by V. Vaughn
Cassie braced herself. She hoped Maddie wouldn’t be too upset with her. She was used to getting that look from the other students in class. It was probably going to be the same look she got when she walked down the aisle on her husband’s arm.
“Victor Lee,” Professor Schtrumpf read. “Good job, my boy. Your ideas about navigation by selectively mimicking aspects of a pigeon’s mind were novel and well researched.”
Thunk. Thunk.
“Victor, please stop trying to cram your face through the desk. You passed.”
Thunk. Thunk.
“Ahh well, he’ll figure it out later.”
The professor fixed Cassie with a cold stare. “And the other passing grade went to, Madrigal Pierce.” He dropped a thick stack of papers onto her desk. “The subject matter of cosmetic enchantments is too frivolous for such regard, Miss Pierce, but I cannot deny that your ideas are not revolutionary. Well done. Please remain in class after the failures have left and we can discuss next steps. I have suggestions for your final project that I’m sure you’ll find very interesting.”
There had to be a mistake. She’d spent weeks on that paper. Maddie couldn’t out-academic her. Something had gone wrong with the world. Was it a hoax? A trick? Some sort of old wizard lesson in humility?
“As for the rest of you, the school is closed for two weeks. Spring Break, they call it. That means you have fourteen days to revolutionize the world of magic, or you will likely fail my class. I suggest you do not dawdle.”
Cassie could feel the eyes of her classmates watching her. They wanted to see her crack, to see her cry. But she would not give them the pleasure. There had to be a mistake. She stayed in her seat as the rest of the failed students left, one by one, in stunned silence. As they took their graded papers from Professor Schtrumpf, he muttered comments to them. Mostly they were subtle encouragements, or hints as to where to take their research. But some students were given only silence or a “truly terrible idea, Donald. Just awful.” If any professor spoke to her like that, she would have died on the spot.
When the last of the failed students had left, the professor turned to her. “Leave, Miss Blake.”
Maddie and Victor both chose that moment to find the desks in front of themselves extremely interesting.
“Professor, sir, there must be a mistake. I’ve never failed anything in my life.” She tried to keep her voice confident, but it swerved into an unfamiliar whine at the last moment.
“Leave, Miss Blake. You did not pass. Your theories were excellent, but unimaginative. Magic is not baking. It is not engineering. It is poetry spoken by a madman. It is love and nightmare. It cannot be contained by simple equations like you propose. Your work lacks all heart, Miss Blake. It is technically perfect but dead on arrival.” Disappointment dripped from his voice. For a moment, it was as if the professor was her father, berating her in her bedroom again. Her cheeks flushed hot with shame.
“But what can I do?”
“That, Miss Blake, is not my problem. I have students with real promise here to teach and you are stealing time from them. Good day, Miss.”
Cassie gathered up her books and satchel and left from the classroom at a run. She made it as far as the women’s restroom before the tears came. But she knew a powerful charm to hold them back. Hidden in one of the stalls, she slid her platinum-tipped wand out of her knee sock and tapped each of her eyelids three times while speaking the words that would hold back her sobs and brighten her heart. It wouldn’t stop the feelings entirely, just push them back a bit until she had the space to deal with them properly.
The Penrose Academy was one of five prominent magical universities in North America. They were known as the Five Ivies and they were: Duncairn, located in Massachusetts, near the town of Innsmouth—oldest of the universities on the continent and possessing a reputation for turning out more dark wizards than all the others combined; Voudoun University, aka Voodoo U, the infamous party school hidden in the middle of New Orleans—Cassie’s best friend growing up had gone off to school there to major in communications, she routinely sent Cassie snapchats of her adventures hanging out with celebrities all over the world; Our Lady of the Labyrinth, located in the desert of New Mexico, the school had no grades, no official semesters and referred to the students as “our friends,” though they did have a killer wizard golf team; Fourth was the Northern California Arcane Polytechnic Institute, usually called ArcPoly, it occupied the same physical space as Stanford but was shifted ten seconds into the future, many of the students co-matriculated, earning double or triple degrees in computer science and business and a wizarding discipline—they were extremely successful and extremely douchey, the new money of the wizarding world.
