Junior Witch Page 6

  “Or Rowan,” Bridget said quietly.

  I flinched but let it pass, hoping they hadn’t seen how his name affected me. I did not care about Rowan. Maybe if I told myself that enough times, it would be true.

  “It’s been a month since they stole the grimoire,” Disha said. “It’s long gone by now. Poof.” She spread her fingers along with her word, illustrating something going up in smoke much like Ramona’s table.

  “But, it’s not,” I said, letting the excited smile light up my face. “They know where it is.”

  Bridget leaned in, eyes wide. “They do?! How?”

  “Did they finally get something out of that werewolf I captured?” Disha asked with a satisfied smirk. She loved to bring that up.

  After I’d managed to bungle my end of the capture and let Rowan and Tempest slip through my fingers, I’d staggered back to find Smudge Face long gone, but the other subversive—the half man, half werewolf—pinned beneath Disha’s extended hands, a blue spell coiled around his twitching body. She’d managed to hold him there until Bonnie showed up who later handed him over to Magical Law Enforcement. He was in a jail somewhere close by.

  “Did Wereface talk?” Bridget asked, cutting in. “Werewolves are so hard to interrogate. Bobby always got away with all kinds of things because of that. Then I got the blame. You have no idea how hard it is to have a werewolf for a brother.” She blew a tangle of red curls out of her eyes in frustration.

  “It wasn’t Wereface. He refused to talk,” I said. “Irmagard let it slip, between tips on gnome physiology, that Fedorov wasn’t looking for Dean McIntosh anymore. He was looking for the grimoire, and he thinks he located its magical signature in a subversives’ safe house in Canada.”

  My eyebrows rose as excitement and anticipation crackled in my chest. If we could get that book back, I wouldn’t feel so guilty about letting it slip away in the first place. It had been a while since I’d had a good night’s sleep.

  If I hadn’t let Rowan tempt me… If I had only been stronger...

  “Canada?” Disha repeated with disgust. “Who in the world would take something like that to Canada?”

  “Hey,” Bridget replied, “Canada is great. They have amazing bacon. And, have you had the poutine?” She put her fingers to her lips and pulled them away with a kissing sound. “We need to get some. Maybe I can magic it with regular fries as a base.” Her eyes turned away as I imagined her searching her mental Rolodex for Canadian recipes.

  “Forget poutine,” I said. “If the grimoire is in Canada, that probably gives them a lead on where Tempest is.”

  “And Rowan,” Bridget added again.

  This time, Disha elbowed her in the gut, shooting eye daggers while Bridget threw up her hands as if she’d forgotten. It appeared they’d agreed not to bring him up in my presence.

  “And Rowan,” I repeated, waving Disha’s wrath away. “He’s made his bed. I can’t help him anymore. He deserves whatever punishment Magical Law Enforcement decides to dole out.”

  My skin tingled. I should not use the words “Rowan” and “bed” in the same sentence. Shit. Thinking of him was unavoidable.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Bridget said, punching her fist into her palm. “Because I say we go get the grimoire ourselves. Attack those bastards and pay them back for what they did to my brother.”

  The rage in her expression was surprising and out of character. Bridget was normally an easy-going girl. She could best be described as weird, but nice. However, whenever the subject of her brother’s attack came up, or anyone mentioned Ava Marie, her former friend turned Tempest, Bridget’s calm demeanor changed into that of a battle-ready, revenge-seeking badass.

  I put a hand on her very tense shoulder. “If Professor Fedorov is on the hunt, he doesn’t need help from three junior-year witches.”

  Bridget scowled and muttered something about being fully trained.

  Disha tilted her head as if considering all this. “They only sent Professor Fedorov? Wouldn’t he be a bit outnumbered? And if he’s doing that, who’s looking for Dean McIntosh?”

  These thoughts had occurred to me, but I’d dismissed them. This year was all about working hard to learn magic and helping my Academy. Sure, things had taken a turn for the worse with Irmagard at the helm, but we were still learning.

