4
When my alarm clock blared to life, I woke up drenched in sweat, my St. Sophia’s blanket pulled completely over my head.
I’d had a nightmare.
I sat up and pushed the damp hair from my face, my heart still racing from the dream. I was awake, sure, but I hadn’t yet recovered. I still felt like I was there . . .
I’d dreamed that I’d been home in Sagamore. I’d been upstairs in my room reading a book. The house had been quiet; I think my parents had been downstairs watching television or something. I’d heard the front door open and close again, and out of curiosity, I’d put down my book and walked to the window, pushing the blinds aside.
Two men in black suits had gotten out of a boxy sedan. They’d looked at each other before walking toward our front door. They’d adjusted their suit coats as they’d moved, and I’d seen the glint of metal in one of their coat pockets.
I’d heard the doorbell ring, and the front door open and close, and the low murmurs of conversation that filtered upstairs.
And then the conversation had gotten louder. I’d heard my father demand the men leave.
I’d put my cell phone into my pocket—just in case—and I’d begun to walk toward my bedroom door. But with each step I’d taken, the door had gotten farther and farther away. My bedroom had expanded exponentially until the door was just a small rectangle in the distance. My heart had pounded in my chest, and my vision had narrowed until everything was fuzzy at the edges and the door was a tiny glint at the end of a tunnel.
That was when the yelling had begun.
I’d reached out for the door, but it was too far away. I’d begun to run, but each step felt like I was running through molasses. And even though I wasn’t going anywhere, my chest tightened like I’d been running a marathon. With no means to get to the door, I’d turned around and stared at the window like it was my only means of oxygen.
I’d run to the window—which stayed in place—and thrown it open. The men had walked outside again. One man had gotten back into the car on the driver’s side. The other had stopped and looked up at me. Our stares had locked, and there had been an evil glint in his narrowed eyes. He’d mouthed something I couldn’t catch—but there’d been no mistaking the symbol on the side of his car.
It was a quatrefoil—four circles stacked together like a curvy cross.
The symbol of the Reapers—of the Dark Elite.
The entire scene played in my mind like a movie. Just as real—the sounds and sights and smells of home the same. And that was the scariest part. Something about the dream felt familiar—familiar enough that I wasn’t sure if it had been a dream . . . or a memory. But I couldn’t remember seeing two men in black suits in an old-fashioned car arriving at the house. I didn’t remember yelling on the first floor or being unable to check on my parents. But still, something rang true. And I was afraid that something had something to do with the Reaper symbol on the car.
Shaking it off, I pulled on my robe, grabbed my shower kit, and headed down the hallway to the bathroom. I stood under the spray for a good, long while, but I couldn’t erase the feeling that I was still in the dream. That I’d try to turn the shower handle but it would move out of reach, or I’d return to the suite and find the man in black outside my door.
When I was dressed—skirt and St. Sophia’s polo under a hoodie—I walked across the suite to Scout’s room and knocked on the door. She answered with a “Yo!”
I opened the door and found her standing beside her bed, stuffing books into her messenger bag. At the sight of me, her expression fell. “Geez, you look awful. What happened?”
“Nightmare.”
Frowning, she glanced at the clock, then patted the bed beside her. “We’ve got a couple minutes. Bring her in for a landing.”
We both sat down on the bed. I told her about the dream. She listened patiently while I rehashed the details, occasionally patting my knee supportively. When I was done, I let out a slow breath, trying to remind myself that it had been just a dream . . . except it didn’t really feel that way.
“I think that’s the thing that bothers me the most,” I told her. “I mean, I know I didn’t see any of that stuff. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone yell at my parents. But it felt real.”
“Dreams can do that, you know. This one time, I dreamed I was being booed off the stage at this outdoor concert where I was playing the French horn. I don’t play the French horn, nor do I aspire to play the French horn. Couldn’t even pick one out of a lineup, probably. But when I woke up, I still felt like I was up there. I’d been humiliated in that dream, and the whole rest of the day I felt like I’d just walked off that stage.”
“French horn in hand?”
“Exactly.” Scout stared blankly ahead for a few seconds, like she was reliving the memory. “I knew it was just a dream—I mean, logically I knew it. But that didn’t make it feel any less real. It took a while to, like, shake off the psychic funk or whatever.” She grinned a little and bumped me with an elbow. “You just need to shake off your psychic funk.”
“You know, you are a pretty good friend. Those things they say about you are hardly true.”
Scout snorted, stood up, and shouldered her messenger bag. “They say I’m fabulous. And it’s crazy true. Now let’s go chow.”
