The Nightmare Charade (12 page)

“Hey, back off, man,” Lance said as the Guard reached us. “They're not hurting anything.”

Eli set me on my feet, and we pulled apart. I expected the Will Guard to give us a reprimand, but it was the same one from Monday. He murmured a halfhearted warning and then walked away again.

“Thanks, Lance,” I said, a little stunned.

“We'll call it four to three,” Lance replied, referring to our ongoing prank competition we'd had most of last year. He winked. “Or you could just concede that I win forever.”

“Last I checked, hell is still pretty hot.”

We all sat down to eat, and I filled them in on most of what happened in my interview with Valentine. All except for the stuff about Bethany. The second I tried to tell them she'd gone missing, my tongue sealed itself to the roof of my mouth.

Eli clucked annoyance and ran his hand over my back. “Don't fight it. Just think about something else.” Then he turned to Selene and Lance. “Dusty and I have to be careful about what we talk about. We signed a nondisclosure agreement a few days ago for our latest dream-seer task.”

Selene huffed. “That's going to make things hard for the rest of us.”

I nodded, still unable to speak.

“We'll figure a way around it,” Eli said. “We can't let it stop us.”

By the time the nondisclosure spell gave me back control of my mouth again, breakfast was over. I sighed, dreading the rest of the day without Eli. But at least we had a dream session tonight.

Only, I was dreading that, too, and not just because of Bollinger.

“I'll spend some time coming up with a strategy of how we should start our investigation,” Eli said as the four of us exited the cafeteria. “Should we meet after school to really dig into it?”

“What about your gladiator practice?” I asked. “Isn't it every night?”

Eli smiled down at me. “Your mom is way more important.”

A flush heated my skin. I studied his gaze and saw he truly meant it, his cool blue eyes unwavering. Only making the team meant so much to him. “Thanks, but I don't want you to skip it.”

He cocked his head. “What? Why?”

I squeezed his fingers, interwoven with my own. “Because it's important to you, and I know you'll still manage to help. Besides, the trial's weeks away. We've got a little time.”

Eli rubbed his chin. “Tryouts are coming up soon, but are you really sure?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice firm. “We should all just brainstorm about it as much as possible so we're ready to get to work when we meet up again.”

Everyone agreed to this plan and we made our way to homeroom.

It came and went quickly, the announcements typically long as they always were at the beginning of the school year. When the bell rang, Eli and I shuffled out into the hallway to head to our separate classes. Spotting another Will Guard nearby, I stifled a groan of disappointment. It seemed we'd never catch a break.

I turned to say as much to Eli, but to my surprise, he pulled me against his chest and bent his head toward mine. The kiss was deeper than the last, our mouths opened, tongues touching. Even though it lasted only a second before the Will Guard vulture ordered us apart, I felt the longing in his kiss, the unspoken wish for more time spent doing this.

Ignoring the Will Guard shouting at us, Eli fixed a gaze on me that was more promise than look.
We'll find time together soon
.

I nodded, my whole body tingling from the inside out.
Thank goodness I have Eli,
I thought as I headed to class. Together we could do anything.

Although I was a day behind, I spent most of history and English thinking about how to save my mom. The only way, short of breaking her out, was to find the real killer. We really needed those police files. But getting them would require breaking into the Rush, a place both physically and magically guarded around the clock. As it was, I doubted we'd even be able to break out of school, what with the Will Guard patrolling campus all the time.

Unless we can break into the computer system.
It was a good idea, but problematic. The only person I knew capable of pulling off a hack like that was Paul Kirkwood. For the first time in months, I was sorry he wasn't around. It seemed it was time I read all those unopened e-mails.

Later,
I decided, catching a stern look from Mr. Corvus.

When first period ended, I tried to scan some of Paul's e-mails on the way to biology, but it proved impossible to read at the fast pace we were walking to get there on time. And when we arrived Ms. Miller kept us busy. Today she had us working with a pack of azbans, raccoon-like creatures with a reputation for being the most clever and mischievous of all magical animals.

