“Chaos magic doesn’t exist anymore. Whoever got into the vault must’ve just been lucky, or maybe battle mages don’t take their training as seriously as they should.”
I want to believe it. I want to believe in incompetent battle mages rather than a resurgence of chaos magic.
“Besides,” Morgan continues, “if whatever they were after wasn’t in the vault, then it can’t be all that powerful, so why would they even want it?”
“That’s a good point and makes the whole thing even weirder.” I take a deep breath and exhale noisily through my nose, realizing it’s exactly what my dad does whenever he’s stumped by some magical problem.
“Think you’ve got everything you need for a front-page story,” Morgan says.
“Supposition and false claims aren’t great journalism.”
“Then that means the Knock-Knock Jokes still stand a chance? Did you listen to us?” He glances up at me, looking genuinely nervous.
“I did and yeah, not bad.” I feel myself smiling. “The drummer’s pretty good.”
“Told ya,” he says with a flash of a grin. “Anyway, back to bigger issues: what are we going to do?”
“I think I should speak to my mom.”
He groans and I get it. It’s not like I want to involve the school principal in this.
“You got another idea?” I ask. “It’s not like we’re detectives.”
“No, but you’re an investigative journalist, right?”
“Thought I was a music critic.”
“That too. You could be like Steve Morse or something.” His eyes are bright, hands waving as they paint imaginary pictures of crowds and stages. “Go to hundreds of gigs a year, get all the inside scoops, hang out with the hottest bands.”
“Not sure that’s the kind of journalistic approach we need right now.” I’ve always wanted to be more like Jane Mayer or Martha Mendoza.
“Fair enough.” He deflates, shoulders drooping like a basset hound’s ears. “So, your mom then?”
“It’s our only option.”
Morgan starts down the path and I stride along beside him, driven not only by the icy wind slicing around the edges of my jacket, but by the tornado in my belly telling me something is truly, terribly wrong.
8
“Your mom’s a little busy right now,” Markus says before I can even say good morning to the school secretary. “She shouldn’t be disturbed.”
“I’ll only be a minute.” I go with the flow of momentum, letting it carry me past Markus, and I knock on Mom’s door.
It’s yanked open a moment later.
“Taika, I’m in a meeting.”
With Emmi, Joakim, and Aleksi who’s equal parts PE teacher and conjurer extraordinaire. A secret gathering of the school’s tietäjät? Their expressions are the dictionary definition of grim, and only Emmi offers me the weakest hint of a smile.