It was just common sense that Adepts who spent their evenings fighting evil needed a good breakfast to start their day. Unfortunately, there was only one route to breakfast, and that was in the cafeteria through the horde of teenagers already in line for their own breakfasts.
Scout and I muscled into line.
Okay, that might be overstating it. Our evening adventures were one thing. Down there, we ruled the night with magic and firespell and flirted with werewolves. We had supernatural muscle.
But up here, we were the weirdish girl and her weirder friend—just two high school juniors trying to get enough credits for graduation while avoiding as much brat-pack drama as possible.
Not that that was easy.
Scout and I had just taken breakfast (hot tea and giant muffins) to a table when they walked in, Veronica in the lead, M.K. and Amie behind. They wore the same skirts that we did, but you could still tell they were different. They had swagger. They sauntered across the room like every eye was on them—and they usually were—and like there was no doubt in the world who they were, what they wanted, or what they were going to get.
The attitude aside, you kinda had to admire the confidence. Even Amie, who was a worrier, moved like the cafeteria was her personal catwalk.
“If you keep staring, your head’s gonna get stuck that way.”
I glanced back at Scout and stuck my tongue out at her, then nibbled on a giant blueberry from my muffin. “I can’t help it. They’re like a really rich, super-put-together train wreck.”
Scout rolled her eyes. “I’ve totally taught you better than that. The brat pack is to be ignored. We rule the school around here.”
“Mm-hmm. If that’s true, why don’t you head on over to the front of the room”—I pointed out a perfect spot—“and tell them that?”
“Oh, I totally could if I wanted to. But right now”—she bent over her muffin and began to cut it into tiny squares with a knife and fork—“I am totally focused on nourishment and noshing.”
“You’re totally focused on being a dork.” >
“You better respect me, Parker. I know where you sleep.”
“I know where you snore.”
After a few minutes of quiet munching, the bell rang, our signal that it was time to play goodly St. Sophia’s girls for the next few hours. “You know what’s crazy true?” I said, standing up and grabbing my messenger bag.
“That summer vacation can’t come fast enough?”
“Bingo.”
“I am a genius,” Scout said. “Ooh—do you ever worry I’ll become an evil genius?”
“The thought hadn’t really crossed my mind. You’re a pretty good kid. But if you start moving toward the dark side, I promise I’ll pull you back over.” We headed into the throng of teenagers heading for the cafeteria door.
“Do it,” she said. “But pull me back onto Oak Street Beach in the summertime, when everyone else is at work.”
“Consider it done,” I said, and we disappeared into the plaid army.
This time, the interruption came during European-history class. Mr. Peters had his back to us, and was filling the whiteboard with a chronology of Renaissance achievements.
The intercom beeped in warning, and then the message began. “Instructors, please excuse the planning committee members for a meeting in classroom twelve. Thank you.”
“Not much of a ‘sneak’ if they’re making announcements, is it?” Scout whispered behind me.
“It gets me out of history class,” I reminded her, giving her a wink as I grabbed my books and bag. I smiled apologetically at Peters as I followed M.K., Amie, Veronica, and a couple of girls I didn’t know well—Dakota and Taylor, maybe?—to the front of the room. None looked happy that I was joining them, but we filed out of the room without argument. That was good enough for me.
The brat pack walked down the hall, and then into a small room at the end.
It was a conference room with an oval table surrounded by office chairs.
We filed down one side of the table. I took a chair a couple of seats from the end beside Dakota or Taylor (whichever they were) while M.K. flounced dramatically into her own chair and pasted a bored expression on her face. Amie took a seat beside Veronica near the head of the table, then arranged her pink pen and notebook just so.
And on the other side of the table, something much more pleasant—a contingent from Montclare. Michael, Jason, and John Creed—of the dark brows and moody dark eyes—sat in a line, all spiffy and perfect in their sweaters and button-up shirts. All three boys smiled when they saw me, but Michael’s smile flattened pretty fast, probably when he realized Scout wasn’t following me into the room.
“She’s not much of a party planner,” I quietly explained.
“Party pooper,” he muttered.
I smiled at him, and then at Jason, my cheeks warming a little at the secret smile on his face and the glow in his sky blue eyes. I felt like a nervous little kid, my stomach full of butterflies. Here I was—only a few weeks out of Sagamore, and I was talking to a boy who turned into a wolf at will. A boy who’d jumped in front of me to keep me safe. Was it crazy cool? Yes. And unexpected and strange, and still a little bit nerve-racking. We hadn’t really gotten to that point of comfort yet, where you just sink into the relationship, where you’re actually just dating , instead of thinking about the possibility and constantly analyzing it.
