Under a Spell by Hannah Jayne Page A

Miranda made air quotes. “‘The girl who was sacrificed.’”
    “So that’s what kids here think? It was a sacrifice?”
    Miranda raised her eyebrows in the universal sign of “duh” and went on. “Because of the pentagram. And the stuff carved into her.”
    I swallowed sour saliva, hating the image the word “carved” brought up. Then I straightened. “How did you know there was something carved into her skin? I don’t remember seeing that in the paper.”
    “Welcome to Generation Internet.”
    “So . . . do they think it was witches, because of the carvings? Or Satan worshippers?” I tried to force a lightness into my tone—as light a conversation about a dead girl and human sacrifice could be, anyhow.
    Miranda dropped her pencil and perched her chin in her hand. “Do you know that there has never been even one bona fide instance of Satanism or Satanic sacrifice in San Francisco?”
    I did know that, unfortunately, and could have corrected Miranda—there’s never been a documented case of true Satanic sacrifice in all of the U.S. But I just played dumb.
    “Wow. Well, what about the witch stuff? I heard some of the girls saying that maybe the—what was carved—was, like, a spell.”
    Miranda didn’t answer and I rushed on. “When I went here, there were always a few girls messing with that stuff. You know, pentagrams and charms and stuff.” I stifled a manufactured oh-how-silly chuckle. “There was even a rumor about a coven on campus.”
    Miranda carefully closed her notebook and laid her pencil on top. My throat went dry and a shot of adrenaline zinged through me.
    “Yeah. You told me that already.”
    Of course it couldn’t have been that easy.
     
     
    The sun was beginning to dip and gray fingers of darkness stretched across my classroom when Will came across the hall and knocked on my open door frame.
    “Ready to head out?”
    I looked around my empty room as though some sort of clue or explanation would pop up, but there was nothing. I sighed and pulled my bag over my shoulder. “I feel like today was a total waste. I floundered in front of three classes and we’re no closer to finding Alyssa.”
    Will pulled Alyssa’s burnt clothes—which were now carefully packed in Ziploc bags—from his satchel. “We found her clothes.”
    “So now we know that she may or may not be dead. Great.” I held my thumb and forefinger a smidge apart. “I stand corrected. We’re this much closer to finding out some information about Alyssa.”
    “What did Angel Boy have to say about it?”
    “What? You mean Alex?”
    Will shook his head slowly. “What’d he have to say about the uni?”
    I paused, fairly certain I was wearing one of my most attractive deer-in-the-headlight looks.
    “You did call him, didn’t you?”
    “Not exactly.”
    Will cocked a brow.
    “Not at all. I thought you’d be happy about that. You hate ‘Angel Boy’ and the police and all.”
    Will crossed his arms and pinned me with a fatherly expression that oozed disappointment. “It’s evidence, love. You’re supposed to report all findings of any significance to the brass. And I never said I hated the angel. I just find it hard to like someone who tried to kill me.”
    I wrinkled my brow. “ You tried to kill Alex.”
    “Did I?”
    “And I’m not deliberately hiding evidence. For starters, I’m not sure how significant a burning Dumpster—”
    “With the uniform of a missing student—”
    “—is. And secondly, I’ve been rather busy here, investigating. There are a lot of students to interview, Will. Lots of crevices and rooms on this campus to check out.”
    Will rolled his eyes.
    “And also I forgot.”
    I could see Will suppressing a groan so I rushed on.
    “But it’s not like that’s going to make any difference. Like I said.” I pinched my fingers together again. “That much closer to finding Alyssa.”
    “We’re a little bit more than that much”—Will imitated my gesture—“to finding her