Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands
Chapter Twenty-Four

Nick, considering the fact that he, unlike his idol Harry, lacked a proper invisibility cloak, embraced the only sane option: he finished the spell.

Thankfully it was a short one. A few funny gestures, a direction to ‘dim your aura’ in an effort to access an ethereal energy permeating the entire universe (which sounded familiar in an uncomfortable way), and a prompt to force this energy into the service of his will, which in this case effectively meant bending light waves around his body to conceal his location.

Despite the archaic phrasing, it all seemed a bit too easy. But the doorknob was turning, and someone was coming in, so he rushed to the end, using his memory of stopping the golem as his prompt to harness the ethereal energy and bend it to his will.

The effect was instantaneous, the result lethal. All around Nick morning light seemed to waver and flicker, almost as if it were being drawn to him. He could still see, but it was like looking through a prism. Despite all this, the strangest thing was the fact that the working had not tired him out. He felt just as energized as before.

A girl entered the room, shoving on the bag of hardseed. Her form refracted and multiplied through Nick’s multi-faceted vision. She peered around. With a gasp her hands zipped up to her mouth.

Only then did Nick notice the silence. Not a single twitter could be heard, not a scratching of the posts, nor a fluttering of wings.

The girl, whom Nick was 90 per cent certain had to be Delrisa, looked around for a few more ticks, her gaze passing right over Nick. He froze. She did not appear to see him, though he was standing in plain sight. Her eyes, heavy in blueberry-colored mascara, squinted.

She fled the room, screaming bloody murder.

When her screams died down, Nick exhaled, unraveling the spell. He glanced about the room. To his complete mystification, every single bird in the aviary was dead. Death stared him in the eye, dozens of red peepers gazing in frozen outrage at him.

He knew instantly, in a gut-wrenching moment, what this was: sorcery.

On jelly legs Nick began to back out of the aviary. He tripped over a bucket of seed. Hands caked in bird crap from the dirty floor scrambled to escape the charnel house. How could this have happened? Sorcery. Nick Hammond had performed sorcery! It was unfathomable. In the midst of his crawling scampering escape, something else was bothering him. He was forgetting something. But what? He’d done it, he’d committed sorcery, killed all those innocent familiars. But there was something else nagging at his conscience.

The book! Lemegeton!

“Holy crap,” Nick scrambled back to the room, snatched up his unholy tome, and raced out.

He was cleaning off the last of the bird crap in the ‘other’ bathroom on the third floor when he heard them. A group of teachers was hotfooting it outside in the hall. No doubt on their way to the aviary to investigate his crime. Nick had stuffed Lemegeton into a trash bin first thing on entering the bathroom, so that evidence was gone. With his hands and clothes washed clean, he now required only an alibi.

Excuses came easy to one accustomed to lying.

The wall above the sinks still boasted mournful holes where mirrors had been mounted before the Mirrorman’s escape from the Department. Nick filled the sink with water to glimpse his reflection in the water.

Was there a red tint to his eyes or was he imagining that?

His pulse was a blender set to puree. Was he doomed to become a fugitive now? Was one act of sorcery sufficient to make one an actual sorcerer, or could the single act be forgiven? There wasn’t exactly a handbook on Becoming a Dark Lord. And he couldn’t ask anyone about it. Nick tried to get his racing heart under control with some pranayama, but it was pointless. All he could see, like a snaky flame hissing in the air, was the word: GUILTY. They were going to brand him with the letter ‘S’ for sure.

‘S’ for sorcerer.

He might as well turn himself over now.

But these niggling thoughts were not helpful. There was still hope, he could still redeem himself, promote his innocence.

Nick waited for the group to pass before slipping out into the hall. Fortuitously, the Wen twins happened to be taking up the rearguard position, sharing a pack of Sour Patch Kids. Nick caught up to them.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asked.

“Not me,” Wut said. “That Shaman girl Delrisa says someone killed all the birds. Come on.”

He followed the girls. Other students soon gathered, so that by the time they reached the aviary, where Vesper Ussane and Amberly Lamborghini were arguing, there was a crowd. Nick blended in—but not good enough, apparently.

“There he is, sir,” Delrisa aimed a polished nail at the center of Nick’s chest. “He did it.”

