Fantastic Schools: Volume 2 Read online

  Not really. Surely the students couldn’t be that bad… could they?

  “Thank you, sir,” Harold replied. “I think I need to make sure I can survive the day’s classes before I consider an extended stay, though. Make sure I can sleep in my bed without fearing some angry kid is going to turn me into a toad.”

  McMillan snickered and shook his head. “No, no. Nothing like that would happen to you.”

  “What did happen to Ms. Clarke?” Harold asked. His eyes narrowed on the headmaster. “What did she teach? Why don’t I have a syllabus? Or even a list of students’ names?” He paused before all but demanding, “And why is there no electricity here?”

  “One question at a time, Harold,” McMillan said, amusement filling every feature. “Madame Clarke grew ill with griffin flu. Poor thing angered a griffin on a field trip, and it bit her. Though it is easily healed, the body must rest, and she requires constant observation to keep her from trying to fly.” He shook his head, though the laughter never left his eyes. “One should never anger a griffin.”

  Harold stared at the headmaster in dumbfounded disbelief. “A… griffin bit her? On a field trip?”

  “Oh, yes. Thankfully, none of the students were injured or bit. That could’ve been rather difficult. Ever try to keep a teen from flying?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have,” Harold replied, slowly shaking his head back and forth.

  “It’s very difficult, I assure you. But, no matter. You would need more time to adjust before being allowed to request field trips and such.”

  “Uh huh.”

  McMillan smiled brilliant, revealing perfect white teeth. “As to your second question, Madame Clarke taught the history of witchcraft and magickry throughout the world. Since you don’t have that knowledge, please continue with teaching our students world history. It would prove beneficial to the students who have only known the magical world.” He paused and stared at the windows over Harold’s shoulder. “Perhaps I should consider adding more mundane classes to the schedules. Allow the students to learn more about you mundanes. Yes, yes, I think I will look into that.”

  “Electricity?” Harold prompted.

  This conversation was just getting stranger and stranger.

  “Oh, well, this place was built before electricity became a thing. We haven’t bothered upgrading, because it would require mundanes to come in. I don’t even know if the power companies come this far up the mountain.”

  “So, it’s not because magic interferes with electricity or anything like that?”

  McMillan snorted. “Heavens no. Who told you that?”

  “Uh, no one. I just…” Harold shrugged and gestured around him.

  “Oh. No, nothing like that,” McMillan replied, still obviously amused with Harold. A chime sounded and McMillan grinned. “Your next class will be arriving shortly. I’ll see you later.”

  Harold watched McMillan depart as the students arrived. He sighed and waited until the students were seated before addressing the class.

  “I’m certain you’re all aware of Madame Clarke’s illness. I am Mr. Sylverson, your substitute. As you can tell from my attire, I am not here to instruct you on the history of witchcraft, magic, or anything like that. I am here to teach you about world history.”

  “You mean mundane world history?” a young girl asked in a derisive tone. “No one needs to know anything like that.”

  “I’m sure you also think you don’t need to know basic math or science,” Harold asked. “But I suspect those will be on the agenda before long. Now be quiet before I assign a ten-page essay on the topic of my choice.”

  The girl’s eyes widened before narrowing into thin slits. She kept her lips pressed together, obviously not happy. But at least she was quiet.

  “As I was saying, I am here to teach you world history.” He reached for the stack of papers and pencils. “This test will give me a general idea on what you currently know about the middle ages. You will use the provided paper and pencil to answer the questions. You may work in pairs. If you’re good, I will play music while you work quietly.”

  “I refuse to do this. I will not be forced to use mundane items,” the girl snarled. She stood and stalked down the stairs. “You’re a mundane. You can’t do anything to us.”

  A fireball formed in her hand. Her blue eyes, the color of a perfect flame, glittered.

  Harold didn’t show the fear that he felt. This girl meant business, and he had zero ability to stop her.

  Another young girl rose from the seats. A large glob of water fell over the girl’s hand. On the other side, a young boy rose, also. The pair had enough similarities to be siblings, if not twins. One wore a dolphin, the other an eagle.

  “Knock it off, Carol,” the boy snapped. “You know what would happen if Headmaster McMillan knew you attacked a teacher.”

  “He’s a substitute,” she objected.

  “Still a teacher,” the other girl countered.

  “How did you know I was a mundane?” Harold asked, zeroing in on the girl’s earlier comment.

  “No self-respecting mage would be seen wearing something like that,” the girl retorted, tossing her head.

  “That’s not true,” another kid called out. “My parents work in the mundane world. They wear clothes like that all the time.”

  “Yeah, so do mine! We aren’t that different from the mundanes, and we have to live with them!”

  “How’d you know, Carol? Who told you?” Water Glob girl demanded.

  Carol turned on her. “I don’t have to tell you anything, Lorilee.”

  “No, but I would like to know,” Harold said, interrupting the kids who were gathering around the troublemaker. “How did you know?”

  “I know how she found out!”

  All eyes in the classroom turned to a young boy who was standing at the desk Wesley had occupied in the prior class. He was holding two furry ears in his hands. They looked, to Harold, to be rabbit ears.

