He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded note. “Yeah. I got a note from you. Said to meet you?”
I snatched it out of his hands and unfolded it. Heather went on with her story. There were gasps and nervous laughter, but I stopped paying attention. My focus tunneled around the note. It was indeed to Mikey. It told him to come meet me outside of the girls’ bathroom, but I sure as Hell didn’t write it. Even though it was in my handwriting.
A chill settled into my bones. I balled up the paper.
“I didn’t write this,” I said in a hard voice, cutting Heather off from whatever she was saying.
Mikey’s eyebrows bunched together. “Then who did?”
I scanned all the faces in the room, all of them still mostly strangers to me. Elia was seated on the window ledge by herself, cocooned in her purple Disney princess blanket.
“I don’t know,” I said in a low voice, my eyes never leaving her.
Heather laughed. “It’s just gross, though, right?”
“Yeah.” Mikey shuddered. “All those bald spots. What’s that about?”
Listening to them was like pulling a plastic bag over my head. I shot up from my chair. Mikey scrunched up his nose at me, then went back to chatting it up with Heather. I headed toward Zane because I desperately needed to tell someone.
But the intense look on his face stopped me short. Lines etched across his forehead, like he should have been bent over a complicated math equation. I stalled and then turned to go in the other direction. And ran right into Miss Molly.
That was when I noticed the room had gone silent as if no one had ever uttered a word in the room—ever. I stumbled backward, expecting fiery anger from her, but she only looked tired.
She turned, went to the table in the corner of the room where people played card games, and grabbed a chair. The metal legs shrieked against the linoleum as she dragged it, slowly, like she wanted to punish us with the cringe-worthy noise. People stepped out of her way and either found a chair or beanbag, or leaned against the wall, waiting.
She plopped down into the chair and swiped her hands down her face. Her expression was haggard, as if she’d aged several years in just a few minutes. She didn’t say anything for the longest time. The silence pressed in on me like a physical person sitting on my shoulders, weighing me down.
Finally, she sighed. “Well, Agatha had to be taken to the hospital. She’ll need stitches for some of her self-inflicted injuries and is now on suicide watch.”
My muscles stiffened. I could almost feel Elia’s presence in the room as if she were sitting right next to me with a creepy half smile. My mouth went dry. If only I had stayed with her instead of reading my file in the library, maybe I could have stopped this. If only I hadn’t lost track of time.
“If it’s anything like the last time, she won’t be home for a few days,” Miss Molly continued.
Elia shifted in the corner of my vision. A shiver chased down my neck. I felt like one of those souls in the Halls of Guilt, where some souls were made to spend their first hundred years in Hell reliving their sins against others. Not the best place ever. Or so I imagined. Like most places in Hell, I’d never wanted to go there.
“Whoever did this…” Miss Molly’s face twisted into a contempt-filled scowl. “I will find you and let you try your luck in Parker Hall.”
Eyebrows rose and from the tense silence, I could tell Parker Hall wasn’t a good place to be.
“This isn’t how we treat each other here, or anywhere. I’m greatly disappointed.” She shook her head. “Now go to bed.”
Zane stood and cleared his throat. “Miss Molly? Any idea who stole her wig and put a dozen others in her dorm?”
Her features pinched. “No, but my hope is that whoever it is will come forward. I’ll be at the hospital tomorrow. Mrs. Crenshaw will be in charge.”
Elia stood, too, her mouth opening and closing like a confused fish.
She held that pose until Miss Molly said, “Yes, Elia?”
“Tomorrow, I’d like to get a group together to make get-well cards for Aggie.” She flushed. “I mean Agatha.”
Something tumbled around in my gut. My flesh went cold, and I covered my mouth, suddenly nauseous. Did she really just say that after everything she’d done?
“That sounds lovely, Elia.” Miss Molly turned and slumped out of the room, looking like a woman trying to move through molasses.
Zane caught me in his gaze, and in that moment, I felt small. It wasn’t a feeling I knew what to do with. I had to get out of here.
