Tarot Academy 1: Spells of Iron and Bone

by Sarah Piper

  “Spells of Iron, Spells of Bone,” he repeats. “Bind now her magick to mine alone.”

  I swallow past the dry pain in my throat. “Has it occurred to you, Professor, that your spell game is weak as fuck?”

  “Spells of Iron, Spells of Bone,” he continues, louder now, holding the chalice up to the moonlight, then taking another gulp.

  I kind of want to puke.

  But I need to keep it together.

  First rule of survival: don’t freak out.

  “Has it occurred to you, witch,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “that you could make this easier on both of us if you’d simply give me the translation?”

  He can’t read the books without me—I’m the only one who can see the secret spells. Somehow, he thinks that drinking my blood will give him access to my magick—to bind it to his so he can read the spells for himself.

  I really hope that’s not the case. Because while he’s not the Dark Magician himself, it’s clear he’s working for the douchebag.

  “Hmm,” I say. “How about… Not a chance in hell?”

  “Then ritual sacrifice it is.”

  He shoves his blade into my side again, holds up the chalice for a refill. The world sways before me.

  Come on, girl. This is no different than being caught on El Búho Grande in that storm. No different than any number of close calls you’ve had hiking in the desert.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, bringing my heart rate down.

  Second rule of survival: use what you have, use what you know.

  Professor Nakata says a witch’s sharpest tool is her mind, and thankfully the professor hasn’t put a bind on that yet.

  So think, girl. Fucking think.

  “I do hope you’re not waiting for your familiar,” Phaines says casually, and my eyes fly open, my face twisting in a terror I can’t hide. “Oh, yes. The poor snowy owl. He made an appearance earlier, but you were unconscious, of course, and I had to make an executive decision.” He mimes slicing the blade across his throat. “Too many cooks in the kitchen—you know how the saying goes.” He gives me an exaggerated frown. “I’m afraid he won’t be returning.”

  Phaines retrieves something from his robe—a handful of white tissue, soaked in blood.

  No, not tissue. Feathers. Owl feathers.

  Tears fill my eyes, but I bite back a howl of pain. I won’t give him the satisfaction—not now.

  “Any time you’d like to share that translation…” he says.

  “Fuck off,” I tell him. “I’ll die first.”

  “Yes,” he says confidently. “But not just yet.”

  He’s puffing up like a peacock, but inside, I can tell he’s starting to unravel. To doubt.

  He goes back to his chanting.

  I close my eyes and go back to my thinking.

  What do I have? No weapons. No clothing. Severe blood loss. No magick owl power. No use of my limbs.

  The list of “haves” is thin.

  Moving on.

  What do I know?

  I know Phaines isn’t going to kill me—at least not yet. He needs me for this, and if the ritual doesn’t work, he’ll come up with some other torture first, some other threat to get me to translate the spells. So I’ve got a little bit of time on my side—though probably not much.

  As for magick, I’m not strong enough in any one element to make something big happen, and at the moment, I can’t even call up my witchfire.

  Fuck.

  Okay, no panicking. Think, Stevie. Fucking think!

  Another jab of the blade in my gut, and I gasp, my eyes flying open. Phaines is turning wild with rage, his mouth and chin dark and shiny with my blood.

  “Give me the translation!” he shouts. “Give me the spells of Shadow and Mists!”

  Healing, I remind myself, ignoring his rants. I can heal others, in a way. I can read their emotions. My empathy isn’t just about reading energy, it’s about knowing what’s missing from those energies.

  It’s a hole I might be able to exploit.

  I cast out for his energy, letting it wash through me.

  Beneath the dark bile of his hatred, his desperation, I sense the utter lack.

  Phaines needs to feel powerful, but he doesn’t. He’s not the man in charge—just a soldier in the brewing dark war. And he knows Kirin and I have already started putting some of the pieces together.

  He needs control, but he’s losing it quickly, panicking. Something tells me he doesn’t want the power of the spells to serve the One—he wants it for himself. He wants to use the spell, find the sacred objects.

