by Melody Rose
Her White Wolf
The Academy of Amazing Beasts Book 1
Melody Rose
Contents
1. Theo
2. Joan
3. Theo
4. Joan
5. Theo
6. Joan
7. Theo
8. Joan
9. Joan
10. Theo
11. Joan
12. Joan
13. Theo
14. Joan
15. Joan
16. Joan
17. Theo
18. Joan
19. Joan
20. Joan
21. Joan
22. Joan
23. Theo
24. Theo
25. Joan
26. Joan
27. Joan
28. Joan
29. Theo
Joan’s Jubilant Apple Pie
A Note from the Author
1
Theo
Lamb’s heart. I couldn’t believe my father, the Headmaster, ordered me to hunt a lamb’s heart, a low-grade human. These creatures, uninitiated in magic, were nothing but empty husks to me. I told my father as much, but since he hadn’t found his champion in Lemuria, he chose to seek a new recruit for our academy elsewhere. He had become so desperate that he’d asked me to travel beyond the portal and into the human world, convinced that he detected a rare mage in this realm. It was ridiculous, and I couldn’t see why I needed to waste my time on such a tremendously stupid task.
Worse, since I needed to fit in with these meek mortals, I was forced to “slum it,” as they would say. Gone were my precious ensembles and breathtaking brocades. Now I was clad in hellaciously abrasive breeches that were marked “on sale.” My father had consulted Rebecca, the civvie lover, a mage with a curious fixation on human society, before my trip. She convinced me these “jeans” were the height of fashion, that I would fit in if I were seen in them. Normally, I would summon my own attire, but I couldn’t concentrate on human clothing, finding it far too distasteful. I’d simply have to buy what was available to me with the funds my father had given me.
It was almost too much to bear, seeing how lamb’s blood here reveled in being modest peasants that celebrated saving coin. Why would I want to purchase cheaper garments? Sadly, the proudly inexpensive jeans fit Rebecca’s description, so I bought them to carry out my quest. To compensate for this, I dropped a lavish amount on a properly fitting, agreeably black dress shirt from a shop that proudly proclaimed itself an “upscale, luxury boutique.”
I balked at the fact that humans didn’t strive for “luxury” in all matters and didn’t even believe they knew the proper meaning of that quality. I was particularly doubtful because this “boutique” was only two doors down from the bottom-of-the-barrel pandemonium of poor quality apparel I had just subjected myself to.
In Lemuria, royaume de possibilité, the realm of possibility, elegance was simply a way of life, an expectation. All our mages strove for excellence, and our enchanted tailors and seamstresses were first-rate. There was no need to seek out a “better” establishment like humans were forced to. In my eyes, mediocrity should be snuffed out, and greatness should be expected at every turn, every moment.
I’d tried to explain this to my father, Abelard, who was dead set on majestic occasions that happened once in a blue moon and always put all his focus on our academy’s festivals and competitions… I swear, he’d hold out for centuries if he were convinced the theatrics were compelling enough… I was always opposed to this idea because I believed that cultivating high standards should be a daily endeavor. What’s a reputation worth if you only safeguard it during rare events?
It was one of the reasons my father’s struggling academy was so maddening to me, and why I believed we needed to discipline our students more often, even throw them out if need be.
At any rate, he had gotten it into his obsessive head that what would put our institution on that map to be hailed by witches and warlocks far and wide was a prodigy with a fresh perspective. I asked him why he didn’t consider staying local and investigating the nearby villages for a child that displayed promise, but he retorted that “an infant in a world locked in its old ways is as good as a crone.”
How could I really argue with that logic, if you can call it that? He clearly didn’t see space and time like anyone else, as he was always looking for answers to today’s ailments in the tomes of yore.
A pure heart, that’s what he was looking for, and he was convinced that such a remarkable essence could be found within this town. With a wry chuckle and a dismissive shake of the head, I laced up the Italian leather dress shoes I’d purchased to announce to the world that while I might be “human,” I was still leagues above any of them. Suitably attired, I was ready to make my way to my mark as I navigated this silly little town and its inhabitants.
Days ago, my father had shown me a map of the region, and his “detect enchantment” spell had garnered some success, as evidenced by a glow at the center of the parchment.
“MacKenna Cakes and Sundry Delights,” was written below the magical mark in elegant calligraphy.
“Sugar peddlers?” I had questioned my father. “Oh, what a noble and valiant guild! They’ll save the world by casting a spell on the taste buds of all, so everyone forgets ancient grudges and spits out all the bad blood they’ve held onto!”
“You don’t have the gift of sight,” Father had been quick to point out. “You are strong and even talented, boy, but you are prone to the grave error of underestimation.”
“The humblest roots can flourish into a formidable tree that no simple storm could tear down. Our academy can use the bolstering of a strong spirit,” he continued. “I tell you, the world of the uninitiated is even more challenging to endure than ours is as they have no access to spellwork.”
