Maggie Quinn, girl reporter. Honors student, newspaper staffer, yearbook photographer.    Six weeks from graduation and all she wants to do is get out of Avalon High in one piece. A sensible nerd would have kept her head down, done her drive-by photo shoot of the prom, and continued the countdown to Deploma Day. But fate seems to have different plans for Maggie.    High school may be a natural breeding ground for evil, but the scent of fire and brimstone is still a little out of the ordinary. It's the distinct smell of sulfur that makes Maggie suspect that something's a bit off. And when real Twilight Zone stuff starts happening to the school's ruling clique—the athletic elite and the head cheerleader and her minions, all of whom happen to be named Jessica—Maggie realizes it's up to her to get in touch with her inner Nancy Drew and ferret out who unleashed the ancient evil before all hell breaks loose.    Maggie has always suspected that prom is the work of the devil, but it looks like her attendance will be mandatory. Sometimes a girl's got to do some pretty undesirable things if she wants to save her town from soul-crushing demons from hell. And the cheerleading squad. "Dripping with wit on nearly every page."- School Library Journal "Smart (and smart-ass)."- KLIATT "There is a lot to like in this story that takes on magic, romance, and even clique politics."- Publisher's Weekly "Fans of shows like Charmed and Buffy the Vampire Slayer will relish the unflappable, edgy humor Maggie brings to her fight against supernatural evil."- The Horn Book Magazine "Sharp, sarcastic wit...[This book] will appeal to supernatural fans of Meg Cabot's Mediator series."- VOYA “Smart (and smart-ass).” —KLIATT “There is a lot to like in this story that takes on magic, romance, and even clique politics.” —Publishers Weekly “Fans of shows like Charmed and Buffy the Vampire Slayer will relish the unflappable, edgy humor Maggie brings to her fight against supernatural evil.” —The Horn Book Magazine “Sharp, sarcastic wit. . . . [This book] will appeal to supernatural fans of Meg Cabot’s Mediator series.” —VOYA ROSEMARY CLEMENT-MOORE is also the author of Hell Week , Highway to Hell , The Splendor Falls , Texas Gothic , and Spirit and Dust . She grew up on a ranch in south Texas and now lives and writes in Arlington, Texas. You can visit her at ReadRosemary.com or follow her on Twitter @rclementmoore. 1 As an interactive horror experience, with beasts from Hell, mayhem, gore, and dismemberment, it was an impressive event. As a high school prom, however, the evening was marginally less successful. I should start at the beginning, but I'm not entirely certain when that is, so I'll start with the day I realized that despite my most determined efforts, I was not going to be able to ignore the prom entirely. The end of April, and a rabid satin and tulle frenzy had attached to every double X chromosome in the senior class. All available wall space–hallway, cafeteria, even the bathrooms–sprouted signage in the most obnoxious colors possible. I was assaulted by flyers in the courtyard, and harassed by thrice-daily announcements. Had I gotten my tickets yet? Had I voted for the class song? Had I voted for the King and Queen? No, no, and Hell no, because voting for royalty was not just moronic, it was oxymoronic. No one was safe from the Prom Plague. When dog-eared copies of Seventeen magazine started circulating through AP English, I knew I'd soon have to fall back to the band hall and call the CDC from there. Then one day my neutrality was over. My indifference punctured. Stanley Dozer asked me to be his date. Stanley Dozer was even lower on the high school food chain than I was, and I was in the journalism club. Sometimes I think God must have a kind of divine craps table; every once in a while He shoots snake eyes and the next baby born is screwed from the jump. I mean, "Stanley Dozer," for starters. Maybe he could have aesthetically overcome this name, but the guy was about six foot five, pale and bony as a corpse, with hair the color of spider webs. His ankles and wrists shot out of his too short jeans and the sleeves of his plaid button-down shirt. I sympathized with the sizing problems, but I had to wonder at the complete inattention to fashion. And by fashion I mean "camouflage." Back on the middle school Serengeti I learned that, lacking a certain killer instinct, my best bet was to avoid standing out from the herd and making myself a target for the apex social predators, at least until I'd built up a tough skin. Now I'm sort of like the spiny anteater. Small and prickly, trundling along, a threat to no one. Except ants, I guess, which is where the metaphor runs out. Back to Stanley's ambush. On the second-story breezeway that overlooked the courtyard below, the Spanish Club was selling candy to raise money for their Guatemalan sponsor child and I was taking their picture. Privately I thought li