Chapter 1

 “Call me Brigid.”

 I stopped typing. Hell, call me anytime. I hadn't had a date in two hundred and twenty-three days, but who's counting?

 I resumed typing. “5'4”. Shoulder-length brown hair. Green eyes.” I re-read it, then rested my finger on the delete key, feeling the plastic worn smooth under my finger. “Reddish-brown hair. Emerald eyes.” Weight: none of your business. “Hobbies: volleyball, reading” and magic that didn't work. Yeah, putting magic in there would earn me a quick trip to the nut house.

 The cursor winked at me.

 Was I really desperate enough to post an ad on the University of Washington's student website?

 From behind me, Tiffany said, “It's brown with red highlights.”

 I jumped and swiveled my chair back, running over Trent's toes.

 Trent yelped and shot me a wounded look. He rubbed his foot with an exaggerated motion. “Put down playing the violin and maiming your friends, too.”

 My dorm room seemed to shrink to the size of a pea. I felt the blood rushing to my face. “Don't you two knock any more?”

 Trent shrugged. “Your door was half-open. You were so involved in writing yourself up you didn't hear us come in.”

 Great, just what I didn't want—my two best friends seeing how desperate I was. What else could go wrong?

 Was that smoke? No, just someone burning perfectly good Argentina beans.

 Trent said, “If you're looking for a date, I can blog about it. Lots of guys read my blog.”

 I rolled my eyes. Not what I needed—physics majors hitting on me.

 Down the hall, I heard someone say, “Oh shit.” Must have been the coffee bean burner.

 I held up a hand. “Knock it off. Pretend this never happened.”

 I eyeballed Trent, but he kept quiet.

 He walked over and closed the door. “What did you say about magic?”

 I heard Tiffany inhale sharply.

 Damn. I needed to stop talking to myself while typing. “My parents are Wizards. Freaky and slightly insane, but mom bakes outstanding chocolate chip cookies.”

 Was Tiffany trying not to laugh?

 Trent walked back over to me. “Wow, what was it like?”

 “Well, magic isn't like the movies. It doesn't really work. Life would be simpler if it did, but I learned in grade school not to tell anyone. Watch this and be amazed.”

 I raised my right hand theatrically and concentrated on the essence of fire, just as my mother taught me. When I could feel fire in my mind's eye, I snapped my fingers. “Fire.”

 My hand was covered in flames. I knocked over my chair as I scrambled backwards onto my desk, trying to get away from the flames. Unfortunately, my hand came with me. “Holy shit!”

 Tiffany stepped back, setting my floor lamp rocking. “What the hell did you do?” She stared at my hand. “Does it hurt?”

 I wiggled my fingers. “Not really—it feels like sticking my tongue on a nine-volt battery. Freaking, though.” The reality was starting to sink in—my magic was real.

 Trent leaned forward, holding out his finger as if to touch my hand, but he didn't dare. “Cool trick. I love stage magic. How did you do it?”

 I heard the hysteria building in my voice as I said, “It's real. I don't know how I did it. Magic has never worked for me before.” I stuck my hand in his face.

 Trent leaped back. “Hey, that's hot. Knock it off.”

 Tiffany said, “Uh...maybe you should try to put it out.”

 “Out? Yeah, that's a good idea. Out. Out.” I shook my hand in the air. “Out out out out!”

 Nothing happened.

 Underneath my rising panic, I remembered mom telling me I could always dismiss magic the same way I created it.

 I concentrated on seeing fire in my mind, then pictured it going out. I closed my hand. The flames went out. They stayed gone as my hand trembled. “Guys, I'm about to flip out.”

 I touched one hand with the other. It felt normal enough.

 Trent said, “That was cool.” He looked at my hand and frowned. “Can you do it again?”

 “What?”

 He stepped over to me, grabbed my arm and pushed back my long sleeve. He looked stunned. “Shit. Where are your props?”

 I said, “I told you it's real.”

 Tiffany said, “Is there anything we can do for you, Brigid?”

 In a quiet voice, Trent added, “Yeah, anybody we could call?”

 I shook my head, staying quiet so I wouldn't set anything else on fire, or worse yet, burst into tears.

 Tiffany said, “I don't know what to do about the magic, but maybe we can help you feel better.”

 How could she be so calm when I felt like throwing up?

 Trent said, “You need apple pie. Me too.”

 I scooted off my desk. The floor squeaked as I landed. “Sounds great.”

 Tiffany looked at Trent. “NeoLogian Cafe.”

 I swallowed. “Wait, you expect me to go outside? There's snow on the ground. Inches of it.” Seattle wasn't supposed to get snow in March.

 I shivered at the thought of snow slipping down my back.

 Trent grinned. “Maybe the snow will freeze your magic away. Besides, the pie is worth it. I think they even have regular coffee for you espresso-challenged throwbacks.”

 I grumbled as I pulled on my Merino coat, hat, and scarf. I hated most wool, but I liked Merino—it wasn't scratchy.

 Tiffany looped a designer scarf around her neck and dragged me out the door.

 Trent led us downstairs to the sidewalk. I was happy to follow him. This time.

 I crunched through the snow in silence, warm in my layers of clothes. Tiffany slipped as we turned onto 47th but caught herself quickly. Most people would have fallen flat, but Tiff was smooth as a dancer.

 A snowflake found a bare spot on my neck. As my head jerked up, I saw a man lying in the snow, his clothes dirty. His head rested on his backpack.

 That was dangerous. It was cold enough to kill. I took a step forward and almost slid into him.

 Adding insult to embarrassment, I fell on my ass. Damn, why couldn't I be more like Tiffany?

 Trent skidded over. Thankfully, he managed to stop without hitting me. “Are you hurt?”

 I shook my head.

 He offered me a hand up. Such a gentleman. I stood up gingerly and looked down at the still sleeping man.

 I took a deep breath and let it out. My breath came out foggy. “Are you okay? Can we get you something?”

 The man didn't say anything. I leaned closer. A blood-flecked turquoise ghost stood up, looked at me, pointed into the distance, and walked away.

 “He's dead.” I choked on the words.

 Trent turned me around and stared into my eyes. I think he wanted to check my head, not that it would have done any good.

 Trent said slowly and carefully, “He's just sleeping.”

 I said, “He's dead. This is so not helping.” This was all too much. I was about to cry. I kept my tears at bay by trying to figure out what to do next.

 Trent pulled off a glove and put his fingers on the man's neck. He counted to ten, then shook his head. “No pulse, and he's cold.”

 Yeah, that was it—check his pulse was next. Thank God for Trent. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. My hands were shaking so much, it took me two tries to hit the right number.

 Trent removed his other glove. He tilted the man's head back, gave him two quick breaths, and started compressing his chest.

 I spoke to the operator, mesmerized by Trent's movements, in time with his count. It was exactly like the CPR videos.

 Except without the ghost.

 And the emotions. And the dead body. Watching the video wasn't real.

 This hurt. Even through the numbing cold, I felt sad. A man had died, and I'd seen his ghost. Wait, a ghost only appeared when someone had been murdered. Shit. I really didn't want to tell anyone.

 Something else was nagging me, but I couldn't place it.

 Tiffany leaned over Trent, looking down at the man's face. “Oh my God. It's Preacher John.”

 I blinked and knelt down. I hadn't recognized Preacher John's face because it wasn't twisted with rage. Tiffany's words helped me picture him as he looked ranting at us.

 Yeah, now I remembered him.

 Tiffany shook her head. “You yelled at me when I walked through Red Square, but you didn't deserve to die alone in the cold. No one does.” She closed her eyes. I wondered if she prayed.

 The 911 operator asked me questions until the ambulance arrived. I didn't know if I was there for one minute or ten. Trent kept up CPR until one of the paramedics tapped him on the arm and said a few words.

 I had moved back to stand with Tiffany, so I missed what he said. Hopefully he was reassuring. I knew Trent had tried hard, but Preacher John was gone before we even got there.

 The paramedics loaded Preacher John on a stretcher. I heard one of them say, “Hypothermia.”

 The other one came and looked us over. “You three need to warm up, maybe eat something.”

 I mumbled, “We were going to the NeoLogian Cafe.”

 He led us to the door. “Go inside. Eat. Warm up.”

 I stumbled on the step. The paramedic caught my arm and held it briefly as I stepped into the warmth. He seemed nice. Whoa, where'd that come from? I'd just performed magic and seen a ghost. I really needed to talk to my hormones.

 Trent and Tiffany followed me in. The paramedic let the door close.

 The cafe was noisy, crowded, and warm. Just the place to sit and quietly contemplate ghosts and magic. I sighed.

 How could I tell my friends about the ghost?

 Tiffany looked around. “I'll get us a table.”

 She pushed through the crowds at the round tables.

 I looked at Trent. He shrugged and followed. I trailed along in Trent's wake. I barely registered the pale green walls covered with 80s indy rock posters.

 When we reached the window, Tiffany waved us to an empty table and three chairs. I looked at her. “How did you do that?”

 She smiled a little wider than usual. “I asked nicely, and three guys let us have their table.”

 I shook my head. “Tiff, you never cease to amaze me.”

 A waitress walked over. “Whatcha want?”

 Tiffany leaned across the table. “She's never been here before. She wants a piece of the apple pie.”

 The waitress marked her pad. “Heated?”

 I said, “Yes, please.”

 “Anything to drink?”

 “Hot chocolate, please, with lots of whipped cream.”

 Trent raised his eyebrows. “Not coffee?”

 I shook my head. “No, that's for waking up. Right now, I need my hot chocolate.”

 The waitress took Trent and Tiffany's orders, then worked her way through the crowd.

 Okay, this was it. I leaned over the table and pitched my voice so only they could hear. “There was something funny about Preacher John's death, but it's too crowded to talk here.”

 They gave each other a look. Great, as if magic wasn't enough, they'd really think I was crazy when I told them about the ghost.

 I was saved by the waitress delivering our order.

 Tiffany and Trent leaned forward while I cut the pie and spooned on the thick cinnamon sauce.

 I held the bite in my mouth a moment, letting the warmth spread. I felt it slide down my throat as I swallowed. “Heavenly.”

 Trent smiled. “Ah, so you're Christian this week?”

 I pointed my fork at him. “Nope, I'm still officially a College Student. No time for religion.”

 Tiffany ducked behind a menu. “Don't look now, but that's my evil French teacher over there, Madame Dupris.”

 I glanced over. Waist-length black hair—I was jealous. I toyed with the idea of using my new magic to zap her hair over to me, but I was terrified of what might happen. I made out a few words. “The homeless, they are so...untidy.” I lost the rest of the conversation in the noise.

 I finished my apple pie. “You're right—this was worth braving the snow, but I could have skipped finding Preacher John.”

 That killed our conversation. Great move, Brigid. I should have been more emphatic, but I was still in shock. We finished our drinks in silence. Reluctantly, I set my mug aside. “I don't think the snow's going to melt while we sit here. We might as well hike back.”

 Tiffany looped her scarf around her neck. “At least it's downhill.”

 We made it outside and walked towards the Ave. Brooklyn was closer, but the Ave was more interesting. I looked around to make sure we couldn't be overheard. This was my chance. “Preacher John didn't die from the cold. He was murdered.”

 Tiffany said, “Why do you say that?”

 I took a deep breath. As if they didn't think I was strange before. “I saw his ghost stand up and walk away. Ghosts only show up when someone is murdered.”

 Trent said, “How do you know?”

 I said, “I've seen it. A few years ago, I snuck into a bar to hear People in Planes play. Two guys got into an argument, and one of them pulled a knife. It was over in a few seconds. I saw a ghost then, too.”

 It almost turned me off the band, but my friends didn't need to know that part. “But when my great-aunt passed away quietly at home, no ghost.”

 They gave each other one of those she's-lost-it looks.

 Trent faced me. “Brigid, I'm a scientist.” He shrugged. “Well, I will be one day. We like real evidence.”

 He looked into my eyes. “After today, I'm willing to take ghosts on faith. At least until we can find a better explanation.”

 Way better than I'd hoped.

 Tiffany said, “We'll help you find this murderer. If we don't turn up anything, we'll get you...different...help.”

 I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until my foot slipped on the ice. I caught myself on the door of a copy shop, but the impact knocked the air out of me. “I'm glad you don't think I'm crazy. It means a lot to me.”

 Trent patted my shoulder. “I didn't say we don't think you're crazy, but it has nothing to do with ghosts and magic.”

 I laughed. I was glad my friends were with me.

 Tiffany said, “What's the next step?”

 I pulled out my reporter's notebook. “I owe it to him to be respectful, since I saw his ghost. I want to write his story for The Daily. If I don't, someone else will make a mess of it. I'd rather not have his ghost haunting me.”

 Trent said, “Why would the school paper be interested?”

 I said, “Because one of the campus loonies...damn, I need a better word...has died.” I shrugged. “That's big news.”

 Back in my room, I opened my laptop and started my article. “At 7:30 Monday night, a man passed away alone in the cold. We knew him as Preacher John.” I liked Tiff's phrase well enough to borrow it.

 An hour later, I hit Send. I hoped my editor liked it. Writing the article helped me burn off tension, but not enough. I stayed up until 3:00 thinking about how to prove he was murdered.

 I woke to knocking. I blinked my eyes, trying to bring the clock into focus. 8:00. Damn. This had better be good.

 Trent called out, “Sleepy girl, look what I've got.”

 I stumbled over to the door and jerked it open. “I hope it's coffee.”

 Trent waved a newspaper under my nose. “Even better, look who's above the fold.”

 “Nothing's better than coffee.” I blinked a couple of times. “Oh, cool. My article made the front page.” I read through the article. “Not bad. I always wonder why my fiendish editor rips the soul out of my articles, but this one came out okay. I still want to learn more about Preacher John, though.”

 Trent said, “I thought it was nice. Probably better than I'll get when I go.”

 I grinned. “I can do your obituary. 'Trent. Physics major. Blew himself up.'”

 He laughed. “Wow, that's good for not having coffee yet. Remember, tonight is another Skeptics meeting. You missed the last three meetings, and you promised to come to this one.”

 “Right—I'll be there.”

 I grabbed a quick breakfast downstairs with Trent.

 As we walked towards campus, he said, “Ready for class?”

 “Shit.” Now I remembered.

 “What's the matter, babe?”

 I hit him in the arm. Lightly. “I forgot we're supposed to have a test today in Dr. Smith's class. I haven't even looked at the book.”

 I dodged a slow-moving couple. “I'm doomed. I'll flunk out. My parents will be so disappointed.”

 Trent made a fake sad face. “Don't worry, I'll visit you in your rusty shopping cart. I hear the Ave and 49th is a good place to panhandle.”

 I hit him again.

 He made a show of rubbing his arm. “Ow. Okay, you don't know how to handle Dr. Eco-nut?”

 “No.” I kicked a rock off the path.

 Trent grinned impishly. “Ask him a question implying you're not ultra-green. He'll spend the whole hour lecturing you on environmental correctness, and there won't be any time left for the test. I know—ask him about the 'myth' of anthropomorphic climate change.”

 I hurried to my classroom. Thank goodness Trent knew how to handle Dr. Smith.

 Dr. Smith smiled as we filed in.

 When everyone was seated, he said, “I'm handing out your paper assignments. Are there any questions before the test?”

 He looked like Santa. I wondered if I could pull this off with a straight face. If I couldn't, I'd have to take the damned test. “Professor, what do you think of the myth of anthropomorphic climate change?”

 He stomped towards me. “The 'myth' of anthropomorphic climate change? What medieval robber-baron's rock did you ooze out from under, child? It's indisputable that humans have caused the unprecedented rise in temperatures since the start of the Industrial Revolution. Why, look at our carbon dioxide emissions alone, not even counting the other greenhouse gases.”

 Uh oh, he'd turned into Santa's evil twin. Oh well, nothing to lose except my self-respect. “But the St. Helens volcano dumped more CO2 into the atmosphere in half an hour than people release in a year.”

 Sometimes I did know what I was talking about.

 Dr. Smith slapped the stack of assignments on my desk. It was loud. “Humans have been spewing CO2 into the atmosphere for the past 150 years, which correlates directly with the increased warming. It's simple. More CO2, more warming. There are sophisticated reasons for the relationship, but the math is too complex for you.”

 Trent hadn't warned me the mocking would continue for the rest of class. I gave up trying to defend myself and retreated into mumbling. Yeah, high school again, but this time it was my professor. What a jerk.

 I fled the instant I heard the faint bell marking the end of class. At least this building had a bell.

 I couldn't concentrate in my other classes. Next time, I promised myself, I would make sure to study.

 Trent waved at me from the lounge on our floor as I walked by. “How'd it go?”

 I swung my backpack off my shoulder. “The good news? No quiz. The bad news? We received our term paper assignments, and I have to write about the economics of carbon trading. Oh, and I still have to study for the damned quiz.”

 Trent laughed. “Good, you have a chance to show him you've reformed your evil capitalist ways.”

 I dropped into a chair and buried my nose in my laptop. Fifteen minutes later I had bookmarked a dozen sites for my report. “Carbon credits are old school. We need something new—like a giant slingshot to shoot excess CO2 into space.”

 Trent looked over. “I can never tell when you're being serious.”

 I smiled innocently. “Good, let's play poker for money. I mean, why don't you show me how to play poker?”

 Trent sighed dramatically. Poor boy. I'd get him loosened up, eventually.

 Tiffany walked in. “Heya. Let's go to your room and work on magic.”

 I said, “Gee, thanks, I'd almost managed to block yesterday out of my mind.”

 Tiffany shrugged. “Well, if you'd rather have your magic leak out...”

 I grabbed my laptop and stood up. “When you put it like that...”

 I really didn't want anyone watching, but Tiffany and Trent had already seen me doing magic. They could clean up any mistakes.

 Ew, maybe I didn't want to imagine that.

 I glanced over my shoulder at them. “You two seem awfully calm about this.”

 Trent rubbed his hands together and perched on my desk. “I want to figure out how it works. I bet I can get a term paper out of it.”

 I shook my head. Leave it to Trent to try to find a reason for everything. At least I got his lack of panic—this was just another experiment to him. I'd heard about some of his experiments.

 Maybe he had lost his “run away” sense, but I still didn't get Tiffany.

 I turned to her and waited.

 She filed her nails.

 I coughed.

 Her eyes flicked up. “Yes?”

 I said, “Why aren't you flipping out over my magic?”

 She shrugged. “You've never met my mother.”

 Which was true but no answer. On the other hand, I'd never known Tiffany to flip out, either. I gave up. If my magic went wrong, there might not be enough of us left to worry about anything.

 I said, “I want to try setting something else on fire this time.”

 Tiffany went for a glass of water while I took the batteries out of my smoke detector. I tore a page from my notebook and dropped it on a plate, then tapped my foot until Tiffany returned.

 I said, “Ready?”

 She nodded.

 I pointed at the paper and pictured it bursting into flame. “Fire.” The paper glowed a bit, then gradually caught on fire.

 Trent looked down at it. “Wow, pretty neat. Better than setting yourself on fire. That would make you a really hot date, though.”

 I chuckled as Tiffany put out the fire. “That's odd—I expected it to burst into flame, not smolder.”

 Trent shrugged. “Maybe it depends on how well you're concentrating.”

 I said, “Why don't you get us more water?”

 Tiffany put a new piece of paper down.

 Before Trent returned, I pointed. “Fire.” The paper burst into flame.

 Trent walked in with the water and put out the fire.

 I paced. “Why does it work better with you out of the room? And why is it working at all, now, anyway?”

 Trent dragged his finger through the damp ashes. “Well, what's changed recently? Other than you obsessing about the dead guy.”

 “I'm not obsessing...” catching sight of Trent's smirk, I threw a pillow at him. “Other than the usual change of classes, I can't think of anything.”

 Trent frowned. “You're not counting us joining the Skeptics Club? I'm crushed.”

 I sat down. “Wait, that's right. But why would joining the Skeptics allow me to perform magic? That doesn't make any sense—they're opposites. And you joined the Skeptics, yet you seem to limit my magic.”

 Tiffany looked back and forth between us. “Curiouser and curiouser. Well, there's only one thing to do. I'm coming to the next Skeptics meeting.”

 I eyed her suspiciously. “You've never been interested before.”

 Tiffany smiled. “This time you'll be trying magic during the meeting.”

 Trent piped up. “You're in luck Tiff—there's a meeting tonight.”

 Tiffany picked up the plate and threw away the ashes. “Fire is too risky. What else could you do?”

 I thought it over. “I don't know—how about water?”

 Tiffany dried off the plate with a towel. “Let's check it out. Trent—hallway.”

 After Trent left, I stood up and pointed my finger at the plate. “Water.”

 Water covered the plate and spilled onto the floor. As we cleaned up, Trent returned. When I was ready again, I pointed. “Water.” This time the plate was only half full.

 Trent said, “Cool. What else can you make?”

 Tiffany pulled out a postcard. “Try this. It's a Greek vase.”

 I studied the postcard. “Very pretty. Looks delicate, too.”

 I pointed at the center of my room. “Vase.”

 Tiffany reacted first. “Um, Brigid, are you sure you looked at the right side of the postcard?”

 Trent walked around the vase-like object. “I think Escher could have created this if he'd had access to hard drugs in kindergarten.”

 I cautiously tapped it with my foot. “It's pretty awful, isn't it?”

 Trent said, “Maybe you need something simpler.” He handed me a dollar bill. “Try this. If it works, we don't have to worry about money.”

 I stared at the bill, then pointed at my desk. “Dollar.” I could see the green bill from where I was standing. “How'd I do?”

 Trent picked it up. “George appears to have gained quite a bit of weight. In his forehead. Oh, and I don't think the back is supposed to be quite this shade of green.”

 Tiffany took a look. “The designs are supposed to be made of many small lines. This is just blobs of color.”

 I walked over. “Hmmm, no chance it will pass. Oh well, put it on the plate and I'll burn it.”

 Trent set it down.

 I pointed at it. “Fire.” A band of pain flared around my temples, above my ears. Nothing happened to the dollar. I fell back onto my bed.

 Tiffany stepped over to me. “What's wrong?”

 I pointed at my head.

 She said, “Headache?”

 I smiled weakly and clutched the wall for support.

 Trent said, “I'll take care of the dollar. We'd hate to see you go to federal prison. Visiting hours are a bitch.” He pulled out a box of kitchen matches and burned it the old-fashioned way.

 Tiffany said, “Why are you carrying matches? Are you a pyromaniac?”

 He chuckled. “The technical term is 'physics major'.”

 Tiffany walked over to me and put her hand on my arm. “Do you want some ibuprofen?”

 I stuck my thumb up. I didn't want to risk moving my head.

 She handed me two pills and a glass of water. I swallowed the pills and polished off the whole glass of water in case I was dehydrated.

 Tiffany said, “Do you want us to leave so you can have some quiet time?”

 I gave her another thumb's up.

 She pulled Trent out the door. “We'll check on you later, sweetie. Get better.”

 I put my headphones on but didn't turn on any music. I wanted quiet. I stacked up my pillows and leaned back against them. I closed my eyes and practiced my breathing exercise, although I hurt until the ibuprofen kicked in.

Chapter 2

 I must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, because I woke to knocking at my door. I said, “Come in.”

 Tiffany opened the door and walked in, followed by Trent. “How are you feeling now?”

 I pulled off my headphones and thought about it. “The headache's gone. I thought you were leaving for more than a couple of minutes, though.”

 Trent said, “What're you talking about? We left three hours ago.”

 I checked the clock. “Wow. I must have really been out.”

 Tiffany said, “You needed it.”

 Trent said, “Ready for the Skeptics meeting?”

 I stood up cautiously. My head stayed on, so I figured I was good. “I think so.” I grabbed my heavy coat.

 We headed downstairs and walked east. Tiffany said, “What's tonight's meeting about?”

 Trent said, “One of the advisors is going to pretend to have psychic powers. We're supposed to figure out the trick. At the end, they'll walk us through it.”

 Trent opened the door to Kane 225 and held it for me. What a thoughtful guy.

 Five minutes after we sat down, a well-dressed older woman named Alice stepped up to the podium. She usually introduced the meetings, but I didn't know if she was an official.

 She tapped on the mike. “Testing.” She listened to her voice for a second. “Fa-la-la-la-la.” Head cocked, she nodded and began her speech. “Hello. My name is Alice Walker. I'd like to welcome you to the Skeptics Club. In this age of pseudo-science, we'll teach you to use your mind instead of letting it rot away with mumbo-jumbo. Watch carefully.”

 She sat down, and two men came in. The one wearing a white suit, cape, and sunglasses placed his hands on his hips and took a stance like Superman. “I'm Thomas the Magnificent, a noted psychic.”

 The other man said, “I'm Nial, and I'm testing Thomas' claims.” He assumed a fencing stance and a bad French accent. “En garde, mon villain.”

 Trent whispered, “Nial is a former UW professor and fencing coach. I think he started the club as an excuse to hang around campus. Not that he's the nicest person.”

 Thomas reached into his cape and pulled forth a deck of cards which he waved in the air as he spoke. “My friends, this is no ordinary deck of cards. Instead of playing cards, I have here 25 cards used for testing ESP and other psychic phenomena. They are divided into five groups of five symbols: double wavy lines.” He made wavy motions with his hands.

 “Circle.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger.

 “Square.” He drew a square with his hands.

 “Plus sign.” He drew a plus sign.

 “And...the star.” He swung his hand in a large arc and pointed to himself, then grinned. “Nial, please hand the cards out to the audience to inspect. Make sure there are no other markings on the cards and the symbols don't show through the back.”

 Thomas gave the cards to Nial with a flourish and waited while they were passed around.

 While the cards moved through the audience, Thomas squinched his eyes closed and brought his right hand up. He wiggled his fingers. “I'm sensing something from the audience...it's getting stronger, stronger...” He raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes, a disbelieving look on his face. “Is anyone here skeptical, by chance?”

 We clapped.

 He sighed and placed the back of his hand on his forehead dramatically. “You.” He pointed to Trent. “You.” He pointed to someone else in the audience. “And you, and you, and all of you over there.” He pointed to himself. “Oh, and me too.”

 We roared with laughter. Okay, it was a stupid joke, but he pulled it off.

 Trent whispered, “Thomas is my favorite. He's been a member of the Skeptics for a long time.”

 I smiled and glanced around the lecture hall while waiting to examine the cards. Trent looked them over and handed them to me. I studied the cards intently, then gave them to Tiffany. “They look clean to me.”

 After passing them on, Tiffany pulled out a notebook. She tapped me on the arm and pointed at the floor. I concentrated and whispered, “Water.”

 A library-card sized patch of water appeared.

 Tiffany scribbled in her notebook.

 When the cards were offered back to Thomas, he refused them and put his hands behind his back. “Would you be so kind as to shuffle the cards thoroughly, then place them on the table face down?”

 He gestured at the table and waved his hands back and forth over the cards, ending with one hand up, fingers out. He stared at his hand. “Five. I have five fingers. When did that happen?”

 The sheer outrageousness made me laugh again.

 Nial stood by the table, next to the cards. Thomas concentrated for a few moments, his brow furrowed. “Star.”

 Nial turned over a star.

 “Wavy lines.”

 Nial turned over wavy lines.

 Trent leaned over. “Just like magic, huh?”

 I winced. “No, he's getting them right.”

 They continued on until Thomas correctly identified all 25 cards.

 Nial turned to the crowd. “So, how did he do it?”

 “It's bleeding obvious...he really is psychic,” shouted a guy in a UW engineering T-shirt.

 The crowd laughed. Another guy raised his hand. “Nial, are you feeding him the answers?”

 Nial chuckled. “That's a good thought, but not this time.”

 Thomas bounced on his toes.

 An older lady in the second row raised her hand. “Are the cards slightly different shapes or sizes?”

 Nial shook his head. He and Thomas were grinning like idiots.

 A gray-haired man in the front row looked back and forth between Nial and Thomas. “Thomas, why are you wearing sunglasses? Do your psychic powers work without them?”

 Thomas clapped.

 Nial walked over to the podium. “Bingo! Watch this. I have a laptop and a scanner here.” He pressed a button and the image from his laptop appeared on the screen behind him. “If I put the back of the card through the scanner, here's what we see.”

 A blank white card appeared on the monitor.

 “But watch what happens when I put a filter down first.”

 This time, the image of the card back showed double wavy lines. Nial held up the front of the card, displaying wavy lines. “The symbols were drawn on the back with juiced ink. Thomas' glasses allow him to read the symbols.”

 Thomas stepped forward. “Scientists are trained to look for repeatable phenomena, not deception. Nial and I know what to watch for, but generally stage magicians are better at spotting tricks than scientists.”

 I raised my hand. “What other ways of marking cards are there?

 Nial took over. “Subtle variations on the backs of cards can show suit and rank. You can check by riffing the deck. Make sure the cards are pointing the same way and flip through the deck quickly, watching the backs. If they seem to move, the cards are marked.”

 I nodded. It made sense. I outlined card-cheating detection methods in my notebook while Thomas and Nial finished. I looked up as the crowd moved down to the lecture area.

 I followed Tiffany and Trent, and we set out snacks, punch, and the water of life, coffee. While we worked, I wondered about Nial's interest in magic and “psychic” card reading.

 The coffee was weak, lacking the rich chocolatey taste of my Guatemalan Finca Nuevo Viñas. I dropped my cup in the trash and walked over to Nial, who was sipping punch. “Hi. I really enjoyed your demonstration tonight.”

 He beamed. “Thank you. And you are?”

 I said, “Brigid Tennant.” We chatted a bit before I got to the real reason I sought him out. “Isn't psychic card reading old school, though?”

 He set his drink down. I had noticed he liked to move his hands when he talked. “Watching card tricks is an easy way to develop a quick eye and mind. Although psychic card readers are rare nowadays, card sharks use the same tricks, so it's good to know them.”

 He reminded me of my parents, who were always droning on about building my mind through Wizardry, but I couldn't quite make a connection. At least card tricks were fun.

 Trent, Tiffany, and I said goodnight and walked across Red Square, heading for the coffee shop next to the library.

 Trent said, “I've seen them every day for a year and a half, but I still wonder why someone built those brick columns.”

 I pointed at the tall columns and tried to keep my face still. “Those are the leftover bricks from building Red Square. The contractor miscalculated, and the administration insisted they'd paid for all the bricks, so the contractor had to use them. He built columns. The tallest one represents his middle finger, facing the administration building.”

 Trent gave me a quizzical look as we stepped into the coffee shop. Poor boy. You'd think he'd have gotten used to me by now.

 We found a quiet table in the corner.

 Tiffany placed her notebook open flat on the table. She pointed at a diagram she'd drawn. “Brigid is the B. I'm the T. Everyone else who was there is an X.”

 I looked over the drawing.

 Tiffany said, “There were nineteen of us. Excluding Brigid and I, because we know I don't inhibit her magic, that leaves seventeen other possibilities.”

 I looked at Tiffany in awe. I didn't know she could think like that.

 Trent set his latte down. “So what are we looking for?”

 Tiffany frowned. “We're trying to figure out why her magic was only a quarter strength at the meeting. Maybe it's a simple linear relationship.”

 I said, “Huh?”

 Tiffany scribbled on another page. “Well, if Trent's a 1, then someone twice as far away would be 1/2, and so on. Hmmm, that seems to fit pretty well.”

 She began measuring and jotting down numbers. When she was done, she said, “Yep, it's a simple linear relationship. The more skeptics you have near you, and the closer they are, the weaker your magic will be.”

 I tapped the drawing. “But why? Why do skeptics inhibit my magic? And how did you figure all that math out?”

 Tiffany said, “I'm a...”

 Trent leaned forward in his chair, interrupting. “It's obvious—it's what we're trained to do. We spot conmen and frauds, so we're really doubtful. That doubt must create something like an anti-magic field. I'm the immovable rock to your irresistible force.” He smirked and sipped his drink.

 Tiffany rolled her eyes and pulled out a novel.

 Trent looked at Tiffany's book and said, “Tiff, your book is upside down.”

 I shook my head and mouthed “No”.

 Tiffany said, “I'm teaching myself to read upside down. It might come in handy some day. Maybe I'll be a secret agent.”

 Trent said, “The day you become a secret agent is the day I move to Canada.”

 Tiffany's eyes lit up. “Hey, I could go with you. I could work at the NIA.”

 Trent said, “I hate to ask, but what's the NIA?”

 Tiffany set her book down. “It's the Northern Intelligence Agency—Canada's equivalent to the CIA.”

 Trent groaned. “I knew I didn't want to ask. I suppose Mexico has the SIA?”

 Tiffany nodded earnestly. I suppressed a giggle. She was so hard to read—I could never tell if she actually believed all of the things she said.

 As we left the coffee shop, I said, “The Skeptics meeting was fun. I never would have figured out how cards are marked by myself. Technology sure seems to be on the side of the frauds.”

 Trent said, “Yeah, I've learned a lot at the Skeptics' meetings. It's really about viewing the world in a new way.”

 I yawned. “Right now, my world view involves studying, researching Preacher John, and sleeping.”

 Trent chuckled.

 At the dorm we said goodnight to each other.

 I went online and ordered a pair of juiced sunglasses and a juiced marking pen for myself. For research. Honest.

 I studied for a while, but thoughts of Preacher John kept nagging me. “Fine.” I set down my textbook and opened my laptop.

 I slogged through the digital archives of The Daily. They're poorly organized and only partially indexed. It takes stamina or insomnia to dive into them. I had both.

 I turned up an article on Preacher John, with a picture, from six years ago. It didn't say “Preacher John” anywhere, but I recognized his face. The article was light on details, even lighter on anyone who might want to murder him. At least it gave me his name: John Whitefeather. Maybe he was Native American.

 I looked at the clock. 1 AM. Past time for bed. I hoped my dreams didn't cause any magic.

 When I woke up the next morning, I looked out the window . Seattle had weird weather—from inches of snow on the ground to bright and sunny overnight. I dressed and hurried to campus, jogging through Red Square. I steered diagonally across, aiming for the Quad. Halfway through, I spotted a table tucked under Kane's overhang, with a hand-lettered sign reading “Students for a Green Earth”.

 A girl perked up as I looked over the material on the table. “Hi. Do you want to save the polar bears?”

 That was a good line. I continued scanning the leaflets. “What do you guys actually do?”

 “All sorts of things. We have meetings.” She smiled as if she'd answered my question. When I didn't say anything and kept looking at her, she got the hint. “Oh, and we help clean up the campus, plant trees, write letters to Congress, that sort of thing. Did I mention the meetings?”

 Environmentalism: check. This girl: uncheck. I pocketed a leaflet titled, “50 easy steps to reduce climate change.” I studied the girl behind the table. What the hell—I could always skip out if they were all flakes. “When are your meetings?”

 “Mondays at 7:30 in Kane 110.”

 “Okay, I'll be there.”

#

 Monday at 7:41 found me dashing into Kane Hall. I slipped into the room and ducked into a seat. Uh oh—the person in front had stopped speaking. Who was that next to him? White hair, beard—oh shit, Dr. Smith. Glaring at me. Again.

 He sneered. “Ah, Miss Tennant. As I told the students who can tell time, tonight's talk is by Harvey Thomas, a leader in the Seattle green movement.”

 I hunched down, pretending to take notes. As Harvey spoke, though, I straightened up and began taking notes for real.

 Dr. Smith was the perfect assistant. He seemed to know what Harvey wanted before Harvey did. He swapped Harvey's empty water glass for a full one. When the time came for slides, he smoothly lowered the screen and turned on the laptop.

 The cheerful student next to me whispered, “Harvey's a regular speaker here. He and Dr. Smith are friends.”

 I took great notes on how to install a sun-tracking solar panel in my window. I wasn't sure it was really practical, though—my window pointed north. Still, it was information, and information was always useful. I also wrote down the name of a local shop, The Green Alternative, where I could work on my new quest for a flexible solar panel for my backpack.

 There was a protester outside when I left. He held up a sign, “Save people, not animals.”

 I stopped in front of him. “You do realize environmentalism is about saving animals so people can survive, right? We know the planet can exist without us—so far, we don't have any proof the other way.”

 He glared at me. Gee, I seemed to be getting that a lot. Before he could reply, I walked off. I wasn't really in an argue-with-the-ignorant mood.

 I stopped by Trent's room. I loved living on a co-ed floor. “I forgot to tell you—I found out more about Preacher John. His real name was John Whitefeather. And I have an article for you to read.”

 Trent set down his book. “What are you going to do next?”

 I pulled out my reporter's notebook. “My next step is to check with homeless shelters to see if anyone knew him.”

 The door opened and Tiffany walked in. “How's it going?”

 I said, “I found out Preacher John's last name. It was Whitefeather.”

 Tiffany nodded. “Any leads on the murderer?”

 I pointedly closed Trent's door. “Nothing so far. I'm wondering if it was someone on campus, though. We know he spent time yelling at students in Red Square.”

 Trent said, “Can we narrow it down?”

 I shrugged. “It wasn't any of the three of us. Other than that, the field is open. It could be a student, professor, or random stranger John met on the street.”

 Trent said, “What would it take to murder someone with magic?”

 I said, “Like I'd know?” I leaned back against the wall to think, tapping my pen. I remembered my parents lecturing me about magic theory, but nothing specifically on killing people. We weren't into harming others.

 Tiffany said, “What about your magic?”

 I said, “I don't think I can use it to kill someone. My magic seems to deal with elements.”

 Wanting to get off this topic, I said, “Other than that, how's life?”

 Trent said, “Okay.”

 Tiffany said, “How's your term going?”

 I said, “I hate my English class. It's nothing but grammatical, boring papers about dead books and musty authors.”

 Tiffany shrugged. “So why take English, then?”

 I tapped my pen on my notebook. “I have to—I need the writing credit.”

 Tiffany said, “You know, second year foreign language classes give you writing credit.”

 I said, “But then I'd have to take a first year course—no thanks. I'll stick with two terms of torture instead of four. Besides, we're working on short stories right now. Professor Middleton claims the theme of the stories is Great Literature. I think that's code for Somebody Dies.”

 Trent shook his head. “Sounds like a real winner.”

 I said, “Yeah, Professor Middleton's pretty creepy. He's always looking for how stories and books relate to death. If there's ever a mass-murderer on campus, it's him.”

 Tiffany inspected her nails. “You should meet Madame Dupris, my French teacher. If she could hit our knuckles with a ruler for bad accents, she would. Rumor has it she was sleeping with a student years ago, but he committed suicide before it could come out.”

 A thoughtful look came over her face. “Maybe he was embarrassed”

 I said, “Wow. Can you transfer out of her class?”

 Tiffany said, “No, I'd have to drop my 'Interpretive dance of the South American Highlands' class.”

 Tiffany was strange. Sometimes I wondered if she were human.

#

 Before I knew it, it was Thursday again. Trent knocked on my open door. “Time for the Skeptics' meeting.”

 I loaded up my backpack. “Okay, okay. You know, they won't recognize me if I'm on time.”

 He chuckled as I pulled on my coat. “Have you called the homeless shelters yet?”

 “Nope.”

 Trent looked at his watch pointedly.

 “Believe it or not, I am actually ready.”

 Trent motioned for me to go first. So sweet. My dates could learn a thing or two from him, if I ever had one again.

 It was chilly enough I was glad the dorm was only three blocks from campus.

 When we arrived at Kane, a crowd was waiting outside the room. I said, “What's going on?”

 One of the girls I vaguely recognized from the last meeting said, “Hi, I'm Valerie. Thomas asked us to wait out here while they get the room ready.”

 I chatted with Trent for a few minutes.

 Thomas opened the door and walked down to the podium. He said, “Tonight we're hosting the noted psychic, Nial. He will astound you with his ability to peer into your minds.”

 We clapped, and Nial walked in. He wore a small mirror on a headband around his head.

 Nial said, “Tonight, I am a mind reader. Your challenge: figure out how I do it. Please play fair. If I say something which matches you, let us know.”

 He looked around at the audience. He raised his right hand and wiggled his fingers. “I'm sensing something...something new. Did someone get a new pet?”

 Valerie said, “I did.”

 Nial said, “Was it a cat?”

 She said, “Yes.”

 In rapid order, he discovered someone's favorite uncle was visiting, a $100 lottery winner, and someone who bought a new car.

 Nial said, “For my finale, one of you is pregnant and doesn't know it.” He paused for a moment, index finger pointing up. “Just kidding. So, how did I do it?”

 I raised my hand, and Nial nodded at me. “For the lottery winner, you asked, 'Has anyone come into money recently?' That's vague—chances are good someone in the audience would agree with that statement. But I don't know about the others.”

 Nial smiled. “Very good. That's called a cold reading—asking a general question which someone is likely to agree with, given a large enough audience. If no one responds, then the psychic either tosses it off with a 'spirits are restless' comment or generalizes it even further to draw a response.”

 Nial looked around. “Anyone else figure out the others? No? Well, I cheated. I had a confederate listening in on your conversations in the hallway before we began. That's why we kept the door closed—it gave her a chance to overhear tidbits. Then, she signaled me. I even fed her a pre-arranged question. Valerie, stand up, please.”

 She stood up and bowed slightly. So that was how he'd done it.

 We clapped, and Nial invited us to join him for refreshments.

 As I sipped my coffee, savoring the warmth if not the flavor, Alice walked over. “You're getting quite good at this, you know.”

 I held my cup under my nose for a moment. I wasn't so good with compliments. “Thanks. It's fun—I'm glad Trent persuaded me to come. He almost had to drag me into the room the first night.” Great. Way to blather on, Brigid.

 Alice chuckled. “Well dearie, the war against frauds and conmen requires eternal vigilance. If you'd like, you can come along to a professional debunking.”

 “Professional?”

 Alice nodded once, crisply. “Another conman is claiming to have psychic powers. We're going to attend his next demonstration.”

 I set down my coffee and pulled out my phone. “Sounds great. When and where?”

 Alice said, “Next Thursday, 6:00 at the Pacific Science Center.”

 I tapped it into my phone. “I'll be there.”

 I didn't get a chance to discuss Preacher John again until the next afternoon. Tiffany wasn't available. She was at her dance class.

 Trent said, “Do you have any leads on Preacher John?”

 I typed on my computer. “You and I are going to visit the shelters, see what we can turn up.”

 Trent groaned. “Why is it always me?”

 I turned my best smile on him. He was so easy. “Because you have a car. Let's get driving. The first one on the list is called 'A Place for All'.”

 Trent grabbed his keys.

 In the car, I consulted my notes and navigated while Trent swore at the Friday lunchtime traffic. “Okay, we need the next left.”

 Trent honked. “Stupid taxis. Hold on.” He slipped into a gap in traffic and waited for the light to change.

 I said, “You can park anywhere on the block. Here, wait—there's a spot on the right there.”

 I jumped out as soon as Trent turned off the car. I plugged the meter and headed for the shelter.

 I stopped just inside the door. The stench of unwashed bodies rolled over me. I fought down memories of high school gym class.

 Trent whispered, “You know how to pick your spots. Was I really the one who suggested this?”

 I said, “Yep. Stick with me. Wouldn't want you getting lost.”

 He looked ill. “Gee, thanks. You do realize I have the car keys, right?”

 I wove through the crowd towards a small door at the back. I tapped on the glass and opened it when the woman inside waved us in.

 I studied the woman as she argued with the phone. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt that said, “Want to help? Pick up a shovel and wade in.”

 I heard her say, “No, that's not the final word. I'll talk to the senator myself.” She slammed the phone down.

 Her face smoothed out. She said, “Yes, can I help you?”

 I said, “My name is Brigid Tennant. I'm with the UW Daily, and we're doing research on John Whitefeather. Did you know him?”

 The woman leaned back and put her fingers together, studying us. “Why do you care?”

 Trent glared at her.

 I stepped between Trent and the woman. “I was the one who found him.”

 The woman twisted her wedding ring while she looked me over. “Then maybe you understand what it's like. In the winter, I usually lose one or two. It never seems to get any easier.”

 I said, “I'd like to find out more about Preacher John, who he really was.”

 The woman looked us over and stood up. “If you want to learn you have to help.” As she walked out the door, she said, “Name's Cassie Ferguson, by the way.”

 Cassie led us to the kitchen. “Wash your hands, and hand out trays, plates, and silverware. When the line empties out, you can wash dishes.”

 I tucked my notebook into a pocket, washed my hands, and started handing out trays.

 Trent stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall.

 I nudged him with my foot. “Hey, you can help too.”

 Trent gave me a surly look. “Why should I?”

 I said, “I don't want to blow this because you couldn't be bothered to help.”

 “Yeah, yeah. You owe me.” Trent headed for the sink.

 Trent and I handed trays to men and women as they shuffled by. Occasionally, I would get a nod or mumbled thanks. Two girls came through the line holding hands. They looked like sisters, not more than fourteen or fifteen.

 As I gave them their trays, I said, “Hi.” The younger girl flinched, but the older looked at me a moment. I thought she wanted to smile, but they moved on. I watched them for a moment before turning to hand out more trays.

 Other volunteers served mashed potatoes and stew. Cassie dashed back and forth, from the kitchens to the serving line, to the dining hall, and even out the door.

 I noticed she called everyone by name. Most of the people only smiled or nodded at her. Two or three spoke a few words.

 I had thought this wouldn't take long, but I was wrong. Half an hour later, the line began to thin out. Fifteen more minutes and the last person was sitting down to dinner.

 I looked over at Trent. “Whew, I'm glad that's over.”

 Cassie walked up and settled a stack of dirty plates in front of me. “There you are, all ready for washing.” She turned to Trent. “I'll have a stack for you in a moment, college boy.”

 Stacks and stacks of dishes came and went before Cassie said, “That's the last. Finish up and we can talk.”

 I plunged into the last stack, feeling grateful for what I had and for my friends, even if Trent looked a little put out right now. When I finished, I took off my gloves, dried my hands, and went looking for Cassie.

 Trent was a step behind me. “I'm going to have to go and sin to make up for all those damned dishes. I need to keep my karma balanced—that was too many good deeds.”

 I said, “We're done now, and you don't have to come back. Just be grateful we're only visiting, not staying.”

 Trent looked around, his eyes sober. “Oh, I am. I am.”

 I tapped on the office door.

 Cassie waved us in. “I pulled up John's file while you were finishing the dishes. Thank you for that, by the way. John was Native American, from the Kalispel reservation near Spokane. I think his brother, Tom Whitefeather, still lives there, but I don't have any contact information.”

 “Thank you. That's more than I knew before.” I wrote everything in my notebook.

 Cassie led the way back to the front door. “I hope you got what you wanted. See you around again sometime?”

 I smiled and shook her hand.

 In the car, Trent said, “That was a waste of time. Dishpan hands for nothing.”

 I said, “Nope. Now we have another lead. Maybe we can drive out to the reservation. May I bribe you with espresso and doughnuts?”

 Trent said, “Bribe accepted. But why aren't you just calling?”

 I said, “Interviews work much better in person—it's harder for people to brush me off when I'm standing in front of them.”

 Trent said, “True. You do have that magical quality. I'm good for tomorrow. You?”

 I said, “Sounds good to me.”

