Fantastic Schools: Volume One (Fantastic Schools Anthologies Book 1)

by Christopher G Nuttall

Nothing happened in the moments afterwards, not that Kara was surprised, even that the potion was an effect in the mind, rather than a physical change. Kara wasn’t sure how Seraphina was to prove that it worked, but assumed that had been worked out with Celesse ahead of time.

  The grin on Seraphina’s face faltered about ten seconds after the potion had been imbibed. Her expression pinched to a point as if she had indigestion.

  Then it got worse.

  Seraphina went from mild concern to full on panic within two blinks.

  As she held her stomach screaming, everyone in attendance backed away, even Celesse though she lacked the naked concern that everyone else exhibited.

  “It hurts, it hurts,” said Seraphina, reaching out with one hand while the other was on her distended stomach. “Someone help me!”

  Crimson blotches formed across her porcelain skin as she slowly crumpled over, screaming at a high pitch. Most of the assembled students ran from the grand hall, but Kara stayed to watch as Seraphina’s stomach expanded as if she had swallowed an expanding basketball.

  When the end came, Kara looked away, but she heard the pop of a balloon and the sploosh of liquid splattering across the wooden floor.

  “I thought she was going to win it,” said Nifemi a few hours later as they sat in a secluded part of the hall library.

  Kara chewed on her lower lip. “Her mixture had the same problem mine had, except hers exploded in her stomach.”

  Nifemi’s lips wrinkled with disgust. “I should have looked away. I don’t think I’ll sleep for month.”

  “The mixture seemed to have a secondary,” said Kara, but the words trailed into nothingness as the binding kicked in, silencing her voice, but the words continued on in her head.

  ...reaction which meant the mixture required a transformational additive to deal with the pressure expansion...

  Both potions had exploded because the potions were incomplete. They needed one more addition to make them work, but Kara stopped thinking about it as she realized Nifemi was staring at her.

  “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I...I, uhm, think I know why it, she, exploded, and how to fix it,” said Kara.

  “You’re not serious, are you?” asked Nifemi in horror.

  “Deadly serious,” said Kara as she stood up. “And I know what the potion is missing, and where to find it.”

  “Kara, please no, I can’t watch that again,” said Nifemi.

  Kara put a hand on her best friend’s arm. “I’m sorry. I have to. It’s just what I have to do.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not there to watch then,” said Nifemi, who looked like she was going to be sick. “I think I’m going to take a sleeping potion and sleep through the next week.”

  Kara found Gran on the seventh floor in the Supernatural Ward sitting on an examination table with her prosthetic leg bouncing. Jeanine Wilde had steel gray hair and the resting expression of someone who’d been through multiple wars. Even through her plaid shirt, the ripple of muscle could be seen on her lean arms.

  “Little wolf,” said Gran, kissing Kara on the forehead when she approached, then searching her face. “Finally done with that cockamamie contest?”

  Kara swallowed before answering. She couldn’t show weakness to her Gran, or there’d be no convincing her.

  “No,” said Kara. “Not yet. I still have a chance to win it. Today’s the last day.”

  Gran’s eyes narrowed as she let out a small sigh. “I heard what happened to that Astor girl. Rough way to go.”

  “It wasn’t pretty, but we all knew the risks when we signed up,” said Kara. “Just like you did, just like mom.”

  Gran raised her prosthetic arm. “And here I am with half my limbs missing, a hankering for raw meat every time the moon is full, and a daughter I can hardly picture anymore it’s been so long since she died.”

  “I can win, Gran.”

  Gran’s expression stayed hard. “You can explode like a balloon like that other girl, too. Why are you here? You didn’t ask my permission to enter the contest, not that you needed it since you’re a grown-ass woman, but why this visit? Cold feet?”

  “No,” said Kara. “I need some blood. I can’t tell you why, but I think you can figure it out.”

  Jeanine leaned back, nostrils flaring. “Are you sure? Let’s say I give this to you, and you explode like a gastronomic firecracker, how is that going to make me feel? How will I deal with that on top of everything else?”

