The Chronicles of Kerrigan Prequel Series Books #1-3: Paranormal Fantasy Romance

by W. J. May

  Argyle finally came up for air. “But how? Seriously, how did you even do it?”

  Simon gestured with a helpless shrug to the buzzing students milling about on the lawn outside his window. “Small meteor shower. Tragically misused lawn mower. Take your pick.”

  The chuckling Scot sobered up at once. “You mean…” his eyes grew as wide as Simon had ever seen them, “…you mean you used your tatù on him?”

  Simon slowly rolled up his sleeve in reply, revealing the warlock for the first time. “I think I must have. I just…don’t know what exactly I did.”

  A connoisseur of all things bookish, and one of the biggest brainiacs Simon had ever met, Argyle grabbed his arm with sudden interest. A mystified frown clouded his face as he bent even closer, squinting to get a better look. “What is it?” he finally asked. “A witch?” He glanced at it again. “A wizard? Witches are females.”

  “Not a wizard,” Simon said at once, feeling almost protective of the ink. “A warlock.”

  “A warlock.” Argyle leaned back thoughtfully, unable to drag his eyes away from the ink. “It would make a great super-hero name,” he muttered under his breath.

  Simon fought back a smile. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.”

  “But,” Argyle’s face screwed up with confusion, “Simon, this isn’t a regular tatù. Have you told anyone about it?”

  An image of Professor Lanford flashed through his mind, but Simon shook his head. “Who would I tell? And how would I tell them? It’s not like being different is exactly prized at this school.”

  “You need to tell someone,” Argyle said at once. “The doctor. The dean. Someone.” A flash of wonder shot across his face as he leaned in to look at it once more. “What does it do?”

  “That’s the thing,” Simon rushed, suddenly unable to stop talking now that he was finally able to share with someone. “I have no idea. Can’t people usually figure it out right away? Don’t tatùs work, like, instantly? Or aren’t they at least self-explanatory? Lightning bolt—electricity. Thunder clouds—ability to control the weather. But this? I have no idea.” He raised the warlock up to his face and tried once more to figure out what the mysterious man was thinking. At certain angles, in certain lights, he almost imagined he could. That he got a glimpse of the expression just below. Of the intent behind rays of energy flying from his hands. But other times, it was simply blank.

  “Well, what exactly did you do to Wardell?” Argyle pressed. “If that’s the only time you’ve used your ink, it should be a pretty good indicator of what’s to come.”

  Simon’s mind raced back as he replayed the stilted images in his head. “I don’t know,” he mused. “I just…threw him. Like really far. As far as he usually throws me, actually,” he remarked off-handedly.

  Maybe the warlock was simply karma. Maybe its next step was to make Professor Luther feel as though he’d let down all his ancestors by failing a calculus exam…

  “Maybe it’s just power,” Argyle suggested.

  Simon looked up in surprise. He liked that idea. He liked it very much. And it made sense, too. The warlock exuded might. Unyielding, unbending might.

  “That could be it,” he said under his breath, his lips twitching up with a little smile.

  Wouldn’t be that bad, would it? In fact, he couldn’t think of a better tatù to have. Straight up supremacy. A set of ink that could dominate any other that dared to cross its path.

  “Of course, that’s pretty broad,” Argyle continued. “I’m not sure how it would really work on a practical level.”

  “It could just be super-strength,” Simon said suddenly, remembering the question one of Wardell’s minions had asked. “I guess that would make sense.”

  Argyle shook his head. “But people have had super-strength before, and it doesn’t look like this. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the design of an entire person before.” He adjusted his glasses and squinted at the face. “It almost looks like it’s a little smudged, you know? Can’t really tell what the guy’s thinking.”

  Simon nodded fervently. “I know; I’ve been trying to figure that out for—”

  A loud knock on the door cut him off mid-sentence.

