The Witching Elm (A Memento Mori Witch Novel, Book 1)

by C. N. Crawford

  A handwritten note hung over a metal button, reading, “Push for entry.” He did as instructed. With chattering teeth, he considered what he was about to undertake. His knowledge of schools was limited, but he doubted anyone expected new students to arrive during overnight snowstorms.

  He held his hands in his armpits and racked his brain for a simple distraction spell. It was much easier to convince an absentminded person of something absurd. Hopefully, Oswald and Eden would remember this when they arrived.

  At last, the door opened, and a silver-haired man peered out. He wore a rumpled T-shirt embroidered with the words MIT Crew 1970 and blue pajama bottoms. A pair of sheepskin moccasins warmed his feet.

  He glowered at Tobias from beneath an unfortunate single eyebrow. “What on earth are you doing?” he barked. “How did you get past the gate? And the alarms?”

  Off to a great start, Tobias. He gazed into the man’s blue eyes and uttered the spell, pushing his dark, wet hair out of his eyes as he chanted the words. The stranger’s pupils dilated, his eyes drifting to the falling snow.

  “I’m Tobias Corvin. I believe I’m expected. I’m from England.” It was the lie his coven had come up with. He’d never been to England. In fact, he knew less about England than he knew about Boston. But he couldn’t exactly say he was from a magical city forged from colonial Boston, and the lie would help to explain his accent.

  “Tobias Corvin?” the man murmured, admiring the drifting snowflakes. He raised his lone, hoary eyebrow. “You’re expected, you say…”

  Tobias exhaled, relieved. The spell worked best on those who were easily confused; this man seemed a perfect subject. Tobias thrust the papers forward, eager to be in the warmth of the building. “Everything’s in the paperwork.”

  Hopefully his underground coven had cobbled together the appropriate documentation. He hadn’t been paying much attention to the planning himself, too eager to practice pike fighting to listen to details about paperwork.

  The man looked the documents over and, as though recalling a distant memory, he nodded. “Right. The new student from England. Come in. I’m Mr. Mulligan, the principal.”

  He opened the door wider, and Tobias stepped into a vestibule. In the dim light, he could see a saggy-eyed marble bust that stared vacantly into the courtyard. Richard Mather, it read.

  Mulligan led Tobias into a small, paper-littered office. “Follow me. We’ll do the forms. I know there’s a time difference, but really, showing up at all hours.”

  Slush soaked the bottom of Tobias’s pants, and he glanced enviously at Mr. Mulligan’s slippers. He hugged his arms around himself as the principal rested against a desk, closing his eyes. Perhaps the distraction spell had been a bit too effective. Tobias cleared his throat.

  Mulligan’s eyes opened, and his gaze alternated between a glazed stare and an irritated grimace. Tobias smiled faintly, pleased with his work.

  Mulligan coughed. “You don’t have any belongings? Where are your bags?”

  “I lost them on the way.”

  Mulligan flipped through the papers in his hand. “The new student… They’re supposed to give test scores, you know, to put into our computer system. People just don’t follow the rules. I tell them over and over, the paperwork needs to go in this box here.” He waved toward an empty inbox on his desk. “It’s quite simple. Documents in order, and no paperclips. They take up too much space in the folders, and it’s not like we have…” He glanced at the door and closed his eyes again.

  Melting snow dripped between Tobias’s toes, and he shifted from one foot to another. Am I supposed to respond? “I don’t like paperclips either.”

  Mulligan’s eyes snapped open again. “Paperclips? What are you talking about?”

  Wrong answer, Tobias. He was tempted to just knock the man out with a sleep spell, but that could be awkward in the morning.

  “Seventeen. You’ll be a junior,” Mulligan grumbled, “although it’s not as if we have room for more juniors. I’ll get your uniform.” He turned to open a large wardrobe, half full of shirts and jackets that hung over a sparse layer of folded pants and sweaters. After rummaging for a few moments while muttering about “people around here,” he pulled together two uniforms for Tobias.

