Tarot Academy 1: Spells of Iron and Bone

by Sarah Piper

  The news is shocking, in the way that sudden change always is. But it’s not surprising—not really. She always talked about going back. If it wasn’t for my parents’ death, I think she would’ve returned soon after high school, gone to college there, built a life close to her big, boisterous familia. But then the accident happened and I was such a mess and she just… she simply refused to leave my side. Even after I was able to function again, to work, to go places other than our “estate” and the cemetery, she still refused to leave me.

  “You’re my wifey, loca,” she used to say. “Stop trying to get rid of me.”

  “I’m happy for you,” I say now. “I feel like this was meant to happen. Maybe not exactly this way, but… I don’t know. Sometimes things have to blow up in your face in order for you to find the good shit underneath.”

  “If you say so, Confucius.” Jessa laughs, and I can’t help but crack up, too.

  “I think… I think this is going to be good for both of us,” I tell her. “Not that I love the idea of you being in a totally different country from me, but still.”

  “Different country? Girl, you’re basically in another dimension!”

  “We’re just going to have to figure out a schedule for vacation visits. Because you have got to see this place.”

  With the serious stuff behind us, I grab my box of crackers and take her on a full video tour, walking her through each room, posing in the soaking tub, showing her the views and the dishes and the little cactus- and star-shaped soaps in the soap dish. I show her the bedroom I’m reserving for her, and the paintings of the four Tarot aces that hang over my bed, reminding me to treat each new day like the blessing that it is.

  And then, when I’ve covered every square inch and flicked every switch and played with the cards and games in the living room, Jessa says, “I want to see what’s in your dresser.”

  “Nothing. I haven’t gone shopping yet.”

  “I think you should check anyway. Top drawer, maybe?”

  “Jessamine Marie… What are you up to?”

  “Who, me?”

  Laughing, I head into the bedroom and pull open the top drawer.

  “Looks like T-shirts and leggings, some underwear… I guess they got me a few things to hold me over until I can get to the shops.”

  “Okay, try the second drawer then.”

  I do as she asks, sliding open the next drawer.

  And there, nestled in tissue paper, is my mother’s grimoire.

  I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. “But… How did… What?”

  “After they took you away that day,” she says, “I hid it. I didn’t know what the hell was happening, but something told me to keep that book safe. When more cops showed up later to search for evidence of your so-called crimes, I was glad I’d listened to that little voice inside. Anyway, when Kirin told me they were going to basically smuggle you into the Academy, I asked him to give it to you.”

  “That was sweet of him. And you. And just… Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

  Jessa’s smile goes from touching to conspiracy-theory in five seconds flat. “So yeah, speaking of Kirin… I think it’s safe to say the boy likes you.”

  “He’s not a boy, he’s a man.”

  “Even better.”

  “And he’s just a friend. A man-friend.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I think we’re well past the denial stage here, Stevie. Besides, I’ve got a feeling about you and Mr. Cinnamon Buns—I always have. And you know I’m never wrong about these things.”

  “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the stupid grin on my face.

  I close the drawer, saving Mom’s book for later, and let out a sigh.

  “So here I am,” I say, more to myself then to Jessa. “Magick school.”

  “So there you are,” she says. “Magick school.”

  “I have no idea what I’m doing. For eighteen years, I followed the map my parents set out for me—Tres Búhos, you, Kettle Black. After they died, I just… I just kept following it, you know? Even though I knew something was missing. I guess I thought it was the only way to keep them with me.”

  “You’ll always carry them in your heart. But it’s like you said earlier, about stuff blowing up and being good for us even if it sucks in the moment. This whole thing with Luke and prison and the Academy… Well, maybe it’s time for you to ditch that old map and start blazing your own trail.”

  At her words, a heaviness slides off my shoulders, and something inside me sparks up. It’s a feeling of hope, of newness, of opportunity.

  Everything I knew before is gone.

  And now, for the first time in twenty-three years, I have a chance to find out what else is out there for me.

  “Hey, I want you to promise me something,” Jessa says. “Promise me you’ll make the most of your time there, okay? I’m not talking about learning magick—that goes without saying. I’m talking about people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one knows you at the Academy—not even Kirin. You get to start all over. So do that. Jump in, and don’t hold yourself back anymore. You’re in a magickal place, surrounded by witches and mages, by people who get you—but only if you let them in.”

  “Hmm. I think all this Oprah talk is just code for you telling me to hook up with Kirin so I can recount all the dirty details later.”

  “Well, obviously. Wait, are their dirty details? Already? You holding out on me, Milan?”

  “Never,” I say with a wink.

  “Seriously, though,” she says. “I want you to find love. Friendship kind of love. Connection. Even if it’s with just one other person. You deserve that, Stevie. So I’m asking you to promise me you’ll put yourself out there. Take risks. Open your heart and give people a chance to know how fucking awesome you are.”

  Goddess, the whole idea of it is terrifying. Opening my heart, trusting people…

  Looking out across the Towers, now just dark purple fingers stretching into the night, I can’t help but think of the Void. The inescapable compulsion to jump, the disastrous ending.

  The idea of love and friendship feels a lot like that.