  Kara kept her gaze locked with her Gran. “You’ve always taught me to make my own decisions and live with the consequences, just like you did, and mom. I can’t claim to understand what it’s like to be a parent, but I’m sure it’s hard to see your children making mistakes, especially fatal ones. But this is my life. These are my goals. I want to win this contest.”

  “Why? Why do you want to win? Tell me, an honest answer, no bullshit, and I’ll give you my blood for your potion,” said Jeanine.

  Kara didn’t answer right away, because the reasons were complicated. Of course, she’d joined because she wanted to win the money to give to her Gran, but there was also a measure of pride, she wanted to finish what her Gran and mother had started, but she knew that Jeanine wouldn’t part with her blood for any of those shallow answers. They weren’t the truth, either.

  “I don’t have a clean answer for you,” said Kara eventually. “All I can say is that the craft of alchemy burns in my gut. I couldn’t imagine not doing this contest, not attempting this final potion, even if it costs my life. I want to be the best. I want to put everything I’ve learned to use. Of course, I want to make you proud, I want to honor mom, but mostly I want to make myself proud. I want to do this for myself.”

  Her Gran looked pained by the answer, but nodded reluctantly. “That’s about the only answer I would have accepted.” She raised her voice. “Hey nurse! Get the hell in here, pronto. I need a blood sample taken.”

  Mixing the second elixir, this time with the addition of lycanthrope blood to help the catalyst transform the mixture into the proper form, went without a hint of explosion. At the forty-five-minute mark, the pressure maintained the expected levels, leaving Kara with a sense of relief.

  There was only an hour left in the day when the potion was finished. It was still warm when she met Celesse in a private chamber. Kara silently noted that the carpets had been removed.

  “Are you sure about this?” asked Celesse.

  “Nothing is ever sure,” said Kara, then after a pause asked, “May I ask a question?”

  “Ask yes? But I offer no guarantee of an answer,” said Celesse.

  “The contest,” said Kara, thinking about Nifemi’s observations. “I think you hold it every year to remind us about the dangers of alchemy, of hubris, but I also think you hold it so that we might learn something of ourselves.”

  Celesse squinted slightly. “That sounded like a statement to me. Is there a question?”

  “No, I guess not,” said Kara, seeing a truth about herself she’d missed before.

  Celesse nodded. “Shall we? You only have a half hour left. Drink your potion and then give me a command, something I would not do normally.”

  Kara removed the stopper and placed the glass against her lips, tipping her arm backwards to let the Elixir of Weirding slide down her throat tasting like black licorice.

  At first, a rumble in her gut formed, giving her a moment of panic, but then a tingle went up her spine, and her whole brain felt like it was covered in mint. As her mind expanded, feeling like it had tendrils that encompassed the whole room, she focused on Patron Celesse, who watched with wide, interested eyes.

  Kara considered what command to give to Celesse, quickly dismissing the most wicked ones, since that would do her no favors after the contest, but she wanted her command to be memorable. Celesse watched quietly, hands folded in front, waiting for proof.

  The answer, when it came to Kara, felt right, whole. Without knowing
exactly how she did it, the elixir provided a measure of intuition, Kara placed a suggestion into Celesse’s mind. It wasn’t immutable, as her patron’s ancient mind was substantially resistant to magical commands, but it was enough for her to know it for truth.

  Celesse’s exquisite eyebrow arched. “Really? That’s what you want?”

  “Yes,” said Kara, thinking of her Jeanine and Nifemi’s reactions, and the impact to Lex and Seraphina.

  Celesse cocked her head to the side with a sigh. “I suppose it’s time for it to come to an end, given all its cost. You were right about what you said before. I hold the contest to remind students that magic is dangerous, and it comes with consequences if you’re not careful. Truthfully, every year I wished that no student would enter, but the lure of fame and fortune leads people to risk much even though six students have ever won. But given the price, I will honor your request.”

  “And the money, don’t forget the money,” said Kara, feeling a great weight lift from her shoulders.

  “Of course,” said Celesse.

  “Seven,” said Kara suddenly, snapping her fingers. “It’s seven now.”

  “What?”

  “Seven students have won. Kara Wilde. My name will be on that list.”

