Chapter 2
Severin
SEATED IN THE ARMCHAIR IN my staff apartment, I sip from my coffee mug while perusing my open journal. The page is covered in tidy notes and lesson plans for my first class of the day: Dangerous Magic Across Time.
Senior Seminar—Dangerous Magic Across Time
Objective: Examine historical cases of dangerous magic—what was attempted, what went wrong, and why. Focus is on analysis, not fear. Most practitioners only recognize danger in hindsight. This course aims to correct that.
Key Question: What separates dangerous magic from innovative magic?
Students will be expected to evaluate intent, method, and outcome and to consider what could have been done differently in each case.
Opening Exercise:
Present three cases without attribution:
A city rendered uninhabitable due to failed elemental anchoring (Tempest Cataclysm)
A healer’s work corrupting lineage rather than curing it
A scholarly invention destabilizing a ley-line network
Require silence. Writing only. Students must decide which outcomes were inevitable and which were preventable. Do not allow discussion yet. Early debate becomes performance.
It’s a class I’ve taught before—though never at Coven Crest—yet no matter how many times I teach a class, I still like to sharpen the edges of my mind before stepping out in front of the students. I owe it to them as much as I owe it to myself to do this right.
Otherwise, why teach at all?
I glance at the clock on the wall, then finish the rest of my mug—a mix of strong black espresso and a dash of blood from the blood bank in Wysteria.
The journal closes with a familiar thump, and then I slip it into my briefcase and go to rinse my mug in the small kitchenette before preparing to leave.
I’m standing in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the cuff links on my crisp black button-up, when the castle clock rumbles through the stone.
I start at how loud and grating the sound is—it’s quite clear this castle is inhabited by witches and warlocks, not vampires. If it were, it’d be quiet.
It will simply take some getting used to, like most of the other things in my life.
With one firm tug, I snug my charcoal-gray vest into place, then brush a single fluff of lint from my shoulder.
Before the clock is done with its cacophony, I have my briefcase in one hand and am striding out of my apartment and down the hallway toward the history wing, where I’ll spend the majority of my time here.
Students bustle down the hallways, filling the narrow corridors with their laughter and chatter and the excitement of starting a new school year. I flinch at a sudden and grating laugh, then take a deep breath and repeat one of my many mantras: Observation before impulse.
I focus my senses on what I can see—a lock of hair caught on a cloak clasp, the tiny rainbows of light cast through the stained glass—what I can hear—the rustling of fresh parchment, the whisper of a door swinging open down the hall—and what I can smell—herbs and butter from the dining hall, a hint of sage from a burning stick of incense, and . . . blood.
Always blood.
But I’ve been alive for over three centuries, and the scent of blood no longer tempts me—at least, not the way it used to. Now, I control my urges to feed.
My practice of slowing my mind and observing before acting is one I needed to survive, to make my way in this world without being a danger to those around me. And even now, it helps to calm me.
As I move down the hallway, students notice me, their eyes widening or their mouths opening in expressions of confusion or curiosity as they shift to make way for me. Whispers drift in my wake.
“Who’s that?”
“I think he’s the new history professor.”
“Is he a . . . vampire?”
The headmistress warned me that I may be an oddity around here for a while; it seems she was right.
But in time, all things lose their shine.
And in short order, I’ll no longer be shiny to them, just a stringent history professor who tolerates little and expects much.
It’s why Headmistress Moonhart hired me.
I make my way to my classroom, and as soon as I slip through the door and into the quiet of the lecture hall, I’m able to breathe easier, with the loud sounds of the hall muffled through the walls.
No students have yet arrived, and I take this moment of alone time to reach into the inside pocket of my vest, where I keep a flask of blood tucked away.
Quickly pulling it out, I flip the cap open, then take a deep swig.
The blood goes down smooth, calming my nerves, but the taste leaves much to be desired.
No blood bank can ever replicate the flavor of blood straight from the vein, still hot and pulsing with life energy. But it’ll do—I’ve lived primarily off blood donations for many years, and it’s one of many urges I’ve learned to restrain.
I tuck the flask back into my vest, dab my lips with a square of cloth, and then move to the lectern at the front of the class. As soon as I pull my journal out and settle it atop the wooden podium, the door opens, and my first few students trickle in.
As they take their seats, I turn to the blackboard, pick up a fresh stick of chalk, and write my name: Professor Severin D’Arques.