Under a Spell

Chapter One

“You want me to do what?”

In all my years as the only breathing employee at the Underworld Detection Agency, I’ve been asked to do a lot of things—hobgoblin slobbery, life-or-death, blood-and-flesh kind of things. But this? This took the cake.

Pete Sampson leaned back in his leather chair, and though I usually beamed with pride when he did that—as I had been instrumental in getting him back into head of the UDA position—this time, I couldn’t. My stomach was a firm, black knot and heat surged through every inch of my body as he looked up at me expectantly.

“I really thought you would be excited to visit your old stomping grounds.”

My knees went Jell-O wobbly then and I thumped back into Sampson’s visitor’s chair. I yanked a strand of hair out of my already-messy ponytail and wrapped it around my finger until the tip turned white.

“Excited? To return to the source of my deepest angst, my inner-turmoil—to the brick walls that can only be described as a fiery, brimstony hell?”

Sampson cocked an eyebrow. “It’s just high school, Sophie.”

“Exactly.”

Most people would say that high school is the most traumatic time in their lives—myself included. And since in the last few years I’d been shot at, stabbed, hung by my ankles, almost eaten, and sexually harassed by an odoriferous troll, most traumatic took on a whole new significance.

“Isn’t there anything else we can do? Anything I can do? And I’m talking human sacrifice, demon sacrifice, total surrender of my Baskin Robbins punch card.”

“Sophie,” Sampson started.

“Wait.” I held up a hand. “Are we sure we have to go in at all? And why me, specifically? I mean”—I rifled through my purse and pulled out a wrinkled business card—“it’s been a while since you’ve been back at the Agency, Sampson. See?” I slid the card across the desk to him. “It says right there: Sophie Lawson, Fallen Angels Division.” I stabbed at my name on the card as though that would somehow give my title more emphasis. “Does this case have anything to do with fallen angels? Because if not, I’m sure there are other UDA employees who would be excellent in this investigation. And then I would be able to really focus on my current position.”

Granted, my position more often than not found me pinning a big baddie to a corkboard or locked in a public restroom san clothes, but still.

Sampson stacked my business card on top of a manila file folder and pressed the whole package toward me.

“You should go in because you know the high school.”

“I’ll draw you a map.” I narrowed my eyes, challenging.

“And because everyone else around here—” Sampson gestured to the open office, and I refused to look, knowing that I would be staring into the cold, flat eyes of the undead—and the occasional unhelpful centaur. “Well, everyone else would have trouble passing. Besides, it’s not like you’re going in alone.”

“I’m not worried about that. And hey, I’m flattered, but there really is no way I’m going to pass as a student.”

Though I’m only five-five (if I fudge it, stand on a phone book, and stretch), often wear my fire-engine red hair in two sloppy braids, and have, much to my best friend’s chagrin, been known to wear SpongeBob SquarePants pajama bottoms out to walk the dog, it had been a long time since anyone had mistaken me for anything more than a fashionably misguided adult.

“You’re not going in as a student. You’re going in as a teacher. A substitute.”

I felt as though all the blood in my body had drained out onto the brand-new industrial-grade carpet. Because the only thing worse than being a high school student is being a high school substitute teacher.

My left eye started to twitch. “A substitute teacher?”

My mind flooded with thumbtacks on desk chairs and Saran Wrap over the toilets in the teacher’s lounge. Suddenly, I longed for my cozy Underworld Detection Agency job, where no one touched my wedged-between-two-blood-bags bologna sandwich and a bitchy band of ill-tempered pixies roamed the halls.

“A substitute teacher,” I repeated, “who saves the world?”

Sampson’s shrug was one of those “Hey, pal, take one for the team” kind of shrugs and I felt anger simmering in my gut.

“You can ‘teach’”—he made air quotes that made me nauseous—“any class you’d like. Provided it’s in the approved curriculum. And not already assigned.”

I felt my lip curl into an annoyed snarl when Sampson shot me a sparkly-eyed smile as if being given the choice between teaching freshman algebra or senior anatomy was a tremendous perk.

“If this high school isn’t about to slide into the depths of hell or in the process of being overrun by an army of undead mean girls, I’m going to need a raise. A significant one,” I said, my voice low. “And a vacation.”

