The Nightmare Dilemma (Arkwell Academy) (16 page)

I flapped my arms at him in alarm as a vision of me dangling in the air flashed through my mind. “Whoa! I’m just on my way to”—I held up the balled paper in my hand, the panic-ruined remains of Miss Norton’s note—“the infirmary.”

Gargrave’s thick, bushy eyebrows sank lower on his forehead as he thought it over, the task appearing to be quite an effort. This was the closest we’d been, and I saw he had a slow look about him, as if whatever had squashed his face like that had squashed his brains, too.

“This isn’t the infirmary.”

Less nervous now that he’d lowered his staff, I touched a finger to my chin, and said, “Really?” I took a look around, doing my ditzy routine. Beyond the door marked
GYMNASIUM
I heard the squeak of sneakers. Sounded like Coach Fritz had his senior class doing laps. I turned back to Gargrave. “I wondered what that smell was.”

Yeah, he wasn’t buying it. “You need to get back to—” Gargrave’s words cut off so abruptly for a second I thought someone had hit him with a silencer jinx.

But then another voice spoke from behind me, this one familiar and as smooth as melted chocolate. “Is there a problem, Captain?”

I glanced over my shoulder, unable to keep from smiling as my eyes alighted on Mr. Deverell. He was dressed in his usual classroom attire of khaki pants and a short-sleeved polo shirt that displayed his tan forearms, but his hair looked wet. He must’ve spent his free period making use of the fancy whirlpool Coach Fritz had obtained for his gladiator team last summer.

I turned back to Gargrave. He seemed to be sizing up Mr. Deverell, as if he wasn’t sure who held more authority in this situation. I took a step nearer to Deverell. My bet was with him.

“She claims to have gotten lost on her way to the infirmary,” said Gargrave.

I coughed into one hand while I held out the other one carrying Miss Norton’s note to Deverell. He took the note, uncrumpled it long enough to read it then returned it to me.

“Well, the sick part is true, regardless,” Deverell said. He motioned toward me. “If you want, Dusty, I can escort you to the infirmary.”

I nodded, feeling flustered on multiple levels now.

“Is that all right with you, Captain?” Deverell arched his eyebrows.

Gargrave grunted and then turned on his heel and strode away, disappearing around a corner.

A smile teased Deverell’s lips as he looked down at me. “He’s not exactly friendly, is he?”

“About as cuddly as a hungry grizzly bear.”

Deverell chuckled. “An apt description.” The smile slid from his face, and his brow furrowed. “So you’re feeling sick?”

“Yeah, a little.” I considered coughing to play it up but decided not to. Deverell looked genuinely concerned for me, and the idea of deceiving him made me want to squirm.

“Not sleeping well, are you?”

I frowned, uncertain if that had been a question or a statement. “No, I’m not, but … how did you know?”

Deverell took a few steps away from me and leaned his back against the wall. He slid both hands into his front pockets. “I sensed it, connected to that image from your dream I saw when I was helping you with the projection cards.”

“Oh, that.” A vision of the plinth flashed as clear as a photograph in my brain, the
B
and
E
on its surface like pieces of art, lovely to behold even to my waking mind. I pushed the vision away. “It’s nothing.”

Deverell shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not true. I think you might have the beginnings of a block, as we call it in psionics.”

“A block?”

He nodded. “It’s when an abstract object such as an idea or an image or even a thought gets lodged inside your mind.”

“Ouch. Sounds painful.”

He shook his head. “Not really, but the longer the block is allowed to continue the deeper it can get lodged.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Only to your grades.” He smiled, heading off my horrified look. “It hampers your mind-magic.”

“Oh,” I said, catching his drift.

“Most of the time the block goes away on its own. But I do know a few techniques we can try to help it move along more quickly if you want.”

I bit my lip, uncertain. On the one hand, I would love to stop obsessing about the stupid thing, but on the other, I didn’t like the idea of anyone else besides me seeing the plinth and reading that word.

Still, I didn’t want to reject him outright. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it.”

“Sure. I understand.”

“But there is something else you could help me with,” I said, suddenly remembering my afternoon mission.

“Yes?”

I bit my lip, trying to think of the best way to phrase it. “Do you know anything about how to extract memories?”

“A little,” Deverell said, his voice cautious now.

“Any chance you could show me how to do it?”

“Why?”

Knowing I couldn’t mention Lance, I spun the first yarn that came to mind. “I have this friend, you see. She’s a fairy, and well, she has a little bit of a sugar problem, you know?”

Deverell compressed his lips as if he were resisting a smile. “I do.”

Feeling encouraged, I flipped my hair back behind my shoulders. “Well, she went on this bad binge last weekend and thinks she did something really stupid, but she can’t remember what. Or with
who,
if you catch my drift.”

He nodded, still looking on the verge of smiling.

“And now she’s asked me to try to help her remember.” I stopped speaking and drew a nervous breath.

Deverell scratched his chin, and I could tell by the look on his face the answer would be no. “I’m very sorry, Dusty, but I can’t simply show you how to do something as complicated as that. It’s far too advanced and delicate a technique. Not to mention the moral complications involved in possessing such a skill.”

“Right.” I sighed, seeing his point.

Deverell nodded, checking his watch. “Now I suppose you don’t
really
need me to show you how to get to the infirmary?”

“I think I can manage.”

“Good. But make sure you’re feeling better in time for my class.”

He bestowed one last smile on me and then turned and walked off.

Once more alone in the hallway, I exhaled, fighting back a wave of nerves. Then with a huge effort of will, I turned and faced the door into the locker room. I took a deep breath, bracing for the stink, and stepped inside.

The smell was even worse than I feared, the BO stench having seeped into the walls themselves. Covering my nose and mouth, I moved quietly down the rows of lockers, searching for the right number. Unlike ordinary high schools, all the lockers at Arkwell were assigned to make sure that each locker suited the needs of whatever kind it belonged to.

Paul’s locker was in the farthest corner and adjacent to the shower area entrance. It looked more or less like my gym locker, and when I opened it with the moonwort key, I was glad to find it wasn’t stinky. Just the opposite, I discovered, as I impulsively leaned toward the shirt hanging from a hook and breathed in. The familiar, pleasant smell filled my nose, the combination of laundry detergent, shampoo, and deodorant that formed Paul’s particular scent. The smell brought back so many memories that I stood there for a second, overwhelmed by them all.

Then I remembered where I was, and I reached into the locker and started rummaging through his backpack. I found the book at once. It was the largest thing in there, resting in between a three-ringed folder and a government textbook. I pulled it out, surprised by how dense it was.

A photograph that must’ve been stuck to the book fluttered to the ground and landed at my feet. I bent and picked it up, turning it over in my hands.

My own face stared back at me. I swallowed as a nameless emotion tightened in my chest. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but something akin to it. I recognized the photo, of course. It was from my freshman-year soccer season. Paul had asked me for a picture when we first started dating, and this was the only one I’d had at the time.

Why had he kept it? And what was he doing carrying it around in his backpack?

The simplest answer was that Lady Elaine had been right—he did have true feelings for me. But things were never simple with Paul. I didn’t know much about black magic, but I knew that a person’s likeness could be used against them in certain spells and curses. The thought sent a shiver slipping over my skin.

Swallowing back the ball of nerves in my throat, I slid the photo into my pocket and returned my attention to the book in my hands. The title on the cover and spine was faded beyond discernment. The leather cover was flexible like a Bible, instead of firm, making it hard to hold.

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.