“I remember that feeling as if it was yesterday,” she said, staring into the distance. I could have sworn her transparent white form burned a little hotter. “I let it go too far. I’m glad you’re getting help.”
“Do you really think it’ll work? Do you think I can control it?”
“The thing with fire is that it’s impossible to control. You can’t truly control an open flame. Every time a bonfire is lit, the risk is there that it’ll get out of hand. One spark, one idiot who just steps too close to it… it’s like a forest fire. Even when you think you’ve got it under control, it’s still just beneath the surface, simmering.” I shuddered, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was lost in thought, lost in the memory of what the magic felt like. “Unless every single part of it is extinguished, there will always be a risk of the flame reigniting.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said as I grabbed a pair of Converse sneakers and sat down next to her.
Fiona got up and shrugged. “I think it’s worth trying. I think afterwards, the regret of not seeking help is worse than regretting what you did. I know that’s the case with me. I regret not letting anyone know just how dangerous my flames were getting.”
“What exactly happened to you, Fi?”
Fiona looked at the door, then back at me. “That’s a story for another day, Lia. I promise I’ll tell you one day.”
I didn’t push her any further. Her promise was enough for me. Still, I itched to know. I had to know what happened to her so I could somehow prevent it happening to me. I’ve seen the scars on her legs, the burnt tissue that didn’t disappear after death. Sometimes, her dress lifted up just enough for me to get a glimpse of it. But I only ever had a second, because she was very keen on hiding it. I knew she’d burned herself to death, but I had to know how. I had to know what had triggered her, what her magic had felt like before getting out of hand. That way, I would know what to look out for. That way, I could find a solution before it happened.
Soon, she’d tell me soon. She promised.
“I wonder what’s for dinner,” I thought out loud.
Fiona turned to grimace at me. “How can you be so excited for this food? They haven’t updated their recipes in 32 years.”
“If it ain’t broken, why try to fix it?”
“Easy for you to say.” Fiona rolled her eyes. “You grew up with this crap. You don’t know anything better.”
“Exactly, so don’t ruin the best part of the day for me.”
Fi rolled her eyes, smiling at me with a mischievous look in her eyes. The little minx already knew, no doubt having spied on the cooks. “It’s mac and cheese.”
Chapter 3: Half-Truths
The west wing was far less modern than the rest of the academy. At first glance, one would think that they were two different buildings, owned by two very different people. The west wing still had stone walls lined with sconces. The windows were stained and in those rare occasions when it wasn’t cloudy, the sun peeked through them, sending the colors of the windows across the marble floor and walls—faded greens, yellows, and blues, and perhaps some reds and oranges here and there.
But that was not the case most of the time, and it left the halls feeling barren and empty. It was as if there were hidden phantoms in the cracks of the stone. Age had not taken away from the beauty in those windows. They were all scenes from a distant past. The headmistress told me that the windows represented the founders of the academy, and as each of them died, their faces were added to the windows. Each window told the story of the life of that founder, once upon a time. But age and neglect had faded the windows, and multiple pieces had to be replaced. Now there were holes in the pasts of these founders, histories that we would never know. Their stories would never be seen by the residents of the west wing ever again. It was heartbreaking. If I died, I wanted people to remember me. I didn’t want my story half told.
There was a howling somewhere in the distance. I knew better than to expect ghosts. Fiona had nearly bitten off my head when I’d asked her whether or not the moaning was from other ghosts. Apparently, it was “insensitive and stereotypical” of me to ask. The wind, that was the real cause of it. There were cracks in the stones that let air in, and it whistled and howled as it blew through. It made the west wing a permanent freezer. I didn’t mind; I loved the cold.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me, trying to block out the chill that tried to seep into my bones. It was going to be rough sleeping tonight. There was no heating in the west wing, and I didn’t want to risk lighting a fire in my tower. Fires made me uneasy, especially when I was left alone with them. No, I’d rather wrap myself in blankets like a sushi roll than risk my magic getting out of control while I slept. No fires big enough to have an impact on the cold, anyway. The sconces were fine. Their flames were small enough for me to ignore. They were small enough that I couldn’t focus my magic on lighting them; instead, I needed matches to do so. That was the way I liked my fire—not caused by me.
I took a left turn, my shoes squeaking on the marble. The sconces weren’t lit yet and there were no windows that allowed in the little light from the cloudy sky. It was gray in the hallway, and it took all of my self-control not to start running. I knew that if I did, I would be making more noise than I already was. I had to remind myself that there was nothing to run from, nothing but emptiness. Still, my mind wouldn’t give it a rest and I found myself picking up the pace, certain that I felt someone’s eyes on the back of my head. Perhaps it was just the emptiness of the hallway waving me goodbye, telling me that it would see me again very soon.
***
In the dining hall, groups of students were huddled together, discussing the day’s events and what each teacher had done that day. It was hard to ignore the silence that fell over the hall when I entered. It always seemed to happen. As soon as I entered a room, the cheerful chatter became hushed whispers. I knew those whispers were about me, but I chose not to listen too closely.