 Trent said, “Hey, what was Alice chatting with you about last night?”

 I said, “She invited me to a Skeptics' debunking on Thursday. Some psychic is performing at the Pacific Science Center.”

 Trent perked up. “Can I come?”

 I shrugged. “Fine with me.”

 We saw Tiffany in the lounge when we exited the elevator. Trent walked over to her. “Hi Tiff. Uh...what are you doing?”

 Tiffany turned a page in her notebook and scribbled in the upper right-hand corner. “Numbering the pages in my notebook.”

 Trent peered over her shoulder. “But you're numbering them all one.”

 Tiffany continued numbering. “I know—it helps me start fresh on every page.”

 Trent and I looked at each other.

 I cleared my throat and said, “We found out Preacher John was Native American, from the Kalispel tribe. We're going out to the casino tomorrow—want to come?”

 Tiffany said, “Ooo, a casino? Road trip? I'll bring my roll of nickels.”

 I ducked out to the library and looked up the Kalispel. It turned out they were a branch of the Salish. I picked up a book on their history and language. I fell asleep reading it.

Chapter 3

 In the morning, Trent greeted me with “Road trip!”

 Seemed like everyone except me liked getting up early. “Sounds fun. Let's find Tiffany and get going.”

        I knocked on her door. She opened it wearing a cute bag on her shoulder. “Great, you're here. Let's go.”

 I led the way down to the cafeteria. I bought a donut and espresso and handed them to Trent.

 He said, “You've got to be kidding.” He raised the cup. “This sludge is like something I would find dripping out of my car.”

 He dropped the donut on a table. It clattered. “That is not the sound of a healthy donut.”

 He dragged me out the door and down the street to Starbucks. Tiffany followed us, laughing the whole way.

 Trent pointed. “The deal was espresso and an actual donut.”

 I waved my hand graciously. “Fine, fine. Whatever.”

 I swear he must have ordered a gold-plated cup or something. I grumbled but paid up. I did owe him for his help at the shelter and all the driving.

 He made a show of oohing and aahing while sipping his drink. We hiked over to his car.

 As we sped out I-90, Trent tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Tell me again why we're driving to Eastern Washington.”

 I said, “To meet John's brother and find out more about John.”

 Trent said, “I know why you're going. Why am I here? Why didn't I just loan you my car?”

 Tiffany looked up from her book. “Because you have nothing better to do than follow the whims of two beautiful girls.”

 We broke up laughing.

 Four hours and one nickel-roll-raiding gas stop later, we reached the reservation.

 Trent said, “So where is this guy?”

 I shrugged. “Let's go ask around.”

 I walked in the biggest entrance I saw with Tiffany and Trent right behind me. A lady sat behind a little table in front of us. She said, “Welcome to Flying Horse Casino. Can I help you?”

 I put on my best interview smile. “Hi. We're looking for Tom Whitefeather.”

 The lady said, “He works in the cultural museum, just across the parking lot.”

 I said, “Thanks” and headed out the door.

 The museum was not as large or glitzy as the restaurant or the casino, but it was adorned with Native artwork.

 I pulled open the heavy door and blinked as my eyes adjusted from the bright white parking lines to the darkness inside.

 Tiffany peered around. “This place has seen better days.”

 I ran my finger along one of the display cases, leaving a trail in the dust. “I'm not sure it has.”

 I jumped when a voice behind us said, “You are correct, miss.”

 I spun around and saw an older man in full native costume.

 He continued, “The museum has never had the same funding as the casino.” He shuffled to a desk and lowered himself slowly into the leather chair behind it. “Hell, we don't get as much as the parking lot. That's why we ask for donations.” He waved his hand towards a jar on his desk.

 I dug into my purse. “I'll cover both of you.” I searched in vain, then asked quietly, “Do you take checks?”

 He frowned and nodded.

 Embarrassed, I wrote a check for twenty and dropped it into the jar. What a bad start. “Um...can you help us? We're looking for Tom Whitefeather.”

 He said, “Why are you looking for me?”

 I said, “We knew John.”

 I took a clipping from The Daily out of my notebook and carefully unfolded it. I squeezed my notebook, trying to keep my sudden tears in. “We were the ones who found him when he died. He was a campus...fixture.”

 Tom studied the picture. “Poor John.” He sighed. “John really fell away from his roots.”

 I said, “Did you know he had passed away?” Great. Tactful as usual, Brigid.

 Tom said, “I did. We already held his memorial service. Not that he would have cared. He even cut his braid off.”

 He sat there, staring off into space.

 I said, “What can you tell me about him?”

 Tom pulled out a key and unlocked the desk. He placed a scrapbook on the desk. “You can look through that if you want. The short version is easy. All-star athlete in high school, joined the air force and became a para-rescuer, saving pilots who went down behind enemy lines. He saved lots of people, but in the end, he couldn't save himself. He went to Iraq and never came back.”

 I shook my head, confused. “I saw him in Seattle.”

 Tom pushed the scrapbook across the desk to me. “His body came back, but the real John, the brother I grew up with, he never came back. He sank into alcohol to forget the war and left the reservation. That's all I know.”

 The scrapbook was filled with pictures and clippings about John. He'd been a real hero, and now he was gone. Unlike my ex-boyfriend Jack, who would probably get his whole platoon-thingy blown up.

 It made me angry.

 We said goodbye and went to the casino for lunch.

 We sat quietly in a booth. Keno numbers flashed on the monitor while we ate potato chips and cold sandwiches. Thank God for ATMs and my monthly allowance.

        Trent said, “Why didn't you ask him if he knew anyone who would want to kill Preacher John?”

 I sighed. “He didn't know anything. That was pretty useless, wasn't it?”

 Trent swallowed a bite of pickle. “At least you know he has a brother now.”

 I glared at him. “I knew that already—otherwise we wouldn't have driven 250 miles to get here.”

 Trent ducked his head. “Oh, right.” He said so quietly I had to strain to hear it, “You know Brig, you don't have to be such a bitch. We were there too. I tried to save him.”

 Wow, Brigid, way to go. “I know you did. It was too late. He was already gone when we found him.”

 Trent grabbed a brochure and pointedly stared at it.

 I said, “I'm sorry. Meeting John's brother...it just freaked me out.” I was talking to the brochure. Trent kept reading.

 I was quiet on the way back to Seattle. I let Tiffany and Trent's banter wash over me and mix with the tunes blaring from the radio.

 Outside Ellensburg, I said, “I really need to figure out how he was murdered.”

 Trent swerved around a jackrabbit. “How are you going to do that?”

 I tapped my pen on my notebook. Tap. Tap. Tap. “I have some books which might help.” Tap. “But I need to look up a couple of Eastern rituals as well.” Tap. “I should be able to find them in one of the specialty libraries.”

 Tap. Tap. Tiffany leaned forward, grabbed my pen, and tossed it out her window. “Oh, you mean Gowen.”

 I said weakly, “Hey, that was my pen.”

 Tiffany said, “And now it's quiet.” She must have been affected too.

 By the time we made it back to campus, Gowen was closed. The smaller libraries didn't keep the same hours as the main ones.

 Sunday morning, I climbed the small stairs to the library in Gowen. I pictured fighting through it as a knight. The stairs curved the wrong way, though. They turned to the left going up, which left my sword-arm free. What was the administration thinking? I shook my head.

 When I reached the library, I hit the catalog, then pulled out a dozen books. After flipping through them, I returned all but three to the shelves.

 Back in my room, I spread the books out on my bed, and pulled out two of my own. I used yellow sticky notes to mark pages as I searched back and forth. Twice I stopped myself from scribbling in the library books. That would have been bad. Librarians were evil—they were like closet inquisitors. I was pretty sure they kept torture implements in the back room for students who were late returning books. I didn't even want to imagine what they'd do to someone who wrote in one.

 Gradually, I copied my scratchings into a notebook. After four hours, I shut the books, dropped the notebook into my pocket, and left my room. I found Trent in his room. “Come on, I need to bounce ideas off someone. Would you mind?”

 He crossed his arms. “Sure. Go ahead.”

 I shook my head. “Let's walk around, please.”

        We wandered around campus until we came to the Sylvan Grove Theater. I settled down into the grass with my back against one tall column. Trent sat down facing me. The soft grass and leafy trees helped me relax. I let my eyes half-close and concentrated on my breathing. In like a gentle breeze, out to the ends of the universe. In like a gentle breeze, out to the ends of the universe.

 My mind calmed as I fell into the rhythm of the meditation exercise.

 I said, “The ghost showed that Preacher John was murdered. Given the lack of blood and no signs of a struggle, magic is a good bet.”

 Trent leaned forward. “Do you think someone came up and killed him on the spot?”

 I said, “Hmmm. If so, it couldn't have been fire, or the medical examiner would have noticed.”

 Trent said, “What about creating air inside an artery? That would have stopped his heart.”

 I thought about it. “I couldn't do something like that. I wouldn't be able to picture an artery precisely enough to make it work.”

 Trent said, “What about a doctor? No, a surgeon?”

 I said, “That's a possibility. A surgeon would know what an artery looks like. But arteries are so small. To even have a chance, he'd have to be standing right next to Preacher John. Even then, I'm not sure anyone could find an artery.”

 Trent said, “If so, it would have caused a heart attack or a stroke. In either case, wouldn't Preacher John have fallen? There was no sign of that. It looked like he just stretched out and went to sleep.”

 I said, “I didn't see any footprints in the snow as I slid towards him.”

 Trent said, “So we've decided is has to be magic, but it can't be magic. What now?”

        I said, “Well, it can't be my kind of magic. However, there's also ritual magic.”

 Trent said, “What's that like?”

 I said, “We used to do a couple of rituals a year. Blessings and health for our friends and family, good harvests for the farm, that sort of thing. It's supposed to be very powerful.”

 He said, “Does it work?”

 I shrugged. “How would you tell whether or not a blessing worked?”

 Trent said, “I have no idea.”

 I said, “Me neither. If ritual magic worked, though, the murderer could have lowered Preacher John's temperature and let the cold finish him.”

 Trent said, “Why would someone do that?”

 I said, “Because he's insane. Wait, one of the books I read talked about death rituals. It said it was possible to harvest a person's energy through a death ritual, then use it to power another spell.”

 Trent shivered. “Cracked. What would our murderer need to perform a ritual?”

 I said, “Something personal. Either a special object, important to the victim, or an actual part of the victim. Fingernails, hair, blood, something like that.”

 Trent said, “So the murderer had to have met Preacher John before.”

 I felt like I should be holding a Sherlock Holmes pipe. Elementary, my dear Watson, and all that. “I remember something about magical energy.” I snapped my fingers. “If you want to capture magical energy, you need a vessel to store the energy in.”

 Trent said, “Like that vase you made?” He snickered. “Only better?”

 I nodded. “A vase, maybe, but probably something stronger—metal or wood would be my guess.”

 Trent glanced at his phone. “Damn. I'm going to be late for class.” He looked over at me. “You going to be okay?”

 I nodded.

 He said, “Great” and took off.

 I sat there for a few more minutes, then strolled across the grass, enjoying the early smells of spring. Fir mingled with grass and an occasional astringent whiff of St. John's Wort. I ducked through the trees on my favorite walk, then stopped short as I smelled a sickly-sweet, cloying scent. I searched around until I found the nightshade. Not in my forest, bucko. I ripped the plants out of the ground, making sure I got the roots. I tossed the plants into the nearest garbage can.

 A voice behind me said, “There is much solace in death, Brigid.”

 I turned around. “Oh, hello, Professor Middleton. I didn't see you.”

 He carried a book tucked under his arm. “I recognized those plants you threw away. Belladonna. The jilted lover's kiss. What were you doing with them?”

 Okay, weird conversation. “They were growing next to the path over there.”

 He shifted to look. “Were they? Interesting.”

 Not a normal response. That was it. I was officially creeped out. I pointed. “Yeah, about ten feet that way. I've got to go.”

 I raced back to the dorm and stopped by Tiffany's room. It was so clean you could eat off the floor. So unlike my room which hadn't seen a vacuum in weeks. “Hey sweetie. How do you keep your room so neat?”

 Tiffany glanced up. “Huh? It's always like this. What's up?”

 I said, “I just ran into Professor Middleton. He saw me throw away two nightshade plants, but he called them belladonna and 'the jilted lover's kiss'. Those are Wizard names for nightshade. How would he know them?”

 Tiffany adjusted the pale blue pillow on her chair. “He's an English teacher. Maybe he likes the poetic names better.”

 I shook my head. “I've never seen 'the jilted lover's kiss' mentioned outside occult tomes.”

 Tiffany pulled out a notebook and pen. “He's just widely read. Were you this suspicious of everyone before college, or is this a new thing?”

 She patted the top pillow on her bed. “Here, lie down and tell me about your childhood.”

 I chuckled.

#

 Thursday evening found me standing with Trent in the rain outside a lecture hall at the Pacific Science Center. Alice and Nial met us there. Nial said, “I'm glad you could join us, Brigid. Trent, glad you could come, too. I think we should spread out across the front row so we can watch the psychic from different directions.”

 I said, “Whatever happened to hello?”

 Nial shrugged. “Sorry, I'm focused on the debunking.”

 Trent and I sat in the center of the front row. We had the best view of the low stage. I glanced at my handout. “Simon Psalter, psychic.”

 At 6:10, I noticed a stirring in the crowd. Heh. I wasn't the only person who ran late. A moment later, Simon stepped out from behind the curtain. His robes were so bright I didn't see the golden pyramid on the front at first. Inside the pyramid was a golden all-seeing eye. This fashion disaster distracted me so much it took me a moment to realize he was bald. I wondered if he'd shaved his hair for the act.

 I ignored his lame patter as he pranced around the stage. Finally, he pulled out a deck of cards and handed it around. My hands were wet with sweat. I wanted to be the one to bring him down. I tapped my pen on my notebook, waiting my turn.

 When I got my hands on the cards, I riffed them, watching the backs intently. Nothing.

 I slipped my new juiced sunglasses out of my pocket and checked the cards. Nothing.

 I hefted the cards. The weight was wrong—maybe he was using electronics. I handed the cards on. A prickling sensation made me look up. Simon was staring at me. I narrowed my eyes, and he turned to look at someone else. He didn't fool me.

 Simon had the last person shuffle, and the second-to-last cut the cards and place them on the table. I smiled when I saw Alice cut the cards. Maybe she'd already found something.

 Simon stared at the cards, then ran his fingers lightly across the back of the top card. “Ace”.

 He flipped an ace.

 “10.” He flipped a 10. He continued through the whole deck, getting each card right. When he finished, he bowed deeply to everyone else's clapping. I refused to clap. He straightened up, then fell back with a thud.

 A stagehand ran out from the back and shook him. “Simon.”

 I watched a translucent blood-flecked Simon stand up, leaving the white-robed form behind. The ghostly figure pointed into the distance and walked slowly across the stage.

 Holy shit.

 The sounds around me receded. This couldn't be happening again. Behind me, someone screamed “Oh God, no.” The people around us began muttering.

 A tiny man with glasses and thin hands climbed up to the stage carrying a black bag. He knelt beside Simon and pulled out a stethoscope. He said something, and the stagehand hurried off and returned with a device the size of a large paperback book. The doctor opened Simon's robes and placed the device on his chest, then pressed a button.

 Simon's body twitched.

 I wanted to scream, “It's not going to work,” but I preferred viewing the nut house from the outside.

 The doctor listened to his stethoscope, then zapped Simon again.

 Simon twitched once more. The doctor listened and tried a third time. He shook his head and closed his bag. Paramedics arrived and converged on the body.

 I poked my hand with the back of my pen. My whole body felt like it'd been shot with Novocaine. I didn't know what to think.

 The museum director himself came on stage. “Please accept our apologies for this incident. You have our deepest sympathies. Anyone who wishes may request a refund from our ticket office. We do hope that you will return another day, but I'm afraid tonight's program is over. Please leave your names and phone numbers in case the police need to contact you about what you witnessed.”

 As Trent and I left, I said, “I saw his ghost.”

 Trent said, “You mean he was murdered?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Shit.”

 We met Alice and Nial in the crowd outside. Nial said, “So, how do you think he did it?”

 I said, “Nial, he died up there. Don't be a jackass.”

 Nial said, “I'm sorry. However, time distorts memories, so it's best to review them while they're fresh.”

 I snapped my mouth shut, took a deep breath, and tried to remember that Nial wasn't usually this rude. Maybe he was in shock. “The cards were heavier than usual—maybe there were electronics or magnets in them.”

 Nial nodded. “He might have had a display rigged into his robe. Perhaps something with contact lenses?”

 Alice avoided my eyes and said, “Maybe something on his fingers, like a ring?”

 Nial said, “I have a friend who works in the medical examiner's lab. I'll see if she can find anything.” He said goodbye and rushed off.

 Alice sighed. “This was a bad day to carpool.” She trudged after him.

 As Trent and I walked back to the car, Trent said, “That was freaky.”

 I said, “Tell me about it.”

 When we returned to the dorm, Trent said, “I'm going into my room to chill out. Want to come?”

 I thought about being alone with visions of ghosts. “Sure.”

 He flipped on his computer and brought up a shooting game. As he started playing, I said, “Do you really think more death is a good idea?”

 He flipped off his computer. “You're right.”

 We watched videos instead until too late.

#

 I caught Tiffany and Trent walking to campus in the morning.

 Trent said, “Tiffany and I talked about your magic this morning. I also told her about Simon being murdered.”

 Tiffany patted my shoulder. “I'm so sorry about him dying, and you seeing his ghost. Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

 I sipped my caffeine breakfast. “Thanks.” There really wasn't anything else I could say.

 Tiffany looked me over. “If you're sure...The good news is, we think we have your magic figured out. You can create anything you can visualize.”

 How could anyone be so awake in the morning?

 I thought it over for a few steps. It made sense, except... “Then why did the vase and dollar turn out so horrible?”

 Trent said, “It depends on how well you can picture the object in your mind. You know what fire and water are. You know how they feel. But you don't know much about vases, so it failed. I think the elements are more your style.”

 I could picture Trent at a chalkboard, lecturing his own students. “That explains the vase, but what about the dollar? I know what dollars look like, especially as they fly out of my purse.”

 Trent said, “Did you picture all the tiny lines in the drawings?”

 “No, I didn't see it that clearly.”

 Tiffany said, “And there you have it.”

 Trent said, “Do you have any more thoughts about our magical serial killer?”

 I said, “Serial killer?”

 Trent shrugged. “There are two victims now.”

 Silence reigned until we reached the Quad.

 I surprised all of us by giving them both hugs before heading to class.

#

 That night, Trent and I strolled across campus to Kane for the Skeptics' meeting. When we walked in, I only counted eleven. “Small group tonight.”

 Trent waved towards the other end of the building. “It's the animation festival—most people are down there.”

 Since we were early, naturally the meeting started ten minutes late. D'oh.

 Nial welcomed everyone. “Tonight we have a debunking report. Last Thursday, Alice, Brigid, Trent, and I attended a demonstration by Simon Psalter, a 'psychic'.” He really did make quotation marks in the air. “Tragically, he died during his performance, so we didn't get to do a live debunking. It turned out to be a lucky break, though, because the medical examiner gave me important information. Brigid, can you tell us what you saw, to start?”

 I stood up and shifted back and forth on my feet. Everyone was looking at me. “First, I want to say I'm sorry he died.” I gave Nial a cold look. “There isn't much to say. He handed around a set of playing cards with no visible markings. I checked for juiced cards—no luck there. The cards were heavier than normal—maybe there was something inside them.”

 I sat down and Alice stood up. “I cut the cards and set them on the table. For each card, Simon slowly ran his fingers down the back, then called out the rank before flipping the card over.”

 Nial bowed slightly towards Alice and I. “Thank you both for your reports. I called my contact in the ME's office and told her about the cards. She called back yesterday with two key pieces of evidence. Mr. Psalter had tiny magnets embedded in his fingertips, and the cards contained iron filings spelling out the rank of the cards. The magnets in his fingertips allowed him to sense the filings and read the rank.

 There you have it, ladies and gentlemen—one more psychic unmasked.”

 Nial's coldness stunned me. The audience seemed accepting—maybe because they hadn't seen Simon die.

 Trent looked at me apologetically and raised his hand. “How do the magnets work?”

 Nial said, “Apparently, they move in electric and magnetic fields, and near iron. Over time, the brain learns to process these feelings.”

 Trent leaned over to me. “That sounds cool. I wonder if there's a place in town which implants magnets.”

 I glanced at him. “You'd want to have magnets in your fingers? Ick.”

 He grinned. “It could be my superpower—X-ray fingers instead of X-ray vision. Here, let me try it out.” He wiggled his fingers at me.

 I laughed despite myself.

 After the meeting was over, we strolled past the library. We climbed down the steps to 12th and waited for a sudden surge of traffic to pass before crossing against the light. Trent said, “Nial was pretty callous about the psychic's death.”

 I said, “Yeah, he was like that last Thursday, too. His first thought was to get the ME to help him figure out how Simon read those cards.”

 Trent dodged a light pole. “Well, he was probably just so focused on solving the puzzle, he didn't see Simon as a real person.”

 I said, “Maybe...”

 Trent said, “Could he be our killer?”

 I said, “I don't think so. He was present when Simon died, so he couldn't have been casting a ritual at the time.”

#

 After class the next day, I caught up with Tiffany and Trent on campus. “Hey, I have a store for us to check out. It's supposed to be certifiably green.”

 Tiffany said, “Really? What's it called?”

 I said, “The Green Alternative. It's up the Ave.”

 Trent said, “Sorry, I've got something going on. Catch you later.”

 Typical. He hated shopping.

 Tiffany and I walked past bookstores, peeking in the windows. At one, Tiffany said, “Oh, let me check the mysteries. I'll only be a moment.”

 I grabbed her arm and dragged her away. “Not this time. I know how you get in bookstores, and I'd like to make it to the Green Alternative today. Besides, I think they might carry books as well.”

 At the word “books” Tiffany stopped resisting me and hurried up the sidewalk. “What are we waiting for, then? What did you say the address was?”

 I said, “4735.”

 As we drew closer, I saw an unusual awning. When I was close enough, I realized the awning was constructed of solar panels. My eye caught the number 4735 before I spotted the store's sign. The words “The Green Alternative” were painted in medium green over a slightly darker green on the door.

 I reached for the door. “This is it.” I stepped inside to the smell of a thunderstorm about to burst and looked around warily.

 A male voice from the back called out, “Hey dudes.”

 I guessed the man was in his 30s, but the dreadlocks made it hard to tell. Standing in place, he weaved back and forth gently to music only he could hear.

 He flashed me a peace sign. “In this incarnation, my name is Mike.”

 I glanced around. “Why does the store smell like thunder?”

 Mike smiled broadly. “Yeah, you noticed, huh? It's the ionizer—it zaps up negative ions.” A thought attempted to slip out. “D'ya want to buy one?”

 I said, “No thanks. I'm looking for a solar cell for my backpack.”

 He nodded, several times more than he needed to. “Far out. Solar cells are awesome—trick out your pack and you can power your tunes all day.”

 He led us to a display case. “What do you want it for?”

 I peered inside the case. “I'd like to use it to recharge my laptop.”

 He drummed his fingers on the glass. “How much time do you spend in the sun?”

 “Two or three hours a day.”

 “You're going to need a 1.2 watt panel, then.”

 I took a breath. Here was the difficult part. “How much would that run?”

 He looked a bit farther out into space. “$120, not including tax, man.”

 Not as bad as I feared. I handed over a check with only a small whimper, and he helped me secure the solar cell to my backpack. I plugged my laptop battery in. Tiffany picked up a couple of books, and we hiked back to the dorm. As we got home, I said, “I'm going to test out the solar cell.”

 Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Let me guess—volleyball court.”

 I said, “Of course. Want to come?”

  “I guess so.” She sighed.

 I said, “Oh, you love it. Betcha that handsome redhead is there today.”

 Tiffany was ready before I was.

#

 I left coffee vapor trails behind me as I raced to class on Monday. I dove into a seat just as the faint bell rang.

 Dr. Smith frowned. “Miss Tennant. I suppose technically you're not late.”

 I was breathing too hard to reply. He didn't seem to appreciate my wave.

 Dr. Smith launched into a detailed discussion of the economics of carbon trading. He might have been a bastard, but he did know his stuff.

 He tried to stump us twice. Both times, I had the answer.

 After my second answer, he said, “Well done, Miss Tennant. At least someone was paying attention.”

 I was confused because I didn't remember him teaching us the answer to either question. I only knew them from my term paper research.

 After fifty grueling minutes, the bell rang again. As I left, Dr. Smith said, “Keep up the good work, Miss Tennant.”

 I stopped and turned around to look at him. Maybe he had started using drugs. No, he seemed as scary as usual. I mentally shrugged.

 As I walked outside, a mild spring breeze hinted at the coming warmth of summer. I glanced at the blue sky. At least the fog had finally burned off.

 I spent an hour at Odegaard library and found four books for my psych paper. Back in my room, I dumped the books on my bed but decided I wasn't ready to study.

 Instead, I opened my violin case. My poor ignored violin. Bow in hand, I warmed up with fencing moves across my room, leaping from bed to chair to windowsill back to bed. I felt a spring shift. Maybe not my best idea.

 I picked up my violin and started practicing. First I ran through my scales, then I played Schubert's violin concerto from memory.

 Finally, I pulled out my worn etude book. I turned to number 19 and held my bow out. “So, we meet again, Senor 19. But this time victory will be mine.”

 I struggled through the etude over and over again. Half an hour later, I managed to get through it at some semblance of the proper speed.

 Tiffany wandered in. “Interesting music. Not a very catchy tune, though.”

 I set my violin carefully back into its case. “Do you know what etudes are?”

 Tiffany said, “Technical studies.” Smart girl.

 I said, “Wrong. They're bastard pieces which barely qualify as music written by sadistic composers who couldn't play the violin and plotted to torture those of us who can.”

 Tiffany clapped her hands. “That's it—you need etudes for magic. What's hard about doing magic?”

 I scowled. “The headaches from doing too much.” I paused. No need to tell her about all the times growing up when I'd failed. “Oh, and concentrating. It's bad if my mind isn't in the right state.”

 Tiffany said, “Cool—I can be a magic composer. I'll write etudes and you can practice them.”

 I rolled my eyes as Tiffany scribbled in her notebook. She muttered to herself. “Fire, fire, water, whoosh. Air, earth, fire. Sploosh.”

 I opened my laptop and tapped at my keyboard for a few minutes, then leaned around the screen. “I'm not disturbing you, am I, Tiffany?”

 Without looking up, she said, “Um...well...yeah, if you wouldn't mind going into the lounge, I'm on a roll here.”

 I blinked, then picked up my laptop and walked quietly out the door. As the door closed behind me, I realized I'd just been asked to leave my own room. I turned to go back in, thought about dealing with Tiffany, and went to the lounge instead.

 An hour later, Tiffany emerged. “I wrote twelve etudes for you, and a playlist I call 'Demonslayer'.”

 I raised an eyebrow. “Demonslayer?”

 Tiffany said, “I like old TV shows—there's this one about a vampire-slaying cheerleader. Hi-yah.” She swung her fist around dramatically and hit the wall. “Ow, that hurt.”

 I studied the etude as we walked back to my room. I dropped it onto my music stand and took a deep breath to calm my mind.

 In the background, I was aware Tiffany had turned on music. It had a nice beat. I looked through the spells in the first etude slowly, trying to get a feel for the rhythm. Just like music.

 I closed my eyes and imagined I was in a medieval fantasy world, dueling my enemies.

 I opened my eyes and saw Tiffany setting a plate down inside a baking dish. She said, “This will make cleanup easier.”

 I pictured Daffy Duck running through his fencing routine. Not the image I wanted—thanks, subconscious

 I concentrated.

 “Fire.”

 “Water.”

 “Fire.”

 “Wind.”  Hmmm, wind seemed like it might be useful one day.

 “Pencil.”

 “Ruled paper.”

 I stood tall and pointed my finger as if I were delivering a sermon on the evils of lattes. “Wind.” My forehead tightened. Nice to have a warning.

 Tiffany clapped. “You did it! How do you feel?”

 I said, “That was good, but I need a break. Any more magic right now, and I think I'll be in headache land.” I examined the results of my magic. I picked up the pencil and the piece of paper I'd created. “These look usable. Unlike certain other objects I tried to create.”

 I looked closer. “The eraser's not right.” Okay, maybe creation wasn't my thing.

 Tiffany said, “Ha. Told you I could be a magic composer.” She took the pencil from me and sharpened it. “It writes.”

 I said, “You were right. Now it's down to daily practice, just like the violin.”

 We wandered over to Red Square and found an environmental fair going on. A scale model of a high-tech windmill towered over the center of the square. I said, “Wow, so that's what they were working on earlier. I was hungry, so I didn't stop to investigate. Guess I should have waited.”

 Tiffany pointed. “Look at that. Each of the four corners has a different type of solar cell.”

 I looked closer. “Let's see what's going on next to it.” I saw Harvey Thomas sitting at a table. “Hey, I caught your talk on installing a sun-tracking solar panel the other day.”

 He beamed almost enough to power a solar panel himself. “I take it you're a member of Students for a Green Earth, then?”

 I said, “I am, but Tiffany isn't.”

 Tiffany crossed her arms. “I'm into saving the environment. I'm not into meetings.”

 I said, “So what are you advocating today?”

 Harvey waved a hand at the fliers on the table. “Oh the usual—weatherize, check how much electricity your appliances are using, that sort of thing.”

 I stepped closer. “How do you check how much electricity you're using?”

 He picked up a small device with a plug on the back. “This is a watt meter. Plug it into an outlet, then plug an electrical device into this side, and the display will tell you how much electricity it uses.”

 He handed it to me. I hefted it, but it didn't weigh as much as I expected. “How much is it?”

 He said, “Normally, it's twenty-five, but I talked the U into chipping in ten.”

 I counted out my money and dropped the meter into my backpack.

 Harvey said, “Do you bike or drive? I've lost thirty pounds since I escaped the drudgery of a car. And my blood pressure went down twenty points.”

 He did look good, for an older guy. “I'm a college student—why would I have a car?”

 Harvey said, “Good point. So, you bike, then?”

 I said, “Yeah, on occasion.”

 He said, “Good for you, and good for the environment.”

 Five students wearing black bandannas over their faces rushed by me. The leader carried an American flag on a stick. He planted the flag in a stand carried by one of the others, next to the windmill. The others set up signs.

 The leader held up a megaphone. “Jobs not trees. Global warming is a lie! Death to green!”

 The group ran off across the square.

 Harvey hit the table with his palm. “Idiots. They're going to destroy the environment and kill us all in the long run. The only way to save people is to save the environment.”

 I said, “That was just the Young Republicans. They have an upper cutoff on intelligence.”

 Something about how one of them moved...it was Jack. Figured my ex-boyfriend would be involved. Was it worth a headache? What the hell. I concentrated and pointed just as his foot came down. “Marble.” I visualized a beautiful swirly blue marble.

 It worked well enough. When his foot landed on it, he went down, to laughter from the crowd.

 The headache wasn't as bad this time. I let my breath out slowly.

 Tiffany glanced over at me. I mouthed “Ibuprofen?”

 She handed me a couple of pills. I swallowed them with a sip from my aluminum water bottle.

 I turned back to Harvey. “I need to get to my statistics class. Thanks for the meter.”

 He shook my hand. “It was my pleasure. I'm speaking to Students for a Green Earth again next month, on the first Monday.”

 Tiffany and I walked off. When we reached the quiet area south of Red Square, I said, “I think I'm building up magical stamina or something. I have a headache, but I can live with it. I don't want to risk another spell, though.”

 Tiffany said, “See? The etudes I wrote for you must be working.”

 I laughed, then winced. “Tiffany, I've only run through one etude, one time. I don't think it works quite that fast.”

 Tiffany said, “Oh. Still, I'm glad you're not in as much pain this time.” She still looked smug.

 I said, “Me too. Stats class gives me a headache even without doing magic. Anyway, I'll see you after class.”

 I climbed the steps to Johnson Hall.

 Before taking my seat, I stopped in front of Jim. “Hi Jim.”

 He looked at my shoes as usual and mumbled a response. I guessed he was saying hi, but I was never really sure. I slipped into my seat as the professor came in.

 Dr. Savage strode to the blackboard. “All right class. Today we're going to learn about analysis of variance, or ANOVA, which is used to compare variables within a population.”

 I doodled, paying occasional attention to the droning from the front of the class. My head made a dull throbbing which wouldn't have let me concentrate even if I cared about anything other than the credit.

 I was more interested in figuring out Jim. He seemed like he might be a nice guy, if I could ever get him to look up at me. He looked down so much, I was afraid he'd run into a tree and hurt himself.

 On the way out of class, I hurried to walk beside him. “Hey, maybe we could study together.” Obviously he understood the material.

 He mumbled something, his eyes fixed firmly seven inches in front of his high tops

 I said, “Why don't you write down your email address so we can arrange it?” I was worried I wouldn't be able to hear him if I just got his phone number.

 He scribbled on a piece of paper and slid it across his notebook to me. While I looked it over, he shuffled off.

 His email address was printed with precise letters: jimcallig@washington.edu. Underneath his email address was a signature which wouldn't have been out of place in the old deed books I'd seen downtown at the history museum.

 Later that afternoon, I emailed him. “Hi Jim, it's Brigid from stats class. I can come over at 7:30 tonight to study. Does that work for you? Where do you live? -- Brigid”

 My laptop dinged.

 “7:30 would be great. I'm in Haggett 734. -- Jim”

Chapter 4

 At 7:30 I knocked on Jim's door. “Just a minute” came from inside the room.

 Jim opened the door and edged back to let me in. He closed his laptop and carried it over to his closet. He leaned way in. I heard a clink, and he straightened up without the laptop.

 Strange.

 I plopped onto one of the beds and leaned against the wall. Jim sat down carefully on the other bed.

 I smiled. “So, can you help me with stats? Our class today on ANOVAs lost me.”

 He said, “I'm not any good with statistics. I was hoping you could help me.”

 Oh dear. “Well, let's see if we can muddle through it together.”

 I unzipped my backpack and spread my notes out over the bed. I skimmed through them. “It looks like ANOVA is used to figure out why some people perform better than others. Like, are people who eat oatmeal and watch Mr. Rogers better at the high jump?”

 Jim almost nodded. “It's also used for drug trials. Doctors sort patients by different factors, then run an ANOVA for their response to the drug.”

 I buried myself in my notes, talking half to myself, half to Jim. I understood basic probability—whether to bet on red or black? That was easy—don't play. ANOVA? Challenging.

 I looked over at Jim's notes. I had a flashback to a book I'd read in junior high about the great European illuminated manuscripts. His writing was that elegant. He had copied the drawings from the slides in class and decorated the edges of the pages with math symbols fighting mock battles and attacking castles built up from equations. Kinda cool.

 Gradually, I found myself teaching Jim. Not what I'd expected. He asked questions in his quiet voice, and I did my best to find the answers. After an hour, I said, “I think my brain is done. Did that help?”

 His eyes dropped back to his elaborate notes. “I think so. I feel more comfortable with the math.”

 I collected my backpack. “Night. I'll see you in class tomorrow.”

 I hummed the Largo from the New World Symphony as I strolled across campus. I was trying to get the intervals right. My violin teacher always said, “If you can sing it, you can play it.”

 I took a pass through the student union but didn't see anyone I knew.

 I found Tiffany downstairs working on her laptop when I returned to Terry. “Hey, I need to drop off my math book in my room. Let's see if anyone's up in the lounge.”

 Trent was playing solitaire. I leaned over to help him. “Red six goes on black eight.”

 Trent said, “I know th—hey!”

 I snickered. “Gotcha. I've figured out how to make money.”

 Tiffany clapped her hands. “We're going to Las Vegas! I'll go pack.”

 I rolled my eyes. “We're not going to Las Vegas. They have cameras on the roulette wheels and someone watching for unexpected jumps. I'd rather not chat with the man with the concrete shoes.”

 Tiffany said, “You're going to make gold bricks out of thin air?”

 I said, “I think the parts of the government with guns and handcuffs would be very interested in where I was getting gold bricks. Besides, I'm not sure I can create real gold.”

 Trent said, “Making money?”

 I said, “We already tried that. Besides, that's counterfeiting.”

 Tiffany said, “Selling spells?”

 I paused. “I don't think setting things on fire is actually a marketable skill outside of Chicago. I could try drowning exs, but I'm pretty sure that's illegal.”

 Trent said, “Why would that stop you?”

 I ignored him. “Back to making money, I have a website: Brigid's Guide to the U-district. brigidsudistrict.com. I have reviews and guides to local places. I'm starting to get hits.”

 Tiffany typed for a moment. “Ew, were you wearing tinted sunglasses when you put the site together?”

 I put my hands on my hips. “It's not that bad.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “Bad? I think they featured this color combination in London's torture museum.” 

 I stalked over to Tiffany. “Fine, what would you suggest?”

 She frowned at the screen as she fiddled around for a few minutes. “There, you need something like that.”

 I looked it over. “Wow. That's better. Can you email your version to me?”

 Tiffany said, “Sure. I do like the entry for the NeoLogian Cafe, though. 'A mixture of semi-homeless artists, chess geeks, trendy tourists, and broke college students, the NeoLogian Cafe is always packed. A fat-fingered long-haired Internet dropout said it reminded him of the Last Exit. To which I say, Bite Me.'”

 Trent paced back and forth. “So how do you make money on it?”

 I sat down. “I don't know. I have content and traffic—maybe Google will buy me out.”

 Trent said, “You need to advertise. Put text ads on the side. You could also talk to the businesses you reviewed, see if they would throw some money your way.”

 I scribbled down their ideas as fast as I could. Nice having smart friends.

 Tiffany said, “Even better, talk to places before you review them and see if they'll pay you. Get some business cards so you look official.”

 I glanced up from my notes in time to see a woman walk into the lounge. She was tall with long black hair, the kind of hair I wished I had.

 The newcomer smiled. “Hi, I'm Kirsten.”

 I said, “I'm Brigid. Nice hair.”

 She said, “Thanks. I keep thinking I should cut it short, but I always stop myself.”

 Tiffany glanced up from her laptop. “I'm Tiffany.”

 Kirsten said, “Nice to meet you.”

 She turned to Trent expectantly. I looked back and forth between Trent and Kirsten, but he just stared, not saying anything. Finally, I said, “This is Trent. He's autistic.”

 Kirsten put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I see.”

 Trent reacted beautifully. “Huh? What?”

 I patted his hand. “It's okay Trent. You're in the lounge. We're friends.”

 Trent tried to recover. “I am not autistic. I was merely...overcome by the sight of such beauty.”

 All three of us rolled our eyes.

 Kirsten turned to Tiffany and I, ignoring Trent. “I transferred down from Western Washington University. I'm in 433.”

 I said, “Welcome to the UW and Terry Hall. Don't worry, not all the guys are as bad as Trent.”

 Trent stepped forward to face Kirsten. “What's your major?”

 She said, “Economics.”

 Trent nodded. “Watch out for Dr. Smith—Brigid can tell you tales. Which is your favorite Monty Python movie?”

 Kirsten said, “Um, Life of Brian. What is this, twenty questions?”

 I said, “Would you like to join us for breakfast in the morning? We could show you around campus.”

 Kirsten smiled again. “That'd be great—what time?”

 I sighed. “I suppose I could drag myself downstairs by 8:30, if that works for you.”

 Kirsten said, “Okay, I'll see you then. Now I have to get back to unpacking.”

 We watched Kirsten walk away. After she left, Tiffany turned to Trent. “Why do you always turn into such a freak around girls?”

 Trent said, “What do you mean?”

 I raised my hand. “Oh, I know this one, Miss Summers. Call on me.”

 Trent and Tiffany looked at me expectantly. “We learned about it in Psych 210. What happens is that Trent is trying to see whether or not Kirsten is a potential mate.”

 Trent blushed as we laughed.

 We stayed up for a while telling stories before going to bed.

 Kirsten was right on time for breakfast. She was even perky. “Hiya.”

 I muttered incoherently.

 Trent smiled. “Ignore Brigid—she's useless until she's thinned her blood with enough caffeine.”

 Two cups of weak dorm coffee and a modest breakfast later, I said, “Good morning, Kirsten.”

 She set down her orange juice. “Nice to see you awake at last. I don't start classes until tomorrow, so I have a day to explore campus.”

 I stirred the last of my coffee idly, watching the cream making patterns in the black liquid. “Isn't it unusual to transfer schools in the middle of a term?”

 Kirsten looked down at her tray. “There were extenuating circumstances. My mother passed away from a heart attack, and I had to move down to wrap things up. I'm the executor of her estate.”

 I placed my hand over Kirsten's. “I'm so sorry. Please let us know if there's anything we can do.”

 Kirsten sniffed. “Thanks. It's been a month, but I still miss her.” She picked at her food while we finished.

 Trent said, “Welcome to Seattle, home of coffee and rain.”

 I said, “What classes do you have?”

 Kirsten pulled out a small planner. “Let's see...I have Environmental Economics with Dr. Smith.”

 I said, “Hey, I'm in that class.”

 She said, “You are? Cool—maybe we can sit together.”

 I leaned back in my chair. “I don't know. Dr. Smith doesn't like me very much. Maybe you should give him the chance to hate you on your own.”

 Kirsten laughed. “I'm willing to take my chances.”

 I smiled. “Okay, it's your doom. If you'd like, I can take you that way this morning and give you a quick tour. Do you have a map of campus?”

 Kirsten unfolded a map on the table. I pointed at the southwest corner of the map. “This is Terry, where we are right now. Over here is Red Square—you'll go through there on your way to the rest of campus. Odegaard is the undergrad library, and Suzalo is the graduate library.” I continued pointing out important buildings while Trent and Tiffany put away the trays.

 Tiffany interrupted. “It's time to leave, unless you plan to jog.”

 Kirsten scooped up her map and followed us out the back of the dorm.

 I kept up a running commentary as we walked. When we reached my building, I stopped. “We're on the third floor there, about halfway down. Have fun exploring campus. Catch you later.”

 Kirsten said, “K. See you around.” She waved and headed across the Quad.

        In the classroom, Dr. Smith said, “Who's heard of the Kyoto treaty?”

 All the hands in the room went up. Either we were all up on recent history, or no one wanted to face Dr. Smith's wrath.

 He said, “Amy. What have you heard about it?”

 Amy said, “I think it was bad politics.”

 He said, “Are you insane? Try 'humanity's last hope before we fuck up the planet so bad we'll all be living in caves'.”

 Amy said, “Not bad environmentally, just bad politics. There was no enforcement mechanism for countries that signed and not enough countries even signed it.”

 “So you think it was a failure?”

 “Basically, yes.”

 Dr. Smith chuckled. “You're absolutely right.”

 He spent the rest of the class lecturing us on various proposed treaties and their drawbacks.

 The bell rang. I hurried over to Dr. Savage's class. I wasn't sure what to make of Dr. Smith. He seemed bipolar. Some days he was fine, others he wasn't. He definitely cared a lot about the environment.

 Dr. Savage stood at the front, dressed all in black as usual. I didn't know what was up with him. He made Goths look cheerful.

 When we were all seated, he said, “Death is the most powerful Muse. Let us examine death in the hands of the masters. We'll start with Shakespeare himself.”

 Sometimes I felt like I needed an anti-depressant just to make it through English Lit.

        On the way back from class, I decided to practice my violin one more time before my concert. It would cheer me up after Dr. Savage and depressing dead authors.

        In my room, I calmed myself by putting rosin on my bow and checking the strings When I was ready, I let the mournful notes of the Largo flow from my violin.

 I went looking for Tiffany and Trent after I finished. We hung out until dinnertime. I saw Kirsten while we were waiting in line. I waved her over. “Want to join us for dinner?”

 She smiled. “That would be great.”

 As we ate, she said, “What are you guys doing tonight?”

 I said, “I have a violin recital. Want to come?”

 “Where is it?”

 I said, “The Henry Art Gallery. It's right next to Odegaard.”

 “Sure, that sounds fun.”

 I arrived at 7:15 and began warming up, feeling out the acoustics.

 I was always so nervous before I performed. When I'd asked Ms. Fredricks her secret for staying calm, she'd said, “Everyone gets nervous before they play.” I'd known she was lying—I'd never seen her nervous.

 Now I had my three best friends watching—well, my two best friends plus Kirsten. I hoped we were going to be friends. Things were going well so far.

 My hands were shaking. Not good. I knew the Largo. I could hum it, play it backwards—hell, I could probably put it in iambic pentameter, whatever that was. So how hard could it be to just play it?

 Okay, it could be hard. I took a couple of breaths.

 No luck. How about my breathing exercise? I wasn't casting magic, but maybe I could apply mom's lessons to music. How ironic, given that she never liked me playing violin.

 In like a gentle breeze, out like a typhoon. In like a gentle breeze, out like a typhoon.

 My hands steadied as I breathed.

 “First up is Brigid Tennant.”

 Ready or not, this was it.

 I smiled at Tiffany, Trent, and Kirsten in the front row. I took a breath and let it out slowly. “I'm playing the Largo from the New World Symphony.” I let the slow notes build gradually, echoing throughout the gallery. The crowd was quiet. I was pleased—they really liked it.

 At the end of the movement, I held my bow poised for a moment, letting the last note fade, then dropped my hand to my side. The audience roared, clapping and cheering. I smiled and bowed twice. As I walked off, I beckoned to my friends.

 They followed me outside, onto the steps by the large stone railing. I said, “What did you think?”

 Tiffany shrugged. “It was a nice piece. I didn't recognize it.”

 Kirsten said, “I liked the energy you put into it. You carried it off well.”

 Trent leaned against the railing. “All classical music sounds the same to me, but I thought you played really well.”

 Talk about missing the point and the beauty of classical music. Then again, Trent had come just to hear me play. How cool was that?

 We watched movies in Tiffany's room until bedtime.

        After breakfast, Kirsten and I walked across campus to our Environmental Economics class. At the end of class, Dr. Smith posed the question, “What have you done today to help the environment?”

 Kirsten headed off to her next class.

 I thought about Dr. Smith's question as I walked back to the dorm. I was quiet during lunch with Tiffany.

 As we put our trays away, she said, “What's wrong?”

 I said, “Dr. Smith asked us what we'd done for the environment today. I couldn't think of anything.”

 She clapped her hands and bounced on her toes. “Let's hit the Green Alternative. Maybe we can find something there.”

 I smiled. Tiffany certainly knew how to cheer me up. “Let's see if Trent wants to go.” He wasn't in the cafeteria, so we climbed the stairs and knocked on his door.

 No answer.

 I stomped my foot. “I swear he has a sixth sense about shopping. Very convenient, how he just happens to be gone.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “He doesn't know what he's missing.”

 We strolled up the Ave, enjoying the crowds and the hint of sun. Seattle afternoons were much nicer than foggy Seattle mornings. Sometimes it felt like Seattle was two different cities.

 When we walked into the store, Mike said, “Hey dudes, what are you looking for?”

