Dark Witch: A Paranormal Academy Romance (Academy of the Dark Arts Book 1)

by Analeigh Ford

  Merlin plants his feet in the middle of the hall, reaches one hand into the inside of his school uniform jacket, and takes out his wand.

  He raises it up to eye level and says, commandingly, “Tersus sursum!”

  All around us, the hallway explodes with dust.

  It shoots from every crack, every crevice, off every painting. I thought the light was obscured by swirly dust motes before—now it’s blacked out in a sudden dust tornado. Even though I stumble back into the tower, I’m not fully spared. The door shuts behind me, but not before dust shoots out, coating the front of me from head to toe in a fine film of ancient hallway filth.

  Merlin, on the other hand, is not so lucky to escape in time.

  I double over on the top landing of the stairs, caught up in a coughing fit. For a moment, I’m alone with my dust. Then the doorway creaks back open and Merlin stumbles out after me—every square inch of him coated with a thick layer of grime. His hair, so perfectly coiffed before, now stands on end. It’s so thick with dust that it falls from the strands like snow.

  I shouldn’t laugh. He’s proud, and proud men have easily bruised egos. But after everything that’s happened today, I need this.

  It’s a mistake.

  Merlin’s body straightens and goes as still as a statue. The dust on his face is so thick it masks his expression—but I don’t need to see it to know exactly what he’s thinking. His rigid shoulders and still chest tells me all I need to know.

  “It’s a harder spell than it looks,” he says, his voice so even I should sense the danger and stop while I still can.

  But I’m an idiot.

  “I’ve seen my mother perform it plenty of times,” I say, “and she never once made the whole house explode.”

  I look down at myself. The dress, though black, wouldn’t do here anyway. I reach up and wipe the dust from my face with one of the sleeves, and then start brushing it off my front. Merlin, meanwhile, just stands stock still. The only things I can make out of his features are two tiny slits for his eyes, two round holes for his nostrils, and a thin-pressed crack in the thick mask of dust where his mouth should be.

  “Well I’d like to see you try it,” he says, his lips barely moving and his teeth gritted.

  “Fine,” I say, though I know it’s a mistake. I haven’t so much as tried a single spell yet. I was supposed to, earlier, after the initiation rites . . . but that was stripped away along with everything else.

  I step forward, wait one second, and then cautiously open the door. The dust has started to settle just a bit, but it still makes me cough as soon as I take in air.

  I shut the door and take a couple deep breaths, running the words of the spell over in my head. Tersus sursum. Tersus sursum. It’s not an easy one on the tongue.

  Before I open the door, I reach into my sleeve for my wand. The moment the wand is in my hand, before I even taste the spell on my lips, Merlin suddenly darts forward and slams the door back shut. He reaches for my wand, snatching it out of my hand before I realize what he’s doing.

  “What the hell, man?” I say, reaching to snatch it back.

  He turns his body, holding it out of my reach as he turns it over in his filthy palms. “Where’d you get this?” he asks, his voice tense.

  “During the initiation rites, like every other witch,” I say, darting to the side to try to grab it again. He keeps turning just before I can grasp it, keeping it just out of my reach. I don’t think he means to tease me. The minute he laid eyes on it, I was forgotten. His eyes bore into the tool in his hand, looking at it hungrily.

  It isn’t until I duck under his arm and literally pry it out of his hand that he finally seems to snap out of his intense focus. He lets go of my wand, but his eyes don’t leave it.

  “An obsidian wand,” he says, mostly to himself. All the anger and ego of the moments before is gone, replaced with a quiet sort of wonder. “I didn’t think . . . it’s been ages . . .”

  Meanwhile, I leave him to keep muttering to himself while I clean his smudged handprints off its dark sides. I reach for the door again, but again, Merlin reaches out a hand to stop me.

  “No,” he says, his voice firm and his eyes still glued to the wand in my hand. “Not with that. You need to be careful.”

