Charm School (The Demon's Apprentice Book 4)
Page 2
“You didn’t like the hat?” I asked as I went into the dressing room.
“I didn’t like the idea of lumping all the same kind of people together in the same place. That’s never a good idea. Hell, even the characters in the books knew how that worked out and they still put all the potential power hungry maniacs in the same two houses. And then they act surprised when the same thing happens again and again? But, it’s fiction. I guess I should expect a little creative license.”
“So, she didn’t just make up the part about the houses on her own?” I asked after I pulled the pants on.
“No, the house system is pretty common in boarding schools in Britain,” he said. “It’s also pretty common at boarding schools here, at least the older ones. But the idea is to keep the houses diverse, not homogenous.”
The shirt was a soft white linen, and the jacket was a black wool blazer. I tucked the tails of the shirt in and stepped out with the tie in hand.
“Is there a secret knot?” I asked.
Dr. C laughed. “No, just the usual four-in-hand. Remember, some magick uses knots to bind and release spells, so the Academy has to keep the everyday stuff very mundane. Especially around hundreds of young mages with varying levels of control over themselves and their magick.” He helped me with the knot, then handed me the cufflinks from the box. Unlike the ones I’d seen my father wear, these were two disks connected by a single link of chain. One bore the school colors in diagonal bands, the other with white dots on a red field. Dr. Corwin ran them through the buttonholes so that the two cuffs came together beside each other instead of having them overlap like all my other cuffed shirts did. He held out a slim, rectangular wristwatch on a narrow black band, and I gave him a distrustful look. “Oh, go on,” he teased me. “It’s just a time piece, not a manacle.” I slipped it on and buckled it into place.
“Lucas would probably say something about being a slave to the clock,” I said.
“Most likely,” Dr. C said. “Now, the watch case and the cuff links are made of silver. I know it’s tempting to use them as charm focuses, but that would be frowned on, so don’t do that.” His tone had all the sincerity of a used car salesman.
“Of course not, sir,” I said. “Because none of the other kids are going to be doing it either, right?”
“Not at all,” he said. We went back to the counter where Hobart was waiting. His eyes ran up and down as I approached. He smiled and nodded as Dr. C signed the draft approval, then ushered us to the door.
“A fine fit,” he breathed happily. “A fine fit indeed, Apprentice Fortunato. Wear it in good health and don’t hesitate to call upon me if you need anything repaired or replaced. The rest of your uniforms will be waiting for you upon your arrival at the Academy.”
We found ourselves on the sidewalk with a paper bag that held my street clothes and the accessory box, and Hobart’s business card in our hands, with Hobart himself bowing and smiling behind us. Dr. C turned to the left and headed toward another shop, this one with a white wooden sign in the shape of an open books. “Harper and Taylor, Booksellers” was printed across the white paint in the same kind of black letter as every other sign around it.
“It’s awfully quiet,” I said as we approached the door. I’d seen maybe ten people outside the transit stage, and most of them looked human.
“Boston is home to some of the wealthiest mage families in the US,” Dr. C said. “They don’t go shopping. They tell the help what they want, and it shows up later that day. Most of these merchants make a fortune with customers they rarely see or meet.”
“That sounds boring,” I said.
“I wouldn’t know,” he replied.
The smell of Harper and Taylor hit my nose and almost made me feel homesick. It smelled of old paper and leather, a lot like Mitternacht’s did. It was missing the aromas of pipe smoke and coffee, though. Rows of books filled the middle of the space, and the walls were lined with bookshelves as well. A blonde woman smiled at us from behind the counter on our right, her hair smoothed back and gathered into a bun so tight I wasn’t sure even light could escape it, much less a stray hair. Her eyes flicked to Junkyard and her lips twitched a little, but the smile stayed put.
“Good morning,” she said as we approached the counter. “How can we help you?”