 I shrugged. “Dunno. I'll know it when I see it.”

 Mike bobbed his head several times. “I'll give you your space, then.”

 I wandered one way. Tiffany wandered another.

 I stopped in front of a compact solar cell. I looked it over and said, “Tiffany, can you come over here a sec?”

 She walked over. “What's up?”

 I pointed at the panel. “Do you think this will fit next to my window?”

 She said, “Hmmm” and pulled out a scarf. She measured the base of the panel with her scarf, then frowned.

 I waited for her to finish thinking.

 Her face relaxed. “It'll be a tight fit, but I think you can manage it.” She peered down at the price tag. “Can you afford it?”

 I grimaced. “Barely. I hate to do it, but after Dr. Smith's comment, I have to.”

 I called Mike over. “I'd like one of these panels, please.”

 Mike said, “That's a good choice.”

 He pulled out a boxed version of the panel and carried it to the counter. “Anything else?”

 I shook my head. I managed to not cry as I wrote out the check.

 I hefted the box as Mike finished ringing me up. It wasn't too heavy, but it was a little awkward.

 Tiffany said, “Want some help?”

 I said, “Sure.”

 Mike handed me the receipt, then held the door.

 Tiffany and I made quite a sight walking down the Ave. At least people made space for us. We carried it to the dorm's elevator—I didn't want to try going around the corners on the stairs. Taking a breather didn't hurt, either.

 We leaned the panel against a wall while we waited for the elevator.

 It finally dinged. I looked at my phone. “73 seconds. I swear this elevator gets slower every day.”

 Tiffany said, “Maybe it doesn't like you. Do you say nice things about it?”

 I rolled my eyes. “You're the prettiest elevator in the whole dorm.”

 Once we got the panel into my room, I took it out of the box. I set it up right next to my window. “You were right, Tiffany. It just fits.”

 She smiled. “Told you so.”

 I pulled out my notes from Harvey's talk on rigging a solar panel to track the sun. It looked like I needed some parts. I walked down the hall and knocked on Trent's door.

 He opened it. “Hey, how are you?”

 I said, “Great. You missed our shopping expedition. I bought a solar panel, and I'd like to make it track the sun. Do you have anything I could use?”

 He said “Sure” and stepped aside.

 As I walked in, he poked his arm under his bed. He came out with two toolboxes. “Let's go.”

 I carried one of the toolboxes back to my room. When we arrived, Trent said, “You know, you were carrying the heavier one.”

 I set it on my desk. “Wow, thanks for letting me know.”

 He shrugged. “Women's lib.”

 He looked at my solar panel and whistled. “Very nice.”

 He popped open both toolboxes and pulled out parts and tools. I watched over his shoulder as he installed a motor and a photoelectric sensor. He said, “The sensor will drive the circuit here to run the motor and keep the panel aligned with the sun.”

 When he was done, I said, “Thank you.” I admired his work for a while longer. Trent was amazing with his hands. I opened my mouth to tell him so, then firmly shut it as I realized how it would sound. The teasing would have gone on for weeks if not months.

 We hung out for a few hours, then went down to dinner.

 After dinner, I said, “Let's talk about the murderer again.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “Not tonight, I'm going to a lecture at a Buddhist temple.”

 Trent said, “Ew, you've turned into a Buddhist.”

 Tiffany tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Going to a lecture at a Buddhist temple doesn't make me a Buddhist any more than going to church makes me a Bible.” She spun and stalked off.

#

 I was enjoying a quiet Friday afternoon in my room when there was a knock at my door. I got up and opened it.

 Kirsten stood there. “Hiya. Can I talk to you?”

 I opened the door wider. “Sure. Come in.”

 Kirsten sat on the edge of the bed. When I sat down in my chair, Kirsten stood up and paced.

 I said, “So what did you want to talk about?”

 She said, “Did you...did you ever have someone close to you die?”

 I said, “My great-aunt and uncle died when I was young, but they were very old. I did stumble over a homeless man who had died in the snow a few weeks ago. Then I went to a psychic show, and the poor guy passed away on the stage.”

 Kirsten paused. “That must have been awful.”

 “It was. I've been learning about the homeless man, about his life. It helps me cope.”

 She started pacing again. “Coping—yeah, that's hard.”

 I tried to think of how to be sympathetic. “Were you very close to your mother?”

 Kirsten said, “Well, we fought a lot. My dad ran off when I was little, so it was just mom and me.”

 I leaned forward and patted her arm. “That's really rough.”

 Kirsten said, “What are your parents like?”

 I leaned back. How to describe them... “Complicated. Their beliefs are...well, let's just say they make UFO believers and Bigfoot spotters seem normal.”

 She said, “Is that why you're majoring in psychology? You're trying to understand your parents?”

 How did she know? I offered her a soda. “No, I want to help people. With psychology, I have a choice of careers—psychiatrist, social worker, stand-up comedian.”

 Kirsten grinned. “Nice. I sometimes think economics is just the psychology of markets. Anyway, what's fun to do around here other than wandering around campus hopelessly lost, looking for my classes?”

 I smiled. “The Ave.”

 She looked puzzled. “The Ave?”

 I grabbed my coat. “Yep. Come on, we're going walking.”

 We strolled up the Ave, peeking into bookstores. “This one has cats to pet—good for your cat fix. It also has the most comfortable chairs for reading books. Just be prepared to lift a cat off the chair first. And this one has the best ever regular black coffee.”

 I checked my caffeine level. Seemed to be okay, but I promised myself one the next time.

 We dashed across the middle of the street and down the block. “This store specializes in history and occult books. But for any nonfiction, your best bet is checking the U's libraries.”

 We bought ice cream cones, then pressed on. “If you're interested in solar energy, then this is the best place on the Ave. It's called the Green Alternative.”

 We walked in. “Hey Mike.”

 He waved. “Heya Brig. Who's your friend? Did you hear the news?”

 I eased my backpack onto the counter and rummaged through the different solar powered gadgets Mike kept in a large basket. “Kirsten. We haven't heard any news. What's up?”

 Mike said, “Harvey Thomas died yesterday.”

 I turned back to him. “Oh no, that's terrible. How did it happen?”

 He shrugged. “Heart attack, I think.”

 Kirsten's eyes filled with tears. I patted her on the shoulder.

 To Mike, I said, “You know, I heard him speak at campus once. He was a good speaker—he told me about this place.”

 Mike flipped a switch and the solar-powered mini-helicopter he was holding lifted off. “I should have thanked him, then. You've been a good customer.”

 I sighed. “I thought he was too young to have a heart attack.”

 We poked around for another half an hour. As we left, I tapped the non-emergency number for Seattle PD into my phone.

 An operator answered. “Seattle police department. How may I direct your call?”

 I said, “Medical examiner, please.”

 “One moment.”

 Bad 90s music filled the phone while I waited. “Medical examiner.”

 I said, “Hi, my name is Brigid Tennant. I'm a reporter with The Daily. May I ask you a couple of questions about Harvey Thomas' death?”

 She said, “UW, huh? I'm an alum. Name's Mary. What do you want to know?”

 I said, “What was the cause of death?”

 Mary said, “Heart attack.”

 I bit my lip. “Wasn't he kind of young?”

 I could almost hear her shrug. “He was 34—not the youngest we've seen. It's unusual to see someone that young die of a heart attack, but it's not unknown.”

 I said, “So it was a normal death? Nothing suspicious?”

 Mary said, “That's correct—we have no active investigation at this time.”

 I said, “Last week, Harvey Thomas told me he lost thirty pounds and twenty points off his blood pressure biking. Doesn't that make a heart attack less likely?”

 Mary paused and sighed. “Do you want to make an appointment with a detective?”

 I said, “Sure.”

 I heard her typing. “Okay, can you be down here at...3:30 on Monday?”

 “I can make it.” I scribbled down the address and said, “Thanks for your time.”

 Kirsten said, “Why are you so interested in this guy's death?”

 I kicked a rock into the street. “I heard him speak at a meeting of the Students for a Green Earth, and I talked to him at the environmental fair on Friday. There's no way he should have died of a heart attack.”

 Kirsten said, “So, you're off to see the medical examiner?”

 I tucked my phone back into my backpack. “No, a detective. I'm a reporter for The Daily—it helps to make good contacts.”

 Kirsten brightened up. “Maybe you could be a criminal psychologist. You could profile serial killers and terrorists.”

 I said, “That's not really my thing.”

 Kirsten said, “You could save their future victims.”

 I shrugged, then called Green Seattle.

 “Hello, Green Seattle. This is Nora.”

 I said, “Hi. My name is Brigid Tennant. I'm a reporter for The Daily, and I was wondering if I could speak to someone about Harvey Thomas.”

 She said, “One moment, please.”

 It was two minutes later—hardly “a moment”—when I was transferred. Not very professional. Maybe I should have said I was from the P-I.

 A new voice said, “Hello, I'm Katherine Handson. What can I do for you?”

 I said, “I heard Harvey Thomas passed away, and I was hoping to write a retrospective on his life. I heard him speak a couple of times on campus. Would you have time to meet with me?”

 I heard her typing. “Let's see, I have an opening at 2:00 on Tuesday.”

 I said, “That would be great. I'll see you then.”

 I entered the appointment on my phone's calendar.

 Kirsten was quiet as we walked back.

 When we reached the dorm, Kirsten said, “Thanks for the tour. I have to get some reading done. Maybe I'll see you guys tonight.”

 I watched her go, wishing I could do something to help.

 I'd just gotten into my room when Tiffany burst in and flopped on my bed. “Madame Dupris is insane.”

 I set down my backpack. “Mmm. What did she do this time?”

 Tiffany said, “We're reading French stories. They're all about murder or lovers' betrayal.”

 I pulled out my laptop from my backpack. It was fully recharged. I loved my solar panels. “I thought you liked mysteries.”

 Tiffany sat up. “Mysteries, yes. Murder, no. These are more like psychodramas.”

 I said, “Well, it makes sense for a psycho teacher.”

 Tiffany tapped her foot on the closet door. “Are you even listening to me?”

 I said, “Of course. Dupris is insane and taking you with her.” I looked out the window. “Hey, I think it's time for kite flying. We finally have the weather for it.”

 Tiffany looked out the window. “Hmmm...can I tell you about Dupris while we fly our kites?”

 “Sure.”

 We grabbed our kites and started walking down the trail to Gasworks Park.

 The breeze tugged at our kites as we strolled along the path, glimpsing Elliot Bay through the buildings. Tiffany bitched about Dupris while I sympathized.

 She wound down as we arrived. I saw a few stray kids running around, half-watched by texting parents.

 I pointed. “Looks like the hill is empty.”

 We climbed the grassy mound. I looked over the rusting tanks towards the city. Elliot Bay glistened below us. “This is my favorite view of Seattle.”

 Tiffany glanced up, then bent down to untangle her line. “The view would be nicer if we could erase the old machinery from it.”

 I said, “I think it's charming. Well, maybe not charming—quirky. That's it.”

 I swore at my tangled kite string. “Tiffany, do you have long nails? I can't get this knot out.”

 Tiffany picked at the string for a moment. “There you go.” She launched her kite. The light breeze quickly threw it high into the air where stronger breezes danced it around.

 When I had my kite soaring, I laid down on the grass and kicked off my shoes. I directed my kite around like a laser pointer aimed at the clouds. “There's a horse. Next one's a bird.”

 As I continued, I pictured the shapes, more and more clearly. Tiffany nudged me. “I think you're making shapes in the clouds.”

 I studied the clouds. “You're right. Let me see if I can do one...”

 Tiffany squealed. “That's Trent! Except I don't think his nose is that long.”

 I concentrated. “One sec...how's that?”

 Tiffany nodded. “Much better. Do one of me now.”

 I shaped the cloud carefully. “What do you think?”

 Tiffany said, “Awesome. Can you turn them different colors?”

 I painted in the air with my finger. In the sky, the Tiffany-cloud's hair turned pink.

 Tiffany said, “Try me with green. I've always wanted to try green hair.”

 I twirled my finger, and the cloud's hair waved in the wind. It turned a lovely emerald green.

 Tiffany held up a chunk of her hair, glancing back and forth between her real hair and the cloud hair. “I could live with green—maybe next time I get my hair done.”

 I said, “Or you could just go with green highlights.” I waved my hand, and the cloud changed again. Amazing how quickly magic had become normal.

 I felt pressure building behind my temples, so I stopped there, and we idled away the time, watching our kites bob in the air. Finally, Tiffany said, “I think it's about time to go.”

 I reluctantly hauled in my kite.

Chapter 5

 The gray foggy Monday morning mirrored my mood. I shivered slightly in the cold as I trudged across campus, using my coffee cup to warm my hands. I said hi to Jim and plopped into the seat behind him. He mumbled something under his breath.

 I'd hoped studying with Jim would bring him out of his shell. Oh well.

 The warmth of the room and the gentle droning of Dr. Savage encouraged my mind to wander. I daydreamed about soaring through the air.

 I snapped fully awake as a textbook sailed off a shelf and nearly grazed Jim's head as it zoomed across the room. I concentrated and created a burst of wind to stop it just before it hit the window. The bang when it hit the floor woke a couple of my classmates.

 I turned back in time to see Jim throwing a pinch of salt over his left shoulder. Interesting—he carried salt and used it as a counter-spell. Hmmm, I wondered if salt would have worked. I decided to try it out later.

 Dr. Savage continued speaking as if he hadn't noticed the flying book and its sudden stop. Math teachers weren't exactly the most perceptive people.

 I didn't think Dr. Savage had cast a spell on the book, so who had done it? I'd been sitting quietly, dreaming of flying...

 I glanced around the classroom, hoping to spot pointy hats, long beards, sparkly wands, or any other sign of a Wizard. No luck. It had to have been my daydream. If my random thoughts were leaking out as magic, I was screwed.

 I felt like I'd had five straight cups of coffee. No falling asleep for me. Even better, no more objects went flying. I raced back to my room as soon as the lecture was over. Tiff and Trent were still in class, so I didn't bother looking for them. Anyway, this was something I had to work out for myself. I paced back and forth, thinking. I'd been daydreaming, and magic leaked out.

 Great, what would happen if I had a fantasy about Kevin Jonas? Nothing good.

        How could I fix it? Maybe if I improved my concentration, I wouldn't have to worry about my subconscious taking a little trip through magic land.

 I sighed. Mom was always on me to practice my breathing and meditation exercises. She told me it would improve my concentration. I hoped she was right, not that I needed one more thing to do every day.

 I knelt on the floor and let my hands drop twice. Eyes closed, I listened for the rhythm of the universe. When I felt a connection, I began to breathe. In like a gentle breeze. Out to the ends of the universe. In like a gentle breeze. Repeat.

 A tapping at the door jarred me out of the exercise. It seemed like every time I started something, somebody interrupted. I straightened my legs and winced as pins and needles raced up and down. To my surprise, the clock showed I'd been breathing for half an hour. It hadn't felt that long. Shaking my head to wake up my brain, I opened the door.

 Trent stood there. “Hiya. Want to catch lunch?”

 I said, “Sure, but I need to catch a bus downtown by 2:45.”

 He led the way to the stairs. “What's up?”

 I said, “A guy named Harvey Thomas died of a heart attack.”

 He opened the door and clattered down the concrete steps. “So?”

 I followed. “He told me he'd lost thirty pounds biking. I'm going to give the police a statement. I think he may have been murdered.”

 Trent said, “Our resident evil sorcerer again?”

 I said, “Maybe. I'm not going to mention that part, though.”

 Trent grinned. “Good choice.”

 We ate a decent lunch—Terry's food wasn't bad, but it got old after a while—and talked about school.

 Trent walked me out to the bus stop.

 At 2:40, I climbed aboard a 73 headed downtown.

 At 3:15, I was cursing the traffic under my breath while our bus sat in downtown, unable to move. “Why don't you idiots get out of our way? I have an appointment.”

 I wondered if there was a spell for getting traffic to move. I could have set the bus on fire, but that probably wouldn't have helped.

 I stared out the window, seeing two SUVs which had collided blocking the road. It looked like the firemen had pulled the people out. The one in our lane was listing to one side. Perhaps...

 I concentrated on reaching down to the earth below the SUV in our lane. I whispered “Tremor.” The ground twitched slightly. The SUV rocked and tipped over. So did the other SUV, blocking yet another lane.

 Oops. At least I'd cleared our lane, and insurance would cover the cars. Hopefully. The familiar band of pain tightened around my temples. Yippee. Just what I needed to help me talk to the police.

 With the SUV out of the way, we picked up speed.

 I made it to the police station with one minute to spare. What a relief. Being late for a meeting with the police didn't seem like a good idea.

 After passing through a metal detector and sending my purse through an X-ray machine, I walked over to the information desk.

 I said, “Hi, I have an appointment with Detective Transom.”

 The officer said, “Third floor.”

 On the third floor, I was led to a small office. The door said, “Detective Transom.” A small hand-written sign below the nameplate said, “You kill 'em, we solve 'em.”

 Great, a detective with a sense of humor. Probably one of those older guys who should have retired years ago.

 My guide tapped on the door. “Yes?” came from inside.

 “This is Brigid Tennant, your 3:30.”

 The voice said, “Thanks. Come in.”

 I expected to see paper piled everywhere. I must have seen too many TV shows. Instead, I saw a neat desk, occupied by a flat-screen monitor (facing away from me, much to my annoyance), keyboard, mouse, notebook, and pen.

 The handsome guy sitting behind the desk looked too young to be a detective. He could have sat in my classes without raising an eyebrow—well, except for his looks, of course. He waved at the unoccupied chair. “Please have a seat. Do you mind if I record this?”

 I gave him my best flirty smile. “Not at all.” Dang. No smile back. I looked down at my chest. Were these things working? Oh, right baggy sweatshirt. Guess not.

 He pulled out a voice recorder and set it on his desk. He sounded bored. “This is Detective Transom recording an interview with Brigid Tennant. So, you have some information about Harvey Thomas' death?”

 I said, “That's right—I don't think he died of a heart attack.”

 “Why not?”

 I opened my notebook. “On Friday, we had an environmental fair on campus. I spoke with Mr. Thomas, and he told me he lost thirty pounds and twenty points off his blood pressure since he'd started biking.” Saying it out loud made me realize just how stupid I sounded. I really didn't want to say anything about a magical serial killer.

 He said, “This is what Mary wasted my time with? She must be sore about that dinner I owe her and her fiancée”

 I sniffed and fought back tears. “So it's all useless, then?”

 Detective Transom started to say something, then looked up at me. He closed his mouth for a moment. Then he said, “It's not useless. I'll put it in the file. Do you have anything else to add?”

 I said, “No.” I didn't think my current thoughts were exactly suitable for a police statement. While he might have been flattered by “Gosh, you're hot”, I would have looked like even more of an idiot.

 He said, “Okay, please give me your full name and address and you can be on your way.”

 I said, “What will happen next?”

 He grinned. “I get to go bug Mary. I'll do a quick check on Harvey's background, see if anything warrants further investigation.”

 I gave him my info, and he escorted me out of the building. It would have been a perfect time to be clever or flirty, but my words failed me, of all the luck.

 The bus back to campus was slowed down by two SUVs blocking the northbound lane. I took the time to write down everything I could remember about the station and the interview. “It was a dark and stormy office.” I crossed the words out. “The office was tidy—no stray case files lurking provocatively on the desk. The tall, dark detective winked at me.” Well, he wasn't actually tall, but from 5'4”, everyone was tall. And the wink was just...literary exaggeration.

 Still, it was important to capture the details in case I ever needed to describe a police station.

 Kirsten was in the lounge when I returned. “Hey, didn't you have an interview with a detective today? How'd it go?”

 I sighed. “Frustrating. He took my statement, then said he'd talk it over with the ME. It didn't sound promising. At least he was cute.”

 Kirsten said, “I'm sorry it didn't work out. So tell me more about this cute detective.”

 I said, “He had sexy eyes. You know, the kind you can feel watching you all the way home.”

 Kirsten said, “Sounds yummy.”

 I flicked through channels on the TV. “I could get caught shoplifting or something. It would be nice to have an excuse to meet him again.”

 Kirsten laughed.

        I said, “How are you adjusting to your classes?”

 Kirsten picked up her Environmental Economics textbook and sighed. “You were right—Dr. Smith's a real bastard.”

 I said, “Yeah, and the worst part is he really knows what he's talking about. You have to watch out on tests, though—he throws in questions which aren't in the reading. I had to check out three books from the library plus the journal Renewable Energy just to keep up with him.”

 Kirsten said, “Maybe we could swap notes on our bonus reading to give us an edge.”

 After dinner, Kirsten and I studied for our Environmental Economics quiz. After she left, I worked on a paper for English Lit.

 I woke up feeling ready for Dr. Smith's quiz. Kirsten and I walked to class together. I smiled when Jane said, “Dr. Smith, air pollution isn't really that bad, is it?” Somebody forgot to study.

 Dr. Smith's eyes narrowed. I expected lasers to shoot out and fry her. “Last summer I spent a month in Greece, touring ancient monuments. Did you know the Acropolis has deteriorated more in the eighty years since cars were introduced to Athens than in the two millenia before that? That takes acid rain to a whole new level—just think, one of the finest creative works in the world destroyed by sulfur-spewing proletariat ugly boxes.”

 On my notes, I jotted down, “Yet another rant.”

 As the rant wore down, I caught Kirsten's eye and shook my head. She nodded slightly.

 Stats class was better. I said hi to Jim and he wrote an elegant “hi” on a piece of paper and showed it to me. I thought I did well on the ANOVA quiz. My studying with Jim must have paid off.

 After class, I called the ME's office. “This is Brigid Tennant again. Has there been any change in Harvey Thomas' cause of death?”

 Mary sighed. “No. We re-examined the autopsy report. He does show developed musculature in the legs and an increased lung capacity consistent with bike riding. However, there were no traces of drugs or other chemicals in his blood. It's still just a simple heart attack.”

 I said, “Thanks for double checking. Do you mind if I use you as a source? I'd like to do a retrospective on him for The Daily.”

 She said, “Feel free and good luck with it.”

 I closed my phone and headed for the bus. It was time for my interview with Katherine Handson. Her office was a little west of campus.

 I found the building and took the elevator to the third floor. At the desk, I said, “Hi. I'm Brigid. I have an appointment with Katherine Handson.”

 The receptionist smiled. “I'll let her know you're here.”

 Katherine came out and led me into her office.

 I said, “I'm sorry to hear about Harvey.”

 Katherine said, “I'd rather have Harvey alive and still be vice-president than try to fill his shoes as president. We all really miss him.”

 I said, “I talked to him at the environmental fair last Friday. He seemed like a nice guy. I'd like to find out what he's done. Maybe my article will get more students interested in the environment.”

 Katherine said, “Let's see. If you ever heard him, you know how good a speaker he was. He devoted hours and hours of time to lecturing around town. He worked closely with the heads of several other groups: Mary Foster of the Washington Green Party; Dr. Nathan Smith, faculty director of Students for a Green Earth; and Julie Mackenzie, president of the Environmental Action Council.”

 I wrote down their names. “Thanks, I'll talk to them as well.”

 She said, “Let's see, major accomplishments. He convinced the UW trustees to establish a Green council which advises the university on ways to cut its energy usage and carbon footprint.”

 I said, “Okay, that's good. I didn't know that.”

 She said, “He helped push a bill through the state Senate mandating emission cuts over the next forty years—even more than the Kyoto targets. He was also the one who persuaded Seattle City Light to institute the cash for compact fluorescent program where they give you twenty cents credit for every compact fluorescent bulb you buy.”

 I said, “How are you dealing with his death?”

 Katherine sighed. “Deep down, I keep hoping the police will call and say they made a mistake, and Harvey will walk through that door. I still can't believe he's gone.”

 On the ride back to my dorm, I got Julie Mackenzie on the phone. “Ms. Mackenzie? My name is Brigid Tennant. I'm a student at UW, and I'm writing an article on Harvey Thomas for The Daily. Do you have time to talk?”

 Julie said, “I only have ten minutes.”

 I said, “I'll be quick. Katherine Handson told me about some of his accomplishments. What do you think was his most interesting accomplishment, and what's your favorite memory of him?”

        She said, “I think his most interesting accomplishment was getting a green energy bill passed, mandating that 20% of all of Washington's power comes from renewable sources within the next ten years.”

 She paused for a moment. “My favorite memory of him was during the 2008 beach cleanup. He looked so happy, dodging waves and picking up trash.”

 “Was there anyone who didn't like him?”

 She said, “You mean enemies? Big business didn't like him because being environmentally correct increases their costs. Big energy didn't like him because they're heavily invested in non-green generation methods. There was one lobbyist, Tim Nielson, who he clashed with regularly. Tim specializes in anti-environmental lobbying. If there's a right side to an issue, then he's arguing for the other side.”

 I said, “Thank you for your time.”

        I jotted down notes from the call, then called Mary Foster.

 I gave her my reporter spiel and said, “Could you tell me about Harvey? What are your memories of him?”

 Mary said, “Hmmm. He had a husky he rescued from the pound named Fensworth. He was into lost causes, rescuing strays—dogs and people—that sort of thing.”

 I said, “What do you mean, rescuing stray people?”

 She said, “That girl who works in the office, answering phones and stuff. She was homeless. Harvey hired her, helped her apply for housing.”

 I said, “Thanks. Anything else you'd like to add?”

 She said, “His loss is a huge blow to the green movement in Seattle.”

 I hung up and tried to figure out how to approach Tim Nielson. Perhaps if I pretended to be skeptical, he might talk to me.

 I dialed the number for his company.

 “Hello, Nielson Consulting. How can I help you?”

 I said, “My name is Brigid Tennant. I'm a student at UW, and I was wondering if I could speak to Tim Nielson about Harvey Thomas.”

 “One moment.”

 The line clicked off hold much faster than I'd expected. A gruff male voice came on. “This is Tim. What can I do for you, young lady?”

 I said, “I'm a reporter for the UW Daily. I'm writing an article on Harvey Thomas, but so far, everyone I've talked to has made him sound like the Second Coming.”

 He chuckled.

 “I was hoping you'd be willing to meet with me to give me a better picture of the real Harvey.”

 He said, “Can you be here in half an hour?”

 “Sure. See you then.”

 I was definitely getting my bus miles in today. Too bad The Daily didn't have any money for travel and expenses, or I'd be rich. I switched buses and studied my notes.

 From the outside, the faded red bricks of Tim's office didn't look like much. More like an internet real estate company. When I stepped inside, it was totally different. Tim's lobby alone was nicer than Katherine's whole office. It sure showed what money could do.

        I walked over to the receptionist. “I'm Brigid Tennant. I have an appointment with Tim Nielson.”

 She said, “Have a seat over there. He'll be with you shortly.”

        The lobby looked big enough to hold a ritual. I nudged the carpet with my foot, but it was firmly attached. No secret circle hiding here.

 Five minutes later, a guy sized like a football player strode over to me. He looked down and stuck out his hand. “I'm Tim. You must be Brigid.”

 I shook his hand.

 “Why don't you come into my office?

 ...said the spider to the fly. I stood up and followed him into his office.

 It was spectacular—even nicer than the lobby. He had a huge desk with four monitors on one side. They were pointed away from me, which was too bad. I would have killed to get a look at what he was doing.

 I said, “What can you tell me about Harvey? I heard you were enemies.”

 Tim laughed and slapped his leg. “Enemies? No, we were opponents. Harvey was useful. His name was big enough to scare folks into hiring me, but he didn't win very often. And he never won against me. Still, without him making a stink, I wouldn't have nearly as many clients.”

 I said, “I thought you didn't like him.”

 Tim shrugged. “He was misguided, but sincere enough. Mostly, though, he was just impractical. He had no notion of how expensive his ideas were.”

 I said, “What about his concerns for the environment?”

 He said, “This is a capitalist society. The free market will take care of it. If we lose too many parks, then the free market will put a higher price on the remaining ones. Same thing with endangered species. If we eat too many of a species, then the price will go up to make it much more expensive.”

 Was this guy lying to me or not? Did he kill Harvey and the others? I couldn't tell.

 I wanted to shake him up a bit, see how he reacted to the mention of magic.

 I said, “With all of his ties to nature, did you ever hear anything about him practicing magic?”

 I watched carefully but saw no flicker of recognition at the mention of magic.

 He shrugged. “Nothing Harvey did would have surprised me, but I hadn't heard anything like that. It's not like we moved in the same social circles.”

        I couldn't think of anything else to ask. “Well, thanks for your time.”

 After all of my interviews, I didn't feel like talking to Dr. Smith. It would have been too weird.

 Instead, I snagged a picture of Harvey from an article in The Daily's archives and set to work. I opened with a brief bio, then laid out his accomplishments, interspersed with the comments I'd collected.

 I paused before writing the closing paragraph. I wanted to kick busy students out of their comfort zone.

 I wrote, “Harvey Thomas devoted his life to protecting the environment—protecting it for us because we're too busy. None of us have to become green monks, but to honor Harvey's memory, we can do better. We must do better.”

 Okay, it wasn't exactly Churchill, but I could live with it.

 I checked the article one last time and fixed a couple of typos. I hit Send and went looking for my friends.

 I rounded up Tiffany and Trent and herded them to my room. After carefully closing the door, I said, “I want to talk about the murders again.”

 Tiffany said, “Have you come up with anything new?”

 I said, “To prove murder, we need motive, means, and opportunity.”

 Trent said, “If there really is such a thing as magical murder, isn't opportunity unlimited?”

 I shook my head. “Opportunity: the murderer has to acquire some part of the victim, like hair. Also, it takes time and space to perform a ritual.”

 Trent stretched. “How long would a ritual last?”

 I shrugged. “Not that I know for sure, but I'll guess somewhere between half an hour and an hour. That's what our blessing rituals took.”

 Tiffany twirled her pen between her fingers. “So that crosses Nial and Alice off the list—you said they were both present when the psychic died.”

 I said, “I hadn't thought about it, but you're right. Unfortunately, we need to add suspects, not remove them.”

 Trent flicked a paper airplane towards the window. “So what about motive? Why would someone want to kill a homeless veteran, a psychic, and an environmentalist? Well, I can understand the environmentalist. They can be so preachy sometimes, always trying to shut down a reactor or other interesting research which might randomly destroy civilization.”

 I threw a pillow at him. He laughed.

 Tiffany sat up. “I know—twenty years ago, they all served on the same jury that convicted a man of murder. Now he's taking revenge on the jurors.”

 Trent said, “Tiff, I think you've just described the plot of a movie. Or given Hollywood, the plot of several dozen movies.”

 I thought about it. “It's unlikely anyway. Preacher John grew up in Eastern Washington, then went off to the Air Force Academy. I doubt he was on a jury after he started living on the street. Harvey lived in Oregon most of his life. He only moved to Seattle seven years ago.”

 Whoa, I'd actually taken it seriously for a moment. I needed to cut back on my movie watching.

 Trent said, “What do you have on the psychic? Preacher John and the psychic were the only two ghosts you saw, right?”

 I said, “Right.”

 Trent said, “So there's your strongest connection. If we assume there's a magical murderer, then those were the two who were definitely killed by magic. Harvey is just speculation unless you find a connection.”

 Tiffany pulled out her laptop and played the keys for a minute. “Brigid, do you know how many murders in the past ten years Seattle PD has solved with the assistance of outsiders?”

 Interested, I walked over. “No, how many?”

 Tiffany said, “One. And the person who helped solve it was a retired FBI agent. One of his neighbors was murdered.”

 I said, “What's your point?”

 Tiffany said, “Outside of mystery novels, amateur sleuths don't solve murders. I think you're setting your expectations too high.”

 I shook my head. “You guys are a lot of help.”

 Trent patted my arm. “Brig, Brig—we are helpful. We listen to you, and we haven't called the men in the white coats with the big butterfly nets yet.”

        I said, “Hey, that would be fun. Two of us could wear white coats and chase Trent around with big butterfly nets.”

        Trent said, “I have a better idea for a prank: we pretend to drop a barrel of radioactive waste on campus. We drive a delivery van in. One of you pushes a barrel out the back, then we all jump out and take a look. Brigid, you hold a fake Geiger counter which starts beeping a lot as you point it at the barrel.”

 Tiffany said, “We could wear lab coats. Make sure the barrel has radioactivity stickers all over it.”

 I said, “We could take off running after the Geiger counter goes off, but what if someone recognizes us? If even one of us is recognized, they'd catch us all.”

 Tiffany said, “We'll use stage makeup to help disguise ourselves. Also, you should work on a disguise spell.”

 Trent drew diagrams as we talked. “You could change our hair color with a spell. Try turning Tiffany's hair green.”

 I centered myself and built a picture in my mind of Tiffany with short green hair. When I had the picture looking the way I wanted, I let my eyes open. I pointed at Tiffany and whispered “Green.”

 Tiffany's hair turned as green as the grass on top of the hill at Gasworks Park.

 Trent whistled. “Nice. Can you keep that up and change my hair as well?”

 I built up a picture of Trent, then whispered “Red.” Trent's hair turned bright red and curly.

 Trent looked in the mirror in Tiffany's closet. “Very cool. Now try your hair.”

 As I worked on a picture of myself with long black hair, my concentration broke, and Tiffany's and Trent's hair returned to their natural colors and lengths.

 Tiffany said, “You'll need to practice so you can hold the hair color for at least ten minutes. Let's see—we should get false noses, and our lab coats should be reversible so we can disappear quickly.”

 Trent said, “I'll scout for a spot and work up some escape routes. We'll need to get out of sight for a minute to ditch our disguises.”

 For the next three days, we prepared. Tiffany experimented with makeup, including false noses and pointed ears. I practiced until I could change our hair and hold it for ten minutes. Tiffany made me practice while hopping on one foot. I kept it to a couple hair changes at a time, and I didn't get hit with any headaches.

 Trent found a spot just north of Kane and devised three escape routes. He drilled us in the escape routes over and over. He numbered them and told us, “I'll call out a number, depending on what kind of crowd we draw.”

 Tiffany and I worked on the lab coats and gloves. Trent constructed a fake Geiger counter with a dial which controlled how fast it clicked.

 On Saturday, he led us off campus to a parked delivery van. He said, “This is a university vehicle. When no one was looking, I signed it out for a Dr. John Doe and snagged the keys. Look in the back.”

 I opened the back and saw a barrel with radioactive hazard stickers on it. I peeked inside and saw sand half-filling it. “Looks good.”

 Trent said, “Can you make sure the top is duct-taped on tightly?”

 I grabbed the roll of duct tape and secured the top. My heart was racing. This was way better than roller coasters “Okay, ready to go.”

 We pulled on our lab coats. I put the Geiger counter in my pocket. Tiffany slapped the makeup on us, and we climbed up front. Trent said, “I rigged a device to open the door and kick the barrel out.”

 I concentrated and changed our hair.

 Trent drove carefully through traffic, obeying the speed limit and watching traffic lights. “I don't want to get pulled over. That would be bad.”

 We drove onto campus. Trent said, “Get ready.”

 He skidded to a stop and hit a button on a small remote control. He hit the emergency flashers, and the three of us tumbled out.

 Trent ran over to the barrel, where a small crowd of students had gathered. More students were appearing, attracted by the gravity of crowds.

 Trent said, “Uh oh,” in a loud voice.

 Tiffany and I ran over. I pulled out the Geiger counter and twisted the dial way up. It clicked rapidly.

 Tiffany said, “Oh my god, what have you done?”

 I yelled, “It's going to blow.”

 Trent said, “Number three.” That was Thompson Hall.

 We took off running northeast as the crowd absorbed our words. We ducked into Thompson Hall. I dropped the hair spell, and we reversed our coats. Tiffany sponged our faces off, and we strolled down the hallway to the other end of the building.

 Sirens were wailing as we looped across Red Square. I said, “I think I'll let someone else scoop this story.”

 In the morning, I sprang for the Sunday Times. We each took a section and flipped through it. “Nothing.” “Nothing.” “Nothing.”

 I tossed my section to the ground. “Typical. The Time always ignores us. If the entire campus blew up, they'd run a headline 'Major new space opens to development'.”

 Trent and Tiffany laughed.

 Tiffany said, “Maybe I should call them up and ask.”

 I said, “Use someone else's phone in case they log your number. You don't want to give the police any reason to investigate you.”

 Tiffany said, “You're right. Maybe I won't call them.”

 On Monday, I snagged a copy of The Daily. I found our prank on page two. The headline read, “Campus security overreacts to prank”. The article detailed how campus security had called in the local hazmat team, who had a good laugh at security's expense.

 One firefighter had said, “A barrel of sand with fake radioactivity stickers? They should stick to underage drinking.”

 The article continued, “Campus security didn't have an official response.”

 I walked to Tiffany's room and made sure the door was closed. I waved the paper in the air. “Tiffany, we made the second page!”

 She walked over. “We did? Cool.” She read the article. “Nice picture of the barrel and the hazmat team laughing. Too bad there isn't a contest we could enter—'America's funniest college pranks' or something.”

 I said, “We'd have to put our name on it. Not a good idea.”

 “Watch this.” Tiffany put her hands over her head, both pointing to the right. She said, “This is a new tai chi posture we learned. It's called Mouse Caught in Flashlight.”

 I looked at her with concern. “Are you sure your teacher knows what he's talking about?”

 Tiffany tossed her hair over her shoulder. “You're just jealous because I'm the athletic one.”

 Sometimes I wondered about Tiffany.

 After surviving my classes once again, I rewarded myself by going to another meeting of Students for a Green Earth. I recognized the girl at the front as the one who had manned the booth when I first joined.

 She said, “Hi, my name is Allyson, with a y. Instead of a speaker, tonight is Action Night. We're going to show everyone we're not just talk. We've organized different stations. You can go to as many different stations as you'd like. I'll be running an exciting station up front here, writing letters to our congressmen. Stan will run a station in the corner making posters. Samantha is leading a session to pick our next few speakers. Harold has offered to take in stragglers who don't want to participate in the other stations.”

 I rolled my eyes, totally lost on Allyson-with-a-y, and moved to Harold's station. When everyone settled out, our group was the smallest by far, with only five people.

 Harold looked at my backpack and whistled. “Nice. How much power do those cells generate?”

 I held it up for the group to see. “1.2 watts in full sun. I can charge my laptop in a couple of hours, depending on weather.”

 Harold said, “Maybe we could work on solar power ideas, then.” Seeing nods around the circle, Harold pulled out a large sheet of paper and a marker. “Let's brainstorm ideas. No criticizing or commenting until we're finished.”

 Harold wrote ideas as fast as they were called out. The ideas petered out with the paper three-quarters full. “Now we'll go through the ideas and vote on the ones we think are practical. We'll go through the survivors each round until we're down to just one.”

 I was surprised when “solar generating backpacks” won out.

 Harold said, “Brigid, could you place your backpack in the middle of the table, please? It's a good design, but how can we improve it?”

 The guy fiddling with his glasses said, “Well, it would cut half the cost if we could switch to rigid cells instead of flexible.”

 The girl who'd spent the whole session playing with her laptop said, “Some sort of transparent pocket would work.” She typed a bit, then turned her laptop to face us. “Like this backpack. We could fill the outer pockets with rigid cells, then wire them straight through the nylon. The outer pockets all zip closed.”

 Harold looked at the web page. “These backpacks are $80. The solar cells will run something like $60 for 1.2 watts, plus another $10 for additional parts. We could sell them for $180 and have a little money to turn back to the club.”

 I nodded. “Wow, I never thought my backpack would turn into a product.”

 Harold said, “We need to put together a few and sell them. Then it becomes self-sustaining. Every batch we sell pays for the next batch. I think ten would be a good number to start with.”

 I leaned back. “Where are we going to get the money to make the first batch?”

 Harold smiled. “As it happens, I'm the head of the Finance Committee. We have $5500 in the bank, of which $2000 is set aside for 'special projects'. I think this qualifies. I just need to get one other officer to agree, and we're set.”

 I glanced over at the other sessions. “The others seem more interested in talking than doing anything.”

 Harold looked over my shoulder. “I bet we could talk the Secretary into it. What do you think, Jim?”

 I turned and saw Jim. He ducked his head and mumbled to his shoes. I said, “Hey, we've come up with plans for a version of my backpack here. We need seed money to build a batch and start selling them. Can you sign off on it?”

 I listened carefully and heard him mumble “OK”.

 I said, “Great, it's settled.”

 Harold said, “Can you fill out an approval form for a special project? We're building ten solar backpacks. Any money we make selling them will go back into the general fund.”

 Jim sat down and pulled out a form. I marveled again at his graceful handwriting. He finished writing and marked a line for Harold to sign.

 Harold smiled. “Thanks, that's just what we need. I'll order the supplies. If you give me your email addresses, I'll let you know when everything arrives, and we can have an assembly party.”

 It felt good to be doing something important. At least I wasn't stressing about the murderer.

 Tuesday's classes were kind of a bust. On my way home, I stopped by the University Bookstore and bought a map of Seattle and a box of pushpins. I removed my Tokyo Police Club poster to make room for the map.

 Measuring carefully, I placed thumbtacks for the deaths of Simon, Harvey, and Preacher John. I stepped back to look at the map.

 Trent walked in. “Nice map. What are the thumbtacks for?”

 I said, “Red is for confirmed magical deaths. Orange is for probables. I'm trying to spot a pattern.”

 Trent shrugged. “You only have three data points. That's not enough to find a pattern. You really need more data.”

 I snapped my fingers. “That's it. Thanks!” I hugged him on my way out the door. I headed to the stacks in Suzalo and pulled out old copies of the Seattle Times, looking at the obituaries.

 I copied interesting and unusual deaths into my notebook. By the time I called it a day, I had found eight more deaths. Back in my room, I marked the new deaths on my map with blue thumbtacks.

 Trent popped his head in. “Pretty colors. What are the blue ones?”

 I said, “Those are ones I found in the obituaries. I'm not sure those deaths were caused by magic, but each one sounds unusual.”

 Trent came in and peered at the map. “What do you mean by unusual?”

 I flipped open my notebook and started reading. “Margie Burns, age 42. Cause of death: heart attack.”

 Trent rocked back and forth on his feet. “Doesn't sound unusual to me.”

 I said, “Get this—her hair turned completely white, as if she was frightened to death.”

 Trent said, “Hair can turn white suddenly—it's not really strange.”

 I said, “No, hair can turn white over a period of hours or overnight. This happened within half an hour. Her housecleaner left at 12:30. Her daughter came in at 1:05, and she was already dead.”

 “Well, maybe. It's at least unusual.” Trent put his hand up, eying the map and measuring with his fingers. “The centroid of the deaths seems to be up north, in Ravenna.”

 I said, “It's freaky.”

 Trent pulled a green thumbtack and positioned it in the center of the other thumbtacks. “You could start looking there, but I don't know what you're going to find. It could be dangerous.”

 I said, “You're right. You should come and protect me in case it's an ordinary serial killer and not a magical serial killer.” I batted my eyes.

 Trent pulled on his jacket. “Hmmm. Okay, but any creepiness and we're leaving. I'm not wearing my Superman underwear today.”

 We left the car under I-5 at the park-and-ride. We strolled west, investigating the shops as we went. When we reached the lake, Trent said, “Did you sense anything magical?”

 I said, “No, but I'm not exactly sure what I'd be sensing. So far, I'm the only person I know who can do magic. I don't know what it feels like to be on the other side.”

 Trent paced. “You need to be around someone doing magic to learn how to sense it, but the only person you think can do magic is this mythical murderer of yours. You should take out an ad. Or better yet, go to a psychic fair. I'm sure you can magically sense when and where the next one is.”

 I ignored him. I picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water. “This seems like a calm, peaceful park.”

 Trent smirked. “With you in the park, I'm sure it won't stay calm for long.”

 I stuck out my tongue, and we strolled back to the car.

 When we parked back on campus, I noticed an expensive looking BMW nearby.

 Trent whistled. “Wow, brand-new. It still has dealer tags on it.”

 I walked up to take a closer look. The car said, “You are standing too close to this car.”

 Trent chuckled. “I love it when a day suddenly has purpose.” He rubbed his hands together. “Want to watch?”

 We walked back to the dorm. Trent tried out different maniacal laughs.

 I spotted Kirsten. “Come with us. Trent has found his true calling.”

 Once in his room, Trent pulled out a remote-control four wheel drive car. He opened it up and popped in some electronic components.

 I said, “You're going to sacrifice your little car?”

 Trent said, “Don't worry about it. I pick these up whenever I can. I have a dozen or so in my closet. They're great little platforms for experiments. That's what this is—an experiment in battery life.”

 Cackling to himself, he flipped on the car. He held it in the air while watching the wheels. Nodding, he turned it off again. “Let's go.”

 He led us back to the parking spot with the expensive BMW. He walked forward and backwards, triggering the warning. Kneeling down, he positioned the remote-control car just out of range, pointing straight towards the BMW.

 “Presto.” He turned on the remote-control car. It scooted forward, triggering the warning. It zoomed backwards, then forward again. Each time it crossed an invisible line, the BMW said, “You are standing too close to this car.”

 Trent turned to me and Kirsten and raised one finger. “The question is, which battery will run out first: the toy's or the BMW's. Only time will tell.”

 I laughed. “If there's a tow truck out here tomorrow morning, we'll know it wasn't the toy's.”

 Our good mood continued through dinner.

 I filled Tiffany in at breakfast. Trent and Kirsten joined us for the walk to campus. We made sure to pass the parking spot.

 I saw a battery truck sitting next to the BMW. A college student in a suit stood beside the car, talking on a phone and tapping his foot. He held the phone away from his ear and turned on the driver. “Aren't you done yet? Trained ferrets would have finished ten minutes ago.”

 The driver held up his hands. “Sorry, mister. You sure you don't want to have the battery checked? It's strange, going dead like that.”

 The student said, “No, no—just put in a new one. I have to meet my stockbroker. He's an idiot. I have to corner him in his office and hold his hand through everything.”

 When we were out of earshot, Kirsten said, “Nice work, Trent. It couldn't have happened to a more deserving fellow.”

Chapter 6

 In the evening, I said to Trent and Tiffany, “Can you come to my room? I want to try divining the murderer's location.”

 I sat down in the middle of my floor and unfolded a map of Seattle. I refolded it so only Ravenna was visible.

 Trent said, “What are you doing?”

 I said, “I'm going to use a hazel twig suspended from a silk thread to try to find the murderer.”

 Tiffany said, “And you need us because...?”

 I said, “I want you both to watch for anything strange.”

 Trent said, “Besides you sitting on the floor with a map and a stick? Wait, let me take a picture.” He whipped out his phone. Click. “Another Brigid moment. Your parents must be so proud.”

 I stuck my tongue out at him.

 Click.

 Dang. I made a mental note. In the future, wait until phone is in pocket.

 Okay, time to be serious. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the ghosts I'd seen. I moved my hand slowly over the map. I passed over the map three times, each time from a different direction.

 When I finished, I opened my eyes. “Did you see anything?”

 Trent said, “Nope.”

 Tiffany said, “Me neither.”

 I folded up the map. “I didn't sense anything either.”

 Trent stood up. “What does that mean?”