  And this time, his eyes do lift to mine. “I’ve only heard of two wands of that kind in existence.” As he says it, I feel a bit of that strange cold fog creep in around me. Somehow, I know their owners before he confirms my suspicion.

  “Warlock Abacus and the First Dark Witch . . . Warlock Grave.”

  His eyes, still locked to mine, narrow. “Wren Davies . . . who the hell are you?”

  Chapter Eight

  It’s the question that’s been haunting me since the start of this whole, terrible ordeal. The question on everyone’s mind—most presently, my own.

  I can’t be a Dark Witch. I refuse to believe it. But it’s pretty obvious I’m not a Highborne Witch either. Not a normal one at least.

  So then, the question begs to be asked.

  Who am I?

  Or, more accurately, what am I?

  Everyone here seems convinced I’m a Dark Witch, but that can’t be the simple truth of it. According to the teachings and laws, Dark Witches are a race of their own. But I was born to a Highborne Witch, so unless she lied about that too, I can’t really be a Dark Witch, can I?

  Merlin’s tour of the school ends at the entrance to the small, cramped dorm room at the end of the hall. It’s as dusty and abandoned as the rest of the floor.

  But if it means I’ll have a moment alone at long last, then I’ll take it.

  Before leaving, he makes sure to remind me of my place here at the academy. “Look,” he says, his face finally cleared of most of the dust so I can make out his features, “I have orientation to attend. You look like you could use some time to . . . process . . . so I’m going to tell the professor you didn’t feel well.”

  The kindness of it takes me off guard, almost making my lip tremble. But he doesn’t let me think that for long.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he adds hastily, “I’m not doing you any favors. I just don’t want to wake up one morning to find you’ve hung yourself from the bell tower. Be there no mistake about it—I don’t want you here.”

  Well, that’s a little harsh. Even for him.

  “You think I’m an abomination?” I ask.

  He looks at me funny.

  “I think you’re a spy. And even if you’re not . . .” he says, “you’re still not to be trusted.”

  “A spy? Who would I be spying for?” For the first time, my voice cracks. “The witches who abandoned me? The council that branded me an abomination in the first place? Or how about the Crusaders? I bet they’d like to get their wands to my throat.”

  He purses his lips. “I don’t know,” he says, “Any one of them. All of them? Does it matter?”

  I look down at my lap. I guess not.

  Before he leaves, he offers me a final warning. If I’ve learned one thing about these witches so far, it’s that they like giving warnings.

  “Whatever you do,” he says, “don’t be late to breakfast tomorrow. The doors will take you there in the morning, but you’ll miss it if you wait too long.”

  I want to ask him what he means, but he’s already gone. I could chase after him, but I think I’ve done enough of that for one day.

  I sit alone at the end of my new bed, my bare knees looking small and pale in the dim light. A packet of papers sits untouched on the bed beside me, but I’ve no interest in looking it over right now.

  The ceiling slopes down a bit until it comes to a single, small window looking out over the entrance of the academy and the street beyond. From where I’m sitting, all I can see is the roofs of the nearby buildings—as gray and bleak as the overcast sky above.

  I was so worried about everything changing, and yet, I never imagined that everything, literally everything, would change.

  Not even my ide
ntity was left untouched . . . and I have no one to talk to about it.

  My hand raises up to fiddle with the locket Edgar gave me. Now it’s the closest I can get to him. To any of them.

  My mother, my friends, my whole world.

  I hold the piece of jewelry between two fingers and give it a squeeze. I feel a gentle, rhythmic thud pounding within. Edgar’s heartbeat, as promised, steadies my racing thoughts.

  This all has to be some kind of mistake.

  Suddenly, I can’t sit still. I stand up, ignoring the way the dust springs up around me again to choke the air, and cross over to the window.

  Witches pass down on the street below, sending curious glances at the red-and-white clad Crusaders still pressed against the gates. From this height, they could pass for Highborne Witches, humans even. Up close, I know, that characteristic black aura would dispel any doubt.

