I stare at the picture. Something niggles at the back of my mind, but it’s like I’m trying to grab hold of rubbery fish: every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, it wiggles out of my grasp.
I remember the news report Aunt Penny was watching the other morning about the redheaded boy. That makes two teens gone missing in the course of a few days.
Chairs squeak against tile as the gym empties out, but I don’t move, just keep staring at the picture. There’s hardly anyone left in the room when I finally figure it out.
Wipe away the smile, pull down the ponytail, and smear dirt across her cheeks—and that girl becomes the one in the back of the van in Los Demonios.
10
It doesn’t make sense. What the hell could Mrs. Hornby’s daughter be doing in an alternate-dimension prison?
The lack of sleep and the guilt must finally be catching up with me, I decide. It can’t really be her. I’m superimposing her face on the girl I saw because I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened to her after I left her in that van, Cruz unconscious or worse, and with Bat Boy on the loose.
Yes. That’s it. It’s not her. I say it so many times that I almost convince myself it’s true.
Back in math class, I wait for Mr. Lloyd to turn his back before digging in my purse for my phone. I cradle it in my lap under the desk and open the web browser, sneaking glances down to type in the search bar whenever the opportunity strikes. I’ve gotten as far as “Samantha H” when Mr. Lloyd suddenly stops his impromptu lecture on the importance of good math grades for getting into a decent college and not failing at life.
“Yes, Bianca,” he says.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Lloyd. I’m trying to pay attention, because college is, like, super, super important to me, but I’m just really distracted by Indigo on her phone.”
I stiffen, blood rushing to my face. The classroom calls out “Oooh” in unison as Mr. Lloyd’s shoes slap down the aisle. He holds out his hand, under my nose. Exhaling, I hand over my cell.
“You can pick it up at the end of the day,” he says.
“What?” I shriek.
He ignores my outburst. As he retreats to the front of the class, I twist around to send eye daggers at Bianca. She gives me a huge, satisfied smile. I can’t help myself. I turn to face the blackboard, calling my magic; it answers quickly, the heat stinging my fingertips. I think of Bianca’s desk and repeat the incantation to move objects inside my head.
Sequere me imperio movere.
A loud crash sounds behind me, followed by a roar of laughter. I twist around to see Bianca splayed out on the floor under her tipped-over desk.
“Get this thing off of me!” she screeches.
Devon jumps up to right the desk.
“Who pushed me?” she yells, scrambling up and struggling to rearrange her impossibly small skirt.
“Pushed you?” Devon asks. “Don’t blame me because you fell.”
I laugh, but quickly turn it into a cough.
“All right, that’s enough, people,” Mr. Lloyd says. “Miss Cavanaugh—take your seat. And try to stay in it, please.”
Repressed snickers bounce through the room. Bianca snaps her head around, as if she’s trying to burn every laughing kid’s face into her memory so she can remember to ruin their lives later. And then she notices me. Her eyes narrow, and I know she’s trying to figure out how I could have caused her fall from three rows over. I give her a smug smile before I spin around to face the blackboard again.
Well, that was fun. But I make a note to myself not to lose my temper like that again. Being loose with my magic could get me in some serious trouble.
The rest of the morning passes by like sludge. When the lunch bell rings, I practically sprint to the library.
The library at Fairfield High is enough to cause clinical depression. The outdated shag carpet, cheap plywood bookcases, and Commodore 64 computers make the place look like it has been royally screwed over in the budget department since 1970.
Mrs. Sutton glances up from her computer at the reference desk when I enter but quickly goes back to doing whatever it is librarians do. I cross over to one of the computer stations and drop my bag on the floor.
My fingers shake as I bring up Google, then type “Samantha Hornby” into the search bar. The police report comes up as the first option. I click on it and skim the paragraphs looking for details not already mentioned at the assembly.
She went missing yesterday. She left for school with a friend, but never showed up to class. I read the rest of the report but learn nothing new. I click out of the page and open up her Instagram, zooming in on her most recent pic. It’s the same picture from the assembly, but up close, Samantha looks even more like the girl I saw in Los Demonios.
My heart beats hard. I click on another picture, then another and another—star soccer athlete, devoted friend, smiling and happy in every photo. I keep looking, hoping to crush my theory, but the longer I search, the clearer it becomes that I’m right: Samantha and the girl in the van are the same person.
My mind speeds in a dozen different directions. What was this seemingly well-bred human doing in a place like that? I don’t know what it all means.
A thought strikes: maybe Samantha is a witch. Hell, maybe she’s a sorcerer. Why not? It’s unlikely that I’m the only teen witch in Los Angeles County, even if the thought makes me feel a tad less special.
But then Goth Woman’s words on the roof stream through my head again. “Did they tell you why they kidnapped you? Give you any idea what they’re using you for? Why all the humans?”
Okay, so Samantha’s probably a human, I decide.
I turn over the rest of the woman’s words again, trying to pick some meaning out of them. So someone is kidnapping humans….Could it be that someone is collecting them from the outside and dumping them into Los Demonios?
My breath hitches, a sense of foreboding falling heavy on my shoulders.
It can’t be.