Junior Witch

by Ingrid Seymour

  After we finished lunch, Bridget leaned closer and whispered. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

  Disha slid down her chair, shoulders drooping. “I don’t know about you, but I need some sleep. We’ve searched all over, and I don’t think Nyquist is keeping Anama here. I think we’re wasting our time. And just for the record, I’m tired of spying on his saggy ass. He never leaves campus.”

  I couldn’t blame Disha for wanting to bail. We’d pretty much stayed up every night this week, searching buildings all over campus for a second time. We’d trespassed all the faculty-only areas and had found nothing. And we’d followed Nyquist everywhere like shadows, so much that we knew his boring routine by heart. We’d also thought about talking to some of the teachers, but we had no idea who we could trust, and Irmagard was still nowhere to be found.

  “We’ve been through this, Disha,” Bridget said. “If he doesn’t go anywhere, then it means Anama is here in the Academy. We can’t give up on her. We have to keep looking.”

  “We don’t even know if she needs to be nearby for Nyquist to be able to use her. Whatever that means,” Disha said.

  For weeks, we’d talked in circles about why Nyquist might need a Looper. Rowan had said that the old man was going to use Anama and then she would be dead. But what did that mean, exactly? I’d come up with an idea last night as I lay awake trying in vain to go to sleep, but it seemed stupid, now. I’d been too groggy to think straight. Still, I should at least run it by my friends.

  “Um, something occurred to me last night, but it’s crazy,” I said tentatively.

  “What?” Bridget’s eyes opened wide. She enjoyed crazy ideas as much as the next witch.

  I pushed my plate out of the way and leaned closer. “We always assumed that when Tempest attacked Nyquist, she was trying to push something into him, but what if… what if she was trying to exorcise something out of him?”

  Disha and Bridget glanced at each other then back at me. They appeared skeptical, to say the least.

  I took a deep breath and decided to spit the rest of my crazy theory out. “Remember the grimoire? One of the pages revealed spells to put something into someone, but the other showed how to extract something. We always thought the old hag was using the spell on the first page on Nyquist, but what if it was the one on the second one?”

  The girls stared at me, as if not quite getting it.

  I placed my hands on either side of the table to steady myself as I whispered the last words. “What if, somehow, Dean Nyquist absorbs the Loopers inside himself?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  SPRING SEMESTER

  MID-MARCH

  The girls thought I was crazy. Even after I dragged out the grimoire and showed them the page with the extraction spell clearly depicted, Disha and Bridget exchanged wary glances.

  “Char, you’re tired,” Disha said, putting a hand on my arm from where she sat beside me on my bed. “We all are. We’re exhausted.”

  “I’m sure Anama’s tired,” I mumbled, emotions hitching in my chest.

  Bridget crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against my desk on the other side of the room. “This is bullshit. Why are we the only ones capable of saving her? What about all those other fae at that Christmas party? Why are none of them doing anything?”

  “They all live far away. Plus, maybe they want to do something, but they aren’t sure what to do. Or maybe they tried to use the portal and are missing, too. We may be the only ones with enough clues to actually find her,” I offered a bit desperately.

  Disha stifled a yawn. “Okay, okay. But tomorrow. Please. I haven’t slept more than four consecutive hours in the last week. Studying for exams is killing me. We can’t help anyone when we’re this tired. Even my bones are tired, Char.” She demonstrated by draping noodle-like arms around me.

  Bridget nodded, pushing against the desk and striding toward the door. “Anama’s been gone this long. One more day can’t hurt.”

  I bit my tongue, knowing that one more day could hurt if it was the day Nyquist did to Anama whatever he’d done to Micah Adelson. Sure, we’d taken this long to figure things out, but that didn’t mean we should take any longer. Each night might be Anama’s last. And I really thought I was onto something this time.

  My friends had made up their minds, however, and nothing I could say would convince them. At least, not until they’d had their beauty rest.

  They both left, waving farewell and telling me they would message me later for dinner after naps and coffee.

