“Hey! Hey, Alex!”

Alex forced his eyes open. It was Sunday morning. It couldn’t be more than two, three hours later. “Huh?”

“Come on, get up,” came Sid’s voice. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Alex rubbed his face. “I mean seriously, you have to be kidding.”

As he sat up, Alex looked across the room to see Sid going through the motions of combing his hair at the mirror of the small bathroom. “How long have you been up?”

Sid looked at Alex through the mirror as he wet his comb. “Not long; I overslept, too,” Sid replied.

“No news this morning?” Alex asked, trying to think of what would be the thing to say if he had no information at all.

“You mean about Paul?” Sid came out of the bathroom. “No. Nothing.”

In one of the lounges Alex and Sid passed, a TV was again playing news, where the lead story was that LaLaurie School for Girls had been the site of a terrorist attack that culminated in the abduction of two students. In the background behind the reporter, Alex could see workmen struggling to remove chunks of ice on the lawn—chunks that, the reporter was saying, no one could explain.

Alex and Sid continued in silence to breakfast. The tension in the school was terrible, much worse than it had been on the day of the Secheron fight. The absence of Paul seemed to give off waves around his usual seat. They sat in silence for a while before Alex got up to go into the kitchen to get some more orange juice. “Hey, killer,” Alex heard as he walked by the Merrills’ table. Bill and Steven were smirking at him.

“What did you say?”

“I called you a killer,” said Bill. “That’s it, isn’t it? I thought you were some kind of deviant at your old school, but now that you’ve gotten Paul killed, it seems to me you’re probably one of those people who bad things just…happen around.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Alex angrily. “No one even knows where Paul is.”

“Do you make bad things happen around you?”

Alex felt his fist ball up, a rush of blood to his face, waves of adrenaline flooding up in his chest. He was seeing Paul dragged away by his ankle, Minhi and Paul screaming. He felt himself start to growl as he drew back his hand.

Sid clapped him on the shoulder, suddenly there. “Hey,” Sid said. The smaller boy seemed at once pleading and demanding. “Not now. Come on.”

“No, I think he had an answer for us,” Steven said unexpectedly, stepping forward. “What was it, Van Helsing?”

Alex found himself chest to chest with Steven when Sangster’s voice rang out, bringing them out of their faceoff. “Alex! Sid!” Sangster cried. “Come here.”

The teacher was standing at the door of the refectory. With a final scowl at the Merrills, Alex strode over to Sangster, Sid following closely.

“How are you two holding up?” he asked. “Besides this insane need to keep fighting with the Merrills.”

“I didn’t…,” Alex began, but Sid cut him off.

“We’re just waiting for more news,” Sid said.

Sangster nodded, and glancing from Sid to Alex, said, “Look, I know this may be an awkward time, but can you two do some research for me? For class.”

Alex looked at Sid.

“Sure,” said Sid, “anything to take my mind off this.”

“I want to know about Lord Byron and magic,” Sangster said. “I’m going to the library to pull whatever I can. Would you mind helping?”

Sid and Alex nodded and they were off.

The three of them went to the library where Sangster had set up at a long table in the back. Sangster’s chair had several yellow legal pads and a stack of books laid before it. Sangster pulled a legal pad toward him, scrawled a library code on a slip of paper, and handed it to Sid. “Sid, I missed this one, could you go find it?”

Sid nodded, taking off for the stacks.

“It’s taking some doing.” Sangster looked at Alex. “But I’m on the move tonight.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s taking some doing’?” Alex asked. “We found the entrance.”

“Oh, they’re happy about the entrance,” Sangster said. “What they’re not happy about is spending men and material on chasing after two hostages. They’re afraid if we do something big and bold, we might lose access to the Scholomance.”

Alex was disgusted. “What are you saying, that they’d sacrifice my friends because saving them would be inconvenient?”

“Alex,” Sangster said, scowling. “We’re not a bunch of Republic serial villains. To answer your question, yes, they would sacrifice the innocent if it would save more lives. If accessing the Scholomance later, with a bigger plan, when we know more, will save more lives, then they won’t move right now. But beyond that, doesn’t this spell trap to you? Just two hostages, taken right in front of me, a known agent to them, and you, a guy who they’re just waiting to see hit the stage?”

Alex had to blanch at the idea that the vampire world was buzzing about getting him “onstage,” as though he were a new Jonas Brother. “But you are going,” he said. It was not a question.

“Yeah, I’m going,” Sangster said. “I argued for hours. I’m not giving up on a student. They’ll allow a one-man insertion. One try. That’s it.”

“Let me ask you something,” Alex said. “You really think they’re still alive?”

“I think so,” Sangster said.

“Why do you think so?” Alex asked. His fear about Paul and Minhi had been haunting him.

“Because you don’t take two hostages right in front of witnesses just to kill them immediately afterward.” Sangster scrawled another number on a slip and handed it to Alex. “So…at worst, it’s probably a trap. But Icemaker is still up to something, and I need to figure out what that is. Here—I need some stuff on the whole Icemaker circle, Mary Shelley, Polidori, everyone. Go find this.”

Alex turned around, looking at the slip of paper. The book was The Monsters, call letters 823 HOO. Alex scanned the vast bookshelves as he walked past them until he found the row marked 810–830.

It took Alex no time to locate the book Sangster had sent for—it was a new book on the Romantics and clearly had just been acquired and library-bound. When Alex found it, he pulled it down, stuck it under his arm, and scanned nearby to see if anything else might prove useful. He liked to stumble across information this way—visually scanning nearby books beat out online key word searches any day. His search paid off: He found another volume—Polidori and the Vampires—that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Then he heard a creak. A book fell from a top shelf.

Alex looked up and then straight ahead at the sound of a sharp laugh. Through the stacks, for just a moment, he saw the face of Steven Merrill. And then something heavy struck him across the forehead. As it tumbled down—it appeared to be a copy of Childe Harold—Alex was stunned. He tried to stand up straight, grab the bookshelf, but it was falling, books pouring in a wave off the shelf. Alex started to stumble and trip toward the aisle.

Slow motion now, the fourteen-foot-tall shelf began to crash down against the next one, domino reaching for domino, with Alex underneath. Suddenly, he felt something grab him across the waist and push him hard. Alex tumbled out into the aisle and fell spread-eagle on the floor. Safe.

The library shook and thundered, shelving units slamming down, heavy wooden sounds followed by thousands upon thousands of smaller falling-books sounds.

And then all was quiet. Alex staggered to his feet, looking back for who had hit him. There was Sangster, halfway buried under the shelves, trying to pry himself free.

Sangster cursed, then looked at Alex. “Help me with this,” he rasped.

Now Sid came running up, followed by more students and the librarian. They all worked to lift the shelf off Sangster’s legs until finally there was enough give that the librarian, who was a strapping Viking of a woman, was able to grab Sangster by his shoulders and help him wriggle free.

Everyone let the shelves settle back. “Don’t get up.” The librarian held out her hand. “Can you feel your legs?”

Sangster was touching them. “Yes, yes, but…” He indicated his right leg, gritting his teeth. “I think this one is broken.”

“You!” the librarian looked at Alex. “Go to the front and call an ambulance.”

Alex was scanning the library for the Merrills, but they were nowhere in sight. As he ran to the front for the phone, he was cursing them, plotting indescribable revenge. If Sangster was hurt—if Sangster couldn’t do the mission tonight, and the Polidorium was unwilling to do it without Sangster—where did that leave Paul and Minhi’s chances for survival?