“He’s throwing up,” Rid said. “Clown Nose is throwing up.” Suddenly, she saw it. Clown Nose. Throwing up. Puking clown!
“Pukin’ like Savannah Snow at Senior Night.” Link seemed more chipper than he’d been since they left Gatlin. “Or Emily Asher at prom. Or that really drunk Summerville kid with food poisoning at Meatstik’s last gig. Or—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it.” Rid reached for the mouth. Her hand slid inside, until it disappeared all the way up to her wrist.
“Doorknob?” Link looked hopeful.
In answer, she grabbed his sleeve and yanked, until they both disappeared into the swirls of paint that were the graffiti mural…
… and reappeared on the other side of a door, in what seemed to be the mail room of an average-looking apartment building.
Link doubled over, his hands on his knees. Then he stood upright, shaking his head like a big dog that had just come out of the water. “Whoa. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”
“A basic Occultus Vox Cast? Oh, please, whatever. Illusionist kid stuff. Larkin did the same thing to his clubhouse when he was five.” Ridley wasn’t so impressed with the doorway; anyone could do that. But through the glass of another doorway, she saw stairs zigzagging up into the darkness—apartments above Marilyn’s, hidden from the outside by a Cast. Illusioning away a whole apartment building was pretty cool. Only the diner on the bottom floor was visible, and Ridley realized there was a second way in.
“The diner’s the threshold,” Ridley said. “I think we came in the back door. They were probably trying to throw us off.”
“Why would they want to do that?”
Ridley shrugged. “They’re Dark Casters, not the Stonewall Jackson PTA. They’re not here to meet the neighbors.”
She stared at the mailboxes, where a row of names appeared in pencil next to their corresponding—and very Mortal, very battered-looking—metal boxes. She ran her fingers down the list.
FLOYD: #2D
She tapped her finger on the name. “I met that girl. She’s the Illusionist.”
“Floyd?”
“I guess so.” Ridley shrugged. To be honest, she hadn’t paid much attention to anything that night at Suffer beyond her own predicament. “She was good at Liar’s Trade. But I was better.”
“What else?” Link looked at her like she was forgetting the important stuff.
“Oh, right. Bass guitar, I think.” She tried to remember, then gave up. “Whatever. She’s just some rocker chick.”
“I like rocker chicks.” Link grinned.
Ridley ignored him. She just pointed at a different name on the wall. “She didn’t do it all by herself. Look.”
There it was.
NECRO: #2D
“So they’re friends,” Link said.
Ridley nodded. “One did the tagging and the other hid the door. I met them both, but I don’t think I said two words to them all night.” Another poser rock loser.
“Necro? Probably a Necromancer.” Link looked anxious. He wasn’t interested in talking to the dead any more than he already had in the last few years. Having your best friend go to the Otherworld and back will do that to a guy.
“You think? What gave that away?”
Link raised his hands in surrender.
One name was scratched out. Ridley looked more closely but she couldn’t read it. “That one must have been their blowhole of a drummer. The one you’re replacing.”
“I’m not—”
Careful. Pull back. “The one they think you’re replacing. I know, I know. It’s not up to me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not the boss of you. So we’ll just go inside and clear the whole thing up.”
“What about this one?” Link stooped over to read the name. “It looks like Sam. Sam something.”
SAMPSON: #2D
Ridley felt seriously ill seeing the name of the strange Darkborn who had beaten her in the final hand of Liar’s Trade. The one who was playing for the house. “Sampson, he’s… something different.”
“Dark? Light? Incubus?”
If only she knew.
“Just different.” Her tone said leave it, and he did.
Ridley took a breath.
Now or never. I got us into this mess. This is how I’ll get us out.
So she did the opposite of every single thing she felt like doing. She found apartment 2D—up one flight of stairs, with nothing obviously Caster about them—and pushed the buzzer.
The door opened.
It was the pretty-boyish girl with the blue faux-hawk. Ridley recognized the close-cropped blue hair from the club. She couldn’t remember her name. They were all a blur now.
“Hey, Duane.” She attempted a smile. “Knock, knock. It’s us.” Ridley had taken a step closer toward the door when the blue faux-hawk tried to slam it shut, in her face. “Not expecting us, were you? Thanks for the great directions. You really made things easy.”
Link pushed the door open, and they stared at two very different girls. Ridley remembered them both from Suffer.
One was tall and gangly, sporting ratty jeans, a ripped Pink Floyd T-shirt, and more stringy blond hair than she seemed to know what to do with. Right now it was spilling out of two knots on the top of her head. “Hi, Floyd,” Ridley said.
Next to her, the one with the faux-hawk was short and slight. Where there wasn’t blue hair or black leather there were so many piercings it looked like she had a stapler fetish. “Necro.” Ridley nodded. It occurred to her that she had never realized Necro was actually a girl before, when they’d met at Suffer.