I knew how it went by now. They were afraid of me exploding, afraid that I might turn someone to ash. Idiots, all of them. As if the headmistress would have allowed me to sit in the dining hall with the other students if I were that dangerous. They had enough power in this room to put out my fire before it had time to reach the person next to me and they were all watching, ready to suffocate my magic.
The dining hall was an average cafeteria with a fancy name. There were no big oak tables or feasts laid out on them. There were no floating candles or magical violins that played music without a musician. No, everything aside from the west wing was pretty normal looking. If you didn’t know it was a school for sorcerers and sorceresses, you would never have been able to guess by looking at the interior. The teachers sat in their own dining hall, only a handful of teachers rotating through the students’ hall to keep the peace. Mr. Henry was on duty tonight, sitting at a table with four other teachers. He was chatting with them, laughing animatedly when someone made a joke. I pulled my eyes away from him. Our practicing together was supposed to be a secret.
I cut the line to get my mac and cheese. Who was going to stop me? Everyone was too afraid, too chicken to confront me. I could do what I wanted. That was one upside of being the most feared kid in school. No one had the guts to do anything about it.
I didn’t have to look for my usual crowd. They were seated at their usual table, speaking loudly over the hushed voices of the rest of the hall. I grinned. They never seemed to disappoint. There was always a point to be made, a wound that needed salt, and they weren’t afraid to be the ones who handed it out. My usual seat was unoccupied, and I took it without a second thought. I smiled at them.
“Is it just me or am I getting more popular?” I asked, piling as much food on my fork as I possibly could before stuffing it into my mouth. It wasn’t nearly as creamy as I remembered my mother making it, and it didn’t have the same amount of cheese, either. Still, it tasted magnificent on an empty stomach.
“Quite the
opposite,” Wendy said, picking at her macaroni as if it was offensive. “They heard about you in the forest this afternoon.”
I froze mid-chew. “How?”
Instinctively, I glared at Mr. Henry, who was looking straight at me. He shook his head and went back to his conversation with Ms. Evergreen. Of course, it wasn’t him. He wasn’t the sort of person to occupy his time with boarding school gossip.
“Margot said she saw you talking to a demon made of flame. She said he was as big as your head,” Damien said from next to me, his brown eyes dancing with amusement. I glared at him.
“It wasn’t a demon,” I corrected, finishing my bite before taking another. “It was a ballerina.”
Patrick burst out laughing, the entire hall’s faces on him. He waved a hand at them dismissively. “As you were, peasants.” He turned back toward me. “A ballerina?”
Patrick was the sort of guy that didn’t entertain idle gossip. He was a man of the people, with dreadlocks that reached his waist and piercing golden eyes that had me briefly convinced he was wearing contact lenses. I then realized that we were all only 14-year-olds, and I didn’t think he even knew about contact lenses back then. He’d come from a tribal coven in Africa, and when his parents moved to America, he was forced to leave his humble beginnings at home. The poor guy spoke only the most basic English and had worn a robe for two whole years before trying jeans for the first time.
But he was the sort of guy that everyone wanted to be friends with. Perhaps it was because he didn’t gossip, or he shut it down before it could even begin. He said that gossip was the devil’s most entertaining activity, and he wasn’t going to have any part of it. Needless to say, there were never any scandals surrounding him, and he was a refreshing addition to our group. I still didn’t understand why he sat at the loner table, but I supposed his foreign heritage made him somewhat of an outcast, even though he hardly even had a noticeable accent anymore.
“I like ballet, sue me.” I shrugged. “And we weren’t talking, we were playing catch.”
Wendy rolled her black-lined eyes. Her makeup was as caked on as ever but somehow, she made it look good. I’d asked her to do the same look on me once, but she had refused, saying that my hair was far too loud and it would distract from my makeup. I didn’t argue with her. “I don’t know how you manage to do this every time.”
“It’s not as if she does it on purpose, Wen,” Pat growled at her, then winked at me. It was his way of saying “no problem,” even though I hadn’t thanked him. “If she was doing it on purpose, she would have made a public show of it,” he continued, playing with the ring on his middle finger, which was engraved with a tree of life. We’d tried to ask him what it’s all about, but he’d refused to tell us, saying it was a mystery. I was certain it was just a random ring that he’d picked up at the dollar store.
Nina elbowed me in the ribs. “Don’t look so sad, Blaze.” The macaroni went sour in my mouth when I heard the nickname. “At least you’re never as invisible as the rest of us.”
“You’re saying that as if it’s a good thing,” I said, swallowing hard before taking my next bite. My plate was nearly empty and I was still starving. “I’d love to just fade into the shadows.”
“I’d hate to see that day.” Damien smiled at me and, instinctively, I smiled back.
Wendy gagged.
“I’m just saying,” I said with a shrug, the silence making me uncomfortable, “it wouldn’t be a bad thing to just be able to disappear.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t care so much about what you can’t change and focus a little on what you have.” The table went silent again after Wendy spoke. She knew better than anyone that there was no way to change yourself, no matter how hard you tried. Wendy’s magic involved transformation. She could change any inanimate object into something else for a short period of time. She could alter the appearance of almost everything, except one thing: herself.
