Spellcaster, p.2
Spellcaster, page 2
No one could transport straight into Weatherstone, except maybe the headmaster. I’d heard rumors he had his own personal portal inside his office.
“Impressive, isn’t it, Little Gem?”
“Uh, yeah . . .” A picture of the gates had been in the brochure, but it did not do them justice. It was more than their sheer size, standing twenty feet high and at least that wide, constructed from iron, curving and twisting in intricate patterns to reach an arched top. It was the energy emanating from every facet, including the glowing golden script in the center that read Weatherstone College. Below, in a slightly duller gold, was the school’s motto: Conquester livara incidium morando.
The ancient language of magic users was no longer part of our day-to-day speech, but we still used it in spells. Everyone knew the rough translation of the motto: “To conquer life you must first accept death.”
It made sense with the knowledge that the two witches who created Weatherstone College, all the way back in the eighteenth century, were both necromancers. Hence the reason a necro always sat as headmaster. Rumors about the pair still swirled to this day, but it was widely accepted that in the end their obsession with death and Weatherstone had gotten them killed. It was believed that their souls remained on this plot of land, trapped, unable to move on to the next plane of existence.
Considering its history, the fact that this was the most prestigious magical college in the country was odd, and yet, not at the same time. The afterlife was shrouded in mystery and untapped power, and those of us with magical abilities were always blurring the line between the energy of the living and the dead.
“Ready to start the next chapter of your life?” Dad asked as he picked up my duffel bag, leaving me to pull my suitcase along. The school provided uniforms and all our needs for classes, so I only had to bring some casual clothes and any personal effects I couldn’t live without for the next ten months. The hardest part for me was choosing between my favorite crystals, but I’d narrowed it down to ten.
“Yes,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
As Dad approached the gates, the shimmery blue field indicating the defensive perimeter grew visible. My siblings told me it ran the entire boundary and was crafted to permit only professors and students.
As this was my first time at the school, I held my breath, wondering if I was about to trigger an alarm. Dad pressed his hand against the center of the iron paneling, right below the glowing motto, and both gates swung open silently, like they were well-oiled. Expanding out from the gates were chalky stone walls standing as high as the gates and much thicker. At one point they’d clearly been white, but now all I could see through the mass of vines that had been cultivated across them was the patina of cracked and aged paint.
If these walls could talk, the history here would no doubt blow my mind.
A fissure of energy caressed my body as we crossed the threshold, but there was no alarm, and we soon made it along the cobbled path that led to the front of the impressive stone and smoky-gray brick entrance. The design of the school was Victorian slash Gothic Revival, and despite many of the wings having been rebuilt over two centuries, the overall facade remained the same. Dark brick with brown stone, turrets, and arches, peaked roofs and columns, dotted across the entire campus.
“Jensen said there’s a huge lake at the rear of the college where the water elementals train.” I struck up a conversation in the hope of easing my nerves. It was overwhelming to finally be here, feeling a slight sense of unease and excitement as my magic mixed with the unearthly energy of Weatherstone.
“It’s beautiful,” Dad said with enthusiasm, “and there are forests surrounding the lake on three sides. The familiars are housed in the barracks to the right of the lake, but otherwise it’s very natural.”
“I’ll have to get down there and meet the twins’ familiars. I feel like I already know them.”
I’d heard so much about this college, of course. Every member of my family had lived here at one point or another, and I was the last to climb the ancient stone steps. History said that the materials used to craft the entrance to the college were imported from the Battle of the Hedons in Germany in 1835. The necromancers wanted to capture the energy of those who died in that battle. There had been many magical wars over the years, some involving humans, and others just between the covens, but the Battle of the Hedons was rumored to have been the most bloodthirsty.
Who knew, maybe these steps were the reason that Weatherstone graduates went on to the strongest of covens, and all but ruled the magical world. Any respect I planned on displaying them though was diminished as my suitcase clunked up each of the treads, and I was struck once more by the thought that I wasn’t going to fit in here. Even so, I’d still take the best training in the world, graduate Weatherstone, and find a decent coven.
