Who notices first—me, the sprite, Malcolm—I can’t say.
I skid to a halt, but my momentum carries me through to the end of the hall. I wince, expecting to hit the containment field, or at the very least, the lockers.
Nothing blocks my path.
The corridor is clean, and the floor shines like it has been freshly waxed. I turn as if that will help me find the lockers that are so clearly no longer here.
“Malcolm?” His name comes out tiny and hushed.
He stands there, tire iron gripped in one hand, mouth agape. Gingerly, he uses the tire iron to poke at the space where the lockers should be.
“This isn’t another version of a visible ward, is it?” I peer up at the ceiling and then take in our surroundings. “Did we go down the wrong hallway?”
That seems unlikely, but it makes more sense than th
