Chapter 8 Nyx #2
“Can you tell me where it is, then?” I hedge, defiantly meeting his eyes despite our height difference. Jesus, he’s got to be well over six foot. He studies me, and something in his eyes sparks when I startle as my back hits the door frame, like a predator seeing his prey cornered.
“Where did you come from?” he ignores my question and reaches out to touch my hair, but I slap his hand away on reflex, and we both freeze.
“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?” I demand, but then gasp when his other hand wraps around my neck and squeezes.
I grab his wrist with both hands, swallowing nervously as I try to stop this stranger from strangling me in front a goddamned useless teacher as a witness, for fuck’s sake.
He releases my throat just as suddenly, and before I can even draw a full breath, I sprint down the hallway, desperate to put as much distance as possible between me and whoever that psychopath was.
I don’t look where I’m going, but when I finally pause to to erase the memory of his touch, I realize I’m standing right in front of the Headmaster’s office.
Because that’s not creepy at all.
I take a moment to compose myself, and a very Santa-esque man pulls it open and beams at me.
“Ms. Byrke, I presume?” he asks, ushering me into the large office.
“Uh, yes. Headmaster Church?”
“That would be me, Ms. Byrke,” says a lightly accented voice from behind Santa, and I turn to see a man in his fifties stand from the imposing desk and offer his hand for me to shake.
His dark suit is expertly tailored to fit his tall frame, and every bit of him—from his styled salt and pepper hair to the gleaming gold watch on his wrist, exudes control and poise.
“Ms. Byrke, I’m Headmaster Nathanial Church,” he says, shaking my hand, “and this is my colleague, Wolfram Brandt, retired professor and our current ombudsman. I trust you’re settling in alright?” he asks as I sit in the armchair next to Santa.
“All things considered,” I respond with a tight smile. I don’t want to mention that little strangulation incident until know who it was. For all I know, they’d congratulate the fucker for it.
“Ah yes, I heard about your retrieval,” Professor Brandt says with a scoff. “I’ve always thought kidnapping was a bit extreme.”
“Yes, well, your situation is quite peculiar,” the Headmaster says, “I can understand why the High Council took drastic action.” I crook my eyebrow at him and he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Not that I condone it, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, dripping sarcasm
“Let’s begin, shall we?” Brandt steeples his fingers on the arms of his chair and I cross my arms, waiting for the Headmaster’s spiel.
“First, allow me to formally welcome you to the Dreadhurst College of Dark Magic. In spite of the unorthodox circumstances in which you arrived, we are happy to have you join us,” he says with a kind smile, and my shoulders lower just a fraction.
“I can only imagine how you must be feeling right now, and while I cannot promise that your integration into the magical community at large will be without issue, we will do what we can to support you during your time at Dreadhurst.”
“Why?” I ask bluntly. He flicks his eyes to Brandt briefly before meeting mine once more.
“In fact, why am I even here? Do other students get to meet with the Headmaster when they’re abducted from their homes in the middle of the night?
” I turn to Brandt beside me, but he remains silent.
“All I’ve heard since you people blew up my life is that power is everything here, and I sure as shit don’t have any. So why me?”
“If I may, Nathaniel?” Brandt interrupts when the Headmaster opens his mouth, and he nods for Brandt to continue.
“Our world revolves around certain immutable truths, Ms. Byrke. When Fate plucks our souls from the stars and weaves our existence into the universe, it is to ensure the cosmic forces that govern us all remain balanced. An apt analogy is Newton’s Third Law: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Our souls are thus tethered to preserve that universal balance—as our fate is also tethered.
” He pauses, probably for effect or some shit, before continuing.
“You, Ms. Byrke, are an aberration—a contradiction to that previously-held immutable truth. Others are pulled one way or another over the course of their lives to fulfill whatever purpose Fate has determined. You, however, are not. By attending Dreadhurst and becoming a dark wielder instead of a light wielder at Edenwood, you’ve already set into motion a series of events outside the universal laws of our world.
” My hands tremble at his words, but I refuse to break his stare.
His next question, a dark, whispered warning, sends chills down my spine. “Can you understand why the High Council, composed of the most powerful and most influential individuals that oversee our society, would be interested in someone living outside the bounds of Fate?”
“Wolfram,” the Headmaster warns, but the professor is undeterred.
“Nathaniel,” he volleys back, and the Headmaster sighs.
“You are here, Nyx, because the High Council doesn’t know what to do with you, except to keep you close.
Once your epiphaneia reveals your affinity, that may change.
It may be all for nothing, in the end—” he shrugs, “—but they’re not willing to risk you slipping through the cracks, again, on the off chance it isn’t.
” He finishes and waits for my reaction.
“So… I’m here because they want to babysit me, basically,” I respond with glib sarcasm to disguise how shaken I am.
“While you are here, Ms. Byrke,” the Headmaster rebukes, “you will also have access to a world-class education in dark magic, magical history and society, science, and more. You will be in a safe environment with the resources to guide you through epiphaneia and whatever abilities you may possess. You will be fed, clothed, and housed for the next four years, and when you graduate—no matter what abilities you may or may not end up having—you will be well-situated to become a member of our society,” he says it like a reminder of all the things I should be grateful for, but all I hear is the threat of what could be taken away just as easily.
When I don’t respond, he turns to Professor Brandt. “Thank you, Wolfram. Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come out of retirement?” he asks a rueful grin.
“Not a chance in hell,” Brandt replies easily.
“Ah well, maybe next time. Now that’s out of the way, I’d like to continue with our agenda for this morning.
Wolfram will confirm your Order, and then we will create your preliminary class schedule.
Most of these classes are considered remedial, but I want to ensure you have a good foundation of knowledge as you pursue your studies.
