Hex-Ed

by Sarina Dorie

  Hex-Ed

  WOMBY’S SCHOOL FOR WAYWARD WITCHES

  SARINA DORIE

  Copyright © 2018 Sarina Dorie

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1985887908

  ISBN-13: 978-1985887909

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE womby’s school for wayward witches SERIES listed in order

  Tardy Bells and Witches’ Spells

  Hex-Ed

  Witches Gone Wicked

  A Handful of Hexes

  Hexes and Exes

  Reading, Writing and Necromancy

  Budget Cuts for the Dark Arts and Crafts

  Hex and the City

  Spell it Out for Me

  Hex Crimes

  My Crazy Hex Girlfriend

  All Hexed Up

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Excerpt from the Sequel

  CHAPTER TWO

  in the Womby’s School for Wayward Witches Series

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am fortunate to have so many supportive friends and family encouraging my endeavors. From an early age I had a mother who was my number one fan. I appreciated the early years of encouragement and the later years of brutal honesty. I am thankful I have a husband who enables my creative addiction. I wouldn’t be able to write if Charlie didn’t go in his man cave and entertain himself with World of Warcraft during the long hours it takes to produce a novel.

  Thank you Night Writers, Alpha Readers, Visionary Ink, Wordos, and Eugene Writers Anonymous for helping me make this series the best it can be. Justin Tindel and Daryll Lynne Evans, you gave me hope and a writing community at a time when both were lacking in my life. James S. Aaron, your suggestion that I’m writing a cozy witch mystery was brilliant.

  Eric Witchey, your classes always inspire me to write better craft. If only I had been born with a witchy last name like you were. But one can’t have everything.

  PROLOGUE

  When I Was Five

  The other children in my kindergarten class played at stations during free time: the puzzle table, the car corner, the doll house, or the indoor fort. I sat in the book nook alone, reading on one of the beanbag chairs. Wide bookshelves bolted into the floor separated me from the chaos of the classroom, hiding me in the sanctuary of literature.

  From between two bookshelves I spied Mrs. Phelps at her desk writing lesson plans. Her assistant, Miss Diane, strolled the perimeter of the room, separating fighting boys and coaxing girls to share with each other. She never had to tell me to stop fighting or to share. I was different from the other children. I knew how to be a good girl.

  A tall man in a navy-blue suit stood outside the bookcases, the walls only coming up to his waist. He’d visited my classroom before. On his breast pocket, he wore a badge that read: school district psychologist. I could read the words, but I didn’t know what they meant.

  He removed a small book from his vest pocket and placed it on top of the wall. I returned my attention to my own book on unicorns before glancing up again.

  He untucked a twisted stick from his sleeve. When he pulled on it, a feather sprouted out of the wood. He wrote in the book with red ink. The book appeared to be larger than before, not small enough to fit in a pocket.

  “You aren’t supposed to have pens in the book nook,” I said. “Mrs. Phelps doesn’t want anyone writing on the books.”

  “This isn’t a pen. It’s a self-inking quill.” His voice sounded funny, his accent like one of the characters from a television show my parents watched on PBS. “Furthermore, I’m not in the book nook. I’m outside of it.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “What book are you looking at?” he asked.

  I held it up. “It’s about unicorns. There are pretty pictures. I can read the words too. Do you want me to read to you?”

  “No.” He continued writing.

  I read to him anyway. I was a good reader. “Unicorns are pretty. Unicorns are nice. Unicorns dance under rainbows, kiss boo-boos, and make everything better.”

  He snorted.

  “Do you believe in unicorns?” I asked.

  “Do you?”

  “My mommy says there are no such things as unicorns. My daddy says I can believe in anything I want. I want to see a unicorn.”

  He crouched down between the shelves, his face level with mine now. His eyes were the color of the stormy sky outside. His shoulder-length hair was wavy and beautiful, like dark water. Everything he wore was dark blues and grays: his long coat, his pants, and the neckerchief tucked under his collar. A little line crinkled between his eyebrows. He didn’t look sad, but I could feel it weighing down his frame, tugging at his heart. A black cloud was stitched to his soul. I wondered if he realized it.

  “Unicorns don’t look like those pictures with rainbow manes and tails.” He nodded to the book.

  “Yes, they do!”

  He went on. “The feral ones are brown and gray, dappled like wild horses, and their horns are sharp.”

  I balled up my fists at my sides. “You’re a liar. Unicorns have rainbow tails. They aren’t gray.”

  He lifted the black hem of his pants and showed me a white line on his ankle. “A unicorn gave me this scar when I was seven because I tried to pet one. Unicorns aren’t nice. They like the taste of blood.” He said it with certainty.

  I looked to the illustration of the sparkly unicorn and shivered. Maybe the unicorn scar was the reason his soul was so dark and sad. I felt bad for the man. I wanted to make him better.

  I slid out of the beanbag chair and returned the book to the shelf. I picked out a happier book. “I can read to you about fairies.”

