- Jessa Lucas
- Jan 24, 2021
- 8 min read
Chapter Five
All Hallows' Deviants
“Him?” I ask incredulously, as we shuffle into the banquet hall and away from the bustling droves.
Donning their pointiest hats and finest black garments, students gather onto the long benches, jack-o’-lanterns with runes for eyes grinning up from their places atop the black spiderlace tablecloths. Steam leaks from the glowing cauldrons of pumpkin cider and chocolat chaud, flushing faces in bright greens and deep purples.
Tonight marks not only the most powerful day of the year for witches, but also the most daunting for us witchlings: the start of term.
Despite the spooky fanfare, my eyes narrow in on the object of Sabbath’s suspicion. With his chiseled features and eyes so blue they’re practically glowing in the dark, it’s literally impossible for my gaze not to find my suspected murderer in the crowd.
I watch him curiously from where we stand, adjacent to the stream of students pouring in to find empty seats.
“He’s a transfer from Burnbright,” Sabbath says knowingly.
“I still think it’s so insensitive for them to call a school that,” I mutter. Considering most of us had an ancestor (or six) who was burned at the stake, I don’t exactly find “Burnbright” to be a flattering homage to witching history. It’s not like witches go off like fireworks when they die.
I happen to be highly informed on this matter now.
Shaking my head, I find myself unable to loosen my eyes from the new guy. He looks right at home next to Spellfall’s resident hot girl and Nemesis Number One, Amandine LeFevre. Trust the two most attractive people in the vicinity to immediately find each other. It’s like magic or something.
“Say, I bite,” I concede, giving Amandine a spiteful look while she’s thankfully not glancing in my direction. “What’s your proof?” I turn to Sabbath, prepared to hear something logical.
“He’s a Runes Brood prodigy.” She pointed at my hand. “Rune.”
Isolde’s blazing red hair pops out of the crowd as she wags her hand in the air at us, a certain desperation in the gesture. She probably wants us to save her from Cecily, but I’m not feeling very inclined to play that kind of hero right now.
“What would a Burnbrighter have against me? Don’t you think my mom—” I hiss the last word while students mindlessly drag by, some rambunctious first-years jostling against us, “and her theatrical way of taking down authority, would be an idol at Burnbright? They’re, like, dark over there.”
One of the first-years looks back at me, his eyes bulging. Either word on the street has traveled faster this year, or he—like many first-years—has just made the correlation between my face, and the black and white “WANTED” poster in his History of Magic textbook. I remember the words exactly because Amandine LeFevre had torn the page out of her copy, crumpled it up, and thrown it at me for fun in first year:
“On the night of October 18, 2010, Carrow detonated explosive magic in the assembly building, killing all those present, including all members of the High Council. The motive behind her massacre is unknown, but has been attributed to a maddening of her magic...”
That had been the first time I truly realized the earth-shattering nature of who my mother was, and why it’d be ideal if I could fade into obscurity.
Folding my arms, I scowl at him, thinking what a nerd this kid must be to have already opened a textbook before the first day of school. This seems to be an effective way of warding off his gawking, though now he’s whispering hurriedly to his friends.
“Mika,” Sabbath begins, impressing the importance of her next words with the incline of her head. “The new guy’s not just anyone. That’s Soren Cain.”
First year gossip forgotten, I turn to her, my face transforming involuntarily as I soak in this fact. “I thought the High Chancellor didn’t have kids.”
“No, Mika. His nephew. Soren is the son of Luca Cain.”
My eyes close painfully. “Luca Cain, as in the former High Chancellor.”
Or put another way, Luca Cain, delivered unto death by Pandora Carrow.
When mommy dearest took out the entire High Council in one fell swoop nearly a decade ago, the witching world lurched, and then slid gracefully into the hands of Lathan Cain, the hungry, immaculate, younger brother of our world’s slain leader. It was a time of tragedy, no doubt, and in the panic-stricken aftermath of my mother’s killing spree, witches and warlocks around the world readily forewent the right to vote in new council members, in favor of someone—anyone with credibility and pristine politics, really—to make order of the chaos.
Lathan Cain held up his end of the bargain, but years later, people still aren’t sure how they feel about his ascension to power, especially here at Spellfall. Nevertheless, feeling indebted to someone will do crazy things to a person, and despite talk of a vote year after year, the proposition never really gains traction. It resurfaces only when the conversation is benefiting to some well-known witch or warlock’s current politics.
“Omens,” I whisper, glancing back at this Soren guy. He’s hard not to look at, honestly. In fact, he’s really, really, dangerously easy to look at.
Too bad we’re already sworn enemies, what with my mom killing his parents, him possibly killing me, and whatever gross thing he has going on with Amandine after being here for all of five seconds.
“How is he even here?” Transferring between schools is rare at best. Like switching between Broods—it just doesn’t happen. “Nepotism?” I suggest, on second thought.
“Of course.”
“But why?” I sound so personally offended right now, and it’s great. I’m ready for vengeance.
Sabbath offers a knowing look that should really be categorized as more of a know-it-all look. “To murder you, obviously.” Her favorite pastime is to jump to conclusions with alacrity, usually landing on the worst one possible.
The hottest guy in school murdering me, for example.