  “Rabbit ears! Charmed for eavesdropping!” the boy exclaimed. “I saw you and a bunch other Lizards standing around Wesley before class.”

  “Wow. Ya’ll are going to be in so much trouble,” the water-glob girl said, her Southern twang really coming out. “You’ll be lucky you don’t get expelled. Which means you’d either have to be shipped out to North Dakota for school or go to some mundane school. Better hope your parents can homeschool you for everything else, if you have to go to a mundane school.”

  Carol’s face paled.

  “Actually, I’m thinking two ten-page essays. One on the Crusades, and the second on the witch hunts of Europe during the 1400s. With a third, twenty-page essay on World War II. Pay close attention to Hitler. His rise to power and his beliefs. You may learn something, young lady.” Harold paused, before adding, “I’ll have to check with Headmaster McMillan, but I believe Wesley and the others who participated in this activity should also have to do those essays. No quills allowed.”

  “Wow. You’re harsh, Mr. Sylverson,” Water-Glob girl said in awe.

  “What is your name, young lady?” Harold asked. He needed something to call her other than Water-Glob Girl.

  “Ashley Humphries,” she replied. “That’s my brother, Pery.”

  “I’m Alex Campbell,” the boy who’d found the ears called.

  “Wonderful!” Harold said. “Why don’t we allow Ms. Carol to return to her seat. Her grade will be very dependant upon those essays, and you all still have that test to finish.”

  The students waited until Carol had returned to her seat before settling themselves.

  Harold reached over and scrolled through his playlist before finding Highway to Hell. He hit ‘play’.

  There was a smattering of laughter as the intro began playing. Harold was quickly learning which students were familiar with the mundane world and which lived in their naïve little worlds.

  Or, perhaps, it was the mundanes who lived in a cloistered world? Sheltered from the majestic creatures of myth a
nd legend, from fireballs conjured at a person’s fingertips.

  Harold had a lot to think about, but one thing he didn’t need to think about was if he was going to stay.

  These kids needed a link to the outside world, and for now, he was it.

  Leaning back in the ancient, antique chair, he glanced at the leather-bound book.

  Besides, he had a lot to learn about the history of witches, witchcraft, and magic.

  Wife and a mother of five, J.F. Posthumus is an IT Tech with over a decade of experience. When she isn’t arguing with computers and their inherent gremlins, or being mom to the four younger monsters (the eldest has flown the nest and doing quite well on his own), she’s crafting, writing, or doing some sort of art. An avid gamer, she loves playing Dungeons & Dragons, and a variety of other board games with her family and friends. She’s also a hopeless romantic, thanks to all the fairy tales she cut her eyeteeth on. They were what J.F. Posthumus learned to read before she discovered the Boxcar Children Mysteries. From there, she fell into the rabbit hole that’s reading, where she discovered a love for mysteries, fantasy, and the occasional romance. Since writing was a favorite subject, she naturally incorporated her love of murder, mysteries, and fantasy into her works.

  Too Good to be True

  Christine Amsden

  Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including Cassie Scot: ParaNormal Detective. This original short story offers a glimpse into the darker side of magic school when a homeless teen in the real world is presented with an offer that is definitely…

  Too Good to Be True

  Kelsey knew the moment she laid eyes on her that the old woman didn’t belong down here by the river. It wasn’t her clothing; many of the others huddling over dumpster fires had nicer coats from the church ladies who came by to tell them about Jesus and hand out food. Nor did the old lady seem ill-at-ease among the forgotten filth of the city like the church ladies and their hyper-vigilant male escorts always did.

  No, Kelsey decided as she watched the fat, gray-haired woman out of the corner of her eye, there weren’t any obvious reasons why the woman didn’t belong among the transitory homeless people seeking the dubious protection of the bridge. Between jobs, between family members, between substance problems and cycles of hope and despair, no two stories down by the river were precisely the same. Yet this old lady shouldn’t be here. She was just too…translucent.

  Kelsey pretended she didn’t notice. Keep your head down and stay out of people’s business, that was her motto. If ghosts wanted to come haunt the bridge by the river, it didn’t have anything to do with her.

  Warming her hands over the fire, Kelsey kept one eye on the woman as she wound from group to group, pausing now and again before moving along. She wasn’t that translucent; it wasn’t as if she were see-through, she just exuded an aura of not being fully there.

  The old woman caught her looking and started her way. Kelsey hastily averted her eyes, pulled on a pair of leather gloves she’d stolen from her last foster mom, then headed for her bundle of blankets near one of the bridge’s large concrete plinths.

  The woman followed. Kelsey couldn’t believe it; everyone knew not to bother someone after they went to bed.

  “What do you want?” Kelsey demanded.

  “You can see me?” she asked.

  “So?”

  “No one else can.”

  Kelsey scanned the two dozen or so others, few of whom she knew by name. It was better that way. No names meant no connections. No one who could hurt her.

  None of them were looking her way, but that didn’t prove the old lady’s point.

  “If you want help with unfinished business or whatever,” Kelsey said, “you came to the wrong place.”

  The woman chuckled. “I’m not dead.”

  “Then why can I almost see the dumpster fire through your head?”

