Supernatural Academy: Freshman Witch

by Ingrid Seymour

  “My son was about to accompany Miss—she won’t tell us her name—on her way out,” Underwood said. “She wishes to leave.” There seemed to be a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Clearly, he didn’t want the likes of me in his precious Academy.

  “Do you truly wish to leave?” the Dean asked.

  I nodded, finding it hard to tell this nice lady that her Academy could stuff it.

  “And did you explain the risks of her decision?” she asked, turning to Macgregor.

  “Not entirely,” Underwood said casually. “She barely gave me a chance to explain much.”

  With a shake of her head and a tired smile, Dean McIntosh gently guided me toward the door. “I think I’ll take it from here,” she said as the door to Underwood’s office closed behind us, leaving the two a-holes behind. I certainly was glad to be rid of them.

  She headed back toward the grand staircase. “Let’s go outside, shall we? We can talk there at ease. Besides, it’s a beautiful day.”

  As we walked between the two sets of stairs toward the massive entrance, one of the large doors swung open, letting in a bright stream of sunlight. I frowned at the door, wondering if all of them were “automatic.”

  Following the Dean outside, I relished the sun on my skin, feeling as if I’d just come out of a freezer. Besides, I was one step closer to escape.

  Dean McIntosh lowered herself to one of the steps that led to a stone courtyard with a huge fountain in the middle, sat and stretched her legs. For her age, she sure seemed agile. All the old homeless folks I knew had horrible arthritis and always complained about joint pain.

  “Sit, please,” she said patting a spot next to her.

  I did, unable to turn her down. She just seemed too nice and welcoming. It had been a long time since someone had been this nice to me.

  “Forgive Underwood,” she said, looking out toward the fountain. “I apologize if he made you feel unwelcome. He means well for the Academy, but his views of the students we should accept is a little warped and antiquated. Besides, in times like this, we can hardly turn down talent. He knows this, but I’m still trying to change his mind about a few things.”

  “Talent?” I asked.

  She paused and smiled, something she seemed to do a lot. I wondered how it would feel to be that happy all the time.

  “So here’s the thing, Miss, um…” she let the sentence hang.

  “Charlie,” I finally said, unable to resist her determined blue eyes. Maybe they knew my name, but they sure seemed determined to get it straight from me.

  “Here’s the thing, Charlie,” she said, holding my gaze. “We need you. In fact, we need every Supernatural we can recruit. There aren’t many of us to begin with and, to make matters worse, a big number of young people are being snatched by rogue Supernaturals we call subversives. Our numbers at the Academy are dwindling at a time when there is a dire need for good witches and warlocks to fight the unrest these people are causing. If you leave, it makes an already precarious situation worse—not to mention that it puts your life at risk. What happened to you yesterday, whatever made you fracture, will repeat itself, and then bad people will show up again. Bad people like those who killed your friend.”

  She paused and let that sink in.

  “If you stay,” she continued, “I cannot only guarantee your safety from those that would harm you, I can also promise that you will learn to control your powers and that, while you’re here,” she gestured toward the building behind us, “you will not lack for anything. Hot meals everyday, a roof over your head, clothes. Moreover, you will get a... well-rounded education.”

  I’d thought she finished her little speech when her eyes widened.

  “Oh,” she added, “and if this gives you any satisfaction, the opportunity to show Underwood and his son how wrong they were about you.” She smiled and winked.

  Despite myself, I smiled back. Showing those two up sounded almost better than the part where she mentioned hot meals. Still…

  “How can you be so sure I belong here? I mean… I’m not a Supernatural. I don’t have…” I paused. I’d been about to say I didn’t have any powers, but then I remembered the disappearing ibuprofen and the hag who called me a witch.

  I tried again. “It’s supposed to be in the DNA, right? Well, my mom and dad were normal.”

  “As opposed to… abnormal?” Dean McIntosh chuckled, then asked, “They were Regulars? Are you sure?”