“Your mom went to Burnbright,” Sabbath gestures to me and then to him, “Soren went to Burnbright. Your mother murdered his father. You are related to your mother. He is here.” She waves in his direction once more and I freeze, momentarily immersed in the striking sensation of his steely gaze on us.
I swat at her arm. “The thing about murder theories, Sab, is you gotta be discreet. You got any other rock-solid proof?”
“Yes,” she says triumphantly. “He showed up right at the exact moment you were murdered.”
“Well, not the exact moment,” I refute. “Like, four days before.” Which is customary, by the way.
“I mean, everyone needs a little bit of time to plot a murder, Mika.”
“Maybe,” I shrug, eyes drawn to Soren’s face magnetically, as if I don’t have a three-year boyfriend. Frankly, Enzo has never been this hot, though, so I don’t know what he expects of me. Considering he didn’t write to me all summer, it’s not much. Besides, I’m a growing woman with hormones, and Soren Cain is a novelty. There’s nothing like a new bad boy with a streak of potential murderer going for him.
Ugh. It’s just so rude to murder someone in cold blood without even knowing them first, though.
“I’m looking at the facts,” Sabbath says, finally dragging me through the crowd, and smiling cordially when we slip into our seats next to Isolde. “He shows up, you die.”
“Circumstantial,” I retort, but if I’m being honest, Sabbath has half a point. As far as I know, no one had been murdered at this school before the moment Soren Cain arrived, so…
I have a perfect view of him from this seat, but my eyes keep drawing his attention. Instead, I turn my observations toward Amandine, with her long dark hair, and almost equally long nose. Unfortunately, it’s small and round enough that its length isn’t an intrusion on an otherwise stunning face. She also has exceptionally large lips—to compliment her high cheekbones, of course—that she always paints a classic rouge. So classique.
I remember, Amandine… I want to say as I glare at her. I remember a time when the wannabe astrologists of fourth year could’ve read the pimples on your face like the stars. Before you charmed your pouty lips to twice their size. Before you turned into a cruel wench and sabotaged my best friend.
Amandine has always been awful to me, but she was Sabbath’s first close friend at Spellfall, before I got promoted to that position, thank you very much. As pretty rich girls and normal-looking girls do, the two of them parted ways at the first signs of puberty. Amandine went straight for necromancy as if she’d been born with the gift, but unfortunately for their friendship, the unwilling witch was the more talented one. When we underwent the trials to assign us to our Broods at the end of fifth year, there was no denying Sabbath’s insane powers—despite how hard she tried to herself.
Despite Amandine’s blatant subterfuge.
The day Sab made it into Necromancy Brood was the day our Cold War rivalry with Amandine began. The only reason it’s cold is because Sabbath is a professing pacifist. Luckily for me, it eats Amandine alive that Sabbath manages to stay Sabbath despite the confusion it causes everyone else, and that she does so while so thoroughly besting Amandine in the process. This is victory enough for me.
For now.
Amandine molests Soren Cain with her eyes, and he smirks as if he enjoys it, officially ruining the female gaze for everyone. I scowl as the two perfect dimples rupture his stoic features. Ugh.
“If you’re trying to be discreet, maybe stop glaring at them,” Sabbath murmurs out of the side of her mouth.
I roll my eyes, but they land on the guy sitting across the table from me. I’ve never seen him in the six years I’ve been at Spellfall. Where in the unholy cauldron are all these new warlocks coming from?
When our eyes lock, he raises a single eyebrow, clearly questioning why I’m scrutinizing him so thoroughly. The guy’s got swarthy skin and hazel eyes, and currently he’s wearing both a nose ring and a measured expression that suggests he’s wary of all the festive heathenry.
“You forgot your—” Leaning across the table, Sabbath tips the brim of her hat to him with a teasing smile.
The new kid’s eyes flicker for a beat and he seems uncertain about whether he should feel self-conscious about this magical faux-pas, or if he’s glad he didn’t participate in tonight’s BYO-Pointy-Hat dress code.
“I’m Mika, by the way.”
“Sabbath,” Sab smiles.
The new guy’s careful manner slackens with her introduction and he proffers a lopsided grin.
It’s hard to tell in this light, but when I turn to Sabbath, I swear she’s flushed, her eyes glinting.
She didn’t even smile that big when I came back to life. I’m offended.
“Nik. With a K,” he says, offering his hand to Sabbath. She shakes it eagerly.
“Spellfall’s pretty international, so you don’t have to try to be too French, by the way,” she blabs. “But if someone tries to greet you with a bisous, definitely go left.”
“A bee-zoo?” Nik-With-A-K scowls, confused.
“Like. Uh, the kisses? On each cheek.” She grows even pinker underneath her finger, as she touches one side of her face and then the other in demonstration.
“Ah,” Nik nods, giving her another crooked smile. I’m sure if I look over at her right now, Sabbath will be dead. I should remind her that my skills in the necromancy department are not at her level, before it’s too late.
“So the High Council granted you a transfer? Where’d you transfer from?” I ask.
“Greywell Prep in San Francisco,” Nik says. “But I don’t know about a High Council. ‘Nik, you’ve got to stop causing all these cyclones,’ I was told. ‘Here, you got an invitation to magic school seven years ago. It’s in Paris. Bye!’”
Seven years ago? Cyclones?
Sabbath and I exchange a glance.
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