Penrose was different, Cassie thought. It was better. Hidden in the wilderness of British Columbia, Canada, Penrose offered something for everyone. It had three major houses covering the three pillars of collegiate life—Arts, Sciences, and Athletics—not to mention The Keep, where witches could thrive in a safe environment free of obnoxious boys.
Cassie was filled with love for her campus as she marched across the quad to the Hive, the oddly formed building that housed the university administration. They said Gaudi himself built the Hive, taking time off from the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona to construct it. It was a thirteen-story building that looked more excreted than constructed, with sloping walls and irregular windows dotting its many unevenly spaced towers. Cassie got chills every time she visited the Hive—the real name was the Academic Support and Facilities Building, but no one ever called it that.
The interior of the building was decorated in Norwegian minimalism, which looked odd against the pocked sandstone walls. It was just another touch of the new Dean, trying to modernize the school away from it’s somewhat nefarious roots.
Cassie rode an elevator to the second floor to see the Dean of Academics, whose office she was very familiar with. She walked past the Dean’s receptionist, a handsome mundane named David, and into the office. There were three other students in the waiting area, but Cassie wasn’t about to wait in line.
“Mother,” Cassie said. “I’d like to register a formal complaint against Professor Schtrumpf.”
The Dean, her mother, didn’t bother looking up. She was dressed even more severely than usual, in a mustard yellow pantsuit that was buttoned tightly around her throat. Her short auburn hair was slicked to one side without a strand out of place. Her lipstick matched her hair color exactly.
“This will not do, Cassiopeia. This will not do.” Her mother was examining a printout, ticking off boxes with a pencil, pausing now and then to lick the tip of the pencil.
“I completely agree. The way he spoke to me? You should have heard it. And he has the temerity to fail me? It must be some interdepartmental feud he has with you or father. There’s no other reason that I can see.”
Without looking up, the Dean spoke in a cold voice. “The reason is that your work was underwhelming. We’ve always wanted what was best for you, Cassiopeia, but perhaps your father and I have pushed you too hard. Perhaps you are cracking under the pressure and unable to keep up. I blame myself. And your father. I blame your father for this. I believe if I intervene now, you can pull out of the class and enroll in something easier, something you can get an A in before the semester is over.”
Cassie’s bones burned with rage and shame. She wanted to whip her wand out and curse her mother, or at least force her eyes up to look at her. “I will not drop out, Mother.”
“Then you’ll have to tell the Bluefelts that the wedding is off. The marriage contract is very clear that any bride of the Bluefelt heir must have her wits about her, unlike Anoxamander’s mother, the poor thing. Marrying for love is so romantic, for the first year or so, but once the novelty wears off you find yourself with a dullard whose only use is warming your bed on cold nights and keeping you up too late on hot ones.” She shook her head and continued checking her paperwork.
“Talk to Schtrumpf, Mother. T
here’s been a mistake,” Cassie pleaded.
“Oh I’ve spoken with him. He showed me your research and I agreed with him that it was dreadfully dull and predictable, honestly Cassie. I expected more out of you.”
“You always do,” Cassie muttered.
“Don’t mutter, dear. You sound like a waitress. Yes, if you won’t drop out the only choice you’ll have is to call the wedding off and try to find a suitable suitor on that Tinder app thing.”
“But I’ve worked so hard for this,” Cassie said. She felt like a girl of nine again, whining at her mother at the unfairness of life. “I have two weeks. Surely I can fix my research in that time?”
“There are balls to attend, young lady. The Fords and the Arakis have invited us to their chalet for a ski vacation. You cannot miss such valuable social events, especially if we need to find you new husband material. This might be your only chance at a respectable pairing. Please don’t be so selfish. Think of the family, won’t you?”
“Mother, I can do this. Missing a few dances and balls and high tea in order to pass a class is not selfish.” Cassie paced back and forth before her mother’s desk.