 I said, “Well, it could be this form of magic doesn't work, or the murderer's house is shielded, or I need something that belongs to the murderer.”

 Trent looked at the thumbtacks. “You haven't confirmed these deaths. What if the murderer planned for an investigation and killed people in different locations to throw this off?”

 I said, “More cheery news. Thank you ever so much.”

 Trent said, “You're right. Let's grab Kirsten and go find a cheap movie.”

 We headed off to the Neptune.

 Before we reached the end of the line, I said, “The guy at the end of the line—he's the one with the expensive car.”

 Kirsten glanced at him. “Looks like he bought himself an expensive date as well.”

 I snorted.

 We ended up behind him, standing back as far as we could without letting anyone else slip in front of us.

 The blond on his arm said, “Ooo, Keith, I just love your new car. It's so much more expensive than your last one.”

 He patted her bottom. “You know me, babe. Nothing but the best.”

 Two olive skinned men walked by, the lilts and falls of their language so beautiful, so unlike English.

 Keith glared at them. “Damn foreigners. If you want to come here, learn the language.”

 I pitched my voice to carry. “A rest stoolook.”

 Keith spun around. “What the hell was that?”

 I grinned. “It was the Spokane dialect of Salish, the native language of this area. It means 'Hello, good evening.'”

 My friends cracked up.

 Keith's face turned red, and he turned his back on us. The blond tugged on his arm. “Keithy, baby, what did she say? What did that mean?”

 Keith jerked his arm away from her.

 I said softly to my friends, “Always happy to brighten someone's day.”

 They broke up laughing again. The line crawled forward. Once we had our tickets, I made sure we sat far away from Keith. “I've had enough of Keithy Baby for tonight.”

 Tiffany said, “What's that Arabian curse? May you be infested with the fleas of a thousand camels?”

 Back in my room, I had an email from Harold. “All the ingredients are here. Meet in Kane at 4:30 tomorrow.”

 The whole group showed up, including Jim. I was impressed by the dedication of my non-letter-writing companions. It took us an hour and a half to assemble the backpacks.

 When we were done, Harold said, “Let's test them.”

 We hauled the backpacks into Red Square to catch the evening sun. Harold hooked a multimeter to each backpack in turn. Two of the backpacks needed minor adjustments before Harold was happy.

 At the meeting that night, Harold said, “We built ten solar backpacks, based off of Brigid's design. We're selling them for $180. Anyone who wants one, see me at the end of the meeting.”

 I had another email from Harold waiting when I got back at the dorm. “We sold seven backpacks. I'll give it a few more days then see if the Green Alternative wants a shot. I think we'll be ready to whip up another batch soon.”

 I smiled before I went to sleep. At least something was working out.

#

 I turned a corner. “Goddammit. Another blank wall. Who the hell designed this damned math building?”

 A door clicked open behind me. A balding head and two little eyes peeked out from below my chin level. I heard a squeak and the door closed.

 I sprang to the door and tapped on it. “Hello? Can you come out for a minute? I have a nice piece of cheese.” Damn, had I really said that last bit out loud?

 I tried again, oozing sweetness. “Look, I'm just trying to find my professor's office.”

 The door creaked open. “Wh-who are you looking for?”

 I said, “Professor Savage. His office is 321.”

 The door inched open. “W-well, you have the right floor, at least. I can show you. Step where I step so you don't get lost.”

 The balding head bobbed up and down as he took quick steps down the hallway.

 I said, “My name's Brigid Tennant.”

 Without turning, he said, “My name is Albert Finnly. I'm a grad student. We don't get many visitors on our floor.”

 I said, “That's because everyone gets lost in the elevator.”

 He said, “Oh, a joke. Ha ha ha.”

 My legs were tiring matching Albert's short steps. “Why is this building such a maze?”

 He said, “Oh, it was designed as the administration building in the 70s. They were worried about radicals taking over the building, so they designed it as a combination maze and fortress. We didn't have any radicals, so they gave it to the math department instead.”

 I ducked under a makeshift sign saying, “Construction ahead.”

 Albert said, “It's a pity they removed the murder holes and mantraps, though. Those would be useful during finals week.”

 I couldn't decide if he was joking or not.

 Albert stopped abruptly. I had to grab the edge of a doorframe to prevent myself from running him over.

 He said, “Here we are. 321.”

 I said, “Thank you very much.”

 “Not at all. The professor can summon a troll to guide you out.” Albert sped back down the hall the way we'd come.

 I knocked on the door.

 “Come in.”

 I stepped into Professor Savage's office and looked around.

 All around the office, books were stacked neatly in columns, smallest at the top down to largest.

 Professor Savage waved me to an empty seat.

 I pulled out my notebook. “Why did you want to see me, Professor?”

 He said, “You're majoring in psychology, aren't you?”

 I said, “Yes, I am.”

 Professor Savage rubbed his hands together. “Good. How would you like to do a project for extra credit in my class. You might even be able to swing an independent-study psych credit or two out of it.”

 I said, “What's this special project?”

 He said, “A psychologist friend of mine has data on a number of alternative treatments. He's looking for someone to run statistical correlations to see if any of the treatments are effective.”

 I clicked my pen on and off. “Why doesn't he run the correlations himself?”

 Dr. Savage drummed his fingers on his desk. “He said he's too busy. Personally, I think he's forgotten how. It's been a long time since he graduated.”

 I said, “Could I get someone from class to help me?”

 Dr. Savage moved some papers into a pile. “Do you have someone in mind?”

 I said, “Jim Monaghan.”

 Dr. Savage gazed over a stack of books. “I suppose so. Are you interested?”

 I said, “Very much so.”

 He said, “Good. My friend's name is Dr. Burt Finster. Here's his email address. He'll provide you with the data and instructions. Do you have any questions?”

 I shook my head.

 He said, “I'll call a grad student to guide you out. These corridors can be tricky.”

 I said, “Albert guided me in. He said something about having a troll guide me out.”

 Dr. Savage laughed. “The grad students have a strange sense of humor. They use the nickname 'troll' for graduate students and medieval words for the building. It's a math thing—you wouldn't understand.”

 I stuck my chin out. “Because I'm a girl?”

 He shook his head. “No, because mathematicians think differently than normal people.” There was a scritching at the door. “I think this is your guide. Come.”

 The door opened. Albert stood there, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. “I wasn't busy, so I get to show you the path to freedom.”

 I was surprised by how close the elevator was. Two turns and I was there.

 Albert pushed the button. “When you reach the first floor, step out of the elevator and turn right. You'll see a door that will take you out of this place and back into the light.”

 The elevator dinged, and the door opened. I said, “Thanks” and rode to the first floor. I made it outside without any difficulty.

 I saw Tiffany as I walked across the Quad. I waved, and Tiffany walked over.

 Tiffany said, “Hey, what's up?”

 I said, “I just finished meeting with one of my professors in the math building.”

 Tiffany looked me over. “You made it out of there alive? I heard the math building eats people. There are lost students in there, doomed to wander the halls forever.”

 I said, “If I have to go back, I'm bringing a locating spell. I'd like to be able to find my way around without graduate student assistance.”

 Tiffany picked up a twig and tossed it in the air. “A path-finding spell could be really useful. Why don't you practice?”

 I said, “Out here?”

 Tiffany looked around. “Why not? There's no one around.”

 I pulled out my notebook and sketched out some ideas while Tiffany tapped her foot. I studied the page for a moment, then whispered “Arrow”. A glowing arrow appeared in front of me.

 Tiffany clapped her hands. “Ooo, pretty. Where is it leading us?”

 I said, “Hopefully to Kane 120.”

 We followed the arrow. It led us into a building approximately in the direction of Kane. Inside, the arrow led us up to the third floor, down the length of the building, and back to the first floor. Eventually, it led us out of the building, closer to Kane. I glared at it. “Those stairs were totally unnecessary.” The arrow turned pink for a moment.

 When we finally reached the door of Kane 120, the arrow faded away. I shook my head. “Well, it did get us here, but I could do without the detours. The spell needs more work.”  When did all of this become normal?

 Tiffany said, “So we took a little side trip.” She seemed pleased.

 I said, “Yeah, but it might have lead us into danger.”

 Tiffany patted the number 120 on the door. “On the other hand, your spell could be fun. Think of the adventures it could take us on.”

 I said, “Right. I think I'll stick to a map, then.”

 I enjoyed the sight of the beautiful blue sky as we stepped out from under Kane's overhang. A warm breeze brought a hint of the salt from the bay.

 I exhaled. “Pike Place Market. We haven't been there recently. It's time for a trip.”

 We hopped a bus downtown, then walked down the four blocks to the main entrance to the market. I nudged Tiffany. “Tourists over there, taking pictures of the sign.”

 The sun was shining so brightly I couldn't make up my mind if the neon sign was actually lit or not. “They need to come back when it's dark.”

 Tiffany said, “Yeah, that would do wonders for our murder rate. 'Twelve tourists vanish outside Pike Place Market. No witnesses.'”

 I said, “Thinning the herd is a good thing. It keeps the rest of the tourists strong and healthy. I know—I watched a documentary on Animal Kingdom.”

 We laughed and slipped into the covered aisle leading through the food vendors. We dodged through the crowds and paused by the stairs.

 I glanced around. “Where are we going today?”

 Tiffany shrugged. “I don't know. Let's just wander.”

 We strolled past the spice store. I sniffed deeply. “I love the smell of this store, even though I wouldn't know what to do with them.” I inhaled again. “Wait a minute, that's nightshade.”

 I scanned the crowd and saw a tall figure in an overcoat hurrying away. “I think that's Professor Middleton. Is he carrying around nightshade?”

 Tiffany said, “Could he be the murderer?”

 I said, “I don't know. He's definitely worth watching.” I inhaled one more time. “The scent's gone now. It could have been him.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “Come on, let's go down to the kite store. I would like to have a non-creepy trip, thank you very much.”

 We poked our noses into different shops—rug merchants and ethnic clothes vendors and a wide variety of “miscellaneous” shops—on our way to the kite store.

 I walked in the door and ducked as a whirligig flew towards my head.

 A pimply teenager ran over and grabbed the toy. “Gosh, I'm sorry about that. I didn't see you there.”

 I straightened up. “It's okay, I like to start my visit with accidental decapitation.”

 The clerk turned red.

 The corners of my mouth twitched up. “No, really, it's not a big deal. What can you show us?”

 He held out the toy he had retrieved. “This thing flies if you rub it between your hands.” He handed it to me.

 I gave it a quick spin and watched as it flew around the room.

 The clerk followed it around the room. “You have it.”

 I said, “So what's your name? I like to know my attempted murderers before they succeed in killing me.”

 He looked up. “Huh? Oh. My name's Patrick.”

 “I'm Brigid, and this is Tiffany.”

 Patrick pulled out another toy and held it up. I raised an eyebrow. “What's that? It looks like the middle of a pop can.”

 He said, “It might have been. Watch this.” He cocked his arm back and snapped it forward. The toy flew across the room and smacked into a wall.

 “Wow.” Tiffany and I each grabbed one and practiced throwing them around the store. Six throws later, I set mine on the counter. “I could really get into this. That was fun.”

 He showed us more toys, but nothing else really caught my fancy. In the end, Tiffany put one of the whirligigs on the counter as well.

 Patrick rang us up. As we were leaving, he said, “Stay safe out there. Come back again—I can try to kill you with something else.”

 Not a bad line. I might have to take him up on it.

 Tiffany said, “We're most of the way down. We might as well go all the way down to the water.”

 We strolled along the boardwalk, watching the ships plying the sound. Everything from ferries and large cargo ships to small sailboats drifted through the water.

 After a while, I said, “Even the lure of the sea fades after long enough. Let's grab ice cream cones and head back.”

 The ride home was a letdown. No one tried to kill me, and I didn't smell any more poisons.

 I said, “We need a pirate day.”

 Tiffany said, “There is one. Talk like a pirate day is September 19.”

 I shook my head. “That's too far away. We'll be juniors by then. No, we need a good old-fashioned dress up as pirates day.”

 Tiffany said, “How about Saturday?”

 I said, “Sounds good to me.”

 I pulled out my notebook and sketched costume ideas all the way back to the dorm.

 I showed one of my sketches to Tiffany. “What do you think of this?”

 Tiffany said, “Is it a snake eating an elephant? Oh, no, this is one of those ink stain tests where you guess my personality. Let's see, it's a mother with five children who runs her own organic pumpkin seed company while also being a competitive yo-yoist.”

 I said, “This is a drawing of a pirate outfit for me.”

 Tiffany squinted her eyes. “Maybe. But why did you draw a cat wearing it instead of you?”

 I tapped the drawing. “This is me.”

 Tiffany raised an eyebrow. “With a tail?”

 “It's a sword.”

 Tiffany rotated the drawing slowly. “In the future, you might want to stick to ink stains.”

 “Inkblots.”

 Tiffany said, “Whatever. Well, if this is a vest, I can see how it might work. Do you have a vest like this?”

 I said, “Kinda...I was hoping you could help me get it in shape.”

 Tiffany handed my notebook back. “Show me.”

 I led the way upstairs to my room. Along the way, I waved at Kirsten. “How are you?”

 Kirsten said, “Okay today. What are you up to?”

 Tiffany said, “We're having dress like a pirate day on Saturday. Not to be confused with September's talk like a pirate day. We're fixing a costume for Brigid.”

 Kirsten smiled. “Can I help?”

 I unlocked my door. “Sure, I can use all the help I can get.” I opened my closet and pulled on the vest. I was promptly covered in pins and masking tape.

 Kirsten said, “Off” and I removed the vest. Tiffany attacked it with a maniacal look and a pair of scissors.

 Kirsten ran off and returned lugging a sewing machine. Together, she and Tiffany hacked and slashed, measuring against me occasionally.

 When they were done, they had me try it on again, in front of a mirror. I turned and held up my arms so I could see better. “I like the stripes. Very piratey.”

 In the evening, I emailed Jim. “Dr. Savage offered me a special project for extra credit, helping a local psychologist run correlations. Are you interested?”

 Jim emailed back. “I can use all the help I can get in his class. Count me in.”

 Then I emailed Dr. Finster. “Hi. My name is Brigid Tennant. Professor Savage said you could use assistance running correlations. Jim and I have volunteered. What do you need us to do?”

 He replied, “I'm studying the effectiveness of different forms of treatment for migraines. I've run studies and collected data from the literature. You'll find the data attached.

 Please let me know if you find anything statistically significant.”

 I forwarded it to Jim and suggested we meet. After dinner, I made my way across campus to Jim's room. He let me into his room with nothing more than his usual quiet Hi.

 I sat down across from Jim and pulled out my laptop. I watched him carefully as I said, “Did you get a chance to look at the data?”

 I caught his brief nod. “What do you think? What do we need to do to run correlations?”

 Jim looked down at the piece of paper in front of him. He began drawing out an intricate floral capital A. Quietly, he said, “The outcomes don't match up. They need to be normalized.”

 I pulled up the data on my laptop. I looked at the first study. “This study has participants rating their headaches from one to five before and after treatment. The second study has them rating from one to ten. Here's one looking at frequency of headaches. Another one is looking at frequency versus severity. What a mess.”

 Jim took out a fresh piece of paper and worked on a capital B. “I could fix it.”

 I said, “You want to clean up the data? That would be great. I can set up a program to find correlations, if there are any. Does that sound okay?”

 Jim barely twitched his head, but I was getting better at understanding him.

 I said, “All right. Can you send me the data sets after you've cleaned them up?”

 Jim nodded again.

 I closed up my laptop. “Okay, I'll wait for your email, then.”

 I walked back across campus. Jim was a nice guy but communicating with him was so damned hard. Maybe Trent could rig up an artificial voice for him. While I was at it, why not just have Trent build me a robot boyfriend? Then I'd never have to deal with men again.

 I stomped my foot and flicked my finger, sending a gust of wind to tip over a good-sized rock. I giggled as I continued walking.

 I went straight to Tiffany's room. “Men are so frustrating sometimes.”

 Tiffany said, “Have you tried the pinata trick yet?”

 I said, “What's that?”

 She said, “You hang them from the ceiling, then get a stick...”

 I laughed.

Chapter 7

 In the morning, I had an email from Jim. He must have been up all night. It said, “Here's a cleaned up copy of the data.”

 After class, I pored over the data for hours, running it through my program.

 Tiffany knocked on my door at dinner time. “Heya, what are you working on? It's time for dinner.”

 I rubbed my eyes. “I'm working on statistics for migraine studies for a psychologist. It's for extra credit, which I could definitely use. Ironically, I've been staring at my monitor so long, I'm coming down with a migraine. I have numbers burned into my retina, like staring at the sun, only more intense.”

 Tiffany said, “Staring at the sun's not so bad. Eventually you get used to it.”

 I smiled. “Thanks, Tiff. I can always count on you to lighten my mood.” I followed her down to the cafeteria.

 Tiffany said, “My pleasure. So what's next for our budding mathematician?”

 I shook my head. “Gods no. My brain isn't warped enough to do this for a living. I think I'm done for today. I'm too tired to make any sense of the numbers. I'll have to pick it up again tomorrow.”

 Tiffany said, “Could you find the murderer with statistics?”

 I picked up a tray as we walked through the dinner line. “That'd be nice. Just plug in a few numbers and out pops the murderer.”

 Tiffany said, “Heck, I'd buy a program like that. Even better would be one which answers 'Who should I date next?'”

 We sat down and started eating. “I think for you, those two programs would give the same answers.”

 I shifted awkwardly in my seat, unlike Tiffany. She was never awkward.

 I saw a frown flicker across her face. No one else would have caught it, but Tiffany was my best friend. She was nice but had lousy taste in guys.

 The left corner of her mouth twitched up. “Yeah, you're right.”

 We finished dinner.

 Tiffany switched to dessert. I poked idly at my pie. I took a bite, then stabbed my fork into the pie. “Die die die.”

 Tiffany looked at me.

 I looked up. “We need real pie. NeoLogian Cafe?”

 “Right.”

 We dumped our dessert look-alikes in the garbage and hiked to the cafe. We squeezed into a table with other students. A waitress walked over. “What do you want?”

 I spoke up, over the crowd noise. “Two apple pies, please.”

 When the waitress returned with the pies, I paid for both.

 Tiffany said, “You don't have to do that.”

 I said, “It's okay, I'm spending this week's profits from my website. I get to splurge once in a while. Heck, next week I might have a real party and buy an extra coffee.”

 Tiffany said, “Better not. I've seen you on two cups. Three cups is a frightening thought.”

 I let the warmth and the smells of coffee and baking wash over me. The chattering of the crowd merged with the clinking of forks and plates.

 I studied the crowd. In the corner, two long-haired neo-hippies played chess on one board and go on a neighboring board. A wannabe musician plinked away on a guitar, not making any headway against the background noise.

 I watched an older man talking to a woman my own age in the corner. I blinked and tapped Tiffany. “In the corner there, see that guy?”

 Tiffany said, “Yeah. I think he's kind of old for you.”

 I said, “No, it's Dr. Middleton, my creepy English Lit teacher.”

 Tiffany watched for a moment. “Disgusting is more like it. I think he just stuck his tongue in her ear.”

 I said, “Gross. He's old enough to have written the picture books she read in preschool. Wait, I know her. That's Candace Miller. She's in my English Lit class.”

 Tiffany scrunched up her face and stuck out her tongue. “Yuck. I guess she must really want an A.”

 I shrugged. “If she turns up dead, we'll know he's the murderer.”

 Tiffany said, “I take it she's not a friend.”

 I said, “I hope she likes nightshade.”

 Tiffany took another bite of her pie. “Why is this so much better than the pie in Terry?”

 I gestured with my fork. “This pie is made from actual food. The pie in Terry is made from leftover cardboard trays and glue.”

 Tiffany said, “That could be it, yes.”

 Dr. Middleton and Candace left before we were done. I said, “That's a relief. I can look around now without worrying about nasty images of my teachers scarring my poor, tender brain cells.”

 Tiffany said, “I heard most of your brain cells are optional, anyway. Especially for psychiatrists. If you have too many brain cells, you won't be able to understand your crazy patients.”

 I said, “You have a point. At best patients are 'in remission' which means 'have learned to mask their worst criminal tendencies in the office'. And you know that psych majors are the worst. All of them are crazy as loons, except for me.”

 Tiffany said, “And you do magic...”

 “Yeah, well, no one's perfect.”

 Tiffany said, “So what does 'crazy as a loon' mean, anyway?”

 I said, “I'm not really sure. I think it has something to do with Canada. Their dollar is called a loon, and they're crazy, so it makes sense.”

 Tiffany nodded. “The only loons I've known have been sane, level-headed birds.”

 I finished my pie and spooned up the cinnamon sauce until my plate was empty. “I'm glad the cafe isn't closer to the dorms, or I'd spend a lot of money here.”

 Tiffany said, “For dessert?”

 I said, “Nope, I'd be here for breakfast, tea, second breakfast...”

 Tiffany laughed, and we stood up and strolled downhill to the dorms. The moon peeked through the clouds. We stopped to watch it slipping in and out of the clouds.

 Tiffany said, “It's almost full moon.”

 I said, “I know, and I'm really frustrated because I still don't know who the murderer is. I know he's going to kill someone, but there's nothing I can do.”

 Tiffany shrugged. “If there's nothing you can do, then let it go. The police are looking into it. They might turn up something.”

#

 Saturday morning, I rolled out of bed. “What a glorious day.”

 I pushed back the curtains and saw the rain pouring down. “Like hell. Not on my pirate day.”

 I glared at the rain and concentrated. “Air.” I created a big wind gust which cleared the sky. I dusted my hands off.

 The wind kept blowing.

 I said, “That's quite enough.”

 The wind blew harder.

 “Ah, shit.” I ran to Tiffany's room. “Tiff, we've got a problem.”

 Tiffany's mouth flew open. “What happened to the pirate vest we made for you? Do I need to do a quick repair job?”

 I said, “No, worse than that. I called the wind to get rid of the rain clouds. Now the wind won't stop.”

 “Uh oh.” Tiffany opened her curtains. Trees were bending in the strong wind. “Quick, what counters wind?”

 I said, “Um, that's air...earth. Earth is the opposite of wind.”

 Tiffany said, “Okay, can you use the earth to dampen the wind?”

 I closed my eyes, listening for the earth below us. Seconds ticked by. I could hear the wind growing louder, stronger. Not helping my concentration.

 Finally, I felt the earth. I concentrated on the depth and stillness of earth. I pointed at the window and said, “Earth”, willing the air down to the ground.

 Gradually, the wind slowed down. With a final scream, the air went still.

 I sagged against the wall and sank to the floor. “That was a little too exciting for me. I don't even need my coffee now.”

 I felt the pain start. “I could use ibuprofen, though.”

 Tiffany handed me two and said, “You must really be shaken up to skip caffeine.”

 I said, “I know. I'm sure it's just temporary insanity. It'll pass. On the plus side, your etudes really helped me learn how to call the wind.”

 Tiffany studied the sky outside her window. “It looks like the rain has moved on for the moment. Although, this is Seattle, so it could come back at any time.”

 I said, “Great, at least something worked out.”

 Tiffany said, “Come on, let's get dressed for the party. I haven't been a pirate in ages.”

 Half the floor turned out for our pirate party. The RA even dropped off a pirate cake in the lounge before disappearing back into his room.

 Lots of people thanked me for the idea.

#

 On Sunday, I picked up a paper. The headline read, “Freak windstorm attributed to global climate change.” I read through the article over breakfast with Tiffany.

 “Gusts of sixty miles per hour.” I looked up. “I had no idea.”

 Tiffany said, “Yeah, you might want to leave the weather alone. It seems tricky.”

 I said, “You got that right. I'm swearing off weather.”

 Tiffany glanced at the paper, then up at me. “Have you thought any more about Dr. Middleton being the killer?”

 I sighed. “I think he's weird, depressing, and creepy, but he isn't the killer. I saw him teaching my class when one of the probables died. For another probable, the likely time of death overlaps the start of another class. I don't think he would have had time to perform a ritual and still make it to class.”

 Tiffany said, “Hmmm, I still vote for Madame Dupris.”

 I tilted my neck back and forth. “Why this fascination with teachers? It could be anybody—even that rich jerk.”

 Tiffany said, “Funny you should say that. I was curious, so I asked around. Keith Baby just moved here two weeks ago. Before that, he was at Harvard. Rumor says he was kicked out.”

 I said, “If he was expelled, how'd he get accepted here?”

 Tiffany put on a glitzy accent. “Well you know, darling, we have people for that.”

 I cracked up.

 We walked outside after we finished.

 I looked around. “Notice anything unusual?”

 Tiffany spun around. “Yeah, no wind.”

 I said, “It couldn't have been my spell. It must just be a coincidence.”

 Tiffany said, “I'm sure that's it.”

#

 On Monday, the headline in the paper read, “Still air caused by global climate change.”

 I stepped outside again. Still no wind. This was bad. I concentrated deeply on the image of a very small breeze, then whispered, “Air”. A gentle breeze sprang up, stirring litter. I waited fifteen minutes. It looked like the weather was back to normal. I hoped.

 After class, I went to another building session for the solar backpacks. I noticed a few more people from Students for a Green Earth joined us. “Nice to see you helping out.”

 One of them said, “Well, you guys are actually doing something worthwhile.”

 By now, we had a system worked out to speed the assembly of the backpacks. We split into teams to work on the different steps: inspecting the panels, wiring them, testing, and tune-ups. The tune-up team fixed backpacks which failed testing. Forty-five minutes later, we had another ten backpacks ready to sell.

 Harold sold a few more at the meeting. He said, “Thank you all for your great support. I'll take the rest to the Green Alternative and see how they do.”

 I found Tiffany, Trent, and Kirsten hanging out when I returned. We moved into the lounge. Trent sat down across from Tiffany. “How'd you end up named Tiffany with an English professor as your father? Isn't your name pretty modern?”

 Tiffany said, “Oh, no, Tiffany was a popular name in the Middle Ages, especially for girls born on January 6th, like me. My dad said he was reading The Life of St. Theophano when I was born, and used her name.”

 Kirsten said, “Your mom liked it as well?”

 Tiffany shrugged. “She said it was a good family name.”

 Kirsten said, “Do you know a lot of history, then, Tiffany? Are you an expert?”

 Trent said, “No, an expert is usually right.”

 Tiffany's pink eraser twanged off the center of Trent's forehead. “Brigid, you're right—that overhand toss really works well.” She turned to Kirsten. “I know a lot about medieval history, and I have a smattering of Renaissance.”

 I said, “She also speaks a couple of languages.”

 Kirsten smiled. “Very cool. Sounds like we should go on a world tour when we graduate. Tiffany could translate for us.”

 Trent said, “I can get by in any country that uses hand gestures.”

 I said, “I would like to see something other than the insides of foreign jails, thank you.”

 Trent stuck out his tongue. “You're no fun. I do speak Canadian, eh.”

 Kirsten said, “Maybe we could leave him locked inside a suitcase or something. We'll push food in through a small slot.”

 I eyed Trent thoughtfully. “I bet he'd fit in my duffel bag. We might have to trim off some unnecessary bits, though.”

 Trent said, “Hey.”

 All four of us laughed. Kirsten said, “Seriously, what do you think of a world tour?”

 I said, “Sounds great if we have any money left by then. We still have two years to go.”

 She said, “Okay, but we should get passports anyway, so we'll be ready.”

 I said, “It's a plan.”

#

 Tuesday evening, I glanced out the lounge's window involuntarily, but the weather was staying normal. Magic lesson number one: don't mess with the weather. I watched the clouds while the conversation drifted around me. The wind slipped gently in and out of the trees.

 Trent said, “Brigid. Brigid. Brigid.”

 On the third repetition of my name, I looked around. “What? Oh, sorry, I was drifting off.”

 Trent stood up. “Right. Too much sitting. Let's go.” He led us across campus to the student union.

 I said, “What are we going to do?”

 Trent smirked. “Wait and see.”

 He took us downstairs and through a hallway. We stepped into a long room. Trent waved his hand. “Ta-da”.

 The room was a bowling alley. I looked around. “Where did this come from?”

 Trent said, “It's been here all along. Tuesdays and Thursdays are cheap night.”

 I said, “Wow.”

 We played three games. To my great amusement, Trent came in fourth. I patted his arm. “It's nice to see a man who's so comfortable with his total lack of athletic ability.”

 Kirsten said, “I think we should have a rule that the loser buys pizza. All in favor?”

 “Aye.” “Aye.” “Aye.”

 Trent said, “I know when I'm beaten. Pizza on me. Who's buying soda?”

 We walked through the night-lit campus to the Ave. We stopped at the first pizza place with enough room left to reach the counter.

 Trent ordered.

 I looked around. “No free tables. We should get it to go.”

 Tiffany said, “Leave it to me.”

 She walked to a table filled with college-age men. She spoke to them, but I couldn't make out the words over the background noise.

 The men picked up their plates and left. Tiffany waved us over.

 I whistled. “I'm impressed. What did you say to them?”

 Tiffany shrugged and wiped the table with a napkin. “I just asked them nicely to leave.”

 Kirsten said, “And it worked?”

 “Well, I can't give away all my secrets, can I?” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down.

 We laughed and rearranged the chairs.

#

 I said, “Damn. I need to learn a foreign language.”

 Tiffany flipped her nail file into the air and caught it between her index and middle fingers. “Why do you need to learn a foreign language?”

 I said, “I need to learn more swear words. The Inuits have nineteen ways to say snow. I want nineteen ways to tell someone to piss off. It would be great for economics. I could swear and insult Dr. Smith, and he'd never know.”

 Tiffany waved a finger at me. “You might try Basque. It's not related to any other language, but you need to be careful with that. You never know which languages someone speaks, especially a professor. They learn obscure stuff for fun.”

 I sighed. “You're right.” I tossed my textbook in the air and used my finger to direct blasts of air to keep it floating.

 Tiffany said, “Nice.”

 I said, “Thanks.”

 A knock at the door broke my concentration, and the book slammed into the floor. “Oops.”

 Tiffany stood up. “You need to keep working on your concentration. Try hopping on one foot again.” She opened the door and let Trent in.

 Trent said, “Hiya. What was that crash?”

 Tiffany said, “You distracted Brigid, and she dropped a textbook.”

 “Well, I can always use that as a future career: Trent Jones, professional distractor.”

 Tiffany and I laughed.

 I said, “I'm tired of looking at hills whose only sign of green are the occasional ugly car. Let's go for a drive.”

 Trent shrugged. “Got gas money?”

 I said, “Sure. I just received my monthly money from my parents.”

 As we pulled onto I-5, Trent said, “What's that on the overpass?”

 I glanced up. “It's just a guy.”

 Trent said, “What's he doing?”

 I said, “Dancing, apparently. And flashing victory signs.”

 Trent said, “Oh, that's okay then. That's just Dancing Bob. I think he lives in Red Square.”

 We drove south.

 At the south end of Tacoma, I pointed out the window. “Look, an existential exit: Ft. Lewis, No Ft. Lewis. Jean-Paul would have been so proud.”

 When we passed Olympia, I rolled down my window and took a deep breath. “Ah, air that doesn't stink of cars and 'civilization'. We definitely need to escape the city more.”

 Trent said, “Escape the city? Are you insane? There's lions and tigers and wolves and bears out there. We'd be eaten alive in seconds.”

 I smiled. “Oh, we're definitely taking you camping. Worst comes to worst, we'll let the animals eat you while we run to the car.”

 Tiffany laughed from the back seat. Trent muttered under his breath.

 I enjoyed the mist-covered hills and glimpses of hidden water we saw around every bend in the road. Tree-covered jigsaw puzzle hills alternated with hills containing a single tree, like a suburban developer's idea of natural scenery.

 Trent pulled over by one of the hills. The three of us climbed out and stretched. We wandered over to admire the waterfall dropping down the steep cliff.

 I cupped my hands under the water and drank deeply.

 Trent gasped. “What are you doing? You're going to get sick.”

 I pointed up. “The water's moving. It's clean. Here, stand right over here. Face me and look up.”

 Trent said, “I don't see anything.”

 I said, “Step back.”

 Tiffany and I laughed as the water hit Trent in the head.

 I said, “Okay, watch this.” I concentrated and moved my hands apart as if directing an airplane. The waterfall split into two streams, left and right. The streams stayed separated for a moment, then slammed back together, hit me in the face, and resumed falling down the cliff.

 Trent laughed. “I don't think the water liked that.”

 Tiffany said, “No, it didn't.”

 I wiped the water from my face. “I'm sorry. I won't do it again.” The water gurgled in reply.

 We took picnic lunches out of the car and climbed boulders to where we could see the waterfall. I leaned back on my boulder, gazing up. Overhead, a bird called with the piercing cry of a hawk, only three octaves lower.

 I pointed at a hawk circling low. It started to dive, only to be overtaken by a bald eagle. The eagle zoomed in from the side, then flew off carrying a young rabbit.

 The hawk screamed its frustration and settled on a dead tree.

 Trent said, “What a peaceful place this is.”

 I flicked a fly away from his food. “Yes, it is. It almost makes me forget that a murderous sorcerer is dropping people right and left as we sit here.”

 Trent groaned.

 I said, “I have an idea. I'd like to make each of us a protective item to help counteract ritual magic.”

 Trent said, “What kind of protective item?”

 I said, “Well, for you I was thinking something more like clothing, since you don't wear jewelery. Maybe a hat.” He was buying it. “Made out of tinfoil, for its reflective properties.”

 Tiffany snorted.

 Trent shook his head.

 I said, “Seriously, I was thinking silver amulets. I think they'll work, but the best idea is to avoid being a target.”

 When we returned to the dorms, I pictured two gorgeous heart-shaped silver amulets, inscribed with protective runes. In the center, I visualized a small sliding cover which would hold a hair. I imagined running my fingers over the amulets, feeling the weight of them. I whispered “Amulets” and the amulets appeared.

 I had a flash of a headache, but it disappeared.

 Tiffany reacted first. “What are these supposed to be?”

 I picked one up. It was heavier than I expected. “Hearts.”

 Tiffany said, “Well, if I squint really hard...nope, they still don't look like hearts.”

 Trent picked up the other amulet and bounced it up and down in his hand. “I don't think this is silver.”

 I said, “How do we tell?”

 He smiled. “Come with me.”

 In his room, he pulled out a digital scale and a beaker. He poured water into the beaker, weighed the amulet, then placed the scale into the beaker with the amulet on top.

 He tapped some numbers into his computer. “Yep, the specific gravity is much too high for silver. It looks like a 75-25 lead-silver mixture.”

        I shook my head. “Just great. Well, anyone know if the jewelery shop on 48th is open?”

 Trent said, “Huh? I didn't even know there was a jewelery shop there.”

 Tiffany said, “It's open until 6.”

 We made it to the store at 5:45. A tuxedoed salesman tried to stick his nose in the air. I was tempted to smack him magically, but I decided on subtlety. I hoped Tiffany would catch on. I said, “Tiffany, how much was the scarf in that little boutique?”

 Tiffany shrugged. “I think it was only eight hundred.”

 Mr. Snooty transformed into Mr. Helpful. “What can I do for you ladies?” He glanced at Trent. “And gentleman. How may I assist you?”

 It was my screw-up, so I said, “We're going to a basic silver party, so we need simple necklaces, maybe with a small locket.”

 Mr. Helpful looked over at Trent.

 I said, “Yes, he needs one too. Maybe something in Hello Kitty.”

 Trent said, “I think not.”

 Mr. Helpful inclined his head. “Very good.”

 He brought out a variety of necklaces. I chose the typical heart-shaped locket. So sue me. It still set me back fifty bucks—that was a lot of eating out money. Luckily my website income just barely covered it. No way was I buying anything more expensive.

 Trent chose an atomic symbol locket—a proton surrounded by three electron orbitals.

 Tiffany chose a miniature harp.

 After we had paid for them and returned to the dorm, I pulled out a magnifying glass and a craft knife. I painstakingly carved runes into each amulet. When I was finished, I cut one of my hairs off and placed it in the center of my locket. I put my necklace on.

 I handed the other two necklaces to Tiffany and Trent. “There you go.”

 They each cut one of their hairs and placed them in their lockets.

 Trent said, “Will this really work?”

 I shrugged. “I honestly don't know. It can't hurt, though.”

#

 I saw Trent walking outside my room. “Hey Trent, come in here for a sec.”

 Trent dropped his backpack on my floor, then peeked over my shoulder at my laptop. “What's up?”

 I said, “I created a spreadsheet of all the suspicious deaths.”

 Trent groaned. “Not more of your 'these deaths aren't accidents' theories. I think there's a website for people like you.”

 I said, “It hit me in Astro class today. We were looking at lunar cycles, and I realized the deaths fall at two points in the lunar cycle: new moon and full moon.”

 Trent shrugged. “Greater Seattle has what, two million people? I'm sure there are people dying every day. Just because the ones you picked happened to die on lunar events...I think it means you're a werewolf. Or wereinvestigator. You only get crazy enough to look for suspicious deaths twice a month.”

 I put my hands on my hips. “I copied the obituary section for the last three years of the Times. I asked five friends to copy out any suspicious deaths, then I ran a between-subject correlation. They agreed to a confidence level of p < 0.05. Counting only the deaths chosen by at least four of them, they picked out deaths on every new and full moon. The only exceptions were August of last year, when they found no suspicious deaths, and they also missed Preacher John.”

 Trent said, “But how many other deaths did they pick out?”

 I said, “Only three—one per year.”

 Trent shifted feet. “You might be on to something after all. So how did you pay these people to code for you?”

 I fiddled with my pen. “Bob works at Hot Lips, and he gave me a bunch of coupons for free slices of pizza. I gave them to my friends. Guess what? Two of them were grad students.”

 Trent shook his head. “Man, I thought grad students were set—why would they do all that work just for free pizza?”

 I shrugged. “Maybe they were just helping out a lowly undergrad—they probably remember what it was like to have no money.”

 Trent said, “I heard they'll actually pay you to go to grad school. Lucky bastards. Anyway, have you marked these deaths on your map yet?”

 I said, “No.”

 He said, “Come on, I'll give you a hand.”

 We looked through the thumbtacks. I said, “It looks like I have more silver left than anything else. Let's use that.”

 When we were done, we stepped back to take a look. Trent whistled. “That's a lot of deaths.”

 I said, “The silver seems to follow the same pattern as the other colors.”

 Trent said, “Yeah, and it's still centered on Ravenna. I hate to say it, but you might have something here.”

 I studied the map, then pulled out my laptop. “I'm going to write this up. I have a contact down at the police department. I'll see if he can take a look.”

 Trent said, “I thought you said they wouldn't be able to find a magical murderer.”

 I pounded the keys. “They may not be able to prove it, but they might be able to find our elusive sorcerer.”

 I worked for hours entering the data, fiddling with the presentation, and writing an explanation which wouldn't get me locked up. Finally, I called Trent. “Come over. I want to show you my presentation.”

 He sat down, and I showed him the data on the map. “It's live. If you mouse over a data point, it displays the corresponding obituary.”

 Trent said, “I see you colored all the points red.”

 I said, “Yeah. I couldn't find a useful coloring scheme.”

 Trent clicked through the menus. “How about this?” He clicked on “Pathfinder” and the map was covered with lines joining the points incomprehensibly.

 Trent turned off the lines and kept clicking. “What about this?” He clicked on “Color by date”.

 I said, “Ooo, pretty rainbows. Can it do unicorns, too?”

 Trent studied the screen. He zoomed in and out. “Curious.”

 I said, “What? Did you find something?”

 Trent scratched his chin. “I'm not sure. Blue is the oldest, right?”

 I peered at the screen. “Yeah, I think so.”

 Trent pointed at the screen. “The blues are located in the middle, then there's a patch of yellows and greens. The farthest ones out are all red.”

 I said, “Why would the farthest ones away be the newest? Maybe he's growing stronger with time.”

 We looked at each other. I broke the silence. “I'm so going to the police with this. Got any ideas how?”

 Trent chuckled. “Including the magic?”

 I said, “Nope, I have no wish to see a psychiatric evaluation from the wrong side of the notepad.”

Chapter 8

 In the morning, I called and set up an interview with Detective Transom. That afternoon, I headed downtown. As I sent my backpack through the X-ray machine at the police station, the officer on duty said, “Nice backpack. What are the solar cells for?”

 I said, “They keep my laptop charged. Assuming we get enough breaks in the fog to even see the sun.”

 The officer laughed and waved me through.

 I picked up an efficient escort who led me back to Detective Transom's office. I was pleased I remembered the way after a single visit. Not that I wanted to make it a regular thing, but it was nice to know the math building was just a fluke.

 Detective Transom stood up and shook my hand. “What's this about?”

 I said, “I arranged for five students to code suspicious deaths from the obituaries.” I showed him the data on my laptop.

 He said, “Why?”

 I said, “I'm a psych major, and it seemed like the thing to do. I stuck the deaths on a map and color-coded by date. Notice how the deaths move out over time.”

 He tapped the screen. “You've been watching too much TV. Tell me, are you planning on visiting the houses at the center of the circle here? Asking the residents, 'Are you a serial killer?', that sort of thing?”

 I said, “No, I'm leaving that up to you guys. You have guns and handcuffs.”

 Detective Transom smiled. He had such nice teeth. “You're smarter than most of the people we get in here with theories.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. “You don't have enough here for me to follow up on directly. Seattle's a big city. Lots of people die, even in patterns.”

 I started to protest.

 Transom held up his left hand. I noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. “What I can do is give your data to a friend of mine who's an actuary. He loves looking at minutiae—even worse than a detective, sometimes. If he finds something out of the ordinary, then maybe we'll investigate.”

 I said, “Thank you.”

 Transom inclined his head. “It is our job to catch the bad guys. Now, please allow me to escort you out.”

 Now that I'd given him the info, I tried flirting. “Don't I at least get dinner?” He didn't react. Stupid men.

 I wedged myself into the first available U-district bus. I didn't understand how commuters could stand such a squished ride every day. It would have turned me batty.

 Like I wasn't batty already, believing in murdering sorcerers?

 At least the ride was quiet. I studied my fellow travelers and their electronic security blankets. Music players, phones, PDAs winked and flashed. An occasional technophobic book or newspaper reader merely highlighted the ever-present gadgets.

 Curiosity got the better of me. I concentrated on the words “hi there”, then whispered “Write”. I was rewarded with muffled gasps and nervous shifting. I glanced at a nearby phone and saw golden letters spelling out “Hi there!” on the screen. I suppressed a giggle and ended up coughing instead. I let the spell drop and the letters faded.

 The person next to me muttered, “Stupid phones” and resumed thumb typing.

 I sighed and looked out the window. Boats crowded the edge of Elliot Bay, moored five and six deep. Across the bay I glimpsed Gasworks. It was time to head out there again. Maybe there'd be enough wind to fly kites. I wasn't going to try messing with the weather again, though.

 The bus sped up and slowed down randomly, as far as I could tell. Gradually, the miles ticked by until I could spring free. At last we reached the U-District. As I stepped off the bus, I said, “Look at me. I'm a Brigid-in-the-box. Or is it Brigid-in-the-bus?”

 A voice behind me said, “Brigid-in-the-loony-bin.”

 I spun around. “Hi Trent. I didn't see you on the bus.”

 He said, “Yeah, it was pretty crowded. The only thing I could see was a lady's coat and scarf, and they should have been banned by the Paris Convention.”

 I laughed. “The Paris Convention?”

 “Yeah, it's the Geneva Convention for fashion.” Trent looked around and guided me to a quiet spot. “Did you cast a spell and write 'Hi there' on everyone's cell phone?”

 I said, “Yeah, pretty cool, huh?”

 Trent pointed at the rear window of the bus as it drove away. I saw large golden words saying “Hi there!”

 “Oh shit. I didn't put those words there.” Trent raised an eyebrow. “Well, I didn't mean to put those words on the window.”

 I watched the bus turn the corner. “Why didn't the words fade with the others?”

 Trent shrugged. “Your magic isn't very reliable—clearly the lack of a good scientific background...”

 I said, “Blah blah blah. Yeah, yeah, you've said that before. I know—I need to run more experiments. Since you're so keen on the scientific method, you can be my lab assistant.”

 He said, “Ooo, a lab assistant. How glamorous.”

 I turned and walked towards the dorm. “It sounds better than 'practice dummy', doesn't it?”

 Trent jogged a couple of steps to catch up. “How did your presentation to the police go?”

 I said, “Not bad. The detective is giving the data to an actuary who will check to see if I found a real pattern. If so, they'll investigate.”

 Trent said, “Hmmm, and here I thought I'd be having to bail you out from the local nut house. I had my lines all ready: No, sir, I'm not sure why she's tying all the bed sheets together...on the first floor. She hasn't been taking her medication recently.”

 I groaned “Just wait until you're trying to get a job at a high-energy physics lab, and they come to me for a background check. 'Trent? He's a great guy. He won't be working with anything that might explode, will he? He really likes explosions. And fire.'”

 We exited the elevator and saw a crowd of students at the end of the hallway.

 I said, “What's up?”

 One of the students whispered, “Paper airplane contest. Whoever's plane flies the farthest wins a pack of wine coolers.”

 Trent and I eyed each other. “Let's go.”

 We sprang to work. I went with a round design, similar to my half-can toy.

 Trent went hi-tech. His plane looked like a fighter plane. It had flaps, folds, and even cuts. Trent held it up when he finished. “This is aerodynamic perfection.”

 He looked over at my plane. “Please. That's so old tech.”

 I tried some practice throws, then lined up behind Trent.

 When it was Trent's turn, he stepped up to the line. He made a point of shading his eyes and looking down the hallway. He licked his index finger and held it up. Finally, he gave the crowd a thumbs up, saluted, and launched his plane. It soared down the hallway, beating the previous record by eight feet.

 The crowd cheered. Trent smiled and said to me, “Beat that, babe.”

 I stepped up to the line. I concentrated, cocked my arm, and whipped it forward. My plane landed three feet past Trent's plane. The crowd cheered again.

 Trent stuck out his tongue. “My design was better.”

 I tossed my head, which would have been a great effect if my hair were longer. “Sometimes, it's not the best design. It's how you use it.”

 None of the other competitors even got close to Trent's mark, much less mine. Half an hour later, I accepted the grand prize of a pack of wine coolers and the crowd dispersed.

 Trent said, “Well, I guess you won.” He paused a moment before he stuck out his hand.

 I shook it. “It didn't matter who won. You know this is just going towards our next party. Although I'm not sure if I should drink anything.”

 He smirked. “Becoming a teetotaler in your old age?”

 I glance around to make sure no one could hear. “No. What happens if I get drunk, and magic gets loose?”

 Trent stepped back. “Right. No alcohol for you, then.”

 I returned to my room and stashed the coolers under my bed. I pulled out my violin and tuned it. Instead of taking out my recital piece, I burned up the strings playing Irish music.

 A few minutes later, I set up my music stand and pulled out my etude book. After wrestling with them for a while, I placed my recital piece on the stand.

 I studied the music, feeling how it moved through the piece. When I felt in touch with the piece, I began to play, letting my emotions sing out through the music.