  I shrugged, avoiding eye contact. I mean, I’d always thought Supernaturals were freaks, and I honestly wanted no part of that.

  “When a Supernatural’s powers are small and unnurtured,” she said, “a person can go their whole life without fracturing. That could have been the case with one of your parents, if you claim you’ve never seen anything magical. You, however, are different.” Her blue eyes traveled across my face as she smiled gently.

  A warm feeling spread over my chest, making me wonder if she was using some sort of spell on me, the way Irmagard had. Though, there was a certain honesty in her eyes that made me doubt it. Either way, no one had looked at me like that in a long time. It felt… motherly—no other word came to mind. My heart softened. I knew I shouldn’t allow that to happen, but I couldn’t help it. Losing my family had left a huge void in me that I always felt desperate to fill.

  “Tell you what,” she said, jumping to her feet. “Stay with us for some time, see if you like it. A free trial. Isn’t that something people in your world love?”

  I shook my head, afraid of the small voice in my head that was saying I should agree, the voice that said this lady was someone I could look up to.

  “Are you scared you might like it?” Dean McIntosh teased.

  Glancing toward the beautiful fountain, I wondered what there was not to like? Of course, I was tempted. For the past year and a half, I’d been living in a rat-infested building. But what exactly would I be giving up if I stayed?

  I didn’t know.

  To be honest, all I could think of were those hot meals she’d promised. I bet there would be hot showers, too. Though, there was more than that. There was also fear. With Trey gone, I didn’t have a home anymore, even if our building was still standing. I didn’t want to be alone. Not again.

  “C’mon,” Dean McIntosh said, heading inside. “I’ll show you your room.”

  My room? I’d once had “my own room” but, considering the shock the words gave me, it seemed I’d given up on the possibility of ever having another one.

  Hesitantly, I stood and followed the Dean inside. A few days of comfort wouldn’t hurt, right? I could pretend I was at a fancy shelter, and when things got old, I could split. I’d done it before. This didn’t have to be any different.

  As Dean McIntosh led me up the grand staircase, I ask. “Is the counselor your twin sister?”

  “You noticed, huh?” she said with a smirk.

  I rolled my eyes. Maybe she thought it was a stupid question, but I didn’t. If I was going to stay here for a few days, surrounded by Supernaturals, I should be wary. Irmagard could have been a doppelganger for all I knew.

  I was in the Supernatural Academy, not Disney World.

  Chapter Six

  FALL SEMESTER

  EARLY SEPTEMBER

  When the Dean walked me into my assigned room in the Freshman Dorm, she apologized for its size. I glanced around confused. There was a cherry wood bed frame with a matching dresser and nightstand, a desk, and a built-in bookshelf. Across from that, a small closet and a big window overlooked the manicured lawn.

  Why was she apologizing? This was luxury.

  Almost immediately, I spotted a plain ceramic urn on the desk, and I nearly collapsed to my knees with despair.

  Sensing my need to be alone, the Dean left, though not before encouraging me to read the welcome package.

  I had two and a half days to get a handle on my grief, enough to figure out if I was going to start classes or not.

  Thankfully, I’d been kidnapped on a
Friday, which meant Saturday and Sunday I had no required classes and was given time to “adjust” to my new surroundings.

  I adjusted by desperately missing Trey and crying my eyes out, while the rest of the time I slept on a bed that felt like luxury itself, took thirty-minute hot showers, and gorged myself in the school’s cafeteria.

  In a way, it felt like the spa Trey and I had dreamed about. And the food, itself, might’ve been enough to keep me around.

  “They had chicken carbonara,” I told Trey’s urn after my first dinner on campus. “I swear I wouldn’t mind bathing in it.”

  “Gah, you should see the desserts,” I told him the next night. “There were five types of pie. Pecan, sweet potato, apple, cherry, and chocolate. You would have loved it!”

  Talking to Trey helped me feel less lonely, especially when I strained to remember the last time I’d eaten pie and decided it was probably during the last Thanksgiving with my dad, two years ago. He’d purchased it in the frozen foods section and burned it after getting drunk and falling asleep while it was cooking.