  Possess all magick for himself.

  It’s a double-cross, and he’s afraid of being caught. Afraid of someone finding us out here before he gets what he wants. His career at the Academy is over now—he’s got no choice but to see this through.

  And he’s afraid he won’t be able to.

  Afraid. Fear. What did Dr. Devane say about fear?

  I cast my memory back through his classes, his lectures, searching for something I can use…

  Fear is a powerful weapon. All it takes is a single doubt, a single crack in your armor, and the enemy will find it and exploit it to the fullest extent…

  I go back even further, back to that day in the car right after my prison break…

  Fear is our most primal, most powerful emotion. It leaves an imprint—almost like a ghost in the room…

  Your fear of death by gunshot was completely sincere, and left an intense imprint that my spell was able to amplify…

  That imprint, combined with the power of suggestion planted in the rich soil of a soft mind, was enough to make the guard truly believe that I killed us…

  I’m not skilled in mental magicks—not like Dr. Devane. But I know what Phaines is afraid of. And if I can somehow plant a seed in his weak mind and amplify that fear…

  It’s worth a shot.

  “Professor Phaines,” I say, steadying myself, making my voice as authoritative as I can. I gaze into his eyes, unblinking. Try to rearrange my features until I’m no longer Stevie Milan, first-year witch, daughter of the infamous seer. I’m beyond that form now, a mere vessel for darker forces.

  A deadly smile curves my lips.

  “A message from the Dark One,” I announce.

  Phaines looks back at me, uncertain. He worries this is a trick, but what if it’s not? His courage is wavering.

  Across the span of space and time

  I come to you, dark priest of mine

  What ruinous fate you cast tonight

  When dark deception tests my might?

  Not the most epic rhyme, but not bad for a freestyle, all things considered. I stare at him unblinking, my smile firmly in place.

  And there in his eyes, I see it. Fear. A single doubt. A crack in his armor.

  If Phaines had attended Mental Magicks class, he’d know what else Devane said about fear—that it isn’t real. But Phaines doesn’t know that. And I’ve got my opening.

  It’s a dangerous thing, knowing a man’s weakness.

  I recall one of the phrases from Mom’s earlier work, one I didn’t share with Phaines. Still holding his gaze, I recite:

  Hexed and cursed, bruised and broken

  What comes first, the dark words spoken

  The veil is torn, the spells diminished

  Mage firstborn, the final finish.

  Phaines drops to his knees before me, holding up his hands. Wow, these guys really respect the power of the rhyme.

  “You have betrayed me,” I say to him. Calm. Collected. Commanding.

  “Never. I am only trying to claim the spells in your name. For you, always!”

  “They are not yours to claim, Priest.” My eyes go wide, and I raise my voice. “Usurper, divider, betrayer, betrayed! All who deceive me shall be repaid!”

  Phaines trembles, holding his hands in front of his face.

  I’m trying to think up another creepy-sounding chant, but mo
vement in the distance distracts me—a shadow gliding in front of the moon.

  My owl. My powerful, beautiful, gleaming-white owl. He’s alive. Searching for me.

  Phaines sees him too.

  He glances at me once more, weighing his odds. Fear leaks from his body, the fucking coward. He grabs the books, the chalice, his blade. Pulls a Tarot card from his robe. And with a simple spell, he vanishes into the mist.

  My head slumps forward, all the adrenaline leaking out of my broken body.

  Third rule of survival: deal with the most pressing problem first.

  Phaines is gone, no longer bleeding me. But he’s got the books. The real Dark One is out there, biding his time. My healing has slowed, my energy completely drained, half of my blood soaking into the dusty ground below, and I still can’t move my damn arms or legs.

  The owl has vanished once again. Maybe he was never here at all.

  No one knows where I am.

  I laugh. Ah, life. What a fucking joke.

  Guess it won’t be Mother Nature taking me out after all.

  “Over here! Hurry!” A flurry of voices, all talking at once.

  “She’s bleeding!” This from Baz. “Fucking hell, there’s so much—”

  “Cut her down,” Kirin orders.