#

 On Sunday, I received a call. “This is Brigid.”

 “Hello. This is Detective Transom.”

 I felt my heart race. “Hi detective. What can I do for you?”

 He said, “I just wanted to let you know. My actuary friend agrees there's something suspicious about the deaths.”

 I said, “So you'll start investigating?”

 He said, “We'll take a look, and we're also going to keep an eye out for more suspicious deaths.”

 I said goodbye and hung up the phone. I rounded up Tiffany and Trent. “The police have now confirmed my so-called non-existent murderer. They're opening an investigation.”

 Tiffany said, “Good, so you can leave it to them, then. If you gave them enough bodies, they should be able to link them together, even if they don't have a clue how the murders were actually carried out.”

 I put my feet up on my bed. “Technically that's true, but they might rule someone out who has an alibi for conventional murder but not for magical murder.”

 Trent said, “You just can't let it go, can you? What if you keep investigating, and the murderer targets you? If you're the only one who can find him, then you become a major target.”

 Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you need a secret identity. Call yourself Trent and tell everyone you're a physics major.”

 Trent crossed his arms. Tiffany's eyes glinted. I felt Trent's irritation and Tiffany's amusement. We shared a moment of true friendship.

 Tiffany said, “How's the website doing?”

 I straightened a pile of books which had fallen over on the shelf above my bed. “It's bringing in money, at least a few dollars every week. I need more advertising and more hits, though.”

 Trent said, “You should try to get advertising from different departments on campus. 'High-energy physics—when you really, truly want to see what's inside.'”

 Tiffany said, “English lit: 'Teaching the same class for the last five hundred years.'”

 I laughed. “I need to poke around, see if I can scare up a couple more advertisers. I think I'm almost at critical mass—soon businesses will be emailing me, asking to advertise, rather than me begging them.”

 Tiffany said, “Did you ever tell your parents magic really works?”

 I swung my feet off the bed. “They wouldn't even understand. They think their magic works, even though it really doesn't. Since they don't understand that, they really wouldn't understand why it's such a big deal that my magic is working now.”

 Trent said, “Oh. And I thought it was challenging explaining quantum electrodynamics to my parents.”

 I flicked my pen around my desk. “Yeah, it'd be nice if we all had it so easy.”

 After my friends had gone back to their rooms for the night, I pulled out my latest novel. I stuck a package of popcorn in the microwave and waited for it to ding. I settled into bed, wearing my favorite cushy bathrobe and propped up with three pillows. In my mind's eye, I pictured myself in far-gone lands, swinging swords and throwing spells. I faced down monsters and stopped evil masterminds.

 As I drifted off to sleep, I smiled and whispered, “Only in books.”

 The bumping and scraping of furniture moving upstairs woke me up early the next morning. I grabbed a broom and used the handle to bang on my ceiling. “Knock it off.”

 Half an hour later the noise stopped. “Jesus, don't you people ever sleep?” I tried to go back to sleep, but I was too wound up. “Damnit, there isn't even anything happening this early in the morning.”

 I took a long shower to kill time, then collected two cups of coffee. The barista said, “My, you're up early.”

 I said, “That's why I need two cups. Otherwise, I'll waste a perfectly good nap before I even reach my economics class.”

 The first cup of coffee woke me up enough so I could taste the second cup. As my synapses sputtered to life, I looked around. I saw Trent standing in line and thought about calling him over. My brain checked with my tongue, which said, “Go away.”

 Instead, I used a plastic spoon to fling sugar packets at Trent until he turned around. He looked at me, and I pointed at a long-haired blond at the next table with her back to Trent. I mouthed, “It was her.”

 Trent shook his head. He grabbed his latte and sat down across from me. “Hmmm, you look just like a woman I know, but she won't be falling out of bed for at least another hour.”

 I said, “The idiots upstairs were rearranging furniture at an hour I've only previously read about. I had no idea the world even existed this early in the day. Isn't there a law?”

 Trent sipped his latte. “Wow, I haven't seen you this worked up since the night of five fire drills.”

 I nodded. “Yeah, and you remember that particular person ended up arrested.”

#

 After class, I waved at Tiffany as I picked up my mail in the lobby. I flicked through the mail until I stopped at a plain envelope which said only “Brigid Tennant, Room 421”.

 I showed it to Tiffany and said, “What do you think this is?”

 Tiffany said, “I don't know—open it.”

 I opened it and read it to myself before showing it to Tiffany. The note said simply, “Back off before you get hurt.”

 Tiffany said, “Wow, you must be getting close to the murderer.”

 I said, “Not a reassuring thought, Tiffany. Wait a minute, I know this handwriting.”

 I dragged Tiffany upstairs and marched into Trent's room. “Okay, handwriting sample, now. Write: The quick red fox jumped over the lazy bastard dog.”

 “Nice to see you too, Brig.” He pulled out a piece of paper and wrote. “What's this all about?”

 I said, “Someone left a note in my box. I just want to eliminate suspects.”

 Trent finished and handed me the paper. I looked back and forth between the note and the paper. “Aha! It's an exact match.”

 Trent sat up. “What? It can't be. I used a different style when I...isn't that the RA behind you? I think I hear the fire alarm.”

 I held up the note. “What's the big idea, Trent?”

 Trent's mouth turned down. “You were looking depressed because you hadn't found the killer. I wanted to encourage you. Besides, in murder mysteries, the heroine always finds the killer after receiving a mysterious note. I wanted to help things along.”

 I said, “Thanks. With friends like you, who needs their own personal psychopath?”

 Trent looked at me. “Look, I'm sorry. It's just that you're so excited about this murderer, and I wanted to help.”

 I sighed. “Well, I did get to use my deductive reasoning and observational skills, not that it was particularly difficult to figure out who the miscreant was.”

 Trent stood up. “You need to relax, take your mind off it for a while. Let your subconscious gnaw on it. I'll play ping-pong with you two if we can shoot a few rounds of pool afterwards.”

 Trent lost all his rounds of ping-pong to Tiffany and I. I did better—I actually forced Tiffany into scoring an extra point to beat me.

 Trent took his revenge on the pool table. He beat us, then sat out as Tiffany and I played. I won while Tiffany still had two balls left on the table.

 As we walked back to the elevator, Trent said, “Feel better now?”

 I smiled. “Yeah. I have a good feeling about tomorrow.”

#

 I threw my backpack so hard it dented the wall of the lounge.

 Trent said, “Something wrong?”

 I said, “Jim from my math class died yesterday. It was the full moon.”

 Trent shook his head. “Another coincidence...”

 I said, “No, this was murder. Seattle PD locked down his room, but I ran into the guy who found him. He emailed me a picture of Jim's room.”

 Trent held out his hand. “Let me see.”

 I flicked on my laptop and showed him the picture. Trent traced the walls. “He must have been into magic—look at those symbols.”

 I nodded. “I asked around—he was dabbling. But see on the floor? He's lying in the middle of a circle of protection. Either he screwed up the ritual, or he didn't have any power to back it up. Otherwise, he should have been fine.”

 Trent said, “Couldn't that have been a summoning circle? Maybe he called something nasty.”

 I studied the photo again. “No, there's nothing there for summoning.”

 Trent said, “Maybe it was suicide.”

 I said, “Nope, they couldn't find anything in the room that could have made those cuts.”

 Trent looked over at me. “So what do you think it is?”

 I shivered. “Well, there are spells that would do that, but it means the murderer really can do magic.”

 Trent said, “You suspected it, but it's still scary.”

 I said, “I know.”

 I stood up. “There's just one thing to do. We need a closer look at his room.”

 Trent's eyes widened. “You can't be serious.”

 I smiled. “Come on, lazy bones. What could go wrong?”

 Trent muttered under his breath as he packed away his notebook. “Breaking and entering, felony, kicked out of school, disowned, removed from the will, kicked off the croquet team...”

 I said, “Hush.”

 We dropped our backpacks off in our rooms. I pocketed my reporter's notebook and a real camera in addition to my phone. I also picked up a novel-sized device from my closet.

 Trent crunched through the gravel, following me across campus. “So what's the plan? How do we get in?”

 I said, “Trust me.”

 We followed a group of students into Haggett and into the elevator. I pushed 7. Trent followed me out the door when the elevator stopped.

 “Okay, RA is over there.” I marched over to the door and knocked.

 A voice said, “Come in.”

 I turned the handle and pushed the door open. Inside was a bunk bed with a desk underneath it. The occupant was lounging on a couch with his feet up, watching a large LCD TV. “What can I do you for?”

 I said, “You know Jim, the guy who died?”

 The RA said, “Yeah, that was sad. First resident I've ever lost.”

 I said, “Well, he was my partner in math class. We were working on a paper—the professor was really excited about it. Anyway, Jim emailed me that he'd finished the proof, but he didn't get a chance to send it to me before he died. Could you let us into his room to look for it?”

 The RA looked us over, then collected himself and stood up. “Name's Brian.  Police are done with his room, so I don't see any harm in letting you look around.”

 I hadn't realized just how tall he was until he stood up and stuck out his hand. I shook his hand. “I'm Brigid and this is Trent.”

 Brian bobbed his head at us. “This way—Jim's room was down on the corner.”

 I shuddered. “I don't suppose his neighbors heard anything—that's pretty creepy.”

 Brian said, “Nope—they were at a party late. Cops figure he was dead before they came home.”

 We reached the end of the hallway and Brian swung the keys up from the cord on his belt. He flipped through the keys, then slid one into the door. “This should do it.”

 He turned the knob, and we stepped into the room. I took a deep breath, then another.

 I saw a circle cut out of the carpet. I estimated its diameter at eight feet. I turned to Brian. “It might take a little while to find the paper. You don't have to wait for us.”

 Brian nodded. “That's cool. Let me know when you're done so I can lock up.” He sauntered off.

 I said, “That circle is new since I was here last.”

 Trent whistled. “Look how precise it is. Wonder how he did it?”

 I closed the door and knelt down just outside the circle. “Probably an exacto knife tied to a string tacked down in the center of the circle.”

 Trent looked down at me. “How...”

 I said, “I told you, my family are Wizards. We may not be effective, but we do know how to organize a ritual.”

 I peered closely at the circle. “There's a white powder filling the circle.” I grabbed a pencil off the desk and poked at the powder. “Small crystalline grains. I'm betting it's salt.”

 Trent said, “Why not taste it and find out?”

 I stood up. “A) I can't think of any other white crystalline substance that would be useful in a circle and B) it might be rat poison.”

 I opened the closets. “But it's probably salt—see the empty containers?”

 Trent followed me over to the desk. I ran my finger along the books on the shelf. “Worthless, worthless, dangerously wrong, okay, okay. Well, he definitely was interested in rituals. Why just a protection circle, though? Why did he need protection?”

 Trent stepped over to the circle. “Look at these dark stains in the carpet. That's why he needed protection.” He looked green for a moment and switched to staring at the ceiling

 I said, “But if he had enough magic to attract something dangerous, then why didn't his protection circle work?”

 I said, “Shh, I thought I heard something at the door.” We quieted, but heard nothing. “Let's see if we can find his laptop, then head back. I need to think about this more now that I've seen his room.”

 Trent said, “Wouldn't the police have taken it?”

 I said, “Only if they found it. It's tucked in the back of his closet. Can you give me a hand? He has some sort of hidden panel in here.”

 Trent said, “Step aside, let the master work.”

 I heard a click and the sound of Trent moving a piece of wood. He emerged with the laptop. “Tada!”

 I said, “Great. Set it on the desk.”

 I slipped the plastic device from my closet out of my pocket. I plugged it into a USB port on the laptop, then flipped the laptop on. As it booted up, a yellow light started blinking on the device. The laptop booted, then recognized the device. A dialog box popped up, displaying “Copying...” with a progress meter. The yellow light switched to red.

 Trent leaned over. “What are you doing?”

 I said, “Copying his hard drive. This is a cool little gizmo one of my friends cooked up. It's a standard external drive with a bit of firmware that takes over when it's plugged into a computer. It copies the whole hard drive. Later, I flip a switch and I can access the hard drive like normal.”

 Trent glanced at me. “When would you think something like that would be useful?”

 I waved my hand at the laptop. “Uh, now?”

 The device beeped. Its light showed green and the copy bar was full. “Time to go.” I turned off the laptop and stowed the device in my pocket.

 Trent put the laptop back and closed up the secret compartment. The room looked the same as it had when we came in.

        On the way out, I poked my head into Brian's room. “We're all done now.”

 Brian said, “K. Did you find what you were looking for?”

 I said, “Yep, thanks.”

 In the elevator, I said, “Well, I know what I'll be doing for the next few days.”

 Trent glanced over. “Oh?”

 I said, “Searching his hard disk.”

 Back in my room, I realized that Detective Transom needed to know about the laptop. Also, I didn't mind getting another chance to talk to him.  I dialed his number.

 “Detective Transom.”

 “Hi, this is Brigid Tennant.”

 He said, “I know, I recognized your cell number. What can I do for you?”

 I said, “Are you working the Jim Monaghan case?”

 “I am. Do you have some information?”

 I said, “I might. Did you find his laptop?”

 He said, “No. We're really interested in finding it.”

 I said, “I think he kept it in a secret compartment in the back of the closet on the left as you walk into his room. I saw him doing something in there one day when I was over.”

 He said, “Thank you very much. I'll have a tech check it out.”

        I closed my phone and held it as if it was Detective Transom's hand. After a moment, I felt silly, so I put it down.

 I pulled out my little device and set it next to my laptop. I flipped a switch on the device, plugged it into my laptop, and turned on my laptop. When it finished booting up, I started browsing the external hard disk. Damn, he had a lot of stuff. It was going to take weeks to go through it.

 I sighed and brought up the first file.

#

 I sat down with The Daily the next morning over coffee. The front page read “UW Student Murdered”. I skimmed the article, not really learning anything new.

 One sentence caught my eye. “Memorial services will be held Friday at 1:30 in Kane.”

 I drew a circle around the sentence with my finger, then pulled out my phone and set an alarm for Friday at 1:00. Or did I need to make it 12:30? Naw, 1:00 was plenty of time.

#

 Friday at 1:35 found me slipping into the back of the service with Tiffany. Tiffany had insisted on coming when she found out. “We might find some clues.”

 In one of the quiet spots, when the minister wasn't eulogizing, Tiffany nudged me and pointed to the front. “That must be the professor section. There's Madame Dupris, and isn't that your Dr. Middleton sitting next to her?”

 The couple in front of us turned and glared.

 I smiled weakly and the couple turned around. I waited a few moments before whispering back, “Do you recognize any of the others?”

 Tiffany shook her head.

 I pulled out my notebook and turned to a new page. I wrote, “Attendees at Jim's funeral.”

 I wrote down, “Dr. Middleton” and “Madame Dupris,” then wrote descriptions of all the people sitting in the front.

 Tiffany glanced over and whispered, “We can copy the names from the guestbook on the way out.”

 I nodded and kept writing.

 After the service, we took our time going through the line to view the casket. We lingered until the others had left, then stopped at the guest book on the way out.

 I said, “Keep watch” and used my phone to snap pictures of the pages. I had just finished when the minister came over.

 He said, “Were you friends of Jim?”

 I said, “I was. He was in my math class. Tiffany came along for support.”

 He said, “It's a tragedy. To think that one so young...Well, it was God's hand that took him.”

 I arched an eyebrow. “Oh really? God is a murderer, is he? Perhaps you could go to the police and tell them God did it. I'm sure they'll just close the case.”

 The minister snatched the guestbook and fled out the other end of the church.

 I shook my head. “The nerve of some uptight pinheaded preachers.”

 Tiffany said, “Why don't we go upload these photos and check the names. Your murderer might be on the list.”

 I followed Tiffany back to the dorm. I copied the pictures to my laptop and emailed a copy to Tiffany.

 Tiffany watched me transcribe the first name into a spreadsheet. She sighed loudly. “Let me do that.”

 Tiffany sat down. Her long fingers flowed across the keys.

 It was like watching snowflakes dance against the light.

 Three minutes later she pushed the laptop back to me. “There, done.”

 I said, “I don't know how you do that. It's inhuman.”

 Tiffany blinked. “I can't help it if you're slow. Maybe you're just a 20th century throwback. I'm sure you'll earn enough money to buy that horse and buggy you've always wanted.”

 I said, “You're getting to be as bad as Trent. The next part is up to me. I'm going to track down who all of these people are, and what their relationship to Jim was.”

 Tiffany said, “How are you going to do that?”

 I pulled out my notebook and held it en garde. “Old-fashioned investigative journalism. I'm going to talk to people.”

 Tiffany said, “Have fun” and wandered off.

 I pulled up a faculty directory and searched for each of the names on the list. I put “Professor” and the contact details from the directory by each name that matched. I wasn't sure these were actually professors, but it seemed like a reasonable way to start.

 I decided to use blue for problems.

 I changed the text color to blue for all of the professors except Madame Dupris and Dr. Middleton. I knew they had been there.

 When I finished, I looked at my clock. 3:30 on a Friday. Too late to catch them now. Professors were even worse than students about cutting out early on Friday.

 I stood up and stretched. As I looked out my window, I heard a light tap at the door. “Come in.”

 Kirsten opened the door and stepped inside.

 I said, “Hiya.”

 She said, “Hey, I heard you knew the guy who died. How are you doing?”

 I sat down. “Okay, I guess. Tiffany went to the memorial service with me. It was nice. There were lots of people there—more than I would have expected.”

 Kirsten said, “Oh, you didn't think he was very popular?”

 I said, “It's not that. He didn't communicate very well. You know those painfully shy guys?”

 Kirsten nodded. “I've met a few people like that.”

 I said, “Yeah. On the flip side, he had interesting hobbies. He was into calligraphy in a big way. You should have seen his handwriting. He was also the secretary for the Students for a Green Earth environmental group. That's more involved than I've gotten.”

 Kirsten glanced out of my window. “So you knew him pretty well?”

 I tapped my pen on my desk. “I'm not really sure. He was in my stats class. We were working on a project for extra credit, so I visited his dorm room, but I'm not sure I really knew him.”

 Kirsten said, “Well, I'm around if you want to talk. I know what it's like to lose someone.”

 I said, “Thanks. I think it's time for a dessert run.” What could I say? When I was nervous, I craved sweet things.

 Kirsten checked her watch. “It's 3:45.”

 I said, “That makes it dessert time somewhere. Let's celebrate New York Dessert Time.”

 Kirsten laughed. “All right, you talked me into it.”

#

 I spent the weekend searching for the other names on the web. I tried to get a feel for who the people were and how they were related to Jim.

 I found his parents and sister. It would have been too much of a coincidence if one of them happened to be the killer, so I didn't call them.

Chapter 9

 Monday morning, I made it to my stats class five minutes early. I caught Dr. Savage at the front of the classroom. “Did you hear about Jim's memorial service last Friday?”

 He said, “Yes, I did.”

 I said, “Why weren't you there?”

 He said, “I wanted to be there, but I couldn't find anyone to cover my class. Did you attend?”

 I said, “I did.”

 He put his hands together. “How was it?”

 I said, “Surprisingly well attended.”

 Dr. Savage straightened his books on the table. “I suspect Jim had hidden depths, which sadly he won't be able to explore.”

 I nodded.

 He looked up. “How are you coming with that project for Dr. Finster?”

 I said, “Jim sent me a copy of all the data with the outcomes normalized. I'm working through the correlations, but Jim's death has kind of thrown me off stride.”

 Dr. Savage smiled. “Well, keep plugging away at it, and I'm sure you'll get through it. If you have any questions about the math, you know where my office is.”

 “Thank you.” I dropped my backpack over the back of a chair and sat down.

 I caught Dr. Middleton before class. “Professor, why were you at Jim's memorial service?”

 He smiled. “Ah, it was a lovely service. I have a fondness for funerals and memorial services. I try to attend whenever I can. In this case, I had another reason to attend. Jim was in my 18th Century English Literature class.”

 I shifted back and forth on my feet. “Did you know Jim very well?”

 He pursed his lips. “He was an adequate student, I suppose, but unlike you, he didn't appreciate death in all its forms.”

 I said, “Um, I should...review my notes before class.”

 He said, “Of course. I do appreciate industrious students.”

 I sat down and rummaged in my backpack while the rest of the class filed in. What was with him and death? I pulled out my notebook and wrote “Dr. Middleton” on the top of a blank page. I chewed the end of my pen, then wrote, “Really creepy. Into death in a big way.”

 I thought about it again, then jotted down notes on our conversation, trying to capture as much of his phrasing as possible.

 Dr. Middleton said, “The dividing line between Shakespeare's comedies and tragedies is how many people die. In the comedies, only half the people die.”

 I heard laughter behind me. Dr. Middleton glared over my shoulder and the laughter stopped.

 He continued. “Shakespeare had the clearest view of the world of any writer before or since. Death defines comedy; death defines tragedy. The entire human condition can be reduced to death.”

 After my classes were over, I contacted the five “probable” professors. Four of them confirmed they were there and said they had had Jim in one of their classes. The fifth said he'd heard of the murder but hadn't attended the service. I deleted his info and changed the color on the others to black.

 Hmmm, I was going to be calling people, one of whom was possibly a murderer. I decided to turn off caller ID.

 I worked through my list diligently, telling everyone I was thinking of putting together a memorial page on my website. I asked, “How did you know Jim? What's your favorite memory of him?”

 I ended up with pages and pages of notes. Between interview sessions, I copied my notes into the appropriate cells on my spreadsheet. After three hours of listening to people reminisce about Jim, I put down my phone and picked up my violin.

#

 Later that night, I found a copy of Jim's class schedule. I poured over it. “French 301, 9:00, 5 credits, Madame Dupris.” “18th Century English Lit, 10:00, 5 credits, Dr. Middleton.”

 Okay, that explained Madame Dupris. After Tiffany's horror stories, I had no desire to talk to her in person.

 “Math 402, 1:00, 3 credits, MWF, Dr. Savage.” That was our stats class, but Dr. Savage didn't make it. “History 201, 1:00, TTh, Dr. Johnson.” I had talked to him on the phone already. He'd been there.

 I reviewed the material I'd collected. I supposed I could put together a memorial web page for Jim. It would be a good way to remember him.

 I spent an hour working up a couple of pages, including the quotes and stories from my calls. I used the program from the memorial service to fill in his biographical details.

 I thought it looked okay, but I was too tired. I decided to check it again in the morning before I posted it.

#

 I reviewed the memorial page in the morning as I sipped my coffee. I made a few fixes, then posted it and linked my home page to it.

 After class, I checked my email. I had twelve emails thanking me for creating the memorial page. I sent them all variations on “You're welcome” and “My pleasure.” I guessed everyone's lives touched more than they knew. All I could do was find the murderer before he killed anyone else. It was less than two weeks until the new moon.

 I plugged my laptop into my backpack to recharge.

 Back at my room, I called five more people. After the last, I sat staring out my window until Tiffany wandered in. “Hi. I tapped on the door, but you didn't answer.”

 I said, “Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought.”

 Tiffany said, “I saw the nice page you did for Jim. I like the quotes and personal stories.”

 “Thanks.”

 Tiffany said, “Did you think about including famous quotes, like 'The friend of my friend is my enemy'?”

 I said, “Huh? You have the quote backwards. It's supposed to be 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.'”

 Tiffany threw back her head, laughing. “Silly girl. Why would you look for friends amongst your enemies? That's no way to find friends.”

 I started to say something, but I couldn't figure out where to even begin a conversation around that. Instead, I exhaled slowly, beginning a meditation, and let my mouth close naturally.

 Tiffany said, “So what's new with your magic?”

 I said, “I don't know. I haven't been practicing much recently.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “Sweetie, you need to keep practicing if you want to improve. Given some of your recent...adventures...improving would be a good idea.”

 I said, “I'll think about it.”

 Tiffany said, “Don't just think about it—do it.”

 Trent poked his head in the door. “I have the answer to your mystery.”

 I said, “Do tell.”

 Trent said, “You're cursed.”

 “What?” I threw a book at Trent, but he slid aside.

 Trent said, “Well, you've been present at a number of these deaths, and you've known several other people who died. There aren't that many deaths in Seattle. Therefore, you're cursed—your very presence brings death.”

 I pointed my finger at the door. “Out.”

 Trent stepped out, chuckling.

 I turned to Tiffany. “He's incorrigible I think he's jealous because I get to do all the cool sleuthing, and he's just my sidekick.”

 Tiffany said, “What are you working on now?”

 I said, “I'm searching through a copy of Jim's hard disk. I haven't had any luck so far, though.”

 Tiffany sat down in front of my laptop. “Let me have a go.” Tiffany typed for a few minutes.

 Tiffany said, “Oh, what's this?”

 She opened a file as I watched over her shoulder.

  Je t'adore, je t'adore, je t'adore toujours.

  Tu es, tu es, tu es mon amour.

  Pourquoi, pourquoi, pourquoi nous ne pouvons plus?

 Tiffany said, “Jim was in my French class. Maybe Madame Dupris killed him.”

 I pointed at the screen. “What does that mean?”

 Tiffany said, “It means he's into repetition in place of poetry. Let's see:

  I love you, forever.

  And you are my love.

  Why, why, why can we no more...no longer.”

 I copied down the translation. “He's breaking up with someone. No, someone else is breaking up with him.”

 Tiffany nodded. “And she speaks French. Sounds like a clear case for Madame Dupris to me.”

 I said, “But how could she have killed him?”

 Tiffany held up a finger. “I know. She's French, right? That means she's an expert chef. She snuck into his room and used her knives to silence him.”

 I looked at the screen. “That's just French. Do we have any way to tie it conclusively to Madame Dupris?”

 Tiffany said, “She's an evil bastard who would make a goblin run screaming for its mother.”

 I paced. “I'll take that as a no. Still, it's a poem about lost love, so it could tie in. We need to let the police know.”

 Tiffany said, “Do the police know you have a copy of Jim's hard disk?”

 I said, “No. I bet Trent will have some ideas.” I opened my door and yelled “Trent.”

 A few moments later he walked in. “You bellowed?”

 I said, “We've got a problem. Tiffany found a file on Jim's computer which the police should see. However, we'd rather avoid any potentially jail-inducing questions likes 'How do you know that file is on Jim's computer?' Do you have any ideas?”

 “Sure.” He handed Tiffany a thumb drive. “Give me a copy of the file. I'll use Tor and create a free email account. I can email the police, and they won't be able to trace it back to me. How does 'jimsclues' sound for an account name?”

 I said, “Fine with me.”

 Trent wandered off again. I said, “What do we do now?”

 Tiffany yawned. “I'm going to bed. Try not to stay up too late spamming the police.”

 “Night.”

 I put on my headphones and listened to a symphony to help me fall asleep.

#

 At breakfast the next morning, Kirsten said, “I can't stand driving in Seattle.”

 I tapped my fingers on my coffee mug. “Yeah, the traffic's notorious. I think there's an FBI poster on it.”

 Kirsten shook her head. “It's not the traffic. It's the exits. I understand right-lane exits. Those make sense to me. But who the hell ever thought up left exits? That's insane.”

 I smiled. “Does that mean we shouldn't tell you about the center exit at Southcenter?”

 “Aargh.”

 Trent chuckled. “It takes a special mind to be a Seattle traffic engineer.”

 I read the morning headline from The Times out loud. “Police baffled by UW murder.” I skimmed the article. “It says they still don't have any leads. That sure makes me feel safe. Not.”

#

 Tiffany bounded into my room. “You'll never guess what happened today.”

 I set down the novel I was reading. “The student government tried to ban cellphones again?”

 Tiffany said, “No, silly. The police arrested Madame Dupris. I told you she killed Jim.”

 I sat up. “Wow, I wonder if we can tie her to the other deaths.”

 Tiffany said, “It was so cool—four police officers surrounded her with guns drawn. I started recording just in time. She said a bunch of new French words which I'm going to look up. I don't think they're in our textbook.”

 I said, “So she really did kill him with cooking knives?”

 Tiffany bounced on her toes. “Yep.”

 I stood up and dug through my drawers. “I've got to dig through my copy of Jim's hard disk—see if there's anything there about Madame Dupris. I also need to track her movements against the other deaths.”

 Trent wandered in. “Heya. Any news on Madame Dupris?”

 I said, “Tiffany saw her being arrested in French class.”

 Trent said, “Excellent. The police have their murderer, none of us were killed, so now you can resume your secret life as a college student.”

 I looked up at my map of Seattle. “Not yet. I need to tie her to the other murders—at least the ones I witnessed, and ideally the others as well.”

 Trent groaned and slumped into a chair.

 I said, “Don't look at me like that. What if she didn't kill all those other people?”

 Trent sighed. “So, you're not happy with one murderer, now we need two?”

 I pulled out my notebook. “If she is the sorceress, then why did she use knives to kill Jim?”

 Trent said, “Clearly, she wasn't thinking straight. If she was the one Jim was writing to, then she was sleeping with him. For whatever reason, they broke up, and she took her knives to him in a fit of rage. Sounds like a typical thing for a woman to do.”

 I narrowed my eyes and stared at him. “You're saying you think I would go after an ex-lover with knives?”

 Trent shook his head. “Definitely not.”

 I said, “That's good.”

 Trent said, “Tiffany is the one who'd use knives. You'd go after him with a sword.”

 We laughed.

 I put on a Southern accent. “My, how you do know us. Goodness, is it hot in here?” I fanned myself rapidly with my hand.

 Trent chuckled. “Still, let's link her to the other murders so you can put it to rest. First off, where does she live?”

 Tiffany pulled out her computer. “Bad news—she lives in Montlake Terrace.”

 I said, “Damn, that's nowhere close to the center of the deaths. Well, we can still work with it.” I flipped through my notebook. “Preacher John had a bottle of French wine with him when he died.”

 Trent said, “See? That points to Madame Dupris.”

 I said, “I don't think she could have killed him and made it to the NeoLogian Cafe by the time we saw her.” I turned to another page. “What about the psychic?”

 Trent shrugged. “It's the notorious French skepticism. France was the home of the Enlightenment, after all, and they invented the metric system over two hundred years ago.”

 I said, “Yes, but they also consider snails food.”

 Trent said, “Point.”

 I taped a sheet of paper to the wall and wrote “Madame Dupris” at the top. “Let's look at the evidence.”

 I wrote a list of items on the paper.

 Jim   yes

 Preacher John  probably not (timing)

 Simon Psalter  maybe

 Ravenna  no—Montlake Terrace

 Trent said, “I think you should add 'Probability of two murderers: low'.”

 I added the line. “Given all of that, do we think Madame Dupris committed the magical murders, or is there a second murderer out there?”

 Tiffany said, “It looks like there's a second murderer.”

 Trent said, “If those other incidents are really murders, then logic forces me to agree there's a second murderer running around. Maybe Seattle needs to have its water supply checked.”

 I said, “I also think there's a second murderer running around. Not a cheery thought.”

 Tiffany said, “What do we do next?”

 I said, “Well, I'd like to attend her trial. I'll keep my ears open for the trial date. Oh, and I'll keep going through Jim's computer. Why was he looking to the occult and setting up a circle of protection against magic if Madame Dupris killed him with knives?”

 Trent helped himself to one of my snacks. “Easy. He knew who the magical murderer is. Either that or you scared him with your talk of murderous sorcerers, blinding him to the threat of his ex-lover.”

 I said, “I didn't say anything about magic to him, although he did see the results of a spell I cast.”

 Tiffany glanced up. “What did he do?”

 I tapped my pen on my notebook. “Surprisingly, he didn't panic. He threw a bit of salt over his shoulder.”

 Tiffany said, “Did that counteract the spell?”

 I said, “No, I'd already stopped it by the time he threw the salt. Still, it's curious he was carrying salt and used it that way.”

 Tiffany said, “Let's try it out.”

 I said, “Try out what?”

 She said, “Let's find out if salt interrupts spells.”

 I rummaged around and found a salt shaker. I handed it to Trent. “Here. You're the experiment guy. Pour some into your hand. I'll cast a spell. When it's going, throw the salt at the spell and see what happens.”

 “Sounds easy enough.”

 I concentrated on a small breeze and whispered, “Wind.”

 A gentle breeze blew towards Trent.

 He threw salt at it.

 The instant the salt hit, the breeze grew much stronger. I dropped the spell. “That was odd.”

 Trent said, “Interesting, salt increases rather than decreases the strength of a spell.”

 I said, “Yeah, I'm definitely going to remember that.”

 Trent said, “Well, I need to get going.”

 Tiffany said, “Me too.”

 I moved my laptop over to my bed and connected my copy of Jim's hard disk. I waved without looking up from the screen as Trent and Tiffany left.

 I leaned forward, poking at the keys and the touchpad. An hour later, I stood up. I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the page on Madame Dupris. I pulled out a black thumbtack and marked Madame Dupris' house on my Seattle map.

#

 After class the next day, I rounded up Trent and Tiffany. “Meet in my room at 2:00. Bring gloves.”

 Trent said, “Ooo, we've gone all cloak-and-dagger now.”

 At 2:00, Tiffany and Trent walked into my room.

 Trent said, “What's up?”

 I pushed my door firmly closed. “We're going exploring today.”

 Tiffany clapped her hands. “Oh goodie. Where are we going?”

 I said, “Madame Dupris' house. If I can get inside, I can confirm one way or the other if she is the magical murderer.”

 Tiffany whistled. “That's some plan.”

 Trent said, “You are determined to send me to jail, aren't you? I should just turn myself in to the police now and save all the hassle.”

 I said, “Hush. You need more adventure in your life.”

 Trent said, “I'm a physics major. We have plenty of adventures in the lab.”

 I raised an eyebrow at him.

 He said, “Well, okay, we don't have adventures. But that's beside the point.”

 I said, “Fine. You can wait in the car. We'll go in without you.”

 Trent muttered to himself all the way to Montlake. We turned down a quiet residential street. Trent stopped at the curb, across from Madame Dupris' house. We studied the house from the car. Trent finally said, “Looks empty”.

 I pulled on a thin pair of leather gloves. “Let's go.”

 Tiffany followed me across the street and up to the front door. Trent pulled out a book and lounged in his seat.

 I saw yellow police tape over the door. I tried the door handle, but it was locked. I frowned at the door.

 Tiffany said, “Allow me.” She pulled something I couldn't catch sight of out of her purse and fiddled with the lock. A moment later, she pushed the door open. “There we go.”

 I ducked under the tape. Tiffany followed and closed the door behind her.

 I walked down the short hallway and made a left into the first room, which appeared to be a living room. As we glanced around, I heard a click and a voice behind us said, “D-d-don't move.”

 I looked over my shoulder.

 A short man stood there, a black bandanna covering his nose and mouth. He pointed a gun at us, but his hand was shaking.

 He said, “H-h-hands up.”

 Suddenly, I felt the need for the bathroom.

 We raised our hands. I said, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

 I watched the business end of the gun quiver.

 He said, “I'm...I'm a professional burglar. Wh-who are you and what are you doing here?”

 I said, “I'm Susan and this is Angela.” I realized this guy was more afraid of us than we were of him. “We're looking for clues. The woman who owns this house is a murderer, and we want to make sure she's convicted.”

 He said, “Well, I was here first, so I'm going to have to tie you up until I'm finished.”

 Ewww, no freaking way.

 Tiffany said, “Why?”

 He said, “Well, you'll call the police if I don't.”

 I shook my head. “Not me. She killed a friend of mine. I don't care if you steal her stuff.” I smiled brightly, trying to project sincerity.

 Tiffany said, “She was my French teacher, and she was a real witch. Help yourself.”

 The burglar looked back and forth between us, then lowered his gun. “Right. I'll be watching you two—no funny business. And remember, I have a gun.”

 I nodded. “We'll remember. We're just taking a quick look around. Is that OK?”

 The burglar grunted and began going through cabinets, keeping us in his line of sight.

 We backed out of the room and climbed to the second floor. I called out, “We're going upstairs now. Let us know if you find any clues.” We found a nice bedroom and a small bathroom but no clues.

 Back downstairs, we found a bookcase in the hallway. I scanned the English titles while Tiffany checked the French books. I said, “Philosophy, history, general fiction. Nothing interesting—no occult books.”

 Tiffany said, “Dictionary, plays, 19th century novelists, contemporary fiction—nothing here, either. Can we hurry this up?”

 We found a highly organized kitchen in the back. Fresh herbs had their own shelf in the refrigerator. A pullout vertical drawer held more spices than I had ever seen outside of Iron Chef. I kept an ear out for Mr. Burglar. This was nerve-wracking.

 Tiffany opened the cabinets. “Look at all these different gadgets. I don't know what half of them are for. I know this is expensive cookware, though. She was definitely a serious cook.”

 I pointed at a large device. “What's this?”

 Tiffany glanced over. “An autoclave. It's normally for sterilizing surgical instruments.”

 I said, “Great, a germ-a-phobe.”

 I opened a door. “Hey, this goes down to a basement.” I yelled, “Going into the basement now.” I flicked on the light, and we crept down the stairs. In the basement we found a washer and drier, a wardrobe containing clothes, and a stack of boxes.

 Tiffany and I each opened a box. I said, “Books.”

 Tiffany said, “Same here.”

 I examined the concrete floor intently, but it was just a dusty floor. I said, “It doesn't look like there's a ritual circle here. I don't think she's our sorceress”

 Tiffany rubbed the dust off her hands. “Good, let's head out.”

 As we reached the front door, I called out, “Bye, Mr. Burglar. We're leaving now. Good luck to you.”

 I thought I heard a faint “Bye” from upstairs.

 As soon as we were in the car, Tiffany said, “Drive drive drive! Get us out of here!”

 Trent hit the gas.

 I said, “Her house was a typical middle-class house. No occult books, no magical apparatus, no ritual circles. I grabbed a few hairs off her brush. I'm hoping to use them to find out more about what happened, but I don't think she's our magical murderer.”

 Tiffany said, “You forgot the burglar.”

 I said, “Oh, yeah—we met the nicest burglar in there. He seemed a little nervous, though—kind of like Porky Pig. I don't think he's really cut out for a life of crime.”

 I noticed Trent gripped the wheel tighter. “You met a burglar? Why didn't you call the police?”

 I said, “Well, Madame Dupris did kill one of my friends. Also, I didn't feel like explaining to the police what I was doing in her house. With my luck, the police would think I was the burglar's accomplice.”

 Trent said, “I would have posted bail for you. Eventually.”

 I said, “Nope, they would have hauled you in as the getaway driver. All in all, it was best to not get involved.”

 Tiffany cracked her window. “You should have locked all the doors and sealed the windows magically—made him work to get out. If nothing else, he would have had to break a window, and a neighbor might have investigated.”

 I said, “You're evil. I like it. Why didn't you think of that before we left?”

 She stuck out her chin. “I am not evil. I voted against evil in the last election. Besides, it's hard to come up with great ideas when I'm running for my life.”

#

 The next morning, I picked up The Times and read a short article about Madame Dupris. It said the judge had seized her passport and set bail at 1.5 million dollars. He called her a serious flight risk.

 As I walked to campus, my phone buzzed. I stepped into an alley to get out of the crowd of students while I checked my phone. God only knew what the screen might say.

 I had a text message from Trent. “Seen the paper?”

 “Yep.” I hit Send and stepped out of the alley.

 A little old lady carrying a canvas bag saw me and stopped. “What were you doing in that alley?”

 I narrowed my eyes at the old woman. “I was texting a friend. What concern of it is yours?”

 “Texting a friend? Such wonderful euphemisms you young people come up with. I texted a few friends in my day, too.” The old woman laughed all the way down the street as she shuffled off.

 I shook my head and continued to campus.

Chapter 10

 At lunch with Tiffany, I said, “Apparently, Madame Dupris has a high-powered defense lawyer working for her. I wonder how she's paying for it.”

 Tiffany said, “I thought professors made good money.”

 I said, “Well, the university put her on administrative leave until the trial is over, so she isn't earning any money right now. Plus, the lawyer makes about the same in an hour as she does all year.”

 Tiffany said, “That's an exaggeration.”

 I smirked. “Okay, he makes the same in two hours as she does in a year.”

 Tiffany snickered. “That's more like it.”

 Kirsten sat down. “Hiya. What are you talking about?”

 I attacked my individually-wrapped butter with my plastic knife. “We were wondering how our very own murderous college professor managed to afford the services of Michael Stackton, the very expensive defense attorney.”

 Kirsten said, “I dunno. Maybe she's blackmailing him.”

 I gestured with my knife. “Devious. I like the way you think.”

 Tiffany flipped through the paper. “It says here The Times is going to provide gavel-to-gavel coverage whenever the trial starts.”

 I said, “I bet the P-I will as well. I'm going to talk to my editor today. We need to be there too.”

 When I finished eating, I hurried over to the Hub and climbed to The Daily's offices on the second floor. I cornered Lance. “We need to report on Madame Dupris' trial.”

 He frowned at me. “Why?”

 I said, “The Times and P-I will be there. It's historic. I can't think of another time a UW professor has murdered a student.”

 He said, “Allegedly.”

 I said, “Whatever. Anyway, we need to go.”

 Lance said, “I assume by 'we' you mean 'you'.”

 I said, “That's why you're such a good editor. You're always reading between the lines.”

 He sighed. “Fine, you can go. I'll see if I can get a press pass for you. Try not to get arrested for contempt of court or anything.”

 I put my hands on my hips. “Do you really think...”

 He waved his hand at me. “Yes, that's why I warned you. Now off you go. Find me a story.”

 I harrumphed and stomped into the hallway. As I walked down the hallway, I called, “Here story story story. Come and get the nice lead I've got for you.” I rubbed my fingers together, but no story came slinking out.

 I listened to the sound of my shoes echoing in the hallway. I double-stepped and got a nice rhythm going. I was mildly disappointed when I reached the stairs—no more music.

 On the ground floor, I sat on the bottom step with my notebook and pen out. I wrote down a list.

1. Find information on Madame Dupris

 A. Other professors—Middleton?

 B. Family

C. Talk to her lawyer.

 I stared at my list for a minute, but nothing else occurred to me. I didn't have any info on her family which left creepy professor or lawyer. If I talked to the lawyer, I'd have to shower afterwards to clean off the lawyer-slime. Fun choices.

 I flipped a quarter in the air, caught it, and put it on the back of my other wrist.

 Heads. Creepy professor. I checked his office hours against the time on my phone. Ten minutes until he closed up and returned to his coffin. At this rate, I'd be ready to join the track team.

 I hurried across campus and reached Dr. Middleton's office with five minutes to spare.

 I knocked on his open door.

 He glanced up from his desk. “Ah, Miss Tennant. Do come in.” He took another look at me. “Hmmm, suicide by jogging. What an interesting choice.”

 In between breaths, I said, “Sorry. I wanted to catch you before you left.”

 He said, “And I am pleased you caught me before you departed.”

 I said, “I'm a reporter for The Daily, and I've been assigned to cover Madame Dupris.”

 He said, “A tragic story. Death comes for us all, young and old alike.”

 I said, “Did you know her well?”

 Dr. Middleton touched the tips of his fingers together. “All of the language faculty know each other to an extent, especially those of us who have been here a few years.”

 I said, “Do you think she did it?”

 He said, “Ah, Jacqueline...she is capable of great passion. Passion for life, death. She is certainly capable of it. I don't know if she actually killed him or not, though.”

 I scribbled madly. “Did she have any friends?”

 He said, “I suppose so. Even the darkest of us may have a friend or two.”

 I tapped my notebook. “Do you know who any of her friends are?”

 I saw Dr. Middleton's face clench. A moment later, he said, “I know nothing of her friends.”

 How odd. “Well, thank you for your time. If you think of anything which would be helpful, please let me know.”

 He said, “Certainly, Miss Tennant.”

 I caught a bus with Trent downtown. On the bus, I pointed at a sign saying, “Location of this bus monitored by satellite.”

 Trent read the sign. “Yes, Metro has its own bus-tracking satellite. They launched it out of the back of a converted bus, nicknamed ATLAS-1. The satellite tracks all buses in the greater Seattle area. If any of them veer more than a dozen meters off track, the satellite fires a giant death ray which renders the bus and its occupants into their constituent quarks. It's an anti-terrorism measure.”

 I said, “Uh huh. Well, why don't you hack into it and use it to bake up a giant batch of popcorn?”

 He said, “Oh, you've seen the movie.”

 I smiled. I liked it when I was a step ahead of Trent. “Seen it, got the T-shirt. You should see what's in my closet.”

 Trent laughed. “Sure you don't want to go to the science center with me?”

 I said, “As much as I would enjoy visiting it without a death, I have an appointment with Madame Dupris' defense lawyer. He's thinking I might be sympathetic.”

 He cocked an eyebrow. “Sympathetic? You? Puppy dog eyes don't even work on you.”

 I said, “Me? I'm loving sweetness. If you don't believe me, I'll dine on your entrails.”

 Trent chuckled and waved as he left the bus. I fidgeted and twirled my pen as I waited for my stop.

 I was thinking so hard, I almost missed my stop. As it was, I was the last person to get off.

 In the lawyer's office, I sat in the waiting room for ten minutes before the prim secretary showed me into the office. “Michael, your 2:15 is here.”

 He stood up and stuck out his hand. “Michael Stackton.”

 I shook it. I was getting good at shaking hands—must have been my reporter training. “Brigid Tennant.”

 He said, “Please have a seat. You're a reporter for The Daily, right?”

 “That's right.” I opened my notebook.

 He said, “Good. We're hoping for favorable coverage. Miss Dupris has been horribly wronged by the system, falsely accused.”

 I said, “So she didn't do it?”

 He said, “No, she had no reason to kill the poor young man who died. It's inconceivable that a mild-mannered, caring teacher like Miss Dupris could be capable of such a brutal murder. I'm sure the ME's office will find she doesn't have the physical strength to have made those wounds.”

 I said, “Uh huh. Have you actually spoken to Miss Dupris?”

 He said, “Several times.”

 I wrote in my notebook. “Does Miss Dupris have an alibi for the night of the murder?”

 Michael flashed me a smile. “Of course she does. And it's solid—no worries there.”

 Time for the vanity approach. “Mr. Stackton, you're a well-respected defense attorney. How did you get involved with Miss Dupris' case?”

 “A former client asked me to take the case.” He held up a hand. “Before you ask, I cannot name him—attorney-client privilege, you know.”

 I said, “How is she paying you?”

 He said, “The university has provided some funds, and her family in France has been very generous.”

 I tapped my pen for a moment, but no more questions materialized.

 He said, “If that's all, I do have work to do for my clients.”

 I said, “Thank you for your time.”

 He said, “A pleasure.”

 The secretary held the door for me on the way out. I studied my notes on the elevator ride down to the street.

 I drafted my article on the bus ride home. Back in my room, I typed it up on my laptop, then sat back to re-read it. I added “alleged” and “allegedly” in several places. I even stuck one in “Madame Dupris, an alleged UW professor” to see if Lance caught it. It would give him something to do. He liked making trivial changes to my perfect articles.

 I read the article again, listening to the tone. It had to sound newsy. Neutralish, if I wanted the defense attorney to talk to me again.

