I power up my laptop and open an internet browser. Twirling my black hair with its natural brown, amber, and red streaks with one hand and chewing on the fingernails of my other, I consider stopping my bad nail-chewing habit. I have tried to do so for the past five years, but something usually distracts me and the idea is completely forgotten. Now, the distraction is that my laptop finally turns on. You would think a new MacBook Air would be a bit faster. I am planning to check my email, but every time I open the browser, Yahoo comes up. I haven't yet figured out how to change it.

The article that catches my eye now is the one that says "Murder In Fourren." Fourren is the city I live in; there is no way I won't read it. Also, it will probably be all over the school tomorrow. Being one of the "popular clique" girls, I need to have an ability to interpret what the biggest news will be before the spread of the information actually begins. That's how it works in my school. Clicking on the bold black words, I read through the article.

It says that a teenager had been walking home at about six o'clock at night from her high school, when something had ambushed her and sliced open her throat. There was no dried blood around the wound, and neither was there any around her. The information doesn't quite match up, because a wound like that should have produced much, much more of the crimson life.

I try to ignore it and as I type in my email password, but it is hard to forget it. After several times, my shaking fingers finally enter it correctly. Logging into my email, I see that I have at least ten messages. All of them are about the murder. Not only is the location of the death close to my home, but the circumstances are also strange: no blood and in a safe neighborhood. There are usually many people walking along the sidewalks with their dogs, cyclists pedaling along, and joggers with their extreme determination. I will never be able to run that far.

But with that many witnesses, someone must have seen it. The police have questioned pretty much everyone in the neighborhood, according to the article, including my parents. The parents of the town have assured that they were in their house that day at that time and that their children were in the house with them. Of course, a few students were in the school at the time of the murder, but the teachers can confirm that. No one was outside that day.

Mystery and crime books aren't usually my type, and I don't even like writing about them although I aim to be an author when I graduate high school. But this certainly intrigued me, and I had no doubt that the detectives hired to solve this case are much smarter than I. Trying to recall the fine points of this hardly makes me a detective though. So here it is:

Unusual circumstances because there was no one to witness the murder in the busy town.

Also, there simply wasn't enough blood.

It's a safe neighborhood.

They will catch the murderer, I think. No need to worry. Things like this probably happens a lot in the rest of the world. My own thoughts can't assure me, even when I repeat them out loud. I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but the facts just aren't working out. If I didn't know better, I'd say that magic and things that shouldn't exist are actually starting to reveal themselves.

...

By the next day, the news is flying throughout the entire school like wildfire. The murder was disturbing to me, and I attempt to ignore anything that has to do with it. It's hard to do so, though. When I said flying, I wasn't being all fancy with metaphors.

The history teacher- I always forget his name- turns around and begins writing on the chalkboard with a whiteboard pen. I'm not quite sure how that works, and I'm still trying to figure it out, but a paper airplane flies over and lands with incredible accuracy on my desk. On its wing is a quick scribble of "Mororose." Yes, that's my name. Don't make fun of it. What were my parents thinking?

I quickly deduce that the message is from Engravo. He's the only one with such great airplane aim and also the only one who calls me Mororose. My true friends have the sense to call me "Rose." Of course, I get back at him by calling him Engravo, which is usually shortened to "Tim." Don't ask, because I don't know how that works.

Quickly looking up, I see the teacher is now trying to erase the marker from the board with soda. I've always thought he was a bit wrong in the head. Opening the note now that I know the teacher won't catch me, I immediately see that it is about the murder.

"What's your theory?" Of course. The murder occurred yesterday, and we're already starting to spread conspiracy theories about it. Think about the poor girl's parents. Doesn't anyone care about them at all? How about a "Let's go visit her parents. They must be devastated" note? I crumple the piece of paper and throw it with perfect aim at his head.

...

"Is the girl marked?"

"Yes. I have put the mixture in her lemonade." The man shivers, thinking of the unfortunate fate of his predecessor.

"Good, good. And what do you call me?"

"Empress."

"Don't forget it. Track her carefully, and make sure to keep her alive."

"Yes... Empress." Turning back to the screen that tracks the girl with the black hair and its unusual streaks, he watches her throw a paper ball at some handsome boy. Her boyfriend, perhaps? Don't become to involved with those two. They are nothing but pawns in your game. The "loyal" assistant of the Cat Empress begins plotting the rebellion against her.


Wow. It's longer than I thought it would be. At first, I started adding random information to try to make it longer, but it started growing on its own. Tell me if I don't need something in it. Review please :D