  For a second, both boys froze. They made no move to open it, but flashed each other a worried glance. If the ever-increasing volume outside was any indicator, there was a good chance that the lynch mob had shown up after all, just waiting to drag Simon away. For whatever reason, Tristan Wardell was one of the most popular boys in school, and news of his tragic demise was bound to result in severe repercussions.

  “We could try going out the window,” Argyle whispered.

  “Mr. Kerrigan,” a booming voice sounded through the wood. “Open the door.”

  As one, both boys bowed their heads with an identical grimace. Not a lynch mob. Even worse. It was Royce Masters. Headmaster of the school.

  With robotic obedience, Simon lifted himself off the bed, hyper-aware of the fact that a good deal of blood was still spilling down from his nose.

  Maybe it will help, he thought dully. Maybe if they see that Tristan wasn’t the only one hurt, they’ll take it easy on me.

  Headmaster Masters rarely, if ever, came all the way down to the school. He was more like a peripheral overseer, while Dean Robbins was concerned with the day-to-day. But that didn’t mean that every student at Guilder wouldn’t recognize him in an instant. To be honest, he was almost impossible to miss.

  To start, the man had to be almost eight feet tall. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was also freakishly brilliant, Simon would have sworn there was some distant relation to his roommate. But it wasn’t his height that was so striking. It was the look in his eyes.

  Unlike many of those before him, Masters had risen to his position of authority at a time of war. A group of rogue tatùs had splintered off on their own, determined to create a new society… the details of which had always been kept deliberately scarce. Masters was the one who had single-handedly stopped them. All of them. By himself.

  Not that it was difficult for him. Not that it was even a stretch. The man was gifted with possibly the most inescapably devastating tatù ever created.

  Molecular deterioration.

  On the surface, it sounded science-y and weird, but its destructive capabilities were endless.

  He could walk into a room and deconstruct the air, leaving a suffocating vacuum in his wake. He could crumble a building with a wave of his hand. Perhaps most terrifyingly, he could tear a person limb from limb just by thinking about it.

  When the Privy Council had asked for aid, he answered the call. As a reward, he was offered the position of headmaster at the school.

  After accepting, truancy dropped by about a hundred percent.

  “Head-Headmaster Masters,” Simon stuttered, quickly yanking open the door. He had only glimpsed the man once, when he first started at Guilder, and he was even more impossibly terrifying in person. “What can I do for you?”

  Masters hadn’t come alone. Behind him stood the dean, the head of the recruiting department, and even one or two members of the staff. Professor Lanford was not among them.

  Those legendary eyes did a quick sweep of Simon’s face, betraying not a hint of emotion. “Kerrigan—you’re bleeding.”

  Simon’s heart skipped a beat. He was sure that behind him, Argyle had taken up residence somewhere in the closet. “Uh…yes, sir. Sorry. I was just trying to get cleaned up.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  Why? Because you’re going to vanquish me where I stand?

  Simon’s face grew pale and he took a step back, but Masters merely gestured forward a man who had been standing behind him. “Dr. Stein.”

  Dale Stein, Guilder’s resident doctor, stepped past him into Simon’s room. At first, he simply looked the boy over, his sharp eyes missing nothing, then he lay his hands gently on both sides of Simon’s face.

  Like magic, the pain suddenly disappeared. The blood remaine
d, but the open wounds beneath them had vanished without a trace.

  Simon lifted his hands in wonder, tentatively pressing his face, waiting for a jolt of pain that simply never came.

  “Dr. Stein is a healer,” Masters explained, his eyes never leaving Simon. “Judging by your reaction, I’m guessing you’ve never had to visit him before.”

  Simon dropped his hands quickly, shaking his head. “No, sir.”

  It was somehow very easy to remember to say ‘sir’ to this man. In fact, Simon didn’t think there was a way he could ever forget.

  “He just finished fixing young Mr. Wardell’s arm.” Again, those eyes bore into Simon like they could see right through him. “Seems the two of you had some kind of disagreement.”