“Cassiopeia, I have students outside who have real problems. Who have actual pain and suffering they are dealing with. Do clear out and let me handle them. You’ve done enough damage to this family for one day. You have no idea what these poor souls go through, or how difficult it can be to help them.”
An idea occurred to Cassie. “If I help one of these students turn their grades around, will you give me leave to stay here over break and finish my project?”
Finally her mother looked up. The disappointment visible in her eyes nearly broke Cassie’s heart. “You think it’s just that easy, do you? That you whisper some words of wisdom or teach one of these failures a new study trick and all their problems will just vanish like your chance at a good marriage?”
Cassie met her mother’s glare with a glare of her own. “If you can do it, how hard can it be?”
“Very well,” her mother said. “You have two weeks to finish your project and turn around this student’s downward trajectory. He’s not failing one class, Cassie. He’s failing all of them.”
The Dean tapped an intercom button on her desk. “David, could you please send in Mr. Malcolm Sheppard.” A wide, pretty, evil grin spread across the Dean’s face. “If you fail at this, you will do what is best for this family. If that means switching your course load to Professor Tuftwillow’s ‘The Healing Power of Baking,’ then that is what you’ll do.”
“Fine,” Cassie said through gritted teeth.
“And if it means marrying someone else of good social standing, even if he is somewhat older or not as physically appealing as the Bluefelt boy, then you will do that as well.”
“Sure, whatever,” Cassie agreed without thinking.
“Excellent,” the Dean said. She strode out from behind her desk and met a man who was coming through the door. He was tall and darkly handsome, with blue eyes that almost shone in the dim light and a scowl that looked permanently etched into his face. He wore a leather jacket over a paint-streaked t-shirt and tight dark jeans with motorcycle boots.
“Malcolm,” the Dean said in her pretending-I-like-you voice. “So good to see you again, I’d like to introduce you to your new tutor. She’s going to give you exactly what you need to succeed here at Penrose.”
2
Mal was supposed to be in class. But he already knew he’d failed his Ritual Magic I midterm — did he need to go and accept his humiliation in person? No, no he did not. So he went running in the woods instead, going the long way around campus.
Running, outside, in public, was some kind of faux pas at Penrose, apparently. Not that he cared about his reputation — he didn’t have one, really. As a bitten wolf with just enough magical talent to fubar his control, he was the lowest of the low, socially speaking. Possibly worse than a standard human.
No, it was the jinxes that were the problem. His first day on campus, Mal had gone jogging through the quad and gotten hit with a jinx that made him run in slow motion for an hour. And then another one that turned him blue. Another that made him smell like burned popcorn. It was so irritating, and he knew that if he could wolf out, the jinxes would wear off — but, while jinxing was allowed on campus, wolfing out was strictly forbidden.
Not to mention he couldn’t control the wolf anyway. The whole situation made him want to tear something apart with his bare hands. Because that? That he could do.
When he’d finally made it back to his dorm room in Spenser House, his roommate Ash had laughed his ass off before helping him out with the anti-jinxes.
“What the hell, dude?” he’d said. “You know there’s a track under the Rock, and anyone can go there, even us freaky artist types. You know, if you’re into that kind of thing.”
Mal had shrugged. He hated running on a track. And everyone who lived in Sherman House (aka the Jock Rock) was obsessed with the weird labyrinth game that was the closest thing Penrose had to a real sport, so they were constantly setting up traps, illusions, and magical obstacle courses in the hallways. The Dispensary had its share of weirdness, but somehow Mal didn’t mind that so much. He just didn’t get the Rock.
So he learned the hidden trails through the woods, and the old cracked sidewalks that led nowhere useful and had long been abandoned for paths of desire. He loved that term, loved that architects needed a word for that, just because of the fact that people were so naturally inclined to say fuck it and carve their own walkways into carefully planned landscapes.
