Academy of Magic Collection

by Angelique S Anderson et al.

  What she hadn’t planned on was this harebrained scheme. Ginger should have been the last person to doubt their abilities. Hadn’t she been up in arms when her father had implied, she was just a girl? Girls could do anything a boy could, Ginger was certain of that. Or at least, she thought she had been certain. That was before Francie and Betty launched their plans on her. What they were asking—it was too much.

  Ginger blew out a breath, trying to gather her thoughts. Francie and Betty were determined to infiltrate their new academy. An academy that Francie and Betty insisted harbored something nefarious. Then they wanted to expose whoever was behind all of the strange things that had been happening to Francie.

  Bring them to the little problem of Francie’s newfound magical abilities. Ginger wasn’t even sure if the academy had anything to do with what happened at the bonfire. What she did know was that everyone was still talking about it.

  Ginger hadn’t told her friends about the gossip going around about the incident. Working at Sparks, Ginger had a front row seat to the terrible rumors being passed around. She didn’t like it, not one little bit.

  Absentmindedly, Ginger rubbed her thigh where the small bruise she had gotten out of the blue was finally fading. She had a hard time believing that Francie had been the cause of it.

  Francie watched the movement and raised a knowing brow.

  “We don’t know that it was you,” Ginger said defensively.

  “We don’t know it wasn’t,” Betty was quick to reply.

  Francie stared at Ginger, not saying anything. Then slowly, she reached out and pinched the outside of her thigh.

  Ginger yelped, “That hurts! Cut it out!”

  A wide smile flashed across Francie’s face. “Cut what out? I wasn’t even touching you.”

  Ginger rolled her eyes and marched over to the end table, snatching up the ice cube from a glass and placing it on her earlobe. “I just want to make a few things clear. At the first sign of danger, we stop all investigation.”

  Betty squealed with excitement, but Ginger cut her off with a look.

  “This doesn’t mean that we go off half-cocked and make a mess of things. If we are going to do this, we are going to be smart. Nobody goes off on their own—that means you, Betty.”

  Betty nodded contritely, but the twinkle in her eyes was telling. “I will be good. I promise.”

  For a moment, it looked like she was about to say more, but instead she just smiled sweetly.

  Ginger groaned. “Can’t we just forget about the academy and keep attending St. Mary Margaret High like we we’re supposed to?”

  Francie’s face twisted up in disgust just as Betty recoiled. “There is no going backward, Ginger. We are doing this. The Pin-up Girls are going to take down Leopold Preparatory Academy and expose all of their secrets. Brick by brick if we have to.”

  “I figured you would say that,” Ginger muttered. Grabbing her mother’s sewing needle, Ginger stalked over to the mirror. “My mother is going to love this.”

  Francie laughed. “She might not notice. And besides, we will be at the academy soon and she won’t be able to see you for weeks. I reckon by the time she gets a visit she won’t care if there are holes in your ears.”

  Ginger snorted. “You weren’t there to hear her the last time I asked.” In a mocking tone she added, “‘If God wanted holes in your ears, he would have put them there.’”

  “There are holes in your ears,” Betty said, sticking her fingers in her ears to illustrate. “Would she rather we had gotten tattoos instead?”

  The girls ignored her. Francie, staring at Ginger’s reflection in the mirror, asked, “What’s it going to be, Ginger? Are you with us?”

  “You are determined to see this through?”

  Francie nodded. “You know I am.”

  Ginger looked from her friends to the sharp pin between her fingers. Then, without a word, she brought it up and pushed it through the skin of her ear.

  “Well, I’ll be…” Francie whispered. “She actually did it.”

  After Ginger finished the second one, she turned to her friends. Her ears throbbed and her stomach felt ill, but a sense of accomplishment raced through her veins. If she could do that, maybe they could figure out what was happening in their little beachside town.

  “All right, Flying Dove, what now?”

  Betty beamed at Ginger. “You remembered my code name!”

