by Dante King
“Capture the Flag sounds pretty self-explanatory,” I said, “but what about the others?”
“Well, Obstacle Course Race—OCR—is basically a race through an obstacle course, between teams, where you can use spells to trip up and take out the opposition,” said Nigel.
“Monster Slaying is where we take on a bunch of monsters and see how many we can kill within a set time limit,” Rick said. “Much like how we took on those skellies!”
“And Death Match?” I said. “Surely, it’s not like the gladiator fights back in the times of the goddamn Romans! Weren’t we supposed to have moved in from bloody fights to the death?”
“I’m unfamiliar with who the Romans are,” Bradley said, “but a Death Match is not precisely a fight to the death.”
“The aim of that particular game,” Damien said, leaning forward enthusiastically, “is to try and take out all of your opponents, but a special kind of magic allows the players to ‘respawn’ when they’re killed.”
“Holy shit, like a real-life magical Call of Duty?” I asked. “That sounds epic!”
Damien nodded. “There are risks though, since even re-spawning can make a player who’s died during the game go crazy. But Death Matches are the ones that draw the crowds and offer the greatest rewards for guys and girls who fight in them.”
I sat back in my chair, only one thought burning in my mind, as if it had been written there in neon light; I want in.
“Still,” Nigel said, sliding his plate over to Rick who grabbed it and started guzzling, “I doubt any of us will need to worry about the freaking Mage Games.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Look at our fraternity! Five members. All of us outcasts or misfits. We don’t even have a resident poltergeist!”
I shook my head. “Nigel, what the fuck are you talking about?” I asked. “Why would we need a resident poltergeist floating about the place? Aren’t poltergeists supposed to be a pain in the ass? You ever seen Ghostbusters, man?”
Nigel ignored my reference and said, “You don’t get it, Justin, poltergeists aren’t just spooky creatures that haunt the house and annoy everyone. Within the Mazirian Academy, each fraternity has a poltergeist that acts as their patron. Technically, we’re not even a proper frat. I don’t know what Chaosbane was up to setting us up here without one.”
“Hold up,” I said, “and just tell me why we need a poltergeist patron? It all sounds nutty as squirrel shit to me, and that’s saying something after the day I’ve had.”
“Poltergeists provide significant upgrades and rewards for shit that we do at the Academy,” Damien explained.
“What sort of upgrades? Where?” I asked.
“To the frat house,” Flamewalker said. “Special training rooms, regen-stations that heal and rest you—make you feel as if you’ve had nine hours sleep with just a magically-induced twenty-minute nap, cellars with magical mead that makes you drunk but also helps you memorize for tests. That sort of thing.”
Nigel flicked his wand disconsolately at an empty bottle, and it flew across the room before smashing against the wall. “Without a poltergeist,” he said, “we won’t stand a chance in even getting into the Mage Games.”
I stood up. Maybe it was the mead talking, maybe it was my natural optimism, but I was damned if I was going to listen to any more of this bullshit.
“Are you guys fucking kidding me?” I asked the table. “I just saw all of us take down about a hundred rabid skeletons—drunk! Do you expect me to listen to your negativity after seeing that gnarly shit? Hell no.”
“That was luck,” Bradley said.
“Shut up, house-bitch,” I said mildly. “Even if it was luck—blind, dumb or divine—we still made it through. Even if we don’t have a poltergeist yet, all we have to do is train harder, longer, and smarter than the competition. From what I saw at the pool, the other students were typical rich kids—not unlike our newest fraternity bitch here,” and I nodded at Bradley. “He underestimated us and look what happened.”
Bradley had the good grace to nod grudgingly.
“Everything they have has been handed to them on a silver platter. I assume, therefore, that they’re not going to work as hard as us and that they’re going to be a little too complacent when it comes to regarding us as a challenge. It’s true as a rule, so there’ll be exceptions, but still—we’ve got a fucking shot, guys.”
