Chapter Eight

The Architecture of Magic

“You’re right, he so killed me,” I seethe as soon as we’re back in the room. “I mean, did you hear him? ‘Mischa,’” I mock, raising my voice to properly convey my distaste for the name that definitely wasn’t mine. “What if we just, like, make some voodoo dolls and stab him with some dinner knives? Would that be too Tomorrow Jones of us? It’s not like he couldn’t take it. He already does it to himself. You saw his arm, right?”

His rune-maimed, perfectly muscled arm. I finally finish the sentence that’s hanging onto its last breath, and look over at Sabbath for some backup. She wears a grim smile.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She shrugs, making a face that totally defeats the purpose of her shrug. “You sound like me after Callum and I broke up.”

“No.” I point my index finger at her in an act of defense. “You’ve known Callum since we were ten. That was different. You loved him. He broke your heart.”

“And you’ve known Soren for three and a half minutes, and already you’re in the throes of violent, passionate hatred.”

Throwing my arms up in a duh-slash-question sort of way, I glare. “Sabbath, we’re working on the theory that he killed me, remember?”

Her brow arches in mild amusement as she thumbs through the pages of a book.

“I’ve come to your side on this one, and you aren’t even validating me here,” I mutter. “I had, like, a visceral reaction to his presence. I can’t explain it, but it was powerful and most certainly dark and deathly.” I slump onto the bed beside her, grateful I don’t fall right through it.

“He was right though, Mika,” Sabbath admits with a shake of her head, focusing on the book. “‘The improperly resurrected will lack the physical attributes of live humans, and they will slowly lose all melanin, making them unmistakably pale. Within a few days to a few weeks of resurrection, they will succumb to the spirit realm.’ It’s just like Soren said! And if he’s right, then I did mess up—”

“Then what’s this?” I interject, holding my hand out to her. The rune is bright, and it still hurts. “We agreed it looked like murder.”

“I’m not a Runes expert. Maybe we can ask Soren about it.”

I sigh. “Tell me you hate him as much as I do, because you are really scaring me with how much credit you’re giving him right now.”

Without answering, Sabbath peers back down at the text, trailing her finger along the page, only to glance up at me helplessly. “It doesn’t say anything about how to fix things.”

“Don’t look at me. I’m not an ancient textbook. I’m a living-going-on-dead girl.”

Obviously frustrated, she snaps the textbook shut. “Mika, we have to do something. And Soren is the only solution I have right now.”

“Let’s give it a day,” I say, probably my famous last words—for the second time. I am not asking for Soren Cain’s help if I don’t have to.

* * *

Sabbath and I wake up late the first day of class, on account of staying up into the early hours of the morning seeing just how many things my hand could go through. Books? Check. Flames? Check. Sabbath’s face? Check. Though, I was told it was not as delightful a discovery for her as it was for me. If you take the “grave danger” part out of becoming a ghost, it’s actually on the fun side of high stakes.

Stuffing the last bite of fried egg into my mouth, I scramble from breakfast with Sabbath in tow, flying at top speed to the third floor of the east wing—where we have homeroom. A bunch of daunted looking first-years slam back into the walls with wide eyes, moving out of our way as we plow through the halls. Mirabel Thorncaster is not one you want to disappoint twice in less than twelve hours.

Nearing the classroom, we slow to a normal pace just outside and merge with the flow of students casually meandering in just as the bell sings through the air.

As soon as I enter, I spot Soren sitting in the back corner, slouched down in his seat with an air of nonchalance, arms folded over one another. It can’t be clearer that he doesn’t belong here.

I gulp and sink into my seat next to Sabbath, catching Thorncaster’s pointed look in our direction, despite the fact that more members of our year are still waltzing in late without the slightest bit of shame. Namely Tomorrow Jones, who’s biting into the bubble she’s just produced with her gum, popping it loudly to announce her entrance. She swaggers in, dropping down next to Tuesday.

Tuesday and Tomorrow Jones are identical sisters, except that Tuesday has emerald green hair that she wears in a thick high ponytail, and she’s always smirking to herself like she’s in on a private joke with a ghost. Tomorrow, on the other hand, is the poster child for goth witches everywhere—straight black hair, a lip-ringed scowl, and glowering kohl-rimmed eyes. It’s amazing to me how the two of them exist in such sharp contrast to one another.