“What?” Nick screeched.

His dorm head rushed over, placed a heavy hand on Nick’s shoulder. “What happened here, Hammond?”

“I don’t know,” Nick squeaked out. “I just got here, Mr. Ussane.”

A gorgeous blonde woman appeared over Vesper Ussane’s shoulder. It was the woman he’d seen Driver Jensen escorting out of his horse-and-four the other day. She frowned down at Nick with a look of pure animosity. “This is the Hammond boy?”

Ussane nodded. A heated moment passed before it occurred to him to introduce them. “Lily,” he said, “Nick Hammond. Nick, meet my wife, Lily.”

“It’s . . . interesting to meet you, Nick Hammond.”

Nick felt the woman’s reluctance when he shook her hand. Their shake was so brief, though, that he wasn’t sure the glancing contact qualified as a handshake. He was speechless.

“What?” Ussane said. “You didn’t think we spent ten months out of the year living in this school and not have our spouses live here too, did you? They said you were smart, boy, but I’m beginning to think we were shortchanged.”

“Sir,” Delrisa interrupted his insult. “Let’s please just take him to Dean Delacort so he can expel Nick.”

“Expel me?”

“Oh please,” Delrisa snapped. “Don’t even pretend. I know it was you who killed all these familiars. You know my Michael was in there too. You killed my owl!”

Wut and Hu Wen stepped up between Nick and Delrisa, who had darted forward.

“Maybe you did it,” Wut said. “Yeah,” Hu added. “It’s the perfect alibi. You do the crime, then shout bloody murder, and no one looks at you. I think you killed those birds.” Wut took up the line, with, “Yep. Definitely. She looks the type, a sorceress. Just look at those ghetto locks.” Hu continued with: “She’s been trying to get poor Nick expelled since he got here. And why? Why does she hate him so much? I’ll tell you why.” But it was Wut who told Ussane: “She’s been planning this since day one. Trying to make Nick look guilty so she could commit her filthy sorcery and lay it on him!”

Delrisa exploded at this, charging straight forward and punching Wut in the lower gut.

The much smaller girl’s grimace was delayed. Hu’s response was not: she slapped Delrisa, a ringing strike that echoed in the hallway.

“Okay,” Ussane tore the three girls apart before any real blows could be landed. “Lily, take the sisters back to their dorm. And you two,” pointing at Nick and Delrisa, “come with me. We’re going to settle this right now.” He grabbed Nick by the back of his shirt and dragged him along. “You better hope Dean Delacort is in a good mood. Sorcery is punishable by more than simple expulsion, boy.”

All thirteen exclamations of innocence vehemently declared by Nick during their trek downstairs were ignored by the teachers. Miss Lamborghini had decided to march behind, wearing a grim smirk.

The expression reminded Nick of Harry Potter’s vile uncle Vernon declaring: ‘Justice’ when Harry was expelled.

“Do I get a representative?” Nick asked, recalling Harry’s rescuers.

No response. What he wouldn’t give to have Duchaine by his side. Or Shamgar. Well, maybe not Shamgar. The man didn’t talk much. And he wouldn’t even make a good character witness. All he knew about Nick’s character was that it was a very curious one, with a focus on the Mythmage, which was an illegal curiosity, thanks to Stupid Decree 187 or whatever it was.

To top off his morning, Nick was forced to wait for Dean Delacort to show up in his office.

“I knew this was going to happen,” Miss Lamborghini said. “Every since he repelled my astral probe, I knew he was bound for sorcery. He’s certainly got the arrogance of a sorcerer.”

“You know what?” Nick said. “You are such rotten teachers that you make my buffer teachers seem brilliant.” He crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to conceal the rampant pounding of his heart. “Seriously,” he added, heat rising to his cheeks. “You don’t even act like proper teachers. You treat me like crap!” Tears burned for release behind his eyes.

Nick pinched back the tears; he would not give them the satisfaction.

Hot breath rolled over him from behind. Ussane growled in Nick’s ear, “Well, maybe if you’re lucky they’ll send you back to those buffers you love so much.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Nick sneered. Oh yes, his feathers were definitely good and ruffled now. “He’ll never expel me.”

