A Spell for Death: Rosewilde Academy of Magical Arts

by B. C. Palmer

  “Don’t hurt him!” I screamed. “Please, I’m doing it. All right? The diagram is complete just… just ease off him; I can’t concentrate knowing he’s in pain.”

  Sinclaire pouted a lip. “Such empathy. Very well…”

  Hunter hauled air into his lungs as whatever grip Sinclaire exerted eased, but his next breath out was a long groan. “Amelia, don’t…”

  “He’ll kill us anyway, Amelia,” Isaac said.

  “We’ll go down fighting,” Serena snapped. She raised her hands to cast but stopped when Sinclaire tilted his head and Hunter curled on himself.

  “That warning will go for the two of you as well,” he said. “Amelia. My patience is thinning rapidly.”

  I bit my cheek and nearly snapped the remaining chalk still gripped in my hand. “I’m starting,” I said. “Isaac, Serena, just… just don’t throw your lives away. I’ve got this.” I hoped they would catch my drift.

  With that, and under Sinclaire’s placid black gaze, I moved to the origination point of the circle, the place where most of the essential lines began, and slipped the gross chalk into my pocket. I needed it close. I raised my hands, tried to calm my nerves and clear my mind. The ritual required seven different spells. I began the first, chanting the early Akkadian in time with the movements of my arms and hands. The gestures for the spell were primal, unrefined—not like the spells we learned in class. Ancient magicians seemed to have used not just their hands but their whole bodies as magical instruments.

  As I completed the first spell and anchored it to the circle, the air in the room shuddered as if the world itself was afraid of what was coming. I shivered with it, and from the ache of acrid magic passing through me. The first part of the spell was meant to raise power by invoking outside forces. In this case, principles of darkness and what the Akkadians seemed to view as the place well beyond the underworld.

  The circle thrummed with power.

  “Excellent,” Sinclaire hissed.

  “Hey, Palpatine,” Serena said, “whatever you’re trying to pull off—”

  She stopped heckling when Hunter howled with pain.

  “Serena, quiet!” I snapped. “Just… please. Stop talking. I can’t concentrate.”

  Serena’s mouth worked angrily, but our eyes met and I raised both eyebrows. Her lips parted just enough that I thought she understood I had a plan. And I did have a plan. Mostly. She quieted, and I started the second spell to direct the gathered forces to their respective parts of the circle.

  It was hell having to ignore the three of them to focus on my casting. My mind kept drifting, urging me to check on Hunter, to see that he was still alive, or that Sinclaire hadn’t decided to snuff out the three of them as soon as I was distracted. I knew, logically, that he wouldn’t—once his leverage was gone, I didn’t have to do anything for him. But what was happening inside when I did manage to focus entirely on the incantations was almost worse.

  Some part of me was excited.

  It was small, and distant. Between the periodic rush of magic and the feeling of shifting forces in the world around me, there was a natural exhilaration to casting such a complex series of spells. It was nothing like the minor rush of adrenaline a simple spell caused. This bordered on a manic kind of glee. I was shaping something—the fundamental elements of existence, it felt like, and they obeyed my will, answered my call. Even the thick, liquid darkness of it was seductive. If I let myself go, if I gave in to that call, it felt like the whole universe would open up to me.

  That excitement, the temptation of it, was terrifying and I had to keep reminding myself to be terrified as I made my way through the next four spells.

  The fifth spell was my one and only chance. If I did it right, there was a narrow chance to turn the tables. If I was wrong…

  I couldn’t think about that. I met Serena’s eyes, and as I raised my arms for the fifth spell in the ritual I glanced meaningfully at Sinclaire. Please get it, Serena.

  Serena didn’t show that she noticed, her expression still sour, but as I inhaled and began to form an image in my mind, the buzzing lines on the floor began to shift slowly. She noticed.

  “Sinclaire, you off-the-rack Voldemort wannabe asshole,” Serena said. “How about you face us like a real magician. Or can you not get it up unless you’ve got your astral fingers up a student’s mystical ass?”

