Хлоя Нейл - Hexbound

With perfect timing, Jason interrupted further discussion of whatever brat-pack

“knocking” John was going to pretend to hear.

“So,” Jason said, “if you’re handing out rides on the yacht . . .”

“We can probably arrange something,” John said, then glanced at me. “Have you been out on the lake yet?”

“There’s a lake?”

It took him a second to realize I was joking. “Tell me they let you out more than that.”

“They let me out plenty.” Just not usually aboveground, and usually after the sun went down. “And no, I haven’t been on the lake yet. Or the river either, actually, now that I think about it.”

“We definitely need to remedy that. It won’t be long before winter’s here and the boat’s in dry dock. And then you’ll get to experience your first Chicago winter.”

“Winters in Sagamore were plenty wintry,” I pointed out.

“I’m sure. Add thirty-miles-per-hour wind to that, and you’ll get closer to Chicago.”

He watched M.K. brush her hair over her shoulder, and then he was off, heading right for St. Sophia’s least saintly girl.

I glanced over at Veronica, and watched her face tighten with the realization that her crush had picked a different victim.

“Hello, Sagamore.”

I glanced up at Jason, and his mocking of John Creed’s apparent nickname for me, and smiled. “Hello, Naperville.” I gestured toward Creed. “Are you two friends?

I can’t get a read on him.”

Jason shrugged. “We’re friends of a sort, I guess. We’ve known each other for a long time, but we’re not close like Michael and I are. Creed’s the kind of person who pretty much always has an agenda. That doesn’t exactly make for a strong friendship.”

“More like a business alliance,” I said.

John lifted M.K.’s wrist to take a look at her watch. Since he had his own undoubtedly expensive version, I figured it was just an excuse to touch her.

“Looks like he’s getting along with her pretty well,” Jason said.

I nodded. “That’s M.K. Problem is, I think her BFF has a thing for him.” I gestured toward Veronica, who was talking to one of the other Montclare boys while sliding secretive glances at Creed. She definitely had it bad. On the other hand, Garcia definitely seemed to be off the hook.

“Bummer,” Jason said. “Nobody likes to be the one left out.”

“Unfortunately true,” I said, anticipating what Scout liked to call “TBD”—Total Brat Drama. If there was anything likely to be worse than the brat pack left to their own devices, it was internal brat-pack squabbles.

Nothing good could come from that.

When the bell rang, everyone began to gather up their goods. Jason leaned down and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “See you tonight at the Enclave?”

“With bells on,” I whispered back. “And firespell in hand.”

“I look forward to seeing that,” he said. And with a wink, the Montclare boys left St. Sophia’s once again.

Scout was in her room, granola bar and magazine in hand, when I made it back to the suite. She looked up when I walked in.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

“As a vegetarian, I object to that metaphor.”

Scout grinned teethily at me. “As a carnivore, I object to your pickiness. Now spill the goods.”

“There were Montclare boys at our party-planning committee.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed. “Like I care.”

“Oh, you care. Jason was there, and Michael, of course, and their friend John Creed.”

She spun a finger in the air like she was twirling a party favor. “I know who John Creed is.”

“Did you know Veronica has a thing for him? But that he has a thing for M.K.? I feel like that’s information we can use to our advantage.”

Slowly, she looked up and grinned. “I knew there was a reason I liked you,

Parker.”

What, you might ask, was the best thing about being forced to attend an all-girls’ boarding school? Was it the lack of cute boys? The bratlets? The complete lack of a social life?

Maybe. But the mandatory study hall was right up there on the list.

Scout and I were seated beside each other in the Great Hall, a giant room of stained-glass windows and books. We sat across from Colette, another girl in our class, at one of the dozens of tables, the room around us full of plaid-wearing teenagers in varying levels of study comas.

Since I’d already filled Scout in about the party-planning meeting, I was actually doing my trig homework. Anyone who passed by the table might think Scout was reading up on European history . . . or the comic book that was stuck in between the pages of the textbook.

They’d be wrong.

The comic was actually a cover for Scout’s Grimoire, her main book of magic.

She’d worked a charm to make it look like a racy comic book featuring a big-busted heroine with long hair and longer legs. I thought that was a dangerous disguise,

especially if one of the dragon ladies who roamed the room decided it needed to be pitched. But Scout was smart enough to think ahead—she had disguised the book in the first place—so I assumed she had a clever magical backup plan.

Personally, I was waiting for the day the comic book characters appeared in 3D at our suite door, ready to perform their magic at Scout’s command. Geeky, sure,

but that still would have been sweet.

Scout had her faux comics, and I had my sketchbook. I loved to draw, and I was supposed to start studio classes anytime now. I could do still lifes—drawings of real objects—but I preferred to lose myself in the lines and let my imagination take over.

I kept a stash of favorite pencils in my messenger bag. And since my parents apparently felt guilty about sending me to Chicago while they did whatever they were doing in Germany, I also had a new stash of sweet German notebooks they’d mailed out last week. When I finished with the trig problems, I pulled one from my bag, grabbed my pencil case, and set to work.

I was in a roomful of characters—rich girls in plaid, weird girls in plaid, and the dragon ladies who patrolled the room and made sure we were doing homework instead of flipping through Cosmo. I was also in a room of cool architecture, from the dozens of stained-glass windows to the huge, brass chandeliers that hung above us. Each chandelier was made up of slender statues of women—ancient goddesses, maybe—holding up torches.

I opened the first notebook—a thin one with a pale blue cover—and touched the pencil lead to the slick paper. I picked a goddess from the nearest chandelier and started drawing. I started with a light line to get the general shape of her body, just to make sure I had the proportions correct. As I worked on the drawing, I’d darken a final line and fill in the details.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t trig. And best of all, the dragon ladies couldn’t complain.

I was studying, after all.

I’d just finished the sketch when the Great Hall went silent. It was usually pretty quiet, but there was always an undercurrent of sound—papers shuffling or low whispers as girls tried to entertain themselves.

But this was quiet quiet.

Scout and I glanced up simultaneously. My first thought had been that a spindly-

legged monster had walked into the room. But it was just the headmistress.

Marceline Foley strode confidently down the aisle in a trim suit and the kind of heels an adult would call “sensible.” Her eyes scanned the room as she moved,

probably taking in every detail of the students around her.

Foley was still a mystery to me. She was the first person I’d met when I arrived at St. Sophia’s a few weeks ago, and she’d given me a very cold welcome to Chicago. She’d also been the one who’d suggested my parents weren’t who they seemed to be. She had changed her tune, but when I had tried to talk to her about what was really going on, she’d convinced me to let things lie. Foley knew my parents, and she seemed convinced that they’d had a reason for not telling me what was really going on.