  I fell back on my bed, frustrated and miserable. Rest didn’t matter. Exams didn’t matter. Figuring this out mattered.

  The grimoire was open, nestled in between my rumpled sheets that desperately needed a wash. Another school year was coming to a close, but I had no closure. There was no way I could leave here with Anama gone, a madman and murderer at the helm of my beloved Academy, and Dean McIntosh’s killer still out there.

  I’d always been a dog with a bone when it came to unsolved mysteries. Back when we’d been homeless, I’d spent weeks trying to find the bum who had stolen Trey’s shoes. I’d skateboarded all over town, staring at people’s feet.

  The great part was that I’d found the bastard three weeks later in a back alley sporting Trey’s old Jordans. The bad part was he nearly knocked my head off with a two-by-four before I could get the hell out of there.

  Anama’s mystery gnawed at me in a dogged, insistent way. I knew in my gut Nyquist was guilty. I knew Anama had to be close.

  And I knew if I didn’t do something very soon, Nyquist would kill her. I couldn’t have that on my conscience. What if Sinasre woke up? How could I ever look him in the eye again knowing I let his sister die?

  I needed to do something, even if I had to do it on my own.

  The clock told me it was four PM. Professor Nyquist would be leaving a department meeting with the Humanities staff pretty soon. He’d go back to his office and eat an early dinner at his desk. Then he’d depart for the day around six PM, heading to staff housing. After that, I guessed he would sit on an old recliner masterminding people’s deaths, then farting himself to sleep. I didn’t know for sure since I’d not been able to tail him. Staff housing was hidden and forbidden to students.

  It had to be in that time, after he retired behind the barrier of protective spells that kept students out, that he did his most nefarious activities, along with the farting. Otherwise, I’d have seen what he was up to. The girls and I had watched him day and night for weeks.

  Did I feel like a stalker? Yes. But it was for a good cause.

  The more I thought about it, the more I itched to break into the staff housing area. But how to get in?

  Rowan used to be able to enter since his dad was on staff. Since becoming a subversive, the death of his father and banishment of his mother, I doubted he had access any longer. Irmagard was nowhere to be found or I’d ask her. So, the question was, who did I least suspect in being in league with Nyquist?

  My brain scanned through the staff catalog, listing and then categorizing each teacher. Professor Middleton seemed nice, but I had no idea of her affiliation. Professor Hitchcock-Watson was old and cranky and likely to align himself with Nyquist through sheer curmudgeon-dom. Nurse Taishi was a great guy and a wonderful healer, but could I see him amongst the subversives, working against authority to undermine the people in charge? Not really.

  I kept coming back to Professor Fedorov. I remembered when I’d released him from Rowan’s rigor mortis spell, how he’d remained frozen as if not knowing which side to pick. Did that mean he’d been aware of the subversives’ plans and hadn’t wanted to get in their way?

  He’d also been shocked about Micah’s body, which meant he was either a very good liar or he truly hadn’t known about the Looper’s death. Would Fedorov believe the clues I’d gathered against Nyquist? Was he even aware of them as I sat here pondering?

  Dean McIntosh had liked him and trusted him. So he seemed like my
best bet. But what if he was in league with Nyquist? I’d be walking right into a trap.

  I needed to be careful.

  And I needed to go alone. No way I was dragging my friends into another potentially fatal situation. I’d almost lost Disha last year. I wasn’t risking that again.

  With my plan set, I checked Professor Fedorov’s office hours. Dammit, they were almost over. I practically ran to the Spells Cave, spotting him just as he was leaving.

  “Professor Fedorov!” I called, waving my hand to stop him.

  He turned, narrowing his eyes against the sharp, mid-afternoon sun. “Charlie. What you need?”

  Fedorov wore a lilac dress shirt accompanied by a deep purple tie. His outfit was stylish and tailored, fitting his slim form nicely. His hair was shorter than I’d seen it, but still meticulously slicked back. Yet, it was his eyes I cued in on. They narrowed as I jogged towards him.

  He didn’t trust me. The question was, could I trust him?