“Looks like everyone is here,” Thorncaster announces, gazing down her nose at all of us like a mother hen counting her chicks. With zero of the maternal instincts, of course.

Mirabel Thorncaster is the head of our year—has been since we were bright-eyed ten-year-olds getting lost in the mazes of Spellfall, and will be until the day we graduate after our twelfth year. She functions as both counselor and mentor, overseeing our education from start to finish, helping us navigate our schedules.

By the time we find ourselves free of our schooling, we’ll owe all our deepest knowledge of magic to her. Apparently, it’s a huge honor for a witch or warlock to be asked to rear a whole class of young witchlings, but I don’t envy Thorncaster in the least.

From the very first time I set my eyes on her, I’ve sensed that she is capable of far more than she lets on. Sitting in the fringes of her hardened gaze as she takes in the entire seventh year, I believe it still. The slight crease between her brows. Her sharply perceptive gaze. The streaks of silver that have embellished her dark hair for years. They all promulgate whispers of a well-concealed past. I’ve always hoped that one day, when Thorncaster finally believes we’re old enough to handle it, she’ll reveal more of her darkness to us, piece by piece. I know it’s there, powering the shrewd gears turning over in her mind.

“Welcome to your seventh year,” she finally declares. “We have some new faces, which is both a treat and a surprise. Nikolai Castigan.”

A roomful of eyes follow the trail of her uplifted arm, their eyes locking on Nik. His jaw tenses uncomfortably and he looks for comfort among the intrigued gazes, finding it in a small smile offered by Sabbath.

“And we also have a new transfer to the Runes Brood from Burnbright,” Thorncaster continues, eyes withdrawing from Nik. “Soren Cain.”

No one needs a signal to the corner where Soren sits, looking far less uncomfortable as fervid eyes veer in his direction. In fact, Soren doesn’t look like anything. He merely stares blankly out at us without any reaction whatsoever. Probably, he is used to the fame.

I crumple my face up in irritation, nudging my attention back to the professor.

“You’ve persevered through your first year in your assigned Broods,” she acknowledges. “This is your last year as underclassmen. At the end of it you will undergo the Claiming. This term, I will be continuing your core curriculum with Architecture of Magic 201. I urge you, as you move deeper into your magical concentrations, not to take this course lightly. I’m looking at you, Allen.”

Thorncaster raises a single eyebrow at Tate Allen, the Irish kid sitting next to Enzo with an affinity for misbehaving, and such a proclivity for potions that he was dubbed the Potions Master before he’d even made it into Alchemy Brood.

As the stirring of amused chuckles dies down, the professor whips her arm in the air and a flurry of papers self-distribute, depositing themselves in each of our hands. Glancing at mine, I scan the page quickly to see that my other courses this year are Exotic Plants & Fungi, Brewing & Stewing 101, Magical Mixology, and Practical Magic for the Modern Alchemist.

Licking a finger, Thorncaster pages through her own copies of our schedules. “Many of you, depending on your specialty, will still share classes with other Brood members.”

I peer over at Sabbath’s parchment to find that she’s taking Intro to the Undead: Vampires & Vengeful Spirits, and The Cost of Magic: Theory, amongst others. Sabbath and I will, unfortunately, only share homeroom. We share a regretful look.

“This is also the first year that you may share classes with upperclassmen. Conduct yourselves appropriately. The professors of your Brood-focused classes will demand top marks. They will anticipate passion, commitment, and have far higher expectations of you and your work than many of the professors in the past years. They will also keep me informed on how each of you is doing. Now, shall we dive into the Architecture of Magic?”

Thorncaster turns to the board behind her, waving her hand to conjure an overwhelming diagram breakdown. “Last year we focused largely on the differences between wakened and willed magic. This year, we shall turn our attention to the five types of power: medicinal, transformative, pale, dark, and soul magics...”