You can appeal for reassessment next term, should you wish.
I also recommend that you accept Professor Brandt’s generous offer to meet regularly for private study, which will help bring you up to speed in addition to your regular classes.
Wolfram—if you please?” he asks, and I turn to Brandt as the Headmaster rifles through some papers.
“Right. Ms. Byrke, please hold out your hand,” he asks, but I look at him warily.
“Please tell me you don’t need my blood or anything for this,” I ask.
“Not this time.” He winks and despite my reservations, I give him my hand, and he drops a smooth, dense spherical object in my palm from our of nowhere.
“Is that a freaking palantir?”
His eyes twinkle with mirth. “Well, it is crystal. And it is a ball. But this one isn’t used to divine the future or corrupt unsuspecting wizards.
You see the runes there?” He points as I rotate the not-a-palantir.
“When imbued with magic, specific runes on this artifact will alight according to the holder’s Order.
” A moment later, the core of the crystal begins to swirl as if it were filled with smoke and a dark light begins to pulse, warming my palm.
A light from the bottom of the ball begins to stream through my fingers, and I turn it over for Brandt to see.
“You are most certainly a witch. Congratulations. We won’t know if you have an affinity or what it will be until your epiphaneia, but this is enough to go on in the meantime,” he says, taking it from my trembling hand.
“Thank you, Wolfram,” the Headmaster says before handing me several pieces of paper.
“This is your class schedule. I’ve also taken the liberty of adding the private study sessions with Professor Brandt.
My assistant will notify your professors and send you an email with more information.
” I look at the papers without seeing them, shocked and reeling from yet another display of magic.
More evidence that my world really has changed overnight.
“I believe that concludes our business for this morning. If you have any questions about your class schedule, you can direct them to my assistant.” He stands once more, offering me another handshake, and Brandt does the same.
“It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Byrke. I will email you later this week to coordinate your private study time.” His calm smile manages to ease my nerves somewhat, and he walks me to the door much like he did when I first entered, wishing me a good first day before closing it behind him.
Seeing the time, I review the campus map on my new phone and start walking to my first class using the opposite stairwell I came from, hoping to avoid the psychopath from earlier and get out of this fucking building alive. My schedule doesn’t seem… too bad.
Mondays and Wednesdays I have History 101, Politics 101, Remedial Wielding 99, and Divination 101.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays I have Linguistics 101, Divinity Studies 101, Taxonomic Studies 101, and Physical Training in addition to my private study sessions with Brandt.
Fridays have larger blocks for Creative Design and something called an Elemental Rotation, and I make a mental note to ask Brandt about that on Thursday.
Just as I see daylight through a window near the exit doors, an enticing, earthy scent fills the air, wafting from the alcove next to the stairwell.
When I round the corner, curious, I meet a pair of bright eyes, tinted red by the flaming cherry of his blunt when he inhales deeply.
They lock onto me, and when the thick smoke from his exhale clears, I realize they’re two different colors: ice-blue and deep, olive green.
Heterochromia.
Like a snake being lured by the charmer’s dance, I don’t realize I’m right in front of him until the smoke from his next exhale blows a strand of my hair.
Stronger this time, the smoke creeps into my lungs, spreading warm bliss through my limbs.
Shaking my head to rid my mind of the effects, I step back as he watches me, those captivating eyes boring into my own.
“Should you be doing that here?” I ask.
His eyebrow crooks and I see the cherry flare once more. “Who’s going to stop me?” The rasp of his voice flows over me, raw and seductive like the smoke from whatever’s in his blunt, but I don’t miss the subtle threat.
“What is that?” I nod to the blunt that’s now hanging from the side of his mouth.
He draws in another deep breath but turns his bleach buzzed head before blowing it away from my face. “Want a hit?”
More than anything. “I shouldn’t,” I say, voice laden with regret.
His lips twitch. “Here,” he says, inhaling deeply before wrapping his hand around my my throat and lowering his mouth to mine. I gasp just as he exhales the smoke between my parted lips, and cough violently.
“Ugh, what the fuck is wrong with you people?” I growl, holding my throat, noting this is now the second time in an hour I’ve had someone’s hand around my neck.
He frowns as I glare at him. “What?” He asks, but my eyes water and my vision blurs as I back away, fighting to breathe.
I shake my head again and crash against the exit door, desperate for some fresh air to chase away the pleasant warmth spreading from my chest. I really, really, shouldn’t be high for my first class on my first fucking day. Sets a bad precedent.
After a few unsteady steps, my eyes and lungs finally clear, and I reorient myself to where I am on campus.
Thankfully I don't have nearly as much trouble finding my first class as I did the Headmaster’s office, and manage to catch the door as the last person enters the expansive classroom.
I slink to a seat in the back row, hoping to avoid catching anyone’s attention.
It seems to work, until the professor—a Dr. Clement Allard, PhD—calls my name.
“Nyx Byrke? Raise your hand so I can see you,” he instructs, looking around the classroom. When I raise my hand, thirty pairs of eyes zero in on me.
“Ah, yes. Welcome to Introduction to Politics. Speak to me after class. In the meantime, you can share the textbook with someone else. Any volunteers for our newest student?” He looks around the classroom, calling to mind the visceral memory of the last time I was a new student that no one wanted to share with.
And the time before that.
And the time before that.
“Ms. Bellamy—if you please, so we can get started.” He motions to an empty seat next to a girl with shoulder-length, slicked black hair and tanned complexion.
She’s ambivalent as I make my way to her desk, and shoves her book at me once I take a seat next to her.
Professor Allard turns to his board and begins writing, and everything blurs after that as I try my best to follow along.