Sampson nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“So,” I said, my eyebrows raised, “why is this so dire?”

“Do you remember last year when a body was found on the Mercy High campus?” Sampson asked.

My tongue went heavy in my mouth. Though I was well-used to the walking undead and the newly staked, the death of a young kid—a breather who would stay dead—made my skin prick painfully. I nodded.

“That’s what this is about?

Sampson didn’t answer me.

“Her name was Cathy Ledwith, right?”

It had been all over the papers—a local student mysteriously vanishing from an exclusive—and, before that day, safe—high school campus. A week later, her body was discovered dumped near Fort Cronkhite, an old military installation on the Marin side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Though the story was told and retold—in the Chronicle, the Guardian—and the Mercy High School campus was overrun with reporters for the better part of a semester, there weren’t a lot of details in the case. Or at least not a lot were leaked to the press.

“That murder was never solved,” Sampson said, as he slid the file folder over to me.

“Didn’t someone confess? Some guy in jail? He was a tweaker, said something about trying to sacrifice her.” The thought shot white-hot fire down my spine, but I tried my best to push past it. “I still don’t see what this has to do with the high school. Or with me having to go into it. I followed the case pretty closely”—I was somewhat of a Court TV or pretty much anything-TV junkie—“and I don’t remember any tie-back. I mean, the girl was found in Marin.”

“She was dumped in one of the tunnels at Battery Townsley.”

I shuddered. “People go through there all the time.”

“It was a hiker that found her. Her killer obviously wasn’t concerned about keeping Cathy’s body a secret.”

I winced at the mention of Cathy’s “body.”

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with us—with the Underworld. Everything about it screams human. Cathy was human—someone even recognized a van, right? Very few of our clients drive vans.”

Sampson gestured to the folders and I swallowed slowly, then looked down at them. Directly in front of me was a black and white photo of a smiling teenager—all perfect teeth and glossy hair—and it made my stomach roil even more. My high school picture was braces doing their darnedest to hold back a mouthful of Chiclet teeth and hair that shot straight out, prompting my classmates to announce that my styling tools were a fork and an electrical socket. I yanked my hand back when I realized I was subconsciously patting my semi-smoothed adult hair.

“What? The prom queen—?” I stopped and sucked in a sharp breath when my eyes caught the headline plastered over the photo: MERCY HIGH STUDENT MISSING.

I scanned quickly.

Mercy High School student Alyssa Rand disappeared Monday afternoon. Erica Rand, Alyssa’s mother, said that she last saw her daughter when she boarded the number 57 bus for Mercy as she always did; teachers confirmed that Alyssa attended her classes through the lunch period, but she did not show up for afternoon classes. Police are taking student statements and a conservative approach, unsure yet whether to classify Alyssa as a runaway or an abductee.

I looked up, frowning. “I don’t understand. I mean, it’s horrible, but we don’t even know if she’s really missing.”

“She is, Sophie.”

Sampson pressed his lips together and sighed, his shoulders falling in that way that let me know that he wasn’t telling me everything. “There has been talk of a coven on campus.”

Relief washed over me and I sort of chuckled. “Sampson, every high school has a coven on campus! It’s called disgruntled teenage girls with black dye jobs and too much angsty time on their hands pretending to read tea leaves and shoot you the evil eye.” I waved the article in my hand. “I don’t see how one has to do with the other.”

“When Cathy Ledwith was found last year, she was in the center of a chalked pentagram. Black candles at the points.”

I licked my suddenly dry lips. “They didn’t mention that in the paper or on the news.” There was a beat of silence where Sampson held my eye; finally, I rolled mine with a soft of snorting laugh. “Wait—they think it was witchcraft? Have you seen The Craft? Teen Witch? Pentagrams and candles is Freak Out Your Parents With Wicca 101. The killer probably found the pentagram left over from some kids calling up the spirit of Heath Ledger and dumped the body. Convenient, unfortunate, but convenient. ”

“The police considered that, but she had an incantation carved into her flesh.”

I blinked. “Carved?”

“I consulted both Kale and Lorraine.”

