by W. J. May
“Later.” Simon edged away down the hall. “I promise.”
Before Argyle had the chance to say anything else, he slipped away into the mass of people heading off to the history building, for once, taking a strange sort of comfort in blending in with the anonymity of the crowd.
The plan worked. Having gotten to class a full ten minutes early, most everyone was either still finishing up breakfast, or lingering around outside, putting off the lesson for as long as possible. That meant that when Simon slipped inside, the classroom was completely deserted.
Of course, that still left the obvious problem.
What the hell am I going to tell Lanford when he arrives?
You did not skip classes when you went to Guilder. You didn’t come late, or leave early, or show up unprepared. It simply wasn’t done. Between that chilling certainty and the fact that all the teachers had super-powers, these sort of slip-ups did not happen.
I could say I was sick. Say that I went back to my dorm early. I could say there was a family emergency and I had to leave for the city…
…or I could just get the hell out of here and hope he didn’t notice.
Latching onto the new plan with a vengeance, Simon spun around on his heel and was about to go when Lanford himself swept suddenly through the door.
Both teacher and student stopped dead in their tracks, both temporarily frozen in surprise.
Simon recovered himself first. “Sorry, Professor, I was just…I was just going to grab a quick cup of coffee before class—”
“—the same class that you didn’t attend yesterday?”
Shit—he’d noticed after all.
A guilty flush warmed Simon’s face as he lowered his eyes to the floor. Of all the teachers at Guilder, he like Lanford most. Okay, liked was probably too strong a word again. But it was something more than tolerated. There was something about the balding middle-aged man that demanded at least a modicum of respect. Perhaps it was the fact that he levitated books and bits of chalk when he got too lazy to pick them up himself. Perhaps it was the fact that he was perfectly unapologetic when he did so. Perhaps it was the fact that Simon got the sneaking suspicion he would encourage the others to do so as well should the situation ever arise.
Whatever the case, Simon found himself feeling especially guilty for having disappointed this particular man.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” he said again, keeping his eyes trained to the floor with a submissive respect he’d learned from growing up with his father. “I didn’t…it won’t happen again.”
Not even a worthwhile excuse to help ease him by. Simon was sure Lanford saw through it immediately and was just seconds away from demanding an explanation, but he could not have been more wrong. Instead of ranting and railing about the pillars of responsibility as Guilder professors were known to do, Lanford just looked him up and down curiously, before settling back on his desk.
“Simon, how are you settling in here at Guilder?”
For a second, Simon was so thrown by the question that he forgot it required an answer. He looked up at his teacher in surprise, before Lanford nodded encouragingly and his manners came stampeding back. “Oh…uh…fine, I guess. Sir.”
Even though he had grown up addressing his father as such, he’d always had a hard time remembering to tag that last part on.
Lanford studied him for another moment, eyes twinkling over the tops of his glasses, before he stood up suddenly and walked around behind his desk. “Coffee?”
Simon blinked. “Pardon?”
“You said you were about to grab a cup of coffee. Might I interest you in one?” Lanford stepped aside to reveal a shiny new espresso maker, previously hidden inside a drawer in his filing cabinet. “I have to hide it, you see,” he explained, correctly interpreting Simon’s look. “Otherwise I’d get students coming in here all day and pestering me. Bunch of little caffeine freaks, the lot of you,” he murmured, carefully measuring out the correct amount of grounds for two.
For a moment, Simon temporarily forgot all the things plaguing him. His parents, Wardell, a certain mind-boggling warlock. His lips curved up into a rare smile as he gratefully accepted the steaming mug Lanford passed his way.
“Thank you, sir.” He raised it to his mouth for a steaming sip, heaving a mental sigh of relief as the life-saving liquid zapped his tired body back to life. First no reprimand, then an espresso to boot? Maybe his karma was finally evening out a little.
“I only ask, because you seem to be having a bit of trouble fitting in.”
…maybe not.
As a wave of nerves started churning in Simon’s stomach, he set down his cup with a polite frown. “I’m not sure exactly what you mean, sir.”
Much to his surprise, Lanford chuckled. “Yes, you do. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that you actually place a certain amount of pride in the fact.”
Simon’s fingers trembled as the warlock started burning on his arm. “Sir, I assure you, I’m making every effort to conform to Guilder’s way of—”
“Now why would you want to do a thing like that?”
Okay…he spiked my coffee. There is no way in hell I just heard that right.
Simon froze uncertainly, looking like he was about two seconds from throwing down the espresso and bolting to the door, but Lanford just shook his head with a dismissive smile.
“You misunderstand me. If you give it a chance, Guilder Boarding School will not only give you the finest education in all of England, but will instill within you all the fundamentals you’ll need in order to go out and be successful in the world. There is simply no condemning its virtues, and, yes, I could give you the speech about each of the four foundational pillars of our society.”
There was a slight pause.
“But I suspect you’ve already heard that lecture once or twice, have you not?”
Simon stifled a small smile, and Lanford continued.
“That being said, this school was built for a purpose, was it not?”
The question, though being questionably rhetorical, still threw Simon into a tailspin the likes of which surpassed even the surprise cup of coffee. He frowned down into the billowing steam, trying to think of a socially acceptable way he might try to answer.
