by Kyle Shultz
I shook my head. “Not strong enough.”
“Shush. That gargoyle thing’s coming back.” She motioned to the bags I was holding. “Leave the suitcases here; we’ll come back for them once we find out which hall we’re staying in.”
“Won’t someone fiddle with them if we leave them alone?”
“Very few people are stupid enough to fiddle with an enchanter’s luggage.”
“Right. Should’ve thought of that.”
Linus didn’t bother saying anything as he approached. He just beckoned to us, drooping his head wearily. I got the impression the Headmaster’s treatment of him had been similar to Cordelia’s.
We followed the gargoyle through a vestibule into the main hall. The atmosphere inside was slightly more cheery than the outside, thanks to the lamps set into the walls being yellow instead of green. But their flickering light did little to dispel the overall gloom. The walls were lined with paintings of people whose varying styles of clothing stretched all the way back to some time in the fifteenth century Ever After. The pictures were no less disturbing than the statue outside. All the men and woman depicted were pressed up against the canvases as if they were windows, their faces frozen in angry shouts, their fists pounding on the barrier between them and the real world. One of them had even written “LET ME OUT” on the canvas with his finger.
“Is this supposed to be an art gallery or a prison?” I whispered to Cordelia.
“Both,” she replied softly. “And trust me, the whole world is better off with those people trapped in paintings.”
Uncomfortable-looking chairs and couches were arranged throughout the hall, presumably for students to relax in—though I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to do that here. The only source of warmth in the foreboding place came from an enormous hearth at the back of the hall. I’d heard the expression “roaring fire” many times in my life, but this was the first one I’d seen that fully deserved that label. I felt like I was gazing down a dragon’s throat as I watched it blaze.
“Oh, lovely,” said Crispin, pointing to the fireplace as we walked past it. “They’ve got a portal to the seventh circle of hell right here in the lobby. I’ll bet that comes in handy.”
“This isn’t a lobby, and that’s not a portal. Hush.” I leaned closer to Cordelia. “It’s not a doorway to hell, right?”
“No.”
“Of course it’s not.”
“That’s in the cellar.”
“Of course it is.” I really hoped she was joking.
Linus led us through another door and up a curving stone stairway. “I wonder what the headmaster will be like,” Crispin mused, after making sure the gargoyle was too far ahead of us to hear him.
“Let’s just hope he’s not another Lord Whitlock.” The fur on the back of my neck prickled as I remembered Cordelia’s father. He had changed himself into a monster far more hideous than me, but he had been frightening even before that. He was gone now—not necessarily dead, but definitely gone. However, his colleagues in the Council of Scions remained, and they were determined to punish us for Whitlock’s “death.” It didn’t matter that they hadn’t liked him very much, or that he had nearly taken over the entire Council before we stopped him. They considered anyone powerful enough to take down an enchanter of Whitlock’s ilk to be a threat to their control over the Afterlands. Hence our constant moving from place to place, trying to avoid getting captured or assassinated.
But now, Cordelia’s latest plan had landed us right in the lions’ den. No, I thought, not the lions’ den. The snake’s nest. That fits better, given that this is the place where all the evil enchanters come from.
The door to the Headmaster’s office was made of dark wood and bore a sign with the words “Headmaster Malcolm Blackfire.” Under the name was a warning: “DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT AN APPOINTMENT. REALLY. JUST DON’T.”
I pursed my lips in thought. “So…the name sounds evil, and we don’t have an appointment. Can we just leave now?”
“No,” said Cordelia firmly. She directed a stern glare at Linus. “Are you going to announce us or not?”
He cringed. “Ma’am, I did try, but he said that under no circumstances—”
“I said,” Cordelia interrupted, “announce us.”
Linus sighed. “Very well, ma’am.” He knocked at the door three times. “Sir, I’m sorry, but—”
The booming, Caledonian-accented voice from behind the door had a strange resonance, as if it were echoing through a space far larger than an office. “If the next word out of your mouth isn’t ‘goodbye,’” the Headmaster shouted, “you’re fired!”
