Fantastic Schools: Volume 2 Read online

  Shaking his head, he opened the bottom drawer, which held a dusty, leatherbound book. Removing the book, he slid all the parchments, quill, and other oddities into that drawer, closing it once everything was tucked away neatly.

  Holding the book over the side of the desk, he brushed it off. The stirred dust sent him into a sneezing fit. Sniffling, he delved into an outer pocket of his backpack and opened a pack of tissues. Blowing his nose, he tucked the used tissue into a small ziplock bag before tucking it into an outer packet.

  Carefully, he opened the book, and his dark brows nearly vanished into his hairline. The script was written in neat writing. It wasn’t the age of the paper, which in itself was impressive from his opinion, but rather the content.

  Witches and wizards! He moved the backpack onto the floor and began devouring the words. So intent upon every word written by whoever had written this incredible telling of the history of magic, perceived by someone who believed themselves to be a magic user, he almost didn’t notice the students as they entered the room and took their seats.

  Their movement pulled his attention back to his job.

  Closing the book, he slid it into the top drawer, promising to read more later.

  Standing, he squared his shoulders and moved from behind the desk until he stood at the podium.

  “Good morning, class!” He greeted the students, ignoring the fact they all wore long robes with weird symbols on the lapels of the shirts that stuck out from the collars.

  He was at a complete disadvantage, since no one had even given him a list of student names. As soon as this class was over, he needed to seek out the principal and discuss certain things with Mr. McMillan.

  Only half the class replied with a ‘good morning’. Time to try again.

  “I said ‘Good morning’! Come on, show some spirit here!”

  The entire class spoke up, that time, though still only half was exuberant about it. At least, it was a start.

  “I’m Mr. Sylverson. Your substitute for this week. Unfortunately, Ms. Clarke has taken ill and will be out for a while,” he said, keeping the smile plastered on his face. “Please take out your books. Since it seems she didn’t leave me a syllabus, someone will have to tell me what chapter you left off on.”

  His words were met with confused faces and silence. A hand slowly, hesitantly rose into the air.

  “Yes... what is your name?”

  “I’m Emily. Emily Andrews,” the petite blonde said. “Everyone knows about Madame Clarke, Master Sylverson. She didn’t use a book for her class.”

  “Oh.” That was not what he expected to hear. He sighed and turned around, pulling his backpack from the floor and dropping it on the chair. “Okay. What era were you in the middle of before she got sick?”

  Emily gave him a smile that he did not trust. “We were learning about the Middle Ages. Castles, feudalism. That stuff.”

  “Perfect!” He turned to his backpack and pulled a large binder from it. Flipping the binder open, he removed a stack of papers. Looking around the classroom, he frowned. This was going to be a bit more complicated than he’d originally expected. There were at least thirty students in the class. “You can pair up. This is a basic test for that era. If you guys pass it, we’ll move onto the next topic.”

  He watched as all the students pulled out quills, ink bottles, and ink blots.

  “No, no. We’re not using that stuff today. Pull out your pencils or pens.”

  “Um… we don’t have those. We use quills, sir,” another student spoke up. A brown-haired boy with a round face, slightly-pointed ears, and blue eyes that glittered with mischief and humor.

  Harold sighed. This was definitely going to be one of those positions. Where he had not been given the right information and the kids never came prepared.

  Grabbing a large pack of pencils from his backpack, because he was always prepared, he added it to the stack of papers.

  “The pencils will be returned at the end of class. One per student.”

  He handed the pencils to the young man who’d spoken up and the papers to Emily.

  “Please hand these out to your fellow students.”

  Up close, he could tell the little symbols on their lapels were pins. Each one was a different symbol. The two students he chose both wore eagles. Glancing around, he spotted three other symbols: a dolphin, lion, and what looked like a lizard.

  Weird, he thought as he returned to his podium. But whatever. Everything in this school was weird.