  Slowly. Painfully. But, we were making progress.

  Sure, Spells was an awful class, but the others were still up and running. I’d been learning a lot from Madame Bernard in Potions. And Disha loved Magical Medicine with Nurse Taishi. This time, it had more to do with his skill than his looks, thanks to her long-distance boyfriend.

  The gnomes were a problem, running amok everywhere, causing inconveniences, and pulling small pranks that kept me way too busy. Just yesterday I had to run into the cafeteria kitchen to get two of them out of a huge vat of potato soup they were about to serve for lunch. They’d been swimming in it. Naked.

  I shivered at the thought of their soupy bums in the stainless steel industrial sinks while I hosed them off and dumped the entire vat of soup down the drain.

  The gnomes were supposed to be learning to assist in the kitchen. Irmagard had described them as master chefs, helping out since the kitchen workers were spread thin. It seemed that due to all the conflict of late, we were losing staff faster than she could replace them.

  The attack on the library didn’t help. People were starting to feel the Academy was a target, one that was no longer able to defend itself since losing both deans.

  All the more reason for me to stick around. Irmagard needed me here.

  Did part of me want to shirk off my gnome responsibilities, rush to Canada, and try to stop the subversives who had turned Rowan into some evil vampire, attacked us at every turn and killed my friend Trey? Hell yes. Really badly.

  But, if I did, I’d prove I hadn’t learned anything from the death of Macgregor Underwood, something I was forced to remember every time I saw his widow on campus.

  Some nights, when I closed my eyes, I still saw the blood spilling out of his ruined chest. The look on his face as he gazed up at his son for the last time. Awful.

  Rowan wouldn’t have left if his father was still alive. I knew that to be true down to my bones. His crimes might as well be mine.

  Pain tightened in my chest until I was blinking back tears.

  “We can’t get involved,” I told the girls. “I’m sure that Irmagard has someone important looking for her sister. It’s her twin, for Pete’s sake. And Professor Fedorov is the best magician alive now that Henderson and Underwood are dead.”

  I swallowed thickly after my last words. Both of those had been my fault. If I had been less reckless...

  Bridget stood up suddenly. “This is stupid. I can’t believe you won’t help. Ava Marie needs to be brought to justice!”

  Everyone left in the auditorium, even Ramona, stopped what they were doing and stared at us.

  I tried to calm her, but anger radiated off Bridget like smoke off of the singed table. She grabbed her bag, swung it violently over her shoulder and stomped out of the auditorium.

  When I turned to see how everyone else was reacting to this outburst, I spotted all three fae fully turned in our direction, marking Bridget’s exit with piqued interest. Anama pointed a long green finger and whispered something to Lancer who smirked.

  Had they been listening this whole time?

  Sinasre’s eyes dragged from Bridget’s retreating back and locked into mine.

  The smallest curl of his lips let me know he might have heard the entire thing.

  Chapter Eight

  FALL SEMESTER

  MID-OCTOBER

  Two weeks passed and Bridget still wouldn’t talk to me. This was as bad as the time Disha and I hexed her to the ceiling so she wouldn’t float around at night and wake Disha up with her nighttime spellcasting.

  She’d been mad then, but she was pissed now. She’d stopped sitting with us at meals, wouldn’t acknowledge u
s in class and had taken to sleeping in the common room if I was hanging out in Disha’s room too late.

  But, I was sticking to my guns. We were not running off to Canada to try to track down the subversives and the grimoire. No vigilante bullshit this year. I couldn’t stand to be responsible for one more death.

  Disha didn’t side with me or Bridget on the matter. I knew she had no interest in trekking up north to some arctic tundra, not when Drew was supposedly coming to campus for Homecoming.

  In fact, “Drew Preparations” were all she could think about lately—what restaurants in town he might like, where he was going to sleep since males shacking up with females was prohibited in the dorms.

  She’d found a friend on the all-male second floor to let Drew bunk with and then she’d taken over this poor guy’s room, redecorating with magical touches to make Drew feel at home.

