"Luck has a way of evaporating when you lean on it." – Brandon Mull, Keys to the Demon Prison (Fablehaven #5)

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Considering the series of unfortunate events that I experienced within two days, the week following the chocolate milk incident was surprisingly calm. My bruise was slowly fading from a blackish purple to a splotchy turquoise, and I was able to swing my arm without screaming bloody murder, which was ideal for myself and anyone standing nearby.

As Noah promised, I was able to retrieve my camera three days after I broke it. Although I bumped into a different employee when I picked it up, prickling embarrassment still crept up my neck at the memory of Noah asking for my number. Not to mention, I was still traumatised about the bridge incident, so on my way there, I was clinging to the railing as though it were a lifeline.

To take my mind off everything that happened last week, I climbed the narrow steps of the school balcony, breathing air no longer stained with sweat, overlooking the quaint cottages that lined winding streets.

My eyes landed on a potted rose before me, scarlet petals bleeding into a spiky stem. The daffodil from earlier was nowhere to be seen, but this would do. My index finger traced my camera button while I positioned the flower on a bench. As I snapped the photo, a gust of wind trickled through the leaves nearby.

I flinched, glancing wildly back and forth as my eyes darted to every corner of the balcony. As much as I tried not to think about Wyatt over the week, I still kept an eye out for that damned black cat. Upon asking a fellow student whether that hinderance – I mean, adorable feline – was a school mascot, she burst out laughing and swept past without another word, which was hardly an answer. That meant I still had to keep my guard up, watching out for signs of a swishy tail.

Once the coast was clear, I turned my attention back to my camera roll. Just like the daffodil, none of the rose photos came out right. Either the lighting was off, or the rose was curling up, as if it were hiding from the world. To be fair, I would do the same. I could do with some peace and quiet.

"If this camera was fixed, why do these pictures still suck?" I huffed, flicking through them impatiently. "Alright, you know what? I give up. You win, rose. If you stop shrivelling up every time the sun comes out, I'll give you another chance, but for now, we're done."

With that, I bundled up my belongings and descended the rickety staircase, a pile of textbooks partially blocking my vision. Nonetheless, I made it downstairs without tripping over my own feet and carelessly dumped the books into my locker, slumping against the soft gray door.

"Zoey?" A voice spoke beside my ear.

I leapt backward, almost bashing the back of my skull against the lockers, and glanced so quickly to my left that I gave myself whiplash. Even though Wyatt seemed to be keeping his distance these days, I was still on guard about him popping out of nowhere.

Instead, once my vision cleared, Mr. Griffiths came into focus, a smile curling at his lips.

"Oh, it's you," I sighed in relief, straightening up. "Sorry, sir, I didn't see you there. You scared the hell out of me."

"Language," Mr. Griffiths reprimanded, but his twinkling eyes suggested that he was amused rather than annoyed. "If any other teacher heard you saying that, they'd scold the living daylights out of you. I don't think you'd make it to the end of senior year."

"Well, what about you?" I asked, rubbing my neck delicately. I propped a foot against the lockers, which was perhaps overly casual around a staff member, but Griffiths let most students get away with minor transgressions. "Are you one of those teachers?"

He shrugged. "To hell with them."

"That's what I like to hear," I chuckled. A small stack of papers clutched between his fingers caught my eye. Mr. Griffiths was rifling through them with his thumb, and I glimpsed blue cursive handwriting identical to mine. "What've you got there?"

"Oh, this?" He cast his attention downwards, pausing his rifling long enough for me to read the first, oddly familiar sentence. My stomach twisted as he confirmed my suspicions. "It's your Latin paper from last week."

My eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Oh, god, why would you tell me that? I don't want to know my grade." Once the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. "Hold on, now that you've told me it's graded, I do want to know. Wait, don't tell me. I don't want you to ruin my day. No, but then I'll think about it for the rest of the day if you don't."

Mr. Griffiths, deciding to take matters into his own hands, shoved the paper under my nose while I was rambling. With a stifled laugh, he tapped the number scrawled in scarlet ink.

"Ninety four percent," he pointed out, and my heart skipped a beat. "Make of that what you will, but an A seems fine to me."

"Oh, bless your soul," I whispered, gingerly grabbing the assignment. I hugged it to my chest as though it were a precious jewel. "I thought I flunked that one."

"If you'd failed this assignment, I wouldn't have given it to you in plain sight," Mr. Griffiths explained as a group of giggling girls passed, lips painted mauve and soft rose. "Stop worrying so much. You're doing very well in my class." Before I could respond, he nodded to someone passing by. "Rob."

I followed his gaze, spotting a tall figure weaving through the crowd. Narrow glasses were perched at the tip of his crooked nose, which tipped off his identity. The librarian. Whispers circulating the hallways told me his name was Robert Alston, but everything else about him remained an enigma.

