Chapter 8 #3
I didn’t want to leave him alone in it, especially after how amazing he’d been with me, so while I knew it was best to slow things down, I’d make sure I still texted him leading up to our date. I mean, I’d still see him in class, but that wasn’t a time to chitchat.
I pocketed my phone in my hoodie, then settled in for the session.
Grimoire Creation was considered a special sort of class.
Only those flagged by aptitude assessments during the application process as high-potential innovators were permitted to attend. It was basically invitation-only.
My background and the foundation I had from being tutored in the magical arts since a young age by three of my parents—Mom, Father, and Dad—had provided me with an unusually balanced grasp of power theory and, despite being a first-year student, an intermediate-level comprehension.
Possibly beyond, if Father’s own assessment had been anything to go by.
Dad had been more reserved where that was concerned.
Yes, because of my reluctance to further my necromantic training.
Furthering it to him, though, meant exceeding even high-level know-how and practice, something even magic-wielders tens of years older than me weren’t capable of.
So his standards were incredibly high where that was concerned, and he was intense about it—as his insistence on him taking me on as an official apprentice had been a testament to.
I just hoped I could resolve my glitching issue before that happened.
There was still time, at least.
Just like with this course.
I’d accepted the invitation and been so excited about it before the issue with my necromantic side had become so pronounced and much more frequent. With that in play now, it complicated things.
Fortunately, this course was theory for the first several weeks, before anything could be put into practice, and spells were actually tested, magic used.
I blew out a breath and tapped my pen against the first page of my open journal—a massive leather-bound thing with gold veins running through it, the raised letters on the front that read Grimoire Belonging to Winter Nox even actual gold themselves.
Pops had gotten it made specially for me.
He couldn’t contribute from a magic-wielder perspective, but he found many other ways to do so. And I loved him for it—for all of it.
I looked out as the room filled up.
Well, to an extent.
There were only a select number of students in this particular class.
Outside of me, I only counted eight.
Two of them were Kai Hunter fanboys up at the front, although at separate desks. There was no partnering up in this course and room was also needed to sift through dozens of formulas and symbols, not to mention the actual intensity of the lab work that would come later as well.
A Light Fae sat across from them. She was one of the princesses from that realm, Octana Reyolde, in a shimmering white and pink tailored pantsuit, her mermaid-colored hair cascading down her back.
I noted a Vampire-Sorcerer in the middle of the room with a shaved head and a willowy build who I’d seen around campus. I believed his name was Theo.
A couple was situated to the right, and I smiled when I saw they’d pushed their desks a little closer together. That was very sweet. One was a sorceress, the other a Werewolf-Dark Fae. They’d both come to class in matching black sweats with Loxley Academy emblazoned on them.
A Shadowmancer was over by the window, and I saw him playing with some shadow shapes as he wove peacefully on his desk, his arms in his zebra-print blazer moving gracefully, his dark curls being blown all over by his magic.
Then a few desks over from him was a sorcerer who’d introduced himself to me in the Cafeteria a couple of days ago.
His name was River Leroux. He was a fourth-year, and his mother was the leader of the Maven Coven, which had once been an elitist institution, but had since been modernized under her charge for the last twenty-plus years.
It was the Coven that Kai Hunter had originally come from and that Dad had unbound Kai from, giving him his freedom.
The guy had silky black wavy hair that brushed the collar of his dress shirt that was my favorite color—cobalt.
It was untucked over a pair of supremely tight jeans.
He kept looking over at Octana with a flirty eye, and she’d glare at him and mouth a curse word back.
“Ah, my best and brightest!” a voice came from the door, and we all looked to see Professor Connor Price striding in, a three-quarter-length gray wool coat sweeping behind him as he went. He had a white dress shirt half tucked into a pair of distressed blue jeans.
As he reached the front of the room, he shoved his hand through his spiky brown hair, then slapped his briefcase that had Guardian Movement branding on it down on the desk up there.
With a sweep of lime magic, the locks flicked open sharply, and then he was pulling out a well-worn gray leather-bound book.
“My own grimoire,” he spoke, when he noted all eyes in the classroom on it.
The worn nature of it made sense then, given that according to the guidebook he was over three hundred years old.
He’d actually been a part of the Guardian Movement, a member through the ups and downs, initially working under Cornelius Martel when he’d first headed it, before Cornelius had become Inter-Realm Ambassador and also headed the clandestine magical innovation group, Arcanum Order.
Ryker Morgan had headed the Guardian Movement for the last few decades.
What a jolting leadership change that must have been.
It was amusing that Dad worked closely with both of them—Cornelius Martel through Arcanum Order and Ryker Morgan as unofficial loose oversight of Dad’s organization, Requital.
Well, if anyone could work with such different personalities and use it to his advantage, it was the infamous Sylas Morgrave.
The calculating nature of it, of Dad, reminded me a little bit of Vaxan actually.
A little bit.
There wasn’t more to it than that.
I didn’t have any daddy issues. I had three fathers and I didn’t suffer from that. Absolutely not.