“We need these three titles,” Dr. Corwin said as he handed her the small page from his notepad. She took it and held it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, then snapped her fingers. Almost immediately, I heard the flutter of wings, and a blue skinned sprite flew down from the rafters. He wore a simple white tunic with the back cut out to make room for his wings, with a cord belt that had several small pouches and a net dangling from it. His antennae jutted from his forehead and dipped forward, with three small nodules on the end.
“Zip, help these two gentlemen with their purchases,” she said. Her smile slipped just a little, and there was an almost imperceptible pause before the word ‘gentlemen’ as she spoke. I looked at the sprite, and felt my jaw tighten as my teeth clenched. The little fae dropped down and accepted the list from her, then turned in midair and drifted over the bookshelves, his shoulders slumping as he dipped out of sight. A couple of moments later, he reappeared with a book dangling in the net, his wings tinged red from the effort, and his face a darker shade of blue. He set it on the counter and proceeded to unwrap the book, but Dr. C was there in a heartbeat.
“Perhaps you could just show us where the other two are,” he said as he lifted the book free of the netting. Zip looked over at the woman, his big eyes darkened with worry.
“If sir insists,” he said.
“Sir does,” Dr. C said as he handed the textbook to me. “It’s a personal preference, pay it no mind.” Zip gathered the net up and tucked it back in his belt, then took to the air again, his two antennae quivering as he led us through the stacks. I took a look at the book he’d brought, History of American Magick: Civil War to 2010. The next book he led us to was Transformative Properties: Alchemy In the Modern Age. It was a thick book, and judging by the orange and red design on the cover, the Modern Age was sometime back in the 70s. Zip led us up a set of narrow stairs and to the back for the third book. Of the three, it was the skinniest, and the smallest. Counterspells and Wards: Theories of Magickal Defense was printed in fading gold ink on the cloth cover. I took it from Dr. C with a frown.
“Have I made a mistake?” Zip asked. “Is it the wrong title?”
“No, Zip, you did just fine,” Dr. C said with a smile as he fished in his pocket. “It’s exactly the right book. You certainly know your shop. Your service was exemplary. Thank you.” He laid his hand on one of the shelves, leaving a silver trade bar and a cinnamon candy behind. Zip’s eyes went to the shelf, then he nodded and flew off, his wings making a higher pitched hum.
“I thought it would be…I don’t know, thicker?” I said as I held up the book.
“It assumes you know a lot about the topic already,” he said as he led the way back toward the stairs. “Which you do.” He stopped only long enough to sign the draft approval and gave the clerk a perfunctory nod, then headed straight for the door. Once outside, he stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, blowing his breath out through his lips as he seemed to deflate a little.
“Was it the sprite?” I asked as we walked along.
“I can’t stand the way people treat them sometimes,” he said, his voice tight. I let the subject drop, and we made the rest of the walk in silence.
By the time we made it to the livery office, my feet were beginning to hurt in the new shoes, and I wanted nothing more than to take the damn things off. Preferably to throw them in a fire. I kept them on through force of will, and took a moment to look over the carriage that waited for us. The bottom was a dark red wood polished to a high shine, and the top was black, with a cloth roof that arched forward from the rear. The driver’s seat had its own black awning and a black bench with red cushions. My trunks were tied to the back, with a
small basket on top. Junkyard pretty much quivered at the prospect of a ride, and his tail was a blur behind his butt. The driver came out and opened the door, ushering us out to the carriage and opening the door to the carriage as well. As we crossed the wooden patio, I saw what was pulling the wagon.
The front looked like a brass horse, complete with a mane of black hair. But where its shoulders should have been was the edge of a large, spoked wheel. The center of the wheel was cut out, and a horizontal copper ring ran through it. A bright blue nimbus of energy floated inside the copper ring, and a pair of thick bars curved forward and down to connect the carriage to the ring. Junkyard jumped into the carriage and looked back at us, his tongue lolling out. I let Dr. C get in first to spite the pain lancing up from my toes, but I wasn’t above a sigh of relief as I sank into the leather padded seat.