Launching into a lecture that spans the full two hours of class, Thorncaster stops only for a few moments at a time to accommodate for the soundtrack of frenetic scribbling. By the time the bell rings, my wrist hurts—which I’m grateful for, because better it hurt than cease to exist.

Sab and I bolt from our seats. Soren cuts out in front of us, not deigning to give us even half a glance as he storms out. We’re nearly through the door when Thorncaster calls, “Carrow. Winters. A moment, please.”

Exchanging a dread-filled look, Sab and I trudge back to the professor.

For a moment, she just peers at us with an unreadable look. “You’ll both meet me outside the administrative quarter Saturday night at 9:00 p.m. for your detention.”

We nod, as Sabbath starts apologizing profusely. “Again, we’re so sorry, Profess—”

“I hope you’ve both learned a valuable lesson about performing magic far beyond your training. There are reasons why unsanctioned séances are forbidden at this school,” Thorncaster reprimands, waiting for us to nod again. “One last thing, Sabbath. Your exemptions have been approved this year, but I should warn you that some professors may not take kindly to your lack of participation.”

Swallowing, Sab lowers her head while I give her a bleak look.

Thorncaster’s hard-edges melt from brash to a simmer of near-warmth. “It is unusual to have a non-practicing necromancer in this school, but your exemption is none of their concern.” She inclines her head, sliding the eyes beneath her bushy brows from Sabbath over to me in final warning. “Dismissed.”

We scurry from the room, breathing out a sigh of deepest relief.

* * *

After a midday break for lunch, I head off to Practical Magic. Taught by a homely looking witch with a fondness for plum-colored clothing, I’m unsurprised to learn that a large percentage of the class will require baking. It seems this professor’s generous curves may be owed to the venom-infused fig cakes we start the year off with.

“The trick is that the venom evaporates during the process,” she explains gleefully, bouncing up on her toes, “leaving us with a lovely spiced-rum essence that blends perfectly with the fig! But be careful, if you don’t do this part properly, you may poison your guests. And that’s not very good hospitality!”

Black skirt powered with flour, I trudge to my last class of the day. I hope my hand doesn’t have another lapse in Magical Mixology—spices and flour flying through my grasp and onto my clothes is one thing, but more dangerous substances? No thanks. Already, the vanishing sensation has slipped up to my forearm, just in the last few hours, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it’s causing some alarm.

“Alchemists,” Atticus Knox says, sweeping gallantly into the room, “I will be your Magical Mixology professor this year. And the year after, and the year after—”

He stares up at our class, his long shaggy hair thinning, his head balding, his wide brown eyes large behind his round spectacles. He’s exactly what a middle-aged Alchemy Professor would look like. “My name is Atticus Knox, and though I’m sure you’ve gathered, alchemy is not for the faint of heart.”

I turn toward the snickers in the back of the room; most of my classmates are under the same impression as I am.

“If not wakened, then willed…” The common phrase comes to mind, and it’s doled out regularly to those who don’t possess a generous measure of natural magic. The words are practically the motto of our Brood.

“The Alchemy Brood is comprised of the renaissance men and women of the witching community. We are chefs, healers—”

“Losers,” some ballsy jokester interrupts from the back.

Knox drops his glasses lower, peering up over the rim out into the room. “And most often, they have the most diverse knowledge of practical magic. That, of course, is up to you.”

He turns on his heel flamboyantly, coattails flying as he flicks his hand and the chalk gravitates upward. Stark white letters scratch themselves into the blackboard: Magical Mixology. Two vigorous lines streak against the black, accentuating the words.

“By now, you’ve all taken Intro to Magical Substances as well as Potions 101, and judging from the results of your trials, you’ve retained a fair amount of knowledge from your pre-requisites. We shall deepen that knowledge in this class. I won’t waste your time by reiterating why you should never substitute a tongue for a toe, or how disastrous it would be to mince the essence of galangal when you really are meant to dice it in 99% of potions. Though, do any of you know why?”

I turn, expecting to see the student’s hand jutting up into the air with self-assurance, yet, in a sea of average witchlings, none of us care enough to have the right answer.

“You there,” Knox points to the back of the room, to the exact source of the “Loser,” who now has the grin of being caught splitting his face. “Tell me, why do we dice galangal?”