“For an old man, you babble like a boy besotted with fairytales. I’ll go just to show you how ridiculous the idea of finding a capable mage among the humans is, and then when I return empty-handed, we can talk about implementing some policies that will actually benefit everyone here,” I challenged him, and before he could so much as reply, I’d spun around and marched away.
Now, here I was, eyeing the “prophesied” bakery with equal measures of disdain and disbelief. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the pastel pink awnings and decided that I would cleanse my palate with a soothing cup of black coffee to survive this saccharine mess.
It still hadn’t sunk in that this was where I would encounter anyone with even a thimble’s worth of power, much less a mystical champion. What was our blessed champion going to do, disarm me with a sugar rush?
I closed my eyes momentarily to tamp down my telltale aura, my natural magnetism was far too powerful for weak-willed humans to handle. I then braved my first few steps into this trap of cloying concoctions. Immediately, I was struck by an exquisitely painful migraine, my senses awash with the commingled sweat and odors of lamb’s bloods. I wasn’t even sure one-upping my father and putting him in his place was worth this special layer of torture.
Any means these shabby heathens used to mask their natural smells were artificial. That civvie-lover, Rebecca, once remarked on the ingenuity of deodorant, which I found abhorrent. Properly presenting oneself shouldn’t consist of one synthetic stick, but rather the right herbs and oils, as well as an incantation to summon an essence that represented the courter. Clearly, humans knew nothing about true romance with their cheap, misguided tastes.
As I attempted to be a good sport as well as I could be and order an unsweetened brew to serve my nerves, a r
edheaded twit with piles of hair bunched on top of her head came barrelling out of the back room with a platter full of pies. I know these simpletons don’t know their way around rudimentary levitation, but who in their right mind tries to balance that many desserts, glutted with fruit and syrup, on a flimsy surface?
I was about to ask her just that when the careening cretin swerved in my direction and collided into me. For a glimmer, a moment, a microsecond, I was too stunned to be angry.
Then, the reality of the situation registered, made sickeningly pronounced by the whipped cream, crust, crumbs, and slimy filling tarnishing my expensive dress shirt. The fact that I could easily replace it was beyond the point: I looked like one of those painted monsters that laughing children mocked. Rebecca called them “clowns,” but I thought they were the stuff of nightmares, and now I looked as though I’d joined their ranks.
The girl’s emerald eyes shot open, her lengthy eyelashes fluttering up to her eyebrows. “I just knew it! Goddamnit! Now it’s obvious I should stick to the kitchen. I promise you I’m a much better baker than a waitress, and if you don’t file a complaint, I’ll make sure I set you up with some fresh pie and a pot of coffee, on the house.”
She rambled to make her case and defend herself while pulling out bundles of napkins from her apron. When she approached me, I slapped her arm away and caused the white stack to cascade onto the ground in a pool of scattered paper.
With gobs of cream dripping shamefully down the front of my newly purchased shirt, I paused, not to compose myself and collect my thoughts, but to gather the entirety of my rage.
“Real help you are!” I spat out ruefully. “It doesn’t look like you bring a dash of sense or talent to the table, and the best strategy would be to fire you outright. If this is a family establishment, then I would disown you.”
“I made a mistake, and I apologized for it.” She glared at me and placed a curled up fist onto her hip, cocking it to the side in irritation. “Now, you had better leave.” She stood there for a moment with pursed lips and burning eyes, then took a quick step forward. “But before you go, you should have another sample.” Then, without another word, she reached out and scooped up one of the spilled pies and smashed it into my face. “There you are.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go on. Get out.”
I’ll admit it, I was too shocked to even respond appropriately. After all, any girl at my academy would have been honored to even be in my presence.
“You will rue this day,” I said with barely contained rage as I tried to keep myself from blasting her into her composite atoms with my magic. “They should have just stuck you back in the kitchen so that you wouldn’t cross paths with someone who could actually make you pay for your oversight. Enjoy touting pies while you can, you hobgoblin!”
“Hobgoblin?! Are you serious?! What are you, twelve?” She seemed remarkably unfazed in the face of my impressive wit and verbal flourishes. “Whatever. I don’t have time to psychoanalyze whatever you’ve got going on there. I’ve got to get back to work.” She walked away, unbothered, and her casual dismissal and ease of departure infuriated me to no end.
I growled and stormed off. Worse, when I tried to slam the door, a set of bells jingled cherubically. They brought to mind the giggles of merriment the girl would surely treat herself to at my expense.
Well, she could jeer at me for now, but if I was forced to trawl this forsaken town for a champion, I could make sure that this shew’s life was pure torment in the process. After all, I knew more than a few spells I could use to do just that.
2
Joan
I sat cross-legged on my cot and sighed deeply, reading the promotional material of Galway Cookery School, my head spinning from the price estimates for room and board. I’d dreamed about attending since I’d learned to pinch pie crust, and finally, I worked up the nerve to apply to Galway and submit my dishes to a panel of judges.