A dry hacking laugh issued from Ussane’s throat. “You slipped by last time because you’re his golden boy. But that won’t be enough today. He’ll have to expel you, and inform the Department.” He paused to leaned back down close to Nick’s ear. “I hear the cells in the Department’s basement are barely big enough to stand up in.”

Nick was saved from thinking up a clever retort; Dean Delacort whisked into the office, carrying a slim briefcase and a walking stick topped with a garnet. Lily Ussane followed him in.

“Sir,” Ussane said from behind Nick. “It seems the Hammond boy has—”

“Yes,” Delacort dropped the briefcase and stick onto his desk with a bang and slung his coat over the back of his chrome chair. “Your wife was kind enough to fill me in on my way.” After taking his seat, Delacort stared at Nick. Without looking away he said, “I’m going to ask everyone to leave, except for Mr. Hammond and Miss Morgana.”

Nick could feel Ussane’s fury, but there was nothing the man could do. The man took his wife’s hand and led her roughly out of the office. Lamborghini followed.

“Nick,” Delacort said. “I am going to have Miss Morgana share what she believes she saw. You will remain silent. Understood?”

He nodded.

During Delrisa’s account of the afternoon’s events, Nick was forced to bite his tongue a few times. At the end of her spiel he sat up straight in preparation to share his side, but the Dean didn’t seem interested.

“So you didn’t actually see Nick inside the aviary when you saw the dead birds?”

Delrisa stammered. “Well, no. But I saw him go in there.”

“And you were watching the door before entering?” Delacort asked.

“Yes sir,” Delrisa was pacing now. “And I didn’t see him leave.”

“Your eyes were on the door the entire time? You didn’t look away, even for a few seconds perhaps?”

“Well,” Delrisa glowered at Nick. “I did trip on a broom Fukushima left lying around.”

That explained the mysterious floating broom handle.

Delacort nodded sagely. “So you took your eyes off the door for a moment at least. Is it possible Nick might have left during this time?”

“No!” Delrisa placed her hands on the Dean’s desk. Outside the window a crow cawed. “It was only for like ten seconds. And I didn’t hear the door open, or any footsteps. He didn’t leave, sir. I’m sure of it. Probe my mind if you want.”

“Okay.” Delacort turned his piercing gaze onto Nick. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

During Delrisa’s long-winded diatribe against him, Nick had formulated his plan of defense.

“I don’t know what she’s talking about, sir,” he declared, loud and clear. “I was in the Necromancy common room up until a few minutes ago when I heard about the aviary thing.”

“Oh come on!” Delrisa’s voice was a shrill snake hiss. “That’s a load of sh—crap, sir.”

Delacort sighed. “Miss Morgana. Accusing a fellow student of sorcery is a very serious charge. And you have not given me any evidence to support your charges. Nick, do you have any witnesses who can verify your alibi?”

“Yes. Daniel Wilson, sir. He saw me.”

Nick couldn’t be sure, but he thought he witnessed a flash of relief flicker across the Dean’s face. The man said, “Very well. Miss Morgana, would you please go and find Mr. Wilson for us?”

“But sir, why?” she cried. “I saw Nick in the tower!”

The look he gave Delrisa could wither weeds. The girl harrumphed but left all the same.

With the door closed and all his accusers delightfully elsewhere, Nick exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath.

Delacort slammed a large black hand against his desk, making Nick flinch and recoil. Then he stood. “A fine mess. A fine-fine mess, boy! You’ve put me in quite a position, you know. I’m half inclined to cast you out here and now and let the DME have you full time. Maybe they can do a better job of handling your incessant . . . high jinks.”

From years of experience listening to his own parents roar at him (often for reasons he could never quite figure out), Nick knew the best method for handling an irate adult was to simply nod and remain silent.

Eventually the Dean calmed down.

“All right,” he said, back behind his desk. “We both know I can’t expel you.”

Inside his mind Nick did a few jumping jacks.

“The Department wants you to have a well-rounded education. The Grand Vizier himself has made it abundantly clear that we are to make every accommodation for you in the hope of inspiring the solution they’re searching for in their Project.” For the first time since meeting him, Nick thought Delacort looked all of his full sixty-odd years.

