I turned and set the unwieldy thing down on the nearest bench. Then I flipped over the front cover to the title page. In a fancy, swirling script it read:

Puzzled, I started to leaf through the thin, flimsy pages, being careful not to tear them. Why would Paul want a book on Atlantis? He was a senior, not a sophomore. I couldn’t say for certain, but for the most part it seemed the curriculum at Arkwell varied by grade the same as it did in ordinary schools. And I knew for sure the magickind government regulated what the students were taught. Which meant Paul should’ve studied Atlantis two years before.

Not that I could blame him for his interest in this book. Although there was plenty of text on the pages, there were also dozens of extremely detailed and fascinating illustrations. Some depicted the buildings while others showed genuine Atlanteans who really didn’t look very different from the students and teachers at Arkwell aside from their archaic clothing. But the clothing itself was strange enough for studying. One picture showed a woman wearing a pointy hat nearly as tall as she was. Another was of a man wearing a robe with hanging sleeves so long I had to wonder how exactly he accomplished certain bathroom functions without taking it off.

As I continued to flip through, the illustrations grew broader in topic until I reached a section full of intricate maps. The first few showed the entire city itself while further in they grew more specific, some revealing the layout of important buildings and some looking more like architecture drawings than anything else.

And to think it was all real, and all buried somewhere out in the ocean. The thought made my imagination come alive with possibilities, wonderment like the sudden feel of weightlessness as a roller coaster breasts the first hill.

The loud crash of a nearby door slamming open brought me right back to reality with a sickening plunge. Crap oh crap oh crap. I leaped up, slammed Paul’s locker shut, and then dove for cover behind a nearby towel cart. I would’ve dove into it and hidden beneath the towels—disgusting or not—but this early in the morning it was empty.

A few seconds later, more than a dozen boys crowded into the locker room, all of them sweaty, loud, and alarmingly male. But the swearing and shouts didn’t bother me nearly as much as some of the topics of conversation. My ears burned so hot I feared they would shrivel up and fall off. If I listened too long, I would be scarred for life. Even though the bin hid all of me except for my feet and ankles, I felt completely exposed and vulnerable.

I squatted down with my back leaning against the wall and positioned my face so I could stare out through one of the grommets in the rough woven fabric that formed the towel bin. From this vantage point I had a clear shot of Paul as he entered the locker bay. I held my breath, mentally kicking myself for being so stupid. The Atlantean Chronicle felt like a giant rock in my hands. Why hadn’t I put it back? Paul was bound to notice it missing the second he picked up his backpack.

As he started to undress—giving me a flash of glistening, sweat-drenched skin over hard muscle—I turned away, a blush heating my body from head to toe. Stupid move, Dusty. Really stupid.

Fortunately when I peeked out a few moments later, it was to watch him walk off with his shower caddy in hand and a fresh white towel wrapped around his waist. I raised my head high enough to glance over the top of the bin. With any luck most of the boys would be in the shower, and I could make a break for it.

Crap. Frank Rizzo, one of the few senior boys I knew by sight, was standing in front of his locker only half-undressed. He was a Mors demon, the kind that feed on death magic, with a reputation for being nasty. Still, he was the only person around at the moment.

Acting quick before my nerves talked me out of it, I raised my hand toward the ceiling and cast a darkness spell. The spell was one of the first ones I’d ever learned, a necessary survival skill for Nightmares. For once my magic worked perfectly. All the lights in the room went out, the darkness like thick, black drapes being drawn over my eyes.

Shouts echoed down the way toward me. I blinked a couple of times, willing my eyes to adjust faster. Fortunately, my half-Nightmare side let me see well in the dark. Not perfectly, the way a full-blooded Nightmare could, but enough that I was able to dart out from behind the towel bin and start running for the door without fear of running into anything.

Only, I hadn’t accounted for the book, so big and awkward. I rounded a corner too tight, striking the locker with the top of the book. It tumbled out of my hands, struck the ground, and scooted several feet, disappearing beneath a bench. I dove for it, heart ramming against my rib cage.

I couldn’t find it at first and started to panic. Any moment now someone would figure out what was going on and utter the counter spell to turn the lights back on. Finally, my hands closed around it, and I lurched to my feet. I clutched the book to my chest like something that would break if I dropped it again then darted for the exit.

Just as I reached it, a hand closed around my arm, fingers pinching. I shrieked at the same time as a familiar voice spoke my name.

“Hypno-soma,” I said automatically. A bright burst of magic exploded from my fingertips, highlighting Paul’s stunned face as the spell struck him in the chest. He stumbled backward, his grip on my arm slackening.

I turned and bolted through the door, and I didn’t stop running for a long, long time.

15

A Crow’s Feast

I hid The Atlantean Chronicle on the top of a storage shelf inside one of the secret passageways of Vatticut Hall. Only Ms. Hardwick ever used the passage, and she was several inches shorter than me, guaranteeing she wouldn’t see it unless she went climbing—not very likely given her plumpness.




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