Veronica cleared her throat, then gazed at us expectantly.
“Now that we’re all here,” she said, “let’s get down to business. Our theme for this year’s Halloween Sneak, already decided, is Graveyard Glam.”
John gave three loud claps. “I like it already. Meeting dismissed.”
Veronica gave him a half smile. “Keep your pants on, Mr. Creed. The theme is only the first item on the checklist.”
Did Adepts even get Halloween off? It seemed like that would be a busy night for us.
“Last year’s Sneak was held at Navy Pier.”
There were oooh’s and aaah’s from the other girls. I knew what Navy Pier was—an amusement park-type complex deal a few blocks away—but I hadn’t yet been there.
“This year, we want to do something a little more mysterious.”
Dakota/Taylor popped up a hand. “How about the Art Institute? Plenty of secret corners in there.”
“Already done,” Veronica said. “Two years ago.”
“Pritzker Pavilion?” Taylor asked. “We could have it outside?”
M.K. huffed. “Have you been outside in Chicago in October? Nobody’s gonna want to wear a Marchesa mini in the 312 when it’s rainy and fifty degrees.”
“It was just an idea.”
“And we’ve ixnayed it,” Veronica matter-of-factly said. “Next?”
Creed raised a hand.
Veronica gave him a catty look. “Do you have something substantive to add?”
“Only that my father has a yacht.”
Figured.
Veronica crossed her arms. “I’ve seen your father’s yacht, John Creed. It’s not enough boat for all of us.”
“Are you insulting the size of my father’s boat?”
“Only in reference to Sneak. Other ideas?” Veronica scanned the room, and her gaze stopped on me. “Parker?” she asked, with a challenging bob of her shoulders.
“Um, I really haven’t been in Chicago very long.” And more important, you don’t want any part of the things I’ve seen.
“Great. You’re all clearly going to be a huge asset to getting this thing off the—”
“Field Museum.”
Veronica stopped midinsult, then tilted her head at Jason. “What do you mean, Field Museum?”
“The Chicago Field Museum.” He leaned forward and linked his hands on the table. “I went to a bar mitzvah there once. You can rent out the main hall. I’m sure it’s not cheap”—he shrugged—“but we can party with Sue. That might be sweet, especially for Halloween.”
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be jealous or not. “Who’s Sue?”
“Sue,” Jason said, “is Chicago’s favorite Tyrannosaurus rex.” He mimicked claws and bared his teeth. “Very scary.”
“I’m not afraid of dinosaurs,” I assured him. “Trust me, I’ve seen worse.” Personally, I thought that was true, but I crossed my fingers just in case I was jinxing myself.
“Grizzly bears?” Jason asked.
“What about grizzly bears?”
“Have you seen worse things than, let’s say, grizzly bears?”
I smiled slyly. “Yeppers.”
“What about wolves?”
“Those aren’t even a little scary.”
“Hmm,” he said, smiling slyly back. “Good to know.”
Veronica tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “Excuse me? Can we ixnay the bizarre wild kingdom flirting—assuming that’s what this is—and get back on topic?”
“Seriously,” M.K. said, putting a hand to her stomach. “It’s making me nauseous.”
I bit back a smile. Sure, Jason and I weren’t exactly being subtle, but this time I’d been the one to create drama for the brat pack, instead of the other way around. That made a nice change.
“I like the Field Museum idea,” Veronica said. “I have to check with the boosters about the price, but it shouldn’t be a problem. One or two of them might even be on the board of directors.”
The “boosters,” I assumed, were the St. Sophia’s alumni who’d be donating a pretty penny so the juniors and seniors could have a luxe fall formal.
“Make the call,” John said. “And let us know.”
“Rest assured that I will,” Veronica said, then glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. “That didn’t take nearly as long as it should have. Anything else we should discuss right now, unless any of you are dorky enough to want to go back to history class?”
I guess I wasn’t supposed to be flattered that M.K. turned and looked at me.
“Drinks. Food. Transportation. Dress code,” Amie recited.
Veronica rattled off responses: “Drinks and food will depend on the location. The Field Museum probably has some kind of contract with a caterer. Limos for the transpo, and the dress code will be formal.”
“Looks like you have things well in hand,” John said.
“I always do. If there aren’t any more questions, let’s break into subcommittees and get into the details.”
We all just looked at each other. Even M.K. looked confused. “V, you haven’t assigned any subcommittees.”
“They’re DIY subcommittees,” she said. “And if you don’t DIY, we have to go back to class.”
She stood there for a few seconds to let the implication sink in.