  With a scowl, he handed them over. “Don’t lose these, or you’ll have to buy new ones. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Mulligan shuffled out of his office, and Tobias followed. In the vestibule, Tobias turned for one last glance out the door’s window but saw only shadows. He could already hear Mulligan creaking up the stairs.

  Tobias shivered up the winding stairwell, hugging his new clothes.

  Mulligan shouted down to him, “They don’t like to spend money on lighting, so you’ll be lucky if you don’t break your neck.”

  After two flights of stairs, Mulligan turned to Tobias. “We’re in the central hall.” He pointed to a closed door to his right. “At that end of the central hall, the girls’ wing begins. Young men aren’t allowed in there.” He fixed his gaze on Tobias, raising his eyebrow in caution before shoving open the opposite door. Apparently he and Eden would have to get creative to steal time together.

  Turning left, Tobias followed him through a high-ceilinged hallway, glancing through tall windows overlooking the courtyard. No birds lingered in the snow.

  At the end of the central hall, they turned left into another dark corridor, its white walls hung with portraits interspersed between doors. A few steps from the end of the hall, Mulligan stared at the name on one of the doors, wheezing.

  “Alan Wong,” he muttered, reading the handwritten sign. “He’ll do.” He opened the door, revealing a small corner room with two single beds. In the bed to the right, Alan’s snoring body was bundled under blankets. Black tufts of hair sprouted out from the sheets, pulled up tight around his face.

  Mulligan cleared his throat. “There you are. Good night.” He disappeared into the dark hall, shutting the door behind him.

  Tobias dropped his uniforms on the empty bed. He rubbed his eyes and scanned the room. Between the beds, a bay window looked toward the Common, while to his left, another window overlooked the courtyard. Its panes were glazed with frost, but Tobias could see that the storm still raged.

  His new uniforms fell to the floor as he crawled into bed, making a nest of the heavy blankets. With a view of the courtyard, he stared into the silvery landscape, thinking of Rawhed’s attack—the smoke, the woman’s screams, and the red trail of blood through Black Bread Lane.

  When he was little, he’d chanted nighttime charms to ward off the devils and hags that crept into children’s rooms at night. He’d been stupid to think they might work. And yet the odd rhymes always popped into his head in moments of danger. Heigh diddle diddle, a nighttime riddle…

  Wrapped in his warm blankets, his throbbing muscles began to relax. Normally, he read in his bed before falling asleep. In fact, since he was little, he read books about Boston. Ever since his father had given him his first contraband Viscount Brad of Boston book, he’d wanted to visit the city. As a boy, he’d dreamt of Boston’s metallic, subterranean monsters winding below the streets, their bellies full of people traveling to work. And when he’d grown older, he’d pored through murder mysteries about a detective named Danny Marchese. Straining to keep his eyes open, he muttered the exotic name: “Danny.”

  Alan shifted, groaning at the noise.

  Tobias inhaled sharply. What am I doing? I’m half-delirious with exhaustion. He pulled his blanket tighter, squinting as he searched for his friends descending through the sky. He would wait up all night if he had to, listening to the gentle rattling of the windowpanes near his bed. The fire wasn’t close enough to burn them, was it?

  He rested against his pillow and closed his eyes for just a moment, melting into the soft blankets. Soon, he would scan the skies again for Oswald and Eden. Any number of things could have killed them after he’d escaped.

  4

  Tobias

&nb
sp; A hand tapped his shoulder as a deep voice interrupted his sleep. “Who are you?”

  “Tobias,” he mumbled. “I’m Tobias.”

  He opened his eyes. Someone tall—Alan, it must be—stood in a stream of pearly morning light, his dark hair still rumpled from sleep. His athletic build suggested that the young people here were better fed than their Maremount counterparts.

  Tobias rubbed his eyes, sitting up to gaze out the window. No new footprints marked the snow.

  “Are you supposed to be here?” Alan scratched at black stubble on his angular jawline. “No one told me I was getting a new roommate.”

  “I arrived from England last night,” he managed. “I’m Tobias. Mulligan brought me here.”

  “Oh.” Alan nodded, looking at the floor while he thought. “From England. That’s cool.” He stared at Tobias again, folding his arms. “Anyway, breakfast is starting. They have French toast on Tuesdays.”

