The Nightmare Affair (12 page)

“They don’t need your help, Mr. Booker,” Ashbury said from the front of the classroom.

Eli frowned, looking ready to argue, but he set the dustbin on the table beside me and left.

Good riddance
.

*   *   *

When I arrived at Eli’s room that night for our next dream-session, I was still angry and determined to ignore him. At least I’d brought my own reading material. As I expected, Eli was awake again, sitting at the desk and doing work in a textbook while he listened to music. The song issuing from the stereo on the desk beside him was a familiar one.

I froze, my mouth open in surprise. “You’re listening to Black Noise?”

Eli looked up, his eyebrows raised. “Sure, they’re the best.”

“I know.”

He tilted his head as if in disbelief. “You like them?”

“No, of course not,” I said with an exaggerated eye-roll. “I just know all their songs by heart because I hate them so much.” I paused. “They’re only my favorite band in the whole world.”

Eli folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Mine too. Cool.”

A flutter went through my stomach—he and I actually had something in common. Other than the dream-seer thing.

“Nobody here’s heard of them,” Eli said. “I guess they’re not big enough yet. It kind of—” He broke off as a horrible sound, like a cross between a foghorn and a car accident, burst out of the speakers. Scowling, Eli slapped the top of the stereo. “Stupid thing. It keeps doing that.”

I stifled a grin. “Have you tried being nice to it?”

“What do you mean?” Eli said, turning down the volume.

I stepped forward and gave the stereo a little pat. “It’s just forming its animation personality. If you’re nice, it might be nice back.” That was one of the theories, at least.

“Okay,” Eli said, a note of disbelief in his voice. “What’s that?” He pointed at Rosemary’s diary tucked under my arm.

“Nothing. Just a diary,” I said, remembering that I was supposed to be mad at him. I sat on the sofa across from his desk and opened the book to the last entry.

“Cute hair,” Eli said, his voice amused. “Were you going for a punk rocker look or something?”

I screwed up my face at him, visualizing my appearance. My hair was covered in pale pink polka dots from where the cooling draught had landed, bleaching it. “You like it? It’s your handiwork after all. Awesome dirty trick by the way. I
really
appreciate it.”

“What? I didn’t do that to you. Lance did.”

“Oh, sure. You were just an innocent bystander.”

He slammed the book on the desk closed, then folded his arms, assuming his most menacing posture. “I had no idea that was mountain ash
or
that it would shoot off lightning. Why would I know? I’m
new
here, remember? Oh, and I’m the only person who can’t do magic in an all-magic school.”

“You’re not the
only
one,” I said.

“What?”

“Never mind.” I didn’t feel like explaining the halfkinds-are-usually-sterile thing to him.

My gaze fell on the spine of the book he’d been working in—
Alchemy Projects for the Non-Magical
. Geez, the administration might as well give him a scarlet letter to wear on his chest. A big, red “O” for ordinary. Or zero. Take your pick.

No wonder the guy hated me.

Unsure what to say, caught between lingering anger and something like regret, I returned my attention to the diary, hoping he would fall asleep quickly. The final entry in the diary was dated Sunday, the day Rosemary died:

I’m going to see F again tonight in Coleville. I’ve decided to end things. He used to make me feel so great, but lately when he kisses me he seems cold. Then there’re his strange questions about my parents. He’s hunting for something. I think I know what, but the idea of him being after it is so unbelievable. I’m going to confront him tonight, if only for my own peace of mind.

“So whose diary is it?” Eli said.

“Rosemary Vanholt’s,” I answered automatically.

“Really?” To my surprise he sounded interested. “Any clues about who killed her?”

I closed the diary and stared at him, leery, but could see no reason not to tell him. “Maybe. She was supposed to meet somebody that night. A secret boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I heard she was dating someone in secret. I’ve asked around trying to figure out who, but no luck so far.”

“You’ve been investigating Rosemary’s murder?”

“My dad is a detective.” He hesitated, cracking his knuckles. “And it’s sort of what I want to do. Be a cop. Maybe even join the FBI.”

I snorted.

“What’s so funny?”

