Circle of the Moon

by H. P. Mallory

  I then looked up and settled my gaze on Emma as she furiously penned her test, all the while chewing on her lower lip. I returned my attention to the letter before me.

  you will have to up your game.

  SD

  I slid the letter into my desk. I’d mail it at the end of the day. Yes, mail was slow and redundant in these modern times, but my brand of mail was different to the US post office. Once I returned to my dismal bedroom, I would summon an entity to deliver my message directly to Sinclair on his yacht.

  “Twenty minutes remaining,” I said to the class.

  I leaned back in my desk chair. Looked from the chalkboard to the students.

  They were all doing pretty much the same three moves: stare at paper, stare at ceiling, stare at pencil.

  Occasionally, one of them actually wrote something down. Thrilling stuff.

  Why would anyone ever do this job on purpose?

  My mother had instilled the importance of “always looking on the bright side of life” from a very young age. At the thought, I began humming the Monty Python song of the same title. I liked it as it reminded me of my mother, which reminded me of my gypsy heritage which, in turn, reminded me of the question: how much longer will I have to stay put in this place?

  At first, I’d had trouble spotting the benefits of my unexpected professorial career. For the first few hours, I couldn’t find anything at Elmington that didn’t make me want to run for the hills. Of course, I was a different man then. Now, a few days older and wiser, I saw the bright spot clearly... I’d seen it the second I sat down on that bench outside Principal Grabelle’s office, as soon as I saw her doing that crossword. Which she was quite shit at, I might add.

  I looked at Emma where she sat in the back of the classroom with her friends.

  The red-headed boy and the girl with short, sparkly purple hair.

  She sat between them, her eyes downcast, and her golden hair shining in the fluorescent light.

  I shifted my head, left to right. It was important not to stare at her for too long. Still, time and again, she pulled my gaze back to her. Like a charm or magnetic field, I simply couldn’t tear my attention away from her.

  She wore her uniform, a bit unkempt but flattering on her smooth, gentle curves. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder. It spooled in wavy rivulets on her desk. I wondered what it would feel like between my fingers.

  Probably silk and sunshine, I thought. All the finer things at once. Get a grip, Draper! I shook my head at myself, but couldn’t stop the thoughts flooding my mind.

  I’d known she was special the moment I saw her.

  Since I was a boy, I’ve had a sixth sense about people, always able to know the truth of someone whether they offered that truth freely or not. I couldn’t read minds. It was more like sensing souls. And what I’d sensed in Emma had sent my heart careening out of my chest like a bat out of hell.

  Everyone’s energy reacts differently with everyone else’s. Like elements on the periodic table, there are an infinite number of combinations. And results range from beneficial to catastrophic. But this woman... I’d never felt such a reaction to a woman before. It was like I was… drawn to her. As though she had placed a spell on me. Which, of course, was silly to even consider because Emma wasn’t good at anything magical. She could no sooner ensnare me with a love charm than she could get an A on this test.

  But there was something within her all the same. Something powerful and something capable. It just hadn’t awoken yet.

  Furthermore, Emma’s energy did strange things to mine.

  As soon as I’d sat next to her on that narrow wooden bench outside the principal’s office, I’d felt it. Alive, alert, awake, and utterly enraptured with the image of her face. True enough, I’d had my fair share of beautiful women… each one of them, a treasure unto themselves, but I’d never had this sort of instant, physical reaction to someone before.

  Everything about Emma Balfour enchanted me: the subtle wave of her blonde hair, her impossibly blue eyes, her sweet voice, and the dimple on her left cheek.

  Aaaaand... you’re staring again.

  I averted my eyes.

  Out of my periphery, I saw that chatty trio of witches twirling their fingers in their hair. Three girls, two rows in front of Emma and a good ways to the left, stared at me through suggestively slanted eyes. I racked my brain for their names. Odd ones, I remembered that much: Ella-something, Trixie, and…

  Sorry, blondie, I’m drawing a blank.

