the head of their party, glances out the door to find the hallway empty, and darts forward as quietly as she can. She navigates the path, careful not to step on the various objects littering the floor. The rancid smell grows stronger as they near the cafeteria.
“Where, oh where, can Rachel Cleary be?” the female sings, her voice farther away now. “Class is in session, young lady.”
Rachel slows her approach upon reaching the intersecting hallway.
Glancing around the corner, she comes face-to-face with none other than Holland Keith.
Holland reaches out and grabs Rachel by her sleeve.
“I found her. I found her!”
Twenty-One
Body of Work
As Holland’s excruciatingly high-pitched voice bounces off the walls, Rachel presses down on the mace spray’s trigger, directing a steady stream of irritant at Ridge Crest High’s queen bee.
Exultation turns to shrieks of agony as she falls to her knees. Holland paws at her eyes, rubbing the mace into her cheeks and temples. Her oily blonde hair tangles as she shakes her head.
The hunt begins.
Footsteps chase toward them, other voices join the ruckus.
Orion pushes Mercia in one direction, grabs Rachel by her arm, and says in a low tone, “Run.”
Mercia spins on them. “I have an idea, but I need time,” she says. “Lead them away from me. Keep them occupied.”
There’s no time to argue. Mercia sets off toward the old schoolhouse, leaving Rachel and Orion to rethink their escape plan. The others are closing in, though, running to Holland’s aid as she continues to howl.
“The cafeteria,” Rachel urges, breathless as adrenaline and fear course through her veins.
Orion gestures for her to take the lead, glancing over his shoulder.
Rachel rushes toward the godawful smell permeating from the lunchroom. Thick and unforgiving, the rotting stench lingers in the air, sticking to anything it touches. Still, she’d rather face the smell than whatever the townies have been tasked to do with her.
“Bar the doors,” she instructs as they enter the cafeteria.
Orion pushes the broken lacrosse stick he’d been carrying through the handlebars.
“I need something else,” he says.
She looks around. Empty food trays lie upside-down on the floor, their contents scattered across the surfaces of ripped up tables and upended chairs. Here and there, splotches of unidentifiable goop stick to the walls, like there had been a food fight nobody bothered to clean up. Trashcans are overturned, whatever litter they once carried strewn about and adding to the chaos, and the smell blankets the entire lunchroom.
“That?” Rachel says, pointing at a heavy bench lying on its side.
“It’s too heavy to maneuver into place in time,” Orion answers. “Find me a broom or a mop or something that’ll fit in between the handlebars to strengthen the hold.”
Rachel steps across the filth, navigates her way behind the serving counter. Things don’t look any better in the kitchen. Large stainless steel pots and pans have been pulled off the stoves and out of the ovens, the remnants of whatever the lunch ladies had been making spoiling in the open air. All the ingredients that’d been left out of the massive fridges are in a state of decay—meat, vegetables, fruit, milk. Oversized flies buzz around, sluggish from their feast while maggots crawl around.
A shudder crawls up her neck.
Don’t think about it.
Rachel scans the kitchen. A broom lies amongst the wreckage, half-covered in what could have been lasagna. She hops across a particularly foul-looking puddle of gunk and crouches to reach for the handle.
Loud thumps and crashes sound from the door, accompanied by an authoritative, “Clarré.”
“I’m coming,” Rachel calls back, picking up the handle, disregarding the grossness of having to touch the squishy old food clinging to it. She gags as she rushes back, only to find Orion using his body to keep the doors shut.
“Quickly,” he says, twisting slightly away from the door.
An almighty kick from the other side sends Orion skidding backwards, revealing two twisted, desperate faces in the gap between the opening doors. Rachel doesn’t know the attackers, though she can recall seeing the woman around town now and then. Her face is streaked with dirt and her black hair is matted with dried, flaking blood. The man is in even worse condition—mud cakes his tattered clothes, while his skin is peppered in purple bruises.
What had happened to them while they’d awaited their orders?
Through sheer strength, Orion pushes them back into the hallway, aligning the handlebars once more.
Rachel shoves the broom into the small space, but the flimsy thing flexes with each impact, the wood splintering from the force.
“The broom won’t hold for long.” Rachel rubs her hands clean on her jeans. When he doesn’t answer, she looks to where Orion had last stood and finds the space empty. “Faerie Boy?”
“Give me a second.” Orion’s voice travels from the other side of the cafeteria, where he is testing the glass doors one after the other. Nothing budges.
“Maybe try breaking the glass?”
“Won’t work,” Orion mumbles, giving up. “It’s an ancient blanket spell, which basically acts like a fumigation tent where magic is concerned.” He steps over an upturned chair, walking back to where Rachel waits. “We’re trapped until Golvath decides differently.”
She glances at the lacrosse stick and broom, both looking as if they’ll snap at any moment. “What do we do about them in the meantime?”
He grimaces as he searches the cafeteria. Orion looks up at the ceiling, and his frown smooths out, the concern disappears from his eyes.
Rachel follows his gaze to the vent grille, which is large enough to fit them both if they can reach it. However, it would certainly not hold their combined weight.
Orion makes his way over to the nearest chair. He lifts the chair, flips it over, and with