  She was busy and Bridget acted like I had the Bubonic Plague. That was fine. I had school and gnome duties to attend to.

  This afternoon’s duty involved cleaning out the gnome shed. I walked doggedly to the little building near the north end of campus. There was little else I wanted to do less than clean out their smelly pigsty, but I’d given my word. That, at least, had not been tarnished thus far.

  I unlocked the newly installed magical padlock, undid the latch and threw open the doors.

  A white cloud assailed my nose and eyes. Coughing and spitting, I batted at the air until it was clear enough to peer in. What the hell had happened now?

  The entire room, from floor to ceiling, was covered in a thin white powder. In the center of the room, one of the industrial-sized bags of flour was broken open and trampled through. Another was torn to pieces beside it. It seemed they’d gotten into the cupboards during the night and taken out several kitchen items, including the largest stew pot, which was on its side and contained two sleeping, flour-covered gnomes; several ratty aprons which a few of the tired gnomes were now using as blankets; a handful of cooking sherry bottles, and the industrial strength dough mixer.

  From the looks of it, they’d been attempting to bake while drunk on kitchen wine and made the largest mess possible in the process. So much for that magical padlock.

  No cleaning spell would fix this. This would be me scrubbing and vacuuming all night long.

  Again.

  Something broke inside me. Bringing gnomes onto the campus was the stupidest, most ignorant thing anyone could do. This was no special assignment, this was a punishment most foul.

  I’d had it. I was done and I intended to tell Irmagard right this minute before the fire in my gut went out.

  Covered in flour, I marched straight to the Administration Building, my heart pounding.

  Yet, when I climbed up the stairs and entered the offices, I found them all surprisingly empty. It seemed all the teachers were out at a meeting or doing some preparation for the night’s Homecoming festivities. Door after door was shut, lights off, including Irmagard’s, the person I really needed to see.

  Frustrated, I leaned my flour-covered head on the opaque glass of her office in despair. Dean McIntosh would never have given me such a ridiculous assignment. I glanced down at my Aradia cuffs, still full of magical power, being put to use to reign in disobedient gnomes like I was some kind of cat wrangler or lunatic Mary Poppins.

  What was I going to do?

  “Well, hello, young lady. Can I help you?”

  I whirled around to find an old man peering up at me. He was ancient, close to eighty or even older with a balding head and wrinkled skin. He wore a dark suit, slightly out of fashion, but clean and tailored. On his lapel, a large silver bird pin gleamed in the dim hallway light.

  “Um, I was… looking for…”

  “Are you Charlie Rivera?” the old man asked, examining me with rheumy eyes.

  “I am,” I said, feeling uneasy. How did he know me?

  He chuckled warmly. “Oh, ho ho. I’ve heard all about you. Don’t worry, all good things.” He patted my arm. “Counselor McIntosh has told me what a remarkable witch you are.”

  I gave an awkward smile, rubbing my hand on the back of my neck. Who was this dude?

  “Regent Nyquist.” He held out a spotted hand.

  Ah, so this was Regent Nyquist, the man sent by the board to keep an eye on things. I’d expected someone much… younger. This guy seemed like a nice grandpa, someone who would give you a five dollar bill on your birthday and tell you not to spend it all in one place.

  “Sir, it’s nice to meet you.” I shook his hand.

  He gave me a wink. “I could use a talented witch like you to help me keep an eye on things. I might bend your ear later, Charlie. Until then, try to stay out of trouble.” He winked, smiling conspiratorially.

  I stood there awkwardly, just hoping he would go away. Luckily, he did, exiting down the hall with deliberate steps.

  What did he mean, use a talented witch like me? That was interesting. I really needed to know where he stood on all matters related to the Academy. He had voted for Bonnie to take her husband’s place, so that meant Nyquist supported non-wizards. And if that was the case, I would love to help him keep everything running smoothly.

  Standing there, pondering all my life’s choices, I heard a murmur of voices from down the hall. Even though Irmagard’s office was on the far end, the silence in the building made any sound noticeable. Someone was here after all.