The librarian nodded back to Mr. Griffiths, his fingers scrolling rapidly across his phone. I flashed back to the incident where we made eye contact, and I surreptitiously tried to shield my face. If he thought I was spying on him that one time, I wasn't going to make it easier for him to identify me. Luckily, his gaze skimmed past me, staring without seeing.

"Odd fellow, Rob," Mr. Griffiths remarked, leaning against the row of lockers.

"Do you know why he's so elusive?" I asked curiously. "I've seen him around, but no one knows anything about him."

"Well, neither do I, to be honest, but he's worked here for years and years. One thing's for sure, he knows more about Necmirean history than anyone else," Mr. Griffiths explained, pushing up his sleeve to check a brown-strapped watch. "Right, I'm heading out for lunch. I'll see you in class tomorrow."

He plunged his hand into a navy pocket and drew out his car keys, attached to a jumble of charms which gently clanged together. A maroon object the size of my thumbnail caught my attention, along with a dice.

"What are those?" I asked.

"These?" Mr. Griffiths lifted the keys and shook them, creating a discordant jingle. "They're just a couple of charms. There's a shop down the street which sells souvenirs for a few bucks each. My wife purchased an armful last week, so I thought I'd put them to use. Now, if I ever lose my car keys, I can recognise the charms. See? Foolproof."

"Foolproof unless someone else buys the exact same ones," I pointed out. Nevertheless, the mention of charms sent alarm bells blaring in my head. Should I risk confiding in him about the bad luck theory? Maybe I should start with a hypothetical to avoid scaring him off. I still need those A grades. "So, do you believe in superstitions?"

Mr. Griffiths raised a bushy eyebrow. "I mean, sure, when I was younger. My parents told me about those superstitions so I wouldn't waste their expensive truffle salt." He snorted at the memory. "Now that I'm an adult who buys my own salt, it's no longer a useful tactic. I'll be honest, I did entertain the idea, but I'd have to take time away from grading papers to do that now."

So, it seemed that Wyatt was the only one under the delusion that these omens were real, which meant I had justification for not believing him. For a town so close to Salem, however, I was surprised that no one noticed anything peculiar. Not that I believed Wyatt, but still, if Necmire were riddled with some kind of dark history, the locals did a damn good job of not talking about it.

"Yeah, I'm sure grading papers is your dream job," I quipped, stifling a giggle before composing myself. "Well, if you keep giving me As, then full steam ahead, I say."

"That's it, I'm taking a point off your next assignment," Mr. Griffiths declared, pointing an accusatory finger at me but laughing nonetheless. He jingled the keys and took off with a wave. "See you tomorrow, Zoey."

"Bye," I called after him, the last drops of laugher draining from my voice. A sigh escaped my lips as I faced my locker, twisting the mechanism until the door creaked open. My hand plunged into the depths, scrabbling for my art history textbooks. No sooner than I retrieved them, however, another hand slammed the locker shut.

A scream tore from my throat, drowned out by the crowd. I spun on my heels to see Wyatt inches away from my nose, his eyes glinting with purpose. My back was already pressed against the locker, but I tried to shuffle backwards anyway. When that tactic failed, I redoubled my grip on the books, which acted as the only barrier between our bodies.

Wyatt swiftly retreated, but his expression remained serious. "We need to talk."

The soft flush across his freckles distracted me for long enough to tune him out. The way his slender fingers wrapped around my forearm, however, was harder to ignore. He steered me towards the nearest classroom. My feet were already halfway through the door before I got a word in edgewise.

"Whoa, hey, what are you doing? Stop dragging me around like a rag doll."

A brief glance around the vicinity told me that I was in the Latin classroom, judging from the maps of Ancient Rome tacked on the walls. Good, that meant I was in familiar territory and knew how to escape if need be. My chest heaved, uneasiness gripping my stomach as Wyatt shut the door. I had no clue how to respond to this, wondering what crazy measures he would take to prove a point.

Once we were alone, he turned to face me. The blazing sun bathed him in a golden glow. "What's the first rule of writing?"

A beat of silence passed. I stared at him blankly. If anyone else had pushed me into an empty classroom and asked for writing tips, I would run away and never look back. Wyatt Taylor, on the other hand, with his steely gray eyes, looked deadly serious.

So, I decided to humor him. "Trick question. There are no rules."

"Har har," Wyatt drawled, rolling his eyes. He weaved through rickety tables, joining me at the centre of the classroom. My eyes darted towards the dimples accentuating his cheeks, the constellation of freckles across his nose. "It's show, don't tell. And trust me, this is something you need to see to believe."

"Why do we need to do it in private?" I complained, putting my textbooks down. "What is this, a romantic comedy where some rando walks in on us hooking up?"

"No, but this could be risky. The fewer people who witness this, the better. I don't want to put anyone else in harm's way for the sake of proving a point."

My eyes widened. Wyatt could have chosen anyone else, any hobo or drifter, to conduct his experiment. Yet I was the one dragged into this. Just because he saved my life, doesn't mean I consented to participate in his crazy shenanigans thereafter. "Why am I the one you chose to put in harm's way?"