  Thomas K. Carpenter writes the best-selling Hundred Halls novels. The best place to start in the multi-series universe is Trials of Magic, about two sisters fighting to learn the truth about their parents' death while navigating the dangerous magical university. If you would like to read another Hundred Halls story, sign up for my newsletter at www.thomaskcarpenter.com and get Nadia's Triumph for free in addition to other great deals.

  Doom Garden

  Benjamin Wheeler

  Let's be real, gardening is hard work! You have to get the soil balances right, get the plant balances right and aesthetics is its own art. You have to be good with tools, including shears, chainsaws and shotguns. And, if we're being honest, demonic invasions really put a damper on the horticulturist dream. Sulfurous blood can ruin the soil you worked so hard on and the FIRES! Goodness gracious me, but gardening is hard work!

  Doom Garden

  Listen, I don't talk. Sometimes, sure, I grunt in pain or in pleasure. How else can I express enjoyment of Cookie's Special Sausages? How does that angel on earth mix her meats with such balance, such graceful sprinkling of black pepper... I'd wade through an army of demons with only a chainsaw for another bite of her sausages. Just spill an entire ocean of blood. I can't overstate enough how I feel about her processed proteins. With her delicate, knife-skilled hands, she brings me the last of the lunch special and we share a sausage under the wooden rose arches.

  It was a good day, satisfying to my heart and stomach equally. I could not complain, nor did I want to. I appreciated the calm, and I appreciated Cookie, whether she brought me cooked meats or not.

  I don't know what world Cookie came from, and honestly, I can't really describe the difference between mine and this one. The locals called "Terra" or, vulgarly, "Earth". The only difference I can figure, was that I came from a world where magic wasn't real. Cookie came from a world with magic, because she's more comfortable around the students than I.

  I can't stand the little buggers. Look at them. Walking around, waving magic wands like they won't accidentally turn their heads into stumps of wood with a dumb look carved into their face. No respect on these children. Don't they know how much work I've put into these neat rows, these strong groves and the burgeoning verge? What are those morons waving over my petunias?!

  Cookie and I charge those black poncho clad knuckleheads. They run off, but I recognize one of them. Griffinwald. GRIFFINWALD. I don't know why that little son-of-a-matchstick-seller-with-tuberculosis has such an obsession with my plants. That brown-haired twerp cast a spell on my petunias! They're shimmering - never a good sign.

  Cookie decides she'll get one of the wizard professors. Probably will help dispel Griffinwald's curse, but the petunias are probably a lost cause. I went to the shed, a nice wooden thing with a bed, tools and my dancing dresser (GRIFFINWALD). I took out the shovel and checked around back for a replacement flowering plant pot.

  Now, I won't bore you with the grand scheme of the quad. It's a quad. Four passable brick and mortar buildings mark north, south, east and west. A bronze statue of the wizard founder, Warren G. Harding, dominates the center and paths radiate from it like the rays of the sun. Yes, for those asking, did anyone really think a man that boring wouldn't have some secret? The paths were magically enchanted to never let weeds flourish, so I spend most of my time polishing Warren's bald pate and caring for the flower beds, trees and ambulatory benches. Yesterday, I fed the benches with a chlorophyll spray.

  My old man had some funky ideas about tree feng shui, but I'm a man of taste. I used planted saplings of small, flowering trees at the center, mostly cherries, then surrounded them with flower beds. Petunias, marigolds and orchids, along with various types of those tall flowers with the really fancy heads, dominate the first third. The horticulturist wizard was psychic, and the gaps in my flower name knowledge drove him batty. Didn't stop him from enjoying my islands of flowering color.

  I added taller trees, maples, apples, birches and the like, with bright hues in fall, in the middle third. By magic, I had them stunted, so they never grew higher than the last third. Under these I gave smaller, more low ground species space. More marigolds, strawberries and various smaller, single stem plants were the kings there. I phased them out toward the last third, allowing nature to prosper and choke as she pleased.

