Chapter 13 #2
Having managed to float Freya and myself without any particular effort, I thought learning to use my magic would be like cleaning out a closet. Open boxes, sort the contents, and learn how to use things I’d shoved to the back. It was nothing like that.
Potentially, it was my nerves, but I found I couldn’t concentrate when someone—Olive—was watching me. Frankly, I had performance anxiety.
“Again, Ziakas,” Olive ordered. We were standing in her office, which was as austere as her wardrobe.
The furniture was black leather; the bookcases were oak stained a deep walnut brown.
There were no art pieces or photos. In fact, it felt exactly like a dark version of my own home.
I would have thought this would make me comfortable. It did not.
“I can feel the magic in you, Ziakas.” Olive frowned.
She was holding a blue orb of light in her palm.
She’d been trying to teach me how to create a ball of light for more than an hour.
I was tired, hungry, and grumpy. “This is the most basic of spells. Children are taught this before their third birthday. We’ve been at this for days. Why are you struggling?”
“If I knew the answer to that, I likely wouldn’t be struggling,” I said. She closed her fist and the light orb disappeared into nothing.
“Cup your hands together as if you’re packing a snowball.” She demonstrated the position, and I mirrored her.
“Relax your shoulders; you can’t call the craft if you’re tense.”
“I’m always tense.”
She ignored me. “Close your eyes. Picture the light you want to manifest, imagine it filling your palms.”
I did as I was told. I felt the warmth inside me answer my call.
I could feel the magic shoot down my arms and into my hands.
I kept the vision of the light orb firmly in my mind.
I was certain that this time I’d nailed it.
I opened my eyes and unclasped my hands.
A squiggle of light the size of a polliwog wriggled off my palm, did two loop the loops, and shot straight up to the ceiling, where it disappeared with a splat.
Olive heaved a beleaguered sigh while I stared at the ceiling, wondering what I’d done wrong.
“Ahem.” Miles stood in the open doorway. He’d clearly seen the whole thing. “Sorry to interrupt, but Zoe is due for her magical theory lesson.”
“Take her. She is beyond my help.” Olive dismissed me with a wave of her long-fingered hand.
“Olive.” Miles’s tone was chiding, but she turned her back on us. As I watched, she held out her arms and suddenly Sir Napsalot appeared, hanging on her like she was a tree. Clearly, she felt she needed his calming influence. I scuttled out of her room, feeling like an utter failure.
“Don’t take Olive’s words to heart,” Miles said as we strode down the hallway to his workspace.
“I’m not, but even I know she isn’t wrong,” I said. “I can feel the pull of the magic. I know it’s in me, but I can’t get it to manifest the way I want.”
“You’re potentially blocked by the vow you made to your mother. You’ve carried it for over two decades. That’s not something that can be set aside by a few classes,” Miles said. “Perhaps our sessions on magical theory will help you embrace your heritage.”
“Maybe, but I’m concerned that I’m not working on decrypting the grimoire as much as I should be,” I fretted.
“A better understanding of exactly what witchcraft and magic are might give you some insights.”
I nodded. Truthfully, the two lessons I enjoyed most during the day were magical theory with Miles and potion making with Tariq. Olive was simply terrifying, and Jasper—well, energy manipulation required a lot of focus, which was nearly impossible with him in my orbit.
Miles’s office was cluttered much like Agatha’s house, which was likely why I felt at home there. I had to clear a stack of books off one of the armchairs in order to sit while he conjured a silver carafe of hot coffee with a mismatched sugar bowl, a pitcher of milk, and two mugs.
I looked at him in question and asked, “Any chance you can manifest a chocolate bar?”
He smiled. “The carafe only makes coffee—tea if it’s sulking—but that’s it.”
“Another magical object.”
“They’re everywhere; most people just don’t recognize them.”
“How do they exist?” I asked.
“A witch or mage bespells them,” he answered.
“Did you bespell this carafe?”
“Me? No, it was my mother’s. Normally, the spell would fade from the object once the witch who cast the spell passed away, but because I’m a mage and the witch was my mother, the magic is strong in this little pot.”
“Like the grimoire with me,” I said.
“Precisely.” He poured a mug and handed it to me.
“Thank you.” I added milk and sugar. “What will I be learning today?”
“We’ve covered magic as a natural force powered by the universe, like gravity or electricity,” he said. “Are you comfortable with all that?”