  “We aren’t doing code names,” Francie said in disgust.

  “Francie can be Wilted Flower,” Betty responded, not missing a beat.

  Ginger choked on her laughter, trying to swallow it when she caught Francie’s thunderous gaze. “Erm, and what is my code name?’

  Betty cocked her head to the side considering, “Scaredy Cat. No, no, I have it! Party Pooper.”

  It was Francie’s turn to double over with laughter as Ginger insisted that she wasn’t anything of the sort. When the girls finally settled, they began to make plans. For the rest of the summer they would lay low, gathering their resources.

  “We’re really going to do this?” Betty asked in wonder.

  Francie stuck her hand in, saying, “Time to channel your inner Rita Hayworth, ladies.”

  Ginger placed her right hand on top of Francie’s. “Heaven help us, I’m in.”

  Betty placed her hand on top. “To the Pin-up Girls. May we always have each other.”

  The girls repeated their cheer in unison. “To the Pin-up Girls. May we always have each other!”

  Francie smiled at her friends as she looked to the future. In a few weeks’ time, they would be leaving their families behind to enter the hallowed halls of the brand-new academy. For better or for worse, Francie, Ginger, and Betty had pledged to get to the bottom of whatever was threatening their town.

  The girls they had been all the beginning of the year would never have considered the task before them. The girls they had been let life dictate who and what they would be. The girls they had been couldn’t see the strength they each carried deep inside of them. They would never be just girls again.

  The Pin-up Girls were going to come out swinging. The academy wouldn’t know what hit them. You never know what a Pin-up Girl could be hiding beneath her sensible plaid skirt, matching sweater, and oxford shoes.

  To be continued in Pin-Up Princess, Leopold Preparatory Academy – Book 1.

  A note from the author

  Note from the Author: I hope you enjoyed your first visit to Clarkstown in this prequel, Pin-up Prep. To follow up with Francie, Ginger, and Betty, the first book of this four-part series will be coming to you by Christmas 2020. I look forward to sharing more of these crazy cats with you. xx Chelli Larsen

  School of Nine by Amanda Marin

  The School of Nine

  © 2019 Amanda Marin

  All rights reserved. No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without permission from Amanda Marin. For permissions or other queries, write to:

  contact@amandamarinwrites.com

  www.amandamarinwrites.com

  Edited by Enchanted Quill Press

  The characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is strictly coincidental.

  Summary: Flunking out of Brightling Academy—a prestigious finishing school for Muses-in-training—isn’t an option for Bianca Harper. But if she doesn’t master Poise and Charm or stop tripping over her ballgown, failure is inevitable. Then he shows up: Sebastian Greenbriar, the first male student to walk through Brightling’s halls in decades. For extra credit, Bianca agrees to help him settle in—even though putting up with his self-absorbed attitude feels more like a punishment than a chance at redemption.

  But just as Bianca begins to make good, she discovers an even bigger problem lurking in the shadows. As foretold by ancients, the Well of Imagination—the force from which Muses draw their powers to inspire—is running dry, threatening the future of Muse-kind and the beauty they
bring into the world. Sebastian’s connection to this danger is impossible to miss, but when he isn’t who or what he claims, can Bianca rely on him to help her stop the impending darkness?

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter One

  I kick the empty can by accident, then startle as it clanks across the sidewalk and ricochets off the side of a lamppost before rolling to a stop against the wall of a building. Ace Cola, the label reads. The champion of power drinks. At least that’s what the commercials say. Personally, I would have gone for something a little less cliché. Less obvious. But that’s just me. Maybe the Muse who inspired that one was burnt out. Or inexperienced. Or feeling pressure from a deadline.

  Or maybe there was no Muse involved at all.

  That seems to be happening more and more lately.

  “We’ve probably practiced enough for today,” Kash says. “We should start heading back.”