  Skidding to a stop in front of him, I spoke between puffs of breath. “Hey, Professor, I have, uh, some questions about the upcoming final. Do you have a minute?”

  He checked his expensive watch. “My office hours end five minutes ago. You come back tomorrow.”

  Fedorov started to turn away, but I jogged in front of him. “Sir, it’s really important. I need to talk to you.”

  Narrow eyes slitted even further. “Why?”

  “Because…” My mind raced. “There’s a spell I really need your opinion on.”

  “What?” he asked, seeming intrigued, or, at least, mildly curious.

  “An... extraction,” I said carefully.

  His eyes flashed open. Head darting around to see if anyone was in sight, he grabbed my arm, a sudden movement I wasn’t expecting. I cried out in alarm, but in that same second, Fedorov’s expert fingers enclosed us in a cloaking bubble. No one would be able to hear or see us.

  Shit. He was going to kill me.

  I charged my cuffs as he spoke quickly and forcefully.

  “I don’t know what you think you doing, Charlie, but this talk can get you killed.” He enunciated every word carefully as he held me in place.

  “Let me go,” I said, testing his magic. A very powerful force rolled off him in waves as he kept me in his grip. I’d have my work cut out for me if I tried to fight him.

  To my surprise, he released my arm, stepping back a bit and straightening his tie. “What do you know?”

  “What do you know?” I shot back, sounding infantile and stupid.

  He groaned a bit as if I were a bothersome kid. “You know about spell, yes? The one they attempted at memorial for Dean McIntosh?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You know what they wanted happen?” he shot back.

  “Yes.”

  “Then, what you doing here now, risking both our lives with dangerous talk?”

  I stared into his face, trying desperately to read his expression. It seemed genuine, the distrust, the fear, the fierce anger at all that had befallen so many we loved.

  “I’m here because... someone has to do something. Now! I want to stop him. And I want you to help me.”

  One corner of his mouth curled up. “You stop him? You?”

  “With your help,” I said, feeling only a little bit insulted.

  He pondered for a moment. I could sense his hesitation, his mind weighing all that he knew, which I felt was more than he was letting on. What knowledge did he possess? Was he in league with the subversives? Did he know their next move? Would it be too late for Anama?

  “I think he took Anama,” I said, suspecting this was my best bet to get him on my side. “She’s a fae girl, a Looper. She and another fae went missing after trying to use the portal. Sinasre, her brother, is in a coma in the infirmary.”

  “I know,” Fedorov said, his gray eyes growing stormy.

  I was on the right track. I pressed on. “I’m afraid for her life. Nyquist…” I hesitated for a second, then decided I was already in too deep to back down. “Nyquist killed Micah Adelson. He will kill Anama, too. She’s running out of time.”

  Fedorov pressed on his temple as if he were developing a headache. His cufflink winked in the afternoon sun.

  “How we stop him?” he asked to no one in particular.

  “I’ve followed his every move for weeks,” I said. “I think Anama is on campus.”

  Fedorov’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. We can save her, but first, you need to get me inside staff housing.”

  Fedorov and I waited side by side in a dark grouping of trees outside of Dean Nyquist's house under more cloaking spells than Fort Knox had locks.

  It was awkward standing so close to a teacher, not moving, not speaking. His cologne flooded our shared space. I was not Disha, but he did smell nice. He was very handsome for an older man. Distractingly handsome, really. But I wasn’t attracted to him, so I was able to keep my focus on the task at hand. Otherwise, I would have been in trouble.

  Earlier, Fedorov had smuggled me through the protective barrier that kept students from entering or even seeing into staff housing. Then he’d deposited me here, in a copse of trees beside Dean Nyquist’s chateau—a storybook cottage with wood shingles, window boxes, and a lavish flower garden. The chimney was brick and crooked as if stylized from a picture book, and the little windows winked behind emerald green shutters that contrasted nicely with the brick.

  “It was Dean McIntosh’s,” Fedorov had told me, seeming as angry about Nyquist’s invasion as I was. Just one more thing the old geezer had stolen.