I sucked in a breath, willing Sampson to stop talking. Kale and Lorraine are the Underworld Detection Agency’s resident witches. Kale had recently been run over by a car but spent her downtime controlling the elements, and Lorraine was the most powerful Gestalt witch the Green Order had seen in decades. She was also a top Tupperware saleslady, and if anyone knew a true incantation—or, for Lorraine, how to burp a lid—it was these ladies.

“They both confirmed that the incantation was legitimate. The killer also drained her blood.” Even Sampson winced and my heart seemed to fold over on itself. I chewed the inside of my cheek and found myself praying that all of that had been done postmortem.

Sampson went on. “From the looks of it, Cathy Ledwith’s killer was trying to summon a demon—and not a good one. This isn’t just over-the-counter witchcraft.”

“Oh.” The word came out small and hollow, dying in the cavernous room.

“As I mentioned, Cathy’s body was found seven days after she went missing. It was obvious that her attacker wanted—or needed—her to be found on that day.”

“I don’t understand. How do you—why—how do they know that?”

“According to the police report, an anonymous call came in at 7:07 that morning.”

“Seven-oh-seven on the seventh day?”

“Of the seventh month.”

I frowned, resting my chin in my hands. “Maybe her killer is just OCD. Did anyone explore that angle?”

It was silly, but I knew the significance of sevens—and I knew the demon Cathy’s murderer was calling.

“Seven is divine. Seven-seven-seven is—”

“Satan.” The word took up all the space in the room and I found it hard to breathe.

Everyone knows 6-6-6 as the devil’s “call” sign—or they think they do. And while it does have true significance—mostly in movies, fiction, and speed metal songs—it is more like a pop-culture high-five to the Prince of Darkness. The trio of sevens is the summoner.

My heart was throbbing in my throat. I knew the answer, but still had to ask. “Do they think the other girl—”

“Alyssa.”

“Alyssa, do they think she—that she may have been abducted by the same person?”

Sampson’s hulking silence was answer enough.

Something tightened in my chest, and Sampson, his enormous cherry wood desk and his entire office seemed to spin, then fish-eye in front of me. I gripped the sides of my chair and steadied myself.

“We want you to go into Mercy and see what you can find out about this so-called coven.”

“Are they even rela—”

Sampson held up a hand, effectively silencing me. “They’re related, Sophie. There’s no question. Students who knew Cathy confided that she had, in fact, been bullied by a group of other students. Haven’t heard the same about Alyssa but it’s a good possibility.”

A memory wedged in my mind and I was fifteen again, awkward, terrorized, cornered in a Mercy High bathroom by a selection of mean girls with Aqua Net hair and slouchy socks. I could feel the sweat prick on my skin again, the nauseous way my stomach rolled.

“The police—aren’t they working on this?”

Sampson nodded slowly, then laced his fingers together in front of him. “They are.”

“But?”

“They don’t have a whole lot to go on, either. But that’s not what we’re concerned about.”

“We’re concerned about potential witches.”

“I can’t help but believe there is a supernatural element in this case, Sophie. The carving, the state of the body. The police aren’t going to look at things like that. If there is a new coven brewing . . .” Sampson let his words trail off, his dark eyes flicking over me.

“I don’t get it, Sampson. If there were a coven—a coven full of real witches, wouldn’t we know about it? I mean, it’s kind of what we do.” I pointed to the plaque behind Sampson’s head. “It’s right there in the name, Underworld Detection Agency.”

The stern way Sampson’s brows snapped together as he crossed his arms in front of his chest let me know that he wasn’t enjoying my light banter-slash-attempt to do anything other than this assignment.

“Yes, Sophie, I know the name of the agency. But witches are among our least adherent of clients.”

I felt my mouth drop open. “Really?”

“Check the books. We don’t have a lot.”

“I thought that’s because there aren’t a lot.”

“There are thousands. Likely hundreds of thousands in California. We’ve got Wiccan factions, a group of Druids up by Humboldt.”

“And what? They don’t consider themselves ‘Underworldy’?”

Sampson blew out a sigh and nodded his head. “Something like that. If there is a new coven in town—even if it’s an old, under-the-radar one—we likely wouldn’t have known.”

“So really, I have to go out to Mercy and see what I can detect?”