The Dean continued in a more subdued manner. “However, heads will roll—and possibly explode—if I don’t respond to these allegations. Fates!” he cursed. “Thirty dead familiars. You are absolutely certain there is no way anyone can tie you to what happened in the aviary today?”

Nick nodded.

“Okay. There’s one thing that might satisfy the dorm heads. Here’s what I’m going to do.” He marched over to his bookcase and pulled on a set of dark orange bindings. They slid out together like a door. Book-safes were not exactly original to magical libraries, but Nick was slightly surprised Delacort would reveal his to him.

The man retrieved a book dressed in burlap and brought it back to the desk. With disturbing care he undid the bundle wrap and placed the book almost reverentially on the oak surface, and then laid his hands over it. He was silent for several seconds.

“When they founded this school of magic,” Delacort explained, “America was no more than thirteen little colonies. Many things have changed since those days, but one thing has remained through all these centuries. Every single man or woman who has ever run this Institute has taken great care to maintain this,” he placed a hand on the tome, “the Unmentionable Accords.”

“The Unmentionable Accords?”

A whistling sound escaped the Dean’s nose. “Sometimes this book remains closed for as long as ten years. Often it is opened every year or so. Whenever some unlucky or overzealous student commits an act of sorcery—”

“Sir, I—”

“Quiet!” Delacort snapped. Ten seconds passed before he continued. Nick could feel the temperature in the room rise. “It is recorded in here. The name, description and bio, and a detailed outline of the act itself. Normally the Unmentionable is then taken into custody for questioning and hypnosis. The Department erases all memory of that person’s wizarding heritage and the offender is banished into the buffer community forever. That is, if he or she doesn’t escape first—this does occasionally happen.”

Nick’s heart thudded in his ears. He gulped.

Delacort opened the Accords; it made an unfortunate groaning noise, as if it were alive. More than halfway through the book, Delacort stopped flipping and began to fill in a few blank lines using a quill that didn’t seem to require ink. For five long minutes he did not look up. The only sound in the office was the scratching of quill on parchment.

“Okay,” Delacort said at last. “That just leaves two things.” He slid open a drawer and recovered an old instant Polaroid camera. “Hold still please. These are the only cameras that work here on the Preserve, and even they go on the fritz at the slightest movement.”

Fifteen seconds of intense motionlessness, and then the bulb flashed, ejecting the photograph with an electronic whining sound. Delacort held it by a corner and shook it.

“You’re lucky,” he said as he affixed the photo to the Unmentionable Accords. “Back in the day they’d bring in sketch artists and the accused would have to sit for forty or fifty minutes while their likeness was drawn. There. Now all that’s left is your signature.”

Nick stood and made his way around the desk, head lowered, shoulders drooping.

He took up the quill. “Sir,” he said on reading the statement above the blank signature line. “It says here that I admit to being a sorcerer.”

“That’s right.”

“But sir,” the quill nearly slipped free of his shaky grasp. “I don’t admit to it.”

“And the Department and the Coven Court will not prosecute you, so nothing will come of this. But by signing it you provide ammunition that will satisfy the dorm heads. Ammunition, I might add, that I will use only if you are ever caught in a situation like this one again.”

Nick did not miss the slight emphasis Delacort placed on ‘caught.’ He signed.

Before finishing up with his signature, Nick glanced at the other page. The young man in the photo looked terrified. Nick’s picture, on the other hand, displayed a boy on the cusp of adulthood, wearing a determinedly stoic expression.

“When did you get that vine tattoo?”

Startled out of his discovery, Nick glanced down at his left hand. “Oh, the warlocks have a funny way of initiating new recruits.”

Delacort nodded. He slammed the book closed. “From now on you will be in all your classes, on time, everyday. When the school day is over you will return to your dorm to complete your work. When you are not studying or sleeping, you will be at the DME, helping the warlocks with their Project. That is, after all, the reason you are here.” He added this last part with a knowing lilt. Before dismissing Nick, Delacort murmured, “Tell me it was an accident.”

There it was: the Dean knew the truth. Though he hesitated for a long time, Nick eventually nodded, once and nearly imperceptibly.

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