  A little after sunset, he’d returned and sat with me to watch the house until Nyquist left. While he’d been gone, Fedorov had arranged a meeting between Nyquist and a colleague he could trust. Apparently, there was a very expensive, very exclusive Atlanta restaurant that Nyquist loved and this colleague just happened to invite him out for a late dinner. This would give us ample opportunity to rummage around inside his house and see what we could find.

  However, it seemed Professor Nyquist wasn’t concerned with being late for his date. Time ticked by as we waited. My heart would not stop pounding and my shoulders were so tight they might never lower from my ears. When would he leave?

  Finally, the front door opened. Nyquist, looking old but dapper, lumbered down the steps, stopped, and waved his hands a few times before disappearing with a pop of magic. Fedorov had explained the houses here had too many wards to teleport from the inside, which made it easy to know when someone left. Convenient.

  Beside me, Fedorov nodded. “Time is now, Charlie.”

  “Time is now,” I repeated.

  Together, we walked the cobblestone path and slinked up his front porch steps. Our cloaking spells were activated, so no one would see us, but we were still in possible peril. No wizard worth his salt would leave his house unattended and unprotected. Especially one with a secret like Nyquist.

  Fedorov stopped beside the front door—a cheery thing, stained deep brown with a floral wreath hanging from it. Cufflinks winking, he closed his eyes and moved his slender fingers around the wood.

  “Two locking spells, loud alarm, and dismemberment spell for anyone who enter without permission,” Fedorov said, opening his eyes.

  “Crap. This guy is not fooling around.” I pictured my dismembered body and shivered. What if I’d come here alone? Thank God I had Fedorov.

  As I watched, he reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a device—a slender, silver rectangle about the size and shape of a small jewelry box. On the top were three circular buttons, each glowing a dull green.

  “What is that?” I whispered.

  He put his finger to his lips, then pressed the center button.

  Magic emanated out of the box and rushed toward the door. There was a muffled pop and a puff of air. The windows rattled a little and then settled.

  Glancing around, I was grateful for the large swath of land between the dean’s h
ouse and the other apartments. Still, I felt very exposed.

  “Spells gone,” Fedorov said. “They will need replacement before we go, but no problem.”

  “No problem,” I muttered. His confidence never ceased to amaze me.

  I gestured to the door. Mr. Confident could make sure the dismemberment spell was no longer in place. “Professors first.”

  He sniffed, straightened his shirt, and put his hand on the knob.

  I squinted against a possible explosion.

  The door swung wide. No one had their limbs ripped off.

  Fedorov stepped in and gestured for me to follow.

  Score one for Mr. Confident.

  We slipped in, closing the door behind us. As I glanced around, Fedorov wove a few more spells, probably those of protection and revealing to make sure there were no more traps. I let my eyes do the uncovering, for now, feeling a bit like Indiana Jones inside the Temple of Doom. Anything I touched could start a boulder rolling right towards me, or worse, rip my head off.

  The cottage interior matched the exterior—quaint furniture, quaint curtains, quaint pictures. I even spotted some of Dean McIntosh. It seemed as though Nyquist hadn’t had time to redecorate yet. I realized I was staring at her home, the place she’d lived and breathed and spent time taking care of us all.

  A sob climbed up my throat, but I didn’t have time for that. I needed to avenge her, not wallow in self-pity.

  Taking careful steps, I explored the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, all nice, neat, and unremarkable. I opened closets, holding my breath, only to find no sign of Anama.

  What I did find on top of a small desk was a document with the Academy’s letterhead and Dean Nyquist’s signature, a piece of paper that contained a proposal to bar admission to non-wizards at the beginning of next semester.

  Bar non-wizards? What the hell?

  Anger burned in my chest. He wanted to undo what Macgregor Underwood had accomplished. He’d probably only pretended to support Bonnie, so he could wedge himself into a position of trust, then pounce and seize power at the first chance he got. I hadn’t thought I could hate him more, but there it was.