  Was it Algeria? Algernon? I remembered it sounded like a prescription medication... eh, I’d think of it eventually.

  Or I wouldn’t.

  Didn’t matter.

  The girls made googly eyes in my direction, and I averted my gaze again. I could only hope this wouldn’t become a habit of theirs. Surely, the young women at this academy knew better than to let a new teacher become any sort of preoccupation.

  Even if he was debonair, handsome and charming…

  Regardless of my charisma, I was growing less and less sure of myself with each passing day at Elmington. The best I could do was discourage any attention from my students. I stared down at my desk, replacing the quill in the ink.

  I stretched my neck up.

  Let my eyes roam.

  Found myself looking at Emma again…

  Dammit.

  Her head leaned further to the left, exposing the graceful line of her collarbone, a thoughtful look on her angelic face.

  She squinted down at her desk, pencil eraser pressed to her temple. And she chewed that lower lip again. She was going to drive me to distraction. Actually, she already had.

  My chest tightened a bit. She reminded me of something long lost and lovely—a Greek goddess or Romani legend of old. I searched my mind for what that thing was. My gaze never left Emma.

  Look away, man.

  My eyes snapped to the clock on the wall. It was directly above the door. The minute needle jerked past the 5, shaking the clock with every motion.

  I looked back to Emma. She looked up, as if she could feel my eyes on her.

  Our gazes locked.

  She surprised me by not immediately looking away.

  I felt a subtle warmth spread through my chest, down to my stomach. I was on edge, like every nerve ending in my body had stood to attention at the sight of her.

  She blinked, looked back to her test, a perplexed expression on her face.

  I blinked as well, but the spell didn’t break.

  I should’ve told her I was a teacher straight off—when we’d first encountered one another outside the principal’s office. Yes, I should have, but there was something in her eyes when we met. The way her eyes sparkled, telling of her obvious attraction towards me. My attraction towards her.

  Maybe I was worried she wouldn’t look at her professor the same way.

  Really, titles were so very arbitrary. And, truthfully, I was as far from a real professor as it was possible to be. But Sinclair’s connections truly knew no bounds. A little compulsion, some falsified records, and Bam! I was suddenly a learned professor of charms, specializing in divinatory magic with a research emphasis in…hexonomy? Or was it some historical crap? I’d have to check the stupid file. It really didn’t matter. Gypsies had more to teach these pompous potion peddlers than they could ever learn from stale, old books.

  The Romani sorcerers have always been unmatched in their gifts. It’s why they have always been so careful about others joining the bloodline. Naturally, they put in a few fail-safes, trying to keep our magic from mixing with others not of our bloodline and, thus, polluting it.

  I’m of the blood.

  My powers aren’t only natural, but the defining fabric of my being. In Romani culture, someone’s magic is more telling than DNA. It’s an inextricable part of you. Even when Sinclair turned me into a vampire, my Romani blood fought the change, and the magics clashed. The sorcerers of old couldn’t keep creatures of dark magic at bay entirely, but our blood met t
heir bite with resistance.

  When Sinclair turned me, my Romani blood refused to mix with his vampiric magic, and I ended up as a blood-sucking gypsy witch, belonging in no category, stuck with the worst of both lives.

  I need blood to live, but not as often as a normal vampire does. I can walk in the sun, but it stings like a second skin of angry fire ants. And, as I haven’t aged for the last hundred years, I’m assuming the immortality thing is part of my unique package as well.

  But this world of well-off witches was not my own. The pomp and artifice of it all made my skin crawl. Such a disingenuous way to learn magic—trapped in a box with an expired textbook.

  With all the magic in Salem right outside their doors... How do they all stand it?

  Still, I knew I had to play by the academy’s rules, by Sinclair’s rules.

  And not obsessively staring at a student while she tried to take a test was probably listed under some obscure statute in the staff handbook.