The woods today were dripping with autumn mist, the ground soft and damp. He powered up the hills, breathing the water-heavy air, enjoying the feeling of pushing his body to its limits. Reaching those limits was harder now — everything was harder now — but still, running made him feel almost normal. Unfortunately, it also gave him time to think.
God, he was screwed. His alpha, Desmond, had sent him to Penrose to learn to control his magic — and with it, his wolf. But he was hopeless. He set things on fire by accident, his ritual spells did jack, and on the full moon he had to chain himself up in the dungeons under Spenser. The dungeons had supposedly been built for the very first “Afflicted” students back in 1860-something, and smelled like it.
He’d been at Penrose for months, and sometimes it felt like his control was worse than ever. He wasn’t making progress at all. If he couldn’t get it together, he’d never be able to have a normal life.
In high school, before he was bitten, he’d been the lead singer and guitarist in a band, playing local shows most weekends, with cool girls vying for his attention, friends who always had his back, and a supportive family. But with his werewolf senses so erratic and out of control, he could hardly play at all — the first time he tried, he’d destroyed his guitar.
He couldn’t even tell his friends and family what had happened to him. His alpha had forced him to leave without a word — and he’d hated him for it at the time, but he’d been right. He wished he didn’t have to be bound to a pack at all, but he knew he was better off with them than with the assholes who bit him. He was lucky, really.
Really.
With a sigh, he turned back toward campus, emerging from the woods and taking the long path behind the Spire. Just as he crossed the boundary onto Spenser land, a Sending popped up in his face.
It was a ghostly projection of the Dean, looking blandly disappointed. “Mr. Sheppard — ” she began.
But, at the Sending’s sudden appearance, Mal snarled and dropped into a crouch, striking out with his claws. They swiped right through the Dean’s incorporeal form.
Then, appalled at himself and realizing that this stupid-ass magical hologram wasn’t a threat, Mal fell to his knees and buried his hands in his hair, feeling the claws retract. Goddammit.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll — ”
The Dean’s projection tsked. “Mr. Sheppard, you’ll look at me, please.”
/> He looked up and saw her staring down at him, eyebrows raised. She made an imperious little beckoning motion and he levered himself up out of the mud, brushing off his knees. He folded his arms across his chest. His heart was still beating triple-time with adrenaline. “Ma’am?”
“I apologize for startling you, Mr. Sheppard. I’d like you to come see me in my office, say in half an hour? Take some time to get cleaned up and I’ll see you then.”
The Sending disappeared. Mal noticed some stuck-up Keep girls on the main path, looking his way and giggling. He scowled at them and trudged off to Spenser.
Spenser House, aka the Dispensary, was Penrose’s proud misfit house, home to artists, musicians, mad brewers, and a handful of shifter fuckups like Mal. It was a sprawling, unplanned jumble of additions, its original buildings buried deep in the center. There were fairy-tale towers, Bauhaus blocks, log cabins, a shabby Edwardian mansion, a geodesic dome, and less recognizable bits, with a warren of halls and rooms underground, and the dungeons far below.
The whole place was full of secret passages and histories, and it was probably Mal’s favorite thing about Penrose. After all, it was just a building, and it didn’t judge him — or if it did, it approved.
He made his way to his Victorian-era room and opened the door cautiously, not knowing what his roommates might be up to. He lived in a triple with Nicolai Ferros, a scrawny guy who could have modeled for a mad scientist cartoon character, complete with wild spiky hair, and Ash Tennyson, a giant lumberjack-looking dude who played every instrument known to wizardkind and whistled up spells as easily as breathing. The room itself was large and oddly shaped, with a main living area and several nooks that branched off from it. They each had a bedroom nook, and one of the nooks was a lab.
Sure enough, Nicolai was there in the lab, brewing up a potion that smelled like dusty snow and made Mal’s wolf want to howl. He clenched his teeth and dug his fingernails into his palms, holding it back, reminding himself that, against all odds, he liked his roommates. Mystery brews were a small price to pay, considering he got to live with people he didn’t want to shred into tiny pieces with his claws. Usually. He took a deep breath and shook out his hands, trying to let it go.