It definitely wouldn’t be easy. I would have to convince my step-mother, who loved to stomp on my dreams, that I was out on a simple grocery run to restock the inventory at our family bakery, MacKenna Cakes and Sundry Delights.
It annoyed me to no end saying the words, “Welcome to MacKenna Cakes and Sundry Delights, a family establishment for over thirty years,” to customers with a warm smile. It was a script that I’d rehearsed countless times in my head to perfect the I-swear-I-don’t-hate-my-shitty-step-family pitch. My late father went through the painstaking process of drawing up blueprints with architects, locating the land to draw the best business, securing a loan, and equipping the building with state-of-the-art cookware and appliances.
My mom had inspired him to turn our family hobby into a legacy so the MacKennas would always be taken care of. I was confident that I was always at the front of his mind, his beloved little chef with hours to burn unlocking the code for a perfect pie with a buttery, flaky crust, tangy yet sweet filling, and the right ratio of spices to keep customers coming back.
Unfortunately, when my mom died, my father believed that “keeping the family” together meant finding me a new mother figure. What’s more, he thought that he was treating me to an incredible package deal when my new stepmother brought three stepsisters along with her. Because who doesn’t just love bonding with not-quite-siblings with an extra dose of hazing for good measure?
To her credit, my step-mother Deirdre was an excellent actress and played her part damn well until my father passed away. She even used her shrewd business sense to steer him in the right direction. She was like a bloodhound sniffing out money and did give him some pretty good advice. However, after he died, Deirdre wasn’t exactly the picture of a heartbroken widow.
She cashed in on his life insurance policy, and, since she couldn’t write his funeral off as a business expense, did not even waste a second with any memorials.
She spat out the right lines to convince others that she was holding onto her beloved spouse’s bakery to help her keep food in the mouths of her three daughters. It was a total sham, and she wasn’t struggling. Thanks to online shopping, where no one local could judge her shopping addiction, Deirdre quietly stockpiled fine jewelry and expensive clothes until the socially acceptable period of grieving expired. She then revealed her true nature in full force, claiming that enjoying the MacKenna bakery’s success is what her husband would have wanted.
Today, once I started my kitchen shift, I decided to take a gamble and bank on my stepmother’s total cluelessness about the baking industry. The most she contributed to the place was placing orders for furniture or holiday decor because she couldn’t cook to save her life.
As she decorated the store windows with decals of autumn leaves, I quietly walked up behind her and held my hands together. I didn’t want to startle her and get yelled at for getting on her nerves. She stepped back, observed her work, and finally looked at me in annoyance.
“Yes, Joan? Why aren’t you in the back cooking?” she asked with a wrinkled forehead as she shot a glance toward the kitchen, “I didn’t call for you.”
I knew that I would have to use all the right words and convince Deidre that I could make her more money.
“Well, I know. It’s just… I can’t fulfill all the orders today with what we’ve got on hand,” I explained. “There’s a rush this time of year, and the supplies I need to meet the demand are seasonal. I’ll have to get them now if we’re going to keep everyone happy and buying. We’re running short on apples, nutmeg, brown sugar, and cloves.”
“Oh.” She paused for a moment as if running numbers in her head. “Our seasonal pies make up over half of our revenue.” Another tiny pause before she nodded. “I want you to make replenishing those ingredients a priority.”
“You’ve got it,” I said, and even though I’d wanted her to let me go, part of me was annoyed. She should have already known we were low on supplies since my deep-dish Dutch apple pie was the talk of the town. Customers couldn’t resist coming to the cafe at any hour of the day for it.
&n
bsp; Still, now wasn’t the time to get annoyed about it. Now was the time to get myself some time outside and alone, and since her eyes were already dancing with future dollar signs, I decided to get out of dodge. “I have another dessert in mind that I think might be even more popular than my Dutch apple pie, so I’ll probably spend some time looking for the right ingredients.”
When she nodded without questioning me, so I turned and left.
I didn’t even bother asking for money to buy the supplies since Deirdre would just turn me down. I even needed another part-time job just to pay rent since she was charging me to live in the family house. Since she was always on my case, I knew I’d have to pull this all off really quickly, or I’d have to kiss Galway goodbye.
When I went back to the kitchen to find my wallet and get started with my “errands,” my older step-sister, Jasmine turned from taking inventory of our desserts. She noticed the edge of the pamphlet that stuck out of my apron pocket and smirked at me. Then, she snatched it, knowing I couldn’t chew her out when Deidre was within earshot. As she read the trifold brochure, she looked at me with what actually looked like sympathy. I wondered if she would give me the pass for just one day so that I could move on with my life and get out of her hair.
“I know that we’re not related by blood, Joan,” Jasmine started her little speech, “but I really want the best for you. I hope you know that.” I was surprised by her friendliness since I thought she loved being hopped up on her catty drama.