  “Hey,” she says at my silence. “You’ve got this, loca. You know that, right?”

  My stomach ties itself into a pretzel. “Maybe you shouldn’t have so much faith in me.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have so little. Look, making friends is going to be so easy for you. You’re amazing at reading people, you make a mean-ass cup of tea, and you’re hilarious and fun, to name a few. Oh, and let’s not forget your best selling point.”

  I try for an epic sigh, but my best friend is the reigning queen of pep talks, and a smile is already breaking through my scowl.

  “Hmm.” I hold the phone out and show her my backside. “You must be talking about my great ass.”

  “I’m talking,” she says, rolling her eyes, “about the fact that your so damn brilliant and lovable you could charm the pants off pants, let alone a bunch of college kids and stuffy old professors. Now stop freaking out, trust in your awesomeness, and show me some of that Stevie Milan sparkle, because for the first time in your life, you’re in a place where you don’t legally have to hide it. Flaunt that shit, girl!”

  Caught up in her endless cheer, I slap a high-five and a fist bump against the phone, then I snap my fingers, calling up a burst of silver fire. The flames dance in my palm for just a moment before I purse my lips and blow, scattering sparks like dandelion seeds.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” she says. “Now promise me.”

  “Okay, chica. For you, I promise to try.”

  “No. Not for me. For you.”

  “Right. For me. I promise for me. I fucking love you, Jess. You know that?”

  “And I love you. More than the mooooon,” she says dramatically. “More than double-dark chocolate scones with peanut butter icing.”

  “I miss your baking already.” I laugh, then the waterw
orks start up again. “What am I going to do without you?”

  “Stevie, I’ll tell you what.” Squaring her shoulders, staring straight into the camera, she says firmly, “You’re gonna walk straight out onto that campus—every single day for the next four years—and learn your magick like a fucking boss bitch. And you’re gonna own your power, be ruthlessly unapologetic about it, and rock that shit like the Goddess-damned, sparkly-ass, witch queen of the desert you are. That’s what you’re gonna do. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I say emphatically.

  Outside my floor-to-ceiling windows, far beyond the Petrified Forest of Iron and Bone, lightning flickers across the purple sky, and I press my hand to the glass and smile, claiming that lightning for myself. A confirmation that I’m on the right path. A gift from the universe.

  And a warning to anyone who dares to stand in my way.

  Twenty-One

  KIRIN

  The lightning flickers once, twice, three times. That’s the signal.

  I pull the black hood low over my eyes, whisper a cloaking spell, and head out into the night, slipping unseen into the Petrified Forest of Iron and Bone.

  I find two of the others already assembled at the Fool’s Grave, a sacred cave hidden deep in the forest and almost entirely surrounded by steep, rocky outcroppings. This far north, the only way through the maze of rock is a single narrow passageway, invisible to all but the four, guarded by the magick and blood of the Brotherhood.

  The wall sconces have already been lit, the fire throwing long shadows on the cave walls.

  “How did the tour go?” Cass asks, the concern in his eyes a dead giveaway, despite his attempts at playing it cool. “I trust she’s settling in alright?”

  “She’s a little overwhelmed,” I reply, “which is to be expected. She wanted some time alone. But she was in good spirits when I left her at the dorms.”

  “She’d better be in good spirits,” Baz says with a graceless snort. “She’s living pretty large for a first-year. Better than any of us ever got. Hell, I’ve been here for years and I still haven’t achieved sixth floor, corner room status.”

  “Yeah, but you’re an asshole,” I remind him.

  Baz grins. “The Academy has a non-discrimination policy.”

  “Not against assholes.”

  “I’m here, I’m here!” Ansel’s voice echoes down the winding narrow canyon, the rest of him tumbling in soon after.

  “You’d think after all these years he’d figure out how to be on time,” Cass says. Then, to our latecomer, “Thank you for joining us, Mr. McCauley. I hope we’re not pulling you away from anything important.”

  His cheeks are red with exertion, clashing with his ginger hair, which is now sticking up in every direction. “That last mile’s a bitch. I kept getting turned around.”

  “Christ, Ani.” Baz grabs the back of Ansel’s neck, gives him a playful shake. “You need a GPS chip embedded in your skull.”

  “Now that we’re all assembled…” Cass clears his throat, the warning glint in his eye letting us know there’s no more time for jokes.

  As the oldest and most experienced of the Brotherhood—at least in our current incarnations—he’s taken point on the matter, and we’ve gladly let him. Cass is a good man. A hardass at times, but he’s led us this far, and I trust him to see it through. We all do.

  Pulling our black hoods low over our brows, we gather around the altar, a chest-high pillar of petrified wood, the top polished smooth from years of ritual use, carved with a large pentacle. In that moment, a sacred hush falls over the space, and all other thoughts and concerns evaporate.

  Cass pulls a silver athame from his robe, whispers the incantation against the blade, then draws it quickly across his palm.

  Each of us follows suit with our own blades, then, as one, we clench our fists over the top of the altar. Blood fills the channels, the grooved pentacle glowing red for a moment, then clearing, our blood absorbed by the earth, leaving the surface smooth and clean once again.