  “I’ve always thought your demeanor unbecoming of a magician,” Sinclaire replied. “When the Dreadmother arrives, perhaps you’ll bear some of her children. I understand they devour their hosts from the inside over a period of years. I’ll put in a good word.”

  The lines continued to shift. I chanted, but slowly, balancing the two intentions and struggling to keep them in line with one another. Yes, I wanted to complete the spell. Yes, I also wanted to change the parameters. No, there was nothing out of alignment with these two desires. It was like swimming through concrete, the pressure both inside and out growing steadily more pronounced until I could barely take breaths between them. Sinclaire must have noticed the change in my pace because he began to turn.

  “You dickless nerd,” Serena laughed. “I swear to Mithra, we all knew this was coming. I’ve never seen anyone dress like that without a severe inferiority complex, but I admit I never imagined you planned to play gimp to some infernal dominatrix. If you needed a spanking, Headmaster, you could have just asked.”

  Sinclaire gave a disgusted groan as he returned his attention to Serena. “I’ve had enough of that filthy mouth, Miss Venturo. I should have done this ages ago.”

  I tried not to look, but Sinclaire muttered a spell and Serena raised her hands too slowly to try and counter. Her jaw locked shut, and he reached for her throat, her screams muffled. I couldn’t intervene, couldn’t stop casting to tell him to stop. The only way to finish now was to finish. But the spike of sudden fear for my friend seemed to harden my resolve, and I picked up my pace. The thickness in my mind and in the energies around the circle eased as my will cut through it with renewed purpose and intention.

  I canted the last words, and the fifth spell locked into place.

  Sinclaire must have felt it. I did. He dropped Serena, and she fell into a coughing fit as he whirled to face the circle. “That’s it,” he breathed. “The alignment. Now, complete the… no, that’s not right—the circle…”

  I snarled the first words of the spell, locking eyes with him as I snapped my hands together into the first gesture.

  His face twisted into a sneer. “You ignorant bitch,” he spat as he lowered the hand that held whatever magic he had on Hunter and approached the edge of the circle opposite where I stood. “You have no idea the forces you’re toying with. If you think—”

  “…te apscido!” I barked the last words as the magic rushed through me and jabbed my hands forward in the final gesture as if piercing the skin of the world. I tore them apart.

  In answer, a wound broke open above the circle into something black and depthless—and screaming.

  Amelia

  Sinclaire stumbled away from the circle when the portal opened. I almost did as well, but there was a final spell left. If I fucked it up, it wasn’t going to be pretty—and it was already damn ugly. The howling that came through it was piercing and seemed to claw away at more than just my ears. It was like reality itself was in pain, and I felt it through every part of me, down to the cells in my body.

  I had come this far, though, relying on Sinclaire’s exacting instruction and everything I had managed to learn about Nathan’s research. If I’d gotten it wrong, I would know very soon. I started the final spell, every word of it scraping through my throat and across my lips like sandpaper, and quickly realized that was because I was screaming the incantation. The black portal sucked the light out of the air and spread darkness in its place. Tendrils of it wormed out and swelled, grasping around like vines seeking sustenance.

  “What have you done?” Sinclaire demanded. “This isn’t… it’s not right. You’ve got to stop!�
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  He began casting, his voice competing with mine as he made sharp, precise gestures. Even over the din of the wailing I could hear him, his voice loud and clear. A master magician. It was some kind of banishing spell, but I couldn’t spare enough attention to know what kind or how I could possibly counter it. I just knew I had to beat him to the punch.

  The sixth spell of the ritual was an invitation. Once the portal was opened, whatever was on the other side was invited to come through. In this case, however, the parameters of the circle only allowed it to exist within the bounds of the circle. It’s what I believed Nathan was trying to accomplish—a corruption of the ritual that Sinclaire wanted me to complete. If he’d been even a little bit off, there would be a breach, and that would have made him vulnerable. A lot like the breach at Sinclaire’s end of the circle.

  A tendril of darkness crept between two lines that didn’t terminate entirely at the same point. It slipped over the edge of the circle, questing, and Sinclaire was so distracted by his banishing attempt that he didn’t notice until it crept over his shoe and tangled around his leg.