“You always struck me as more of the criminal type.”

He grinned. “How would you know?”

Uh
 … my brain stuttered. “Everybody knows that you were the guy who spray-painted Mr. Patrick’s car last year.” He’d been rumored to have done a lot of other things, too, but that was the only one he’d gotten in trouble for that I knew of. Like my mom, he seemed capable of charming his way out of a tight spot.
Must be nice to be so good-looking
.

Eli sighed. “I guess you would believe that.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. Was that a denial? “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He gestured toward the diary. “So are you investigating, too?”

“Sorta. But I’m not exactly getting anywhere.”

“I’ve got something that might help.” He pulled out a piece of paper from the desk drawer, yawning hugely. He drew something on the page, then stood and handed it to me. Goose bumps went up my arm when our fingers touched for the briefest moment.

I ignored the sensation and stared at the paper. He’d drawn a grid with labeled columns across the top: Name, Motive, Method, Opportunity. In the Name column he’d written Frank Rizzo. Frank was a senior and a Mors demon, one of the more heinous of the kinds. Mors magic was fueled by death. Before The Will, they were known to start wars in order to generate feeding grounds. Now their magic was fueled by special potions whose primary ingredient was collected at ordinary hospitals. The idea turned my stomach.

“The person who fits in all those categories is most likely the killer,” said Eli, taking a seat on the chair he’d occupied during our last dream-session.

“Why Frank?” I didn’t know him personally, just rumors about his bad reputation.

“It’s probably nothing, but he told me
he
was the secret boyfriend. Pretty sure he was lying, but you never know.”

“Right,” I said, my body tensing. Frank’s first initial was quite a coincidence, and he definitely wasn’t appropriate boyfriend material for the consul’s daughter, either.

“Hey, you didn’t tell Katarina about my dreams, did you?” Eli sounded half-drunk with sleepiness.

I grimaced. “Not hardly. Why do you ask?”

“She’s just been
really
friendly to me the last couple of days. It’s weird, but I never used to remember my dreams before you came along.” His eyes drifted closed, and I stood, setting the diary and paper on the sofa before coming over to him. I waited for his breathing to deepen.

“I’m sorry,” he said, surprising me, “that Lance did that to you. Do you think the pink will fade?”

“I hope so.”

Eli smiled, his eyes still closed. “You should get back at him. I think he might even respect you for it. He’s a heavy sleeper, you know.”

Revenge against Lance was an intriguing thought. I opened my mouth to ask him if he had any suggestions on what I could do, but he’d fallen asleep. I sighed, and then joined him on the chair and in his dreams.

*   *   *

Eli’s dream that night proved to be a bust. It was about ice fishing on Lake Erie with his dad and Katarina. Boring, cold, and pointless, although at least I made it through the entire session without getting booted, intentionally or otherwise. Progress.

Best part of the night by far was after the dream ended. With Eli still asleep in the chair, I rummaged in Lance’s desk, found the perfect ink pen for the job, and then snuck into the bedroom portion of the dorm. The pen was a come-and-go pen, the kind you could only buy in a magickind novelty store for a lot of money. Like the name suggested, anything written with it would sometimes be present and sometimes not. A little lever on the side of the pen controlled the charm that designated when the ink would appear. I set it eight hours ahead, about the time I figured Lance would be eating breakfast.

Eli was right about him being a heavy sleeper. Lance didn’t wake once.

*   *   *

It worked better than I could’ve hoped. The words appeared right as Lance crossed the cafeteria with his tray the next morning, “jackass” written across his forehead. A wave of laughter and finger-pointing followed him. Sitting next to me, Selene was beside herself with glee, her body wracked by huge guffaws. I’d never seen her so happy. As soon as Lance realized what people were laughing about, he immediately looked for me.

I gave him the finger.

An evil smile crossed Lance’s face, and I watched his lips form the words “Game on.”

Despite the chill that swept down my back, I knew this had totally been worth it.