  “Who gathers here as bonded brothers?” Cass asks, his voice clear and commanding.

  The rest of us respond in unison: “We, the Keepers of the Grave.”

  “Who spills his blood as a symbol of our commitment to one another and in the service and protection of the first?”

  “We, the Keepers of the Grave.”

  “Who vows, by his life or his death, by his silence or his words, in this and all incarnations henceforth, to protect the one true source?”

  “We, the Keepers of the Grave.”

  “We, the Keepers of the Grave,” Cass echoes. He then turns away from the altar and presses his bloody palm against a rock that juts out from the wall. Beneath it, a small alcove illuminates, revealing the large black book tucked inside.

  We call it the Book of Reckoning, though officially, it has no name.

  Officially, it doesn’t exist. Not this copy, nor the others of its kind used in rituals such as this at the other Academies, in other times.

  But now he retrieves it and opens it on the altar, and each of us signs our name with the tips of our blood-soaked athames. After the signing, Cass places a Tarot card in the center of the page—The King of Swords—and speaks another spell.

  Let our thoughts be true, our messages clear

  Both words and intent are recorded here

  Leave nothing unwritten, no secrets to bear

  Among brothers in blood, all things are shared.

  The card glows faintly, and when we speak again, our words will appear on the parchment, then vanish, recorded for posterity, hidden to all but members of our sacred order.

  The robes, the blood magick, the King of Swords… It’s the same ritual we’ve done since the beginning.

  Old-fashioned, maybe, but we do it anyway. We do it because we must. Because it’s the only way to ensure the secrecy of our mission.

  Even at Arcana Academy, warded against outside intrusion, spelled to keep our secrets close, the rocks still listen with eager ears, the skies still whisper with treacherous mouths.

  “Kirin,” Cass says, “please update us on your research.”

  “I’ve reviewed the library’s remaining historical records on the Academy itself, including personal correspondences between the founders and the architects, as well as to and from family members during the initial build and dedication. I loaded everything relevant into the database, cross-referencing all dates against previous accounts mentioning the Book of Shadow and Mists, including fictionalized accounts written around the time we believe it disappeared. I wrote some new macros, trying to find patterns or anything I may have missed from my manual review.”

  “Wow,” Baz says. “Kirin, I had no idea you were so dedicated to the mission… of never, ever getting laid again.”

  “Hey. Witches dig smart mages,” I retort, then continue with my update. “I’ve got several more volumes of the architectural plans to review, but if the builders knew about the book or planned some secret cache, they don’t mention it to anyone else, or to each other. Those guys were fucking vaults.”

  “Maybe not.” Baz leans against the rock wall, folding his robed arms in front of him. “Maybe they don’t talk about it because they truly didn’t know about it. Guys, if the book were here—anywhere near here—we would’ve found it by now. Someone would have. Things like that don’t stay hidden, and they sure as hell don’t stay secret.”

  “It’s here,” Cass says. “Somewhere on this campus. I just… I can feel it. The key to finding it must be hidden in the prophecies. Now that Starla Milan is here, things will be set in motion.”

  “Why is Anna so sure the little jailbird can crack the code on Melissa’s research?” Baz asks.

  “Blind hope, perhaps. A hope we share.” Cass pushes his hood back, revealing a grim face, the lines around his eyes made deeper by the torchlight. “She’s Melissa’s daughter. If she can’t do it, there’s no witch alive who can, and we’re back to the drawing board.”

&n
bsp; “And more databases,” I say. Which, under normal circumstances, I’d get a little hard-on about. But in this case, time is ticking.

  Ani shakes his head, his normally cheerful demeanor fading. “More witches and mages are getting caught up in this net every day. We have to find that book.”

  “I’m well aware,” Cass says. “All the more reason to be sure Starla has everything she needs to do the translations.”

  “Do you think she already knows about the book?” Ani asks. “The artifacts? Any of it?”

  “No way,” I say. “I took her through the whole campus today. We talked about the names of the houses, of course, and she was curious about the legends. But her questions and reactions weren’t out of the ordinary. Certainly not the behavior of a woman keeping secrets of this magnitude.”

  “And the whole time you were with her in Tres Búhos,” Baz says, “you never saw anything freaky? No spellcraft, no strange customers, no secret meetings in the back room?”

  “I wasn’t spying on her, Baz,” I say. “I wasn’t with her 24/7. But the time I spent in her café, or the few times I saw her around town, no, there wasn’t anything strange or magickal going on. As far as I know, the woman hadn’t even touched magick until she was attacked by a mage possessing her friend, and we all know how that ended.”

  The group falls silent, all of us pondering the seriousness of the situation. Stevie’s story is tragic, but she’s not the first witch to be targeted by dark magick in recent years. Unless we can protect the Book of Shadow and Mists and the arcane artifacts, she won’t be the last.

  But how do we protect something we can’t even find?

  Something most witches and mages believe is no more than a legend?

  “I don’t think she knows about any of this,” Cass agrees. “Beyond the immediate threats of the attacks on the magickal community at large—something she’s only just beginning to see, thanks to her personal experience—she’s as new to our world as a child raised by wolves.”