“And sometimes,” Rick rumbled, “one shot is all you need.”
I pointed at the big Islander, who had decorated his amiable face with goulash sauce. “What that guy said,” I said, smacking my fist on the table.
“Island law says that the worm is the only creature that cannot fall down,” Rick stated.
I sighed. “Rick, man, I really wish I knew if that was a good thing or not,” I said.
Chapter Eight
It was quite a bit later on that I hauled my ass out of my chair at the table and made my way upstairs. I rebounded off a couple of walls on my way out of the dining room—that damn mead really went down easy and snuck up on me—and walked out into the rundown hallway. Rick had given me directions on how to get to my room, and I stared up at the looming staircase that twisted up and around, disappearing into the shadows above.
It had been a long, unpredictable day, that was for sure—but easily one of the best of my life. Finding out that magic really existed, that I’d be inducted into a wizarding academy… What was not to love about that? Not only that either; I’d found out that I was some sort of rare Creation Mage, a wizard that was otherwise known as a Sex Mage. I couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow would bring, when I actually got to start my magical education.
With a contented sigh, I started up the thickly carpeted stairs, the dense and dusty shag pile muffling my footsteps as I ascended into the gloom of the fraternity house. It was, in my opinion, just the sort of building that a fraternity needed to occupy. Sure, it looked as if it had been a little neglected as of late, but the place had character—and who the hell wanted to live in some boring, pristine box? This place had the potential to be the epicenter of some absolutely epic parties, if I had anything to do with it. I grinned as I ran my hand up one of the ornately carved banisters.
Hot damn, I am going to have some fun in this world!
The windows of the frat house were all of the tall, Gothic, lattice-worked type. They were the sort that you could easily imagine Dracula crashing through in a shower of bats. Heavy maroon curtains that matched the color of the carpet fell to either side of the grand windows. The walls were paneled in dark wood, while the light fittings looked to be of brass and gold and glowed with a ghostly orange light, like the cozier variety of will-’o’-the-wisp. The walls themselves were hung with dark, obscured paintings of what I assumed were old fraternity members. I glanced at a few as I strolled contentedly along, but most of them were so darkened with age, or faded, that I couldn’t make much out. Whereas, back in the human world, I might have been able to at least decipher how old the paintings were by the cut or style of the clothing the subjects were wearing, in the wizarding world that was impossible. All their outfits looked equally outlandish—and fantastic in their uniqueness—to me.
As I tripped along a balcony that ran off from the main staircases, I found myself staring up at a couple of large pictures that were, compared to all the others that I had seen so far, in quite good condition. There was a slight glow to them, as if the canvases were being illuminated by a spotlight, though I couldn’t see one anywhere. Each one depicted a mage—one female, the other male—caught in the midst of performing some obviously eyeball-searing magic. The guy was wielding a black staff, the woman a white one. I was not usually one to appreciate art, but something about these paintings resonated with me. I stopped and tried to blink the booze from my eyes. I focused in one the faces of the subjects.
“What the hell?”
I blinked, trying to clear my eyes again. I wasn’t sure if it was the booze or the painting itself, but I c
ouldn’t seem to see or focus on the faces. Were they just smeared? Somehow, I didn’t think so. However, it’d been a long-ass day, and I wasn’t quite in the frame of mind needed to puzzle out this little conundrum.
The way to my room was long and winding but, when I got there, I was not disappointed. There was no doubt that the door I was face-to-face with led to my quarters. Whether by some magic of the frat house itself, or by an extremely diligent and efficient carpenter, there was a beautiful, foot-high carving of my vector—my good old staff—etched in the middle of the heavy wooden portrait.
I clasped the brass doorknob and swung the door open. It even had the prescribed Gothic creak. The room beyond was swathed in darkness, but as the door opened, the antique-looking light fixtures around the walls bloomed softly into life. There was no hum of electricity, no flicker of bulbs warming up, or gas flame stuttering, so I assumed that the light was powered by some sort of intrinsic magic that resided inside the building.
