Page 10 of Sweet Nightmare

“Actually,” Aunt Claudia speaks up in a breathless voice that’s little more than a whisper, “I’ve dealt with several fight injuries in the healer’s office. But they were all minor, so—”

“As I was saying, no major injuries,” my mother interrupts, narrowing her eyes at her sister. “Which is the same thing.”

One glare from my mother and Aunt Claudia knows this is a losing battle. Uncle Brandt reaches over to pat her knee, and she gives him a grateful smile.

“There’s a storm watch in the Gulf right now, but we should be fine,” Uncle Christopher manages to interject even without the gavel. “Our protections should hold, and if it does develop further, it should pass us right by.”

“Do I need to talk to Vivian and Victoria?” Aunt Carmen asks, jumping in—as she always does—at the first opportunity. “Have them cast another protection spell?”

Uncle Christopher twists the end of his auburn mustache around his finger as he contemplates her suggestion. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. What do you think, Camilla?”

My mother shrugs. “I think it’s unnecessary, but if it makes you feel better, Carmen, who am I to stop you?”

“Then I’ll have the witches take care of it.” Aunt Carmen’s voice is nearly as stiff and cold as my mother’s. There is no love lost between my mother and Aunt Carmen, who is the sibling closest to her in age.

She’s tried several times to launch a coup to replace my mother as headmaster. They’ve never worked, but they have made family conclaves extra entertaining.

“What about the, um”—Aunt Claudia lowers her voice like she’s about to tell a secret—“the matter in the, umm, lower level…?”

“You mean the dungeon?” my grandmother corrects with a shake of her head. “At least call it what you people have turned it into.”

I’m with her. That dank, dark area definitely qualifies as a dungeon.

“The matter in the basement,” Uncle Carter says, steely-voiced, “is well in hand.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Something almost got out of its cage while I was down there earlier.” The words slip out before I know I’m going to say them. Everyone turns to stare at me like I’m some kind of particularly nasty bug.

I know I should regret saying anything, but stirring the family pot is the only thing that makes Conclave bearable.

“Everything is perfectly secure, Clementine,” my mother tells me, eyes narrowed so much that all I can see now is a sliver of blue as she looks at me. “You need to stop making false reports.”

“It wasn’t a false report,” I say as I defiantly swipe some icing from my cake with my finger and lick it off. “Ask Uncle Carter.”

All eyes turn silently toward my uncle, who turns Calder Academy red.

“That’s simply not true. Our security is top-notch. There is nothing to worry about, Camilla,” he blusters, his goatee quivering in affront.

I think about pulling out my phone and blowing up the whole charade, but it’s not worth the detention I’ll surely get.

So instead, I duck my head and lean back in my chair. This time, it’s my shoulder Uncle Brandt pats, and for a second, I want to cry. Not because of my mom, but because his smile reminds me so much of his daughter’s—my cousin, Carolina, who died a couple months ago after escaping the scariest prison in the paranormal world.

She was sent there when we were both in ninth grade, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. But knowing she’s gone forever has made that ache so much worse.

My mother continues the meeting per her agenda, but after a couple more minutes, I tune her out.

Finally, just when I can taste freedom, she hands the gavel back to Uncle Christopher.

“Our last order of business tonight is a little more family oriented.” He grins with pride, and so does my aunt Lucinda, who is practically squirming in her seat with excitement.

The suspense lasts mere seconds before Uncle Christopher announces, “I’d like us all to take this opportunity to congratulate Caspian on getting early acceptance into the University of Salem’s prestigious Paranormal Studies program!”

The whole table erupts in cheers while I just sit there, feeling like I’ve been shoved off a cliff.

CHAPTER SEVEN

LET THE PICKLE CHIPS

FALL WHERE THEY MAY

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