“Rowan is a goodie two-shoes,” she says. “He would never think up something like that on his own.”
She’s right, of course.
Rowan was literally a Boy Scout. And an Eagle Scout. I don’t even think you’re allowed to be in both, like rival mafia families, but that’s probably the only rule he’s ever broken in his life.
“Besides,” she continues, “you’re as bad as Sean. You’re just smart enough to get someone else to take the fall for you half the time. Remember Mrs. Plinkert’s garden gnomes?”
“Those gnomes had it coming.”
“They were arranged in a pentagram on his lawn at three AM.”
“Artistic expression?”
“Yeah, wellIgot grounded foryour‘artistic expression,’ because ‘Sweet Micah wouldnever,’” she huffs and goes back to her jars.
I can’t even tell what’s in most of them. Some are filled with liquids that seem to move on their own and not just in the usual liquid way, but in a may-or-may-not-be-sentient way. One jar near the back definitely has eyes, and they’re watching me.
“Hand me that box,” she says, pointing. “The one marked ‘herbs, not drugs.’”
“Is that distinction important?”
“It is when campus security does random room checks.”
Fair point. I grab the box and carry it over to her, setting it on the work table that takes up most of the center of the room. The surface is covered in scratches and burn marks from past rituals.
Sadie’s practice room is exactly what you’d expect, really. Black curtains cover the single window. Candles in various states of melt crowd every horizontal surface. There’s an altar against the far wall draped in dark velvet, surrounded by skulls that I really hope are fake.
“Are those real?” I ask, nodding toward them.
“The skulls?” She shrugs. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“The raccoon is ceramic. I got it at a garage sale.” She pauses. “The previous owner said it was haunted, but I think she just wanted to get rid of it.”
“Only you would consider haunted a selling point.”
She considers this.
I lean against the wall—carefully, because nothing in this room feels entirely trustworthy—and watch her unpack dried herbs into labeled containers. It all looks like jumbled chaos to me, especially in contrast to Regina’s meticulously ordered supplies, but she somehow knows exactly where everything’s going.
“So, how’s Cujo doing?”
“Sadie.”
“What?” She looks up to arch an eyebrow. “Too soon?”
I roll my eyes. “He’s…” I stop, considering how much to reveal. “He’s hanging in there.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I’ve got.”
She pauses her sorting, a bundle that smells like burnt herbs in her hand. “The virus is progressing.”
“Yeah.” I scrub a hand through my hair. “Viruses do that. The veins under his skin are spreading. He’s stronger than he should be. Keeps breaking things.” I try for a laugh but it sounds like a cough. “And keeps treating himself like a bomb about to go off. Won’t let anyone get too close. Especially not Regina.”
Sadie sets down the sage. “That must be hard. For all of you.”
