Absolutely Captivated by Kristine Grayson

awry? What if they were all trapped in this
place?
    She walked in the direction of the
yip. She had to step over more books, and push aside a table. As
she did so, a stack of yellow legal pads fell over.
    Each stack was
covered in writing—most of it Greek (literally), although some of
it was English. One of the pads had doodles on top of the
Greek—little smiley faces, a few flowers and one Crystal  Dudley . That was
followed by Crystal and Dudley
4-Ever, and Dudley Rocks! In a different
handwriting, someone had written Dudley
The Dull Dude. And in yet a third
handwriting, in a different ink, someone else had written: Wait Till Daddy Finds Out And Guess Who’s Gonna
Tell Him? HA! HA!
    Zoe straightened the legal pads as
best she could, trying not to read any more, worrying that she was
seeing something important that she didn’t understand.
    She continued toward a wall of
bookshelves. The voices were growing closer.
    “I don’t get it,” a young female voice
whined. “How come you can’t do this?”
    “It’s not my turn,” said another young
female voice. “Besides, I always have to look things
up.”
    “It’s better than calling Daddy,” said
a third female voice.
    “No, it’s not,” a man said.
    Zoe walked past yet
another stack of yellow legal pads ( Tiffany Eats Toads! was written
across the top of one), and nearly tripped on a librarian’s stool
half buried on a pile of magazines. The bookshelves opened to the
right, and through them, she could see an even light flowing across
the dirt-covered hardwood floor.
    “It’s stupid,” said the first female
voice.
    “Yeah, like who cares about a dumb
dog?” asked the second female voice.
    Zoe’s stomach clenched. Where had she
sent that poor dachshund?
    “You guys, we’re supposed to care
about all this stuff,” said the third female voice.
    Zoe stepped over a mound of dirty
laundry, then peered at it. Blue jeans, tank tops, and bras,
twisted together along with girl’s underwear with the days of the
week written across the butt in pink. The laundry gave off a stale
odor that mixed with the smell of bubblegum that somehow reminded
Zoe of a girl’s camp she investigated one summer.
    “Look,” said the male voice. “You
ladies think about this and I’ll just take Bartholomew
home.”
    Bartholomew was the name of the
dachshund. A name that poor dog hated.
    Zoe hurried toward the voices now,
nearly slipping in something wet near the door.
    “Did you hear something?” one of the
girls asked.
    “I always hear something and you
always say it’s nothing,” said a second girl.
    “No,” said the third girl.
    Zoe checked her shoes,
sniffed, and sighed. Pee. Dog pee, to be more precise. How long had
that poor dachshund been here? And why hadn’t anyone paid attention
to his needs?
    “Hey, you ladies didn’t answer me,”
the man said. “How’s about I just skedaddle, and you figure this
out and call me?”
    Skedaddle? Only Morton the Magnificent
would use a word like “skedaddle.” Only Morton wasn’t Magnificent
at all. He wasn’t even Adequate. Morton had long ago sold out and
was performing his magic—real magic—as tricks in front of a live
audience every night at one of the marginal casinos just off the
strip.
    Zoe hated that, and she figured once
the Fates found out, they’d punish him for violating a major rule:
Mortals Should Never See the Magic…or if they do, They Shouldn’t
Think It’s Real.
    Since most mortals figured the shows
in Vegas were faked somehow, Morton thought he was getting by on a
technicality, which he probably was. But that didn’t stop his
behavior from being, at the very least, unethical.
    Zoe peered around the door
frame as if she were on the job. Inside a big room with
floor-to-ceiling windows were couches, chairs, and a large table.
On top of the table sat three teenage girls. The one farthest from
Zoe was skinny and blond, in that shapeless way that teenagers who
didn’t eat enough had. She wore