  Painstakingly, I forced my gaze back to the clock. My eyes went wide when I registered the time.

  Is that clock right? I thought. Have I really been staring at her all this time?

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Wild women are the spark of life. A man could lose track of the hour of day while staring into the eyes of a fierce feminine force.

  Looking at Emma, a man could lose all his bearings within time and space…

  “Two minutes remaining.”

  The students made muted noises of frustration, then promptly returned to their tests. Some wrote faster, scribbling in frenzied movements. Others gave up the facade of working, put their pencils down, and stared straight ahead with a despairing look on their faces.

  Might have to curve this one, I thought. The students at Elmington are despairing enough without my interference.

  I hoped no one noticed me staring at Emma.

  The last thing she needed was me causing problems between her classmates and her. And the last thing I needed were rumors that worked their way into the faculty of Elmington.

  Regardless, I needed to see Emma after class. I opened my drawer again and grabbed a stack of papers from beneath the letter. I placed them on my desk, rifling through to find a suitably unimportant sheet.

  About halfway through the pile, I read: Notice to remind students of updated dress code parameters.

  Perfect.

  I tore off a scrap from the bottom corner.

  My quill sat in a pot of ink.

  The feather was grey. It darkened as it grew, fading to pitch black at its neatly pointed tip. I took it up again and scribbled a few choice words:

  Miss Balfour,

  See me after class.

  SD

  I crumpled the note in my fist. Stared at the clock. The second hand ticked against the hour. I squeezed the crushed parchment and snapped my fingers at the classroom.

  The pencils disappeared from hands. A chorus of groans from the students.

  I always liked that trick.

  “That’s all for the day,” I said. “Congratulations on surviving the first exam.”

  The class responded with sighs of relief and a lone “Wooh!” of unknown origin.

  As her classmates made their mass exodus, Emma looked at her hand in confusion. She opened her palm and there appeared the note I’d just penned. She uncrumpled the missive, read it, furrowed her brow, and looked up. I nodded her over.

  She packed up her things, walked down the stairs toward me, her test clutched in her hands. Each of the students followed suit, dropping their tests off in the basket on the corner of my desk, closest to the door. Her hair bounced a bit as she moved, like a wavy waterfall of gold. She waited until the last student made his way from the room and then she faced me.

  “Professor Draper?” she asked. I hated the formality between us, but it was what it was.

  “I have something for you.”

  “Something for me?” She looked confused but undeniably pleased. “Wait, this isn’t like some weird bait and switch where you tell me you have something for me and then whip out a test with a big red F on it, is it?”

  I chuckled and reached under my desk. “Professor Tarkington really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

  She laughed. Like church bells or a bird song.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I guess I can be a pessimist sometimes.”

  “Behind every pessimist, cynic, and doubter in the world is an open-hearted dreamer the world let down.”

  Her blue eyes shined, and a thoughtful expression appeared on her face.

  “Something my mother used to say,” I quickly explained.

  A gentle smile returned to her face. She let out a thoughtful laugh, as if she’d found something amusing between the cracks of the words.

  “Your mother sounds like a wise woman,” she said. “Is that what you have for me? Sage advice?”

  “Not just now, but I’m sure I can come up with something.” I presented Emma with the messenger bag I’d gotten for her. She squinted at it, then looked up at me, a question in her eyes.

  “How’s this for sage advice?” I asked. “Travel with your familiar at all times.”

  “I know.” Emma huffed her understanding, and disappointment. “I wanted to bring her, but she’s not exactly easy to cart around…”

  “Emma.” I interrupted as I placed my hand on her shoulder. I just… I just had to touch her. A jolt of energy passed between us. I didn’t move my hand though. I couldn’t be sure whether or not she felt it, but if she didn’t, pulling my hand away from her, like I’d just touched a hot stove, would probably tip her off. My palm tingled against her shoulder. Like it contained a volatile charge. I brought both hands back to the bag and held it out to her.

