Welcome to wimblys, p.14
Welcome to Wimbly's, page 14
part #1 of Misfit Magic Series
Pawing onto the porch, she sniffed the old wood. It carried a hint of wet mold and smoke even after so many years exposed to the elements. She leapt over the broken door and landed on the floorboards softer than a leaf in autumn. Maisie searched the living room, nose and whiskers scouring the ground. Nothing. She prowled through the house until she came to the last room at the end of a long hallway. She’d never been in this home before, but she knew the room from Quinn’s record.
The door hung ajar, so Maisie leapt through the gap. Deep black coated the walls. Wood crumbled like bits of old charcoal. The roof piled onto the floor, its timbers shattered like broken fingers. Only the room’s corner remained unharmed by fire, an odd refuge against the inferno where an old mattress and broken metal bedframe sat partially collapsed.
The fire marshal report said the team found Quinn huddled in the corner, matches in hand, passed out from smoke inhalation. The official report couldn’t determine where the blaze started and so did not officially blame Quinn, but finding him with used matches in his hand left little room for doubt.
“There’s got to be something in here,” she whispered, sniffing around the timbers. Maisie sensed nothing more than a fire and all that came with it. And yet, the relatively unharmed corner of the room was wrong in every way. Any normal fire should have killed the boy long before the fire department arrived.
Flames had eaten a hole into the crawlspace between the floor and the foundation, just where Quinn’s bed met the fire’s edge. Maisie leapt within the crawlspace, her enhanced feline vision illuminating the dark space in bright lines. She sniffed. She searched. She even pawed at a few things. Still, Maisie found no evidence of misfit magic. Maybe Donal had been right.
Frustrated, she made her way back to the hole in Quinn’s room. Slats of light filtered through the wood. Dust and dirt coated her paws. She’d be a mess when she returned to human form, but at least she could leave with some measure of peace knowing the fire had simply been a fire and nothing more nefarious despite what her instincts screamed.
But then her vision caught something that gave her pause. Odd lines etched on crumbled, dust-covered boards. They might have been nothing—but then they might have been something. She inched closer to the collapsed wood until she stood mere inches from them. Sharp angles, gentle curves, both interlaced. Half a spell remained. Half a spell any elder magician would recognize.
“No, it can’t be.” Maisie’s heart fluttered. She recoiled from the spell as if it might leap from the boards and sink fangs into her body. Donal had to know this. Donal needed to know this. She leapt from the crawlspace and darted outside. Shaking her fur, she dropped her transformation, claws elongating into red-knuckled fingers, legs stretching and thickening, the world losing some of its intoxicating clarity.
She cracked her knuckles and took a deep breath. She prepared a spell that would transform her into a thrush so she could fly back to Wimbly’s when she realized she was not alone. Forgetting the spell, she prepared another one, a deep seed of dread sprouting in her soul.
“Hello, Maisie,” a familiar woman said. “It’s been so long. Too long, don’t you think?”
Maisie wheeled around, adrenaline and instinct already putting the spell into her fingers. Ms. Velvet stood on the house’s patio, wrapped in a trench coat with brassy buttons, her golden hair curled in a style that hadn’t been popular in over half a century. The witch smirked, her fingers waggling the last of her own flashing spell.
Maisie finished casting, and her skin hardened into granite. A sword sprouted from her fist, crackling with white flames. It hissed as a blast of ice screeched around her. Maisie cut it with the fiery long sword, shards of ice splitting in two hissing rivers around her blade.
The ice blast dissipated, leaving a thin veil of steam between her and Ms. Velvet. The woman smirked, lightly clapping. “Better prepared than I thought you’d be. Looks like babysitting a bunch of spoiled talents hasn’t made you too soft around the edges.”
“So you do have something to do with this,” Maisie said through the wall of her teeth. “I suspected as much. Haven’t you learned your lesson by now? You’ll never win. You’ll never have your king, and you’ll never have Donal.”
Ms. Velvet’s features hardened. Shadows gathered around her shoulders, and she stepped onto the patio’s stairs. “I think that’s something we both have in common, from what I hear.”