  As an alcoholic for most of his adult life, these types of episodes got progressively worse, and by the time I was a teen, Dad was spending most of his days drunk. I was sixteen by then and able to cook, clean, and take care of my own basic necessities. The problem was I didn’t have any money. If there were Social Security checks from Mom’s passing, I never saw them. Dad had been a teacher during my childhood, but had taken a “leave of absence” when I turned fourteen. I think he’d been fired for drinking on the job, but it was a topic neither one of us ever talked about.

  Either way, that Thanksgiving, we had little to eat and, when Dad burned the discount freezer-section pie, I’d had to hold back tears. Mom used to make such great pies.

  The pies here were definitely not from a grocer’s freezer. I ate three different slices.

  Everything about the campus was posh and expensive. Everywhere I went I was reminded of the money these people had that I didn’t. Instead of dwelling on my awful clothes and lack of any personal belongings, I took advantage of their generosity. Who knew how long I’d have free access to this stuff? I’d probably only last a few weeks amongst these magical snobs, anyway.

  While I dined and roamed, I avoided people and garnered strange stares which I ignored. I’d gotten used to darting glances from life on the streets. These were no different. My clothes and hair were clean, but my outfit still screamed poverty. I stood out like a sore thumb, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t here to fit in.

  Dean McIntosh had given a few T-shirts plastered with the Academy crest on the front—a shield sporting a lion, a key, a book, and a chalice, all circled by the words “Magicae Vincere Tenebras,” whatever that meant. It was a nice gesture by the dean, but there was no way in holy hell I was strutting around looking like a walking billboard for a school I was probably not going to attend.

  Something else the dean had given me—the huge welcome package that I was supposed to study—still sat on my desk vastly undisturbed. After a quick perusal that revealed a mountain of folders and brochures, I’d lost interest. All the historical facts about the school and the faculty bios made for perfect sleep aid material and nothing else.

  The only things I found that were mildly interesting was the mention of a magical portal on the school grounds (a source of power that made the land the Academy sat on very valuable) and the fact that there were many ways to wield magic, either through spoken spells, an item, hand movements, potions and more.

  That was cool, although somewhat overwhelming to consider.

  But then, poof, my little mini vacay disappeared, magician style, Monday morning.

  I had a nine AM class.

  That had been one of Dean McIntosh’s requirements for my free room and board. I had to attend all my classes unless I was deathly ill, and she assured me she would be able to tell if I tried to fake it.

  Magic could be so annoying.

  The printed schedule pressed between my fingers, I left the Freshman Dorm promptly at 8:30, followed the map to Cabot Hall, and navigated several long corridors to the third floor. Avoiding throngs of students, I tried to find Room 302. My eyes scanned numbers on wood-paneled doors. Somehow I had skipped from 301 to 324.

  Was this sorcery? Why did every hallway have to look the same?

  “What class are you looking for?” a voice asked.

  My eyes darted up and landed on a very stunning female student staring at me amusedly. With mocha skin and sleek black hair, she appeared to be of Indian descent. Her eyes were big and brown, her mouth painted in bright red lipstick that contrasted with her skin tone perfectly. Everything from her expertly styled hair to her impeccable white dress shirt, black skirt, and expensive high heels let me know she came from money and wore it well.

  In contrast, in my thrift store clothes, I was the perfect mark for ridicule.

  I’d seen it dozens of times before. Even prior to dropping out of high school and living on the streets, I never had nice things. I wore the same clothes, carried broken backpacks mended with duct tape and was on our school’s free and reduced lunch program. Popular kids targeted me. One real peach of a human being by the name of Crissa Vega told everyone I had head lice. Another skid mark of society named Joey Turk took pictures of me in the same outfit I rotated every few days and photoshopped them together in a montage of poverty.

  Then he sent it around to the entire school.

  Assholes.