  The fact that my aura doesn’t match theirs gives me hope.

  I lift my eyes and search the far-off mountains. Somewhere, beyond the cliff walls and valleys that separate this place from the rest of the world, the people I love are mourning with me. I can feel it, sense it in the beat of Edgar’s heart in my locket.

  I refuse to believe this is my destiny. This is all a mistake, and I’m going to prove it. It may take some time, but I’ll find a way to show the judges of the Highborne council that I’m not a Dark Witch.

  I just wish there was a way to tell Edgar that. Or my mother . . . if I knew where to find her.

  Dark Witches are not allowed to communicate with Highbornes. It’s one of the most basic laws, but I’m going to have to break it.

  I might not know where my mother disappeared to, but I think I can find a way to at least contact Edgar. I have to explain to him what happened. I have to tell him this is all some big mistake.

  I know that if I can just explain everything, he’ll wait for me. I know he’ll understand.

  And then it’ll just be a matter of time before this whole thing is cleared up and I’m back at my rightful place beside him.

  Who knows how long I could be stuck here at the Academy for the Dark Arts. This sort of thing could take days, or even weeks, so I’m going to have to prepare. If I’m going to sneak around the school looking for a way to reach Edgar, I’m going to have to blend in as much as possible.

  There are some things I can’t help, like my aura, but I can at least make some effort.

  A small trunk at the bottom of the bed contains the basics I’ll need for class. There’s two sets of worn black uniforms hastily folded on top of a rusted copper cauldron. The smudged glass vials stacked inside clink together as I take them out to examine. Both of them look like they were left behind fifty years ago, when the school actually had girls in attendance. Only one of them fits, while the other hangs off me like I’m an emaciated scarecrow.

  I throw the oversized uniform in a crumpled pile on the wardrobe floor and change into the other set. I still look like an out-of-place ghost, my face pale against the high collar of the black shirt, but at least that checks one thing off my list.

  The rest of the trunk is stuffed with falling-apart textbooks and a sorry collection of half-used pencils. Since I didn’t have time to go back to my house and collect any of my things, it’ll have to do for now.

  I sit on the least dusty spot in this room—the floor—and start flipping through the packet that Merlin left behind. There’s a basic map of the school, which I tear out and set aside for safekeeping. The rest of it is mostly the basic sort of things they give out on the first day of school everywhere; rules, the list of required materials, and a schedule of the classes I’m expected to take.

  The Basics of Magic

  History of the Dark Arts

  Curses

  Alchemy

  Summoning

  Merlin promised to get me out of orientation, which means I have a whole day ahead of me to look for a way to contact Edgar. I thought I needed the time alone to reflect, but if I spend another minute alone with my thoughts right now . . . I’m going to go crazy.

  I’m at the Academy for the Dark Arts of all places, there’s got to be something here that I can use to make illegal contact with a Highborne Witch.

  The one thing I really wish I managed to take with me is the stack of enchanted papers I used to write to Edgar. Since the local Highborne council seems to think my mother’s some sort of criminal on the run, I doubt I’ll be seeing those anytime soon. I don’t even know if they’d work over this kind of distance. After all, we’ve never been more than a few miles apart.

  If I’d known what was going to happen, what would I have done differently? I definitely wouldn’t have been so cross with him last night.

  Last night. It was only last night. That realization makes my heart ache again.

  It hasn’t even been one day, but already, it feels like so much longer.

  Determined not to wait a moment longer, I tuck the map into one of the pockets of my uniform and slip outside into the hall. Now that the dust has settled back down a bit, I get a better look around.

  This can’t have always been a dormitory. The hallways are too narrow and the doorways short, so short I almost have to duck through some of them. I start peering in rooms as I pass, looking for anything useful. The rooms are small, cramped, and very close together. Some of the doors are locked, and those that open usually give way to storage closets filled to the brim with useless junk—old brooms, mop buckets, broken desk chairs—that sort of thing.