In the end, that was all that mattered.
Your coven decided your job and financial situation, so the more prestigious your coven was, the better you’d do in the long run. All I had to do was survive my four years here and make it through graduation.
Easy as that.
At the top of the stairs we passed through open metal doors, darker than the brick surrounding them. Dad, who walked these halls five days a week as a professor, entered the building like he owned the place. In truth, with his impressive height and stern features, he always looked like he owned every room he walked into. Tom Hallistar was an imposing warlock, and he never hid his power.
Still, his softer side emerged for those he loved, and while I had no classes with him this year—he taught senior elementals—I had no doubt he’d be around checking up on me.
Inside it was warm, a blazing fireplace in the entrance hall casting dry heat over us. Unwrapping my damp scarf, I examined the room, which was wide with stone floors and walls, covered in thick, rich tapestries. It looked as if it had been modernized a few decades ago, and from then maintained to keep everything pristine.
Dad headed right to the door with Office printed across the front panel. He gestured for me to step through first, my suitcase dragging along, and he followed. The office was well lit and clean, dominated by a long desk. Behind it, two witches sorted through paperwork, laughing as they gossiped. Powerful magic usually caused glitches in computers and phones, so for the most part the colleges had minimal technology. There were landline phones for us to call home, but otherwise we would spend our time here talking to each other for entertainment.
“Professor Hallistar,” one of the witches cooed, looking up from her papers. “What brings you in here this fine morning?” She looked to be in her midthirties, with a Southern drawl, overly curled blond hair that was piled on her head, and huge brown eyes behind thick black glasses. She wore a lot of makeup and was shooting Dad flirty looks that annoyed me on Mom’s behalf.
Dad was gruff as he returned none of her energy. “Ms. White, I’m here to pick up my youngest daughter’s welcome pack. It should be under ‘Paisley Hallistar.’ She needs her dorm assignment and class schedule.”
Ms. White eyed me curiously, and I followed Dad’s example and kept my face passive and hard to read. “You have the prettiest children, Tom,” she said, her smile widening. “Look at those baby blues. I hope you’ve warned all the boys at the school.”
Compared to my siblings, I was no more attractive than the average witch, and I let her words roll off me without settling. This wasn’t even about me; she was trying to get a rise out of Dad, and he was stubbornly refusing to give her the reaction she wanted.
“The pack,” he repeated patiently, my duffel seemingly forgotten as it draped at his side.
Ms. White’s smile eased as she turned to rifle through one of a series of filing cabinets lining the back wall behind the desk. She took a few minutes before we heard, “Aha! I found it.” Returning to the desk, she held out the thick cream envelope. “Here you go, dear. Enjoy your first year at Weatherstone College.”
“Thank you.” My words were polite; hopefully my face followed suit; it didn’t always do what it was told.
With a nod and smile, she picked up her paperwork once more and resumed conversing with the other witch as if we’d never entered the room. Dad led me out of the office at the same time as four new students were about to enter. I held the door open for them as they made their way inside. None of them had parents, of course, since they wouldn’t be permitted on the grounds, and I thanked Selene that I didn’t have to make this journey alone.
When the last of the students, a small redheaded witch, was inside, I went to release the door when Ms. White called out suddenly, “Oh, and, Professor Hallistar.” Dad edged back into the doorway to face her. “Headmaster Gregor asked me to pass on a message. I forgot until just now what with all the new students.” She laughed in a delicate, fluttering way, but Dad’s expression remained neutral.
“The message, Ms. White,” he said shortly.
Her full lips puckered. “Alright, no need to get snappy. He wanted me to tell you that Rafael Kingston’s son is transferring in from Italy this year. He’ll be in his third year, but will be teaching a few classes on spellcasting, since he’s the strongest of that affinity we’ve had in a long time. I’m not sure of the significance, but apparently you needed to be updated.”