Sampson smiled and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Yup, detect. It’s right there in our ” name.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed myself out of my chair. “Okay. I’m going to run upstairs and get the briefing from the police department. Kind of nice, I guess. They work on the physical, we pick up the metaphysical.” I nodded again. “Kind of like a Batman-and-Robin kind of thing.”

Sampson stood. “No, not like that all. We’re strictly working our angle on this. We’re not trying to find the girl, we’re trying to find the coven.”

A bolt of something shot through me. “So my job is to stand by and look for flying brooms and eye of newt while a girl is missing?”

“The police are going to find Alyssa. They’re going to find Cathy’s killer. Our job is to make sure that if there is a coven involved, if anything has actually been summoned—or anyone is looking for girls to use as future sacrifices—we stop it. We’re doing this on our own. Do you understand that, Sophie?”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest and studied the office supplies on Sampson’s desk.

“Let the police do their job. You need to keep your nose out of the physical part of this case.”

Sampson eyed me and I broke his gaze, finding myself touching my fingertips to the tip of my nose. I didn’t stick my nose into things.

For me, it was pretty much a full-body kind of stick.

“I need your word, Sophie.”

“Okay, fine. You have my word.” Even as I nodded my agreement, my mind was racing: check evidence. Read autopsy reports. Wear black. Break into something. I wasn’t exactly lying to Sampson; I was simply covering all my supernatural bases. You’d be surprised how often a banshee shows up in a file folder.

I walked out of Sampson’s office feeling as though I had just sealed my fate. Each step back toward my office made my stomach sink lower, even as I edged around the hole in the linoleum where a wizard had blown himself up (eons ago—was anyone ever going to get around to that?). I was about to hightail it into the ladies’ room when I realized that part of the reason for the upswing in my stomach acids—and nausea—was standing on a chair, legs akimbo, facing me off in the hallway. I immediately started breathing through my mouth.

Steve.

Steve was our resident troll—resident, in that he was an independent contractor who never seemed to leave the confines of the Agency. Troll, as in, well, troll. He who resides underneath bridges, asks ridiculous questions, and desperately wishes to deposit his little troll babies deep in my lady parts.

He’s grey and vaguely scaly, is constantly showing off his tufts of lichen-green chest hair, and has a cache of dirty jokes and bad pickup lines that would make any honky-tonk or used car salesman envious. I should say that I have a soft spot for the little guy—he is mostly harmless (that stench did kill a few flowers) and he had been instrumental in saving my life. But the spot that was soft for him was growing a little harder each time he “bumped” into my backside or left me love notes that frankly should have started “Dear Penthouse Forum,” rather than “My Dear Sweet Sophie’s Legs.”

Steve grinned salaciously when he saw me, and he suddenly jumped off his chair, pushing it to the side.

“Steve thinks Sophie looks distressed.”

Also, Steve always referred to himself in the third person. I’m not totally sure that that’s a troll thing—I’m pretty sure (hopefully) that it’s purely a Steve thing.

“Would Sophie like to tell Steve all about it?”

I swung my head—and pinched my nose. “No thanks, Steve. It’s nothing.” I continued down the hallway and Steve trotted next to me, finally picking up speed and pushing his chair in front of him. He bumped it into my calves, jumped on it, and laid his swamp hands on my shoulders. “Steve is a very good listener. And he will give you massage. . . .”

Steve dug his thumbs into the meat above my shoulders, leaving two wet spots on my blouse.

“Soph—I mean, I appreciate the sentiment, but like I said, I can handle this one.” I tried to squirrel out of his grasp, but for three feet of lichen and swamp slime, he had an impressive grip. I softened, slightly, as he cocked his head and listened intently to me, his coal-black eyes registering nothing but sweet concern as his fingers moved little circles up toward the top of my shoulders. “Steve knows where a lady carries her stress. Steve studied reflexology.”

“Hey. HEY! Hands off you little swamp creep!”

Apparently, in Steve’s world, ladies carried most of their stress in their breasts.

Steve jumped off his chair and took off running down the hall.

“I’m going to call HR on you, you little pervert!”