 Finally, I dropped it in an email. I added a note at the top. “Here's article #1 on Madame Dupris. Do you have my press pass?”

 An hour later I had a response. Didn't he ever go home? “Looks good. We're still negotiating with the thin-brained bureaucrats down at the courthouse. Any idea when the trial is?”

 I whipped off a reply. “Not yet. I'll check with the DA's office.”

 I looked up the number and dialed.

 “District attorney's office.”

 I said, “Hi. I'm a reporter, and I was wondering when Madame Dupris' case is going to trial.”

 The voice on the other end said, “Hang on while I transfer you.”

 A man answered. “Hello, what can I do for you?”

 I said, “I'm a reporter, and I was wondering when Madame Dupris' case is going to trial.”

 He said, “The UW professor? Her preliminary hearing is scheduled for the end of next week.”

 I said, “Thank you.”

 I wandered out to find my friends. They were arguing in the lounge. I heard Trent saying, “The lack of a basic understanding of science in the general public is appalling.”

 I sat down. “What's up?”

 Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Trent's tilting at windmills again.”

 I opened a soda. “Tilting at windmills? From the sounds of it, he's tilting at those little paper drink umbrellas which dream of growing up to become windmills.”

 Trent shook his head. “You two are hopeless.”

 I said, “Yeah, love us anyway.”

#

 In the morning, I stopped by Odegaard and picked up a primer on trials for journalists. I worked my way through it throughout the day, reading it every time I had a few minutes to spare.

 I studied the terminology and phases of a trial. I had to read the section on courtroom proceedings twice before it stuck in my brain. Stupid lawyer stuff.

 After the full moon, I started checking the obituaries. Two days later, I found a suspicious obituary from a person who died on the day of the full moon. I copied it into my notebook.

 I showed it to Trent and Tiffany.

 Trent said, “Okay, that could be magic. At least it fits with the others you found.”

 Tiffany said, “Does that mean Madame Dupris isn't our evil sorceress?”

 I paced. “No, she's just evil. However, if she's not the sorceress then she could have been part of a group casting spells.”

 Trent said, “So, we're still in the same place as before.”

 I said, “Pretty much, yeah.”

#

 In the evening, I sat in the lounge with Tiffany, Trent, and Kirsten. “Madame Dupris' preliminary hearing is in two weeks. It will be open to the public—something about it being headline news.”

 Tiffany said, “Cool. I want to go with you. I'd love to see her receive a little justice.”

 A little while later, I looked at my phone. I said, “Unfortunately, I have homework, so I'll bow out for tonight.”

 Back in my room, I pulled up the ANOVA results I'd run for Dr. Finster. I didn't want to work on the project—it reminded me of Jim, and that hurt. College students weren't supposed to die. Certainly not the quiet ones, like Jim.

 And what was up with Trent? He'd been acting funny recently. Maybe he was coming down sick or something.

 I sighed and pulled up the p values from the ANOVA results. I divided the studies into two lists: statistically significant results and everything else.

 Looking at the data, I thought someone could argue almost anything out of it. Each of the alternative treatments had studies showing they worked and studies showing they didn't.

 I sighed. Maybe yes, maybe no. Sounded like the rest of my life.

 I put the results into a table:

     Statistically significant NOT

Acupuncture    2    4

Chiropractic    3    7

Massage    2    6

Homeopathy    1    10

Cortisone shots   4    6

 I emailed Dr. Finster. “Here are the results. All of the treatments had more studies showing no significant improvement than studies showing improvement.”

 Maybe I should have added my own personal study on magic. Too much magic? Migraine. Less magic? No migraine. Some how, I didn't think Dr. Finster would be amused.

 I pulled up my indie playlist and hit shuffle. I kicked back on my bed and let the music wash over me. The first song was Last Man Standing by People in Planes—one of my favorites.

 I must have fallen asleep. The clock read 12, and I hoped to God that was midnight. If I'd slept through my classes, there'd be hell to pay.

 I flicked off the music and peeked out my window. It was dark out, so it had to be midnight. I changed into pjs and crawled back into bed.

#

 At breakfast, I wasn't the only one looking a little bleary-eyed. I said, “Hey Trent, what happened to you? Up too late wrestling with physics problems?”

 He ducked his head. I was afraid he was going to topple over, but he recovered and smiled. “Something like that.”

 He downed his espresso almost as fast as I drank my coffee. Must have been some hard problems to keep him up so late.

 I was so out of it, as we walked to class, I totally missed the crowd in Red Square. At least I heard the shouting. “Someone call an ambulance.” I raced over in time to see Allyson's ghost stand up out of her body and walk off. “Damn.”

 Someone had started CPR, and I heard sirens in the distance. I glanced over my shoulder. Only Trent was close enough to hear. I said, “Madame Dupris isn't our only murderer.”

 Trent stepped closer. “Did you see another ghost?”

 I nodded.

 He said, “Unless she cast a ritual from jail.”

 I said, “Yeah, I'm sure the guards were good with that.”

 Trent shook his head. “Damn. I was hoping we were done with sleuthing.”

 I looked at the paramedics pushing through the crowd, then squeezed my eyes shut. “Me too, Trent.”

 I felt him put an arm around my shoulders, and I leaned against him for a second.

 Trent said, “We're not helping here, are we?”

 I said, “Nope” and straightened up. I turned to look him in the eye. “We'll help by finding the murderer.”

 He looked at me and nodded, once. “We will.”

 I turned my back on the crowd, silently whispering, “We will find justice for you” and marched towards class.

 Trent fell into stride beside me. “He's getting bolder, you know.”

 I said, “Yeah, I noticed. College age. She'll probably be listed as a heart attack. And there were lots of witnesses to this one.”

 Trent said, “He could be getting more confident. Either that or more desperate.”

 I stopped walking. “If he's getting desperate—he must be building up to something big. Given his track record, it'll be something nasty.”

 Trent said, “How do we find out what he's up to?”

 I started walking again. “I don't know, and it worries me.” We reached my building. “Maybe we can work on it tonight.”

 Trent looked down at the ground. “Maybe. We can talk about it after class.”

 Odd. I thought through things during class, trying to figure out what our murderer could be up to.

 I think the rain started coming down just to spite me. I swear it started just before I stepped out of Thompson Hall and stopped just after I made the safety of Johnson Hall. If it wasn't for all the rain, Seattle weather would be wonderful.

 I really wanted to put on my uptempo playlist to cheer myself up, but none of my classes were large enough to get away with earbuds. The year before it had been easy—in the large lectures, the professors never paid attention to anyone past the third row. Sometimes it sucked to be a sophomore.

 I doodled through class. Fortunately, today wasn't a test or essay day in any of my classes, or I might have doomed myself to the would-you-like-fries-with-that career.

 I saw Tiffany in the cafeteria at lunch, but no Trent or Kirsten. We found a quiet spot in the corner. I said, “You and Kirsten missed the excitement this morning.”

 She said, “What happened? We were talking, and when we looked up, you and Trent weren't there.”

 I took a bite of my lunch. Passable. It tasted like the cooks had prepared the contents of the box this time, rather than the box itself. “A girl from my Students for a Green Earth group had a heart attack in Red Square.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “That's awful.”

 I said, “I know. By the time I got close enough to see, someone had already started CPR.” I made sure no one else was close enough to hear. “Even worse—I saw her ghost.”

 Tiffany's eyes widened. “She was murdered?”

 I nodded. “Which means Madame Dupris is not our murderer. Well, she isn't our only murderer, at any rate.”

 Tiffany said, “Wow. So what are we going to do?”

 I said, “I don't know. I wanted to talk it over with you and Trent. Where is he, anyway?”

 Tiffany shrugged. “I don't know. He wasn't around last night, either.”

 Trent hadn't joined us by the time we finished our lunch. As we put our trays away, I said, “I'm getting worried about him. It isn't like him to miss lunch. And he was distracted this morning.”

 Tiffany said, “Hey, there he is.”

 We caught up to him by the elevator. I said, “Hiya. You missed lunch with two beautiful women.”

 He said, “Sorry about that.”

 I said, “No big deal. Shall we talk about our mysterious you-know-who?”

 He shook his head. “Not right now. I just stopped by to drop off my books, then I need to head back out.”

 I said, “What's up?”

 He said, “Nothing. I just need to go to the...library. For a project.”

 I said, “Wow, I didn't think you even needed to study, and now you're going to the library. If I didn't know you better, I'd think you had a girlfriend.”

 The elevator dinged, so Trent missed his chance to zing me back. He was such fun to tease.

 At our floor, he waved and said, “Later.”

 Tiffany and I stopped in her room. She hung her backpack in a backpack-shaped spot in her closet. I didn't know how she managed to keep her things so neat and organized.

 She turned back towards me. “Have you had any luck finding a connection between Preacher John and Harvey Thomas?”

 I sighed. “They came from different worlds. I don't see how they could have met.”

 Tiffany said, “They didn't have to meet each other. They just had to have one person in common.”

 I stared at the wall. “Or maybe they each knew someone who knew the murderer.”

 Tiffany said, “If you follow that too far, you get the Kevin Bacon effect: everyone is connected to everyone is connected to Kevin Bacon.”

 I said, “Yeah, maybe I should work with the assumption both men knew the murderer. After all, the murderer had to collect a personal item or hair clipping or something from each of them.”

 Tiffany said, “If you could trace the items...”

 I said, “...then I could find the murderer. Brilliant. But that leaves the problem of tracing the items.”

 Tiffany said, “What about your locating spell?”

 I said, “I don't know—it wasn't entirely helpful the last time, and I knew where I was going.”

 Tiffany inspected her nails. “Do you have a better idea?”

 Three hours of tramping around the U-District following a barely-visible arrow circling back and forth, I did have a better idea. “I'm thinking hot chocolate with marshmallows This isn't getting us anywhere.”

 Tiffany said, “Correction, please. I think we've hiked ten miles chasing this stupid arrow.”

 I said, “Okay, it's taken us lots of places—just nowhere useful.”

 Tiffany said, “I don't know—we could have walked past a dozen useful places and not realized it.”

 I said, “Yeah—same diff.”

 Tiffany said, “I guess you're right. This isn't working out.”

 Breathing a sigh of relief, I dropped the spell. Fortunately, holding a spell didn't seem to produce headaches like casting a bunch of spells in a row did.

 I turned around slowly, finding my bearings.

 Tiffany said, “Why not just use the locating spell to lead us back to the dorm?”

 I said, “Because that damned demented arrow would take us on a tour of Ballard as a 'shortcut'.”

 Tiffany looked over at me. “Ballard?”

 I stopped circling. “Wait, I know where we are.” I led the way back to the dorm.

 Tiffany said, “Are you sure this is the right way?”

 I said, “Yeah. Can't you hear the cocoa calling our names?”

 Tiffany laughed. I was relieved when the streets started going downhill again. That meant we were headed back towards Terry.

 Eventually, we made it back to streets I recognized. We reached the dorm and rode the elevator to our floor.

 Tiffany followed me to my room. I nuked two mugs of cocoa and handed one to Tiffany. “Hot chocolate, as promised.”

 Tiffany sipped hers gently. “Oh, this is good chocolate. I see why it was calling you.”

 I held the cup between my hands, savoring the rich smell. “Yeah. Too bad the damned locater spell didn't work.”

 Tiffany peered into her mug. “Well, we don't know for sure it didn't work. We just stopped before we had a final answer.”

 I ran the tip of my finger lightly through my hot chocolate, watching the swirling patterns. “I think we have our answer. The locater spell isn't going to turn up anything useful. Either there's too much for it to follow, or the murderer has taken steps to become untraceable.”

 Tiffany looked up. “Is that possible?”

 I breathed in, then let my breath out again. “Anything I can do with magic, someone else could undo or block. If I were an evil, nasty type, I would protect myself magically.”

 Tiffany said, “I'd like to see if he's taken magical steps to stop a 2x4.”

 I laughed. “Yeah, that might work. He'd be expecting a magical attack, so we could probably nail him with a water balloon.”

 Tiffany smiled. “I don't know what good it would do, but it sure would be funny. Evil murdering sorcerer defeated by giant water balloon.”

 I laughed again. “Sounds like a Post-Intelligencer webline.” I stretched. “Let's see if Trent has any ideas.”

 We walked down the hall, and I knocked on his door. He said, “Come in” so we did.

 Trent looked up from his desk. “Oh, hi, it's you two.”

 I said, “Yeah, who were you expecting, the pizza delivery guy?”

 He said, “I, uh, never mind. What's up?”

 Tiffany closed the door. “We went out searching for the murderer.”

 I flopped on the bed. “More precisely, we were searching for clues about the connection between the murderer and Preacher John. However, my locating spell went haywire.”

 Trent said, “It went haywire how?”

 I said, “It led us all over the place. We spent three hours chasing the damned thing and didn't find anything.”

 Trent leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. “Does Seattle have a latent magic field?”

 I thought about it. “I don't know. I haven't sensed anything like that.”

 Trent said, “Have you tried recently? After all, you've only been able to do magic for two months now.”

 I closed my eyes and let my mind clear. I listened, but all I could hear was the usual dorm and traffic noise.

 I focused deeper and deeper. I felt a pulse—not sound, exactly. It was like the beating of my heart, but slower, deeper—bigger.

 I whispered, not wanting to break the feeling of it. “I think there might be some sort of magic field. I'm feeling a beat, slow and steady.”

 I paused to feel it again.

 Trent said, “Perhaps your spell picked up that field.”

 Tiffany said, “If the field is moving and changing, it might explain why we ended up going different directions. We were following currents.”

 My stomach grumbled. “We can discuss it with Trent over dinner. It's early enough, we should be able to find a spot in the corner.” I turned to walk out.

 Trent said, “I can't go to dinner with you.”

 Tiffany said, “Why not?”

 Trent said, “Because I'm having dinner with Annette.”

 I spun around. Trent had that dreamy-eyed look I'd only seen in sappy movies. “Who's Annette?”

 He sighed. “The most wonderful woman. I met her in the physics lab.”

 I said, “Oh, another physics major?”

 He said, “Not exactly. She's working on her PhD in high-energy physics.”

 Tiffany said, “Going for a much older woman. Good for you, Trent.”

 He smiled. “Actually, she's only 20.”

 I whistled. “That's impressive. So she's only a year older than you.”

 He said, “Not even that. She just turned twenty last month.”

 I wasn't sure what to feel. I should have been happy for Trent, but I felt something else. It couldn't have been jealousy. I decided it was hunger. “Well, have a nice dinner. We'll see you later. Come on, Tiffany.”

 Trent with a girlfriend? I snuck a peek out the window but I didn't see any pigs flying. As we climbed down the stairs, I said, “Isn't Trent getting a girlfriend one of the signs of the Apocalypse?”

 Tiffany giggled. “I think so. That and the UW serving food which bears at least a passing resemblance to the pictures on the menu.”

 I smiled. “Yeah, good thing we're in no danger of that happening.”

 I glared at the line outside the cafeteria. “What's this? There's never a line this early.”

 We stood there for a few minutes, but the line didn't move. I tapped the guy in front of me on the shoulder. “Any idea why the line isn't moving?”

 He turned around and shrugged. “I heard there's some problem in the kitchen. I'm hoping they clear it up soon so I can eat.”

 I looked at Tiffany. “A problem in the kitchen? I think it's time to find a different place to eat.”

 Tiffany said, “Yeah—my imagination just gave me a bunch of unpleasant ways they could be 'solving' the problem.”

 We headed down the stairs and out the back door. I said, “Real food, or should we go somewhere we can use our meal cards?”

 Tiffany glanced down. “I need to use up the balance on my meal card.”

 I said, “Okay, there's 8 in McMahon.”

 Tiffany said, “That sounds great. I haven't been there in ages.”

 It was quiet when we arrived. We ordered and settled into an out-of-the-way corner. As we worked our way through dinner, Tiffany tapped my arm. She said, “Don't look around, but Trent just walked in, all dressed up. Huh, I didn't know he had clothes like that. A physics major with good taste—who'd have guessed? Oh, and you should see the girl with him.”

 I angled my water glass, trying to catch a reflection of them. After a couple of tries, I saw a miniature Trent standing next to a woman. “Wow, that must be Annette. She's gorgeous and brilliant. Long black hair.”

 Tiffany looked across the table at me. “You sound jealous.”

 I shrugged. “I'd love to be smart and drop-dead gorgeous.”

 Tiffany pursed her lips but didn't say anything.

 I sighed. “How are we going to get our of here without Trent seeing us? I don't want him to think we're spying on him.”

 Tiffany said, “But we are spying on him.”

 I waved my hand. “We didn't mean to. It was just a coincidence.”

 I tried to think of a spell to help.

 Tiffany said, “Could you make us invisible?”

 I said, “I'm not sure how to visualize that. I could just as easily vaporize us.”

 Tiffany said, “Oh, better not, then. That would be bad. Can you do anything else?”

 I tapped my fork on my plate. “I could create a couple of bags to put over our heads, but I think that would attract more attention.”

 Tiffany said, “How about a distraction? We could slip out.”

 I said, “Well, I could set something on fire, but that might be too much of a distraction.” I snapped my fingers. “I'll create a small wind to knock a tray over. It will fall, making noise, and we can slip out.”

 Tiffany said, “Sounds good.”

 I said, “Ready?”

 Tiffany nodded.

 Under the table, I pointed my finger at an empty tray someone had left on a counter. I concentrated and whispered “Air”.

 Damn, the noise was loud. We jumped, and we'd been expecting it. We grabbed our trays and headed for the door. I led the way around the corner and up the stairs.

 I plopped down on the grass outside, out of view of the door. Tiffany sat down next to me. I said, “That was close.”

 Tiffany said, “And really subtle, too.”

 I raised an eyebrow. “Subtle? What is this subtle of which you speak? I'm not up on this new-fangled slang.”

 Tiffany laughed.

 My heart was racing. Our escape must have been more exciting than I realized.

 I ate a couple of bites to calm down.

 Tiffany said, “Have you had any more ideas about the murders?”

        “One thing which still puzzles me, is why Jim was into the occult.”

 Tiffany shrugged. “Who knows?”

 I said, “Would you mind poking around his hard disk again to see if you can dig up anything?”

 Tiffany stood up. “Sure. Let's get going.”

 I spent the walk home envisioning wild scenarios. Maybe Jim came from a different type of Wizard family. Maybe his father was a collector of antiquarian books and had stumbled across something so horrible...

 We arrived back at our dorm before I realized it. In my room, I hooked my copy of Jim's hard disk to my computer, and Tiffany did her own kind of magic on the keys. I tried not to loom over her shoulder, but I needed to do something.

 I opened one of my closets and started organizing. Well, “organizing” might have been too strong a word. At least I got most of the clothes off the floor and onto hangers. I tossed the dirtiest stuff into my laundry bag.

 By the time I had collected enough to make a laundry run seem like a really good idea, Tiffany whistled.

 I stepped behind her. “What did you find?”

 Tiffany scooted over so I could see the laptop's screen.

 I read, “March 9: I was sitting in my favorite quiet spot in Thompson Hall, when I heard voices through the vent. Those old pipes echo everywhere.

 I didn't recognize the voice. It said, 'Preacher John was killed by magic.'

 I don't know if magic is real or not, but I'm not taking any chances. I'm getting occult books to figure out how to protect myself.”

 I read the next entry. “April 10: I've learned a lot from my books. Salt is good. I can use it to counter spells.”

 I said, “Holy shit. He heard someone talking about the death and tried to protect himself.”

 Tiffany said, “Too bad he didn't recognize the voice.”

 I sighed. “He could have at least let us know if the speaker was male or female.”

 Tiffany shrugged. “At least we've solved a couple of mysteries: why was Jim studying the occult, why did he throw salt to stop your spell, and why did he try to make a protection circle in his room.”

 I said, “Yeah, but we've added new mysteries. Who figured out Preacher John was murdered, how did this person know, and who else was in the room?”

 Tiffany said, “If you're going to be a detective, you need to count the mysteries you solve, not how many you add to your list.”

 I smiled. “Thanks, thinking of it that way helps.”

 Tiffany said, “What should we say to Trent?”

 I said, “I definitely think we should show this file to him.”

 Tiffany said, “No, about seeing him tonight with his girlfriend.”

 I stood up and paced. “Oh, that. We shouldn't say anything unless he mentions it first.”

 Tiffany said, “Okay. It would be nice to have a real lead on the murderer.”

 I stopped pacing. “Maybe it's time to get my hands dirty again.”

 Tiffany groaned. “Not another breaking-and-entry.”

 I said, “No, I'm going to see if Cassie at A Place Apart has any more information for me.”

 I called the shelter. I lucked out—Cassie picked up. “Hello, A Place Apart.”

 I said, “Hi Cassie, it's Brigid Tennant. I was in a while ago, looking for information on Preacher John.”

 “Hey, I remember you. How're you doing?”

 I said, “Okay. I was wondering if any of your clients knew Preacher John. I have a couple of questions.”

 Cassie said, “Sure, but you know the rule.”

 I said, “Yeah, I'll come over and help out.”

 She said, “Good girl. Are you bringing college boy with you?”

 I said, “Nope, it'll just be me this time. I'll be there soon.”

 I grabbed my coat. “Tiff, I'll catch up to you later if I find out anything.”

 She said, “K” and wandered out.

Chapter 11

 I biked over to the shelter. Cassie waved me in. “You missed serving dinner, but I saved the dishes for you.”

 I bent to work. It didn't go as fast without Trent. As I started my second stack, I really missed him. The third and fourth stacks made me want to walk out. It took me an hour and a half, but I cleaned all of the dishes.

 Cassie walked in at the end and looked around. “You did good. I have someone for you to talk to.”

 I dried my hands and followed Cassie. She led me to a small room which held a couch with an old blanket wadded up on it, two shelves of books, and a single computer. “This is our library.”

 The blanket on the couch moved. I stepped back before I realized there was a thin man curled up inside the blanket. Cassie said, “This is Karl. He knew Preacher John.”

 She placed a hand gently on Karl's shoulder. “Karl, Brigid is a friend of mine. She would like to ask you a few questions about Preacher John.”

 I kneeled down so my head was level with Karl's. “Did Preacher John have a braid? Native American style?”

 Karl stared at my ear. “Preacher John was a friend of mine. He had a braid—a lovely long braid.”

 I leaned closer. “What happened to it?”

 Karl blinked a couple of times. “He sold it to a man for a bottle and a bill. John could see things, you know. He knew—he knew everything. 'The end is coming,' he used to say. He knew.”

 I said, “What did the man look like?”

 Karl said, “I don't know. Like some tourist with enough money to steal a man's braid.” Karl sank back into the couch and pulled the blanket over his face.

 Cassie patted his arm.  “Thank you for speaking with us.”

 She walked me to the door. “I'm sorry you didn't get to ask more questions. Sometimes Karl has better days.”

 I said, “It's okay, he answered two questions for me. That's better than I get with some of my interviews.”

 Cassie shook my hand. “Thanks again for helping with the dishes. Any time you want a permanent volunteer position, let me know.”

 I took my time biking back to the dorm. So, Preacher John had sold his braid to someone. If I could figure out who, Karl might be able to identify him.

 Back in our lounge, I found Trent hanging out with Tiffany. He was back in his regular clothes. I said, “How was dinner?”

 He smiled. “We had a great time.”

 Tiffany said, “How did your adventure at the shelter go?”

 Trent said, “You went to a homeless shelter?”

 I plopped down into one of the chairs. “Yeah, I went back to A Place Apart. Cassie had me wash dishes, then I spoke with Karl, one of Preacher John's friends.”

 Trent said, “Did you find out anything?”

 I said, “Apparently, Preacher John did have a braid. He sold it to a man.” I looked around, making sure no one was around to overhear. “That man must be the murderer.”

 I heard Trent mutter, “Or he's just some kook.”

 I said, “What?”

 Trent looked up and said, “Nothing.”

#

 The next day, as I rode the 74 downtown with Trent, I pointed across the aisle. “See that girl taking up three seats with her feet and bag?”

 He said, “Yeah.”

 I smiled. “We used to have a dog who would do that. She would stretch out to take up as much of the couch as possible.”

 He said, “It's kind of rude.”

 I shrugged. “It was cute when our dog did it.”

 He said, “Look, one of her earbuds fell out.”

 I suppressed a laugh. “Yeah, she's about as graceful as our dog, too. Think she'd answer to Rover?”

 Trent coughed, but I heard the laughter underneath.

 I hopped off at the art museum. I wandered around, looking at paintings and statues, as they caught my eye.

 I stopped in front of a complex, abstract sculpture. Glancing around, I spotted a viewing bench and sat down.

 I let my eyes wander over the curves and twists. I wondered how long it took to carve the whorls and spirals, not to mention the overall structure.

 With my eyes following the sculpture, I practiced my breathing exercise. The sculpture had such fine detail—the sculptor must have used a jeweler's loupe to carve it.

 As I stared at the piece, one bit looked like a mouth. I concentrated on it, and without thinking, whispered “Mouth”.

 Two circles opened above the mouth, revealing stone eyeballs. One of the eyes winked. The mouth part stretched into a wide grin.

 The eyes and mouth disappeared, and the sculpture was just a sculpture again.

 “What the hell?”

 I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until one of the other patrons shushed me.

 I said, “Sorry. Art moves me.”

 What had happened? I'd been working on my breathing to help control my magic. Had I used my magic to make a mouth and eyes appear, or was it something the artist had done? Or was I just short on sleep and imagining it? If I couldn't even control my magic when I was actually concentrating, I was really in trouble.

 I copied down the name of the artist, Maria Hernandez, and the name of the piece, Cat. Looking at the name of the piece again, I wondered if it had been my subconscious playing tricks on me. Regardless, I'd had enough art for one day.

 Back at the dorm, I tapped on Tiffany's door.

 From inside, Tiffany called, “Entrez-vous.”

 I opened the door.

 She said, “Oh, sorry. I didn't know it was you. I should have said entres-tu.”

 Was it worth it to ask her to explain? Probably not.

 I shut the door. “I just had a weird experience at the art museum.”

 Tiffany's hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh no. Those burritos in the snack bar are bad news. You shouldn't eat them, no matter how hungry you are. Stick to the chips—even the abysmal cooks there can't screw them up.”

 I said, “No, it wasn't that, though after your warning, I'll be sure to skip the burritos. I was exploring the galleries, and I sat down in front of a sculpture. As I studied it, I whispered 'mouth' without thinking. The statue formed eyes and a mouth which smiled at me and faded away.”

 Tiffany sat down on the edge of her bed. “What piece was it?”

 I said, “'Cat' by Maria Hernandez. I was wondering if my subconscious was playing with me.”

 Tiffany's eyes shifted past me, to the ceiling “I hadn't realized they'd let any of her sculptures out...”

 I looked up at her. “What do you mean? Do you know her?”

 There was a knock at the door.

 Tiffany said, “Come in.”

 Kirsten walked into the room. “Hiya.”

 I said, “Hiya. What's up?”

 Kirsten sat on the bed, looking down at her hands. “I'm not sure...”

 I looked over at Tiffany. “Boy trouble.”

 Kirsten glanced up. “How did you know?”

 I shrugged. “Been there, read the book, bought the T-shirt, watched the video on YouTube. So what's the problem?”

 Kirsten sighed. “There's this guy who doesn't even know I exist.”

 I said, “And you want him to notice you?” Kirsten nodded. “That's easy—knock on his door naked, balancing a six-pack on your head.”

 Tiffany straightened up. “Ooo, and paint yourself blue.”

 Kirsten laughed. We joined in.

 Kirsten said, “His name is Randolph.”

 I said, “With a name like that, you might need to beat him over the head with a stick to get his attention.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “No, aim for the ankles. It works better.”

 I said, “Tell us about him.”

 Kirsten played with the buttons on her sweater. “He's shy. I think he's some sort of engineering or science major. I don't know that he's ever seen anything above my shoes—he's always looking down.”

 Tiffany flicked dust off the top of her bookshelf. “Tape a note to your shoes that says 'Hi. Let's have dinner.'”

 I tapped a finger on my nose. “Nope. You need to cook for him.”

 Kirsten said, “Cook?”

 I said, “Not just cook. You need to bake him something.”

 Kirsten said, “I don't know how to cook or bake. I didn't really get along with my mom, and baking was her thing.”

 I opened my notebook and wrote quickly. “Killer brownies. These are the best. Guaranteed to get a guy in bed...er...interest even a shy science major. You can have the recipe. I'll walk you through it the first time. I'm pretty sure I have all the ingredients in my room.”

 I collected the ingredients and cookware from my room, and we went into the floor's kitchen.

 I said, “First we need to get the oven heating up. I wrote 375 degrees, but our cheap oven here has a problem telling temperature, so you need to set it to 350.”

 Kirsten turned the dial.

 I said, “Good. Now we need to make the fudge. You can either use a double boiler or the microwave. Since none of us have any time, we'll nuke the chocolate and butter.”

 Kirsten dumped the chocolate and butter into a bowl.

 I shook my head. “Not together—they have different melting points. Chocolate first, then the butter.”

 A few minutes later, Kirsten poured the last of the melted butter on top of the chocolate in a large mixing bowl.

 I said, “Good. Now mix those together, then add the sugar. Next, we'll sift the flour.”

 Kirsten sifted out a cup of flour and carefully poured it into the bowl.

 I said, “From now on out, you have to be gentle with your stirring. If you don't stir it enough, you'll end up with runny brownies. Too much, and you'll discover the ancient secret of chocolate bricks. Add in four eggs and half a package of chocolate chips.”

 Kirsten said, “Why not a whole package?”

 I said, “Because then the brownies won't hold together properly.”

 When Kirsten was done, I handed her a glass baking dish. “Pour the mixture in there, smoothing it out flat. Put it in the oven for 20 minutes.”

 Kirsten slid the dish into the oven and set the timer. “Thanks. I don't think I could have made these without your help. You were very patient—have you ever thought of teaching?”

 I ducked my head. “I'm not patient, I just can't stand to see brownies ruined. I think the Catholic church classifies ruining brownies as a mortal sin, just after greed.”

 We chatted about boys for a while.

 The timer went off. Kirsten removed the brownies.

 I inspected them. “Excellent. See, this is what they should look like when they're done. They need to cool for fifteen or twenty minutes. You might want to set some aside for Randolph before we eat them all.”

#

 With our busy schedules, it took me three more days to catch a quiet moment with Tiffany. I wondered if she was avoiding me, and if so, why? I finally caught her in her room after class.

 I said, “So, what do you know about Maria Hernandez?”

 Tiffany put down her book. “What makes you think I know her?”

 I said, “I didn't say you know her. I asked what you know of her. I told you about seeing a mouth appear on one of her statues, and you said, 'I hadn't realized they'd let any of her sculptures out.'”

 Tiffany turned her book back and forth. “I don't think I can...”

 I said, “Spill it.”

 Tiffany said, “Promise me—with a real promise, not those instantly-forgotten words you tell your boyfriend about how you think about him all the time—that you won't even hint at what I'm going to tell you, unless you are released from your promise.”

 I said, “Um...” Where the hell did this Tiffany come from? What kind of secret was she hiding? And did I really want to know?

 I took a deep breath. “I swear not to reveal this information unless released from my vow. If I prove false, may the sky open and fall on me, may the ground open and crush me, may the waters rise and drown me.”

 Tiffany cocked her head. “They heard you.” She twirled her hair without saying anything else.

 I said, “So?”

 Tiffany said, “I'm not sure where to begin.”

 I said, “Well, who is Maria Hernandez?”

 Tiffany nodded. “That's a good place to start. She's my great-aunt on my mother's side.” She walked to her closet and pulled out a shoebox. She ruffled through the pictures, then handed one to me.

 I looked at an old back and white photograph. “Wow, this looks old. She's so young and pretty. She must be our age.”

 Tiffany said, “That picture was taken in 1908.” She handed me another picture.

 I said, “Who's this? It looks like Maria, in the old picture, but it's newer. Is it one of her descendants?”

 Tiffany said, “That picture was taken last year. It's Maria.”

 I said, “What?”

 Tiffany pulled out a textbook and flipped through the pages. She held the book out to me, pointing at a painting.

 I looked closely. “It looks like her.” I read the caption under the picture. “1732?”

 Tiffany nodded. “Those are all her. She changed her name a lot.”

 I said, “Oh.” What had I gotten into? I thought I knew Tiffany, but now... “What is she, some kind of daylight vampire?”

 Tiffany looked down. “No. Aerin.”

 I said, “What's Aerin?”

 She said, “Aerin came from somewhere else. They were running from something.”

 I said, “Running?”

 She shrugged. “The legends don't say anything, but I can tell they were running scared.”

 “More great news.”

 She said, “Once upon a time, bad things lived in this world. Really bad things. Take the scariest monsters you remember from fairy tales. Those were the weakest, least scary monsters—the ones the Aerin didn't bother killing. The Aerin killed the really scary monsters. Humans don't have names for them because humans never saw them.”

 I said, “So...how would I know an Aerin if I saw one?”

        “If you put a bunch of them together in a room, they might be slightly taller, slightly better built, slightly fairer than a group of average humans. Of course, you could say the same of Scandinavians.”

 I said, “What's different about being Aerin?”

 “They live a long time, even half-Aerin. They're harder to kill than humans. And over years, they can subtly change shape—become taller or shorter, thinner or fatter. Their original shape was similar to human. They're just a bit taller and fairer now.”

 I sat down slowly. “Can you do magic?”

 Tiffany said, “Some of us can. I'm too young to apprentice, though. My mother said I might be ready in another thirty years.”

 I said, “And you're hiding among us, just like the Tuatha de Daanan in Ireland.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “No, the Tuatha de Daanan made war upon us, once. We won.”

 I swallowed. “Why haven't the Aerin tracked down this sorcerer, then?”

 Tiffany's cheeks turned pink. “I asked. The response was, 'So long as it's humans killing humans, it's no concern of ours.'”

 I narrowed my eyes. “Sounds as if they don't like us very much.”

 Tiffany said, “Pretend there are two factions. I'm simplifying a bit. One faction thinks humans are uneducated, illiterate simpletons who have barely mastered toilet training.”

 I said, “I get it. And the other faction loves humans, right?”

 Tiffany said, “No, the other faction is the one which really dislikes humans.”

 I said, “Oh.”

 Tiffany said, “In reality, there are hundreds of different factions. We have a saying, 'Put an Aerin alone in a room, and soon an argument will break out.'”

 And here I'd thought it was having a medieval English Lit professor for a father that had made her a little off. “Okay, so what can you tell me about the sculpture?”

 Tiffany said, “Her sculptures tend to be magically sensitive. An adept can trigger them. I didn't think any of them were out in public, though. Usually she does commissions for important Aerin.”

 I tapped my pen on my notebook. “How do you stay hidden in the modern age?”

 Tiffany said, “Do you know anyone who's read the entire Federal legal code?”

 I shook my head. “That would be impossible.”

 Tiffany shrugged. “My cousin Fred has memorized it.”

 I said, “Cousin?”

 Tiffany said, “That's what we use for our complicated family relationships. Anyway, my point is: when you live a very long time, many things become possible. After all, I have living relatives who fought in the Revolutionary War. We're good at hiding.”

 I said, “Huh. So why would your...family put a magical statue in an art museum?”

 Tiffany shrugged. “Maybe someone's trying to identify human adepts.”

 I said, “Why would they do that?”

 Tiffany said, “Because they're looking for the murderer. Or they have a bet riding on it. Or they're looking to recruit mages.”

 I said, “Great, and here I thought I was mystified when I didn't know what was going on. Now I'm twice as confused.”

 Tiffany smiled. “Hey, always glad to help out.”

 I chuckled. “So you really do think there's a murderer running around?”

 Tiffany said, “With you seeing ghosts—yeah, I think there's a murderer running around. And it's up to you to stop him.”

 I said, “Us, you know.”

 Tiffany smiled. “Yeah, it's up to us. Anyway, thanks for letting me share my secret with you. It's hard, not being able to tell anyone.”

 I said, “Anytime you want to talk, you know where to find me.” I looked Tiffany over. “You going to be okay?”

 She said, “I'll be fine. Thanks.”

 I walked to the door. “I was thinking of busking in front of the bookstore tonight. D'ya want to come?”

 She said, “Sure.”

 I said, “Okay, be sure to dress for it.”

 That evening, I browsed through my closet. Too trashy. Too boring. Ick, why was that still in my closet?  Hmmm, I wanted to be dramatic.

 I pulled on black spandex tights and a sleeveless black top. Time to hit Accessories Central.

 I knocked on Tiffany's door.

 Tiffany said, “Interesting” when she opened the door.

 I said, “I want to borrow some scarves.”

 “Not black, I take it.” Tiffany took out seven folded scarves. “Allow me.”

 She placed a red scarf around my neck. I watched her knot two blue scarves together, then two green scarves. She dropped these over my head and arms, crossing the scarves in front.

 Tiffany looped two yellow scarves around my ribs and tied them in an intricate knot in front.

 She stepped back and looked me up and down. “Turn.”

 I pivoted.

 Tiffany nodded. “It'll do.”

 I looked in the mirror. “It's striking. I like the knot in front.”

 Tiffany said, “It's Japanese. I picked it up from one of my friends in high school.”

 I raised an eyebrow. “You had friends in high school? First I've heard that you even attended high school.”

 Tiffany said, “I did have friends, believe it or not. I've lost touch with them now.”

 I glanced at her. “With your computer skills, couldn't you track them down?”

 Tiffany shrugged. “I could, but that doesn't mean I want to. We've gone our separate ways.”

 I collected my violin case, and we waited for the elevator. A long whistle from behind us caused me to turn around.

 Kirsten stood there. “You two are sure dressed up. Where's the party?”

 I lifted my violin case. “I'm going busking in front of the University Bookstore on the Ave. Want to come?”

 Kirsten said, “Sure. Don't the owners mind?”

 I said, “They don't care as long as you're good and don't block traffic. It's the best spot, but even so, getting money is a challenge.”

 Kirsten said, “You should let people know you'll be playing.”

 I slapped my forehead. “Of course. I should have put it on my website.” I handed my violin to Tiffany and pulled out my phone. I tapped away for a minute.

 Kirsten said, “Slow elevator.”

 I finished. “Don't worry. It'll show up just when we decide we're not too lazy to walk down.”

 The elevator dinged.

 I smiled. “See?”

 We walked up the Ave to the bookstore, drawing a few looks. Tiffany said, “I told you you look striking.”

 I said, “Yeah, but 'striking' isn't necessarily 'good'.”

 Outside the bookstore, I picked a sheltered corner. I took out my violin and bow, then tossed a handful of bills and change into the case.

 Kirsten said, “What's the money for?”

 I said, “Seed money. It encourages people to toss money in because there's already money there—no one wants to be first. It's cool psychology—it's kind of like anonymous peer pressure.”

 Kirsten said, “Hey, you mean your major might actually be useful?”

 I said, “Shh, not so loud. My parents might hear.” I ran my bow across the strings. “Damned temperature changes.”

 I ran through each string in turn, twisting the tuning pegs gently. After adjusting the fourth string, I tested them once again.

 Nodding, I ran a scale, then pushed my case away from the wall, into the sidewalk. I set a small sign in front of my case.

 Kirsten read it aloud. “'Give please, or I go to law school.' How deliciously wicked you are.”

 I concentrated on the emotions I wanted to project. My fingers knew the pattern, so I let them play. I tried to bring the sadness in the piece out in my performance. The music flowed well.

 I heard the clink of coins striking coins in my case and tipped my head slightly without missing a note. I held the last mournful note and let the silence linger a moment.

 Happy thoughts for the second movement. The music quickened. Allegro, andante, on Donner, on Blitzen. Oops. On concentration.

 I caught brief smiles and nods from college students and busy urbanites walking fast. I rode the music, rising and falling.

 The noise of a vacuous suit yammering on a phone shook me out of the flow. I continued playing, but the emotion wasn't there. I looked at my friends and pointed with my head.

 I heard Kirsten say, “Excuse me. Excuse me.” I heard a yelp and “I'm sorry, I didn't see you standing there, blathering. I was listening to the music.”

 I held in an unprofessional snort as I watched Keith stalk off, limping slightly. I let the music sweep me away as I built to the finale.

 I hit the final note, let it hang, and dropped my bow to my side. I was surprised to see a small crowd around me. They clapped, and a few even tossed money into my case. I bowed.

 I stepped over to Kirsten and Tiffany. “What did you do to little Keithy? Whatever it was, it worked. Figured he'd be rude enough to chat on a cell phone during a concert.”

 Kirsten smiled. “He ignored me, so I accidentally stepped on his toe with my heels.”

 I said, “But you're not wearing much of a heel.”

 She said, “Even a one-inch heel is effective if it's focused on a small enough spot.” She turned her foot sideways to show off her shoe.

 I played for an hour to the ever-changing crowd. I had to keep reminding myself not to look in my case until I was done.

 I finished my last piece and bowed. “Thank you all for stopping and listening. I really appreciate it. Next time I perform, I'll update my site sooner. www.bridgetsudistrict.com. Good night.”

 I picked up my violin case. Wow, I'd made a lot of money. I counted it quickly as I transferred it to my purse.

 I said, “145 dollars. I put in four and change to start, so that's a hundred and forty bucks. Not bad for an hour's work.”

 Kirsten said, “Is the money really that important?”

 I lifted my violin case and headed north. “Well, my parents cover room and board, and send me a little extra every month, but they're strapped for money. I cover everything else. My summer job is enough for tuition and books. The money's important, but it's fun to practice.”

 Tiffany said, “Where are we going?”

 I said, “Dessert. On me.”

 Kirsten opened her mouth.

 I said, “No arguing. You may thank me graciously, if you wish.”

 They laughed.

 At the NeoLogian Cafe, we had to push through the people milling about, talking. I held my case over my head to avoid jostling

 Tiffany said, “I think I see a spot in the back.” She waded on, clearing a path through the crowd.

 I figured it'd be a miracle if she actually found a spot.

 I couldn't see around Tiffany. She stopped for a few moments. When she moved forward again, it was to sit down in one of the three empty chairs in front of us.

 I said, “How do you do that?”

 Tiffany said, “Do what?”

 I said, “Find empty seats in a crowd like this.”

 She said, “Oh. Just lucky, I guess.”

 A waitress walked by. I snatched my case out of the way just in time. When the waitress came back, she pointed at my violin. “You playing that thing tonight?”

 “What, here?” Seeing the waitress' nod, I said, “If you want me to.”

 She pointed. “Stage over there. What do you want?”

 I said, “A slice of apple pie for each of us.”

 After I finished my pie, I pushed my way through to the stage. The stage had barely enough room for a string quartet. I unpacked my violin and tuned it again. I faced the crowd and saw a few curious looks. Mostly, they ignored me. It was time to fix that.

 I launched into my favorite Irish tune, Matt People's Reel. I showed off with my favorite flourishes. Celtic music could be a lot more fun than classical music, with the right crowd.

 The ones closest to me quieted and turned to look.

 I launched into The Butterfly. The noise gradually dropped off. By my third song, the cafe resembled a concert hall. I knew I had them.

 The applause grew louder each time I finished. After a half-hour, I bowed and put my violin away.

 The crowd resumed its usual boisterous routine. I returned to my friends.

 Kirsten said, “You were great. The music was so different from what you played on the Ave.”

 I shrugged. “Different audience, different music. I like Irish music as a break from the rigors of classical music.”

 Our waitress stopped by again.

 I reached for my purse. “What do I owe you?”

 She said, “Nothing. The manager comped the three of you. And he wanted me to give you this.”

 I took the money and unfolded it. “Wow, fifty bucks. Thank you.”

 The waitress smiled. “You earned it. You're good—better than most we get in here.”

Chapter 12

 I awoke the next morning to someone knocking on my door. “Go away, it's too early.”

 Tiffany's muffled voice came from the hallway. “It's only fifteen minutes early. And I brought hot coffee.”

 I opened the door. “Let me see the coffee first.”

 She held up a mug.

 I inhaled the steam. “All right, you can come in.”

 Tiffany surrendered the coffee and closed the door.

 I said, “What's up?”

 She unfolded the morning's Daily.

 I read the headline aloud. “UW Girl Dies in Sleep.”

 I looked up at Tiffany. “What?” I skimmed the article, then whipped out my phone. My fingers pounded the keys.

 I said, “Lance, what's the big idea cutting me out on the story? That's two mysterious death stories you've given to someone else.”

 I listened, then said, “Uh huh. See that it doesn't.” I slammed my phone shut.

 Tiffany said, “What do you think?”

 I said, “Girl dies mysteriously in her sleep. I think it's murderer time again.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “Take another look at her.”

 I did. “Oh shit. That's Candace Miller.”

 Tiffany said, “Guess where Professor Middleton lives?”

 I said, “Ravenna.”

 She nodded. “Got it in one.”

 Caffeine-powered, I switched into clean clothes. “Let's get going. Do you have his address?”

 Tiffany said, “Right here, with a map.”

 We biked up the slow climb to Ravenna. Tiffany stopped her bicycle across the street from a two-story blue cottage with white trim. “That's it.”

 I looked at his house. I calmed my mind and said, “I don't sense anything, but I'm not sure what to look for.”

 Tiffany said, “I think I see a shape moving behind the curtains.”

 I said, “Let's get out of here before he spots us.”

 We grabbed our bikes and peddled hard until we crossed under I-5. I slowed down to cruising pace. “If he saw me, we're sunk. He knows who I am.”

 Tiffany said, “Isn't it nice to finally find the murderer?”

 I said, “I'm not sure. We still have to prove it so the police can take over.”

 Tiffany said, “Do you have anything to get them started?”

 I stopped my bike and reached for my phone.

 “Seattle PD.”

 I said, “Hi, can I speak to detective Transom, please?”

 The voice said, “One moment.”

 He came on the line. “Detective Transom.”

 I said, “Hi, this is Brigid Tennant. I have some information on the Candace Miller case.”

 He said, “You do seem to get around, don't you? What's the information?”

 I took a breath. “She was dating one of her professors, Dr. Middleton, English Lit. A friend and I saw her at the NeoLogian Cafe. They had their hands...”

 “...and tongues” said Tiffany.

 I continued, “...and tongues all over each other.”

 Detective Transom said, “Uh-huh. When was that?”

 I said, “Two weeks ago.”

 He said, “Thank you. I've made a note of it. If you think of anything else,”

 I joined him. “You know how to reach me.”

 He chuckled. “Goodbye.”

 Tiffany said, “What are you going to do now?”

 I said, “I'm definitely not going back to his class. Sitting twenty feet from a mass murderer? Not going to happen.”

 Tiffany said, “If you don't go to class, he'll know something's wrong and come after you.”

 I said, “If I go to class, and he recognizes me, he'll kill me.”

 Tiffany said, “He can't kill you with magic in the classroom—he needs his ritual circle for that. He can't exactly pull out a gun and shoot you without the whole class seeing. This way, you can find out if he suspects anything.”

 I said, “Yeah, if I get a lightning bolt through my brain, I'll know he suspects.”

 Tiffany laughed. “You've been playing too many online games.”