Looking at Wendy, with her short black hair, her piercing blue eyes, her porcelain skin, and the black makeup around her eyes that sometimes made her look like a skeleton, one wouldn’t think there was a self-conscious bone in her body. But it hadn’t taken the four of us long to realize that Wendy was just as messed up as we were.
She, too, wanted to be normal. It must have been hard, being able to change everything except the one thing she wanted to. It must have been hard, watching everything else change shape and color while she stayed the same. It was easy to forget that Wendy had a heart, after all. She didn’t seem like the sort of person who had an abundance of feelings. She was always cold, always rude. But we all knew it was a coping mechanism. She needed one of those when she went back home for the holidays. I didn’t think anyone would want to spend their holidays at the academy instead of home. Wendy was the one exception.
She pushed her plate of food away from her body. She always did this, took a few bites, then shoved the plate away. Her dinner was up for grabs. I didn’t need to be told twice. I pulled the plate closer to me.
“It tastes like cardboard,” Wendy complained, changing the subject.
“Food is food,” I replied, taking a bite of the macaroni.
Now that she mentioned it, I could taste the cardboard. It didn’t bother me, though. I was still starving, and I wasn’t one to turn down any form of food. Not even when it tasted like pan-fried cardboard.
Except when Cook Dolores was on duty. Then, we got steamed vegetables and meat that didn’t taste, look, or smell like meat. The mystery meat was still okay if you closed your eyes and pinched your nose, but the veggies were awful. She was particularly fond of zucchini… and I hated zucchini with a burning passion. I was certain Dolores only served it because she knew the students hated it.
But thank the gods that it was Cook Magda on duty tonight, which meant we got creamy cardboard and a whole lot of carbs.
Chapter 4: Sweet Dreams
I was being devoured by flames. They were large and hot, scorching my skin and making my eyes tear up. The heat was unbearable, and I was sweating. I couldn’t see where I was, couldn’t see where the flames started and where they ended. The iron I was standing on was heating up, turning red with heat as it started to burn through the soles of my boots.
The flames licked at my face, my hands. I tried to manipulate it, but it was no use. These flames were wilder than mountain lions. They were hungry, as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. They prodded at my skin, flicked at my hair like children teasing the weird kid in class. I could have sworn that they were singing. The tune was vaguely familiar, but nothing I could put my finger on. It was impossible to hear coherent words through the crackling of the blaze, through my panic and fear.
I fell to my knees, my head in my hands. The song grew louder, louder… It was a lullaby, one that I’d heard a very, very long time ago. Or was it? The words didn’t make sense. Were they in a different language? It sounded Latin, but where would I have heard a Latin lullaby? I was losing my mind. I was losing my sense of self. That was the only explanation, the only thing I could think of that made sense. Then again, nothing made sense anymore. I was cocooned in fire that I was not able to control. I was being eaten by a beast that had no physical form.
I always knew this was how I was going to die; consumed by the very thing that I was supposed to control. Control… I huffed, wiping the tears from my cheeks as the hot iron below me began burning through my jeans. I didn’t flinch. If my flesh charred, it would have been easier to endure. I would have had an armor against the flames—an armor of burned flesh was better than no armor at all. It was the one thing I could control in a world that I should have been able to control. I chuckled bitterly. What was control, anyway? I wasn’t even sure I knew what that word meant. There was no controlling the flames. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, or how I avoided them. They were going to consume me one way or another—either angry because I’d neglected them, or angry because I’d tried to control them. There was no winning… All I had to do was acc
ept it. And I controlled what I accepted. Yes, that much control, I did have. I chose to accept it and I chose to make peace with my death.
I had to expect my inevitable demise, burned to a crisp. It was a horrible way to go. It wasn’t at all like the death I had imagined as a child; heroic and sacrificial. Yes, I’d dreamed of being the hero, of giving my life to save the people I loved. I’d watched too many superhero movies growing up, I realized now. I had unrealistic expectations. It was like reading a romance novel… true love was never like it was in books. It was animated and glossed, sugar coated as if it were a treat on a desert table. It was never what you expected. It was sad, but unfortunately, it was true.
The flames formed an egg around me, cocooning me in its deathly embrace. I could smell my hair burning, feel the heat on my scalp. It wasn’t painful—these flames were hot, yes, but they didn’t hurt me. Perhaps my magic was good for something… perhaps it made me immune to the burning. Hopefully, I would be dead by the time it burned through the magic layer over my skin. Perhaps the heat resistance would wear away when the layer melted off me. I pinched my eyes closed, hoping, praying for my death to be swift.
At least if I died like this, there was no way that I could hurt anyone with my magic. At least I was the only casualty. No forest fires or spontaneous combustion—mine would be the only life lost. Would it really have been a loss? I tried to think, to hold on to the people who wanted me around. My friends, the headmistress… Where was my family? I didn’t have one. Perhaps they knew what I was going to become.
Enchanter Witch Academy Page 2