“Subcommittees it is,” John said, pushing back his chair and standing up. “My subcommittee’s meeting over here.”
“And what’s your subcommittee?” Amie asked, pen in hand.
“That would be the subcommittee on rocking. Rocking hard.”
I bit back a snort.
The girls divvied up their committees—decorations, food, etc.—and then everyone began milling around. I walked over to the Montclare side of the table. After all, how often did we get a daytime visit from the boys in blue?
John Creed smiled in his way: a lazy half smile. “Hello, Sagamore.”
“Hello, Chicago.”
“You and Jason became fast friends.” He slid a glance to Jason, who was talking to one of the other girls. Since I’d been in Adept-denial at the time, I’d pretended not to know Jason the day I met John Creed. (I know, I know. I’d apologized later.)
“We’ve gotten to know each other,” I said vaguely. “I’m surprised you’re into party planning.”
“I’m into skipping class and spending time with private school girls.”
Mm-hmm. “Well, good luck with that.”
“Are you two going to Sneak together?”
I tried for a casual tone. “I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it.”
His thick eyebrows lifted. “Really? Weird.”
“Have you invited someone?”
He scanned the girls in the room. “I’m keeping my options open. One never knows when opportunity is going to come knocking.” When his gaze landed on M.K., I tried not to grimace. I also bet money that Veronica was not going to be happy with that.
With perfect timing, Jason interrupted further discussion of whatever brat-pack “knocking” John was going to pretend to hear.
“So,” Jason said, “if you’re handing out rides on the yacht . . .”
“We can probably arrange something,” John said, then glanced at me. “Have you been out on the lake yet?”
“There’s a lake?”
It took him a second to realize I was joking. “Tell me they let you out more than that.”
“They let me out plenty.” Just not usually aboveground, and usually after the sun went down. “And no, I haven’t been on the lake yet. Or the river either, actually, now that I think about it.”
“We definitely need to remedy that. It won’t be long before winter’s here and the boat’s in dry dock. And then you’ll get to experience your first Chicago winter.”
“Winters in Sagamore were plenty wintry,” I pointed out.
“I’m sure. Add thirty-miles-per-hour wind to that, and you’ll get closer to Chicago.” He watched M.K. brush her hair over her shoulder, and then he was off, heading right for St. Sophia’s least saintly girl.
I glanced over at Veronica, and watched her face tighten with the realization that her crush had picked a different victim.
“Hello, Sagamore.”
I glanced up at Jason, and his mocking of John Creed’s apparent nickname for me, and smiled. “Hello, Naperville.” I gestured toward Creed. “Are you two friends? I can’t get a read on him.”
Jason shrugged. “We’re friends of a sort, I guess. We’ve known each other for a long time, but we’re not close like Michael and I are. Creed’s the kind of person who pretty much always has an agenda. That doesn’t exactly make for a strong friendship.”
“More like a business alliance,” I said.
John lifted M.K.’s wrist to take a look at her watch. Since he had his own undoubtedly expensive version, I figured it was just an excuse to touch her.
“Looks like he’s getting along with her pretty well,” Jason said.
I nodded. “That’s M.K. Problem is, I think her BFF has a thing for him.” I gestured toward Veronica, who was talking to one of the other Montclare boys while sliding secretive glances at Creed. She definitely had it bad. On the other hand, Garcia definitely seemed to be off the hook.
“Bummer,” Jason said. “Nobody likes to be the one left out.”
“Unfortunately true,” I said, anticipating what Scout liked to call “TBD”—Total Brat Drama. If there was anything likely to be worse than the brat pack left to their own devices, it was internal brat-pack squabbles.
Nothing good could come from that.
When the bell rang, everyone began to gather up their goods. Jason leaned down and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “See you tonight at the Enclave?”
“With bells on,” I whispered back. “And firespell in hand.”
“I look forward to seeing that,” he said. And with a wink, the Montclare boys left St. Sophia’s once again. >
Scout was in her room, granola bar and magazine in hand, when I made it back to the suite. She looked up when I walked in.
“You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
“As a vegetarian, I object to that metaphor.”
Scout grinned teethily at me. “As a carnivore, I object to your pickiness. Now spill the goods.”
“There were Montclare boys at our party-planning committee.”
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed. “Like I care.”
“Oh, you care. Jason was there, and Michael, of course, and their friend John Creed.”
She spun a finger in the air like she was twirling a party favor. “I know who John Creed is.”
“Did you know Veronica has a thing for him? But that he has a thing for M.K.? I feel like that’s information we can use to our advantage.”
Slowly, she looked up and grinned. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Parker.”