Wood Sprites(65)

Louise had no clue to what “emergency response” might be but it didn’t sound good. Tesla probably could drag her out of the building and back home. Most likely, though, it would be safer to stay in the Annex… She squeaked as she remembered what she’d been in the middle of. Oh no, the magic generator was still in the 3D printer!

Tesla padded out from behind the art table and scanned the room until he spotted her. “Primary target found…”

She pointed at him and in her most level tone commanded. “Cancel emergency response.”

Tesla tilted his head. “Primary target appears unharmed. Cancelling emergency response.”

Louise glanced at Mr. Kessler. The man was rubbing his face as he gazed down in horror at the street below. He was safely beyond sane action.

She hurried to the printer and fumbled with the locks on the printer. She glanced toward Mr. Kessler to make sure he was still at the window; his hands had crept up to grip his hair. She jerked open the printer.

She had expected the magic generator and the fake one to look like a diamond and cut glass gem; only an expert could have told the difference at a glance. The fake had been the same size, shape and general color, but having seen the real one, she knew that the fake wouldn’t have been mistaken for the real one. It was on par of sterling silverware and plastic. The fake had looked like five dollars of melted plastic. The magic generator gleamed with its perfection.

Gritting her teeth, Louise eased the generator out and gingerly placed it in Tesla’s storage. She shut the lid and redid the locks hidden by his fur.

Downstairs there was an odd sound, growing louder. As she listened, she realized it was children shouting and screaming.

The PA clicked on and Principal Wiley said “All students are to report to their homeroom immediately. Teachers are to take attendance and report all absences. No one is to leave the building. I repeat. No one is to leave the building. All students are to report to their homeroom so attendance can be taken.”

He said nothing about injuries. Who had called 911? Who had been hurt? It was still another ten minutes until the homeroom bell. Anyone could have been out on the street when the blast went off.

Jillian ran into the room. “Lou! Lou!”

Louise reached out and gripped her twin’s hand tightly. “I’m okay.”

Miss Gray came into the room. “Louise. Jillian. You need to report to your homeroom.” Her voice quavered; a frightening thing to hear in an adult. Then again, Miss Gray hadn’t been “an adult” for very long. At the moment, she looked no older than some of the senior students. “Mr. Kessler? Kevin?”

Mr. Kessler turned from the window, his mouth still open in soundless protest to what he was seeing.

“The windows blew out on the first floor,” Miss Gray said. “A lot of the children were hit with flying glass.”

Mr. Kessler blinked at them. “What?”

“Go to the first floor!” Miss Gray cried and caught Louise’s shoulder. “Come on. We need to go now.”

“Miss Gray, we know first aid. Our father is a medical technician.”

“You need to go to your homeroom.” Miss Gray steered them toward the stairways. “First things first. Miss Hamilton has to know that you’re here and safe before you can do anything.”

They went down the stairs without talking, seven flights, the crying on each level growing louder. Each floor was a lower grade. Younger students. Closer to the destruction on the street. With each step down, Louise wondered, “Who would do this?” The gutted building had been nondescript with offices on the upper floors and a failed art gallery on the first floor. Nothing that seemed to warrant a bomb of that level. What was the real target of the bombers?

When they reached their floor, Mr. Howe and Miss Hamilton were in the hallway.

Mr. Howe was shaking his head but then pointed toward them. “There they are.”

“Oh, thank god, they weren’t out on the street!” Miss Hamilton pointed across the hall to Mr. Howe’s room. “We’ve moved rooms.” Mr. Howe’s windows looked over the auditorium’s roof toward the school’s loading docks and the back alley. The teachers didn’t want them seeing what was on the street, barely fifty feet away.

Miss Hamilton reported, “Room 501, all students accounted for,” via her headset as she herded them into the room. Mr. Howe, however, headed downstairs to help with the younger children hurt by the blast.

“We can help,” Louise said. “We know first aid. Our father is a medical technician.”

“No, that’s very good of you, but no. This is our responsibility.”