Chapter 8
It wasn’t until he was standing in his classroom checking supplies that Quentin realized his chalk tin was missing.
He must’ve forgotten it at home because it wasn’t in the outside pocket of his bag, where he usually kept it, and it didn’t turn up when he dumped the bag upside down after he removed his computer and spell orbs.
He hastily stuffed the blood packets back into the bag.
“What was that?”
Quentin’s head jerked up to see a line of students entering the classroom, all curious eyes and eager faces. He didn’t know who asked the question.
“Blood for my boyfriend.”
A young man stepped forward, grinning wildly. “I knew I picked the right class.”
His female friend nodded. “The other professors are so closed-minded.”
He didn’t have a response for that. Instead, he said, “I’m glad you approve. Please take your seats.”
Fighting a blush, Quentin set his bag on the floor, then began pulling open the metal desk’s drawers, hoping to find something left by a previous teacher.
“Ha!” He pulled out a box from the top drawer. Two chalk sticks sat in a wooden box. Written on the outside across a piece of masking tape were the words ‘ritual chalk.’
“This should do just fine.”
It took him an hour to realize his mistake.
Boom!
The explosion rocked the classroom. Quentin flashed up a shield seconds before it could take out more than a chunk off the teacher’s desk, but not fast enough to avoid a line of fire from scalding his palm.
Only two classes in, and he’d already caused an explosion.
Grevin would never let him live this down.
“Is everyone all right?” He called out but didn’t dare turn around to check on the students until he’d smothered every last flame. Students fainting from smoke inhalation wouldn’t be a great addition to his resume or the school’s reputation.
The lack of screaming and crying eased his concerns. Instead, they were complaining about soot in their hair and giggling about the explosion.
They couldn’t be overly traumatized.
As soon as the flames were vanquished, he spun the disaster into a teaching moment.
He’d learned during his vast two days of teaching experience that education wasn’t unlike a street magic performance.
Copious use of razzle-dazzle distracted the audience from noticing the card up your sleeve, or from reporting a questionable explosion to the dean.
Luckily, the containment ward he hastily slapped up stopped the fire from reaching the sprinklers, so there was no need for sexy firefighters.
A mixed blessing.
“Now, class, can anyone tell me what caused the rune circle to collapse?”
As he expected, a tiny goth girl in the front of the crowd raised her hand. “Yes, Eliza?”
“Poorly constructed runes?”
“Good guess. However, as you can see, the runes changed color, which means what? Anyone?”
Lucy, a blonde with cheerleader vibes, jumped in to answer before another student could take her question. “If it had been a rune failure, they would’ve burned black.”
“Exactly. Does anyone else have a hypothesis?”
As he tossed out questions, Quentin walked the circle, trying to determine the cause of the explosion himself.
“Unstable magic?” A male answered. He didn’t recognize the voice, but the tone had more than a bit of insinuation in it.
Tossing a stick of chalk from hand to hand, Quentin paced the circle and held back the urge to snap at the insult to his skill. After all, something had caused the explosion. Instead of arguing, he threw the question back at them.
“Who can tell me the signs of unstable magic?”
Several hands popped up with various levels of confidence.
“Philip.” He pointed to a freckled youth with bright orange dreadlocks.
“That his hypothesis is bullshit is what it is. If your magic was unstable, it would be crackling, and objects would be rattling on the shelves.” He flailed his hands wildly to indicate movement.
“We can see that your magic is smooth as silk, as usual.” He glared at his fellow students, daring them to contradict his rebuttal.
“Those are two signs of unstable magic. Another is that it wouldn’t answer my call easily.
As Philip proclaimed so artfully, my magic flow would be fractured.
” Quentin held out his right hand, palm up.
A blue flame flared into existence, then playfully danced across his fingers.
“As you can see, my magic is fine. If it were unstable, the fire would flicker or spit sparks, especially so soon after an outburst. Other ideas.”
He probably should’ve called Philip out on his language, but he couldn’t scold the kid after his adorable defense. It was like an angry Chihuahua defending a Hellhound; unnecessary, but sweet.
He pointed to another student. “Amanda?”
“Buildup of outside magic?”