I pushed open the ladies’ room door and turned the tap on cold, ready to plunge my whole head in the sink. The back of my neck was clammy and sweaty and my cheeks were flushed midlife-crisis-Corvette red. I settled for splashing water on my face instead of the dunking, as I was trying to present a more sophisticated, less stained Sophie Lawson.

“Okay,” I said to my reflection. “Everything is going to be okay. I’m in charge. I’m in charge.” I pushed wet, floppy tendrils of hair behind my ears, wiped the mascara from under my eyes and gave myself the tough-as-nails, sexy chick stare I’d been working on.

“Yeah,” I purred. “I’m in charge.”

With my self-confidence damp but re-inflated, I turned for the door, and busted directly into Vlad LaShay. His black eyes were wide, his lips set in a hard, thin line. Gone was his usual king-of-the-underworld swagger; in its place was something that I had never seen on any vampire, let alone this one: fear.

“Vlad, this is—”

Vlad grabbed both my shoulders in his cold hands and walked me backward back into the ladies’ room, glancing nervously over his shoulder every few feet.

“You’ve got to hide me,” he said finally.

“Who am I hiding you from?”

“Kale.”

My eyes shot around the room. “You realize that this is the girls’ room, right? And that in addition to being pissed off by you, she’s a girl? Who could very possibly have to pee at any given moment?”

Vlad grabbed the trashcan and pulled it in front of the door. “I don’t plan on staying in here all day. I need you to sneak me out of here, and then keep Kale distracted long enough for me to get out of the office and into the elevator.”

Aside from being the demon clearinghouse for everything that went bump (or groan, or splat, or bite) in the night (think DMV with longer lines and check boxes that included dead, undead, and other), the Underworld Detection Agency had also recently become the hotbed for hormonal ancient teen-vampire-slash-teen-witch activity.

It was like the Jersey Shore house with fewer suntans.

At the center of this week’s activities were apparently Vlad—Nina’s nephew, my boss, and the acting head of the Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement—and his ladylove (or something), Kale. The fact that Vlad was an immortal sixteen-year-old (now a hundred and thirteen years young) meant that he had ruddy pink cheeks and had perfected that wholly teenage boy look of both scrutiny and complete indifference. The fact that he was my boss made it awkward that he had been couch surfing at my place for the last twenty months and technically had the power to fire me, but apparently not the power to pick up his socks. The fact that he was involved with—nay, head of—the Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement meant that he dressed like a less appealing combination of Count Chocula and had every polyester Dracula costume ever sold. Kale, his paramour—or now, predator—is a teen witch who is firmly entrenched in our intern program under a powerful witch-cum-Tupperware saleslady named Lorraine. Lorraine works in the billing department so five days a week Kale answers phones and gets training on accounts receivable, QuickBooks, and how not to make it rain in the Underworld Detection Agency break room.

Several exceptionally soggy bologna sandwiches let me know that she wasn’t exactly great at the latter.

“If I’m going to hide you from cute little Kale”—eighteen, chronologically and supernaturally, with a bunch of wince-inducing piercings, bright blue hair, and an unsavory attraction to the trembling vamp in front of me—“you’re going to need to tell me why.”

Vlad shot yet another glance over his shoulder. “There’s no time.”

I hopped up on the sink and examined my nails. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Fine! Fine. Kale heard that I may have had a little incident with a certain female vampire at one of the VERM meetings.”

“You may have had?”

“All right, I had, okay? I’m sixteen, willpower isn’t exactly my strong point.”

“You’re a hundred and thirteen and, technically, my boss.”

“Are you going to argue what I am and am not, or are you going to help me?”

“Why do you need me? Can’t you just have someone take her out shopping or something? I mean, Kale has a temper. A bad one.” I shuddered.

“That’s why I need you.” Vlad’s eyes were so earnest that I couldn’t help but soften to his plight. “You’re magic immune, so if she tries to fry or filet you, nothing will happen.”

In addition to being one-hundred-percent human and the one and only breather down here in the Underworld, I also have the uncanny ability to not be affected by magic. Though vampire stealth, banshee death screaming, or a witch’s magic might have been more convenient, being immune to the aforementioned fileting and frying had come in handy more times than you’d think.