  “Do you think fairies are any nicer? You should be afraid of Fae. They steal human children and drink the blood of witches. Hasn’t your mother properly educated you on this matter?”

  I wasn’t exactly sure why I thought so, but this adult was more like me than the other children were. He was like my mom, the air around him humming with the scent of herbs and perfumed with notes of music. My senses got all confused when I tried to focus on any one sound or smell.

  I hugged my arms around myself. “Do you want to come inside the book nook? It’s safe in here.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He stood abruptly. “As you said, Mrs. Phelps wouldn’t want anyone writing in there.”

  “I won’t tell.” I crossed my heart to show him I meant it.

  He said nothing.

  He was so alone outside the book nook. And I was so alone inside of it. I didn’t want him to ache inside. I rushed forward and hugged him around his knees, trying to infuse love and healing inside him. Electricity prickled under my skin.

  “No hugging,” he said, prying my hands off him. “You need to learn to control yourself. Suppress those feelings inside you.”

  “Why?”

  He pushed me back into the book nook. “You might harm someone.”

  “Hugging? Does hugging hurt you? It makes me feel better when my mommy hugs me,” I said. I could feel a million tiny wounds, raw and painful all over his body. Scars perhaps. I
thought back to the unicorns, but this wasn’t the same as the scar on his ankle. These were deeper. They sank below his skin.

  He went back to writing in his book. I stood on the other side of the bookshelf feeling lost and uncertain.

  “Why are you over here instead of playing with other children?” he asked.

  I made a face. “They’re loud and bossy.” That wasn’t the only reason, but it was hard to explain the other reasons. “I don’t like the things they like. I just don’t… .” I struggled for words.

  “Fit in?” he finished.

  Mrs. Phelps’ friendly smile was fixed in place as she came up from behind him. “This is your third observation, sir. You’ve taken such an interest in our little Clarissa.”

  The man tugged at the bottom of his blue vest, lifting his chin and looking down at her in a superior sort of way. “This one was marked as being a potential concern for autism.”

  Mrs. Phelps wrinkled eyes narrowed. “She doesn’t have autism, and we both know it.”

  “Indeed. Most of the children I’m sent to observe have been mislabeled. This one should be placed in a Talented and Gifted program.” He closed his book and shoved it under his coat. Even though it was far too big to fit, it somehow did. I didn’t see his quill anymore, only a stick of twisted black wood he slid into a pocket.

  I’d heard the words autism and disabilities, but I didn’t understand all of what they were talking about.

  He strode toward the door with long confident strides.

  “I know who you are,” Mrs. Phelps called after him. “Professor Thatch.”

  His footsteps faltered, but he didn’t look back.

  She scurried after him. Out in the hallway, I heard her whisper. “I was a student at Womby’s School for Wayward Witches forty-two years ago. You taught me wards and self-defense.”

  I crept out from behind the bookcases, wanting to hear what they were talking about. Miss Diane sat next to a crying boy, trying to wipe his nose. I snuck closer to the door. Mrs. Phelps had to be joking. She had gray hair and wrinkles. She was the teacher. This man couldn’t have been her teacher. Even so, she had piqued my curiosity.

  “Did you pass my class?” he asked.

  I spied on them from the doorway.

  Mrs. Phelps’ voice was a whisper. “Magic isn’t easy.”

  I wasn’t certain I’d heard her correctly.

  “Hence the reason you’re here living amongst Morties instead of in the Unseen Realm.” He looked her up and down. “Who made the wards around this child?” His gaze flickered past her to me. He scowled.

  I ducked back inside. The door slammed closed immediately after, separating me from them. I tried the knob, but it was locked.

  Good children didn’t eavesdrop, but I wanted to know what they were saying. I sat down at my desk and took out the markers. Sometimes unexpected things happened when I used them. I suspected it was because they were called magic markers. I drew a picture of the man with a blue pen. I used pink to draw Mrs. Phelps’ dress and captured the essence of her hair with gray spirals. Another child wandered by and said something to me, but I ignored him. I concentrated on the ear I drew in the corner. My ear.

  My hand slid over the paper, the pen making Mrs. Phelps’ mouth move. Her high, sweet voice sounded sharp, confused. “What wards?”

  “They’re subtle. Expertly made. Obviously not your doing.” I could hear the sneer in his voice. “Tell me, did they drain your powers after you left our school?”

  “I didn’t have much magic to begin with.”

  “Do you have enough skills left to recognize subtle energies? Have you seen any manifestations of magic in this child? Necromancy? Blood magic? Pain enchantments? Other forbidden arts?” The circle of his mouth opened and closed as the drawing spoke. I couldn’t tell if what I was hearing was my imagination or what they were really saying.

  “At this age?” Mrs. Phelps asked. “That would be unheard of. Only the child of a great and powerful witch might show that kind of magic this early. Her mother possesses a little bit of garden magic and some kitchen witchery. Her father is a Morty. I’m surprised they could even conceive a child, let alone protect her with wards.”