  What in Blodrial’s veins is French toast? What he really needed was to go outside to find some ravens. The messengers from Maremount might be able to tell him what had happened to his friends.

  He flung off his blankets, gathering his clothes from the floor. “I need to go outside.” He slipped into his new blue pants.

  Alan rubbed the back of his neck. “Go outside? You can’t. You have to get breakfast, and then class starts. We’re supposed to be up at 7.”

  At the word “breakfast,” Tobias’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since he’d left Maremount, and then it was just corn pudding and well water. The ravens will still be around after I eat.

  His stomach growled as he pulled on his new blue sweater. His friends had probably roosted near a warm chimney on one of the harbor islands to wait out the storm. It had been a difficult flight, but Oswald had pulled through worse situations.

  He slipped into his leather shoes and followed Alan out the door into the corridor. The starched collar chafed his neck, and he loosened one of the buttons, shuffling toward the central hall behind other students.

  As they descended two flights of stairs, the students jostled around a tall guy with curly brown hair and ruddy cheeks the color of overripe peaches. Over a square set of shoulders, his neck was as thick as his head. They spoke in shouts.

  “You think they got that sausage today?” asked a short boy with close-cropped black hair.

  “What’s wrong, Jared? Not getting enough sausage?” The pink-cheeked guy jerked up his chin, grinning.

  “Shut up, Sully.”

  “Yo! Jared likes hot sausages!” Sully cupped his hands around his mouth as he yelled up the stairwell.

  Jared scowled up at him. “I said shut up!”

  They broke into guffaws.

  Idiots. Still, hot sausages sounded delicious to Tobias. Alongside Alan, he reached the ground floor and hurried toward the smell of baking bread. As he rounded the corner into the dining hall, he knocked into a girl with flame-red hair.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, looking down at the back of her head.

  The girl turned to look up at him. Her vibrant hair reminded him of the fire goddess, though no warmth shone from her striking features. She stared at him with eyes the color of a stormy sky. “You must be new here. I’m Munroe.”

  Her milky white hand flew to a pendant at her throat. It was a silver chalice, shining with tiny rubies made to look like drops of claret. He couldn’t fathom how it was possible, but it looked like something he’d seen in Maremount.

  5

  Tobias

  Voices echoed off the vaulted ceiling as students continued to file into the hall. Across from Alan, Tobias scanned the room. It seemed less like a dining hall and more paintings he’d seen of cathedrals. Colored light streamed through stained glass images of scholars and plants. Under the windows, portraits hung on dark wooden walls. The paintings alternated with hunting trophies—an array of grimacing deer heads that overlooked students as they ate. Rows of wooden tables crossed the room beneath brass chandeliers that must be twenty feet long.

  Tobias cut into another piece of eggy bread. Dripping with maple syrup and tiny pools of melted butter. It wasn’t as good as his father’s baking, but a million times better than his own shoddy attempts to woo Eden with soggy blueberry bread.

  He had just sipped his juice when Mulligan’s voice boomed through the hall. “Students—uh—students! Good morning,” he thundered from the opposite side of the hall. He stood on a platform before a great stone fireplace, nearly the width of an entire wall.

  The students’ conversations hushed, and a few voices mumbled “Good morning, Principal Mulligan.”

  Clearly the distraction spell had dissipated. Mulligan was all business this morning as he thrust an open hand into the air. “I’d like to introduce our new student, Tobias Corvin. Tobias, please stand.”

  Tobias rose, staring out over twenty rows of tables, half filled with students eating breakfast. A few latecomers entered the hall, grabbing trays. Chairs shifted as students turned to look at him. A cough echoed through the room.

  “Tobias arrived late last night from England. He’ll be a member of the junior class.”

  Someone a few rows away called out in a mock-English accent, “Please sir, may I have some more?”

  It was the guy who’d been shouting about sausages. Sully, they called him. Munroe leaned into him, laughing into her hand. He’d known people like him before—the well-heeled young men who made fun of his clothes—the smirking fat-heads who drunkenly shoved Tatter children into barrels, rolling them down Curtzan Hill. He frowned, returning to his seat. He didn’t much care what they thought.