  Within moments, the papers and pencils had been handed out. At least a third of the class was trying to hide grins as they all but caressed the pencil in their hands and the paper on their desks. The others were staring at the paper and pencil as though it were going to bite them or had resigned expressions.

  “Now, if you all promise to be diligent and work together on this test, I’ll play music,” Harold stated, moving back to his desk. “Any preferences?”

  “Classic rock!” someone shouted.

  Harold turned, a grin threatening to spill across his face. “Your request…”

  He pulled out his phone, attached a cable to a portable charger and began tapping the screen. The charger’s light sprang to life. Were those sighs of longing he heard behind him? No… impossible! He tapped the ‘play’ icon and Led Zepplin sprang from his speakers.

  Heads began bobbing to the music. It took a total of three heartbeats for him to realize the same students who eagerly accepted the mundane pencil and paper were the ones now bobbing along to the music. Or perhaps ‘head banging’ was a more apt description.

  It warmed his heart to see it. What puzzled him the most, were students who were trying to figure out how to hold the pencil. They stared at their classmates, wrapping their fingers around the wood and slowly making marks on the paper. The music, he could tell, was both foreign but intriguing to these children.

  That song ended. The next began; and Harold was feeling worried about the other students. But they were slowly adapting to using the pencils.

  Perhaps they were just messing with him? After all, who didn’t know how to hold a pencil?

  Finally, one of the students slammed the pencil against the desk, pushing the paper off his desk. The paper flew away before floating to the floor. Some of the students, Harold noticed, exchanged wary gazes.

  “Something wrong, young sir?” Harold asked, choosing a sort of title instead of a name he didn’t have yet.

  “Yes. I don’t know why we have to use this thing?” the student all but yelled, holding up the pencil. “There is nothing wrong with a quill!”

  “Quills are messy. The ink takes too long to dry, and I don’t like having black-smudged fingers. That is why,” Harold replied, leaning against the back of his chair.

  The kid tossed his head, reminding Harold of a high-strung horse who didn’t want to do a task.

  “I will not be subjected to this absurdity! I am a Westerford. I should not be forced to use such mundane and piddly instruments!”

  “You will use such items in my class, young man,” Harold stated, rising from his chair. He tapped his phone, stopping the song, which caused a wave of groans. “If you do not sit, you will regret that outburst and your behavior.”

  “What are you going to do? You’re not but a substitute! I’ll bet you don’t even know how this school works!”

  “Very well. You will be doing a ten-page essay on the Crusades. Due tomorrow. Half of your grade will depend on that paper. It will be done using a pencil. You will include the technology, the impact the Crusades had, those involved with the Crusades, and the Knights Templar.”

  Young Mister Westerford appeared as though he’d been struck by a bowling ball. His eyes were wide, his cheek twitched, and his mouth formed a perfect circle.

  “You… you can’t… you can’t do that!” he stuttered.

  “Can. Have. Did. Keep going and I’ll add pages,” Harold stated, keeping his gaze level with his student.

  “Tha
t’s not fair!” another boy exclaimed, standing up beside him. “All we’ve ever used are quills! We don’t even know how to use that thing called… what’d you call it? A pen-sill?”

  “A pencil, you moron,” another voice muttered.

  Harold searched the class but couldn’t figure out who’d said it. Normally, he didn’t approve of name calling, of any sort, but in this case… it did seem rather fitting.

  “It appears you’ve joined your friend in doing a ten-page essay, young man,” Harold stated. His eyes traveled over the classroom. “Since it appears you two are wearing the same pins, I’m going to presume you’re in the same group. If a third decides to stand up and argue, every student wearing that lizard pin will be doing a ten-page essay on the Crusades.”

  A hand rose into the air.

  “I hope you are not planning on joining them, miss,” Harold stated, voice hard.

  “No, sir,” the young woman said cheerfully. She brushed back a strand of auburn hair. “They’re Houses. The pins? They represent Houses here at Hogsback. Each student is placed into a House. It’s basically a particular wing. If you like, some of us can stay behind and answer some of your questions?”