  “On it.” Gentle hands cutting my binds, Ani’s perpetual warmth pulsing over me, a promise that things will turn out okay. “Hang in there, Stevie. We’ve got you.”

  My body slumping into a pair of strong arms, a blanket wrapped around me as someone lays me on the ground.

  Water held to my lips.

  Gentle hands in my hair, stroking my face.

  “Come on, baby. Come back to us. Come on, Stevie.”

  I open my eyes, take in some of the water. Wait for the images before me to solidify. Flint-colored eyes. Dark hair touched with gray.

  “Doc?” I whisper, and he nods, eyes glazing with emotion. “You were right,” I croak out. “Mental manipulation—acceptable form of self-defense.”

  Doc smiles. “You were listening.”

  “Always.”

  “What do you need?” he asks, brushing the hair from my face. “Tell me how to heal you. How to fix you.”

  I manage another weak smile. “A wise woman once said, ‘There’s no problem a proper cup of tea can’t fix.’”

  His eyes fill with relief. “That can be arranged.”

  He stands up, holding me close against his chest. Kirin, Ani, and Baz gather around us, linking arms.

  “Let’s go,” Doc says.

  Baz holds up a hand, whispers an enchantment that brings the forest of Iron and Bone to life. Sparkling purple magick scoops us up, deposits us back home.

  One day, he’s going to have to teach me that trick.

  Fifty-Two

  STEVIE

  “That was Trello,” Baz says, putting the phone back in his pocket. “No sign of Phaines, but she’s got her best mages out tracking him.”

  Devane squeezes my hand. “We’ll find him, Stevie. Don’t worry.”

  “He’s got the books,” I say, probably for the hundredth time. “If he figures out how to read them, the spells will lead him straight to the arcane objects.”

  No one responds to that. There is no response for that.

  We’re sitting in my living room a day after Halloween, the last rays of sunlight warming my face. The mages are all gathered around me, refusing to leave my side.

  I’m mostly healed from the ordeal—the physical parts, anyway. But despite what Dr. Devane says, fear is real—at least for me, at least right now. Every time I close my eyes, I see that boot stomping down on my face, the blood slicking over the mad professor’s lips, the crazed look in his eyes as he demanded the translations.

  Professor Phaines betrayed me. Betrayed us all.

  I still can’t believe it. With all the secrets and hushed whispers floating around me at the Academy, all along I thought he was the safe bet. The sure thing.

  “I trusted him,” I say, closing my eyes against a fresh onslaught of violent, gruesome images. “What a fool.”

  I formed my impression of him that first moment in Trello’s office, and that impression took root, solidifying with every act of kindness, every encouraging word. That was his form of mental magicks—finding the void my parents’ death left in my heart, exploiting it to the fullest extent.

  I let him do it, too. He didn’t even obfuscate his intentions or try to block his energy from my empathic senses. From our first meeting that day, I made my assumptions, and that was that. I never even bothered to question them—not until it was much too late.

  “It wasn’t just you, Stevie,” Dr. Devane says. “He had us all fooled—for years. Decades. Even the Headmistress.”

  “Even the Claires,” Baz reminds me.

  I nod, reminding myself to call Carly later and thank her. Turns out those “special sessions” she mentioned at the river party? Phaines was just trying to tap into their psychic skills, to manipulate them into helping him find the spellbooks. After her argument with Baz out in the hallway last night, Carly had an actual premonition about me. She really was trying to warn me.

  After our call got disconnected, she called Baz, told him what she’d seen. It wasn’t long before the guys stormed the library looking for me, but by then I was already unconscious, bleeding, and tied to a dead tree.

  It was my owl that finally led them to me. He was injured—Phaines hadn’t lied about that. But he wasn’t dead. After Phaines attacked him, he must’ve flown hard and fast back to campus. He showed up outside the library window, clawing at the glass.

  I haven’t seen the owl since, but I can sense him now. He’s always with me, our souls connected. Eventually, I’ll learn how to call him. To communicate.