Without thinking, I followed Miss Molly out of the common room and down the hallway.
She turned, her features tight. “Miss Morrison.”
I took a moment to catch my breath. “What’s wrong with her? The bald spots, I mean. Is she sick? Is that why she had to go to the hospital?” I gulped. “Does she… Does she have cancer?”
Miss Molly scanned me up and down, as if trying to figure out what species of animal I was. Her gaze made me question that myself, especially now when I knew virtually nothing.
She continued trudging down the hallway. “Come with me, Miss Morrison.”
I fell into step beside her, unsure if I was about to be punished for my questions, forced to clean another bathroom, or pee in another cup.
She sighed for probably the hundredth time that night. “I know that you and Agatha have a bit of a rivalry.”
I started to ask why that was until I remembered I was supposed to know. “I don’t know if I’d call it a rivalry, but... Wait, do you think I had something to do with this?”
“Do you know anything about what happened tonight?” Her hard tone landed on my ears like a concrete slab.
I opened my mouth to answer, but my throat constricted. My skin flushed, and I could have kicked myself. This was what guilty people did even though I didn’t do anything, not directly, to Agatha. But I knew who did. Yet my blacking out in the library earlier, and the note to Mikey I didn’t write to meet me outside the bathroom… None of these things would shine the best spotlight on me, especially if word got out that I’d let Elia’s name slip. In fact, it made me look twice as guilty as her.
I swallowed sandpaper. “No.”
She sniffed and picked up her pace. “No, Agatha doesn’t have cancer.”
Well, that was a relief. Still, I couldn’t tell if Miss Molly believed me or not. “Then why is her hair falling out?”
“It isn’t.”
I turned the corner with her, and she stopped at the door to her office. “She’s pulling it out,” she said.
My eyes widened. “What?”
“Agatha has trichotillomania. It’s an impulse control disorder. When she’s stressed, she pulls her hair out.”
Images rushed at me of Agatha rocking herself in the middle of the dorm, pulling out her own hair.
“Why would she do that?” My voice came out breathless, lifeless.
“It’s an impulse. She can’t help it.” She stared at me, then opened her office door. “I’m tired, Kasey. Go to bed.”
I stood there long after she’d gone inside and shut the door. My body shook, not from cold, but from Agatha not easing up on my thoughts. Was it Elia who wrote the note to Mikey? But what possible reason could she have to set me up to take the fall for Agatha? Banishment to Parker Hall? But why? And if that was the reason, I would need to do some major self-analysis to see why no one wanted me around lately. That, or take more showers. Had it been her who had caused my blackout in the library? If so, then that was a pretty nifty trick given that she was just a human. Unless, of course, she wasn’t.
I walked the halls until I found myself outside, pacing the basketball court. The humid air clung to my skin, and it was so quiet that not even the crickets twittered songs. Weird. A lone basketball rolled across the far end of the court. There wasn’t a breeze, not strong enough to do that anyway. I backed toward the opposite end, my heart colliding with my ribs.
A touc
h of brimstone weaved through the air. I stopped and shivered into the warm night, my gaze sliding over every shadow for the escaped demon.
Something rustled from the same direction the basketball had disappeared. Without my magic, there was little I could do with a runaway demon, but that wouldn’t keep me from trying. After all, I was the princess of Hell. I could order it to go back. Or ask it nicely. With a deep, steadying breath, I fisted my hands and marched toward the sound.
A low growl stopped me mid-court. Never mind. The decision to see what it was had been brought to me by the letters S-T-U-P-I-D.
The smell of brimstone strengthened. Another rustle, then a pair of glowing eyes met mine, floating from the shadows on top of the dumpster. Not Hell red, but a silvery green. Whoever they belonged to gave a slow blink.
“Who are you?” Both the volume of my voice and the confidence it held flipped my stomach. I sure sounded a lot braver than I felt.