  Her words jerk me out of my private critique. Somewhere, in another part of the city, a marketing executive will just have to keep waiting and hoping to cross paths with me. Right now, all I can do is groan. I have Poise and Charm class this afternoon. I hate Poise and Charm. She knows that.

  “Just one more each, okay?” I ask.

  Kash rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile dimpling her round, pink cheeks. “Last one.”

  For a moment, we scan the faces of passersby, searching for our respective marks—our unsuspecting test subjects. I spot mine almost immediately: a woman with an expensive-looking handbag and a cell phone practically attached to her ear. She walks right by the can of Ace Cola, glancing at it a second before continuing on her way.

  “Watch this,” I whisper.

  Clearing my throat, I turn my wrist, moving my hand like a ripple on a wave. I feel the energy leave my body, flowing from my heart, down my arm, and through my fingertips. Warm and tingling, like a kiss traveling across my skin.

  “Hang on a sec,” the woman says into the mouthpiece of her phone. She pauses and turns back to scoop up the empty can of cola. She steps toward a bin for trash and recycling on the corner, then tosses the can inside. As she stands at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn and the chance to cross, she resumes her chatter on the phone.

  “No, nothing’s wrong. Just picking up some litter,” I hear her say before the beacon beeps and she disappears into the mass of cars and people on Fifth. Oblivious to what just happened. Completely unaware I just inspired her.

  Exactly as it should be.

  “Nice job, Bee,” Kash says, nodding with approval.

  “Thanks.” I grin, then nudge her in the side. “You’re up.”

  Kash does this thing—bouncing lightly, shifting her weight from one foot to another—when she’s thinking too hard or can’t make up her mind. She starts doing it again now. So indecisive. So predictable. So Kash. It always makes me smile.

  “How about him?” I suggest, pointing out a young man whistling while walking a dog.

  She shakes her head. “He seems happy already. It’ll be too easy.”

  “Her, then,” I say, nodding toward a mother scolding the child at her side.

  Another head shake. More indecision. More subtle bouncing. Still, I’d rather do this than sit through Poise and Charm.

  We walk further down the block, away from Grand Park and the academy. Continuing our search.

  “Him,” Kash says excitedly at last.

  Across the street, a man in shabby clothes sits on the ground, his back to the building behind him. He’s unshaven, with stringy hair, and he looks like his last bath may have been this past weekend’s rainstorm. But he has a violin in his hands—a beautiful, well-made instrument. He sways in time with the sad, lovely notes that dance upon the strings when he guides his bow over them. The music reminds me of something … honey. If honey had a sound, it would be this song.

  As if agreeing with me about the sweetness of the music, a woman passing by drops a few dollar bills into the open violin case at his feet. He grins at her appreciatively, giving a small nod of thanks—all without missing a single note.

  “He’s already inspired,” I protest. “Look at him.”

  “Not him,” Kash clarifies. “Him.”

  That’s when I notice a tall man in a finely tailored, black suit. Everything about him seems immaculate—from the slick, silvery hair combed perfectly in place atop his head to the carefully folded, emerald-green silk handkerchief in his chest pocket. I recognize his type immediately—we were trained to as freshmen, in Inspiration 101. And even if we hadn’t been, I’d sense it anyway: I’m an excellent judge of character; it comes with my powers. This man is cold. Unimaginative. Maybe even cruel. He’s the kind of person who needs us the most—the most mundane of all the Mundanes, as we call the non-magical.

  “You can try,” I tell her, shrugging.

  Not exactly a vote of confidence, I know. But I’m not trying to be mean. I just don’t want Kash to be disappointed. Even the strongest Muse among us would have a hard time inspiring beauty to flood his soul.

  Kash accepts the challenge anyway. We stand together, pretending to compare shades of nail polish, until the dark-suited man gets close enough. And then Kash does it. The moment the man crosses paths with the violinist, she squares back her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and turns over her hand in his direction.