 I said, “Not since I started college. No time.”

 Tiffany said, “And your parents won't support your habit?”

 I said, “That too.”

 We hit campus. I stopped. “I'll check in with you after my last class.”

 Tiffany said, “Later. Have fun, and don't get murdered.”

 I walked into English Lit, working on controlling my breathing.

 Dr. Middleton looked up from his books. “Ah, Miss Tennant. Been biking, have we?”

 I said, “Yes, I have. Why?”

 He said, “Biking is excellent exercise. It brings you closer to death, constantly.” He bent to his books again.

 Did he know or didn't he? I thought about throwing my textbook at him if he tried to cast—maybe it would interrupt his spell. Then I could dive out the window. If I stayed close to the building, he wouldn't be able to get a clear shot at me.

 He said, “Miss Tennant?”

 I jumped in my seat. “Ahh.”

 He nodded. “Contemplating your own mortality, I see. Very good. Miss Swanson, would you read the first passage?”

 I had the nervous energy of a border collie locked outside a sheep pen. I was on edge the entire class.  For some reason, Dr. Middleton didn't call on me.

 When the bell rang, I flew back to my room.

 Tiffany walked in. “Hiya.”

 I said, “Hey. Can you grab Trent? I have a plan.”

 Tiffany said, “Sounds serious. I'll be right back.”

 Trent followed Tiffany into my room. “What's up?”

 I said, “Close the door. We've found the murderer. It's my English Lit professor, Dr. Middleton.”

 He said, “Really? What's the evidence?”

 I said, “Tiffany and I saw him pawing the girl who just died. He's creepy—always talking about death. He lives in Ravenna.”

 Trent said, “That's just circumstantial evidence. Besides, do you really think a professor would murder his student lover?”

 Tiffany said, “Madame Dupris.”

 Trent sighed. “Okay, do you really think two professors would each decide to murder their respective student lovers?”

 I said, “Well, it does sound kinda far-fetched. That's where my plan comes in.”

 Trent said, “As long as it doesn't involve dating him.”

 I said, “Nope, wrong plan.”

 Trent said, “Okay, Oh Great Mistress of Magic. What shall be our plan?”

 I said, “The being of our plan shall be this: one mighty physics student shall go forth and distract the villain whilst the merry maidens shall explore his lair, looking for incriminating evidence.”

 Trent raised an eyebrow. “You want me to talk to Dr. Middleton while you two sneak into his house?”

 I said, “Yeah.”

 Trent shrugged. “Sounds good to me. This time I get to do something that's actually legal. Any ideas for good distractions?”

 I said, “He's into death—Tiffany, do you have any ideas?”

 Tiffany said, “Ask him if he thinks Mallory's view of death is superior to Marlowe's. That should keep him talking for an hour or so. Just throw in an occasional 'uh-huh' or 'I see'.”

 Trent said, “K, I'm set. When do we start?”

 I said, “He has office hours at 2:00. We'll bike up and be in place. Give us a call as soon as you verify he's in his office, and let us know when you finish.”

 Tiffany and I gathered our bike helmets. I tucked tweezers and plastic sandwich bags into my purse. I said, “Remember your gloves.”

 We biked to Ravenna and stopped a couple of blocks from Dr. Middleton's house. I called Trent. “We're in position. Where is he?”

 Trent said, “I don't know. His office door is still closed.”

 I said, “K. Let us know when he arrives.”

 I checked the time on my phone. 1:59.

 At 2:04, Trent called back. “He's here. Go.”

 I led the way. We parked our bikes in back. I tried the back door. “Locked.”

 Tiffany pulled out a hair pin from her pocket and picked the lock.

 I turned the handle, and we entered the kitchen.

 Tiffany looked around. “It's kind of small.”

 I said, “He must not be the chef Madame Dupris is. Let's split up—do you want upstairs or downstairs?”

 She said, “Downstairs.”

 I walked out of the kitchen, down the short hall to the front door. I turned and climbed the stairs. I didn't feel any magic.

 The first room I found was a study. A few occult books were mixed in with the English Lit stuff. Nothing impressive, though.

 I lifted the rug, but there was nothing under it—just bare wood.

 The next room was a bathroom, neat and tidy. I opened the medicine cabinet. I saw a few sprigs of nightshade with berries attached. And I found a condom—ew!

 I shut the cabinet and walked into the last room.

 The final room turned out to be a bedroom, covered in red shag carpet. I thought that had gone out in the 70s.

 I searched carefully but didn't see a circle or ritual items. I found a picture on the nightstand of a younger Dr. Middleton with a woman his age and two young girls.  Hmmm, I'd noticed he didn't wear a wedding ring in class.

 I sighed and returned to the first floor. “Tiffany?”

 She said, “In here.”

 I turned the other way and found Tiffany searching the dining room. “Find anything?”

 She said, “Nope. Did you?”

 I said, “Nada. Maybe there's a basement.”

 Tiffany said, “No, the house is on a slab. There's no room for a basement.”

 I tapped my pen against my notebook. “Then where...”

 Tiffany shushed me. I quieted.

 Tiffany said, “Sirens. Time to go.”

 We ran for the back door. I held the door for Tiffany and flicked the lock as I left. We jumped on our bikes and pedaled off.

 I said, “Slowly. We don't want to look like we're fleeing the scene of a crime.”

 We turned and were across the street and down the block before the police arrived. I said, “Wow, you heard them a long way off.”

 Tiffany said, “My senses are better than human. Not as good as a full-blooded Aerin, though.”

 I said, “So with no ritual circle, it looks like he isn't our murderer. What should we do next?”

 Tiffany said, “I don't know.”

#

 Before Economics started, I chatted with Kirsten. “I was surprised Dr. Middleton didn't react to Candace's death.”

 Kirsten said, “Did he know her?”

 I said, “Not only was she in his class, but I saw him one night all over her.”

 She said, “Weird. And with that French teacher killing your friend...”

 I said, “Yeah, this is turning into the year from hell.”

 From behind me, Dr. Smith said, “Miss Tennant, you wrote the article on Madame Dupris' hearing, did you not?”

 I stiffened, then turned to face him. “I did.”

 He said, “Will you be reporting on the investigation into Candace Miller's death as well?”

 I said, “Unless my adjective-regurgitating editor gives the story to someone else.”

 He nodded. “I see.”

 I said, “Do you know Dr. Middleton well?”

 Dr. Smith tapped his fingers on the table. “Are you asking if he murdered Ms. Miller? I don't know. It's not like we get together and share murder tips.” He chuckled.

 Kirsten and I laughed. “I won't use you as a reference, then.”

 He said, “That is best. Good luck to you.”

 As we sat down, I whispered, “I haven't seen him in this good a mood. I wonder what's up.”

 Kirsten said, “Maybe spring has infected him.”

 After we had settled in our seats, Dr. Smith said, “We're having a pop quiz today.”

 I looked over at Kirsten. “We should have guessed—no wonder he's happy.”

 After I turned in my quiz, I flipped through my notebook while waiting for the rest of the class to finish.

 Kirsten left for her next class, and I wandered back to my room. I caught Tiffany in the hall. “We need to talk.”

 She followed me back to my room and closed the door behind her.

 I said, “We've had three students murdered, and one of your family says time is urgent.”

 Tiffany said, “I bet something big is going to happen before graduation. After that, everyone disappears for the summer.”

 I sat down next to my laptop. “That makes sense. If the murderer is a student, then he will go home. If it's a teacher, then he would have problems finding enough victims with the campus empty.”

 Tiffany said, “So what is our murderer building up to and when will it hit?”

 Absently, I clicked on my email program. My “Teachers” folder highlighted. “One sec.”

 Dr. Savage had sent me a message. “Can you stop by my office today during office hours? I've heard back from Dr. Finster.”

 I checked the time and turned to Tiffany. “I need to run across campus. Dr. Savage wants to see me.”

 Tiffany said, “Are you braving Smith Hall again?”

 I said, “Yeah, but I'm going to give my locater spell one more try.”

 I had half an hour, so I didn't run. However, I did walk briskly. I stepped into the building and ran through my meditation. I concentrated firmly on the number 321. I visualized a glowing arrow pointing at the number and whispered “Find.”

 The arrow led me straight to the elevator. That was a promising sign. I got in and the arrow pointed at button 3. I smiled and pushed the button. The elevator took me to the third floor. Much better than our dorm's flaky elevator.

 I followed the arrow through four turns. It blinked brightly and faded away. To my great surprise, I was standing in front of Dr. Savage's door.

 I knocked and heard “Come in”.

 The office looked much as it had earlier, I thought. Perhaps the stacks of books had grown taller, though. Especially the one on the left.

 At that moment, the pile toppled over. Fortunately, it fell towards the open space near the visitor's chair rather than directly at me.

 Dr. Savage shook his head at the books, then looked up at me. “Ah, Brigid. Please sit down, if you can find a safe way through.”

 I managed to pick my way through the scattered books.

 He said, “Did you have any trouble finding my office this time? I noticed you arrived sans escort.”

 I shook my head. “I came up the elevator and straight here. I didn't even need to backtrack.”

 He leaned back. “Interesting. Perhaps you do have the mind of a mathematician. I haven't met any non-math-majors who have been able to negotiate our corridors in only two trips.”

 Yeah, and how many wizards had you had in here? I said, “You said you had email from Dr. Finster?”

 Dr. Savage said, “Yes. He was pleased with the work you did. I spoke with your psychology advisor, and we've decided to award you one credit of independent math study and two credits of psychology. It won't affect your GPA, but it will count towards graduation.”

 Even better, that would be three credits I wouldn't have to pay for. I really wanted to make it through school debt-free. “Thank you very much.”

 He said, “Not at all. You earned it.”

 I stood up, watching carefully where I set my feet. Outside his office, I re-cast the locating spell, concentrating on leaving.

 The spell reversed my path in, leading me back to the elevator and outside. When my feet were firmly on the ground, I hiked back to the dorm and caught up to Tiffany again. She said, “How'd it go?”

 I said, “My perverse locater spell worked perfectly in Smith. It took me right to my professor's door and right back out again.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “That's bizarre. Why would it work perfectly then and fail on the really important times?”

 I shrugged. “I was hoping you'd have an idea.”

 Tiffany said, “I'll ask around, but trying to get a straight answer from my family is like...trying to get a straight answer from my family.”

 I laughed.

 Tiffany said, “However, I did put all the new and full moon dates between now and graduation on a calendar.”

 I looked over the calendar. I pointed at one date. “Here's one in May on a Sunday. What's going on that day?”

 Tiffany frowned at it, then typed on her computer. “There's a baseball game at Husky Stadium.”

 I looked up at Tiffany, my eyes getting wider. “You don't think he would...”

 Tiffany looked back at me. “...kill thousands of people all at once? Damned straight, I think he'd do it. Either for the infamy from pulling it off or for the power he'd get from all those deaths.”

 I shuddered. I wasn't sure what a murderer would do with that much power.

 Tiffany said, “Then that's our deadline. We need to find the murderer before then.”

 I said, “Any ideas how to do that?”

 Someone knocked on the door. Tiffany said, “Come in.”

 It was Trent, by himself. I said, “Hiya. Close the door.”

 He stepped inside and closed the door. “Working on the murderer again?”

 I said, “Yeah. We think we have a deadline now.”

 He said, “You mean besides the new and full moons? What's up?”

 Tiffany said, “May 24th is a new moon and a baseball game. We think he intends to collapse the stadium.”

 I said, “The really scary part is, what is he planning to do with all of the energy he'll get from those deaths?”

 Trent said, “I think I'll skip that baseball game, at the very least.”

 I shifted feet. “If we haven't found and stopped him by then, we might have to take serious action.”

 Trent said, “Calling Oprah?”

 I said, “No, calling in a bomb threat to clear the stadium.”

 Trent sighed. “You know, I'm adding a section to my resume called 'Major Felonies', just so I can write this stuff down.”

 I chuckled. “We're just adding a little spice to your life. Isn't that what Annette is looking for?”

 Tiffany said, “Oh, low blow.”

 Trent said, “Dropping the stadium could kill 20,000 people.”

 I tapped my pen on my notebook. “He's killed something like 75 people over three years to acquire enough power to do this. Imagine what he would do with that many deaths.”

 Trent swallowed. “Suddenly, finding and stopping him is much higher on my to-do list.”

 Tiffany said, “Should we assume it's someone associated with the UW?”

 I said, “That sounds good to me. Look at all the deaths of students and visitors to campus. Besides, I don't know where else to look.”

 Trent said, “What about Jim? Are you counting him or not?”

 I thought about it. “I guess so. It's possible he was killed by magic. He certainly overheard something he shouldn't have. Maybe the murderer framed Madame Dupris.”

 Tiffany shook her head. “Oh, please, no. I so want her to be guilty.”

 I stared at her.

 Finally, she said, “Okay, to help locate the sorcerer, I will speculate that she didn't kill him.”

 She spun around and started typing. “There's 45,000 students, 2000 faculty, and 3000 staff.”

 Trent said, “We should check it with your death database and see if we can eliminate anyone.”

 I ran to my room and stuck the database on a thumb drive. I returned to Tiffany's room and handed it to her.

 She loaded it up, then her fingers started dancing again. I alternated between peering over her shoulder and staring at the clock. I tried not to say anything so I wouldn't disturb her. Instead, Trent and I engaged in a silly-face war. We alternated making silly faces at each other. I won—I got Trent to break into laughter first.

 Tiffany ignored us. While I was thinking of a new game, she turned around.

 “Done.”

 I leaned over her chair. “Cool. How many suspects do we have?”

 “Taking account of class and work schedules, and limiting it to Ravenna gives us 252 suspects.”

 I shook my head. “We can't investigate that many.”

 Tiffany said, “It's even worse than that. Time of death has a range associated with it. So, the murderer could have killed someone and rushed to class. Or they could have missed a few classes. Spread out over a year's worth of classes, no one would notice.”

 Trent said, “Plus, that might not even include our murderer.”

 I stood up. “I'm done for now. I'll catch you later.”

 I walked back to my room and took out my violin. I held it in front of me, then concentrated on the strings. I visualized them glowing with light. When I had the image the way I wanted, I whispered “Light”.

 The strings began to glow. I flicked off the overhead light. The light from the strings made patterns on the ceiling.

 I ran through my scales to warm up. I could see the shadow of my fingers and the bow on the ceiling. I wondered if the lighted strings would help me earn extra money busking.

 I ran through some Irish tunes to relax. I hadn't realized how stressful hunting down a murderer could be.

 Hmmm, did magic glowing violin trump gorgeous, brilliant physics grad student? I sped up. The music helped. I could feel the back of my neck unknotting.

 A knock interrupted me as I was running through The Unfortunate Rake. I sighed and put my bow down. All these interruptions were like the rain in Seattle—constant and depressing.

 I said, “Come in.”

 The door opened and Kirsten came in. “Hiya. That was cool music you were playing.”

 I smiled. Kirsten's cheerfulness was contagious. “Thanks. I play Irish music for myself.”

 Kirsten looked at my violin. “What's up with the lighted strings?”

 Oh shit. “Just something I cooked up for busking. Think it will attract attention?”

 Kirsten said, “It's cool.”

 I pretended to fiddle with something on my violin and dropped the spell. I quickly packed away my violin—I didn't want Kirsten investigating the strings. I tried to divert her. “How did the brownies go? Was Randolph impressed?”

 Kirsten beamed. I didn't know how she stayed so bubbly. “Randolph was suitably impressed. We talked for hours.” She paused a moment. “Well, I talked for hours, but I heard him say more words than I've heard from him all quarter. We have another date tomorrow.”

 Everyone except me had a date. “Very cool. Sounds like things are going well.”

 She said, “We'll see. When I finally worked a kiss out of him, I found out he's actually pretty good.”

 I said, “Yeah, you never know about those quiet ones.”

 I wondered if our serial killer was one of those quiet types. I kept my mouth shut, though. I didn't want to upset Kirsten, and she wasn't in on our murder investigation.

 After she left, I pulled out my violin case again. I concentrated on lights and whispered “Light”. The only lights I saw were bright ones in front of my eyes. It hurt so much I barely managed to set my violin down. I closed my eyes and dropped onto my bed.

Chapter 13

 The next day, Tiffany caught up to me after class. “Hey, I have a trip for us.”

 We strolled across campus. I said, “Where are we going?”

 Tiffany said, “To meet some of my mother's family.”

 I nodded. “Oh.” Then it sunk in. “Oh, wow. Where are we going, Ireland?”

 She laughed. “No, silly. We're going to Ballard.”

 I raised an eyebrow. “Ballard? That's the last place I'd expect to find your family.”

 Tiffany said, “I know, which is why it's the perfect place to meet.”

 We dropped our books in our rooms. I made sure I had extra pens and my notebook—I wanted to take careful notes.

 I said, “I'm ready.”

 Tiffany led me down to the bus stop. I looked around, but we boarded an ordinary bus—not the dragon I'd half expected.

 There was something about Ballard. I could always tell when I crossed over—everything was so tidy. Must have been the Scandinavian influence.

 I think the rows of identical houses must have caused me to zone out. Tiffany tapped me on the arm. “This is our stop.”

 I looked around as we got off the bus, but I didn't know exactly where we were. I didn't see any signs for the side street we walked down. Tiffany stopped down the block in front of a house. “We're here.”

 I glanced at the house. “Doesn't look like much.”

 Tiffany said, “Turn around.”

 I obediently faced the other side of the street.

 Tiffany said, “What color is the house?”

 I said, “It's...I don't remember.”

 Tiffany said, “Turn around again.”

 I faced the house. “It's green.”

 Tiffany said, “You'll forget which house it is by the time you walk to the end of the block. I don't know how they do it, but I know it works.”

 I said, “Wow.” Tiffany had a new air about her. It was like when a guy introduced me to his parents, but more intense. “Was it your idea to bring me here?”

 Tiffany said, “Not exactly.”

 She took a deep breath and marched up to the front door. What else could I have done? I trailed along, feeling like a new puppy being dragged by an eager child to meet mom.

 Tiffany rapped on the door. It swung open.

 I followed her in. Inside was a perfectly ordinary middle-class foyer. No runes, no mysterious flickering lights. There was even the typical middle-aged graying housewife.

 I smiled and held out my hand. “Hi. I'm Brigid Tennant, and you must be...”

 The housewife cut me off. “Child, you stink of magic.”

 I planted my hands on my hips and rose up to my full 5'4”. “Madam, I am not a child. I am twenty years old. I have traveled the world. I've been to Ireland and seen the tombs at Newgrange.”

 Her eyes seemed to soften for a moment. “Newgrange. I remember the tombs.”

 I said, “You've been there, you've seen them?”

 She narrowed her eyes. “Girl, I learned the builders' language when first they arrived in Eirinn. Come.”

 She turned and walked off.

 I glanced at Tiffany. She shrugged and followed.

 I sighed and walked down the hallway.

 Plain house, plain staircase, plain wallpaper, ancient psycho inhabitant. Wonderful.

 I walked down the hall. It was longer than I'd expected. A lot longer. I glanced over my shoulder. “Holy shit, the house is gone.” All I saw behind me was a forest with a path winding through it.

 Tiffany grabbed my arm and dragged me forward. “Trust me, you do not want to go wandering in these woods.”

 I looked forward and was back in the long, long hallway. “Lions and tigers and bears, huh?”

 Tiffany shook her head. “No. Things which consider lions and bears snacks.”

 I said, “Oh” and managed to resist the temptation to look back again. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising up to put space between me and it. I walked faster.

 Just as I was about to ask how much further (without the Papa Smurf reference), we stopped.

 Our guide said, “Behold” and beckoned us through a doorway.

 I stepped through, not sure what to expect. The open glade wasn't a complete surprise—I'd seen the woods behind us already. I didn't see any sign of the house.

 The guy in front of us was hot, even though he looked like he was thirty. He had black hair swept back in a spiky anime style. He moved as smooth as the morning sun climbing over the hills.

 That's when I noticed the bodyguards standing on both sides of him. I'm not sure how I missed them with the swords at their sides.

 I said, “Um.”

 Tiffany saved me. I didn't think hitting on an Aerin would have been a good idea, tempting though it was.

 “Lord Cadwin. May I introduce my friend, Brigid Isis Astarte Tennant.”

 Hmmm, I didn't know Tiffany knew my full name. Guess it was formal time. “Your Hi...”

 Tiffany mouthed “Grace”

 “...Grace. I am pleased to meet you.”

 He chuckled. “Then clearly you don't know me. Which is as it should be.”

 I tried to curtsy. It didn't go so well, but at least I didn't trip. “Why did you want to see me?”

 Lord Cadwin nodded. “Bold. I like that. Anyway, you have a problem.”

 I said, “The murdering sorcerer.”

 He said, “Exactly. We are currently forbidden to kill humans. I hope to have this restriction removed. If you fail to stop this sorcerer by the next full moon, it will be.”

 I said, “Why are you telling me this? It sounds like you want me to fail.”

 He grinned, showing lots of teeth. Somehow, it wasn't a reassuring look. “I do want you to fail. But I was instructed to warn you. Which I have.”

 Okay, he was so not attractive now. No way was I going out on a date with him. I said, “Why do you think the sorcerer is human? Couldn't it be an Aerin?”

 He snorted. “Impossible. The magic is too crude to be Aerin.”

 I said, “What if it was an Aerin making it look like human magic?”

 He shook his head, but our guide looked thoughtful. I wasn't sure if I'd made a good point or not, but Cadwin's attitude pissed me off.

 He waved his hand, obviously dismissing us. “Leave now.”

 Our guide led us down a path in the woods. I stepped between two trees and found myself back in the foyer. I spun around, but it was all house, no forest. “What the hell?”

 The housewife opened the door for us. “You go now.”

 I said, “I didn't catch your name.”

 She laughed. “No, you did not. Cadwin is right—you are bold. Or foolish. It matters not to me.” She looked me up and down. “So be it, child. My name is Amelie.”

 I dipped my head. “Despite what he thinks, we will stop the sorcerer.”

 Amelie tilted her head and looked through me. “Perhaps. If so, maybe we talk again.”

 Tiffany took my hand and gently drew me out of the house. I followed her out and down the block.

 I said, “That was odd.”

 Tiffany said, “You're just lucky the ban on killing is in place. It doesn't forbid all killings, but there must be sufficient justification.”

 I said, “Great, so if we screw up, Cadwin gets to go on a murder spree? Like I don't have enough stress already.”

 Tiffany said, “Well, it's not a guarantee the ban would be lifted, but it would strengthen Cadwin's arguments that we can't be trusted to police ourselves.”

 We boarded a bus back to the U-district. I entertained the thought of adding “Visit Ballard—home of powerful Aerin” to my website, but despite what my parents thought of my actions, I wasn't truly suicidal. I was just unlucky sometimes.

 Tiffany was being quieter than usual. I put my hand on her arm. “You okay, Tiff?”

 She nodded slowly. “I guess so.”

 I said, “He was kind of like an older version of Keith-baby.”

 Tiffany giggled. “Yeah, I can just see a blond bimbo hanging off his arm.”

 Tiffany leaned close, so no one could hear. “But remember, you can't tell Trent or anyone about him or our visit, unless you're released by a full Aerin.”

 The trip home seemed much shorter than the trip out. Back at the dorms, I found Trent outside my room, quivering with excitement. As soon as we were inside my room with the door closed, he said, “I have an idea. By the way, where were you?”

 I said, “Shopping.” For some reason, he bought it.

 Trent was almost bouncing in place. I hadn't seen him this excited in the year and a half I'd known him. I said, “Okay, what's your plan?”

 Trent hiked us up to where we'd discovered Preacher John's body. When we arrived, he pulled out a plastic thingie. He said, “This is our secret weapon.”

 I glanced at it. “What is it? It doesn't look like any kind of magical apparatus I'm familiar with.”

 Trent grinned. “Nope, it's an orienteering compass.”

 Tiffany said, “Oh no, don't tell us you were a Boy Scout.”

 Trent said, “Yep. That's where I learned the power of fire.”

 I said, “You mean where you became a pyromaniac?”

 He waved his hand. “Same thing. Brigid, do you think you can create a beam of light pointing at the circle which was used to kill Preacher John?”

 I shrugged. “I can try.” I concentrated. A beam of light was easy, it was the pointing at the circle which was hard to visualize.

 Finally, I whispered “Light”.

 A beam of light shot out, pointing towards what I thought was Ravenna.

 Trent aligned his compass, then wrote some numbers in a notebook. Then he pulled out an electronic device.

 I pointed at it. “What's that?”

 He said, “A GPS unit. I'll need the coordinates to help calculate a location for the circle.” He wrote in his notebook again.

 The next stop was Red Square. With both Trent and I helping each other, we figured out where Allyson had died. I closed my eyes and concentrated again. “Light”. A beam of light appeared.

 Trent took his readings. “Got it. The next stop is downtown at the Science Center.”

 I pointed to the cafe next to Odegaard. “Caffeine first.”

 We grabbed our caffeine of choice and walked back to catch a bus in front of the dorms.

 We didn't have to wait very long—one of the advantages of living in Terry is how easy it is to go downtown.

 I said, “How are we getting into the lecture hall?”

 Trent said, “Leave that to me.”

 He didn't give us any details as we rode downtown, so I rested my head against the window. Looking out over the water was one of my favorite views ever.

 Soon enough, we were at the science center, talking to someone from maintenance.

 Trent said, “Hey, my professor wants to do a demonstration in the big lecture hall, but he needs precise measurements of the stage. Could you let us in? It shouldn't take more than ten minutes or so.”

 Trent was so smooth, he could have become a politician if he ever turned to the dark side.

 The maintenance man said, “Sure, the hall's empty right now. We don't have any lectures coming in for a bit.”

 He took us to the hall and let us in. “I'm going on a smoke break—I have to go at least ten feet from the building. Damn rules. Let me know when you're done, or I'll check on you after my break.”

 Trent said, “Thanks” and we all filed in.

 I stared at the stage. “This is creepy. Simon died up there.”

 Tiffany patted my hand. “It will be all right. We'll be up there with you.”

 I took a deep breath, then marched forward. I remembered the stairs on both sides of the stage—the thin-fingered doctor had used them.

 We climbed the stairs. Tiffany put her hand in the small of my back to help me up.

 Trent said, “I think this is where he was standing.”

 I concentrated and whispered “Light”. A beam of light shot out.

 Trent said, “Got it.”

 It felt like someone had stuck a concert amp in my skull and turned it up to 11. I dropped to my knees in pain.

 Tiffany said, “Oh my god. Brigid, what's wrong?”

 Trent said, “Is it a magic headache?”

 Tiffany said, “Brigid, drop the spell.”

 I couldn't do anything. I didn't know how I was even holding onto the spell in the first place.

 Tiffany rummaged in her purse and pulled out a compact. She opened it and angled the mirror to bounce the light up.

 The instant she deflected the light, the pain stopped. I dropped the spell.

 We looked at each other. Trent said, “What the hell was that?”

 I said, “I don't know, but I'm freaked out now. Let's get out of here.”

 We were quiet on the ride back to the dorm.

 At the dorm, Trent said, “Let's go to my room and see if we can get anything out of this data.”

 Up in his room, he said, “First I need to account for the difference between true north and magnetic north.”

 He typed some numbers into a program and copied the results.

 He said, “Now we take the locations and use the corrected compass readings to generate vectors.”

 I watched him pull up a map of Seattle. He punched in the three locations and directions, and three blue lines appeared.

 Trent zoomed in. “Look, they almost converge. And they are in Ravenna—hmmm, looks like they're a little north of the point we picked out earlier.”

 I said, “Why don't they all intersect at the same point?”

 Trent said, “Measurement errors. Over the distances involved, we can't be precise enough to get an exact convergence.”

 I said, “So what's the possible range, then?”

 Trent turned back to the computer and leaned his chin on his hand.

 Tiffany said, “Why aren't you doing anything?”

 He said, “Hang on, I'm thinking it through.”

 I checked my phone, so I knew it took six minutes before he started typing and using the mouse.

 He said, “Okay, we take the intersections and find the centroid. Then we find the maximum distance to the intersections, then add an error range to that...then throw up a circle around the centroid. Ta-da!”

 He leaned back. I looked at the screen and saw a red circle surrounding the intersections.

 I said, “Very impressive. How far across is that?”

 He looked at the circle and moved the mouse. “Only one kilometer.”

 I said, “How large an area is that in normal-person units?”

 He said, “Uh, a little over a quarter of a square mile.”

 I shook my head. “So close, and yet so far.”

 Tiffany said, “Email me the data, and I'll compare it to my list of suspects. At the very least, maybe we can knock off a couple more.” Tiffany turned to me. “What happened to you at the lecture hall? Was it another one of your magic headaches?”

 I shrugged. I didn't really want to talk about it. “Just too much magic, I guess.”

 Trent said, “But you recovered right away. The other times, you've been out of it for hours.”

 I said, “Maybe I'm building up a tolerance for it. Or I'm just learning to recover faster.”

 Tiffany said, “I'm not so sure. I wouldn't have thought you'd be able to continue a spell with a migraine.”

 I paced. “It wasn't like the other headaches. It came on after the spell started working, for one thing. It also hurt a lot more, but it wasn't a big sensory overload. It was just pain. And I didn't really feel the spell until Tiffany interrupted the light.”

 Tiffany said, “What if...what if it wasn't a headache at all? What if the murderer felt you probing and responded?”

 I said, “Oh shit, Tiffany. What do I do?”

 Trent said, “Do you think he knows who you are?”

 I said, “I don't know. It's not like this even would have worked a couple of months ago. I'm not sure what to expect.”

 Tiffany said, “Well, he doesn't have a material link to you.”

 Trent said, “That we know of.”

 I said, “Thanks. My guess is, he wouldn't be able to figure out who I was from the spell.”

 Trent said, “At least you don't have to worry about pretending not to recognize him if you run into him on campus.”

 Tiffany said, “You might want to be cautious about using magic on campus, though. Especially now—he may be watching for a mage.”

 I didn't mean to, but I looked over my shoulder. I shook my head. There was no way the murderer would be standing in Trent's room. I was getting jumpy. Not good. I needed to spot the real bad guy and not be distracted by my subconscious

 The joys of being a psych major.

 I yawned. “My brain is fried. Let's take a break.”

 Tiffany said, “Sounds good. Are you going to Madame Dupris' hearing tomorrow?”

 I said, “Yeah. It should be interesting. Want to tag along?”

 Tiffany said, “Sure.”

#

 I collected Tiffany after breakfast, and we caught a bus downtown. We waited in line to get into the courthouse.

 As we got close, I watched the people in front of us sending their bags through an X-ray machine and walking through a metal detector.

 I checked my pockets and made sure my keys and change were in my purse. I saw Tiffany doing the same.

 I set my purse on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector with no beeps. I collected my purse and waited for Tiffany. We walked over to the building information officer.

 He said, “May I help you?”

 I said, “We're looking for Madame Dupris' hearing.”

 His hand quivered as he looked up the information. “Room 302. Elevators are that way.” He pointed off to the left.

 I said, “Thank you” and we walked over to the elevators. When we reached the third floor, a couple of guys were hanging out outside room 302.

 I walked up to them and said, “Hi. I'm Brigid Tennant, a reporter for The Daily.”

 One of the men stuck out his hand. “Bob Harley, Seattle Times.”

 The other man said, “Tom Fenester, Post-Intelligencer.” He looked us over, then said, “The Daily, huh? Too bad you don't work for a real newspaper.”

 I smiled sweetly. “You said you work at the Post-Intelligencer? Isn't that a spam-advertising site? We don't have any of that. We just have reporters, editors, and, oh yeah, news.”

 He stomped off.

 Tiffany laughed.

 Bob chuckled. “Good for you. I've always thought he was pompous. I just never found a good enough line to get rid of him. Times like these, we journalists need to stick together.”

 I said, “Yeah, I've dealt with jerks like him before.”

 A bailiff opened the door and we all entered. Tiffany and I sat in the very back.

 I took a good look at Madame Dupris as she was brought in. She wore an elegant black suit, a white scarf, and sunglasses. Her long black hair was wrapped in the scarf.

 At that moment, the judge walked in. A bailiff said, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Turner.”

 The judge said, “This is a preliminary hearing to determine whether or not Jacqueline Dupris should be arraigned in the matter of the death of Jim Monaghan.” He proceeded to set out the rules for his court. I tuned out while the legal terminology zinged around. The DA and Michael Stackton both nodded as the judge spoke. At the end, the judge said, “Are there any questions?”

 They both said, “No, Your Honor.”

 The judge said, “Good. Let's talk about scheduling.”

 The DA spoke first. “We have the forensics reports back. We'll be ready to start jury selection in six weeks.”

 I noticed Cassie Ferguson sitting in the second row. What was she doing here?

 The judge said, “Mr. Stackton?”

 Michael stood up. “Your Honor, my client is ready and willing to defend her innocence. We will be ready for jury selection by then.”

 The judge said, “Very good. How long do you expect the trial will take?”

 The DA said, “Four days.”

 Michael said, “I concur.”

 My head started hurting. I whispered to Tiffany, “Crap, my head's starting to hurt a bit, and I haven't even done any magic today.”

 She whispered back, “Want an aspirin?”

 I shook my head slowly. “Wait a minute, the pain varies when I move my head.” I turned it slowly back and forth. “It hurts most when I'm pointing this way.”

 Tiffany glanced over. “There's nothing up there but an empty chair.”

 I whispered, “I wonder...” I concentrated on forming the air in front of me into a lens. Hanging out with a physics major seemed to be rubbing off on me. When I had the image ready in my mind, I whispered “Lens”.

 A magnified image of the chair appeared in front of me. I saw a vague outline of a person sitting in the chair. I couldn't make out any details.

 The figure's head started to turn, and I dropped the spell and leaned over to Tiffany. “There's someone sitting in that chair, wrapped in some sort of invisibility spell.”

 Tiffany whispered, “Oh shit.”

 The judge banged his gavel, and we both jumped. The judge said, “So ordered. The trial is set for May 25-28. You are all dismissed.”

 I said, “Let's get out of here.”

 Tiffany said, “Should we discuss it?”

 I shook my head. “Back at the dorm.”

 When we reached the dorm, I led the way to Trent's room. The door was half-open, so I marched in. “Trent, we need to talk.”

 That's when I noticed he was locking lips with Annette. They broke apart after our oh-so-subtle entrance. Annette said, “What's the idea?”

 I pointed at the door. “Trent left his door half-open. I suggest closing it next time.”

 I grabbed one of Trent's arms. Tiffany got his other one. I said, “Sorry, we have to borrow Trent. Official residence hall business. You can have him back in a couple of minutes.”

 We dragged Trent to my room, ignoring his protests. I carefully closed and locked my door.

 Trent said, “This is about the murderer, isn't it?”

 I said, “Yeah, how'd you know?”

 Trent said, “Because if it had been anything else, there would have been a brand new murder, right here.”

 Tiffany said, “Ooo, you're so cute when you're angry.”

 I said, “We went to Madame Dupris' preliminary hearing. No big surprises on that front. Her trial is in a month and a half. Towards the end of the hearing, though, I started getting a headache.”

 Trent sat down. “One of your magic headaches?”

 I said, “Similar, but I hadn't done any magic. I figured out the pain varied depending on which way my head was turned, so I found the direction which hurt the most.”

 Trent said, “Interesting. Personally, I would have tried for the direction which hurt the least.”

 I said, “Anyway, the only thing in that direction was an empty chair up front. I created a magnifying lens out of air. I saw the blurred, faint outline of someone sitting in the chair.”

 Trent leaned forward. “Wow. Do you think that's our murderer?”

 I said, “I think so. Whoever it was started to look around, so I dropped the spell and made myself look inconspicuous. I think he tried to frame Madame Dupris and was attending the hearing to nudge things along if necessary.”

 Trent nodded. “I like the air lens—it sounds like a cool trick.” He rested his chin on his hand. “I don't have anything useful to add.”

 Tiffany said, “Think on it, and we'll catch up to you later.”

 I said, “Yeah, you should get back to Ms. Einstein.”

 Trent bounced up. “K, see you later.” He unlocked the door and walked out.

#

 I paid attention to my head for the next two days, but I didn't feel any more headaches. As Trent and I walked to class, I said, “The good news is I haven't seen any invisible murderers.”

 Trent said, “You can thank your optometrist and your psychiatrist.”

 I said, “I don't have a psychiatrist.”

 He said, “Oh.”

 I slapped him on the arm. He chuckled. He had to be a closet masochist. I read about them in Abnormal Psych. Masochists and mathematicians.

 Trent pointed in the sky. “Look at that!”

 I looked up. “What?”

 He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I think it's...the sun.”

 I said, “Great, I'm worried about a murderer...”

 He said, “Just trying to take your mind off it. You'll come up with better ideas if you're not constantly worrying.”

 I said, “How would you know?”

 He shrugged. “The best physicists don't worry excessively. That's how they get their insights. And it's why they love practical jokes. Nonlinear thinking really helps when you're trying to understand the universe.”

 I shook my head. “Sometimes I forget you're a physics major, and then you go and remind me.”

 He pretend to tip a hat to me. “All part of the service, ma'am.”

 I giggled. “You sounded Texan there.”

 He paused a moment. “Well, I do visit my dad down there occasionally, but I don't really have the accent.”

 I said, “What's it like? I've never been to the South.”

 He was quiet as we walked into Red Square. As we passed Kane, he said, “When I step outside on a warm night, one breath tells me I'm in Texas. The heavy still air, the crickets, are all Texas.”

 I was a little off in my classes, but then I was always a little off in my classes. In Economics, Kirsten said, “Are you okay?”

 I said, “Yeah, just ready for summer vacation to get here.”

 She smiled. “Tell me about it.”

 I almost did tell her about the trial and magic, but I stopped myself. I didn't really know her well enough. I still remembered the reactions I got when I talked about magic in middle school.

Chapter 14

 I realized I'd never gotten hold of Cassie to ask her why she was at Madame Dupris' arraignment. Something about the invisible person had driven it out of my mind. I decided to try her after class.

 I tapped my pen on my notebook until Dr. Smith collected the last of the quizzes. I took notes distractedly during his lecture.

 After class, I found a quiet spot in the hallway. “Just a sec, Kirsten. I want to follow up on something from Madame Dupris' hearing.”

 I called the shelter.

 “Hello, this is A Place Apart. Olivia speaking.”

 I said, “Is Cassie there?”

 Olivia said, “She's here. Let me see if she can spring free. Can I tell her who's calling?”

 I said, “Tell her it's Brigid.”

 I waited at least a minute.

 A voice said, “Hi Brigid, it's Cassie.”

 I said, “Hey. I just have a quick question. I'm covering Madame Dupris' case for The Daily, and I was wondering what your relationship is to her. I saw you at her arraignment.”

 Cassie said, “I'm not interested in being part of a story. Well, not for that, anyway. If you want to do a story on the shelter to help raise awareness, that'd be great.”

 I said, “That's a really good idea. I'll pitch it to my editor. But I'm not looking for quotes—I'm just trying to find out more about Madame Dupris and why she would...it was one of my friends that she...I'd just like to try to understand, is all.”

 I waited through the silence.

 Cassie sighed. “Jacqueline was a friend of my father's after my mother died. She didn't come over very often, and her visits trickled off over time. Until the hearing, I hadn't seen her since before I moved out.”

 I said, “I see. Who is your father, by the way?”

 She said, “Oh, he's a professor of economics at UW. His name is Nathan Smith.”

 Oh shit, Dr. Smith.

 I tried to keep my voice under control. “Do you have any idea why Madame Dupris might have murdered Jim?”

 She said, “Sorry, not a clue. I didn't know her that well.”

 I said, “Did she seem like the violent type?”

 Cassie said, “Not to me.”

 I said, “Well, thanks for chatting with me.”

 She said, “Let me know if you want to do an article on the shelter. It's really hard getting people to care about the homeless, and it's even harder to get them to actually do anything about it. Any time we can get in the paper, it's a big help. We always get more donations.”

 I put my phone away and walked down the hallway.

 Kirsten touched me lightly on the shoulder. I jumped—I'd forgotten she was there.

 Kirsten said, “Does it still hurt, missing Jim?”

 I said, “Yeah. I wasn't close to him, but I think we might have ended up as friends. Maybe he would have become more social. I didn't even realize he was the secretary for the Students for a Green Earth until I'd attended several meetings. He just sort of faded into the background.”

 I waved goodbye to Kirsten and headed back to the dorm. Stepping off the elevator, I turned towards Tiffany's room.

 I knocked on the door.

 Tiffany called out “Come in.”

 I stepped inside and shut the door. “Do you have any idea why our murderer might be killing people?”

 Tiffany said, “Funny you should ask. I just got off the phone with one of my relatives. I told him a little about our mystery. He said, 'Someone is gathering power—a lot of power. With that much power, a sorcerer could do a lot of damage.'”

 I said, “More great news.”

 Tiffany said, “Is something wrong?”

 I said, “I found out that Cassie's father knows Madame Dupris. Her father is Dr. Smith, my bastard Economics professor.”

 Tiffany put her hand to her mouth. “Do you think he's the killer?”

 I shrugged. “We seem to be on a Professor theme—Madame Dupris, Dr. Middleton, Dr. Smith.”

 Tiffany pulled out her phone. “We need Trent, if only so we can tease him about his latest fashion faux pas.”

 Trent knocked on the door a few moments later.

 We said, “Come in” together.

 Trent said, “Hey, what's up?”

 Tiffany sat down and crossed her legs. “Have a seat. Brigid has a new murderer for us.”

 Trent sat down and raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

 I shifted back and forth. “I think it might be Dr. Smith, my economics professor.”

 Trent said, “Remind me not to share any classes with either of you. Accusing him of murder is certainly one way to avoid a test, but it does seem kind of extreme...”

 I said, “He's Cassie Ferguson's father. He knows Madame Dupris. If he was the murderer, he could have been at the courtroom. He could have been that invisible person.”

 Trent said, “Do you have any actual evidence? Anything you could, oh, I dunno, give to the police?”

 I shook my head.

 Tiffany said, “What about the other people who died? Did he have any links with them?”

 I said, “He knew Harvey Thomas. At a Students for a Green Earth lecture, someone told me he and Harvey Thomas worked really well together.”

 Tiffany said, “Do you have any idea how he could have killed Harvey?”

 I said, “Oh, I remember now. He exchanged Harvey's water glass for a full one. If he kept it, he would have had some of Harvey's saliva as a link.”

 Trent said, “It didn't look suspicious at the time?”

 I said, “No, he was smooth. If I didn't notice anything unusual, I doubt anyone else did either.”

 Trent ran his hand through his hair. “It doesn't make sense, though. We know Dr. Smith is a rabid environmentalist, and he was friends with Harvey. Why would he kill a prominent green activist?”

 I chewed on the end of my pen. “That's a good point, and I don't have an answer for it. He did have the opportunity, and if he saved that water glass, he had the means as well.”

 Tiffany said, “Maybe he was jealous of Harvey's success. With Harvey gone, Dr. Smith could become the new leader of the green movement in Seattle.”

 I said, “As far as I know, he hasn't taken advantage of Harvey's death to promote himself. I haven't seen him in the newspapers.”

 Trent said, “You read papers besides The Daily?”

 I said, “Yeah, I like to keep up on our competition.”

 Trent nodded. “I'm sure the Times and Post-Intelligencer consider The Daily to be their competition.”

 My pillow caught Trent in the side of the head. Tiffany laughed and grabbed a pillow. For a few minutes, we had a nice three-way pillow fight.

 Laughing and breathing hard, we settled back into our seats. I said, “Tiffany, can you find out where Dr. Smith lives?”

 Tiffany opened her laptop and typed away. “Wow. You're not going to believe this. Not only does he live in Ravenna, he's only six blocks from Dr. Middleton's house.”

 I walked over. She had it up in Street View. “Two-story. Nice. Is there a coffee shop nearby we could use as cover? I'd like to see his house.”

 Tiffany tapped the keys. “Here we are. Coffee Land. I think you'll be able to see his house from there.”

 I said, “Right. Let's get going. Trent can drive.”

 Trent groaned. “Not more breaking and entering.”

 I grinned. “Nope, this time we're doing something much safer: casing the house of a potential murdering sorcerer.”

 Trent stood up. “Thanks, that makes me feel much better.”

 I dropped my backpack off in my room and waited with Tiffany while Trent collected his coat from his room.

 Trent walked up, tossing his keys in the air. “Ready to go?” He missed a catch and bent down to retrieve his keys.

 I said, “More ready than you, apparently.”

 Trent grumbled as he straightened up.

 I smiled and followed Tiffany and Trent down to his car. Trent unlocked the door. “Should I wait in the car with the engine running?”

 I climbed into the passenger seat. “Don't be silly. You should come inside and have a latte smoothie with us.”

 Trent slid behind the wheel. “Grande double mocha.”

 I waved a hand at him. “Whatever.”

 Tiffany said, “One of these days, Brigid, we're going to get you to convert.”

 Muttering under his breath, Trent backed his car out and headed north.

 I waited until we had cleared the northern border of the U-district and with it, the worst of the traffic. “So, Trent, when are you going to teach Tiffany how to drive?”

 Trent swerved and recovered. “What?”

 I said, “Sorry, just trying to take your mind off the possibility of imminent unavoidable death at the hands of a psycho murdering sorcerer.” I glanced over at him. “You know, you should sell your car. Driving always seems to make you so tense.”

 I checked my watch when we arrived in Ravenna. “Even with stop lights, that was faster than biking, by ten minutes or so.”

 Trent said, “This way you can actually enjoy your drink instead of gasping for air.”

 I climbed out of the car and turned around in a circle, getting my bearings. I pointed. “That's Dr. Smith's house. We'll have a view from Coffee Land.”

 We found a table outside. I sat with my back to the windows, where I could see Dr. Smith's house without turning.

 The waitress walked over wearing a green Coffee Land T-shirt and black jeans. “Hiya. What would you like?”

 I let Tiffany and Trent order their usual drinks first. On my turn, I said, “I'd like regular coffee, please. Also, I have a web guide to cool places around the U-district. Do you think your manager might be interested in advertising?”

 The waitress said, “We're not exactly in the U-district here.”

 I said, “Yeah, but you're pretty close.”

 The waitress shrugged. “I'll tell him.”

 I kept an eye on Dr. Smith's place while Trent chatted with Tiffany. A few minutes went by before the waitress returned with our drinks. She said to me, “The manager will be out soon to talk to you.” She placed our bill on the table and returned inside.

 I sipped my coffee. “Not bad.”

 Trent shook his head. “I don't know how you drink that stuff. It has no taste, no character.”

 I smiled. “I'm drinking caffeine, not dating it.”

 A man walked up to the table. “Hello, I'm Peter Newcastle, manager of Coffee Land. I understand one of you wanted to talk to me about a website?”

 I'd known cat people and dog people. He looked like a ferret person. “I have a website which reviews places around the U-district. It's called Brigid's U-District. I was wondering if you might be willing to become a sponsor in exchange for a review.”

 Peter frowned. “We're not exactly in the U-district here.”