“They have a wicked sense of humor,” Ms. Miller warned.

More like mean,
I decided when ten minutes into the class one of them bit my finger.

“Are you all right, Dusty?” Selene said, spying the blood. “Ms. Miller, we need help.”

“I'm fine,” I said, pain rippling up my hand into my arm. I glared at the azban, which was staring at me with wide, watery eyes, its little hands covering its mouth like it was either shocked by what it had done—or was laughing about it.

My vote was on the latter.

“Let me see,” Ms. Miller said.

I held out my hand. She examined it a moment, pronounced it a flesh wound, and offered me a strip of dirty rag.

“Just wrap that around it. You'll be fine.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said, staring down at my mutilated finger.

“Karma,” someone whispered from behind me.

“Even azbans don't like Nightmares,” came the reply.

I resisted the urge to look around. Finding out who had said it wasn't going to make me feel any better.

By the time we got to ordinary living, my finger was hurting too badly for me to hold a pencil. I considered asking Mrs. Bar for a pass to visit the infirmary, but decided to tough it out. Psionics was up next and I didn't want to miss it.

Then again, maybe skipping would've been best. Katarina turned to stare at me the moment I walked in. She leaned toward her best friend Carla Petermeier, whispering behind her hand.

Just ignore them,
I thought, reaching for the silver band on my wrist. The extra contact with Bellanax seemed to lessen the pain in my finger, if only by a degree.

A few moments after I sat down, Mr. Deverell approached my desk. “Are you doing all right, Dusty?” He peered down at me, his expression one of open concern.

I gulped, suddenly feeling emotionally fragile. I'd been doing okay all day—rumors easier to deal with than sympathy. “I'm fine. Thanks.”

Deverell nodded. “Let me know if you'd rather not participate in today's activities. It could be challenging.”

“I like a good challenge.”

“I know you do.” A smile slid across his face, disappearing a second later. “I'm so sorry to hear about your mother. Please let me know if there's anything I can do.”

“Thanks,” I said, tight-lipped as I fought back that fragility once again. It was like trying to hold a crumbling wall in place. He made it sound as if my mom had died instead of been arrested and charged with murder.

“Today,” Deverell said to the class at large a few minutes later, “we will begin our study of psychometry. Does anyone know what that is?”

Several hands went up in the air.

“Yes, Katarina,” Mr. Deverell said.

“Psychometry is the ability to read the history of an object by touching it.”

“Very good.” Deverell bestowed an appraising glance on her. “Now, this is a very difficult skill as it requires the mind and the body to work as one. But as always, the more open and supple your mind is, the better you will do. So let's start with some focusing exercises and then we will attempt to read some objects.”

Deepening my breathing, I closed my eyes and attempted to perform the first exercise—mind-cleaning, as it was called. I pictured a large room cluttered with objects, visual representations of all my thoughts. I imagined myself cleaning out the room, removing the clutter one by one. The goal was to make the room empty and open, an inviting place for the mind-magic to dwell.

After several minutes of trying, I failed to remove so much as a cobweb. Worry about my mom kept pressing in. The image of my dead body in Eli's dream had been replaced with hers. I couldn't shake it.

Giving up, I opened my eyes, inwardly cursing. I supposed if Deverell called on me I would take him up on the offer to pass.

At the front of the room, Deverell was levitating objects from out of the nearby utility closet and placing them on the long table set beside his desk. I spotted a rusted hammer, a skull, a wrench, a knife. I half expected Miss Scarlett and Colonel Mustard to appear next.

Soon, everyone else had given up on the warm-up exercises as well, all of our attention focused on Deverell.

“Okay,” he said, clasping his hands. “The objects you see before you have very long, very powerful histories. They are also very ‘loud' as we call it in the business. And by that I mean they are broadcasting a good deal of their histories easily enough for even beginners to detect.”

