Drop Dead Demons by A Kirk, E Page B

don’t even!” I warned, just as Aunt M pushed past Lucian onto the front porch.
    She saw us and ordered, “You two hurry up. Your boyfriend is giving me a ride to the church.”
    Ayden raised a brow. “I am?”
    “Since when?” I said.
    “Since I told your father you were no nun.” She ducked back inside.
    “That would do it.” My sigh came out a growl.
    Ayden looked me up and down, then grinned and headed for my brother. “Hey, Lucian, I’m thinking I need more details about this breakfast conversation.”
     

Chapter Eighteen
     
    Dad decided that Aunt M’s big belly was too tight a squeeze to be safe in Ayden’s small sport’s car, so we’d dodged that bullet, and before he changed his mind, headed to school with a screech of rubber.
    The Gothic wonderland that Flint built, and what we now called high school, was a monolith of carved stone, with lofty archways, spires that pierced the heavens, soaring turrets protected by grim gargoyles, towers awaiting their damsels, and miles of twisted hallways for a girl to get lost in. It belonged on the misty moors of medieval England with bustle-skirted beauties, waistcoated gentlemen, and Gothic romance lovers stealing secret kisses in dark alcoves.
    Instead, I was in a dark alcove — alone — yanking on one of Luna’s black hoodie jackets, stuffing my mass of red curls into one of Lucian’s baseball caps, and peeking out into the hall to make sure the coast was clear. 
    A strong floral aroma wafted through the air as several girls and boys in shiny red capes carried a multitude of flowers through the halls. As part of a fundraiser for next month’s Spring Fling students could buy their choice of a single bloom, which Mom’s shop provided at a substantial discount, and have them delivered to those they wanted to ask to the dance, or at least request a reserved spot on their dance card. Business had been especially booming this week.
    Staying hunched to keep from towering over the rest, I pulled the hood over my red curls and waded into the throng of students with their chattering hum of white noise and tried to remain inconspicuous. On the third floor hallway, I moved along the wall of windows, face averted toward the outdoors to help avoid eye contact and keep from being noticed.
    Through the endless panes of glittering glass, fog lapped over the sprawling lawns of the extensive grounds. White swans glided across ponds, towering trees dotted the manicured landscape, blossoms sprouted through the earth, and forest rimmed the far edges.
    Despite the serene beauty, my insides twitched because any moment now Rose could ride out of the woods on the blanket of mist, like some ethereal being coming to collect his bounty. Me. Although that might be preferable to the anxious anticipation of doom currently gurgling my gut.
    I was double-jittery because I was in the process of ditching Physics and hiding from the Hex Boys. Third period was the one class I didn’t share with any of them, and therefore, the one class I could ditch and not be followed, allowing me to do some Nancy Drewing on my own regarding the sweaty, crumpled paper in my pocket. 
    The yellowed-with-age parchment document Rose had given me, the one he claimed could blow my Divinicus cover with the boys, was a map. Faded ink sketched out a basic floor plan of a room which, using my mad deduction skills, I’d deduced was the library in this mansion that Flint built.
    Well, mad deduction skills along with the fact that someone — probably Rose — had used fresh ink and a flowing curly script to write on top of the page, “Flint’s Library.”
    Anyway , on the map, one of the walls was marked with a weird doodle. It was a single line which curved at either end into two distinct spirals. The spiral on one end was made of straight lines connected at sharp angles. Very geometric, it reminded me of the Greek key motif I remembered from art class. The other spiral was the typical curly, smooth flowing