“Do we have a problem here?” Miller’s question was directed not at me, but at Logan. I hurried to stand at his side and saw that Logan wasn’t making any attempt to hide the venom on his face as he glared at Aiden’s retreating figure.
“Logan, answer him,” I said, elbowing his side. “We don’t want detention again.” At that, he snapped out of it, shaking his head quickly.
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.” Logan sat down quickly as Miller glowered at him one more time before shuffling away. As soon as I’d taken my seat, Logan twisted to face me, gripping the armrest so hard, I thought he might splinter the wood.
“Aiden’s bold—I’ll give him that,” Logan seethed, scowling at where Aiden had strutted away to join Della and Matt, who were fused at the mouth. Even from several rows away, I could see the thin veins trailing from Matt’s mouth, a dark spiderweb across his ashen skin. Aiden winked at me from his seat, and I turned away, a sickening shudder shooting through me.
I nervously pulled the sleeves of my blue sweater over the heels of my palms—a gesture I’d picked up from Dottie. “He didn’t seem that afraid,” I whispered. “Why didn’t he seem afraid?”
“He should be,” Logan scoffed, before a more thoughtful look crossed his face. “I shouldn’t have reacted—it’s not like he would attack you with all these witnesses. But instead, I gave him exactly what he wanted. He wanted to know how to set me off, and now he does. Ugh!” Logan leaned back, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Get it together, idiot,” he mumbled into his palms.
“What?” I asked, not sure if I’d heard him correctly.
“Nothing,” he said, dropping his hands from his face and folding his arms in front of him.
The lights in the auditorium dimmed, and Principal Branyan, clad in a smart, tailored business suit, took the stage, where a foam-board portrait of Travis from last year’s school yearbook stood on an easel. She spoke of the fire, Travis’s contributions to the science department at school, and the restriction on entering the fourth floor, until it was deemed safe by the city. A few freshmen cheered—the mandatory music class was held on the fourth floor, a mind-numbingly dull, forced mastery of the recorder—and Miller hurried over to threaten them with detention.
But as she spoke, I found it hard to pay attention. All I could think about were the two demons sitting just a few rows away—the imagined pressure of their eyes on me was like two weights pressing into the back of my skull.
After the assembly, students somberly filed out of the auditorium, headed to the next class. Logan stayed next to me, keeping his eyes trained on the demons, who ducked out the side door quickly with Matt in tow. Matt, whose previously dark hair was now lightly threaded with white.
“Remember, stay in public places. Hallways. Classrooms. Don’t go into a bathroom if you’re the only one in there,” Logan cautioned me in a low voice. I felt light pressure on my backpack and realized Logan was resting his hand on it as he helped usher me through the crowd to my next class. The chivalry was unnecessary: thanks to Logan and Aiden’s showdown, students gave us a pretty wide berth, avoiding us as if we were serial killers with the plague and a scorching case of head lice. Andie in particular scowled at me with remarkable hatred.
“Andie super-hates me today,” I commented, and Logan’s cheeks turned pink.
“What? Do you know something about that?” I asked suspiciously, and he just shrugged.
“Where’s your last class before lunch?” Logan asked, deflecting my question as we arrived on the second floor, huddled against a row of lockers.
“History, room three-sixteen,” I said, before remembering something, exclaiming, “Oh, damn it!”
“What? Are they here?” Logan’s eyes opened wide in alarm as his head whipped around, surveying the area as his hand automatically reached over his shoulder.
“No—no. Nothing like that,” I quickly said. “I just don’t have my history book. Blaise, um, incinerated it when I chucked it at her head.”
“Way to give me a heart attack, Paige,” Logan huffed, slumping against the locker and leaning his head back with a dull thud against the metal door.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly as Logan slid his backpack off his shoulder to rummage around in it.
“Here, use mine.” He held out a battered copy of America: Our History I and gently shoved it into my hands.
“Are you sure? What will you use?” I asked as I slid the weighty book into my backpack.
“Oh, I think I can convince Malhotra to give me another one without fining me.” Logan grinned impishly. “I have a way of making people do what I want.”
“That hypnotism thing? Som-nom-nom or...whatever?”
“Somnorvik. And, yes, that’s what I’m going to do,” Logan said with a laugh, moving closer when a freshman interrupted us, needing to get into the locker Logan was leaning against. “I’ll be outside three-sixteen. Don’t worry, okay?” he whispered in my ear, and I nodded.
But I didn’t have anything to worry about in math class. Blaise was the only demon scheduled to be in Dr. Walsh’s class—but I knew firsthand that her name would never get a check mark in attendance again. Instead, I scanned the classroom for Dottie, who always made an appearance in Walsh’s class. It was right across from the third-floor bathroom, after all. I was tempted to make a midclass bathroom trip, but Logan’s words cautioning me to stay in public places echoed in my ears.
Matt’s seat was suspiciously empty, causing more than a few people to murmur about his appearance that morning. Shani Robinson, the news editor for the Holy Assumption Observer, was telling Tabitha that she’d heard Della had introduced Matt to some kind of scary new pharmaceutical, and she was planning an exposé in next week’s issue.
As the teacher droned on, I pulled out the letter I’d written for Dottie the previous night. I figured she could stand over my shoulder and read all about Dark Worlds and demons and, yes, demonslayers that were too charming and quick-witted and adorably shy for my own good—but my best friend didn’t make an appearance until fifteen minutes into history class.
Dottie peeked around the wood-frame doorway of three-sixteen just as Mr. Malhotra turned to the board to write in loopy penmanship about The New Deal.
“Paige. Paige! Paige!” she stage-whispered from the doorway, gesturing wildly for me to join her in the hallway.
I pursed my lips and jerked my head to the side, trying to indicate that she should come inside.
“Paige, come here!” she said. I wasn’t sure why she was whispering—it wasn’t like anyone except me could hear her. I shook my head briefly, one quick left-right movement.
“Please! It’s important,” Dottie pleaded, and then another blond head timidly appeared around her shoulder.
Travis.
My hand was in the air faster than you could say “guilty conscience.”
“Yes, Paige?”
“May I go to the bathroom, Mr. Malhotra?” I stared nervously at the door—Travis’s eyes were almost feral as they whirled around the classroom, stopping to lock on to mine in disbelief.
“Lunch is next. Can’t you wait?” Mr. Malhotra looked as uncomfortable asking me the question as I did hearing it.
“No, it’s an emergency,” I said, eliciting snickers from some classmates and a visible frown of discomfort from my teacher.
“Fine, Paige.” He hastily wrote me a hall pass, and I had to remind myself not to run to the front of the room to grab it.
“Let’s go to our bathroom,” Dottie said once I was outside, but I shook my head.