And Creed seemed friendly enough, but there was still something—I don’t know—odd about him. Something shadowy. Not like Reaper shadowy—I didn’t think he had magic, and he didn’t strike me as the type to run around in dark and damp tunnels in the middle of the night.

But I closed my mouth again. Had we just jumped from being in trouble for sneaking out to Veronica asking about Creed? Scout and I weren’t out of the woods yet, and we could probably use that.

Trying to play it cool, I just shrugged. “I guess they’re friends, yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” she said, but her cheeks blossomed pink. “Was he here?”

“Creed? No, just me and Jason and Scout.” I saw no need to also drag Michael into this. Besides, maybe Veronica had actually decided to turn her attentions elsewhere. Creed seemed more her speed anyway.

Veronica’s expression went flat again. “And where, exactly, did you meet Jason?”

“Admin wing,” Scout offered. “The very same door M.K. uses when she sneaks out to meet her boyfriend.”

Well, that was information I didn’t need.

Veronica’s eyes flashed, but since she didn’t move from her spot in the doorway, I guess the threat against M.K. hadn’t been all that effective. Scout tried again.

“They were in there, like, forever,” she said, sliding me a look of disgust. I tried to look guilty, shuffling my feet a little for good measure.

“That’s against the rules, you know.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I looked away, tucked some hair behind my ear and faked an attitude. “I’m almost sixteen. I do what I want.”

“She is from the East Coast,” Scout said. “They mature differently out there.”

“Well, whatever. It’s against the rules.”

“So’s spending the night in someone else’s suite,” Scout pointed out. “And I know you don’t want to get in trouble for that. So why don’t we all just go to bed and get in a good night’s sleep?”

Veronica’s lip curled, but she spun on her heel, walked into Amie’s bedroom, and slammed the door shut behind her.

Almost immediately, the door beside Amie’s opened. Lesley, our third roommate, glanced out. She was dressed in rainbow-striped pajama bottoms and a T-shirt with a pot of gold on it. Lesley knew about our midnight ramblings because—just as I’d done to Scout—she’d followed us into the basement one night. But she’d offered to help us, and she’d helped me out the night Scout disappeared. So as far as I could tell, she was one of the good guys. Or good girls. Whatever.

Lesley offered a thumbs-up.

Scout gave her back a thumbs-up. Apparently satisfied with that, Lesley popped back into her room and closed the door behind her.

Scout glanced over at me. “Next time you decide you want to make out with your boyfriend, call someone else.” Her voice was just a shade too loud—it was another scene in our little play for Veronica.

She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, then turned on her heel and walked to her bedroom door. “Good night, Parker.”

“Good night, Green.”

I went to my own room and shut and locked the door behind me. My messenger bag hit the floor, and I threw on pajamas that might have matched, but probably didn’t. My room, with its stone walls and floor, was always cold, so I went for warmth over beauty.

Grateful that I’d made it safely back—slimy monsters notwithstanding—I grabbed my cell phone and checked for messages from my parents. My father and mother had each sent me a text. Both of them said they loved me. My mother’s text message was straight and to the point: “HOW WAS YOUR MATH TEST? R U EATING PROTEIN?” I was a vegetarian; she usually just said I ate “weird.”

My dad always tried to be funny. That was his thing. His message read: “R U BEING GOOD IN THE WINDY CITY? SANTA WILL KNOW.”

Unfortunately, he wasn’t nearly as funny as he liked to think he was. But he was my dad, you know? So I typed out a couple of quick texts back, hoping they were somewhere safe and could actually read them.

After I’d pulled on thick, fuzzy socks, I climbed into bed and pulled the St. Sophia’s blanket over my head, blocking out the dull sounds of Chicago night traffic and the faint glow of plastic stars on the ceiling above my head.

I was asleep in minutes.

4

When my alarm clock blared to life, I woke up drenched in sweat, my St. Sophia’s blanket pulled completely over my head.

I’d had a nightmare.

I sat up and pushed the damp hair from my face, my heart still racing from the dream. I was awake, sure, but I hadn’t yet recovered. I still felt like I was there . . .

I’d dreamed that I’d been home in Sagamore. I’d been upstairs in my room reading a book. The house had been quiet; I think my parents had been downstairs watching television or something. I’d heard the front door open and close again, and out of curiosity, I’d put down my book and walked to the window, pushing the blinds aside.

Two men in black suits had gotten out of a boxy sedan. They’d looked at each other before walking toward our front door. They’d adjusted their suit coats as they’d moved, and I’d seen the glint of metal in one of their coat pockets.

I’d heard the doorbell ring, and the front door open and close, and the low murmurs of conversation that filtered upstairs.

And then the conversation had gotten louder. I’d heard my father demand the men leave.