  I didn’t understand many of the words they were saying. There was only one word I understood and it was enough: magic. He wanted to know if I could do magic. I’d read Matilda. Maybe I was like her, only with nicer parents.

  The man grunted. “Has she given any indication she knows what she is?”

  “Her sister, she knew what she was when I had her. She’s the one you should be observing. When she was five, she animated water from the drinking fountain and made it chase after a group of sixth grade girls. I had to hush the whole thing up so the Morties wouldn’t suspect her. That girl is an obvious water fury, if I ever saw one. She’d be a candidate for Womby’s if only her mother would—”

  “I have no interest in the sister.”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t that why you’re here? Recruitment for the school?”

  “Tell me more about this one.”

  “Why do you want to know about her? She’s far too young to be of interest. She’s nothing special.”

  I clenched my fists at my sides. Mrs. Phelps had told me I was advanced. I could read and do math the other children couldn’t do. Didn’t that make me special?

  “The fewer questions you ask, the better.” His footsteps echoed away. “I’ll return in a few months for another observation.”

  “I might have flunked out of your school, but that doesn’t make me stupid.” Her voice rose. “If you’re not here for recruitment, there’s only one other reason you could be here. The rumors are true. Loraline had a daughter. This sweet child came from the evilest witch in hist—”

  “Don’t say that name,” he hissed. “Someone might hear.”

  Loraline. That was a name? When I heard that word I saw long spindly branches and cold winter nights. It gave me the shivers. Loraline wasn’t my mom’s name. Her name was Abby. Obviously they didn’t know what they were talking about.

  He whispered, “You don’t understand the risk if someone finds out. The Fae would torture you if they thought you knew anything about Loraline having a child.”

  “Forgive me, professor. I heard how she—is it true?” She coughed. “She tortured you? How could the headmaster assign you to investigate her daughter? After all that witch did to you.”

  “I have classes in a half hour. I should be on my way soon. You know how to contact me if there are … manifestations.”

  “The headmaster doesn’t know about this girl? Does he?”

  “Were you this trying forty years ago as a student? No, don’t answer that. I already know the answer.”

  I could barely follow this conversation with all the strange words. When the man spoke fast I couldn’t understand his accent. Sometimes he reminded me of the character from the Doctor Who program my dad watched. This man should have worn a cheery bow tie.

  “The headmaster doesn’t know,” she repeated.

  “No, and it will stay that way,” he said. “It’s safer for Witchkin and Morties alike if the Fae think her bloodline has died out. It’s safer for you. You will never repeat this conversation. Do you understand?”

  “I give you my word,” Mrs. Phelps said.

  “That isn’t good enough. You know what I need to do.” The man in my drawing held up his stick.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pink and yellow magic marker flooded over the drawing, dripping out of the pens and covering the people. The colors grew brighter. The air smelled like burnt hair and autumn leaves. Snowflakes danced before my eyes and then faded. Mrs. Phelps came back into the classroom a moment later.

  She looked at me and blinked. I crumpled up my drawing, afraid she would know what I had done. I didn’t want to get in trouble for eavesdropping. Mrs. Phelps smiled at me, her eyes dull. “There you are, Clarissa. Aren’t you a special g
irl?”

  PART ONE

  Sixteen Years Later

  CHAPTER ONE

  Yes, We Have No Bananas

  I wrote the word “fallopian” on the chalkboard. My face flushed as I spelled the words that would be on the test for the room of high school students.

  When the vice principal had burst into the art room where I was student teaching and begged me to fill in for the health teacher who had been in a car an accident at lunch, I’d been grateful to show the administration what a valuable asset I was. Never mind that it technically wasn’t legal for an unlicensed student teacher to be unsupervised with students. This was the opportunity I needed to get my foot in the door to teach at Skinnersville High School when the art teacher retired next year.

  On the downside, I’d had no idea sex education was part of health class. I could have kicked myself now. I would have been better off telling the students it was a study hall rather than sticking to the heath teacher’s lesson plans and fumbling my way through this lesson.

  The classroom looked like most of the other rooms in the school: plain, windowless walls covered with motivational quotes and anti-smoking posters, tiny desks with chairs attached, a teacher desk with a stone-age computer that crashed when I tried to take attendance on it, and a class full of sweaty teenagers. The only difference between this classroom and the science room next door was the giant diagram of a male and female reproductive system at the front of the room.

  “Clarissa, can you spell clitoris again?” one of the teens with a shaggy mop of blond hair asked.

  “It’s Miss Lawrence,” I corrected. It didn’t help that I’d graduated from high school and college early, making me the youngest student teacher in grad school at University of Oregon.

  The teens snickered and elbowed each other, not listening to what I’d said. The kid with shaggy hair chuckled. “Can you show us where that is on the diagram? I have a feeling that’s an important one.”

  “Not as important as ejaculation,” some other pimpled teen said in the back.