“Fine.” I hopped down from my perch and shoved the garbage can away from the door, just before it barreled open and I caught a face full of it.

“Crap! Nina!”

Nina’s eyes were wide—coal black, like her nephew’s—and her hand slapped over her open mouth. “Did I get you?”

“It’s not too bad,” I mumbled.

She began jumping up and down, tiny little soundless hops as vampires have no discernible weight. “So, so, is it true? Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That you’re going back to high school! You get to relive all your high school fantasies! The football games, being crowned prom queen . . .”

“It’s refreshing to know that in the eight years we’ve lived and worked together, you haven’t retained a single memory about my high school torment. Or, as I like to call them, The Dark Years. No football games, no prom queen. No twirling memories.”

Nina rolled her eyes. “I know, I know—it was all bullies, headgear, and a grannie that played mahjongg with a pixie. Boohoo. Some of us didn’t even have that.”

I took Nina in and felt no sympathy for her. She was tall and ballerina slim with glossy black hair that hung down her back in gorgeous waves that nipped at her tiny waist. Her eyes were wide and deep set; her nose was a cute little ski jump, and her lips—ruby red and pursed right now—were perfect and heart shaped with a pronounced cupid’s bow that led men to stare and follow. Where my legs were stumpy and shoved in tights like sausage casings, hers were long and toned, her marble skin exposed and completely flawless.

And, as a vampire, she would forever remain that way.

In addition to being that frustratingly flawless, Nina is my office mate, my roommate, and my very best friend. She also happens to have the fashion prowess of every dead couture designer in the world, and fangs that could shred a grown man to ribbons should she have the inkling to do so (or wasn’t bound by UDA-V bylaw not to). But right now, she was really pissing me off.

“I kind of hate you right now.”

Her black eyes skipped over my full sink, up to my pink cheeks, to the damp paper towel I was pressing against my forehead.

“You couldn’t make the rent without me. So, spill. I need all the details.” She hopped up on the counter and positioned herself with her back against the mirror, legs stretched out on the granite. She glanced over her shoulder at her non-reflection, bared her fangs and smoothed her hair.

“Can you actually see anything in there?”

“No.” She produced a lip-gloss from some secret spy pocket sewn into her vintage couture—this one, I knew, was a Gaultier—and pursed her lips, doing a perfect gloss job. “But old habits die hard.”

Seeing as the last time Nina was able to see her reflection petticoats and powdered wigs were in fashion, the “old habits” quip struck me. My “old habit”—a perfectly pointy love triangle that included a delicious fallen angel and a just-as-enticing Guardian—was something I hoped to put to rest as soon as possible.

God, I hoped I never came back to life.

“Sampson is making me relive this hell.”

“Relive? Hell? You have an amazing opportunity, Soph.”

I groaned. “I know, I know, prom queen.”

“Don’t be silly; you’re not prom queen material.”

Um, thanks?

“What I mean is, you have this amazing opportunity to mold young minds. To really make an impression on these girls.” She stuck out her lower lip. “I need some sort of legacy like that. Something to leave behind.”

“You’re immortal. You are the legacy.”

Nina shrugged, appeased, and went on. “You’ll be immortal, too—through these girls. Think about it: they’ll carry the memory of Ms. Lawson with them for the rest of their lives.”

My stomach lurched and bile rose at the back of my throat. “For the rest of their lives?”

They could remember my phenomenal failure for the rest of their lives.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Can we get back to me, please?” Vlad wailed from the toilet seat he was sitting on.

Nina cocked a brow at me. “What’s he doing in here?” Then, to Vlad, “What are you doing in here?” She waved her hand at him when he tried to answer. “Never mind. Kale’s looking for you.” She turned her eyes back to me—intense, fixed. “And you have to do this. A girl’s life depends on it. Your life depends on it. And besides, you get to do a little ‘Hot for Teacher’ with Alex in the teacher’s lounge.”

My spine straightened and something zoomed through me, landing solidly in my nether regions. Alex—fallen angel, delicious, earth-bound detective and me in the teacher’s lounge? Maybe there was an up side to this thing.

“You didn’t tell her where I was, did you?” Vlad wanted to know.