  Alan shook his head. “Those guys are idiots. This school is full of idiots. That’s why I usually sit alone.”

  At least he had something in common with Alan. Tobias nodded, biting into a sausage as three girls strode toward them holding trays. Unused to seeing skirts cut above the ankle, Tobias stared at their legs as he chewed.

  Alan turned to look at them. “Hey, Celia!”

  “Hey Alan,” replied a blonde girl in the trio. Her hip stuck out as she stood by the edge of their table. “Tobias, was it?” A welcoming smile played on her glossy pink lips. “I just heard your introduction. I’m Celia.” She nodded toward a girl whose straight black hair was cut in an odd style: short on one side, and long on the other. “That’s Mariana.” The third girl’s hair was a wild mass of honey-brown curls. “And that’s Fiona.”

  They were all pretty, and Tobias forced himself to pull his eyes away from the smooth olive skin on Fiona’s strong-looking legs. He swallowed.

  “Hello?” Fiona said, and he forced himself to look up at her. She struggled to balance her tray in one hand and eat toast off it with the other. “You’re English, right? I just saw a documentary about British drinking culture. It was something to do with social anxiety.”

  He nodded with a faint smile. Is this supposed to make sense?

  Mariana looked askance at her friend. “Fiona, you’re freaking him out. He just got here.”

  “But apparently meditation helps.” Dark lashes framed Fiona’s amber eyes.

  “Thanks for the suggestion.” He had the vague feeling he was being insulted.

  “We should sit.” Celia tilted her head. She reminded him of a society beauty with her small, pointed nose and wide blue eyes. The three girls strolled to an empty table.

  “That was awesome.” Alan leaned in. “Celia never talks to me for that long. I only know her from Biology.”

  “They’re very pretty.” Tobias touched the locket of Eden’s hair at his neck—the blonde hair, so unusual for a Tatter. She hadn’t even arrived yet, and he was already staring at other girls. He closed his eyes to clear his mind.

  Alan squinted at him. “You don’t really look English. You look sort of American… what’s the word… indigenous.”

  Tobias’s mind raced. He couldn’t exactly say that he came from a land created by English and Algonquin sorcerers centuries ago (though,
as he would tell anyone who’d listen, they preferred to be called philosophers).

  “English people don’t all look the same.” He shoved another forkful of French toast into his mouth.

  Alan seemed satisfied with his answer and nodded solemnly. “Right.” He stared at Tobias. “Do you play an instrument? My friend Joe and I have a band, but we don’t have enough instruments. He goes to Boston Latin. I’m on trumpet, and Joe’s on drums. We’re called Drumpet.”

  “I play the lute.”

  “Awesome! We could be called Lump… Lumpet...” He scratched his chin. “I need to think about the name more.”

  “Sounds interesting. Well, I hope you don’t mind, but I must go.” He stood and picked up his crumb-filled tray. He was desperate to find out news of his friends.

  Alan shook his head. “You can’t miss English. You can’t skip classes on your first day. Ms. Ellsworth’s is the worst class to skip. Mulligan will kick you out if you start off wrong.”

  “I’d be kicked out of school?”

  “I think so. You can’t leave the building until classes have ended.”

  He needed to find out what had happened to his friends, but if he got expelled, he’d be forced into the Boston winter on his own. In exile, a person’s ears could turn black and fall off from frostbite.

  “I’ll be to class in a minute. I must use the bathroom.” Tobias’s stomach rebelled against the sudden influx of rich food.

  “English is in Room 202. You’ve got two minutes.”

  Two minutes. Apparently they’re awfully preoccupied with scheduling here.

  He clenched his jaw as he strode toward the bathroom. With no sign of his friends, he began to worry that something had gone terribly wrong.

  6

  Tobias

  By the time he’d finished in the bathroom and found Room 202, nearly twenty minutes had passed. He creaked opened the classroom door into a dark-walled room that smelled of old coffee. Students sat at desks crammed together in three rows. Tall, rounded windows overlooked the icy courtyard and the yews where he’d transformed.