  I keep an eye out for anything that might resemble a scrying pool or two-way mirror, or any other instrument that could be used for clandestine communication, but have no such luck in the hallway leading up to my room.

  The hallway itself is quite bare, aside from the occasional gilded portrait hung in an effort to liven up the place. The ceiling is open up to the rafters in most areas, and several bats have found a home hanging in the shadier corners.

  From the looks of things, this place hasn’t been really occupied in years. Anything of value that might have been left behind has long since been picked off.

  When it becomes apparent I won’t find what I seek up here, I head for the stairs.

  I’m not in the mood to find out what’ll happen to me if I try to sneak into the boy’s dorms, so I keep on heading down. I pass the second floor, then, after just a brief moment’s hesitation on the ground floor, I continue further down still.

  We witches, even Highborne, don’t tend to be very squeamish—but I still feel a certain unease settle in the pit of my stomach the further into the academy I go. If something happened to me here no one would ever know. I could disappear, be kidnapped, be murdered, and as far as my mother and Edgar know, I just stopped talking to them like I was supposed to the moment I found out I was a Dark Witch.

  That thought makes me quicken my steps.

  The air grows thicker and more musty as I reach the basement bottom of the stairs. The door into the hallway creaks open as I peek through.

  As with the passages on the next two floors up, most of the doors are marked as classrooms. I take a brief peek at the paper in my pocket and start heading down the hall towards the first room marked “storage”. When I get to it, however, the door is locked. I continue on like this, passing by a gymnasium and a couple more classrooms, trying the door of anything that looks promising.

  After several more failed attempts, I finally find a small wooden door that doesn’t appear to be on the map. It’s at the end of one of the windier hallways, and when I try the handle, it isn’t locked. I feel a little thrill race up my spine. Finally, some luck. An unmarked door in the basement? That’s where I’d hide something that I didn’t want to be found.

  I throw open the door and freeze.

  It’s not a room, but a long, dark, narrow tunnel sloping down. And it’s occupied.

  A creature, humanoid at first, spins around and locks eyes with me. Its human resemblance lasts only as long as it takes me to see that where it’s
eyes should be are gaping, rotting sockets. Another glance makes it clear it’s neither witch nor human. Whatever it is, it’s definitely dead. And from the smell of it, it has been for a long time.

  We stare at one another for a moment, me frozen in place and it watching me back. Then it opens its unhinged jaw, points at me, and moans.

  A scream bubbles out of me. It starts in my belly and rolls up my throat, followed by sudden frenzied movements that have me slamming the door and running down the nearest hallway in a blind panic. My footsteps are deafening in the echoing stone passageways—though not nearly deafening enough to drown out the sound of what I’m sure is the zombie door opening behind me.

  I don’t stop running until I swear I’ve passed by the same painting of a witch brutally stuck through the heart with a bloody stake for the third time. Even then, I creep into a corner and press my back to the wall, my eyes rolling wildly in their sockets as I try to listen for the sound of footsteps following me over my own heaving breaths.

  It isn’t until my breath starts to return to normal that I realize I have no idea where I am. Some of these hallways don’t appear to be laid out on the map of the basements. Just to be sure, I shove one hand into my pocket for the copy I brought with me . . . only to find it empty.

  I take off my jacket and dig inside the pocket again. They’re empty too, save for a moth-chewed hole in the bottom that I didn’t notice before.

  I’m lost. In the basement. With a zombie.

  That panic rises up in me again just as a hand snakes out of a doorway behind me and clamps down on my shoulder.

  I haven’t practiced any spells yet, so I do the only thing I can. I stab the hand clutching me with the pointed tip of my wand.

  The movement causes my assailant to let go and cry out, but it isn’t until I’m safely out of its reach that I realize the sound is decidedly human. I throw open the door I didn’t realize I was leaning against to find not the hideous zombie I expected, but a silver-haired boy doubled over at the waist and clutching a bloodied hand.