All the convenience of modern life, with none of the environmental footprint, I thought. Greta Thunberg would love it here.
“Nice,” I muttered to myself, standing on the threshold.
Small as our frat was, I’d hoped that I wouldn’t have to share a room with any of the other guys. I knew that that was part and parcel of these sort of setups–and I’d had a roommate in college, so I knew what it was like—but I’d been privately hoping that the whole magic thing might be able to stretch to seeing fraternity brothers getting their own rooms. Damien had put my mind at ease when I had broached the subject with him, telling me that, as far as he was aware, our frat house had ten bedchambers. Seeing as there were only five current members, this obviously meant that everyone had their own space. This was a-okay with me. Don’t get me wrong, I liked other guys just fine—I even thought that Bradley might not be as big a tool as he initially seemed, now that he’d been served a nice fat slice of humble pie—but I also liked the freedom of sleeping naked and not having to worry about how much noise I made if I brought a girl home.
What Damien had neglected to tell me however, was what our rooms were like.
A big smile spread across my face as I surveyed my new bedroom.
“Fucking nice,” I said again.
The first thing I noticed about my new bedchamber was the size: nice and large. It was high-ceilinged with decorative moldings running around where the ceilings met the walls. Faded red wallpaper covered the walls. It was peeling in places, in a manner that reminded me of the shabby chic way that coffee houses and bistros had started being decorated back in my world. I glanced fleetingly at an enormous king-sized bed up against one wall—it looked like it had been carved out of a redwood and weighed about two tons—with an insanely worked headboard, depicting a witch and a wizard having, what looked like, one hell of a duel. At the foot of the bed was one of those fancy chaise longues that everyone in Entourage or House of Cards seems to have at the end of their beds. A solid wooden wardrobe that looked like it preyed on and ate other smaller pieces of furniture squatted in one corner. The door was ajar, and I could see that the recent purchases that I had made with Enwyn in town were hanging within.
This abrupt reminder of the gorgeous, Gothic woman who had turned my world inside-out and upside-down, suddenly got my blood to heating within my veins. I realized that, in the perfect world, this incredible day would have ended with me doing the horizontal tango with some wonderful, naked female—or females. A little, selfish, horny part of me mourned for my mobile phone and the address book that was crammed with ‘radio-station’ girls. These were lovely, obliging ladies who almost anyone could pick up, especially at night.
Trying to get my imagination under control, I walked across the room toward a door that led off of the bedroom. I nudged this one open with my toe and, once again, the magical lights in their frosted orbs glowed into life.
“Hallelujah,” I said in a soft voice. It was a bathroom. A private bathroom. As with every other facet of this fraternity house that I had seen so far, it was slightly shabby and had seen better days. I could tell though, that, under the peeling gilt paint of the feet on the enormous claw-footed bathtub and the spider web of cracks across the ceiling, this would once have been one hell of a place to powder your nose. The benchtop was marble, the mirror behind it spotted and marked with black where it had desilvered over the years. The taps were a little rusty, a little stiff, but the water that poured from them when I cracked them was clear as crystal. There was a shower, with a head as round as a dinner plate, and some towels stacked on a spindly antique chair in one corner.
“Well,” I said to the room, “thank fuck that I’m not sharing a bathroom—especially with Rick.”
He was a big boy, and I hated to think what state his poor old toilet would be in after all that borscht.
Well, if I was fated to spend the night alone, I thought I might as well make use of the facilities. I stripped off, leaned my staff against the wall, cracked the single stiff handle and was rewarded with instant hot water and steam. It looked like there wouldn’t be any of that pesky waiting about while the boiler sorted itself out, like there was at my uncle’s house. I stuck a hand under the jet of water gushing down. It was slightly on the cool side for me—I was looking forward to a really nice hot shower, to help loosen up the muscles across my back and shoulders that had done so much of the work when it came to kicking the skellies’ asses. As I looked around for some sort of temperature knob, I caught sight of my back in the huge mirror. I had one hell of a bruise already forming down one side of my spine.