  Houses? What the hell was this place? Harold wondered. He vaguely recalled that British boarding schools were organized in a manner that included the concept of Houses, but he had never come upon it in America. This place was getting stranger and stranger.

  The young girl, though, sounded… hopeful? Her eyes were eager and drifted between him and his phone. Several of the other students were nodding, also.

  “What’s your name, young lady?”

  “Amber. Amber Tilley,” she replied.

  “Very well. You and your classmates can remain behind. Provided your tests are finished.” He addressed the rest of the class. “Those who have finished, and are not remaining behind, may go after bringing forward the tests, complete with names at the top of the paper.”

  Within minutes, students had turned in their papers, and most were scurrying from the room like rats deserting a sinking ship.

  “You and your cohort may leave, young Westerford. Oh, and turn in your test. You will be graded on what you did and did not finish.”

  The pair of students flushed red, picked up the pencil and paper, scribbled their names at the top before handing it to Harold. The moment it was out of their hands, they raced from the room.

  Harold waited until the door shut behind the pair before turning to the dozen students who wore a variety of the pins. Each held the pencils as though they were lifelines.

  “Who wants to start?” he asked, leaning against the podium.

  “Could you, maybe, play more of that music while we talk?” asked one of the girls. Long black hair fell in a smooth sheet to her waist. She lowered thick, full lashes, and Harold sighed.

  He knew her type. Pretty, petite, with exotic features? He’d seen that in plenty of schools. There was a reason it was a trope in movies for the exotic-looking girls to get all the boys mooning over them.

  She also reminded him of his niece at that age. His niece who turned into a beautiful, successful, and happily married woman. Shrugging, he lowered the volume before hitting the play button. He’d been a sucker for his niece, too.

  “Okay. Now that I’ve kept my end of that little request, who wants to start?”

  “Let me start at the beginning,” Emily said. The others nodded at her, and she continued. “Hogsback is a school for magecraft. Witches, wizards, sorcery… anything spell-based. Potions, animal care, summoning of all sorts. It’s taught here. Most are mage-born. But some of us, those here, are born to mundanes. Andy, there, his mom is an elf. Jackson? His dad was fae.”

  Harold glanced around the group. The two boys had their hands up. It wasn’t hard to figure out who was who. Andy had pointed ears. His skin was honey gold, and his eyes were an unearthly green. Jackson was slender with silvery-blonde hair cut short. His pale white skin was nearly translucent, even in the dim lighting of the room. His ears weren’t tapered, but they weren’t entirely human, either. Nor were his brilliant silver eyes.

  “Magic? Are you serious?” Harold asked, trying to wrap his brain around what he’d just been told. “Mage-born? Mundane?”

  Emily replied to his latter pair of questions “Mage-born means magically gifted parents. Mundane refer to non-magical folk.”

  “Yup. We can all do magic here. Some of us are full-blooded ‘other’. Like werewolves, fae, elves, a couple half-elves,” Jackson said. His voice was musical, and he practically sang the words.

  “Hogsback welcomes pretty much anything not purely mundane. Anyone who can do magic is allowed entrance, if you can pass the aptitude tests,” Andy added. He shrugged. “It’s either here or being sent off up North.”

  “Or out West,” another girl said. She shook her head. “The Houses are divided up by what element you’re most connected with, too. So the students in each house aren’t all good or bad.”

  “Though the House of Fire tends to be very hot-headed. No pun intended. Wesley is a pain in the ass. A bully to everyone who isn’t rich and from a mage-born family,” another boy added.

  “Also thinks he’s a gift to the girls here,” Emily muttered.

  “Let’s go back to the magic thing. You mean actual magic. The twitch-your-nose-and-things-go-poof magic?” Harold asked.

  The students laughed.

  “No, sir. Not like those old TV shows,” Emily said. “More like the new stuff. Not that words and gestures are always needed. And wands? They’re great for storing spells, but other than that? They’re nothing more than a crutch. A good witch, wizard, or whatever should never depend upon a crutch.”