  “About the objects,” Kirin says now, removing his glasses and polishing them on his Chewbacca T-shirt. “I’ve been doing some research this morning.”

  “Of course you have.” I smile.

  He smiles back.

  Life is… getting better.

  “According to the legends,” he continues, “after the Magician vowed his revenge, the other Arcana feared the sacred objects would be forever hunted, so they divided them up, hiding them in four different places around the globe, all at undisclosed sacred magickal sites.”

  “Magickal sites like where the Academies were built?” I ask, a new spark of excitement flickering in my chest. I wouldn’t have thought it on my first day here, but researching the prophecies, digging into the old legends—it’s become one of my favorite activities.

  Turns out I’m pretty good at it, too.

  “That’s one theory,” Kirin says. “That the Arcana Academies were actually built specifically to hide the objects. But another theory postulates that the Majors, figuring everyone would expect them to divide up the objects, did the exact opposite.”

  “Hid them together?” Ani asks.

  “That’s the theory. Either way, now that Phaines has the books, we have to assume he’ll eventually crack the spell. We have to get ahead of that.”

  “You think we should look for the objects,” I say. It’s not a question. “Why not leave them hidden? Maybe they’re safer that way.”

  “No,” Devane says. “Kirin’s right—we need to find them. We can’t risk it on a maybe. The other academies might already be targets. The legends go back a long way—a lot of people might seek out the objects for their own personal collections.”

  “Half those people are just treasure hunters,” Baz says. “A nuisance, but not necessarily evil. They just like antiquities and the creepy legends surrounding shit like that. But the rest?” Baz clenches his teeth, the muscle in his jaw ticking. He glances at me, his eyes fierce, his protective energy rushing over me. “You had a front-row seat to how that played out, Stevie.”

  We fall into silence once again, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I get up and stretch, put on the kettle for—what else?—more tea.

  When I rejoin
them in the living room, Kirin looks up at me, his gaze serious.

  “You don’t have to stay for this, Stevie. We can talk to Trello. Relocate you, set you up with a new identity. That was part of the original offer.”

  “Yeah?” I smile like I’m actually considering it, then narrow my eyes. “You think you can get rid of me that easily? Well guess what, dickheads. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The guys crack up—some much-needed levity breaking up the intensity of the gathering.

  “Told you she was one of us,” Ani says, tossing an arm over my shoulder and pressing a kiss to my temple.

  “Yes, but with better boobs and a cuter ass,” I point out.

  Suddenly, the smiles evaporate.

  Damn, rough crowd. I really thought that would go over better.

  “Stevie,” Devane says, his energy turning dark and serious. Well, more dark and serious than usual. “When Ani said you’re one of us, he meant that literally.”

  I roll my eyes. “More dark brotherhood stuff?”

  No one responds.

  They all stand up now, gathering around me. Closing ranks.

  I look into each pair of eyes—Dr. Devane, stern and gray. Ani, warm and sunny like melted caramels. Baz, with the red-brown eyes of the devil that can make me weak with a single glance. And Kirin, my sunset behind the saguaros, a man I started to fall for long before I ever set foot inside the hallowed halls of Arcana Academy.

  “Who are you guys?” I whisper, the question as ominous as the mood.

  “We are the Keepers of the Grave,” they reply in unison.

  “Who are you?” I ask again, my eyes filling with tears, everything about this moment heavy and terrifying and real.

  Very, very real.

  It’s Ani who answers now, picking up the novelty deck from the table. He turns one card over and passes it to Baz—Cernunnos, The Devil, the lovers sleeping in the meadow before the horned god. The next card goes to Dr. Devane—The Moon, a full moon shining down on the ocean, a wolf and a dog howling before a stone gateway and a path to the unknown. The next card is for Kirin, the Tower, a bolt of lightning striking a stone tower, people jumping to their deaths, fleeing the sudden destruction. Ani keeps the next card for himself—The Sun, a child riding a pony, a harp at his side, the sun shining bright overhead.