“Sir…”
The door flew open. “YOU’RE FIRED!” A blast of flame shot into the hallway, enveloping Linus in an instant. I yelped and leapt backward, feeling the blaze singe my fur.
“Pun fully intended!” added the Headmaster, as the door slammed shut again.
“Oh my,” Cordelia gasped, her face pale.
“Eep,” Crispin squeaked.
I…said something else.
Naturally, being made of stone, Linus was perfectly all right—aside from being blackened by the flames. He looked completely fed up with the entire situation. “You’re on your own,” he announced. He spread his wings and flew off, presumably to return to his post near the beach.
As we watched him go, I clapped my hands together to break the awkward silence. “Well, that was an interesting afternoon. Anyone up for a brisk run back to the boat?”
“I’m game,” said Crispin, turning and starting back the way we had come. I started to follow him, but Cordelia took hold of our shirt collars, arresting our progress.
“For the last time, we are not running away,” she said. “Have some backbone, you two.”
I spun around and gave her a censorious look. “We’ve got backbones, thank you very much. We’d just prefer they not be removed and used as toothpicks. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.”
“Do you want to be human again or don’t you?”
“If it’s a choice between being a monster and being flambéed, I’ll stick with being a monster, thanks.”
“Malcolm isn’t going to do anything to us. I’ve always had a rapport with him.”
“We have come this far,” said Crispin. “If Cordelia says it’ll be all right…”
I shook my head. “No. Sorry. Not interested.”
“Nick, trust me,” said Cordelia. “Please?”
No, said every sane impulse in my brain.
“Yes,” said my big, stupid mouth.
Cordelia nodded. “Good. Follow my lead, then.”
Crispin and I both winced and drew back as she knocked on the door.
“Go away,” said the grumpy voice. “Unless you’d like to be a tiny pile of ashes. Then, by all means, carry on irritating me.”
“Malcolm, it’s me,” said Cordelia.
There was a brief pause. “Vaguely familiar female voice. Not enough to reveal who ‘me’ is. Still irritated. I did mention the pile-of-ashes thing, right?”
Cordelia drummed her fingers impatiently against the woodwork. “It’s Cordelia. Let me in.”
There was a long pause. Then the voice said, “No.”
“You remember me.”
“No.”
“I was a student here. You liked me.”
“I don’t like anyone. Disliking people is one of my favorite pastimes. Goodbye.”
“I’m coming in,” said Cordelia, turning the doorknob.
“No, you’re not.”
“Cordelia,” I said, “maybe we should just…”
She grabbed my arm and pulled me through the door before I could say another word.
As it turned out, there was a good reason for the headmaster’s voice sounding so strange. The office wasn’t an office at all. It was, impossibly, an enormous underground cavern. How this could be, I had no idea. But I did feel a strange tingling sensation as I stepped through the door, so I assumed magic had to be involv
ed. We must have gone through some sort of portal, I mused. We could have been anywhere. Perhaps even miles beneath the earth.
The place was a vast expanse of stone islands with rivers of lava running between them. It occurred to me that the heat from all this volcanic activity should have been killing us, but the temperature wasn’t actually unbearable. More magic, no doubt. The cavern’s ceiling, covered in stalactites, was so far above us that I could barely see it. A motley collection of items was on each island—a pile of golden relics here, a line of bookshelves there. I even spotted a piano on one of them.
And looming above it all, gazing down at us with huge, glowing eyes, was a dragon. Enormous, red-scaled, terrifying, and—judging from its expression—not at all pleased to see us.
Crispin was practically jumping up and down with excitement. “Amazing! The headmaster has a pet dragon!”
The gargantuan reptile's lips curled back from its enormous fangs. “The headmaster,” it boomed, smoke curling from its nostrils, “IS a dragon. He is also quite cross.”
Crispin froze. "Oh."
“We’re all going to die,” I muttered.
