Under a Spell by Hannah Jayne Page A

what’s up?”
    “I have great news,” she said, breathless.
    “Really? Awesome. I could use some good news right now.”
    “Well, first things first, I dumped UDA: The Musical .”
    A little starburst of joy shot across my heart.
    “Aw,” I said in my best that’s-too-bad-voice. “What made you decide that?”
    “I suck at writing music. And you know what rhymes with Underworld Detection Agency? Nothing.”
    “So . . .”
    “So I have a new plan. And this one is legitimate. I am going to be writing, casting, and directing UDA: The Documentary .”
    “Do you cast a documentary?”
    “Sampson was muttering something about our need to drum up more business, so I thought what better way to do that than to advertise? And what better way to advertise than to make a commercial?”
    I bit my thumbnail. “And the documentary comes in where?”
    “See, that’s the great thing. I’ll have the camera people following me while I make the commercial. Isn’t that going to be incredible?”
    I knew better then to remind Nina of all the enormous loopholes in her new project—she couldn’t be seen on film; the clients, and existence, of the Underworld were supposed to be kept under non-major-media wraps—so I just gave her my most enthusiastic, “That sounds amazing!”
    She paused for a beat, and I knew that she was biting her lip on the other side of the phone line. “Just one totally little teensy thing.”
    My hackles were going up and my tolerance was going down. “What?”
    “I just may need to use the apartment for some non-apartment-related things.”
    I was imagining hobgoblin slobber soaking the carpet and blood spattering every wall—Nina was nothing if not incredibly theatrical and the documentary would be that times a thousand. “Like what?”
    “Writing, storyboarding, meeting with the crew, casting.”
    A whoosh of relief went through me. “As long as I don’t walk in on you on the casting couch with some hot little actor, that’s totally fine with me.”
    “You’re the best, Soph.”
    I clicked my phone off and put a little hop in my step. Things would work out. We were going to find Alyssa and solve this case and my alma mater would be no worse for the wear. High school was terrifying enough without adding a cache of teen witches—and Mercy didn’t have any, anyway. I smiled to myself. By this time tomorrow I could be peeing in the comfort of the Underworld Detection Agency, right next to the tiny pixie stall, with Nina giving me advice from her perch on the sink where she stared at her non-reflection.
    I was disgusted—yet slightly comforted—to see that the girls’ room in the Junior Hall hadn’t changed since my years of hiding from my tormenters there. The tile was still that same horrid, milky pink with once-white grout that had endured years of pens and fingernails being driven into it. I tried not to breathe in, lest the stench of canned potpourri and industrial-strength cleanser stick in my lungs.
    I flushed, and was mentally picking out tomorrow’s outfit when the overhead light started humming. It crackled, and my heart stopped beating while the light did one of those horror-movie flashes before going back to normal. I laughed at myself and yanked on the stall door, and nothing happened.
    I jiggled the handle. I jiggled the lock. I yanked. I pushed. I pulled.
    “Hello?” I called in the universal come-kill-me-now fashion.
    The lights buzzed and flashed again, and heat zipped up the back of my neck. I started to panic, clawing at the cold metal door, kicking it, throwing my full weight against the chintzy lock. It gave at the same moment the lights went out. I stumbled over my own feet and barrel rolled onto the cold tile floor, gagging at the thought of bathroom floor touching skin and whimpering at the all-encompassing darkness. The room was pitch black and deadly silent, the only sound the heavy beating of my heart and my own open-mouthed panting.
    And then came the sound.