“I’m not with him by my own choice. You’re not with him by his.” Maisie backed away from the woman. Letting that viper within arm’s reach could prove fatal.
“And what a blessing that turned out to be,” Ms. Velvet said. “Look at me now. Look what I’ve become.”
Maisie pointed the burning blade toward Ms. Velvet. Its heat washed against Maisie’s cheeks and over her stiff arms. “You’re nothing but a monster, even if you do call yourself the Witch Queen of the West. You torture magic from innocent, talented magicians and put it into—”
“The undeserving talentless? Please. The normal people I choose to receive the gift of torture put it to far better use than you filthy magicians.”
“Normal people would never agree to participate in the torture rituals. Normal people have a moral compass, unlike you and your kind. You’re a pathetic, empty doll that’s wandering aimlessly in the woods, looking for something that might make that black heart of yours beat again.”
Ms. Velvet looked around, her red lips parting in a sharp curve. “I think I’m not the only one who’s lost in the woods, Maisie.”
“Why are you here?” Maisie tightened her grip on the enchanted weapon.
Ms. Velvet circled Maisie, and Maisie circled her. They were like two blazing suns bound by gravity’s chain, locked in a dance that threatened each other’s destruction.
“I was about to ask you the same. Shouldn’t you be at Wimbly’s under Donal’s…protective care? I thought you talented folk didn’t wander from the castles you built. It’s a shame, too. While you’ve been tending to your walled gardens the world’s been changing in the most pleasing ways.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Because I’m not your student.” Her eyes flared, and so did the shadows writhing over her body. Her wicked look faded into a twinkling chuckle. “But I forget myself. I’m not here to fight you. I’m here to ask for your help.”
It was Maisie’s turn to laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m serious. Deadly serious. Join me. Donal broke both our hearts. Why stay with him? Come with me, and together we’ll bring a new age of magic to the land. Help me create a new race of magicians, and torture will become a thing of the past. I want to combine the blood of misfits and magicians, Maisie. A hybrid will unite the paths and end our long war. The reign of the talented is waning. Soon, it will be a memory.”
“Hybrids are impossible. Misfits have misfit children and magicians have magician children. Besides, if you’re so inclined to end torture, why was it committed here? I recognize the arcane geometry when I see it. Why was the spell etched into the burnt wood beneath Quinn’s bedroom?”
Ms. Velvet sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why did you have to see that, Maisie? You’re such a nosy little thing, always the thorn in my side. It was a necessary procedure to ensure I meet my goals. There are prices to pay and sacrifices to make in every war. You understand more than most I’d think.”
So Ms. Velvet did commit the torture ritual there. It explained the fire. It explained the spell. “You tortured the talent from his parents, didn’t you? But why leave him untouched—unless you really do think he’s your Misfit King. Did you—did you torture their power inside him?”
She smirked, licking her teeth with her pink tongue. “How frustrating it must be to stand before the truth yet never have it farther from your grasp. Such is the curse of a mortal life, one not even a magician may evade. Everything you know is a lie. You have no idea what’s coming.”
“I’ll never let you have Quinn. No matter how hard you try, no matter how close you get, I’ll do everything in my power to keep him from you.”
“Oh, you’re such a mighty moral beacon, Maisie, and I believe your words, although I admit you still don’t quite have a grasp of the situation—something you’re not unused to.” She laughed, and the shadows quivered around her.
Ms. Velvet had kept that particular dig for this moment. Maisie knew it.
“His parents’ death,” Ms. Velvet continued, “was just the first part in a very long-laid plan that’s only unfolding enough now. You’re beginning to grasp the gravity of your situation, and if you’re any kind of clever, you’d realize how very far behind you already are.”
“You killed them. He’s an orphan because of you!” The flames on her sword reacted to her rage and flashed an almost blinding white, searing her knuckles. Ms. Velvet was toying with her, plucking at her emotions and trying to prod a reaction. She wanted a fight. She’d wanted that fight for decades.