Must’ve been when Bradley smacked me over that mausoleum, I thought, grinning and shaking my head. Ah well, what’s a bruise in the grand scheme of things.
It seemed like a small price to pay for the fun that the boys and I had had out in that graveyard.
“Man, it’s almost perfect,” I said, sticking my hand under the shower again. “Just needs to be a few degrees hotter.”
Instantly, the temperature of the gushing water rose a notch.
“No way…” I said.
Keeping my hand under the shower, I said, “Ice cold.”
In a heartbeat, the water changed from lusciously hot to glacial cold.
“Shit, go back to how you were!” I said on impulse.
The water returned to its blissfully warm state.
I stepped into the shower, beaming from ear to ear. “Just when I don’t think this place can get any better,” I said to the shower.
After a good ten minutes, I shut off the shower, stepped out, and wrapped myself in a towel. I brushed my teeth with an already waiting toothbrush, then padded through into my bedroom, leaving wet footsteps across the marble which, had I looked behind me, I might have noticed almost instantly evaporated.
The lights in my room appeared to have dimmed further, as if the bedchamber itself sensed that I was about to hit the hay. The curtains across the tall, thin windows were drawn with the same heavy curtains that adorned the rest of the house.
“What a day,” I sighed, dropping the towel and sliding into the vast bed. “What a goddamn amazing day.”
I enjoyed one of those rare moments that you sometimes get to experience in life; when everything seems to have aligned and you are truly, perfectly happy. The magical globes dimmed further, somehow imbuing my room with the same sort of comfortable, warm atmosphere that I imagined you’d find in the very best gentlemen’s clubs. All that was missing was the smell of brandy and cigars.
Then, something brushed up against the side of my leg.
I jumped out of bed, naked as the day I was born, and suddenly as tense and highly strung as an electric guitar on amphetamines. I stood, unconsciously having adopted a fighting stance, and looked at the bed. Somehow, my staff had appeared in my hand, though I was sure that I had left it in the bathroom. I pointed it at my bed, hoping that I wasn’t going to have to blow it apart—from my brief experience of it, it was extremely comfortable. In the dimness, I could make ou
t that the rumpled bed clothes were moving slightly. Then, I heard a soft and seductive chuckle—almost a purr.
“Who,” I said, in a calm and level tone, “the hell is that?”
There was another chuckle, whatever was in the bed squirmed again and then a head popped up from under the sheets.
I lowered the staff, and my eyes lit up.
“Enwyn Emberskull,” I said. “Is this all part of my induction?”
Enwyn’s sleek black hair was mussed and rumpled around her face in an extremely attractive fashion. Her red lips glistened in the subdued glow of the lamps on the wall. From the little I could see of her that was not concealed by the bed sheet, it appeared that she had dispensed with at least her top. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes—hell, you didn’t need to be his dog, Toby—to calculate that the chances of her wearing any clothes at all were probably pretty slim. She was, I couldn’t help but notice, still wearing her black-rimmed glasses. This gave her a very, very sexy naughty teacher vibe.
She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Well, whatever it might be, it seems that it’s certainly not a fashion parade…”
I looked down at my naked self, then back up at the beautiful woman lying in my bed–my admissions officer.
“Honestly,” I said, “any other day, this scenario might have caught me on the hop. Not so much after today.”
Enwyn smiled, the corners of her dark eyes crinkling.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying the show,” I said.
“Clearly, not quite as much as you are,” she replied.
I looked down and saw what she was talking about. It seemed that, whereas I might be a little behind the run of play, my junk was not—I was at half-mast, and I felt like things were not going to stop there.
I’d got myself into all sorts of situations during college, and I had found that one thing that would help you in most unforeseen circumstances was confidence—sometimes the best thing you could do was dispense with the excuses and just own the situation.