Junior Witch

by Ingrid Seymour

  A small voice whispered inside my head, telling me why Irmagard was crying like a lost child and why the fountain creatures were darkly weeping.

  I refused to believe it.

  Whatever traitorous side of me had deduced the only logical explanation for what was happening, I was determined to ignore it, to call it a liar, to mute it with the nastiest silencing spell I could find.

  And maybe, if the Enlightenment Fountain hadn’t begun to bubble and glow as its portal activated, I would have succeeded.

  But as Professor Yuri Fedorov materialized in the middle of the water, his three-piece suit torn and stained with blood, the inevitable truth hit me square in the chest, breaking my heart into a million pieces.

  Dean Lynssa McIntosh was dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SPRING SEMESTER

  EARLY JANUARY

  Numbly, I approached Irmagard.

  I had no words, no spells, nothing I could offer to make her feel better about the death of her sister, but I found myself standing next to her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

  She glanced up and, through a haze of tears, her eyes met mine.

  “Charlieee!” she exclaimed, then stood and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Please, take me away.” Her plea was desperate and spoken between sobs.

  I was confused for a moment, unsure of exactly what she meant. Did she mean away from her pain? From the Academy? From this crowd?

  Deciding she meant the latter, I walked her toward the Administration Building, most of her weight resting on me as one of her arms wrapped around my back and her head rested on one of my shoulders.

  Steps followed, but I didn’t look back to see who they belonged to. Miraculously, we made it Dean McIntosh’s office where I deposited Irmagard on one of the armchairs by the window. The Dean’s office had been repaired after the destruction left behind the day she’d been forcibly taken. But, even though everything was exactly as it had been, there was a feeling of wrongness that seemed to hang in the air like a thick fog.

  I stood there awkwardly, wondering what to do to comfort the woman who normally did the comforting. Through her sobs, she glanced up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Charlie, I’m so sorry you have to go through this too. I—”

  She stopped as Bonnie, Regent Nyquist, and a soaked Fedorov came into the office, closing the door behind them.

  The regent gave me a pointed, but regretful look as if to say I should leave the room. These were private Academy matters and a student had no business overhearing any details she might later spread among the other students.

  “Um…” I took a step away from Irmagard, “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  “No!” Irmagard seized my hand and clutched it so tightly it hurt. “My sister… cared about you, Charlie.” She peered up at me with intense blue eyes that made me want to weep. It was like looking into the Dean’s eyes, something I would never do again. My chin quivered.

  Lynssa McIntosh is dead, the thought echoed in my mind like a hollow lie.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” Bonnie said in a heartfelt voice that made me realize she was thinking of her own recent loss. It hadn’t even been a year since Macgregor had died.

  “Me, as well,” the regent said. “Whatever the Academy or the Board of Regents can do to help, all you have to do is say the word. Lynssa was the best Head Dean the Supernatural Academy has ever had.”

  Irmagard was now staring at the floor, and it didn’t seem as if she’d heard what Bonnie and the regent had said.

  A click followed by a whoosh sent my heart pattering and my cuffs glowing with barely-contained magic. Everyone’s heads snapped in the direction of the sound. A small wooden panel had slid out of the way at the foot of one of the bookshelves, and Rasfix, the gnome, walked through it, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea.

  He said nothing and looked at no one as he solemnly walked in Irmagard’s direction. For once, he was dressed, wearing a black suit and polished shoes that could fit a toddler. His beard was braided carefully, not a hair out of place, and his expression was stern and pained at the same time.

  He set the tray on a table next to Irmagard’s chair, patted her knee with his chubby little hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared the way he’d come without uttering a word.

  With a shaking hand, Irmagard picked up the cup, examined its flowery pattern for a short moment, then downed the tea in one gulp. She made a face and pressed a hand to her neck. For a second, I thought she was choking, then realized she had actually burned her throat. She made a croaking sound as her fingers weaved a quick healing enchantment. After a moment, she cleared her throat and glanced up.