“Quinn’s no orphan.” Ms. Velvet waved her hand, and the flames on Maisie’s sword parted like curtains on a stage, framing the witch’s smooth chin and frozen smile. “He has a family. He might not know them yet, but he will, very soon. He will be known by all children of arcana soon enough.”
Maisie’s heartbeat thundered, and her blood was more of an inferno than her blade. Sweat beaded on her temples, and the scarf once warming her neck now felt like the coil of a hot stove. “Let’s end this.”
Ms. Velvet’s lips formed a little o of surprise. “Really? How lovely. I’ve been itching to kill the woman who took Donal from me.”
“You took him from me. Don’t twist that, misfit.”
Ms. Velvet lifted a hand and traced a pattern. As she did, her nails became long claws. Her blue eyes darkened into pits. Shadows thickened around her in an ever-growing black aura. Massive raven’s wings sprouted from her back, connecting at a thick, feathery collar. Her shoes became black talons, and fangs slipped through her crimson lips.
Maisie stiffened. She locked her arms and took in a deep breath.
Ms. Velvet licked her lips, her muscular harpy form trembling in anticipation. Maisie feigned casting a spell. Ms. Velvet moved to cast her own. Maisie flung her flaming sword at Ms. Velvet. The Witch Queen of the West screamed, lurching from the fiery, razor-tipped comet racing for her chest.
In the instant Ms. Velvet took her eyes away, Maisie traced a pattern and cast a spell. Her body burst into a cloud of dark brown and beige feathers of a peregrine falcon. Wind screamed a welcoming roar as she took flight. She shrieked, her call tearing the air while Ms. Velvet’s roar faded below. The harpy form was made for intimidation and battle. The peregrine form Maisie took was a sleek, simple vessel no other bird could hope to catch.
A flash lit the ground. Maisie tucked her wings and rolled. A blinding bolt grazed her chest. She winced, swallowing the pain. She beat her wings with the full force of an elder magician whose very soul boiled with scorching adrenaline and arcane power. They were all in danger: Donal, Quinn, and every student and teacher at Wimbly’s. She must warn them. Nothing else mattered.
She pierced a low cloud and leveled out, the senses of her falcon form tugging her toward Wimbly’s on an invisible line. High winds carried her with minimal flapping. Her chest throbbed. Her shoulder trembled. The acrid stench of a burn turned her stomach. She ignored it the best she could, even though a pulsing black ebbed into her vision.
Ms. Velvet had returned. For so long they believed the woman defeated along with her misfit army in those last days of the Second World War. But somehow, she survived. Not only that, she had a plan long in motion, one centered on Quinn, one she’d kill to keep a secret. If only Donal had been true to Maisie. If only he’d never strayed to the blonde sipping a martini at a smoke-filled bar in Paris. If only he’d realized the monster Ms. Velvet would become when he broke that blonde’s twisted heart.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Esteemed Roderick Shellhouse
Quinn sat at his desk, tapping the bright red book begging for his attention. A Brief History of the Wimbly School of Arts Arcana, by Roderick Shellhouse. His fingers slid across the soft leather. Pinching the cover, he parted its pages and scanned the book’s many chapters. He paused when a page caught his eye and grinned. Mr. Shellhouse had scrawled Principal Ward’s name in bold, curling calligraphy across the top of the page.
He glanced at Billy’s empty bed. His roommate mentioned going to one of the dryad soccer games so he could study their combat techniques. Even though being Quinn’s friend made Billy about as popular as head lice, the boy didn’t mind. Facing Porter Price conquered the last timid ties holding Billy back, and now the world was one great big oyster cracked open.
“Here goes nothing,” Quinn said, licking his lips. He cleared his throat and said in his most commanding tone, “Principal Donal Ward.”
Tiny shapes swirled around Donal’s name like bees around a hive and Quinn had gone for some honey. The book trembled and bounced like a jumping bean on his desk. He scooted his chair against the door and stared awestruck as the book took on a life of its own.