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but the vast majority of your classmate’s familiars are much smaller than a python,” I said. “Your peers can carry their iguanas and kittens and turtles around easily enough. Your two-hundred-pound snake, on the other hand, will need some means of carriage, ideally one that doesn’t put all the snake’s weight on you…”

  “True,” she started, but still appeared reserved.

  I took the bag by the strap. “May I?”

  Emma nodded, lifting her arm a bit. I draped the messenger bag over her shoulder, dropping the bulk of it by her hip. She stared at the bag, clearly impressed by its weightlessness. The bag felt like air no matter what was inside it. I knew because I’d worn something similar for years.

  Emma opened the flap and the Velcro caught on her shirt, lifting it. I reached out, intending to unstick the fabric, but my hand brushed the skin of her stomach, just above her belly-button. This time, the shock wasn’t subtle. It zapped between us like a tiny arch of lightning. Jarring, invigorating, and impossible to ignore.

  What the hell?

  Emma turned back to me. Our eyes locked. I asked her wordlessly if I’d imagined the charge between us. The alertness in her eyes answered: she’d felt it too.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time,” I said swiftly.

  She nodded. Glancing up, she met my eyes.

  Is that a blush?

  I could’ve imagined it, but there appeared to be a rosiness in her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. Somehow, she looked even more lovely.

  “Thank you, Professor…”

  “Stone.” I interrupted without thinking. My mother would’ve chastised me for my thoughtless tongue just then, but with Emma’s warm, electrifying gaze on me, I just couldn’t stop myself. “Call me Stone.”

  Emma’s pink lips turned up a touch, a slight twitch of both corners.

  “Thank you for the bag... Stone.”

  My pulse thumped harder. The sound of her saying my name struck a chord deep inside me. It felt right, true. When Emma said my name, I felt like she could see the man behind the name. She knew the truth of him, and he knew it of her…

  Christ, you sound like a madman, I thought to myself.

  It was true, but I
couldn’t help the thoughts any more than I could help the feelings. There was something about her that spoke to me, and I couldn’t ignore it. No more than I could stop breathing. Of course, I couldn’t tell her either.

  This job really is a son of a bitch. And so is Sinclair, for that matter.

  Emma smiled and said goodbye. Her hands toyed with the pockets and zippers on the bag as she walked away. When she reached the door, she turned back. A small smile, and a slight wave. Her eyes sparkled... just like they had outside the principal’s office.

  And then she disappeared out the door and down the hallway.

  I sat in the chair by my desk. I ran my hands through my hair, a frustrated tick I’d have to keep an eye on. My elbows rested on my knees. I leaned forward, let my head hang, and let out a long, put-upon sigh.

  I would never turn down an order from my maker, no matter what it was.

  But protecting Emma and keeping my head on straight were proving to be much more difficult than I’d previously thought.

  FOUR

  BRYN

  I was lying in a field of poppies, a loose white dress brushing the soft skin of my thighs. Petals and leaves clung to the fabric. Sunlight dappled my dewy skin through the wavy grass. Every breath brought a burst of refreshing coolness to my lungs. The sunbeams were warm on my face. I felt my cheeks turn rosy in the gentle heat. For a moment, I saw my own reflection in the sky, like it was a clear blue river. My face hadn’t changed in ten years, so it still seemed like the face of a thirty-year-old woman, one of the perks of being a witch, but here—in whatever this place was—I had no age, no name, no titles. I was just me… like a spirit flying free in the wind.

  Everything swayed gently. The meadow swept me up in a ballet of graceful motion, never still, never moving, always ebbing and flowing with the breeze.

  A shadow fell across my face. I blinked rapidly, trying to sit up, to see what obstructed the sun’s lovely warmth. The shadow’s cold presence evaporated in a moment. I didn’t give it another thought.

  The chill on my skin faded away. I laid back into the grass. The poppies tickled my toes, and the ground molded itself to my back. Rising and falling in a gentle massage.