She shrugged, message delivered, and returned her focus to the students waiting for their packs. The small redheaded witch eyed me curiously, and I shot her a weak smile. The aim was to make friends, and since none from my high school were in this grade with me, I really should practice.
I gasped as Dad’s hand closed around my wrist, and with urgency he jerked me from the room, the office door slamming behind us. “Dad?” I asked, confusedly blinking at the frantic look on his face. “Are you okay?”
His breaths came out fast and hard. “This changes everything, Paisley.” His tone was almost unrecognizable. “You’re refusing your acceptance to Weatherstone. We’re going home.”
With that, he yanked up my suitcase as well as the duffel bag, and marched out the front doors.
Chapter 3
My shock lasted a few long seconds. Refusing my acceptance to Weatherstone? Okay, someone better tell me who Rafael Kingston was, because that name had triggered Dad out of his sanity.
When my brain kicked back into gear, I raced out of the building and down the steps, following his path. “Dad!” I shouted—he’d almost power walked all the way to the front gate. I cursed as my sneakers slipped on the paved path, which needed a blast from an elemental to clear the icy muck slicking the well-worn stones.
“Dad!” I called again. “Come on. I’m not chasing you all the way home.”
His long legs ground to a halt, allowing me to close the distance between us. When I was almost at his side, I noted the way his shoulders heaved up and down as he fought for control. He continued to stare at the gates, no doubt wishing we were on the other side and ready to depart. But why?
“Dad, who is Rafael Kingston?” I asked tentatively when I reached him. My breath was visible as I watched students stream through the gates, bags and suitcases in hand. “Dad, you’ve got two minutes before we no longer have privacy.” My voice wavered a beat because I’d never seen him like this, and the longer he was silent, the more I freaked out.
“Rafael Kingston and I grew up together,” he finally murmured. He shook his head as color returned to his unnaturally pale features. “Come on, let’s get off the main path.” I followed him over to a large tree, one of the multitudes of ancient oaks that dotted the college. Despite the weather, it was still a wash of gorgeous red and orange leaves.
“You grew up together . . .” I pushed.
He nodded, his eyes still screaming panic, even if his tone was even. “Our families were friends, and we ended up being the best of friends. Went to Wintergreen together when we started primary at ten, and then secondary, before we ended up at Weatherstone.”
A twinge of familiarity filled my thoughts, as if I’d heard this story before, even though I was pretty sure I hadn’t.
“His son, Logan, is a few years older than you. Trev’s age. You all grew up together, but when you were four, tragedy struck and Rafael’s wife, Isabel, was killed in the forest.”
A flicker of a memory joined that familiarity. A child’s face, arrogant and perfect, staring down at me. I’d . . . tripped in the park. Logan. His name raced through my mind, and that one image, but there was nothing more.
“Rafael blamed you?” It was the only explanation I could muster for my dad’s reaction right now, since he wasn’t known for losing his cool like this.
“He blamed your mother.” His voice was cold and bitter. “Isabel and your mom were best friends too, with all of us spending our years together. They were in the forest on the day of the accident. The pair of them were avid hikers, always out in the elements to test their power. Your mom said that she felt a spell and then was knocked to the ground, and by the time she came to, Isabel was gone. They found her body a few days later. Rafael’s grief broke him. He accused your mother of delving into energies she couldn’t control and drawing darkness to her. But that was his pain speaking.”
“Mom never uses her magic anymore,” I mused softly. Dad stared at me for a beat, and I finally put the pieces together. “That’s why she doesn’t use her magic?”
She’d never told me explicitly why, just stating that she preferred to use her physical skills versus her magical ones.
“Did Mom cast a spell or call on energy she shouldn’t have?” I asked, and then immediately regretted the question as a storm of fury descended over Dad’s face. Shit.