The corner of his lips twitched upwards. "To prove a point."

"Oh, I see how it is." I poked my finger at his chest. "You save one life and now you think you have the right to drag me into this. Well, honey, you've got a big storm coming."

Wyatt busied himself with a small object before I could go on a full blown rant. I craned my neck, angling a glimpse of whatever he was fiddling with. He glanced up at me with a knowing smirk, but his warning was more ominous. "Be careful. I don't know what's going to happen when I do this."

"Do what?" I demanded, but my heart skipped two beats when he held up a salt shaker. A wave of realisation crashed over me as my voice diminished to a hush. "Wyatt Taylor, what have you gotten me into?"

His eyes locked onto mine. "The first time's an accident. See a black cat, fall off a bridge. The second time's a coincidence. Break a mirror, spill chocolate milk all over yourself. The third time? That's no coincidence."

"What are you saying?"

"When I tip this salt shaker, something bad could happen. If nothing happens, I'll own up and say I'm wrong. If something does happen, you have to take me seriously. Deal?"

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, but caught his glare. "Alright, fine. Deal."

Wyatt slowly tilted the salt shaker until a few white grains tumbled out, bouncing on the linoleum floor. My gaze trailed the scattering salt. I waited for something to happen. The knot tightened in my chest.

A heartbeat passed.

"Well–" I began, but my words were cut off by an explosion.

Wyatt and I dove for cover, our shouts clashing together. I shielded my head with trembling arms while glass shards rained down on us. My nerves were fried. Shock sent my heart pummeling against my ribs. I spared a glance upwards to see that the lightbulb was no longer lit, nor a bulb, for the only part left of it was the drooping filament.

It was only after pounding footsteps began to approach that I realized Wyatt was shielding me from the fragments, his arms wrapped tightly around my torso. Once the glass rain stopped, we broke apart, brushing ourselves off. The footsteps outside were growing louder, accompanied by concerned voices.

Wyatt was already two steps ahead of me, wrenching open the door of a nearby cupboard. He shoved me into the depths of the cabinet, plunging my vision into darkness. I pressed myself against the wall, wondering whether the tickling sensation on my neck was a spider. Wyatt squeezed himself in beside me. The moment he shut the door, someone burst into the classroom.

A gruff voice spoke. "What happened here?"

"Not sure," a softer voice responded. "I guess the lightbulb blew. Lucky no one was in here, or they could've gotten seriously injured. Brush up these shards, will you?"

"I thought I heard someone scream."

"There's always someone screaming around here, Glen. If it's not the students, it's probably me, reading the essays they wrote." From the tiny crack through the cupboard door, my eyes followed navy heels clacking across the floor. "I'll grab the janitor."

Two sets of footsteps left the room. A soft click told me that they closed the door behind them. I pressed my fingers over my lips, back pinned against the cabinet door, melting into mahogany. Wyatt wasn't moving a muscle either, but his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. Threads of light broke through the dust, casting beams across our heaving chests and widened eyes.

I was suddenly aware of how closely our bodies were pressed together. Each time his skin brushed against mine, my temperature rose a degree. Thankfully, this closet was dim enough that my blazing cheeks went unnoticed. I gulped as his breaths tickled my shoulder, sending my stray hairs fluttering.

"So." His voice sent electricity down my spine, which heightened my awareness that only a thin column of dust separated our bodies. "Do you believe me now?"

I shifted uncomfortably against the splintered wall. There was no denying what happened. My sense of dread grew as his theory began to make sense. "Wyatt, this is crazy. These are folk tales, myths to scare people."

"Not here, Zoey." Every word that left his mouth was clipped, and the frustration bubbling beneath his forced calm was almost tangible. "Not now. In Necmire, bad omens are real, whether you like it or not. So, forget everything you thought you knew. This town has a secret. It's hiding something."

"Good to know," I tried to quip, but only a hoarse whisper issued from my lips. "So, what are we supposed to do about it?"

"If we're going to figure out what's going on, you need to learn about these superstitions."

My heart slammed against my ribcage. "And how exactly am I going to do that?"

"Well, for starters, I'm going to teach you," his voice broke through the dust column, and I was gripped with a sudden sense of foreboding, "how to avoid bad luck."

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A/N: Oh man, did I ever tell you how much I love Zoey and Wyatt? I love them so much. Ok, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I've been told that my narrative writing drags on, so I'm working on fixing that. I think I did better here than the previous chapter. I also updated sooner! One of my New Year's resolutions is to write five chapters of this novel during 2019. I've only got two to go :)

Since Zoey's on board now, we can move onto some good ol' investigation. The next few chapters will explore Necmire history & Wyatt's side of the story. I want to reiterate that this novel is a rough draft and should be treated as such. It's by no means perfect, but crap writing is better than no writing.

Thank you for reading! I love you <3

~ Yilei