It wasn’t moving, wasn’t attacking, so I crept forward. Moonlight slid from the clouds and painted the court with slivers of beams, enough to see something flick behind the pair of eyes and above two pointed ears. A cat, but not a regular one from the Hellish smell, unless the odor wasn’t coming from it. Mom called all cats el gatos diablo—demon cats—whether they came from Hell or not. She said all cats had some demon inside them, some just more than others, but I’d always thought she was joking. She hated cats, even hissed at them when we visited the Nest so they ran off.
But this one wore a necklace made of gleaming rhinestones around its neck. Interesting.
“Here, kitty kitty,” I said.
It growled and darted away, fading into the darkness like a memory scented in brimstone. Cats and rhinestones, the same things that covered most of my belongings here. That couldn’t be a coincidence. The only problem was I had no clue what it meant.
11
I forced myself out of bed, showered, and piled some breakfast down my throat. I appreciated the irony that I was from Hell, and yet humans got away with serving total, flavorless crap in the Nest. Slathering chocolate syrup all over everything made it bearable.
It was Saturday, so there weren’t any classes, and I thought I would visit downtown Jonesborough. If all of my cat and rhinestone paraphernalia were trying to tell me something, then maybe some of my contacts in my cell phone were too. Time to visit The Coveted Closet.
After I bussed my tray, I printed out the directions in the library then traipsed down the hallway to head out. An explosion of glitter, glue, and construction paper in the middle of the common room caught my eye and I stopped. Four girls and a guy I didn’t recognize sat in a circle around the chaos. The get-well crew headed by Elia.
“Make the candies look like they do in Candy Crush,” the guy was saying. “Aggie loves that game, I guess.”
Elia smiled when she spotted me and came toward the doorway. “We have room for one more.”
I gave her my most unconvincing fake smile. “No thanks.”
She glanced behind her at the group, then leaned in closer. Laughter burst out of her, and it crawled along my spine with its sharp edges. “Did you love Agatha de-wigged? Oh, my hair! My hair!”
I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth and skirted around her toward the exit. “Hilarious. I have to go.”
“Well, I’m stuck here.” She slumped over, a well-choreographed move. “I’ll get with you later.”
I stopped and turned. “Did you write the note to Mikey?”
She backed away toward her group. “I’ll get with you later.”
It was ridiculous that her words left my skin feeling unclean. I’d seen actual horned beasts, the stuff of nightmares, when Mom held court, but this little squirt of a girl pricked thorns through my insides and doused them with lemon juice. Elia—no, scratch that, we—had caused Agatha to go the hospital where she was under suicide watch. It was a wonder I hadn’t snapped in half from the weight of guilt on my shoulders. But Elia hardly seemed fazed.
A promise of a smile played across her mouth as I turned and forced myself not to run from the common room.
* * *
At first, Historic Jonesborough didn’t seem like much, but as I trekked through downtown with the sun beating on the brick sidewalks and glinting off the glass of so many Mom and Pop shops, I kind of loved it. It was a mile walk from Miss Molly’s, but it was so worth it. Many strangers waved or smiled. Most stopped to hold open a door, say hello, or offer a compliment on my space cat T-shirt. Even I started to like the silly shirt after the fifth admirer praised it.
The Coveted Closet was at the end of Main Street, right next to a quaint bed and breakfast with white wicker rocking chairs on the front porch. Just outside of the thrift store were racks of clothing marked fifty percent off. I stepped past them and into the store. Clinking wood chimes announced my arrival, and I breathed in curls of smoking patchouli incense next to the door with a smile.
The store was so packed with items that I was amazed the clothing didn’t burst through the front windows. Everything from tuxedoes to kites hung from the ceiling. Knickknacks, lamps, picture frames, and a ton of other stuff were piled onto wall shelves and island counters. It looked like someone with a heart of gold vomited donations all over the place. I liked it already.
A feminine voice called out, “Hello?”
I craned my neck, trying to see over a rack of clothing. “Yes, hello?”
“Can I help you?”
I swept past the front counter, which was piled with costume jewelry and an old-fashioned looking cash register. No one was behind it.
“Marco,” I called.