But Lanford didn’t seem to require a politically correct response. Quite the contrary, the statement was designed to encourage thoughtful contemplation, nothing more. As the bell rang and a flood of students poured inside, he did nothing except calmly retrieve the cup of coffee from Simon’s hand, setting it back inside the drawer as if he’d never had it in the first place.
“And Kerrigan,” he called as Simon drifted to his assigned seat.
Simon whirled around to see the professor still looking at him with that same pensive smile.
“Don’t ever miss my class again.”
* * *
For the rest of the history lesson, Simon did nothing except stare down at his desk, trying to figure out whatever it was Lanford was trying to say. On the surface, the message was simple enough. Every student at Guilder was there for a reason. Because they were special. Because they’d been gifted with ink. Through that lens, the ‘purpose’ for which the school was created seemed rather clear. But Simon couldn’t help but think that there was a bit more beneath the words than what met the eye.
Some professors spoke of Guider as a safe haven, a sanctuary of sorts, to protect those marked few from the masses outside. Still others, the more radical ones, claimed that Guilder was to work in the reverse: protecting the common folk of England from the subversive few who had involuntarily been mutated beyond what was considered acceptable and safe. But those like Lanford, and as far as Simon knew he might be the only one, spoke as if there might be an even greater purpose for the hallowed halls. That it might actually serve as an instructional stepping-stone, propelling its students to new and unimaginable heights. They way Simon believed it had always been intended.
There was a sharp stinging in his arm, as if th
e warlock was seconding the notion. As he rubbed it absentmindedly with his other hand, he half-considered showing it to Lanford after class.
He was going to need help with it eventually, wasn’t he? And if it was truly an unprecedented design, he probably had some sort of duty to show it to the school for posterity’s sake.
Maybe I’d even get an invitation to start training in the Oratory.
But, to be honest, Simon wasn’t sure he wanted that. The thought of practicing with others like him to hone his skill… that part sounded great. It was what they’d be training for that had him asking all those forbidden questions. What was his skill? He didn’t seem to be able to do anything right now. No magic, no conjuring, no… nothing.
By the time the bell finally rang, his head was so jumbled with conflicting thoughts that he drifted right past Lanford without even remembering his half-formed plan. The trance-like state continued as he floated down the halls and out to the sunlit lawns, completely oblivious to the world around him. It wasn’t until someone yanked him around by the arm that he realized people had been calling his name for the last long while.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Kerrigan?” Wardell frowned. “Did Lanford put you into a meditative coma or something?”
Simon looked around in alarm, then yanked his arm away. Somehow, and he wasn’t sure quite how this happened, his wandering had taken him almost all the way to the parking lot. A secluded part of campus for those like him, who didn’t drive, and possibly the worst place possible to get caught off guard by Wardell and his band of fools.
Isolated. Limited visibility. And no witnesses.
“So what’s it going to be?” Wardell demanded with a sudden smirk, falling into a casual stance deliberately intended to block Simon’s path. “You going to show us that tatù or what?”
Did I mention…NO WITNESSES?
Simon took a step back as the other boys curved along behind him in an arch, casually fencing him in.
“Listen, guys,” he tried to reason with them, “you don’t want to do this. Just leave me alone.”
No matter how hard he tried, he kept seeing all of them writhing around on the grass.
Burning.
“Don’t want to do what?” Wardell quipped. “Look, Simon. Don’t make this hard. Just show us your damn ink. It’s not like it’s some big secret.”
Simon’s temper rose to the surface in spite of his desperate attempts to control it. “Then why the hell do you want to know so badly? Afraid that someone’s going to have a better tatù than yours? I mean, it’s a cute little fox and all, but—”
The next second, he was on the ground.
Turned out Wardell had figured out that super strength after all.
A sharp punch caught him right on the temple, momentarily blinding him with pain as a host of stars exploded behind his eyes. He tried to cry out, to fight back, he just wasn’t quite sure how. But the next second, another hit split open his lip and he turned his head to the side, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
“Get him, Tristan!”
“You got this!”
Simon lifted his eyes to the boy kneeling on his chest, staring up at him in a daze.
“Your name is Tristan?”
For whatever reason, that made things even worse.
“Yes!” Wardell, aka Tristan, punched him even harder. “For shit’s sake, Kerrigan! You don’t even know our damn names?!”
Even in the heat of the moment, it struck Simon as an odd thing to say. Was that what this whole thing was about? The underlying source of all that rage? They thought he came off as superior or condescending somehow?
Another punch.
Yep, looks that way. Not that he could blame them. He was. And he suspected they knew that, too.
“Get off of me!” he cried, swinging back.
But Tristan had no intention of moving. Neither did he have any intention of simply beating Simon senseless. The second his guard was down Tristan grabbed his arm, holding it steady as he tried to roll up the sleeve.
“Let go, you son of a bitch!” Simon cursed, swinging wildly with his other hand.
If it was any other person, he would have made contact, but Tristan lived up to his ink. He dodged the attack as easily as if it was happening in slow motion, ripping through Simon’s sleeve as he searched for the tatù. For good measure, he elbowed Simon again in the face.