  “Or have to say words to a spell. You may need to do magic when noise could get you into trouble,” Amber said. It sounded like a rule or quote.

  “Or fancy gestures. You have to learn to visualize the spell. To say it silently,” Jackson said. He sighed. “It’s easier said than done, to be honest.”

  “I’m Isabella.” The black-haired girl with Asian-like features said, introducing herself. “Magic is very real, sir. Let me show you.”

  She held her hand out. Fire leapt to life in the palm of her hand. Bringing up her other hand, she cupped them together and formed a fireball. It grew larger and larger the further she moved her hands apart, until it was the size of a large wiffle ball.

  “You can touch it,” she said.

  Harold shook his head. This was not happening. He’d been brained. Or maybe he’d driven over the side of the cliff, and this was some demented version of Hell? Magic was not real. Everyone knew magic wasn’t real.

  Yet… that fireball looked very real.

  “Thanks, but I’m going to pass.”

  Isabella shrugged, a friendly smile on her face. She flattened her hands, until the fireball was gone. She brushed her hands together, as though dusting them off.

  The door to the classroom opened, and another adult stood in the threshold, backlit by the hallway. They stepped into the room, and Harold could tell it was a man. From how the students were suddenly uneasy, he suspected this was Mr. McMillan.

  “I believe you students have classes to be at,” the imposing figure said in a pleasant voice. Almost teasing. He moved with ease down the stairs, his robes sweeping the floor.

  Harold was impressed.

  So that was how the royals of old moved down stairs without tripping, he thought in awe. Just the barest of kicks to the front of the garments before stepping down. Kick, step, repeat. Fascinating.

  “Yes, sir,” all the students said. They grabbed their supplies and hurried off, taking a moment to wave to Harold before departing the room.

  “I am the headmaster here. Lord McMillan,” he said, the corners of his lips turning up in a tiny resemblance of a smile.

  Lord McMillan had a head full of black curly hair with auburn highlights. His eyes were a rich brown that seared through Harold. A shiver danced down Harold’s spine at
the power this man commanded. His features were chiseled, and Harold believed they would be better suited on a military man in peak performance than the principal to a school.

  An aristocrat to the core, Harold thought.

  One with a purely American accent, too.

  “Young Weasley said you gave him a ten-page essay to write,” McMillan stated, moving around the classroom. He picked up a discarded pencil that one of the students had dropped. The lips twitched, and the smile grew slightly. “He believed I would change your decree.”

  Decree? Headmaster instead of principal? Yep. This was Hell. A strange Hell, but oddly appropriate for him, Harold thought.

  “I may suggest that sort of thing to the other instructors to dole out when students misbehave in their classrooms. It had a curious effect on the students.” McMillan turned, his fingers turning the pencil over and over.

  Harold wondered if it was a nervous habit. But what did this man have to be nervous about?

  “How did you get here?” McMillan suddenly asked. “How did you get by the wards?”

  “I drove up,” Harold replied simply. “Wards? You mean security systems?”

  “Curious. Only those with magical blood in them can see this place. What are you?”

  “I am a world history teacher, part-time, for the Hogsback County School System. I was given this address and told you needed a substitute teacher. My name is Harold Sylverson, and I suspect I’ve died and gone to Hell.”

  McMillan laughed. He laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. Shaking his head, he wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his robe. A very human behavior in Harold’s opinion.

  “My dear sir, you are not dead. Nor have you gone to Hell. Well, no more than any other school is Hell. You are welcome to stay here, though I believe you’ll need an intense tour of this school and introduction to how things are done around here.” Headmaster McMillan held out his left hand, his right still holding the pencil. “Welcome to Hogsback Creek Academy, School of Magecraft, Harold Sylverson. Home to the Fighting Bumblebee, witches and wizards. If your week goes well, maybe we can convince you to remain.”

  Harold’s smile trembled a bit before steadying. Could he even survive this job? Did he want to continue or run away? Did he want to take that road back down the mountain the same day he drove up?