“Shoes?” Dr. C asked. I nodded. “They take some getting used to. Hobart will likely include some stretchers for them. I suggest you use them.”
“I wish I could just wear my sneakers instead,” I said.
“You’ll have to abide by the manual’s instructions,” he said as the cart surged forward. We came out onto a side road in a wooded section. The road curved around until it came out onto a path the followed the Charles River. The track we were on ran parallel to the road, but slightly below it. I could see the slight shimmer of the glamer that hid us from the cowan drivers, a little deflection spell that barely brushed against the brain’s frontal lobe and urged it to ignore what didn’t fit with ‘normal’ perceptions. We rode along, keeping pace with the cars on the road to our left with little more than the sound of the wheels humming on the road and the soft whine of the magickal engine. Most of the time, we were actually hidden from view by the trees, but as the road curved to the right, we emerged near a freeway, and I could see three taller buildings ahead and to our right. We followed the river’s bank, crossing the water using a lane no one else seemed to see. Finally, we veered away from the banks near a subdivision called Waltham. Once we slipped under the interchange after Waltham, we started seeing more carriages on the road. A couple passed us like we were standing still, both floating along effortlessly.
Eventually, we turned off the hidden road and found ourselves in front of a set of gates with three carriages and a limo ahead of us. Men and women in dark suits flanked the gate with clipboards and wands in hand. One approached the limo and spoke to its driver, checked his clipboard, then waved them through. The carriage after it got the same treatment, but the next one was waved onto a side road to the right. As we pulled forward, I caught sight of a blue robe and a silver ankh atop a silver staff.
“That’s new,” Dr. Corwin said as he glanced at the Sentinel. Ahead of us, the man with the clipboard was waving the carriage forward when one of the curtains in the cabin parted near him.
“What is the meaning of that?” I heard as an arm emerged from the window. The man didn’t exactly point. He swung his hand in the general direction of what he was talking about, apparently assuming the person he was talking to would get the point. Before the staffer could answer, he continued. “I pay enough to send my sons here; I don’t want them to have to look at those people all day long.”
“The headmaster will explain why they’re here, Mr. Abernathy,” the staffer said patiently. “Rest assured, Master Carlton and Master Wilforth won’t be seeing them any more than is absolutely necessary for their safety and security.”
“They shouldn’t have to see them at all, and you can be certain I’ll be having a word with the headmaster about your attitude as well. When Master Draeden hears about this, he’ll have your job and the headmaster’s I’m sure.” The hand retreated back into the carriage and it pulled forward, leaving us as the next in line.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the staffer said as we pulled up.
“Good afternoon,” Dr. C said. “Wizard Corwin and Apprentice Fortunato.” Up close, I could see that the man had an ear cuff on his left ear. It glowed blue when Dr. C stopped talking and the man nodded. I guessed it was tuned to tell if someone was lying, and it had just verified that we were who we said we were. The staffer ran his finger down the clipboard, then looked up at us, his eyes hooded as he glanced at me.
“Fortunato,” he said slowly. “Scholarship. You’ll be checking in at Strathorn Hall.”
“Strathorn?” Dr. C said. “I thought check-in for all students was at Chadwicke.”
“No, sir,” the staffer said with a practiced looking smile. “Scholarship students have a streamlined check-in process now. Much less confusing.” He stepped back and gestured at the driver, and the carriage lurched forward.
“That’s new, too,” he said as he frowned and leaned back in the seat. The road curved along the inside of a stone wall on our right that came up about five feet and sprouted iron fencing above that. Square towers of stone supported the fencing every twenty feet or so. I caught glimpses of the school through the trees, but never more than a stolen glance of red brick or white trim. Ahead of us, the woods ended, and the wall went from half-stone and half fence to all iron fencing except for the intervening stone towers. Outside the forested area, the support columns were topped with painted statues of mystical beasts.
