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 UDA: The Musical .”
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 UDA: The Documentary.”
“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.