  A placid blankness had fallen over her features. My eyes flicked toward the teacup. I was very familiar with Irmagard’s emotion-dampening teas and spells. It seemed she had self-medicated. Was that a good idea? The grief could come back two-fold. But I couldn’t blame her. I would have probably done the same in her shoes.

  “What happened?” she asked, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on Fedorov.

  “I failed,” Fedorov said, head bowed in shame. His fists were clenched and trembling. He had the look of someone who was reliving a horrible moment over and over. His black hair, which he normally slicked back, was flat against his forehead. His three-piece suit was crumbled, wet, and soiled. He looked nothing like the impeccably dressed professor I was used to seeing around campus.

  Everyone waited quietly as Fedorov made an effort to compose himself. At last, he went on. “I was too late,” he said, his Slavic accent particularly heavy. “Priscilla and I follow weak trail for long time. We almost renounced hope.”

  I pressed a hand to my chest. Priscilla Fordyce had been with Fedorov searching for the Dean, but she had not come back with him. She was Dean McIntosh’s assistant and had taught me remedial classes during my freshman year. She’d helped me so much.

  Was she also dead? Oh god!

  “But yesterday,” Fedorov went on, “we caught glimpse of subversive. One from group of Tempest.”

  Even with the dropped words and thick accent, I read his meaning loud and clear. My breath caught. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  Rowan.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest. I glanced toward the door, wondering if I could run and escape. Or maybe I could plug my ears with Disha’s Ewok spell.

  “Priscilla’s scrying spells worked, at last,” Fedorov said. “She never gave up. She fought until end, died trying to save Dean McIntosh, but Tempest… she… killed Lynssa before we could save her.”

  Bonnie hugged herself, distraught, while Regent Nyquist paced up and down at the edge of a Persian rug, shaking and rubbing his balding head.

  “I killed one of subversives.” Fedorov gestured toward the blood on his suit.

  My spine turned to wet clay as my thoughts went back to Rowan. I had worried he might be responsible for the Dean’s death, but could he be dead?

  Across from me, Bonnie froze, her eyes widening and her face turning ashen.

  “Your son was there,” Fedorov said, turning to Bonnie with an accusative expression on his face. “He got away.”

  Bonnie let out a pent-up breath. My legs wobbled as relief washed over me. I hated myself for the way I still cared.

  Why?! Why was I so weak? And why did I worry about his safety and wellbeing? Why did I have to love him of all people? Dean McIntosh had been killed in his presence. Had he done anything to protect her? Or had he helped Tempest kill her? Just the thought of it made my chest tight.

  “My poor sister,” Irmagard said, taking hold of my hand as if for support.

  “This is such a tragedy,” Regent Nyquist said. “This changes many things. We should hold a memorial. Tomorrow,” he added hastily. “I will call for the cancelation of classes. All the faculty and students should attend.”

  My head spun as he spoke in hurried tones. Yes, I agreed we needed a memorial, but I would have never had the presence of mind to come up with the idea in a
moment like this. I was way too busy trying to keep from crumbling to the floor. Still, I was glad someone else could think clearly.

  “Maybe we should wait,” Bonnie said. “Give everyone time to process.” She glanced at Irmagard who was staring up at me in a weird way.

  Regent Nyquist didn’t seem to hear her, though. His eyes were lost on a faraway spot on the wall as he seemed to already be making plans for the memorial.

  “You’re a great witch, Charlie,” Irmagard said, still staring at me. “Lynssa always trusted you and said you would do great things.”

  I blinked, unsure of what to feel. All I’d done during my time at the Academy was cause trouble for the Dean. I’d even lost count of how many times she’d reprimanded me for always being in trouble.

  Irmagard squeezed my hand. “‘She needs to trust her instincts’ that’s what Lynssa told me more than once. She thought you have the makings of one of the greats and all you have to do it trust yourself. That’s why Aradia’s Cuffs chose you.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence, which was interrupted by Regent Nyquist.