The lady chuckled, a pleasant and throaty sound. “Polo!”
I picked my way toward the furniture at the back, and a woman popped up from behind a privacy screen.
“Hello and welcome to—Oh! Kasey!” Before I could leap for cover, she pulled me into her arms. She was so tall that I found myself pressed against her chest.
My muscles went rigid, and I patted the air above her back.
She jerked me away, her green eyes wide with excitement, her glossy blonde curls bouncing around her cherub face. “Long time no see!”
I smiled, already feeling exhausted at the thought of having to pretend to know her. “Hey…you.”
“You here to see Maria? She’s upstairs.” She pointed over my head, and I turned to follow her finger.
There was a sign mounted on the wall by the stairs that read Auctions.
Behind me, the lady said, “She mentioned that you might come by.”
Funny since I’d only decided to come a few hours ago.
“Thanks.” I headed for the stairs.
“You bet!” she said.
Well, that was easy. At the top, I came to a door with a window set into the middle and knocked. When I didn’t get an answer, I tried the knob. The door shrieked open as if it were in physical pain.
Inside was an antique white desk. Behind it sat a young woman with long, dark hair and a white pantsuit with a fur-lined collar. She looked like she belonged on a runway in Milan, not a thrift store attic in Jonesborough. She held a rotary phone to her ear while she toyed with the spectacles perched low on her delicate nose.
She raised her finger and motioned me inside. “No, I won’t be at the reunion, Peter,” she said into the phone.
I tiptoed in, each step creaking noisily on the floorboards. The attic was a less chaotic version of downstairs. Everything was bright, clean, and shiny. Art pieces hung on the walls featuring angels and some of the lesser saints. Yep, pretty sure I was meant to come here for one reason or another.
“Oh, don’t be so high and mighty!” she shouted into her phone. Her nose wrinkled, and she gestured toward a high-backed, white chair in front of her desk.
I sat, placed my backpack on the floor next to me, and folded my hands in my lap while I tried not to appear as if I was eavesdropping.
“Listen, just because you guard Heaven doesn’t give you the right
to speak to me like this!”
Oh, so she was talking to that Peter.
“I’m doing a favor for a friend.” A pause. “That’s none of your—” She sighed and gripped the phone tighter. “Listen, Pete. I have to go. No, I’ll make it up to you.” She listened a little longer, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows coming together and then drawing apart again. “Yes, you too. Blessed are the meek.” She hung up. “Kiera Morningstar!” She sat back and crossed her legs, appearing somehow swan-like. “So good to finally meet you.”
“Uh, yeah, you too.” So, she knew my real name. I cleared my throat. “Um, who are you?”
“Maria Goretti.” She sat up straighter and smoothed her fur collar. “Saint Maria. Patron saint of teenage girls.”
“You’re a saint?” It was a fact that should have sunk in when she’d said Saint Maria, but I’d never met a saint before.
“Last time I checked.” She smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know, actually.” I shrugged, glancing around the attic. “For starters, what’s a saint doing in Jonesborough, Tennessee at a place called The Coveted Closet? What about thou shalt not covet?”
She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Have you met these humans? They covet everything. But I’m here as a favor to Mauve.”
“Really?” I scooted to the edge of my chair. “How do you know Mauve? Can you pass on a message to her?”
For a split second, she looked confused, but then she pressed her hand to her forehead in an elegant face-palm gesture. “My goodness, of course. I guess she wouldn’t have mentioned me much, given where you’re from.”
“No,” I said, drawing out the word.
“Mauve is one of my oldest friends. Obviously, we went in different directions—”
I couldn’t help but laugh. That was putting it lightly.
“She could have been whatever she wanted, but I respected her decision to put her family first.” She shrugged. “I still do.”
She had a family? It occurred to me that I actually didn’t really know that much about Mauve. About her history, anyway. But it must have been a fascinating one. Hopefully one day she’d tell me about it. A pang speared through my chest at the thought of seeing her again. I missed her like crazy.
Daring the Devil (Reigning Hell Book 1) Page 8