When we cleared the trees, I got my first good look at the Franklin Academy. Like most things in Massachusetts so far, it was mostly red brick with a little white wood for contrast. The doors, shutters and roof trim were bright white. The front of the place looked like one very wide four story building that had sprouted a couple of smaller buildings along its wings. To the left, I could see cars and carriages, and a crowd of students in Franklin black in front of the main building in the middle. The boys were easy to tell from the girls by the flash of pale legs in skirts.
Then we were around the corner, and a much smaller group of people were waiting outside of an older looking building. Cars and carriages were evenly represented here, but none of them looked very expensive. In fact, the newest looking carriage there bore the crest of the livery company we’d rented ours from. As we pulled up, I could see some of the kids lounging near the steps that led into the building. Unlike what I saw at school in the cowan world, this group didn’t split off like normal kids did. Some of them were sitting on the lowest step staring at handheld game consoles, while another group was at the corner of the steps and a third was only a few feet away. The corner group was a mixture of different performers. A couple of girls worked with hula hoops, doing impossible twirls and tricks. A trio of guys and two girls spun poi with an intensely casual air, while another kid worked with a set of small rings next to one who was weaving intricate energy designs between his fingers. The group further from the steps was almost all guys, and my summer spent working with Dr. Corwin, Steve Donovan and the Hands of Death, Todd Cross and T-Bone, told me all I needed to know about them. These were the martial artists, or the guys who liked to think they were. Smooth katas were mixed with rapid, jerky sequences of strikes and kicks, each more elaborate than the last.
The carriage stopped, and Dr. C was out the door before I could even sit up straight. When my feet hit the grass beside the road, he was already several steps ahead of me. Even Junkyard seemed to have springs in his feet as he bounded around me. I slung my backpack across one shoulder, then followed Dr. C as fast as I could, and we found ourselves in a large, open room with tall, narrow windows. A large fireplace dominated one end of the hall, and three heavy tables that formed a squared off U shape. Grown-ups sat on the outside of the U, while students filed along the inside of it with papers in hand. Parents and students chatted with each other and the handful of staff in the open area in the middle of the hall. A handful of the parents had a sort of shell shocked look on their faces, mostly those with younger kids in the Academy’s uniform beside them.
“Excuse me,” a man’s voice called out when we were halfway across the hall. “Pets are not allowed.” We turned to see a thin faced, blond man in his mid-20s crossing the wooden floor toward us,
his leather shoes clomping against the hard surface as he came our way.
“He isn’t a pet,” Dr. Corwin said, sounding about as irritated as I did when I said it.
“I beg your pardon?” the man asked, pulling up short.
“He’s my familiar,” I said.
“Where’s his control collar?” the man demanded. “All familiars must be under strict control of their owners at all times. You can’t control an animal without one. And where are his papers and registration as familiar?”
“I don’t own him,” I said. By now, heads were starting to turn toward us.
“The bond between mage and animal is the entire point of a familiar,” Dr. C said with a frown. “You can’t just buy one.” The man just smiled and shook his head.
“Typical,” he said. “I’ll take you to Washington Hall and you can make arrangements to send the animal home. Come with me.” He turned and strode toward a side door, and we found ourselves in a hallway that connected the building we were in to the rest of the school. The staffer’s feet clacked on the marble floor as he set a quick pace down an endless hallway. We went through another building and turned left into a larger marble hall. Another building and another hallway passed before we hit the steps leading into the main building. Even then, we ended up going down a long hall with several old wooden doors on either side before we hit the main hall. Through it all, Junkyard stayed by my side, and Dr. C maintained his glare at the other man’s back.
The biggest difference between the two rooms was the number of staff here. And the number of chairs. Row upon row of tables had been set up like individual desks, with one chair on one side, and three on the other. As we entered, a family got up from one of the tables and left the room, and another family was ushered into their place. One half of the room was also given over to a waiting area, with padded chairs and tables covered with bottles of water, soda and juice next to trays of hors d’oeuvres.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Endicott,” the woman on the other side said as they took their seats. “We’ll just have you sign a few forms here, and give you Reginald’s syllabus and student manual, and he’ll be enrolled.”