  “Because I’m not exactly here. I live in another world where magic is real.”

  Kelsey was beginning to get an odd, prickly feeling along the back of her neck. She’d gotten the same feeling when one of her foster fathers used to look at her, before the first time she’d run away.

  “I’m from a school of magic, in fact,” the old woman continued.

  Something akin to hope bubbled deep inside Kelsey, where dwelt the last remnants of a little girl who used to believe in fairy tales. She immediately tried to tamp it down. She wasn’t living in a fantasy book, and some strange ghost lady hadn’t just come here to invite her to learn at a magic school. That sort of thing didn’t happen in real life. It was too good to be true, so it couldn’t be true.

  “And I’d like to offer you a job,” the woman concluded.

  “A job?” Kelsey echoed.

  “Yes, working in the cafeteria as a line server. You’d get three square meals a day and a roof over your head, plus a little spending money you could use in the nearby village to buy sweets or trinkets.”

  Kelsey stared at the woman in stunned disbelief. While other girls got fairy tales, she got an offer to be the cafeteria lady? All she needed was a bun and a hairnet to make her humiliation complete.

  And yet, it did sound nicer than staying here under the bridge. The temperatures were already starting to drop in preparation for winter, and soon she would have to decide if she could risk going to a shelter. Last time, they’d turned her back over to social services and she’d wound up in another abusive foster home. There were other options, of course, but every choice seemed to put her at the mercy of others.

  “How do I even get there?” Kelsey asked. “You’re not quite here.”

  “It takes a lot of energy to step across a plane of existence, so I’m just projecting myself. If you’re saying yes, we’ll expend the energy to pull you through.”

  “What’s wrong with the people in your own world?” Kelsey demanded, though the hopeful little girl inside her wanted to say yes, no questions asked. “Why can’t they be line servers?”

  “They have magic, and they all think they’re destined for greatness. We need to import people destined for practicality. Is that you?”

  “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  The school was in a castle. An honest-to-god castle like something out of Europe in the Middle Ages—but bigger. Even coming in through the servant’s entrance at the back, Kelsey couldn’t help but gape in awestruck wonder at the massive stone structure dominating the highest point of a hilly landscape.

  Above her, people were flying. Not on brooms—she felt a temporary pang of disappointment—but on their own power. They were playing some kind of game that seemed to involve trying to make one another fall to the ground. As Kelsey watched in some horror, one of the people, a girl no older than herself, lost her ability to stay up and fell from the height of the tallest tower.

  Kelsey gasped.

  “She’s all right,” said the old woman, whose name was Agnes. “She’s supposed to catch herself, but if she can’t, the field will catch her like a giant net.”

  “Wow.” She continued to stare, trying to take everything in at once but knowing it would be impossible. There was too much to see and hear and even smell. A delightful aroma was coming from near the back of the servant’s entrance, probably the kitchens. Roasting meat and baking bread and…Kelsey’s stomach gave a loud, indelicate growl.

  “Let’s get you fed before we get you to work,” Agnes said kindly. She reminded Kelsey of a grandmother—not her own grandmother, who cursed and drank and warned her she was going to end up in prison like her good-for-nothing mom—but a grandmother like she sometimes saw on TV. The kind who baked and knitted and played bridge.

  The servant’s door led straight into the kitchen, as Kelsey had predicted, but it wasn’t a kitchen like she’d ever seen. Instead of modern stoves and ovens and stand mixers, there were fires and cast iron cauldrons. An old-fashioned Franklin stove promised to be the source of the baking bread.

  Everyone in the kitchen
was old, Kelsey realized with some dismay. Not even middle age, but like her real grandmother’s age or older. The youngest of them, or so she seemed, was a dark-skinned woman with gray hair and an unlined face who had to be at least fifty.

  Kelsey hadn’t come here for friends, she reminded herself. She’d come here for a roof over her head and food to eat and a way out of the cycle of abuse and flight. That was all.

  She certainly didn’t hold out hope of discovering that she herself had magic and would eventually be accepted into the school as a student where she would rise to the top of her class, save the school from some threat, and become a hero.

  No, definitely not.

  “Here you go.” Agnes handed her a thick slice of bread and some hard cheese, which Kelsey took and immediately began to eat.

  As she ate, Agnes filled her in on rules and procedures. Half-listening, Kelsey spent more time trying to take in every detail of the bustling kitchen. All the women wore the same uniform—a gray, floor-length dress and a fringed white apron. She supposed it would be too much to ask for a uniform in green or blue or even black.

  After she finished her meal, Agnes showed her to a bedroom in the servant’s wing, a hallway just off the kitchen where the kitchen and janitorial staff lived four to a room. Even in her foster homes, she usually only had to share with one roommate, but as she tossed the single bag that contained all her worldly possessions onto a high bunk, she decided she didn’t mind. Fairy tale or no fairy tale, this was going to be the start of something amazing. It just had to be.

  A week later, amazing was no longer the word she felt like using. The school might be brimming with magic, but back in the kitchen she saw little of it. Sometimes, she thought she noticed Agnes sprinkling herbs into the cookpots or muttering words—spells? —over them. It just wasn’t impressive looking magic, whatever it was.