*   *   *

The rest of Saturday wasn’t nearly so exciting. I spent a good part of it reading through the diary, but Rosemary’s emotional ramblings didn’t provide a lot of clues. All I knew about F was that he was good-looking and liked to go for midnight strolls in secluded places on campus, such as the cemetery and the tunnels. There was nothing to indicate how old he was or which magickind. He could be anybody.

By the time Sunday rolled around, I was so depressed from reading about Rosemary’s dreams and knowing they would never be fulfilled, I was determined to start filling in some of Eli’s suspect graph. I figured I’d read through the diary again and make a time line of when things happened. Maybe there was a pattern to the meetings.

After breakfast, which proved to be much quieter than the day before with no Lance present, I went to the library to find a quiet place to work. Selene did her musmancy homework in the dorm on Sundays, which required her to both sing and play various instruments while she practiced her music magic. I liked listening, but it was impossible to concentrate on anything. The music was too mesmerizing to ignore.

It was the weekend, so I expected to find the library deserted except for the librarian on duty, but when I walked by the row of computer terminals on my way to the study desks in the back, I heard someone typing. I could see the guy’s sneakers underneath the desk but nothing of his face hidden behind the divider in front of the terminal. At least, I assumed it was a guy, given the size of those feet, although you never could tell with magickind.

I spent the next forty minutes drawing up my time line. I started with the day Rosemary’s father had given her the ring—June 30. She’d written:

I can’t believe it’s finally here. I’ve waited so long. I’m finally old enough to bear the responsibility of my heritage as my mother did before me and hers before that. Mother says I’m too young to wear the ring, but Father thinks differently. He knows how important it is that I prove myself to the Magi. I know where my future lies.

From this, I finally accepted that the Keeper spell wasn’t new. Shame. It would’ve been easier to identify the item if it had been recent, and the regular use of black magic raised some troubling doubts about the magickind leader and his family.

Rosemary started dating F sometime between the eleventh and nineteenth of July, and they met regularly after that, always on campus. So the guy had either been living on campus through the summer or somewhere nearby. This meant I could eliminate any of the students who went home to other cities for the break.

When I finished the time line, I pulled out the suspect graph and placed it beside the list of dates. I stared at them, willing the answers to jump out at me. On the graph, I’d written
F
in the Name column below Frank Rizzo. I’d also placed a check in the Opportunity column since Rosemary had been on her way to meet F in Coleville that night. The rest were a complete blank.

For Motive, it was possible F had killed her in a fit of rage over the breakup, and then somebody else had come along and cut off her hand, but I doubted it. Too coincidental. It was more likely that F’s reasons for being in the relationship had been fake, judging from Rosemary’s reasons for breaking up with him. But who could it have been? What was he after? My head began to ache.

“Ugh,” I muttered, dropping my pen. It rolled and fell off the desk. “Too many questions I don’t have the answer to.”

“Do you always talk to yourself?”

I jumped so hard I almost fell out of my chair. I looked up and saw it was Paul Kirkwood. My pulse increased. Glancing at his shoes, I knew he’d been the person typing earlier.

I smiled at him, glad I’d worn a ball cap this morning to cover my polka-dot hair. “All the time, actually.”

“Hmmm. I imagine it makes for good conversation.”

“Do you
live
here or something?” I asked.

“Yep. I’ve got a cot in the librarian’s lounge. They let me use old newspapers for blankets and books for pillows.” He pulled out the chair next to mine and sat down. “Seriously, I’m just working on my senior thesis paper. Wanted to get an early start.”

I nodded, in awe of his devotion to schoolwork. I waved my hand toward my pen on the floor, summoning it with my telekinesis. To my surprise it flew up at once and into my outstretched fingers without a hitch.
See, I can do magic without screwing it up,
I thought. Too bad Eli wasn’t around to see it.

“So what are you doing?” Paul said, tapping the diary.

“Oh, um. Studying.”

His gaze took in the suspect graph and time line, and he raised his eyebrows. “For what?”

I blinked, at a loss for a response. I didn’t want to lie, but I couldn’t see telling him the truth. I’d been sitting here trying to visualize myself as Veronica Mars, all smart and badass. But in reality, I felt more like Inspector Gadget with my go-go button stuck in neutral.