  His chanting cut off as he jerked his foot away. It was too late. The darkness had him, and the tendril swelled and stretched as it wormed up and around his leg. It pulled, and he spat some spell to try and free himself but where the darkness was struck, it simply grew back together, more of the tendrils flowing out of the breach in the circle to join the first. They swarmed him until finally he stumbled and fell to the stone floor.

  At first he clawed at the stone, trying to drag himself away. When that didn’t work, he rolled onto his back and kicked. Finally, he turned to magic. The stone beneath him cracked as he cast, and great fingers of granite pushed up from beneath him and encircled his chest, holding tight against the pull.

  By that time, I had finished the sixth spell. The portal was wide open and getting wider. Once the emerging darkness sensed where the opening was, more of it surged that direction, pouring through the narrow passage and grasping at Sinclaire until he was almost entirely cocooned in the stuff. The stone wasn’t enough to save him.

  With a great heave, his body slipped out of the granite’s grip. The stone scraped over his face. He managed to grab on to one of the fingers and screamed defiance as the tug-o-war ensued. In response, the tendrils flowed up his neck, over his chin, and down into his mouth. His screaming cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet, gagging sound. His skin turned ashen white, laced with black. Black ichor appeared at his ears and eyes, then his nose, and he convulsed violently once before his arms went slack.

  Sinclaire’s body was dragged across the threshold of the circle. I watched, sick to my stomach, horrified and relieved, until he was all the way in. As the darkness dragged him toward the gaping maw of the Abyss, if that’s truly where it led, the undulating tendrils twisted him in just such a way that his face was pointed toward me.

  He blinked.

  Then, he was gone.

  The final spell of any summoning was always the same. It was a spell for ending, closing—really, it was a spell for death. The pushing of something out of the world that no longer belonged. I knelt and placed my hands at the edge of the circle, focusing on the living chalk to correct the tiny flaw that breached the edge just as the darkness began to creep toward it again, seeking more prey, maybe. The misplaced line moved slowly, resisted by the flowing magic, but it only had to move a finger’s width. When it was done, the hum of the circle changed, and the shrieking void became marginally quieter, it’s magic effect on the room contained though just barely.

  I spared a quick look to Hunter, Isaac, and Serena. Hunter was coming to his feet slowly. Isaac helped him and reached out to the space in the entrance. No spells stopped him or killed him outright—now that Sinclaire was removed from the world, his magic had failed. Serena slipped an arm under Hunter’s shoulder, and Isaac hurried to my side.

  “You have to send it back,” he shouted. “This… I’ve seen this before. It’s what took Nathan. How did you…?”

  The rest of it was lost in a sudden cacophony from the circle. The darkness realized it was trapped and began to pound against the invisible barrier between us. I flinched back as it pooled against the air just inches from my face. There were no eyes, no mouth, no telling features but I knew it was looking at me. Glaring. Gnashing unseen teeth as it snapped and snarled and tried to reach me.

  “Reinforce the circle,” I told him. “The same way you did with Nathan. I fixed it. Get Hunter. It won’t go without a fight.”

  Isaac gave me a nod and rushed to Hunter. I couldn’t spare them any more attention as I started the death spell. Immediately, the darkness reacted. It withdrew like some kind of sea creature, closing on itself before it spit out lances of darkness at the edge of the circle, one after the other just at my feet. The tenor of the screeching changed, became sharper and more aggressive. The ground shook and I staggered but kept my hands moving and the words of the spell flowing. Each word came with difficulty, and my hands were already aching but began to feel as though I was casting through some kind of resistance.

  Isaac and Hunter took up positions at the edge of the circle, forming a perfect triangle with me. They moved in unison, their voices ringing as they called over the noise. The resistance against my casting lessened. Magic surged through me, hot and wild. It gathered in my chest and belly, coiled. Balanced on the edge, where I could call it back or send it on.

  In that space, between the last two words and the last two gestures, the magic swelled to a peak and seemed to hold its breath on my behalf, burning with the inherent need to be released.