  Simon stopped breathing, but he forced himself to meet the headmaster’s gaze. Much to his surprise, there didn’t seem to be any anger there. No punishing vengeance. Nothing, in fact, besides a minor frustration for the how the situation had played out.

  All that Simon saw…was curiosity.

  “Come,” Masters said shortly. “We’re going for a little walk.”

  * * *

  It was a day of firsts all around. Never before had Simon been offered a cup of espresso by a member of the faculty. Never before had he managed to land a punch on his nemesis. And never before had he been escorted down to the office of the Headmaster of Guilder Boarding School.

  His eyes widened as they darted around, soaking in all the details.

  Instead of being located near the dean, or at least near the other heads of departments, it was in a rather deserted-looking building on the outskirts of campus. A building used primarily for storage and never visited by either the students or staff. And instead of being decorated with the rich trappings expected for such a prestigious position, it was relatively bare. The stone walls held no embellishments or personal touches of any kind, save for a large safe nestled into the rock.

  “Sit,” Masters instructed, gesturing to the opposite chair as he settled himself behind the desk. The safe loomed up behind him, creating an unnecessary air of intrigue to the proceedings.

  Simon did as he was told, casting a nervous glance back at the door as it ominously locked behind him. The rest of the escort had not tried to come inside, nor had they been invited. At first, Simon had been pleased. But sitting here now, he almost wished they had. At least then there’d be a witness to his final moments on earth.

  Masters folded his hands in front of him, gazing down at Simon across the desk but saying nothing to relieve the tension. For his part, Simon fidgeted nervously in his chair, but tried his best not to move. He wanted to present an air of innocence, not guilt. He’d been the one who’d gotten jumped, after all. Not Tristan. And, judging by the damage done by some of those punches, he also hadn’t been the only one to use his tatù.

  “Sir,” he finally broke the silence, unable to take it anymore, “I want to apologize for my actions with Wardell. No matter the circumstance, I know there’s no excuse for—”

  “It looks like somebody had a birthday.”

  Simon froze.

  This was not why he thought he’d been dragged down here, but in hindsight, he didn’t know why he hadn’t put two and two together. Guilder was a school packed to the brim with rowdy teenagers coming into super-powers. Accidents happened. One boy getting thrown across the lawn and breaking his arm was not enough to warrant a trip down here. But maybe the warlock was.

  As if to second the notion the ink started sizzling on his arm, eager to make itself known.

  But Simon was decidedly more reluctant. He opened his mouth—ready to deny the whole thing—but then closed it again in defeat. There was no getting around it. The school had his records, for Pete’s sake. He was surprised this hadn’t happened sooner.

  When he finally did speak, his voice was quiet. “Yes, sir.”

  Masters nodded, seemingly pleased with his compliance. “Let me see it.”

  With more than a little hesitation, Simon rolled up his sleeve and showed the headmaster his arm. Far from maintaining his usual enigmatic poker face, Masters leaned forward eagerly in his chair, eyes dilating as they took in every inch of the design.

  “It’s a—”

  “—a warlock.” Simon didn’t mean to interrupt. He just didn’t know if he could take anybody calling it a wizard again.

  Masters’ eyes flashed up to him with a hint of a smile. “So it is.” The smile sharpened. “And you didn’t think to report this?”

  Simon shifted nervously in his chair. “A lot of students don’t report their tatùs when they get them. They just—”

  “No. A lot of students with snowflakes and mockingbirds don’t report them. Especially when that same ink has been passed down for generations. But you?” Masters raised his eyebrows slightly. “Do you think this is the same situation as that?”

  Simon stared at him for a moment, before bowing his head. “No, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so.” The headmaster’s voice was almost sarcastic. “No, it seems we’ve found quite the anomaly here with you.”

  Simon’s chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths. Was the air thinner in here than was usual? Was Masters doing that?

  “It really is extraordinary.”