“Of course she didn’t!” he seethed. “She was hurt that day as well and lost her friend. Since then, she’s rejected all but the most basics of magic, and for a witch as powerful as your mother, that’s painful.”
I didn’t fully understand that concept yet, with my magic sporadic and uncontrolled, but I believed him. The essence of magical energy inside was innately part of us. The part that separated us from humans, and to cut yourself off from that would be like removing an organ—painful and debilitating.
“Okay, so Rafael hates us, and by extension his son Logan feels the same, no doubt.” I shrugged. “What’s the big deal? I can ignore him for the year. We’re not even in the same grade. I mean, this warning is probably more appropriate for Trevor.”
Dad pursed his lips. “You heard Ms. White. He’s a spellcaster, powerful enough that they’ll have him teaching classes. You have no skills to fight him, Paisley. You’re the baby of our family, and I won’t risk you.”
There was nothing quite like being called a baby when you were twenty-two, but I understood his worry. “Dad, I need to learn and improve my magic. I need to discover my affinity and have a chance to apply for a coven. I won’t let this family steal my future like they stole Mom’s magic.”
He growled, like, a legit growl, and since he wasn’t a nature sprite with an animal familiar, it took me by surprise. “There’s a blood oath,” he bit out, sounding hesitant, as if he knew he shouldn’t be telling me this. “Between Rafael and me. This is more than just a mere rivalry that you can ignore. Logan is going to hate you, and through his father’s anger, possibly try to hurt or kill you.”
I just stared at him. “Surely Weatherstone doesn’t just allow students to wander around murdering each other . . .”
That was when Dad grew very still. “Rafael and Logan are spellcasters. I don’t know why they haven’t come after us before now, but maybe this is a long-term revenge plan. Maybe he was waiting for all my children to be in our old college. I don’t know the reason, but . . . I’m worried.”
“Maybe Logan doesn’t care,” I suggested, finding it hard to believe that this was all an elaborate plan. “What if I take extra precautions. Like, I promise not to wander around late at night by myself, and you can magically seal up my room with protection spells.”
Everyone got their own dorm rooms, and while the doorways were magically keyed to the energy of the student who occupied them, all spells were breakable if you were strong enough and had the right tools. Dad was powerful though, so adding his energy would give me another layer of security.
He sucked in a deep breath, staring up at the underside of the branches, like the answer lay there. “I’m going to discuss this with your mother,” he said softly, “and whatever we decide together will be final. Until then, you can stay here and start settling in. But if you catch a hint of Logan, you get away from him immediately. You hear me?”
The way he said final chafed at me, but it wasn’t worth arguing with him until I had his decision.
“I promise not to go near Logan,” I said. “I’ll do whatever it takes to remain safe and at Weatherstone.”
Dad didn’t look convinced, but he was calmer. “Okay, let’s go.”
We trudged back to the school in silence, joining the dozen students entering through the double doors. A few glanced curiously at me, noting that I had a parent with me, but no one said anything.
Dad led me toward a set of curved stairs at the back of the entryway. “You have a map in your welcome pack,” he said, sounding normal, but I knew him well enough to hear the undertones. He didn’t want me here, and he was beating himself up about giving in. “Which you’ll refer to a lot to start with, but here’s the basic layout. This main building is Writworth Hall, named after one of the witches who created Weatherstone. The building behind it is Ancot Residences, named for the other witch. Ancot houses the dorms, while Writworth has most of your indoor classrooms, along with dining and assembly halls, spell storage, and more. Outdoor classes take place in one of the ten outbuildings. They aren’t named but are numbered.”
When we ascended to the first landing he directed me toward a set of gorgeous arched gothic windows. I glanced out at the massive expanse of the school campus, catching a glimpse of the lake glinting in the dull winter sunshine. “Stay out of the nature sprites’ barracks,” Dad said, pointing toward a row of low, wood lined buildings in the distance. “As I said earlier, this is where they house their familiars, and you don’t want to unintentionally wander into a zoo without guidance.”