 I said, “I know. I'm branching out to neighboring areas.”

 He shifted back and forth. “I'll think about it. Do you have a business card?”

 Bless you Tiffany for making me get some. “Here you go. Feel free to email me if you're interested.”

 He pocketed the card. “Are you enjoying your drinks?”

 We nodded and murmured approval.

 Peter said, “Have a nice day.”

 I said, “You too.”

 I waited until he was out of sight. I concentrated on the ritual circle which had killed Preacher John, just as I had at the spot where he died. When I had the visualization steady in my mind, I imagined a beam of light slowly moving towards the circle. I opened my eyes and whispered “Light”.

 A beam of light crept out from me, straight towards Dr. Smith's house.

 I dropped the spell before it reached his yard. I said, “The light pointed straight as his house.”

 Trent said, “Sounds like we might have a winner. Let me guess—now you want to go inside.”

 I said, “Not today. We don't know where he is at the moment. He could be in there, or worse, arrive while we were inside. I think we should come back tomorrow during his classes. He teaches from nine to noon, so if we're here at 9:30 we should be fine.”

#

 The next day we drove slowly past Dr. Smith's house at 9:30. Tiffany and I checked the house as we drove passed.

 I said, “I don't see any lights on or movement inside.”

 Tiffany said, “Me neither.”

 I said, “I think we're good to go. Drop us at the end of the block. We'll meet you at Coffee Land soon.”

 Trent said, “Good. The farther away I am, the safer.”

 We waved at Trent as he drove off. We turned and walked down the block to Dr. Smith's house.

 I said, “It still looks empty.”

 Tiffany nodded. “Let's go in.”

 I tried the door, but it was locked.

 Tiffany said, “No problem. I've got it.” She rummaged in her purse.

 I bent down to study the lock.

 Tiffany pulled a hairpin and reached for the lock.

 I grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”

 Tiffany drew her hand back. “What is it?”

 I said, “It's hard to see with all the random decoration on the door plate, but see the pair of circles around the lock?”

 Tiffany leaned in close. “Yeah. What's between them?”

 I said, “Those are runes. I think the circles and runes are holding a spell on the door, keeping it locked. There might be a nasty surprise if you stuck a hairpin in there.”

 Tiffany drew back. “Like what?”

 I said, “Like he might not need to go looking for his next victim.”

 She said, “Oh. What do we do now?”

 I searched through my backpack. “We add a chunk of silver to our evil-doer-hunter's kit for next time. Damnit.”

 I looked at Tiffany's neck. I said, “Is that other necklace silver?”

 Tiffany put her hand over the necklace. “You can't use this. I borrowed it from Amy.”

 I said, “Relax. Nothing will happen to it.”

 She said, “Why don't you use the necklace from your protective amulet?”

 I said, “Because I don't think this is a good time to be without its protection.”

 Tiffany sighed and handed me the necklace. I smiled and pulled a thumbtack out of my pocket. I pushed the thumbtack into the door frame, then looped the necklace around it.

 I took a deep breath to calm myself, then tossed the other end of the necklace over the door knob.

 When the necklace touched the runes, it began sparking. Blue fire ran along the length of the necklace. I smelled ozone.

 A moment later, it stopped.

 The necklace had turned black. I said, “Oops. I'm sorry, Tiffany. I really thought the necklace would be fine.”

 She didn't say anything. She pulled a hairpin from her purse and picked the lock.

 I said, “Maybe it can be cleaned up.”

 Tiffany pushed the door open.

 I retrieved the thumbtack and dropped the necklace into my pocket.

 I followed Tiffany into the house and closed the door without touching the handle.

 We walked down the hallway, glancing at the rooms as we went. I said, “I'm thinking basement. That's the best place to hide a ritual circle.”

 I opened a door in the kitchen. “Pantry.” I walked in, looking around. “Hey, there's a trapdoor in the back here.”

 Tiffany came up behind me as I pulled it up, revealing steps leading down. I climbed down carefully, using my hands to feel for a light switch.

 Three steps down, my hand hit the light switch. I flipped it on and descended faster. I reached the bottom and looked around. “Wow, we hit the jackpot, or something like that.”

 I walked gingerly over to the large circle inscribed in the concrete. I snapped a picture of the room with my phone, then bent to examine the circle. “It's cut several inches into the concrete—not much chance of something accidentally breaching it.”

 Tiffany said, “So, Dr. Smith must be our murderer, then?”

 I said, “Well, he's the first one so far with a ritual circle. He's definitely some sort of practitioner.” I looked around, then walked over to a small workbench. “Here are magical tools and supplies. Salt, silver, rowan. Hey, I think this is his book of spells.”

 Tiffany said, “Why don't you look into it?”

 I said, “I'm afraid he might have booby-trapped it to hell and back. If there's anything that would be spelled, it's that.”

 Tiffany put her hands on her hips. “So, grab it and bring it with us. You can de-trap it at home.”

 I shook my head. “Bad idea. He'd know it's gone. Since it's his, he could center a spell on it. I don't think my amulet could hold up against that.”

 Tiffany said, “What else does he have up there?”

 I said, “I don't know. Look around, but don't touch anything.”

 On another table, I found a chemistry setup with flasks and pipettes and rubber tubing connecting it all together. I snapped a couple of photos, hoping Trent could figure out what it was.

 From the corner, Tiffany said, “Brigid, take a look at this.”

 I hurried over. Tiffany was standing in front of an iron-bound trunk. The trunk was covered with circles and elaborate runes.

 I whistled. “This is way more complicated than the front door. It would take me hours to unravel it.”

 Tiffany walked around it. “I wonder what's inside?”

 I said, “Nothing good. Some of these runes are for containment. Others are to protect it from being opened, like the one on the front door.”

 I snapped pictures of the chest.

 Tiffany said, “I think there might be something back that way, behind the stairs.”

 The opening bars of Mayday rang out in the basement. I flipped open my phone. “What's up, sweetie?”

 I listened for a moment. “Oh shit.” I grabbed Tiffany's arm and dragged her towards the stairs. “We need to get out of here right now. Trent saw Dr. Smith drive past.”

 I flicked the lights off as we ran up the stairs. Tiffany closed the trapdoor as I ran to the back door.

 I checked the inside door handle. “No runes or circles—I don't think this side is protected.” I paused a moment, then grabbed the handle and tried to turn it. The handle didn't turn. I flipped the lock and opened the door.

 We dove outside. Tiffany kicked the door closed behind us.

 I looked for a place to hide in the narrow alley behind the house. “Quick, over the fence.”

 Tiffany held out her hands and boosted me over the white wooden fence. Tiffany stepped back, then took two steps forward and jumped. She got her arms and head over the fence. I hauled on her arms as she struggled to get her legs over.

 I heard the crunch of gravel under a car's tire from the front of Dr. Smith's house. I concentrated and whispered “Air” and a strong breeze boosted Tiffany slightly. I heaved and fell backward with Tiffany sprawled on top of me. I looked up at her. “I think we're in one of Trent's fantasies now.”

 Tiffany laughed and started to pick herself up.

 A low growling stopped her.

 I said, “More great news” and tilted my head back.

 A drooling Rotweiller was facing us, growling. It licked its lips.

 Tiffany said, “Let me handle this.” She sang a wordless song. I felt like I almost recognized the melody, but it kept slipping away from me.

 Tiffany rose to her feet and stepped forward. The dog quieted and lay down. Tiffany motion to me to stand up while continuing to face the dog.

 I stood up and followed Tiffany out the gate on the opposite side of the yard. I pulled out my phone and called Trent. “Come get us. We're one block north of where you dropped us off.”

 I turned to the right and led the way down the street. We met Trent on the corner. I pulled the rear door open and jumped inside. I crouched on the floor, out of sight.

 Trent said, “I do have seats, you know.”

 I said, “Dr. Smith knows me. If he sees me, he might figure out I was in his house.”

 Tiffany climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. Trent drove off, then turned towards the U-district. “Were you successful this time?”

 I said, “And how. He has a permanent ritual circle set up in his basement, plus enough gear to outfit the Amazon of magic.”

 Tiffany said, “Yeah, his setup looks pretty scary. Brigid spotted runes on his front door.”

 I said, “I bet it triggered something when we neutralized the ward and opened the door. That's why he came roaring home.”

 Trent said, “I take it you left before he got there.”

 I said, “Just barely. By the way, I took pictures in his basement. It would be helpful if you could look them over. One of the pictures is some sort of chemistry experiment. I'd really like to know what he's cooking up. In fact, I'll email those pictures to you right now.”

 Trent said, “Cool. We can look them over when we reach the dorm.”

 I said, “Can't. I need to make it to class and pretend everything is normal, and that Dr. Smith isn't a skilled sorcerer who could try to kill us all at any minute.”

 None of us said anything for a minute.

 Trent coughed. “I'll get right on those pictures, then.”

 He parked and we climbed out of the car.

 I said, “I'm coming straight back to the dorm after class. Keep your amulets on at all times.”

 Trent said, “Good luck” and gave me a mock salute.

 I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them into my backpack. I bought a cup of coffee and sipped it as I headed to class. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm the breathing. Nothing happened. I knew nothing about Dr. Smith. Breathe in, breathe out.

 I walked into the classroom. No teacher. I sat next to Kirsten. “Where's Dr. Smith?”

 She said, “I don't know, but we still have a couple of minutes before class starts.”

 The guy in front of us turned around. “I heard he raced out of the last class. He got a text message or call or something.”

 We waited. The guy who had told us about Dr. Smith checked his watch and called out “10 minutes after class was supposed to start and no teacher. We can leave now.”

 The class rushed out, with Kirsten and I somewhere in the middle. Kirsten said, “I need to hit the library for a Communications paper.”

 I said, “K, see you back at the dorm.”

 I tapped on Tiffany's door. “Heya. Dr. Smith didn't show up.”

 She said, “Let's go find Trent.”

 I poked my head into his open door. “Dr. Smith didn't come to class.”

 He nodded. “Come in, and we can look at the pictures.”

 We walked in, closing the door firmly behind us.

 Trent said, “I've been looking at the chemistry pictures, but let's flip through them all, and you two can walk me through what you saw.”

 Trent brought up the first picture.

 I pointed at it. “That's his ritual circle. It's permanent and solid. Not much chance something will accidentally break it.”

 Trent flipped to the picture of the first workbench.

 I said, “This is a basic magical workbench. He has his spellbook here, and his athame and other tools over here. Hang on, what's this?” I pointed at an image hanging above the workbench.

 Trent said, “One sec.” He poked at his computer and zoomed in on the image. It showed part of a stadium collapsing. “Wait, I know this. It's from a set of postcards showing the UW stadium collapse.”

 I said, “What was that?”

 Trent leaned back in his chair. “In the 80s, they were building a new Husky stadium. Something went wrong and one half of it collapsed. No one was hurt, but a photographer captured the whole thing on high-speed film. This is one of those images.”

 I looked at the picture again. “Zoom in some more—what's this red thing on the picture?”

 Trent zoomed in. “It's a date—5/24/09.”

 I said, “Oh shit, he really is going to bring down the stadium.”

 Tiffany said, “What are we going to do?”

 I said, “We have to stop him. I can't believe it. We talked about him destroying the stadium, but it was just talk. He's really going to do it.”

 Trent said, “That's in two days. How do we stop him?”

 I said, “Anyone know any hitmen? He's timing it for the baseball game to kill as many people as possible.”

 Trent said, “Baseball games usually pull 30,000 people.”

 I stood up. “Wow. That would be...”

 Tiffany said, “How do we stop him?”

 I paced. “We interrupt his ritual.”

 Trent said, “But he can just try again later.”

 I shook my head. “He has to have a huge amount of magical energy stored up which he'll tap to knock down a stadium. If the ritual is broken, the energy will backlash on him.”

 Trent said, “Meaning?”

 I said, “There won't be enough of him left for CSI to find.”

 Trent leaned back in his chair. “What do we need to do to stop the ritual?”

 I walked to the door. “Let's go to my room and collect supplies. I could really use a Branch of Simon Magus, but I don't know where to get one on short notice.”

 Trent said, “What's that?”

 I said, “It's a silver-covered rowan branch. I can use it to break his circle.”

 Trent said, “Cool, I can make one in the lab. I know we have some spare silver lying around—all I need is for you to show me where a rowan tree is so I can cut off a branch.”

 I said, “That's so sweet. The problem is, it needs to be covered with runes and spelled. I couldn't create one without access to my parents' library.”

 Trent's face fell. I hated to crush his enthusiasm.

 Tiffany said, “I might be able to put my hands on one. I'll check on it and let you know. In other great news, though, what about the lock on the door?”

 I grinned. “This time, I don't plan on being subtle.”

 Tiffany said, “What else do you need?”

 “Hmmm.” I rummaged around in my closet . “A box of salt—this might come in handy. I think that will do it.”

 Tiffany said, “Remember your spell etudes. All of your practice should help carry you through. And don't forget, we'll be there with you.”

 I smiled. “Thanks, but I don't know what help you'll be.”

 Trent shrugged. “Hell, even we don't know what help we'll be. I take it you've never tried to disrupt an experienced sorcerer's ritual designed to kill thousands of people?”

 I shook my head.

 Trent said, “Nice, a first for all of us. If nothing else, we can make silly faces to distract him at the key moment so you can finish him off.”

 I said, “Thanks guys. It really means a lot to me.”

 Trent patted my shoulder. “What time do you want us here?”

 I said, “Let's meet at 11:45 so we can be there at noon.”

 Tiffany said, “Why noon?”

 I said, “The game starts at noon. He would want to give stragglers time to arrive, and my best guess is the ritual will take an hour or so to complete.”

 Trent said, “What exactly is needed to break the ritual?”

 I said, “There are a couple of different ways to break a ritual. Don't ask how I found out. I can break his circle—tricky, because it's my magical power against his. If he's been collecting power by killing people, he's probably very strong. I could also try to break his connection to the stored energy, although that might rebound on me. We could also distract him at a critical moment and cause him to screw up the timing or words of a step.”

 Trent said, “At least he can't attack us while working the ritual.”

 I looked down at the floor. “I wouldn't count on it. If he's between steps, he might be able to launch a spell at us or even trigger pre-existing defensive spells. This could be rough.”

 Trent said, “Is there anything we should bring?”

 I shrugged. “Anything you can think of that might help. Anyway, I'm going to run through one of Tiffany's etudes.”

 Trent said, “I'm going back to my room to see what I can do to prepare.” He headed out.

 I said, “We'll see you at dinner.”

 Tiffany sat on my bed, watching me practice. She said, “You're doing well. I can tell you've been practicing. You're much smoother than the last time I watched you.”

 I nodded my thanks and continued with the etude.

 When I finished, Tiffany put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you going to be all right?”

 I half-smiled. “I don't know if any of us will be all right after Sunday, but I'm doing okay now. I'll see you downstairs at dinner.”

 Tiffany nodded and left. I sat for a long moment, thinking.

Chapter 15

 I breathed out a long breath. Then I took out my phone and dialed.

 It rang three times before someone answered.

 I said, “Hi mom, it's me.”

 She said, “Hey sweetie, what's up? You haven't called in a while, though we do appreciate your emails.”

 I said, “I just wanted to hear your voice again.”

 She said, “How are classes going?”

 I sat down. “Fine. I'm getting all As this term.”

 She said, “Good. Any new boys we should know about?”

 I said, “Mother.”

 She said, “Here's your father, dear. Remember, we love you.”

 I heard my father take the phone. “Hello, Brigid. How are things?”

 I leaned back against the wall. “Okay. How are you and mom doing?”

 He said, “We're doing well. I'm getting enough business to keep us going.”

 I picked up a pen and twirled it. “I have to run. I'm meeting my friends soon. I just wanted to tell you I love you both.”

 He said, “We love you too, dear.”

 I said, “Bye.”

 I closed my phone and held it between my hands, thinking.

 I was interrupted by a knock. I opened my door to see Tiffany standing there. “Hi.”

 She walked in and closed my door. “I have one of those good news / bad news things for you.”

 I sat down. “We're going to possibly be killed by a sorcerer the day after tomorrow. I don't think anything else really qualifies as 'bad news' after that.”

 Tiffany looked me over and shrugged. “The good news is, I found a Branch, and the owner is willing to lend it to you.”

 I said, “And the bad news is?”

 Tiffany sighed. “The owner is Lord Cadwin.”

 I said, “Oh shit. I wouldn't expect him to do us any favors. What's the downside?”

 Tiffany said, “He won't tell me. He said we have to come to Ballard now if we want it.”

 I stared out my window. “I don't see a good way around it, not if we want to defeat Dr. Smith.”

 Tiffany looked like she was going to burst into tears. I'd never seen her so distraught. “Me neither.”

 I followed her down to the bus stop and waited quietly for the bus. I didn't know what to say. Cadwin certainly wasn't on our side.

 Once again, I failed to note exactly where we left the bus. Tiffany led me to the house, which I didn't remember until I was on the front porch.

 Tiffany knocked and Amelie opened the door. She said, “About time” and led us down the hallway.

 I kept my head firmly pointed forward. I needed to be as calm as possible to deal with Cadwin. I did not need to be flipping out over some trees inside a long hallway.

 I stepped through a doorway into the forest glade.

 Cadwin and his bodyguard looked the same as last time. No, not quite the same. I said, “Oh, your bodyguards switched places.”

 I caught a flash of surprise on Cadwin's face. Heh. He must not have thought I'd notice.

 He recovered immediately, but at least I'd thrown him off for a second.

 He said, “So, I hear you have need of a Branch.”

 How to play it? “Maybe.”

 He shrugged. “Well, if you don't need one, you can leave now.”

 Oops. “Yes, we do need one.” Damn, I sounded desperate. Facing a killer? Yeah, I was desperate.

 He chuckled, not in a nice way, and held out his arms. The bodyguard on his left placed a box across Cadwin's arms. The cedar scent was so strong, I smelled it from where I stood.

 The top of the box was covered with some kind of runes, but nothing I recognized. Before I could get a better look, the bodyguard flipped open the box.

 The branch was even more beautiful than the box itself. The silver coating was so fine I could see veins in the leaves.

 Tiny runes ran the length of the branch. It seemed to hum with power.

 Cadwin looked me in the eyes. “It's yours to borrow.”

 My fingers twitched to grab it. “What's the catch?”

 He shrugged. “If you fail, I win. If you succeed, and you're still alive, then you owe me a favor. Either way, I win.”

 I tried to think of a way out, but nothing came. Reluctantly, I said, “Fine. I agree.” Great, my win scenario was either dying or owing this jerk a favor. Too bad I couldn't sic the sorcerer on him and let them duke it out.

 Amelie showed us out. At the door she said, “Not bad. You might have promise, if you survive.”

 The presence of other people on the bus kept me from opening my backpack and peeking inside at the Branch. When I made it to my room, it was time to head down for dinner. I dropped my backpack on my bed and headed out for dinner.

 Stairs or elevator? Stairs—I needed exercise to burn off the adrenaline

 I jogged down the stairs, then walked briskly to the cafeteria. I grabbed food and looked for my friends.

 I spotted Tiffany first, sitting with Trent and Kirsten. Damn, we couldn't talk freely. Oh well, Kirsten was nice, and it wasn't her fault.

 I sat down in the empty chair. “Hiya.”

 Kirsten said, “Hi. Are any of you going to the baseball game Sunday?”

 I exchanged looks with Trent and Tiffany. “Uh, no, we're not really big sports fans.”

 Kirsten said, “A whole bunch of people are going. It would be fun.”

 I said, “Maybe next time. When's the next game?”

 She said, “I think it's in two weeks.”

 I pulled out my phone and tapped away. “Okay, I put it in my calendar.” Hopefully she wouldn't be suspicious.

 Kirsten said, “What's on tap tonight?”

 Trent's eyes flicked towards me. “I think maybe movie night. Indiana Jones 3 is playing up at the Varsity. We could even swing by our favorite apple pie place.”

 Tiffany smiled. “Sounds fun.”

 During the movie, I pictured myself as Indy, swinging from a whip, battling evil, and saving the innocents.

 When the movie was over, I said, “I need a hat. And a whip.”

 Trent said, “Sure. We can call you 'Seattle Jones'.”

 I shook my head. “Not scary enough. 'Death Valley Jones'.”

 Tiffany said, “That's good.”

 Kirsten said, “And villains. You need villains to defeat to be a proper hero.”

 I glanced at Trent and Tiffany. “Let's go have apple pie.”

 We hiked up to 47th. Tiffany found us a table despite the crowd. I said, “Some day, you're going to have to teach me how to do that.”

 Tiffany looked up at me with her eyebrow cocked. “Do what?”

 I said, “Find a table in a crowded cafe.”

 Tiffany shrugged. “Just luck, I guess.”

 We ordered and chatted.

 As we ate our pie, Kirsten said, “Would you like to come back to my room to watch videos?”

 I really wanted time alone with Tiffany and Trent, but I didn't see how to spring free without being rude. We still had Saturday, and we could get together Sunday morning, before we left. “Sure, that'd be great.”

 By the time we finished watching movies, I could barely keep my eyes open. I said, “Night” and headed back to my room, where I fell straight asleep.

 Saturday morning, Trent stopped by. “Hiya.”

 I showed him the Branch. “I borrowed this. I hope it works.”

 Trent whistled. “Nice work.”

 I tucked it into my backpack. “We all need to remember to bring our gear tomorrow. Do you want to get some breakfast?”

 He looked down at the floor. “I want to spend time with Annette, just in case...”

 I patted his arm. “I understand. Go have fun.”

 Sigh. At least Tiffany would be around for me to hang with. I knocked on her door.

 “Come in.”

 I opened the door. “Heya. What do you want to do on what is possibly our last day on earth?”

 Tiffany frowned. “I'm sorry, sweetie, but I have my experimental college class 'Endangered birds of the Pacific Northwest' today. We're going on a field trip.”

 She checked her watch. “In fact, I need to get going now.”

 I said, “Have fun.”

 I wandered up the Ave, browsing through bookstores as I went. I grabbed a slice of pizza for lunch and kept working my way along the street.

 For dinner, I headed back to the dorm. I found Kirsten, but neither Trent nor Tiffany were back.

 As we ate, Kirsten said, “What's up? You seem quiet tonight.”

 I shrugged. “I have a lot on my mind. It's okay, though. I'm sure I'll be better by tomorrow afternoon.” Either that or dead.

 I turned in early.

 I got out of bed at 9:00 and used a shower and a cup of coffee to finish waking up. Tiffany and Trent joined me at breakfast.

 Trent said, “T minus 2 hours, 30 minutes.”

 I said, “Gee, Trent, you almost sound like a real science major.”

 We laughed. Tiffany said, “What's the plan?”

 I said, “After breakfast, we head upstairs and finish packing. Then hang out until time to leave.”

 We assembled in my room with our backpacks. Trent had on his lab coat. I figured he didn't have any cool bad-guy-fighting clothes. We sat around discussing teachers and classes.

 At 11:57, we gathered our backpacks. There was a knock at my door. I opened it.

 Kirsten stood there. She glanced at the three of us. “So, where are you off to?”

 I said, “Um, it's kind of...this is awkward.”

 Trent said, “We need to get to the car or we're going to be late.”

 I shifted from foot to foot. “Walk with us, and I'll try to explain.” We walked over to the elevator. I glanced around to make sure no one else was around. “This is private information. First, I can do real magic, not tricks like stage magicians.”

 Kirsten just looked at me.

 I held out my hand, palm up, and summoned fire.

 Kirsten's eyes widened.

 I dismissed the fire. “Second, Dr. Smith has been using ritual magic to murder people at the full and new moons. And finally, we're headed off to stop him. He plans on collapsing UW stadium during the baseball game today. You might want to skip it in case we fail.”

 The elevator dinged, and we got on in silence. I waited for Kirsten's reaction. As the elevator reached the basement, she said, “I'm in.”

 I said, “What? You can't come. It's too dangerous.”

 Kirsten pointed over her shoulder. “Can they do magic?”

 I shook my head.

 Kirsten said, “It's no more dangerous for me than it is for them. I'm going.”

 As we exited the elevator, Trent said, “We're running out of time.”

 I said, “Fine, you can go. One warning: his front door is booby-trapped. Let me take care of it. We're headed down to his basement—straight through the house, into the pantry, and down a trapdoor.”

 In the car, Kirsten said, “How did you figure out Dr. Smith is a murderer?”

 I said, “I found out from his daughter that he knew Madame Dupris. There was an invisible figure at her preliminary hearing. I think it was him. When I worked through the details, I realized he had access to all of the victims. We broke into his house yesterday and found a ritual setup in his basement.”

 Kirsten said, “Why hasn't there been anything in the paper about this?”

 Trent said, “A magical death looks like death from natural causes—heart attack, stroke, something like that.”

 I said, “I went to the police with my 'suspicious deaths' list, and they ran it by an actuary. He said the number of deaths was higher than predicted by chance.”

 Kirsten said, “Why not let the police handle it, then?”

 I said, “They don't know anything about magic, and there isn't any non-magical means for Dr. Smith to have caused those deaths. Also, we think he was killing those people to acquire enough magical energy to power today's spell.”

 Kirsten said, “How are we going to stop him?”

 I said, “We have to disrupt his ritual. If we can do that, the backlash will take care of him.”

 Trent said, “We're almost there. Where do you want me to park?”

 I said, “Right in front. He'll know we're here soon enough.”

 Trent parked, and we all jumped out. I said, “Last chance to bail out.” No one said anything. “Right. Let's do it.”

 We marched up to the front door, me in the lead. “Stand back.”

 Tiffany said, “Are you going to bypass the rune again?”

 I grinned. “Something like that.” I concentrated on wind and shouted “Air”. The wind blew the door off its hinges.

 I laughed. “Subtlety is old-school.”

 I ran down the hallway, followed by the others. When I reached the kitchen, I heard muffled chanting. I opened the pantry and pulled up the trapdoor.

 The chanting grew much louder.

 I said, “Here goes” and ran down the stairs.

 Trent yelled, “Cowabunga” and followed on my heels.

 Dr. Smith stood in the middle of his circle. The chest was open on the floor next to him.

 I pointed my finger at him. “Stop.”

 He laughed. “Why? You don't seriously think you can stop me, do you? How utterly delightful.”

 I said, “Why are you doing this?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my friends spreading out around the room.

 Dr. Smith beamed. “It would be a pity to lose this opportunity to instruct you. You know, there were water riots in Bangladesh on Tuesday.”

 I stepped forward. “No, I hadn't heard.”

 He nodded. “One hundred people died. Are you so callous that that doesn't matter to you? Do you feel the passing of human life is unimportant if it doesn't make the Times' obituaries?”

 I slid sideways to keep his attention on me. “Killing people is wrong.”

 He shook his head. “No, what society is doing is wrong—polluting the air and water, exterminating species by the thousands, melting the icecaps. The rising sea level will displace millions. You don't think they'll go quietly, do you?”
 I said, “That doesn't give you the right to murder people. You're a monster.”

 He chuckled. “No, I'm enlightened. Everyone's life has the same value. I kill 20,000 so forty million may live. Their deaths will enable me to fix the climate. That is the right choice.”

 I shook my head. “You're no hero. Oskar Schindler was a hero.”

 Dr. Smith said, “Bah. He saved what, 1600 people? I'm saving millions and preventing the wars that will follow.”

 I said, “You murdered Jim and Candace.”

 His face contorted. He snarled. “Students should not date teachers, not even a teacher who lost his wife and daughters to a car accident. He should have found a woman his own age.”

 I said, “What happened, Dr. Smith? Did one of your students reject you?”

 He shouted, “You do not know of what you speak.”

 I said, “And Harvey Thomas?”

 He immediately switched back to a calm, reasonable manner which some how ended up being even more terrifying than his yelling. “Harvey's dream was to restore the environment. In a unique way, he is helping me do that. With the power I get from the deaths at Husky Stadium, I will remake the world.”

 I stepped forward again. “I don't think so.”

 Dr. Smith said, “That's far enough. If you're prudent, you'll stay there.”

 I said, “My parents must have raised me wrong” and took another step.

 The revving of a miniature engine cut across the room. I glanced over at Trent and saw one of his remote-control cars shoot forward, towards Dr. Smith. The car bounced off an invisible wall at the edge of the circle and exploded.

 Damn, that was a strong circle.

 Dr. Smith chuckled. “I remember you. Not the brightest student, were you.”

 I stepped forward and drew the Branch from my backpack. I said, “Time to end this” and tossed the Branch so it landed crossing the circle.

 Dr. Smith laughed. “I'm afraid breaking the circle isn't sufficient, Miss Tennant. It's a pity to see you so uneducated. But I have a ritual to complete.”

 He touched a ring on his finger. Blue lightning zapped down from over my head. It streaked towards me in an instant.

 Before I could react, it struck my amulet. The amulet shattered, but I was unhurt except for a slight bruise where the amulet had been.

 I said, “Is that the best you can do?”

 He was starting to look really pissed off. Kind of like when I'd asked him about the “myth” of anthropomorphic climate change.

 As he reached for another ring, I saw Tiffany lob a water balloon at him.

 The balloon hit him right in the hands. The balloon exploded, sending green ink all over Dr. Smith. Sparks shot from his rings.

 Tiffany said, “Looks like you're really green now.”

 Dr. Smith turned towards her.

 I used the opportunity to visualize a fireball. “Fire.”

 The fireball shot from my hands. Just before it hit Dr. Smith, he casually waved his hand at it. The fireball hit the floor and went out without doing any damage.

 Trent removed his backpack and threw the contents towards the circle.

 Ball bearings rolled all over.

 Dr. Smith said, “I like your idea, Miss Tennant.” He said something that sounded like Latin, and a huge fireball flew towards Trent.

 I panicked. I couldn't get a spell visualized. All I could think of was Trent lying on the ground.

 The fireball shrank to a quarter of its size just before it hit Trent. The impact knocked him off his feet.

 Dr. Smith said, “Interesting. I wonder why it did that...”

 I said, “You bastard.”

 Kirsten threw a heavy book at Dr. Smith. “Leave him alone.”

 The book connected, and Dr. Smith leaned back from the blow. When the book landed, I noticed it was the textbook for Environmental Economics. How appropriate.

 Dr. Smith pointed his finger at Kirsten and rattled off more Latin. A ball of crackling blue lightning shot towards her.

 I shouted “Air” and hurled a micro-burst which tore the ball to shreds. The impact still knocked Kirsten down. She yelled, “I'm okay.”

 Dr. Smith inclined his head. “One point for you. Not enough, I'm sad to say.” He wove his hands in an intricate pattern, faster and faster. He started sending blue darts of shimmering light at me.

 I concentrated and formed a wall of air in front of me which absorbed the darts.

 Dr. Smith growled and stilled his hands. “Well, this has been fun and all, but I do have a ritual to finish.” He resumed chanting.

 I concentrated and sent a gust of air at his feet.

 Dr. Smith didn't budge.

 I concentrated on the feel of an earthquake I'd felt on a trip to California. I tossed a pinch of salt in front of me and whispered “Quake”. A headache hit me, hard.

 The ground vibrated under Dr. Smith's feet. He stepped on a ball bearing and went down, hard enough that he stopped chanting for a moment.

 I saw the look of horror on his face. I dug my nails into my palm to give me something to focus on. I used the last of my concentration to put a dome around the circle.

 Even through the dome, I could feel the explosion. We were all thrown back. From the ground, I watched green flames flicker for a few moments and go out.

 Kirsten said, “Wow.”

 I said, “How are you doing?”

 “I'm fine, just got the wind knocked out of me.”

 I stood up carefully, trying not to move my head, and walked over to check on Trent.

 He was lying on his back. The front of his lab coat was scorched. His eyes were closed. He looked so peaceful. I felt tears forming in my eyes. “Oh Trent, how could you?”

 Trent said, “Shh, you're interrupting my nap.”

 I almost kicked him. Instead, I leaned down and helped him sit up.

 He said, “Between my Skeptic anti-magic field and a little bit of fireproofing in my coat, I don't think I'm actually singed. Better than some of my experiments.”

 I said, “Thank goodness.”

 I gave him a hand standing up, and he leaned on me as we walked to the circle.

 I picked up the Branch. It was pristine.

 The circle had burned cleaned. There was no trace of Dr. Smith, the chest, or any of the things we'd thrown at him. I said, “An enlightened psychopath. How wonderful.”

 Trent said, “At least we stopped him.”

 I said, “Yes, we did.”

 From behind the stairs, Tiffany said, “Over here.”

 We joined her. She pointed at a wall filled with small, neatly labeled vials.

 I read the names “Harvey Thomas.” The vial contained a clear liquid.

 “John Whitefeather.” The vial contained several hairs.

 I held one up. “Jacqueline Dupris. He must have been controlling her.”

 Kirsten reached out and picked up a vial. “Madeline Denning. That's my mother. He must have killed my mother.”

 I put my hand on Kirsten's shoulder. “I'm so sorry.”

 Kirsten said, “At least he's dead now. And he died from his own twisted magic—what could be more just?”

 I shook my head. “We did what we need to. I think we need to leave now.”

 On the way out, Trent fixed the door. “This will keep people from calling the cops for a while.”

Chapter 16

 We went into my room. I made sure the door was closed, then sat down on my bed, facing my friends. “What do we do next?”

 Kirsten said, “About what?”

 I said, “Dr. Smith was a nut case. I think he killed Jim, not Madame Dupris.”

 Tiffany said, “Madame Dupris is evil.”

 I looked right at her. “Evil enough to spend her life in prison for a murder she didn't commit?”

 I watched Tiffany thinking it over. Finally, she sighed. “No, not even Madame Dupris deserves that.”

 I tapped my fingers on my bed. “Fine. I'll talk to the police. I'll do my best to keep the rest of you out of it.”

 Trent said, “What are you going to say?”

 I said, “I have no idea. I'm hoping a friendly detective will help.”

 Trent flipped on my music. I asked him to hand out sodas and chips. We avoided talking about magic and death for two hours. Mostly I sat quietly, fighting the headache.

 Tiffany was the first to leave. She said, “Stop by if you want to talk.”

 I stepped out into the hallway and handed her the Branch, nestled safely in its box.

 She whispered, “He will collect, you know.”

 I said, “Yeah, I'm dreading it.”

 Kirsten left next. She gave me a quick hug. “You did the right thing.”

 I smiled. “Good luck with Randolph.”

 Trent glanced over at me. “You did good. We'll help you.”

 I said, “Thanks.”

 He saluted me with his soda as he left.

 I closed my eyes for a while, until the pain faded. With my room empty, I had no excuses. I pulled out my phone and dialed Seattle PD. It was depressing that I had the number memorized.

 “Seattle PD.”

 I said, “Detective Transom, please.”

 “One moment.”

 I tried to think of what to say while the phone rang.

 “Hello, this is Detective Transom.”

 This would be so much easier face-to-face. “Hi, this is Brigid Tennant.”

 He sounded cheerful. “What can I do for you?”

 I said, “I might have some information on those suspicious deaths.”

 He said, “What information?”

 Hmmm, convincing him magic worked over the phone—not going to happen. “Can I meet you some place to discuss it?”

 He sighed. I heard it. I also heard him mutter something about too many TV shows. “Fine. How about we meet at My First Tea Shop, on Queen Anne?”

 I said, “Why, is there something special going on?”

 He said, “Yeah, I'm staking out a gang of international terrorists who use it as a meeting place.”

 I said, “Really?”

 He chuckled. “Nope, it's just a tea shop. When can you get there?”

 I glanced at the clock. “Forty-five minutes, assuming there aren't any accidents.”

 He said, “Sounds good. I'll see you then.”

 I closed my phone and checked my hair in the mirror. I glared and dragged a comb through it. Better, but I still needed something. I walked over and knocked on Tiffany's door.

 She said, “What's up?”

 I said, “I'm meeting with a detective. I want to look good.”

 Tiffany pulled me into her room. She grabbed a black leather jacket and said, “Put this on.”

 While I switched coats, she opened a drawer and pulled out a green scarf, slightly darker than my eyes.

 She arranged it carefully around my neck, then stepped back and looked me up and down. Finally, she nodded. “You look good.”

 I angled her closet mirror to see myself, then slowly spun around. I did look good. I swallowed. “Wish me luck.”

 She said, “Luck” and waved as I marched to my doom...er, the elevator.

 Just nerves. I wanted to buy coffee, but I was headed to a tea shop. Not exactly my favorite form of caffeine, but I'd live.

 After I climbed on the bus, I checked the time on my phone every five minutes. Each time, I thought it would be longer, but it wasn't. Elliot Bay was pretty, but even it wasn't enough to truly distract me.

 What was I going to say to Detective Transom, and how was I going to keep my friends out of it?

 The bus driver called my stop. I'd checked the address on the way over, but I stopped on the corner to get my bearings.

 I spotted the tea shop and walked over. The scents of tea wafted from the open door. The outer walls were lined with windows. Inside shelves of tea were everywhere—behind the counter, along both sides. Tea was probably stacked on the roof.

 I looked to my right and saw Detective Transom at a table in the corner. His back was to the wall, and he was quietly watching me.

 I sauntered over, trying my best to look cheerful. I noticed a cup of tea steaming in front of him, but it didn't look like he'd drunk any of it.

 I stopped in front of the table. “Hi.”

 He gestured at the empty chair. “Pull up a seat.”

 I sat down.

 He said, “What's your pleasure?”

 I said, “Oh, I'm not a big tea drinker.”

 He smiled. “I'll order for you. Jennifer?”

 A waitress walked over. “Hiya Dan.”

 He said, “My friend would like to try Genmaicha.”

 I said, “And can I have an empty water glass as well?”

 Detective Transom raised both eyebrows slightly, then sipped his tea. “So, what do you want to tell me?”

 I said, “I need the water glass first, for a demonstration.”

 He tapped his fingers on his cup, waiting.

 With him watching me, I felt like a suspect.

 Jennifer came by with my tea and the empty water glass. She said, “I hope you like this.”

 I smiled and waited for her to disappear behind the counter. I set the glass in the center of the table, then concentrated and whispered “Water”.

 The glass filled with water.

 Detective Transom said, “I'm impressed. Can you pull a rabbit out of a hat, maybe pull a coin out of my ear?”

 I put my hands on my hips. “I can do real magic. I can create things.”

 He said, “Fine. Make a rose.”

 I said, “That's going to be tricky. My magic depends on how well I can visualize what I'm creating.”

 Detective Transom smiled. “Indulge me.”

 I said, “Remember, you asked for it.” I closed my eyes and tried to visualize a single perfect red rose. I whispered “Rose”.

 I opened my eyes slowly, looking for my perfect red rose. I couldn't resist peeking at Detective Transom's face first, though. I wasn't sure exactly what emotions were running through his face. He was good at masking himself. Must have been an occupational skill.

 I thought I saw a hint of wonder and amazement. Something about his eyes. Then I looked down at my rose.

 I said, “What the hell?” There were some red bits which sort of looked like petals. Well, more like wax impressions of petals which had been left in a car parked in the sun. In Texas.

 The leaves and stems were green, though I didn't remember seeing that particular shade on anything except bargain-bin spandex.

 I said, “It's, um...I'm not really a visual person.”

 He poked at it with his fork. “No kidding. I see you left off the thorns.”

 I said, “Roses aren't dangerous. I don't know why they have to have thorns.”

 He picked up one of the petals with the fork and let it slide off and float to the table. “Beautiful things are worth protecting.”

 I wasn't sure what to make of that. “So, do you buy that I can do magic, or do you want to see another demonstration of my lack of artistic ability?”

 He sighed. “Okay, I'll assume you can do magic, presumably more successfully than this. What does this have to do with the murders?”

 I took a deep breath. “If my magic works, then logically, there may be other forms of magic which work, right?”

 His upper lip twitched. “Interesting juxtaposition of 'logic' and 'magic', but I accept your point.”

 I said, “Well, one of the forms of magic might happen to be ritual magic designed to kill people.”

 He said, “And you're going to give me an address so I can go arrest someone?”

 I looked down at my hands. “Not exactly...”

 He sighed again. “You know, I've interviewed hostile witnesses who were more forthcoming.”

 I said, “There's no one to arrest because he's dead.”

 Detective Transom looked me straight in the eyes. “Oh. Did you kill him?”

 I shook my head. “He was weaving a complex spell. He was trying to bring down Husky Stadium during the baseball game. He would have killed thousands.”

 I had to stop for a moment to collect myself.

 I continued. “I interrupted his spell. The backlash killed him.”

 Detective Transom leaned back in his chair. “Why are you telling me this? It sounds like there's nothing for me to do. I couldn't even take this to court—I'd be held in contempt and given a psychological discharge from the force.”

 I said, “Dr. Smith needed samples from his victims to target them with his rituals. One of the samples was labeled Jim Monaghan.”

 He sat up. “The boy Jacqueline Dupris is accused of murdering?”

 I nodded.

 He said, “Damn. You think she's innocent, that this Dr. Smith killed him?”

 I said, “It's plausible. Dr. Smith was the faculty advisor for Students for a Green Earth. Jim was an officer, so Dr. Smith would have had an opportunity to collect something personal from him.”

 Detective Transom sipped his tea. “Hmmm. You want me to turn this story into something to get Madame Dupris off?”

 I said, “It's the right thing to do.”

 He set his cup down. “Yeah, it is. I'm just not sure how to do it. Why don't you give me the address, and I'll see what I can do.”

 I pulled out a page from my notebook and wrote on it neatly and clearly—not my usual scrawl. I handed it to him. “Here's the address and my cell phone number, just in case.”

 He said, “Yeah, I recognized your number.”

 I said, “How?”

 He smiled. “I have a good memory for numbers, and you gave it to me when I was taking your statement about Harvey Thomas.”

 I said, “I guess I won't be coming to visit you any more, now that it's over.”

 He chuckled. “Somehow, Brigid, I doubt I've seen the last of you. Please enjoy your tea.”

 I sipped it cautiously. Not as bad as I'd feared. It didn't have the warm, rich taste of my coffee, but it was tasty. I could tell it didn't have enough caffeine, though.

 Detective Transom's phone rang. Frustratingly, I heard only “Uh-huh” and “Okay” from where I was sitting.

 He said to me, “I have to run. I've already paid for the tea. Good luck to you.”

 I said, “And you,” but he was already at the door. My heart was racing a bit. The tea must have had more caffeine in it than I realized.

 I finished my tea and caught a bus back to the dorm. I felt lighter. I'd done the right thing. I hadn't gotten arrested, and my friends were free of suspicion. What else could a girl want?

 Well, a hot guy, but there didn't seem to be any of those on the bus.

 When I made it to my floor, Kirsten was the only one in the lounge. She said, “How'd it go?”

 I flopped on the couch. “Okay. I think Detective Transom and I have a real relationship going.”

 Kirsten leaned forward. “Cool. I want details.”

 I held up my hand. “Well, okay, not an actual boyfriend-girlfriend relationship. More like I'll-give-you-evidence-and-hope-you-don't-arrest-me relationship.”

 Kirsten laughed. “Girl, you do have boy trouble.”

 I sighed. “Tell me something I don't know.”

 She said, “Well, Randolph has this friend...”

 I groaned. “Not a blind date.”

 Kirsten smiled. Wickedly. I could tell. “Oh no, he can see perfectly fine with those thick glasses of his.”

 I giggled. “You're awful.”

 She said, “Made you laugh.”

#

 I checked The Daily and the P-I on Monday morning, but there was nothing about Madame Dupris, Dr. Smith, mysterious fires, or anything else good.

 Kirsten walked to class with me. As we got to the light at 12th, I saw a cute college guy bending over to grab a paper. I wasn't watching my tongue, and I told Kirsten, “College guys are getting better-looking. He has a cute butt.”

 He straightened up and turned around. “Hi Brigid.”

 That's when I realized it was Detective Transom. “Aw, hell. You didn't happen to hear that private conversation there, did you?”

 He smiled innocently. “About me having a cute butt? Didn't hear a word of it.”

 Kirsten snickered. “See you later, sweetie.” She crossed the street, leaving me alone with the detective. Some friend.

 This was so embarrassing. “Um, hi.”

 He said, “You'll be happy to know that Miss Dupris will be freed this afternoon.”

 I said, “What happened?”

 He said, “There was an intense fire last night at the home of Dr. Smith. Apparently, one of his experiments involved magnesium. The fire marshal thinks some shavings ignited.”

 I said, “Wow, was there much damage from the fire?”

 He shrugged. “The basement was destroyed and most of the first floor. However, we did find a knife upstairs with traces of blood on it.”

 I said, “Who's blood?”

 He said, “Jim Monaghan's. Given that Dr. Smith was the advisor for the environmental group Jim was secretary of, there was clear opportunity. In light of that, and because Madame Dupris' alibi seems strong, the DA is dropping the charges against her.”

 I said, “That's wonderful news.”

 He grinned. “I thought you might appreciate it.”

#

 Trent drove us out to Tiger Mountain. I led Trent, Kirsten, and Tiffany up the trail.

 Trent said, “Where are we going?”

 I gently grasped a small tree to balance as I climbed higher. “We're following a trail.”

 Kirsten said, “Are you sure this is a trail? It seems kind of steep.”

 I said, “It's too broad and clear to be an animal trail.” I reached the top. “Wow, look at this view. And the trail flattens out up here.”

 I moved off to the right, following the trail downhill. Around the corner, it ran straight into blackberry brambles. I turned back to where my friends were just reaching the top of the trail.

 I peered down at the trail we'd just climbed. “You know, maybe that was an animal trail after all. It's okay, we'll find an easier way down.”

 I led the way up, following the trail away from the blackberries. The sun was shining. I sipped from my metal water bottle and enjoyed the feel of being outside.

 We made it to a likely spot just outside a grove of trees. I looked around. “What do you think?”

 Trent dropped to the ground. “It's great.”

 Tiffany said, “Very peaceful.”

 I cleared away a palm-sized patch of vegetation and pulled three rocks out of my pocket. “For Jim.”

 Kirsten placed two rocks on top of mine. “For my mother.”

 Tiffany placed two more rocks on the pile. “For Preacher John.”

 Trent placed three rocks on the pile. “For Simon.”

 I placed one last rock on the pile. “For all the other victims and everyone we've lost. May you find peace.”

 We spent a quiet minute, listening to the rustling of the branches in the breeze and the piercing call of a hawk.

 I looked around at my friends and smiled. “Let's go home.”

-- The End --

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank everyone who helped made this book possible. I couldn't have done it without lots of help.

My wife gets first credit because she was an incredible help. She edited the book from my initial drafts into something that's actually readable. She was also very supportive.

Next is Rick McKellar, who read through several drafts and made helpful suggestions.

Several people at the writers' workshops at OryCon gave me useful comments.

I would also like to thank Master Koichi Tohei, Tabata Sensei, and the Oregon Ki Society for teaching me mind and body coordination, aikido, and kiatsu. Some of the material in this book is very loosely based on that teaching.

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any resemeblance to actual people, places, things, or events is purely coincidental.

Creative Commons License
Coffee, Ghosts, and College by Scott MacHaffie is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.scottmachaffie.com/coffee_ghosts_college.html