  “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for the memorial,” he mumbled more to himself than anyone else. “Dean McIntosh deserves the best of recognitions and exultations. We will never have a Dean like her again.”

  Without pausing to look at anyone, he rushed out the door, his posture firm and determined. He probably felt better being busy, rather than standing here doing nothing. Some people were like that, while I just wanted to curl up and cry.

  After everyone left, I walked with Irmagard back to her office where Rasfix appeared with another cup of tea, then quickly disappeared behind a tall stack of books.

  Irmagard pushed the cup in my direction. “Drink it. You need it, too.”

  “No, you need it more.”

  “I’ve already had one,” she said. “It’s enough.” Her eyes were full of compassion for me as if my pain could be worse than hers.

  But I understood, so I took the cup and drank some of the concoction. It took the edge off my pain, but I stopped sipping before it made me numb.

  Irmagard lay down on an old sofa surrounded by more piles of junk. Gerald, her ferret, crawled from behind a pile of moth-eaten afghans and, as if sensing his owner’s despair, lay on her chest and sat very still, allowing Irmagard to pet him.

  I stayed with her until she drifted to sleep, then went back to my room where I locked the door and cried quietly, mourning for the Dean.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SPRING SEMESTER

  EARLY JANUARY

  No more death. I couldn’t take it.

  I sat on my bed with my head in my hands, trying to compartmentalize my grief, but was finding it impossible. Every time someone around me died, it was as if I was experiencing the deaths of everyone I loved all over again.

  Mom.

  Trey.

  Dean Underwood.

  Dean McIntosh.

  Why her? She’d been one of the best people I’d ever met. Had she once raised her voice to me, or given me the talking-to I deserved? I knew the answer was no. How could one woman embody such patience, such understanding, and such raw magical power?

  Why did she have to be dead?

  Anger flitted around the edges of my grief, making brief appearances here and there. Tempest needed to be stopped, that was clear. But how, if Professor Fedorov and Priscilla Fordyce couldn’t even stop her?

  And Rowan. How could he have anything to do with a group that murdered Dean McIntosh? It made me sick to think of him standing there watching as Tempest blasted her.

  Or worse, participating.

  My chest felt as if someone was taking a rusty can opener and prying open my heart. Dean McIntosh had been the closest thing to a mother figure I’d had since my own had died. When my mother had gone, I’d told myself I didn’t need anyone to fill that void, that I was fine on my own, but Lynssa made me realize how much I missed having someone to talk to, bounce ideas off of and tell me everything was going to be okay.

  Who would fill that void now?

  How could things ever be okay again?

  A knock sounded at my dorm room door just before it was thrown open. I smeared tears across my face in time to see Disha barreling toward my bed. She fell onto me, curling her long, brown arms around my body.

  We lay like that for a long time, pressed together in sadness, holding each other. Finally, she dug in her messenger bag, pulled out a little package and pressed it into my hands.

  Slowly, I unwrapped the crinkly brown paper to reveal a giant chocolate muffin from the place in town I liked so much.

  I stared into my best friend’s eyes. “Is this from Tom’s? How did you even have time to get this?”

  Disha shrugged her slim shoulders. Her eyes were puffy and her hair was disheveled, something she would never have allowed on a normal day. “I wanted to give you something, but couldn’t think of what to do so I went with baked goods.”

  “Baked goods are great,” I said, setting the muffin on the night table. Right now, I didn’t feel like eating anything, even a delicious pastry from Tom’s.

  “Charlie, I’m so sorry,” she said, holding my hand. “I know how much she meant to you.”

  I nodded, sniffling. “She meant a lot to a lot of people.”

  “Students are crying everywhere. I saw two people lying on the lawn outside just sobbing. It’s awful.”