Katarina raised her hand.

“Yes, Miss Marcel,” Deverell said, motioning at her.

“Why do they broadcast so clearly, sir?”

Deverell beamed, and it seemed I heard all the females in the room give a collective sigh—myself included. “There are two factors that primarily cause a regular object to both retain and broadcast a history. The first is emotional impact. All mind-magic, be it telepathy or empathy or anything else, comes from living, sentient beings. Inanimate objects will sometimes absorb the emotions of the humans and magickinds that live near them. Objects that have witnessed tragedy or extreme joy are more likely to retain the psychic energy of that history. It makes an impression on them.

“The second factor is the duration of exposure. Objects that have been owned by the same person or even the same family are more likely to retain history. Make sense?”

I nodded along with the rest of the class. It sounded similar to the animation effect, only where magic and electromagnetic fields were replaced with emotions and exposure.

“Now, who would like to volunteer to go first?” Deverell said.

Once again, several hands went in the air.

“Deanna Ackles,” he said, waving to the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl sitting at the back of the classroom. Deanna was demonkind, although I wasn't sure which type.

“You can select any of the objects you wish,” Mr. Deverell explained as she arrived at the front of the classroom. “Then all you have to do is place your hands on it, close your eyes, and open your mind to it the same as you would during a telepathy exercise.”

After a few seconds contemplation, Deanna selected an antique compass. She picked it up, holding it in one hand and cupping it in the other. She closed her eyes. Several seconds passed with the rest of us watching, silently.

Deanna scrunched up her nose in concentration. “I think I see … a … a … pirate ship.”

Several people laughed at this—Deanna had a reputation of being a wiseass—but as her eyes slid opened, I could tell she wasn't joking this time.

Mr. Deverell said, “That is very close to true, Deanna. Good job.” He took the compass out of her hand and held it up for the rest of us to see. “This belonged to one of the sailors of the unfortunate
Mary Celeste
.”

A murmur of surprise went through the classroom. On a normal day, I would've been utterly captivated by the idea of the ghost ship, but as it was, my head was beginning to ache, the lack of sleep catching up with me. Even worse was the steady throb in my wounded finger. It was starting to make me sick to my stomach.

“Does the compass show what happened to the sailors?” Deanna asked.

A devilish expression crossed Deverell's face. “It just might. We will have to see.” He set the compass back on the table then called on Katarina next.

She did her catwalk thing all the way to the front of the classroom, casting her sultry gaze here and there. In seconds, she held everyone captive with her siren bedazzlement. For the first time in perhaps ever, I was grateful for the distraction. It helped me forget the throb in my finger and the pound in my head.

Katarina examined the objects, contemplating the skull before turning toward the knife. A smirk came and went on her face. She picked it up and closed her eyes. The class watched with a collective held breath, all of us enchanted.

“I think,” Katarina said, her lips curling. “I
think
 … that this was used in a … in a … murder.” Her eyes slid open for a moment, long enough to recapture anyone who'd managed to break free of her mesmerizing power. Even with the throb in my finger, I could tell she was deliberately using her siren magic. Dread began to thrum inside me, building low, somewhere deep.
Murder
she had said.

Katarina squeezed her eyes closed again, and now an alarmed look crossed her face—the beautiful horror-flick damsel in distress who just discovered the psycho killer is
in the house
. Like all sirens, she was quite the actress.

“Yes, a murder. Someone important. A politician, I think. And the person who did it was a … was a … a woman.” Katarina's eyes came open once more, and again that smirk ghosted her face. Around me, I heard several snickers, some of the others catching the joke before I did.

The cruel, awful joke.

Throb, throb, throb
. My anger coiled inside me like a snake.

“Yes,” Katarina said, her snide smile directed at me. “This knife was used to commit murder by a
Nightmare
.”

My anger, coiled one moment, exploded into rage in the next. And it was more than emotion. It became a force. It became power.
Magic
.