“We’re going to sort this out once and for all.” He wasn’t even out of breath. “You’re so convinced yours is better? We’ll just have to see.”
He had almost reached it. A second more, and he would see it. But as he lay a hand on the bare skin on Simon’s wrist, the entire world flipped on its head.
“I said…LET ME GO!”
There was a sudden gasp, then Tristan was flying through the air. He landed on the ground about fifty feet away. There was a sharp crack, followed by a muffled groan. Then he lay still.
For a second, the entire world seemed to stop.
Then came the screams…
“Tristan!”
“Dude! What did you do?!”
“Tris! You okay?”
“Shit! He’s not moving!”
Like a frightened pack, the group of boys flooded away from Simon, flocking towards their fallen leader. There wasn’t much they could do with him lying unconscious, but they still tried.
Simon sat up slowly, staring at the motionless carnage, then staring at his hands.
At least it wasn’t liquid fire, a tiny voice whispered in the corner of his mind. But staring at Tristan’s crumpled form, he took very little comfort in that.
He was moving now, his eyes fluttering open and shut. His legs stretched out tentatively, but when he tried to push to his feet, one of his arms collapsed beneath him.
“Shit!” He caught himself with a sharp cry. “I can’t…I can’t move it.”
Just like that, the pack rounded back to Simon.
“What the hell was that?” Robert Fletcher demanded.
“Is that your tatù, then? Strength?”
“You’re going to pay for this, Kerrigan. You’re not getting away with it.”
A boy with shifty eyes paced back and forth behind him as another’s fingers sharpened into odd-looking talons. All in all, they were a rather menacing-looking bunch. But, strangely enough, none of them seemed to want to take a step closer.
A strange feeling began stirring deep within Simon’s chest. Something he had never felt before. Something that seemed to swell up within him.
With an aggression and recklessness he didn’t know he had, he got to his feet in one swift movement, surprised by the easy grace with which he stood there, glaring down at the rest. “Who’s next?”
Chapter 3
Just like everything else at Guilder, even the rumor mill ran super-charged.
By the time Simon had rushed back across the lawn to the main campus, people were already starting to talk. By the time he made it to Joist Hall, they were openly staring at him. By the time he leapt up the last of the steps to his dorm, the entire campus was buzzing with how Simon Kerrigan—oh, you know, that tall kid who doesn’t talk a lot—single-handedly defeated Tristan Wardell in hand-to-hand combat.
The details varied from Simon conjuring a medieval mace out of thin air, to him opening up the ground and crushing both of Tristan’s legs. But the basic premise remained the same. There was a new power player on campus. One no one saw coming.
Simon threw open the door to his room and collapsed back against it on the other side. His incorrigible roommate wasn’t here—thank the Maker—so he had at least a few precious seconds to think before the Wardell lynch-mob showed up demanding his head.
“Holy hell, Simon! What happened to you?!”
Simon jumped a mile, clutching not at his heart, but at the hidden warlock burning on his skin. In his rush to get inside, he hadn’t noticed his best friend sitting at the desk, scrolling through a list of online video games. “Sorry, Argyle,” he
panted, bending over and putting both his hands on his knees. “I forgot that we were supposed to meet after—”
“Forget that—what the heck happened to your face!” Argyle leapt up from the chair and hurried forward to get a better view. “Looks like someone dropped a truck on you.” He hesitated for a moment, giving Simon a rather cautious stare. “Someone didn’t actually…drop a truck on you, did they? Because, I swear to you, I won’t laugh.”
Strange as it seemed, at Guilder that wasn’t an entirely unreasonable assumption.
“No one dropped a truck on me.” Simon waved him off, grabbing a tissue off the counter and using it to dab gently at the steady stream of blood pouring out of his nose. “I…had another little run-in with Wardell and his gang of merry men.”
Argyle’s face softened sympathetically. “Go on, then, sit down. I’ll go grab the peroxide.”
In a way that had become embarrassingly practiced, Simon took a seat on the mattress as Argyle retrieved a bottle of disinfectant from a cabinet beneath the desk. He handed Simon a clean towel, and for the next few minutes, there wasn’t a sound between them, save for the occasional hisses and winces as Simon sterilized the wounds clean.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened?” Argyle asked gently. It was a testament to the strength of their friendship that he hadn’t yet pressed to see the tatù. He would let his friend show him in his own time. “I swear on all that’s good and holy, that damn fox has it coming—”
“I think I broke his arm.” The quiet words seemed to echo in the space between them, growing louder with each pass.
Argyle’s face screwed up in confusion, probably thinking he had heard wrong. When Simon did nothing to correct himself, he leaned forward with a frown. “I’m sorry…what?”
Simon’s shoulders trembled as the awful truth sank in. “I think…I broke his arm.”
There was a beat of silence, and then—
“YOU WHAT?!”
Against all the odds, Argyle threw back his head and started laughing. Hysterically laughing. To the point where it was getting hard for him to breath.
Simon watched with a small frown, wondering how many of the Guilder pillars of responsibility this was breaking, before a rueful grin crept up the side of his face. “Shut up,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to.”