I realize the kid is none other than the Potions Master, and now being the center of attention, he shifts uncomfortably. Apparently, he’s self-conscious about being an academic, in addition to running Spellfall’s illegal potions trade with Enzo. “Essence of galangal is extremely potent, and the more the surface area is exposed, the more potent your potion will become,” he quickly mutters.

“Yes!” Knox shouts gleefully. “Someone has done their homework before school has even started! Many a witch and warlock have accidentally altered the efficacy of their brew by making this mistake.

“In this class, we will delve into the distillation of ingredients, learning how to combine the proper proportions to produce the desired effect of your draughts. Your journey into Alchemy will be diverse, thorough, and beneficial—though the last is largely up to you. I hear, Allen, that you have quite the expertise in mixology already, so perhaps we should propose to Thorncaster that you skip straight to next year’s Conjuring Concoctions class.”

A susurration of giggles bubbles up in the following silence, a smirk wavering on Knox’s face, and I immediately warm to him. His awkward gruffness is a heavy-handed way of forcing authority; I can see now that he finds delight in his expertise, and in sharing its value.

At heart, Knox is clearly an entertainer.

“By the end of the term,” Knox continues, “you will be expected to have mixed your very own brew. One that contributes to society, Allen.”

“I would argue that what I do contributes,” Allen smirks, and the girl next to him nudges him.

Knox narrows his eyes. “To clarify, a brew that aids our reality, not that banishes it.”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that,” the Potions Master mutters.

“Some of the most famous witches and warlocks to pass through these halls were from our Brood. Tell me, who can name a few?”

At that moment, the rune on my hand prickles painfully and I look down at it as Knox draws more amused reactions from my classmates. I’ve largely ignored the rune today, but I might not have it much longer if there’s no body for it to live on. As far as post-resurrection priorities go, tending to the mark has been fourth on the list after 1) staying tangible, 2) staying secret, 3) surviving the first day of classes, literally.

However, the rune is hard to ignore now. It aches, and I give it a cagey glance, tracing it with the pad of my finger while it glares up at me, a blistery, angry red.

“What’s that you’ve got on your hand, doll?”

The air grows cold, looping around me like an exhale of coming winter. My magic chills, crawling with an instinctual reaction. It tells me not to heed the voice, the voice that’s not here. I swallow carefully, turning my attention back to the lecture, watching out of my peripheral vision as smoky figures sidle through the rows of desks, sinewy gasps of black smoke spilling out into the air behind them.

The impassive nature of my peers sends a jolt through my heart. None of them flinch as the beings lurk from desk to desk, looking, touching, whispering, bringing with them an iciness that leaves a trail of peaks along my own skin.

Suddenly, it all clicks into place. These are the things I saw last night at the feast. They’re the shadow walkers Soren warned me against.

“It’s a poor glamor,” he coos.

I tell myself not to make eye contact. Act normal, Mika. But the body next to me is hunkered down over my hand, examining it. “It’s a curious little rune, this,” he muses, moving his face up to mine. I try to see past him, as if he’s fully translucent instead of flickering in and out like fog, condensing and separating before me. My eyes do their best to focus on Knox at the front of the room, instead of the pale skin and blueish-white irises hovering inches away from my face.

My lungs ease out a breath that I know is too shallow. Can this… thing hear my heartbeats? Is he somehow more perceptive than a normal ghost?

“I need a skin,” he mutters, and to my horror, his hand lifts to stroke my cheek.

It feels like a frigid wind ruffling against my face. I don’t want to make eye contact, but his gaze is magnetic, drawing a frenzied beat from my heart. Drawing my eyes.

“It’s no use, doll. I know you see me. I need a skin, and it won’t be long now before I have yours.”

With these words, my eyes latch onto his, and the shadow walker grins.

I wanted to do something different with my witchy academy story by skipping the whole "You're a wizard, Harry!" moment that happens in a lot of contemporary YA fantasy! Trying to introduce a new world to readers that's not new to the protagonist has been a fun challenge. Do you like being thrust right into a story world, or do you like the protagonist's big "intro to the magical world" moment?

xx Jessa

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