  What was that? Did he just say—

  “What is it, Kerrigan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  It was true. Simon was openly gawking at the headmaster, feeling as though the entire floor had been pulled out from under him. “I’m—I’m sorry, sir,” he tried to gather his wits, “I just—”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Masters asked pointedly, leaning forward with interest to hear the answer.

  Perhaps it was the cup of politically incorrect coffee he’d had that morning, but Simon decided to tell the truth. “I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  Simon’s voice grew very soft. “Being seen as different in a place like this…doesn’t always seem like a good thing.”

  Masters leaned back with a thoughtful frown. At first Simon was worried he’d offended him, but when he finally spoke, it couldn’t have been farther from the truth. “No one here understands that feeling better than me.”

  Simon’s eyes shot up, but he remained carefully silent. Masters caught the look anyway, and shook his head with a low chuckle.

  “You think I don’t know the stories they tell about me? Able to take out ten city blocks with the wave of his hand. Can snuff the life out of someone just by looking at him.” He paused, and his smile turned a hint boastful. “Of course, those stories are entirely true.”

  Simon found himself smiling as well. He’d found an odd sort of kinship with this man, if a man like this was capable of forming that kind of bond. If Simon was himself.

  “But it wasn’t the easiest ink to grow up with, I can tell you that.”

  A shiver ran through Simon’s body.

  There had been a moment—a fleeting moment—right when he’d touched Tristan’s skin. A moment where the two of them had locked eyes. Simon hadn’t known what was happening at all, but Tristan had looked completely thunderstruck. Like Simon had beamed down from space right in front of his eyes. A second later, he was lying in the dirt.

  A fleeting look Simon might have ignored. But then there were the expressions on the faces of his group of friends. They were angry, sure. And there was a good deal of fear in there as well. But it was the bitterness that disturbed Simon more than the rest. The feeling of a clear division forming between him and everyone else around him.

  No. Growing up with ink like that couldn’t have been easy at all.

  “How did you…how did you get through it?” Simon asked quietly.

  He wasn’t sure if he was technically even allowed to ask questions in this sort of situation. A year and a half of being regularly shot down would speak to a resounding ‘no.’

  But Masters didn’t seem to mind.

  “You learn control,” he said f
irmly. “You master the fear of the ink so that it’s a weapon in your own arsenal, not something that can be used against you. That’s why you’re here. So we can help.”

  It was probably the best advice Simon had ever heard. “I don’t know what it does,” he admitted suddenly. “I was thinking maybe strength, but—”

  “It will present itself in time,” Masters interjected. “The two of you will grow together. So that when you’re ready for it—you’ll be ready for it.”

  A creeping smile lit up the blood-smeared corners of Simon’s face. For the first time since that clock had struck midnight, he felt what he was supposed to feel when he got his tatù. He felt a ray of hope. “Thank you, sir.”

  It wasn’t much. But he meant it with all his heart.

  “You’re welcome.” For a moment, Masters almost sounded kind. Then he waved Simon away with a brisk flick of his hand. A hand that Simon knew could stop his heart in a second.

  “Mr. Kerrigan, if you see fit to fight again on my campus, then you and I will have a little sparring match ourselves. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Chapter 4

  By the time Simon was finished meeting with the headmaster, the rest of the student body was already safely cloistered in their afternoon classes. Sensing that his teachers probably had a good idea of where he’d been, Simon headed back up to his dorm. Brick was off as usual, training in the Oratory, and Argyle had managed to extract himself from the closet, leaving nothing but a pile of crumpled-up comic books in his wake.

  Simon picked them up with a sigh and tossed them onto his bed. Making a mental note to return them later, he sat down at his desk and pulled out a piece of paper.

  There was a letter he’d been meaning to write.

  My Dearest Beth,

  I’m sorry it’s been so long since I last wrote you. What with midterms right around the corner, things have been pretty crazy here at school. But rest assured, I’ve been listening to that CD that you sent me every night before I go to sleep. You’ve definitely made a decided enemy in Brick, but you were right, I love it! Can’t imagine that your father would approve of it, though. (Another point in its favor.)