CHAPTER TWO
The Other Lady Beaumont
On instinct, I threw myself in front of Cordelia and Crispin, hoping the same properties of my curse which made my hide nearly invulnerable would allow me to survive and shield them from the dragon’s breath.
Cordelia, however, pushed me out of the way. “Hello, Malcolm,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”
The dragon narrowed his eyes into fiery red slits as he peered at her. After a few moments of silence, he spoke in a tone that was just a smidge less unfriendly. “Yes, it has. I must say, I’m surprised to see you.” His gaze fell on me and Crispin. “And you’ve brought snacks. How kind.”
I growled at him, twitching my tail. Crispin ducked behind me and clutched his air-hole-equipped box to his chest.
“They’re my friends, actually,” Cordelia clarified.
“Oh. A pity.” Malcolm bent toward me and sniffed a few times. “Can’t say I’m disappointed about not eating this one, though. He looks like he’d give a fellow indigestion.”
I guffawed. “Thank heaven for small mercies.”
“Malcolm,” said Cordelia, “I don’t suppose we could all talk…eye to eye, as it were?”
Malcolm let out a long, smouldering sigh. “I’ve spent all day dealing with unruly students, teachers who want even more money, and a riding instructor who wants his contract altered to include free hoof care.”
Crispin peeked out from his hiding-place in my shadow, looking confused. “What, for the horses?”
“For himself.” The dragon twisted his neck, trying to relieve a cramp. “So after having to cope with all that, I was really hoping I could spend the evening relaxing in my natural form.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cordelia. “It’s just that I think this conversation would be easier if you didn’t look so…intimidating.”
Malcolm made a noise like the first rumblings of a volcanic eruption. “Fine.” He closed his eyes, and fire began to crackle across his entire body. As it spun into a whirlwind of flame all around him, he shrank, dwindling down to the size and shape of a human being. The blazing figure floated through the air and came to rest at the piano I’d noticed earlier. Cordelia walked toward the piano’s rock island as the fire died away, revealing a lanky, distinguished-looking gentleman with an annoyed expression on his face. He appeared to be in his late forties. His wild mane of red hair was greying at the temples. His eyes were an unnerving, bright-green hue, and he wore an immaculate black suit and tie. He brushed a few sparks off his sleeves, sat down at the piano, and began to play a classical waltz.
Crispin and I followed Cordelia as she hopped across a narrow channel of lava on her way to the headmaster. “Why are you here?” Malcolm demanded, continuing to play the piano.
“Good luck with the explanations,” I whispered to Cordelia.
Cordelia took a deep breath. “I assume you’ve heard about the recent…unpleasantness in Talesend?”
“You mean about your father? And his untimely demise?”
“That’s—one way of putting it, I suppose.”
“Yes, it is. There are others, of course. More…intriguing ones.” Malcolm’s fingers flew across the keys, deftly executing a complicated chord progression. “Some surprising rumors about your involvement in the incident have come to light.” He switched to a minor key and cast an inquiring glance at Cordelia.
Cordelia met his gaze without any hint of nervousness. “Oh?”
Malcolm turned his attention back to the piano, the ominous tone of the music increasing. “According to some, everything that happened was your fault.”
“Really?” She folded her arms in defiance. “And who exactly came up with that theory?”
“A few of your former servants. Or rather, ex-servants, since your abrupt disappearance.” He struck a few staccato notes. “They say Lord Whitlock had practically disowned you in the days before his death. Branded you a traitor.”
I decided it was time to begin playing my part. I gathered my courage and spoke up. “I believe Madame Levesque and the rest of the Council of Scions would agree that Lord Whitlock was the real traitor.”
Malcolm never even looked at me. “Who’s the hairy one, Cordelia? I’ve been meaning to ask.” He eyed the unkempt, unshaven Crispin. “More specifically, the one with hair all over his body.”