  On the last third, I went for thick oak, tall elms and a ring of sharp pines. I allowed vines to grow rampant, only keeping them away from the paths and tangling the ambulatory benches. The dark green vines, and the general dark view give a great effect of coming from the wilds into the cultured world of man.

  Do the students appreciate it? No, but the professors appreciate it, and they pay me, albeit poorly.

  As I rooted for the right complementary flower petal shades, I heard shouts of panic. Griffinwald's spell had come to fruition. A pox on him and whatever house birthed him. As one certainly imagined, the uncreative bastard just gave it a carnivorous appetite and the magical growth hormone that corporations would sacrifice untold orphans to all the demons of hell to obtain.

  In the three minutes it took me to walk around to the back of my shed, his spell had done its work. Now purple and black flowers waved around in the breeze, trying to suck nutrients from the ambulatory benches, other plants and several presumably human beings. The petals wrapped around the victim with an unflowerlike strength and whipped the flailing bodies around. It was only a matter of time before it strangled or digested the two of them.

  I charged in, chopping at the first tendrils reaching out to me, and cut through them with the blade of the shovel. The rest of the mass quivered and reared up. Now both Cookie and the wizard were completely englobed by delicate looking flower buds. Two pairs of feet stuck out of the topmost stem and kicked with the energy of desperation. If I could speak, I would have said, “I am coming, and that I will save you!” The two would have to settle for a psychic shout instead, certainly, the wizard heard it.

  Thorny whips lashed out at me, seeking to corrupt my flesh with poisons. Its will, if you call it that, desired nothing more than to turn me into nutrient slurry, to devour me whole like Cookie and the wizard. I grunted and swung again, this time decapitating the flower head seeking me. The thing was blind, and I charged through the pumping ichor, grabbing onto a tree it had absorbed and used it to guide my momentum up and over a wall of thorns it had thrown up to catch me.

  I grunted. The roots, now animate, tore up the sod around it. I leaped as a mass tried to trip me. I landed on the next root and twisted until I grabbed another branch. This, I used to steady myself for the next jump onto one of the main stems. I raised the shovel over my head and breathed in. With a mighty growl reverberating in my chest, I planted the blade of the shovel again an
d again into the green, pulsing flesh.

  The magically mutated petunia spasmed and raged, stalks merging together. I had planned for this. I separated the head of my stalk and planted my foot on the wound. With a rumble in my chest, a battle cry, I leaped up. Above, one of the flowers threw itself in front of my flight and opened its glorious royal scarlet petals. I brought down my axe-like shovel onto it's head, but the angle was wrong, and I couldn't pierce the flesh. I was nearly proud of its resilience. It was growing up so fast. The petals closed around me and the beastly plant swallowed me, wrapping me with its petals.

  Thin roots pumped sweet and acidic stomach juices into my bare arms. My eyes grew heavy; a soporific! With a curse I bit my tongue and reached my special gardening knife in my boot. What I wouldn't give for my chainsaw right now. The petals constricted me, but I fought past them, putting my shoulder into it and putting my boots out at the strangest angles I could hold. My eyes closed for a single second.

  My anger flared. I wouldn't die here! I had faced the armies of hell and man. I had slaughtered thousands. I would not end my violent career with a gardening accident before I turned eighty! I gripped my knife. The point pierced the petals, and I ripped myself out of the acid and sopor prison. I made the motions of screaming, if not the sounds. I struck again and again at the stomach-head of the plant-monster until I was no longer entombed.

  The flower-head had not saw fit to lower me closer to the ground. I saw the shapely legs of Cookie and the stumpy legs of the wizard as they kicked, weakly now. I crashed into the main stem, and planted my knife into the flesh. Growths irregularly protruded along the stem, and they, and my knife, became my ladder to the top. The rustling thing under me whipped me with a thorny root, drawing blood. I gritted my teeth, and pulled myself up one more time.

  I grabbed the lower end of the flower, the ridges connecting the petals to the green stem. I pulled myself up until I found the thinnest part of the head, the thin connective flesh at the bulb's base. My blade broke through, snapping the tendons and plunging my arm deep into the steaming green blood and cutting away the central spine of the blighted thing. The central head cracked and bent, falling to the ground and taking me with it.