Its covers spread wide. Long, paper arms sprung from the pages. Fingers covered in calligraphy wiggled and grabbed the desktop. A man popped from the rapidly thinning book. He sported a flattened bowler hat and mustache folded into angular curls. The origami stranger pulled his torso out, his stomach folded in lanky squares like a loose accordion. He plucked his feet from the last pages, and the book’s leather cover folded into his shoes.
For a moment, he regarded Quinn without a word passing between them. Quinn eventually found his wits somewhere on the floor and opened his mouth, but even then he struggled for any words.
Sighing, the man grabbed his bowler hat and swept it in an arc. “Good day to you, my curiously-confused friend. Come to learn the wonders of the Wimbly School of Arts Arcana? Or perhaps you would like to learn how to simply speak at all? I must warn you that I am strictly a historian and not a linguist. You’ll have to inquire in the library for the appropriate book if speech is what you seek.”
Quinn’s jaw hung loose. He blinked, the back of his chair still leaning against the door.
“Maybe you’re under some kind of curse?” The man rubbed his angular chin with papery fingers. “I can’t do much about that either. Speak up, or I’m going to fold back up and take a nap while you look up the definition of common courtesy.”
“Who—wha—what…” The words stumbled from Quinn’s mouth like bricks down a hill. He gripped his seat and scooted forward. “Who are you?”
The man replaced the bowler hat atop his head and hopped from the desk. “I’m Roderick Shellhouse, at your limited service. I’m not the Roderick Shellhouse, of course, but rather a facsimile enchantment for the exclusive purpose of assisting inquisitive readers such as yourself.”
“But you are the book.”
“Indeed. Roderick was aware the subject itself might be a little dry for the tastes of excitable young students, so he thought adding me might spice up your research and give your reports some necessary flair.”
Quinn grinned and stood, slowly approaching the paper man. “Cool. So you’re like an audiobook.”
“That is a rather rough approximation for such a carefully constructed, complex creation such as I. I see by the particular chapter you named that you’re curious about Wimbly’s most unique and fascinating faculty member.” He cleared his throat and stared at Quinn down his folded nose. “Donal Ward was born in Mullingar, Ireland. His parents, Patrick and Shannon Ward, immigrated to the United States in 1905 to escape certain unscrupulous debt collectors. They boarded the Merriweather, whose captain was Alan O’Ma—”
“Wait!” Quinn raised his hands and stepped forward. “Stop. Do you…can you answer questions, or do you just recite everything in the book?”
Paper Roderick’s mustache wiggled. “Of course I can answer questions. As long as the information is referenced in my pages or the original Roderick noted it within his memory at the time he wrote the book, I’ll know the answer. That’s all, though. I can’t tell you what might be on certain tests if that’s what you’re aiming for.”
“No, not at all. I’m, ah, I’m doing a report. But it’s very important. Very important. Understand?”
“Is it now?” An eyebrow arched up Roderick’s forehead.
“Yes.” Quinn swallowed the excitement racing up his throat. “I’m doing a special report on all the principals of Wimbly’s.”
“Wonderful!” Roderick rocked on his heels, his body bouncing like a spring at the folds of his waist. “I’ve got plenty of information to go around about all of them. It’s understandable you’d want to start with Principal Ward, as he is your current principal.”
Quinn nodded as eagerly and wide-eyed as he could manage. “Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Shellhouse. Okay, first things first…” Quinn took a breath, thinking of how exactly he might pry anything useful out of the gasbag when it struck him like a shooting star on a dark night. “ Did you say Principal Ward was born on 1905? I knew magicians were old, but that old?”
Roderick nodded. “He was less than two when he came to the United States.”
“People can’t live that long. That’d make him over a hundred!”
“You don’t know much about the world of magic, do you? Magic is a powerful thing, and the better you are with it, the longer it sustains you. Lady Catrain Ashdown of Amesbury, first headmistress of the Amesbury Sanctuary for High Talent, lived long beyond a talentless person’s years before she became a librarian. Records indicate her advanced age did nothing to soften her temperament, much to the chagrin of the school’s students. She was also the first and only magician to be both principal and librarian, but that is another story altogether.”
