I went to the janitor’s office to check. The only ghost there was old Principal Harris, fading around the edges like a blurry photo, looking down the English hallway. He turned to stare at me, the way they all did, as if he expected something from me.
“Do you know what happened to Masrell?” I asked.
Principal Harris floated a little to the left, then back. Trying to figure out what had happened was difficult when your suspects couldn’t communicate. I left the good principal there and hurried on.
For the past few years I had a litany of excuses prepared for tardiness to class. Not because I was out hunting firestarters, though; I just thought school was stupid. I’d forgotten them all by the time I made it to first period geometry, and that left mestanding in the doorway with twenty-eight pairs of eyes on me. Mr. Gerwijk paused midsentence at the whiteboard, his mouth slightly open.
“What?” I snapped.
“Zora,” Gerwijk said, “you were called to the office several minutes ago.”
At least I still had my sunglasses on. Fear shows in the eyes.
There’s no point walking slowly to your doom; if you know it’s coming, you might as well jump into the dragon’s mouth. As I passed the library, one of the student aides stepped out carrying a stack of books and saw me. She squeaked and dropped the books in her rush to get back through the library doors.
“Are you serious?” I yelled back to her.
I’d never set anything on fire. Firestarters did. Creatures with bodies like black tar, sharp claws and bird talons, horns curving over their heads and red pinpricks for eyes. If they were allowed to run free for too long, they could possess human bodies and hide inside them. The easiest way to find a firestarter was to pay attention when the ghosts acted strangely—or to follow the fires. After you found them, the solution was straightforward: lure them into the open, run them over with the Chevelle, and chop their heads off. Incapacitate, behead. It was the way Mom had done it, so it was the way I did it.
But one time last year, justone time, I let a firestarter get the better of me. I was found unconscious in the Denfords’cornfield with two fingers cut off and my head sliced open, and half the field was up in flames. From then on it was Zora Novak, arsonist, and no one in Addamsville would believe differently.
I stomped on to the office. If there was another firestarter in town, I had more to worry about than just clearing my name.
Principal Sutherland—the current, living principal—stood by the administrative assistant’s desk in the front office with two of Addamsville’s three cops, one stout and brown-skinned and one lanky and pale. They saw me through the office windows before I walked in, and I knew, Iknew, I was right screwed.
“Stormin’ Norman and Captain Jack,” I said as I pushed my way through the office doors. “What can I help you gentlemen with?”
Norm Newall—the short, grumpy cop with the little notebook—and Jack Lansing—the tall, red-cheeked one—both shuffled on the spot, but for different reasons. One in obvious impending frustration, the other in discomfort.
“Enough, Miss Novak,” Principal Sutherland said. I hadn’t even been flippant. “Officers Newall and Lansing would like to speak to you. You’ll go into my office. Since you’re eighteen, you don’t need a parent or guardian present.”
I didn’t move. “Speak to me about what?”
Here’s a thing about cops:alwaysmake them tell you what they’re coming after you for. Never guess. It makes you seem more suspicious.
“Don’t play with us, Novak,” said Norm. “Haven’t you seen the news today?”
“Which part?”
“About George Masrell,” Jack said, and Norm scowled at him.
“Please, into my office.” Principal Sutherland’s tone was short.
I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head—maybe some fear would make them believe me—as I followed them into the office
“We all know you like to set fires on public property,” Norm said to me as I dropped into a straight-backed chair in front of Principal Sutherland’s desk. Norm and Jack flanked the door. “We haven’t had an arson like this in town for plenty long enough, and lines can be drawn.”
“I didn’t set any fires,” I said.
All three adults gave me thatlook, the one that says they know you’re full of it. They had no real evidence I set any of the fires from the last firestarter, but they were damn sure the cornfield had been my doing, and my amputated fingers were all the evidence they needed.
I rubbed my forehead. “Seriously. Even if I had done it then—which I didn’t—I wouldn’t do it now.” I held up my right hand. I wore the black gloves on both hands, but the ring and pinkie fingers on my right stood up, stiff and odd, when the other fingers curled. “I don’t do fire.”
Thelooksoftened, but not a lot. People feel sorry for you when two of your fingers get cut off and your head gets sliced open, but they don’t feel too sorry if they think it was your fault.
“We’re not accusin’ you of anything, Zora,” Jack said, “but we’ve been checkin’ the school security tapes for the past few hours, and you’re the last person Mr. Masrell talked to on ’em. Outside the janitor’s office yesterday, after school let out.”
“Yes, I did. He was yelling at me for throwing away coffee and making the hallway smell like Starbucks. I don’t even drink Starbucks. Too expensive.”