  So I knew, this beautiful creature in front of me, smelling of designer perfume and clutching a handbag worth more than my life’s income, did not want to be my friend. She was first of many rich kids like Rowan who would line up to torture me.

  Well, second in line. Rowan had the distinction of being the first. My blood boiled just thinking about him.

  I shook my head and shouldered past her.

  “Wait,” she called.

  When I didn’t respond, I heard her grumble something, but it was too late. I’d already sailed past.

  Then my schedule darted out of my hands.

  One minute, the paper was securely between my fingers. The next, it soared up over my head. Turning around, I saw it sail into this girl’s awaiting hand.

  Magic. Damn. I kept forgetting.

  “Give it back,” I demanded, stalking towards her, but she held out a hand to stop me.

  Her eyes skimmed my classes. “History at nine AM? Whoever made your schedule is not your friend. Alchemy at ten-thirty is better. Oh, and after lunch, we both have Spells 101 with Dr. Henderson. He isn’t hard on the eyes, but his quizzes. Woof.” Thick eyelashes blinked up to make sure I was listening.

  I did wonder about what she’d said. This was a week or two into the semester, and they were already having quizzes? No, thanks. I held out my hand again, adopting a demanding posture, though she was a witch and I was a freeloader with no lightning bolts at my fingertips.

  “Can I have my schedule back now?”

  She handed it to me, but didn’t release it when I clamped on. “Who are you?”

  “Charlie,” I said, tugging on the paper. It finally slid from her fingers. I quickly put the paper in my pocket.

  Her eyes skimmed my attire. Ripped, stained jeans, a T-shirt with a hole under one armpit, and scuffed Vans.

  “Charlie,” she repeated. “And are you poor?” Her head dropped to the side, her face quizzical.

  I was shocked. Who asked questions that bold? I examined her expression for malice, but she just seemed curious.

  “That’s none of your business.” I tried to walk away.

  The girl followed me. “It’s alright if you’re poor. No judgement. I just haven’t met many poor people. Was it hard growing up like that?” Her big eyes studied my face for answers.

  Was this girl from another planet? Either way, I was not going to be her token poor acquaintance.

  “If you’ll excuse me…” I started to walk faster, but man, the girl could book it in heels. She
kept pace with me.

  “My name is Disha. I’m from New York.” She held out a manicured hand.

  I shook it to get her off my back, then turned a corner only to find myself at a dead-end. Class was going to start any minute, and I was more lost than I had been before.

  “Look, Disha, if you will show me to room 302, I will let you ask me three questions about being poor. After that, maybe we don’t have to talk anymore. Deal?”

  She cocked her head again. “You have a very unique way of speaking. And, yes. Deal. This way.” She held out her hand to direct me.

  When we turned out of the dead-end hallway, she started with her first question.

  “Where did you grow up?”

  We zipped around a group of students in a cluster. A blue light pulsed from inside the circle, but Disha didn’t even blink. Apparently, that kind of thing happened all the time around here. Another thing to get used to.

  I answered Disha’s question in as little detail as possible. “I grew up in Conyers, Georgia. Not too far from here.”

  She frowned as if expecting a different answer before asking her second question. “What was your house like?”

  “Small,” I responded. “Two bedrooms. It was messy if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Hmm.” She knit her brows together and then pointed for us to take a left at the staircase. “Last question. Are you here on a free scholarship?”

  The last question hit me like a blow to the chest. Did she think because I was poor I wasn’t worthy of being here? A pity case? I didn’t know if I had what it took to make it at the Academy, but I certainly didn’t need Miss Perfect to wave it in my face. I’d gotten nearly perfect grades before leaving high school. Dean McIntosh had looked over my 1500 SAT score and excellent high school transcripts, the ones that I completed before dropping out, assuring me that though the requirements were a bit different at the Academy, she thought I would do fine. I’d offered to take the GED, but she said my transcripts were good enough to prove I could hack it.

  The magic part? That was another story.

  Either way, Disha could stuff it. I had taken her rude comments as her being oblivious, but maybe it was meanness after all.