  I left Irmagard’s door and walked down the long, echoey hallway toward the voices.

  Soon, I found myself near Dean Underwood’s office. The door was shut, but the light was on and voices were definitely coming from inside.

  I was about to knock when a deep male voice echoed through the silence.

  I’d know that voice anywhere.

  Rowan.

  My heart began to pound faster on its own. He was here? How? Why? He was a fugitive, a member of a group hell-bent on destroying us.

  And yet, the woman who answered back in hushed tones was his mother, the one person in the world he could turn to.

  MacGregor Underwood would never have kept his son safe from Magical Law Enforcement, not after he attacked the Academy. But his mother? She loved Rowan very much. A mother’s love for her son didn’t just stop, even if he was a criminal.

  My palms sweating, I leaned in to press my ear to the door. I had to hear what they were saying.

  But, as I did, the voices stopped. There was a shuffling noise and footsteps pounded in my direction. I turned to flee, but the door flung wide.

  Bonnie stared at me with narrow eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  She was flushed, her eyes wide and her chest rising up and down as if frightened. Her eyes narrowed in an unwelcome stare, a look she’d never given me before. It made me wonder if all the other encounters I’d had with her had been lies, a masquerade of smiles and warm looks all meant to set me at ease.

  Now she was angry, snappish and covering up for something. I couldn’t see any movement in her office, but the window behind her desk was flung wide open, almost as if someone had just dashed through it.

  Was Rowan outside? Was he listening?

  I swallowed and started to answer her question. “I… I was looking for Irma… Counselor McIntosh.”

  “In my office? Why are you lurking around in the dark? And what are you covered in?” Her tone was accusatory. Who was she to accuse me? She was the one who should be answering questions.

  Heat flaring up my neck, I decided I had to know.

  “Was he here?” I asked.

  “Who?” She tilted her head up and kept her expression emotionless even as her hand tightened on the doorknob.

  I leaned forward. “We both know who.”

  Her mouth twitched slightly. She opened it, then closed it as if thinking she might say something to me and then deciding against it. “There was no one here but me.”

  “I heard voices.”

  She stepped back and threw her hand sideways. Startled, I readied a d
efensive spell, but instead of Bonnie blasting me, she conjured an image in front of us.

  As we watched, a projection manifested, appearing like a film being broadcast against the brick wall outside of Bonnie’s office. It showed Rowan at his home. He wore a graduation cap and gown. Bonnie and I watched as he adjusted his tilted cap, tucking silken strands of hair behind the polyester material.

  “Does it look okay?” the image of Rowan said, smiling, eyes crinkled against the sunlight.

  “You look lovely, darlin’,” Bonnie’s off-screen voice said. “Handsome.”

  “Are you filming?” Rowan shaded his eyes from the sunshine, squinting at her with that heart-wrenching smile.

  Oh, Rowan. To be able to travel back in time to when you were whole and happy.

  I had seen a glimpse of that Rowan right after I briefly cured him of his curse, on that Christmas we spent together. What I wouldn’t give to go back there.

  Bonnie chuckled off screen as Rowan adjusted his gown. “It’s your graduation, silly. I want to remember this forever.”

  The Bonnie who stood beside me swiped her hand down and the image disappeared.

  When I glanced at her, I could just glimpse the pain behind her eyes before she smoothed out her expression as easily as if it were a wrinkled shirt.

  “Was that the voices you heard?” she said, tersely.

  “I… I’m…”

  She shook her head. “You might forgive the sentimentality of an old woman whose best days are behind her. Memory, Charlie, is all I have. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  She stepped back and shut the door before I could say a word.

  Stunned and a little perturbed, I wandered out of the Administration Building, found myself at the Enlightenment Fountain, and took a seat on one of the benches nearby.

  Everything that had happened in the last few weeks, practically the entire school year so far, swirled in my head and I had no one to talk to about it. Without Rowan or Dean McIntosh, I’d leaned on Bridget and Disha but even they were unable to help me at this point.