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Yeah, well Alex and I seem to be a little less ‘Hot for Teacher,’ a little more ‘Me, Myself and I.’”

Nina frowned. Do over, she silently mouthed.

“Did you tell Kale where I was?” Vlad shouted, stomping across the restroom’s pink tiles.

Nina glared at him, her eyes narrowed and nearly flaming. “No. But I’m thinking I should, you dirty little undead Hugh Hefner. How dare you cheat on Kale!”

“Allegedly.”

Nina cocked an eyebrow and I got out from in between them, fairly certain that at some point, lightning bolts would start shooting from her eyes or fangs would sink into undead flesh. Suddenly, a Mercy High coven and a possible kidnapper/murderer on the loose didn’t seem quite so terrifying.

“Allegedly?” Nina spat. “You’ve got two options, Vlad. Take your chances with her or take your chances with me.”

Vlad widened his stance and narrowed his eyes at his aunt, whose glare was still stone cold. They stared like that for a full, silent beat before Vlad huffed and went for the door. “At least I know Kale won’t behead me in my sleep.”

“And don’t you forget it!” Nina yelled at the closing door. When she turned her eyes to me, she grinned. “I can’t believe you get a do-over. I mean, I get a lot, but you! You’re, you know, you!”

“I’m investigating a past murder and the disappearance of another girl and whether or not a new coven is responsible. I’m not going all Never Been Kissed, Neens. This is serious.”

“Ohmigawd!” Nina clapped a dainty hand over her open mouth. “How completely adorbs would it be if, during all the doom and gloom of your stupid detective work, you totally fall for the music teacher or something?”

“Nina . . .”

“Fine. The Spanish teacher, whatever.” Her eyes had gone glassy and she was fluttering around the bathroom, apparently lost in some sort of in-her-head musical soundtrack. “And you’d get your first kiss out on the football field in front of everyone!”

Now I was snarling. “I’ve had my first kiss. I’ve gone all the way—you know that.”

“Half this floor knows that.”

I narrowed my eyes, hopeful they were shooting daggers. Nina might be my very best friend and, she might have the ability to kill me with one soft press of her pinkie (or fang), but she was often the most supremely annoying person—undead or otherwise—I’ve ever known.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I was just having a little fun. Why are you so uptight? It usually takes you, like, ten chapters to get really upset over a murder.”

I let out a long sigh. “It’s not the murder I’m upset about. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m very sorry for the girl who got murdered last year and I will absolutely not stop until we bring Alyssa home safe but, but . . .”

Nina put a hand on my shoulder and even though it was ice cold, the gesture warmed me. “It’s okay, Soph. Whatever you have to say, it’s okay.”

“I. Hated. High school.”

A slick smile made its way across Nina’s perfect porcelain face. “Do over . . .” she sung.

I bit my bottom lip to stop its trembling and let Nina’s words wash over me. But I couldn’t stop the tears that bubbled and clung to my lower lashes.

“And . . . you know how I told Alex—I told Alex I loved him?”

Nina sucked in a deep breath—which was purely for show as vampires don’t breathe. “I’ve heard about it incessantly.”

“Now I’ve barely heard from him in weeks. Weeks!”

In my mind, I wear kick-ass black leather and wield a sword while taking down the rogue demons (and occasional big baddie human) in the Underworld. In actuality, I am a blubbering, blotchy-faced mess in the Underworld Detection Agency ladies’ room.

“It’s probably nothing, Soph. And even if it is, it’s not like he dumped you after you had sex or anything. He dumped you after you told him you loved him. That’s saying something.”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest and cocked out a hip. “It’s saying what, exactly?”

I could almost see the cogs in Nina’s head spring into action as her eyes widened. “It says you’re great in the sack.”

I was about to respond when Nina went back on her dreamy rampage. “Imagine the things you can teach those girls, Sophie.”

“Really?” I glanced at myself in the mirror, saw my blotchy, snotty reflection staring back at me, and sighed. “I’m somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty living with two vampire roommates, working in an organization that immediately calls me when the toilet roll needs refilling or when a corpse turns up. What, exactly, should I be teaching those girls?”

Nina opened her mouth, but I stopped her, holding up an index finger. “And don’t say I could teach them about being great in the sack.”