  “Did it work?” she asks, bringing her fingers immediately to cover her eyes. “I can’t stand to watch—I’m too nervous.”

  So I watch for her.

  “Hang on—and stop bouncing like that, will you?” I whisper.

  The dark-suited man stops short and looks down at the violinist. Although he heaves a sigh, he reaches into his coat, searching for something in an interior pocket. The fading rays of the late afternoon sun flicker off the metal of his watch when he moves; it looks like it cost enough to feed half the city for a week.

  “I think so,” I gasp, expecting him to pull out his wallet.

  “Really?” Kash’s voice squeaks hopefully, and she peeks through the cracks between her fingers, as stunned as I am.

  But the man doesn’t withdraw his wallet and drop money into the violin case like the woman did a moment ago. There’s no tribute to the struggling musician at all. Instead, he’s holding another green handkerchief—one he must actually use, that isn’t just for show. He unfolds the fabric and, using it like a glove to shield him from filth, quickly bends down and reaches out to the musician, snatching the violin from his grasp.

  “Hey, you can’t take that—”

  The violinist’s bow slips against the strings, and he gapes, stunned, as the delicate instrument is wrenched from his grasp. He struggles to his feet to confront the thief, but the dark-suited man doesn’t apologize or acknowledge him. Instead, he just keeps walking, composed and unmoved, with the violin tucked under his arm like it’s been there the whole time. Like stealing the other man’s livelihood is normal, part of his everyday routine.

  “Wait—come back—that’s a family heirloom—” the violinist sputters, reaching out helplessly toward the man who robbed him. He glances around him, his disbelief hanging on his haggard face like one of the low, lonely notes from the tune he was just playing.

  No one passing by stops to help. No one pauses to ask if he’s all right. No one seems to care.

  For a second, Kash and I glance at each other, mouths dangling. And then I close mine, determined. The dark-suited man is getting away. My muscles tense, and my fists tighten at my side. As I start down the street after him, I feel the familiar heat and prickling building in my palms.

  “Bianca, don’t!” Kash begs, using my full name for emphasis. She trails at my heels, trying to keep up.

  But I’m darting and weaving through the people on the sidewalk too quickly. Keeping him in my sights. Biding my time. Waiting for an opportunity.

  An opportunity to do what, exactly, I’m not quite sure yet. But I have a feeling I’ll know when the time comes. I always do. I’m a Mus
e, after all. I’m creativity incarnate.

  Finally, the man turns right at an intersection. In a moment, he’ll disappear around the corner of a building and I’ll never see him again. This is my chance. I have to take it.

  My heart beats against my ribcage like a metronome at high speed. I scan the road for a break in the traffic. Just. One. More. Taxi. Then the coast is clear.

  I dart across the street toward him just as he slips into the crowd again. My calculations are off, though. A car swerves to miss hitting me. The driver leans on the horn and shouts out the window.

  “Watch where you’re going!”

  But I’m already across the street.

  And the man is already gone.

  I whirl in circles, searching for him among the people around me. Each heading someplace different—to work or home, school or the park. A hundred different lives on every street, all unique, all beautiful. But the man in black isn’t one of them. I’ve missed him.

  Unless …

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of bright green down a nearby alley.

  His handkerchief.

  Tentatively, I step forward into the shadows. Wooden crates and cardboard boxes are stacked everywhere, and mice scamper out of my way as if racing for their lives. Thanks to the dumpster overflowing with scraps from the French restaurant around the corner, the whole space stinks of mustiness and decay. And further down, a door creaks, then slams against the brick façade of the building as it opens.

  “You have the parcel, I assume, Butler?” The man’s voice is thin and haughty, a tightrope that the person he’s visiting must cross to gain his approval.

  My heartbeat quickens. I duck behind a nearby stack of crates and stand on tiptoe, hiding while trying to see over them. It’s no use, though. All I manage is a partial view: the tuft of green in the pocket of the man’s suit coat and the gray metal of the door behind him.