“Explain.” He might know what she was referring to, but her fellow students probably hadn’t read all the way to chapter eight when they were still reviewing chapter two in class. He would bet his shiny vampire necklace that she’d gotten straight A’s in all her classes since kindergarten.
Amanda straightened her shoulders, standing tall in the spotlight of attention. “In places where magic is performed consistently, there can be a buildup if it isn’t cleansed properly, which can cause issues as time goes on.”
“Excellent answer,” Quentin praised. “Unfortunately for your theory, not only did the janitorial team cleanse the room last night, but I smudged the room before making the circle as I always do, and I hope all of you will make the habit of doing so yourself. Never depend on someone else to handle potential magical buildup. Always be responsible for sterilizing your own spell space. You can’t assume they cleansed the area as thoroughly as you would.
Even the best janitorial staff sometimes misses things, especially if they aren’t magic-sensitive or have a busy schedule they have to rush through. ”
“Are you magic sensitive?” a student from the back asked.
“Yes, as are most of the students here are to some degree. You might find yourself gaining more sensitivity the longer you work with magic, but no promises. Keep in mind that not being sensitive to magic isn’t necessarily a negative thing.
People without sensitivity can often stand being in magic-rich environments far longer than I could.
Every ability has its ups and downs.” He added that last part because some of those he knew were sensitive were giving others a superior look.
Better to crush that rivalry right away.
“It is more important to focus on what you’re doing than to rely too much on feelings.
As we can see,” he waved to the damage, “it doesn’t always help. ”
Laughter took away the last of the tension as most of the students nodded in agreement. Good. Hopefully, they would remember that advice when they were conducting rituals on their own.
“What other factors are involved in creating a safe rune circle that we might have missed?” He snuffed the flame and raised a finger one at a time as he made new points. “The runes were correct, the magic was stable, there was no buildup…”
“The chalk!” Marian Goldwin’s blond hair flapped as she jumped up and down. “What kind of chalk did you use?”
“Hmm. Good question.” He pulled the box from his pocket.
“I found this chalk in the desk from a previous teacher.” He tilted the box to show the remaining stick and a half.
“I usually make my own, but I couldn’t find my tin before class started.
” He didn’t mention his distraction over Grevin being mauled by the demon he’d summoned.
One of the best bits of advice he’d gotten from a fellow professor was that students didn’t need to know about a teacher’s personal life.
It helped to establish a professional boundary between them, especially when Quentin was the same age as most of them and younger than some.
“This looks to be homemade. Now, generally, rune chalk is made from demon bone and dragon ash to help channel magic and, in some cases, control or manipulate fire. How would we test if ours is made from those components?” He set the box on the desk and folded his arms.
Amanda waved her hand back and forth as if she were flagging down a taxi.
“Amanda.” He nodded to her.
“If we crumbled it and poured water over it, the demon bone would turn the water red, and dragon ash would cause sparks.”
Philip raised his hand again.
“Yes?”
“How do they get demon bone? Are they killing sentient creatures to make chalk?” Philip’s obvious concern had Quentin holding his hand, palm out, to stop the other students from espousing their less-than-humanitarian views on demons.
“I asked the same question when I began rituals,” he admitted.
“There is a contract between our realm and the demon realm that only demons who volunteer their bones, like organ donation, or minor demons that are more like beasts, can be used. We exchange them for goods they can’t get in their realm. ”
“What kind of goods?” asked Jason, a dark-haired student, who had a pencil poised over his notepad as if Quentin was going to give a quiz at any moment.
Quentin shrugged. “Usually, fresh vegetables that can’t grow there, alcohol, and luxury fabric.
I’m not sure of the details, but we can save that for another time.
Let’s get back to our chalk issue. According to Amanda’s hypothesis, testing the chalk would result in red water with sparks if made of the proper components. Does everyone agree?”
A few shoulder shrugs, but most nodded along. He couldn’t tell whether they trusted Amanda’s scholastic brilliance or had no idea and were just going with the crowd.
“But what if it’s regular chalk. The non-magical kind?” Marian asked.
“It would sink because chalk is heavier than water,” Quentin remembered from his chemistry class. He didn’t recall much, but that fact had stuck in his head.