“I think so.” I sipped my coffee. “I mean, I can feel the magic in me and it feels—for lack of a better word—organic.”
“Good word,” Miles agreed. “Let’s move along to spell structure.”
This felt promising. I leaned forward in my seat.
“When you found yourself levitating or when you called Freya to you, what do you remember?” He leaned back in his seat and cradled his mug in his hands.
“Feeling a warmth in my core and being hyperfocused on what I was visualizing in my mind.”
“We call that intent .” Miles sipped from his mug. “It’s the most important part of any spell. The clarity of your will shapes the outcome of the spell.”
“Which was why I found myself levitating.” I nodded. “Do you think my clarity of will isn’t that strong when I’m studying the grimoire? Is that why I can’t understand it?”
“Perhaps, but given that none of us can interpret it, I think it’s more complicated than that.”
“How can I make my intent clearer?”
“Incantations, spoken or thought, can help a witch or mage to focus. Hand gestures, like the one Olive was trying to teach you, strengthen the intent, and sometimes it helps to have a focus object.”
“Like a wand? Because that would be cool,” I said.
Miles chuckled. “They’re a bit out of fashion these days, as they appear more like a bit of cosplay and draw unwanted attention, but crystals are popular. I might suggest Olive use a labradorite crystal—known as a magical concentrator—with you.”
I knew nothing about crystals except that they were not as bitchin’ as wands.
Still, I was willing to try anything. We talked about spell structure for another half hour.
Talking to Miles was like talking to an encyclopedia of magic.
He seemed to have the entire history of witches and mages committed to memory.
“Do you come from a long line of mages?” I asked.
Miles pushed his glasses up on his nose. I realized I had crossed over into personal territory, which was rude at best and incredibly insensitive at worst.
“I’m sorry, it’s not my business,” I said.
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “You are entrusting us with your abilities. It’s only right for you to ask about our credentials.
” He paused, looking over my shoulder as if the past were somewhere in his piles of stuff.
“My father was a mage and my mother a witch, both from magical families of many generations. They were young and happy and in love, married just a few years and with a baby—me—the first of what they hoped would be many children, but the Nazis put an end to that. I was smuggled out of Germany with friends of my parents’ while they stayed, hoping they could use their gifts to fight.
Instead, they were betrayed, captured, tortured, and murdered. ”
My heart felt as if it had turned to stone. “I’m so sorry, Miles.”
“It was a long time ago.” He waved his hand dismissively, but I saw the sheen of moisture in his eyes.
“That’s why we keep our abilities out of the public eye if at all possible.
Less than one percent of the world’s population has magical abilities.
To say that regular people don’t understand us is—”
“Woefully ignorant? Criminally understated? A mistake that could cost you your life?” I asked.
“All of that.” Abruptly, Miles looked every minute of his eighty-something years.
“Why me?” The question came out of my mouth before I knew it was festering inside me.
“Why you what?” Miles frowned.
“Why did you offer me a job at the BODO? I know it wasn’t because I have a good memory and am well read.” I crossed my arms over my chest, letting him know I was prepared to wait for the answer.
“Honestly, because I believe you are a necromancer, and that is a skill that none of us have,” Miles said. “Frankly, we need you, Zoe.”
It took me a moment to process his words. I was about to say something encouraging, I hoped, when there was a knock on the door. Tariq poked his head in and said, “My turn.”
I put my half-finished coffee on the table and rose to my feet.
“Let me end today with this, Zoe. Be careful. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss the magical laws of the world and the one that is most imperative—the law of balance. Always remember, every magical action has a consequence.”
Potions with Tariq was a welcome changeup. Tariq talked about being born into a family of witches and mages in Nigeria. The culture of his homeland both revered and feared anyone considered to be magical, much like the rest of the world, and so his family also kept their gifts close.
“What potion shall we brew today?” Tariq asked.
“Can you make chocolate in that?” I pointed to the silver cauldron he had on a stand above a Bunsen burner—definitely a different aesthetic than a potbellied woodstove or an open fireplace.
Tariq cupped his chin with one hand as he considered and then a grin spread over his face.
The next hour was spent measuring, grinding bits of this and that with a mortar and pestle—you’d think there’d be a magical food processor, but no—and then stirring and stirring and stirring some more. Seriously, no KitchenAid mixer either.