  And in that perfect space between order and chaos, build and climax, I could feel the shape of the portal, of the circle and the diagram within it. It snapped into place with such perfect clarity that the world paused for a few breaths as if I was allowed to step outside of time and admire the delicate shape of it all. My path.

  Sinclaire was right. I was a summoner. This is what magic was meant to feel like. And I could see, in that stretched moment, precisely the right change to make to the circle. There was a single detail out of place.

  I poured my will, and the image of the corrected formula, into the living chalk at the same moment that I released the magic in a torrent and snapped my fingers into the complex tangle of the final gesture. “…alka asbu el.”

  Come, death of darkness.

  The mass of shadows froze. The world bent in the direction of the portal. There was a rush of frigid wind that was nearly strong enough to send me careening into the circle. With a final ear-splitting squeal of fury, the darkness was jerked back through the opening.

  The resulting shockwave was strong enough to move all of us. Silent, unseen force slammed into me and hurled me away from the circle. I barely managed to catch myself as I struck the ground. The wind left my lungs. Every torch in the room winked out of existence. Darkness fell, carrying the weight of an absolute silence.

  I struggled to breathe and gasped the first words that formed in my head. “Hunter? Isaac? Serena? Are you… where are you?”

  Every part of my body hurt and was filled with lead. I flopped to my side, more so than rolled, and pushed my hands against the stone to force myself up. I needed light. I tried to cast the simple light spell that Lucas had tried to show me a hundred times, but my fingers were thick and clumsy and wouldn’t make the right signs. Magic tried to rise up at my call but sagged back down to wherever it came from.

  Elsewhere in the room, someone else had it covered. Serena’s taut voice croaked the words to the same spell, and with a quiet hiss that usually wasn’t so audible, white light flared a few yards from the floor, emitted from a weak will-o-the-wisp that gave off just enough of a glow that I could see my hands and the floor and the shapes of Isaac and Hunter… and someone else. Not Serena—she sagged against the wall by the entrance.

  If it was Sinclaire, I didn’t want to see him. Not after what had been done. But I had to know if he was alive. If he wa
s still a threat. The lump was unmoving and placed at the center of the now broken circle—the chalk had seemingly melted into something solid and cracked, flaking away in places. I groaned with the effort of standing up. Isaac was in the same process, and Hunter was on his hands and knees, dry-retching. I went to him first to help him stand when he began to recover. “Are you okay?”

  He didn’t answer—maybe he couldn’t. Instead, he pulled me into a crushing hug, pressing my face to his shoulder. He buried his nose in my hair and breathed in, then exhaled hot breath against my scalp. Whether he was at a loss of words or still suffering from whatever damage Sinclaire had done or was just hoarse from casting, I couldn’t tell. I hugged him back either way. “I’m so glad you’re safe. I’m sorry, Hunter. I’m so sorry that happened to you, I was so worried.”

  He grunted, then coughed, and kissed the side of my head before he let me go and jerked his chin toward the body inside the circle. Isaac was already approaching it, cautiously, both hands balled into fists. He was unsteady, his legs shaking with every step.

  “Is it Sinclaire?” I asked.

  Isaac squinted through the darkness, then knelt down by the body. One trembling hand reached out to it, hovered over what I took to be a shoulder, and then rested on it.

  Hunter and I approached. The body was covered in some kind of thick, viscous film. Hunter and Isaac turned it over, onto its back, and pulled at the film over the body’s face. When it came away, Hunter let out a strangled cry of shock.

  Isaac fell back onto his ass, wide-eyed, his jaw hanging open.

  It wasn’t Sinclaire. It was no one I had seen, and yet I knew instinctively who it was.

  Hunter said the name first, though. “Nathan.”

  Amelia

  Once Serena recovered from the blowback of the forced banishing, she went back upstairs and triggered the alarm from the lockdown spells on Sinclaire’s office. Within an hour, Nathan was in the clinic and the four of us—me, Hunter, Isaac, and Serena—were taken to the security office. The two security staff, Emira and Gershwin, took us into a smaller room one at a time to interrogate us. Between our statements and what they found in Sinclaire’s office and the dank temple below it, they decided not to keep us detained or turn us over to the Magician’s Court—yet.