“My special set of students, to be clear, this isn’t a class constituting fun,” the professor spoke as he levitated his grimoire before him and had his lime magic flip rapidly through its many pages. He then grinned out at us. “Just kidding. It totally is.”
I chuckled, along with a few other students. Some stared in awe, others frowned.
This approach was refreshing. Usually when magic was to be used in unstructured ways, boundaries to be pushed, brand-new spells constructed, it brought wariness and restrictions along with it, the need to enforce constraints and a very serious outlook.
But in my opinion, that could stifle creativity. And in a world that often required out-of-the-box thinking, that could most definitely be a detriment. I was very fortunate that, growing up, I’d had the perfect balance of those attitudes through being taught by Mom, Dad, and Father.
And, honestly, with my anxiety about undertaking this course now with my power issues on my necromantic side, the way this professor seemed to be approaching things was a weight off.
With a snap of his fingers, he halted the flipping pages of his grimoire at about three-quarters of the way through.
“Ah, yes, this was when it started getting good, to the interesting stuff for me. I’m going to show you this spell crafted by yours truly.
We’ll analyze the complex spellwork, and then I will perform it.
As a demonstration of what all of this beginning today is leading you toward.
Not where you’ll begin from by any means.
Of course, in demonstrating this, I will also inject errors into the spellwork to show you why you must not skip ahead without a sound knowledge base. ”
“What’s the spell?” one of the Kai Hunter fanboys asked.
“Take a guess,” the professor encouraged. “At least determine the facet of spellwork that this encompasses.”
“An alteration to teleportation paths?” the same guy who’d asked the question posited.
“Nope.”
I stared at the symbols and the many lines of incantations scrawled all over the place, much of it crossed out and then written over with lots of annotations—typical for a grimoire.
“Something pertaining to elemental nature,” the Shadowmancer queried.
“Getting closer.”
“Rewriting elemental matrixes?” River suggested.
“Very warm now.”
“Temporarily rewriting the function of magical objects that have roots in elemental aspects,” I called out. I squinted at a particular passage. “One even being the stake that can kill an Ancient… another… iron against Dark Fae?”
Professor Price swung his head toward me, a glint in his eye.
Then he clapped his hands. “Precisely.”
River sat forward a little. “You dated this.”
“All spells recorded inside a grimoire should be dated. It roots them in context as the years—or centuries in my case—go on by.”
River continued, “And the date of this… you developed this spell during the Hybrid Liberation War. You were trying to protect those fighting against Puritas.”
The professor caught my eye.
Fuck. The iron… he’d been trying to find a way to protect my mom.
Given her vital role in what had happened back then.
And maybe even Thryne, formerly her resistance organization that had become the Dark Fae contingent eventually fighting against those enemy Dark Fae who’d taken to mind-meddling and aligning with Puritas—and my psychotic grandfather, Morien Morgrave.
And the spell for the stake… perhaps to protect The Shadowed run by my grandpa, Remnant.
His real name was Rhodric Vallant, but that was known to very few outside my immediate family.
There’d been one stake out there at the time—or so we’d believed.
But this spell Price had been developing suggested that hadn’t actually been the case.
I mean, in the last twenty years, there had been more of them emerging, reports coming in about it.
“That’s fucking ace,” the other Kai Hunter fanboy exclaimed.
“Eloquently put, Alex,” Professor Price returned, making half of us laugh, because it clearly wasn’t.
He knew the guy’s name. Already.
He was certainly astute—and prepared.
He smiled at me discreetly, obviously recognizing who I was as well and how personal that spell was to me.
Then he moved on and continued with the lesson, easing onto the edge of his desk.
“This class consists of magic-wielders inclined toward precision, logic, and ethical experimentation.” He grinned.
“That’s the official party line I’m urged to utter.
But there’s clearly more. You all possess creative, out-of-the-box thinking and both the need and wherewithal to express that.
” He rubbed his hands together. “And that, my talented pupils, is why we are truly here.”
Perfect—as Mom would state elatedly.
“You already understand the fundamentals of magic, now we learn how to build new magical works, rather than just repeat what already is. This is where creativity and discipline with ethical responsibility collide. The first couple of sessions we will spend on the spell I’ve just shown you, dissecting it, introducing errors and complications, then performing it.
Following that, you will delve straight into your first spellwriting project.
There are four parts to this. One: a two-page design brief defining purpose, mechanism, and including ethical boundaries specific to the spell itself and its reach.
Two: draft the first written iteration of said spell with annotations and explanations of logic flow.
Three: perform a trial demonstration with a small-scale live test. Four: complete a 4,000-word research paper reflecting on the success and limitations of your spell as well as possible future applications. ”
Everyone, including me, was hanging onto his every word, a silence enveloping the room that was most definitely rooted in excited anticipation.
This course was going to be incredible.
Professor Price noticed the awed expressions and the intensity of what he’d created since walking in, and he smiled.
Then, with a snap of his fingers, he spun toward his grimoire. “Well, then. No time to waste with further formalities. Let us delve into the good stuff!”