  Glancing out my window, I couldn’t see any of the student mourners Disha was talking about, but then again, that was probably for the best. I was barely handling my own grief. I couldn’t help others with theirs.

  “And, normally, people turn to Irmagard in times like this, but they can’t for obvious reasons.” Disha pushed a strand of hair over her ear and watched me with worried eyes. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “What does that even mean anymore?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I wish I knew.”

  Footsteps in the hallway turned our attention to the door. Bridget stepped into my room and hovered there. I expected sadness, but her expression was full of rage.

  “When are we leaving?” she asked, a frenzy in her voice that scared me. Her normally wide eyes were popped open so far I was afraid they might drop out and skitter across the floor.

  “What are you talking about? Leave for what? The memorial?” I asked gently.

  Disha frowned. “Bridget, why don’t you come in and sit down?”

  “Sit down?” she asked. “Sit down?! How can you sit in a time like this? We need to go. We need to find Tempest and kill her.”

  She held out her hands and magic zapped from them like tiny lightning rods. It was like looking at a crazy person waving around a loaded gun.

  Disha and I both sat up, careful to make no sudden moves. “Bridget, turn your magic off,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

  “I’m sick of talking, so sick of it. If we had finished her in Canada, the Dean would still be alive.” Angry tears burned in her feral eyes.

  “Bridget, I don’t know if that’s tru—”

  She cut me off with a wave of her electrified hand. Sparks shot through the air around her head, nearly catching the red storm cloud she called a hairdo on fire.

  “I hear she’s the one who killed the dean. And, besides, it doesn’t matter. She stabbed Bobby. He’s not here because of her. How many other people are you going to let get hurt before you do something?”

  Her angry eyes were pointed right at me.

  But New Charlie couldn’t do vigilante justice. No matter how much or how harshly Bridget asked. It would be the last thing Dean McIntosh would have wanted. I couldn’t sully her memory hours after learning about her death.

  Standing up, even though it put me closer to Bridget’s lightning fingers, I held out my hand to her, a gesture of love and solidarity. She was my friend. She might zap me a little, but I was pretty sure she wouldn’t intentionally hurt me.

  “Bridget, I know what you’re going t
hrough. I’ve been there. I’ve lost people, too, remember?”

  Her eyes were cold as she glared at my outstretched hand.

  “It’s the grief talking. You’re not thinking straight,” I said.

  “Aren’t I? Or, maybe, I’m the only one who is.” Then she turned and stomped down the hall.

  Disha and I exchanged a look. We would definitely have to deal with Bridget, but not now. The memorial was starting in an hour. Nyquist had taken but a day to put it together.

  I dressed quickly while Disha checked social media to see what everyone was saying. Many students were posting about being in mourning while others were blaming the school and, worse, mentioning Rowan by name. Apparently, word had gotten out that he’d been there. Some were pinning the blame on him and calling for his head.

  But I couldn’t care about that. Today was not about Rowan.

  By the time we were dressed and headed downstairs, a large crowd had gathered. We’d gotten word that we were all to meet on the sidewalk outside the dorms at seven and await further instructions.

  Every student from freshman all the way to senior year waited in small clumps on the lawn. All were dressed in black. A few of the showier students had magicked themselves with mourning doves flying around their heads or enchanted rain clouds hovering around them. Some sported temporary magic tattoos with the dean’s face on their arms. One had even transformed her face into a likeness of the dean’s.

  I turned away. Did these people have no sense of decorum when it came to death? No, they probably didn’t. This was likely their first loss, their first time standing face to face with death.

  I didn’t have that luxury.

  While it was nice that so many students had gathered to mourn her, I wondered how many had known her. How many felt a gut-wrenching hole in their heart like I did?

  Disha held my hand, peering at me from behind her hat’s black veil.

  The night grew colder, darker. Nearly half an hour went by with no word on where the memorial was to take place. Rubbing my hands down my goosebumps-laden arms, I glanced around like everyone else, wondering when we would hear anything.