“A former apprentice of mine,” said Cordelia, without hesitation. “Nathaniel Barlow. During the unfortunate incident with the Clawthorn Rose, he was transformed into a Beast…mostly. I was able to halt the magic before he could lose all human reason and go completely savage, but as you can see, I wasn’t able to repair all the damage.”
Malcolm shrugged. “I’ve seen worse. Consider yourself lucky, lad.”
I drummed my fingers on the piano, barely suppressing my irritation. “I do try to count my blessings, but it’s difficult.”
“Understood. Claws off the piano. Can your apprentice still cast spells,” Malcolm asked Cordelia, “or has his Charmblood nature been suppressed by the curse?”
Here, things were going to get especially tricky. I’d have to pretend I was a former magic-user the whole time I was at Warrengate. The denizens of this place might not have a problem with monsters in their midst—according to Cordelia, half the students and teachers here weren’t human—but they weren’t going to be happy if they found out I used to be an ordinary, non-magical person.
“I’m afraid he’s lost his magic,” said Cordelia with regret. “As such, he’s given up his apprenticeship and taken on a job as my bodyguard instead.” She motioned to Crispin. “Fortunately, his brother Christopher, whom I’ve also been training, managed to get through the crisis unscathed.”
Crispin waved at Malcolm. “Hello. So you’re a dragon? An actual dragon? That’s incredible. I have so many questions.”
“Quiet,” I hissed.
To my surprise, Malcolm didn’t seem annoyed. He appraised Crispin with something like approval, if not outright friendliness. “It’s refreshing to meet a youngster with the proper appreciation for dragons. I find it lacking in most enchanters of your age group.” He struck a few noisy chords, then stopped playing and swiveled on the bench to face Cordelia. “So, you’re saying that your father was the real enemy of the Council, and you actually had their best interests at heart?”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
Malcolm pressed his fingers together in thought. “Given all the conflicting details of what they’re calling ‘The Clawthorn Incident’—a rather weak label for something that nearly turned the whole population of Talesend into monsters—I suppose that’s entirely possible. And I’m more inclined to take your word than that of some lackey of your father’s. He never did fully appreciate your potential.”
“Thank you,” said Cordelia.
“However, I am still curious as to why you vanished. No
one’s heard from you for weeks.”
“Blame Levesque for that,” I said.
Malcolm gave me a condescending look. “Nathaniel, was it? You really should understand by now that no one who values his life blames Madame Levesque for anything.”
“She didn’t give us a chance to explain,” I argued. “Just sent her agents to kill us. We’ve been running all over the Afterlands trying to stay one step ahead of them.”
“She considered what happened with my father to be an embarrassment,” said Cordelia. “A blot on her record. She wanted all the evidence mopped up before the rest of the Council could take her to task for trusting my father with the Rose in the first place.”
Malcolm nodded. “That was foolish of her. Jackson always did have an unhealthy obsession with becoming a monster.” He stretched and yawned, sending a few sparks flying from his throat. “I did try to tell him it was better to leave that sort of thing to the experts, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“I’ve come to you because you’re the only person in power whom I can trust not to kill me on sight,” said Cordelia. “You have influence with the Council. You can assure them that I’m not a threat.”
Malcolm tapped his chin. “That may be difficult. Softening Levesque requires finesse. And bribery. I may have to send her a first edition of the Grimoire Morgana just to get a conversation started.”
“Until you do manage it,” said Cordelia, “perhaps my friends and I could stay at the College for a while.”
Malcolm appeared peeved by the suggestion. “This isn’t a hotel, you know.”
“Certainly not. We would expect to earn our keep, of course.”
He blinked in surprise. “Doing what, exactly?”
“You know that I’m fully qualified to teach magic.”
“Qualified?” Malcolm guffawed. “You’ve never even taken the exams for that.”
“You know that’s just a formality. There’s precedent for overlooking it. I hear there’s currently an opening at Warrengate for a Professor of Level Three Enchantments. I could easily take that on.”
“Perhaps.” Malcolm jerked his head in my direction. “What about the ugly one?”
