The Secret of Spellshadow Manor by Bella Forrest (classic english novels txt) 📗

him, and the man’s mood seemed to manifest itself on the air. A page on the desk crawled with sudden blooms of frost, the icy tendrils spreading until the paper cracked and fell in two pieces.

“You do not leave this place,” replied the man. “That is our first, and most important, rule.”

Alex wet his lips, staring at the shards of ice. “May I ask why not?”

Little flakes of snow were gathering around the old man, seeming to writhe out of the air itself, while the Head’s withered hands formed a steeple in front of him.

“Magical talent,” he said in a brittle voice, “must be honed. It must be crafted and molded and formed until it is safe. If you were unleashed upon the world, you would be a danger not only to others, not only to yourself, but to the fabric of reality around you. There is more at stake here than life, my young student.”

Alex found himself unable to reply. There was something about the room’s atmosphere that suddenly seemed to be pressing him down, clenching in on him from all sides. A cold, dark energy that demanded silence and absolute obedience.

The Head had been watching Alex for a reply, then nodded when he saw that he had gained the young man’s silence.

The pressing weight Alex felt around him began to lift.

“You will be placed within the boys’ dormitory,” the Head said. “We have few students these days; I think you will find that there is plenty of space for you. Your classes will start tomorrow. Until then, I recommend that you acquaint yourself with your new home.”

Your new home.

Faced with more of the same disregard Siren Mave had shown him, anger bubbled up in Alex again. Nobody in this absurd place was taking him seriously, or being remotely reasonable. Who was this man to tell him what to do? Alex wasn’t some idiot schoolboy to be bossed around, to be shut up and made to fall in line.

“The thing is, though,” he began, against his better judgment, “what you’re talking about—magic or whatever—it isn’t real.”

The Head seemed to mull the words over for a minute.

“Do you truly believe that?” he asked, finally.

“Yeah, I’m afraid I do.”

The older man went silent again. Then he reached forward, shoving aside a stack of papers and placing one hand palm down on the table. His veins and tendons stood out like pulled stitches against the papery skin, and the stone under his hand rippled. It pulsed once, a heartbeat quivering through the table, shaking straight into the ground.

Everything went black.

Alex flailed as it felt like the ground had vanished from under him, then he froze. All around him, stars began to spark into existence, cool crystals framed against an inky black void. They grew larger, and he could see spheres of flame, planes of ice, boundless crushing voids of energy and power. He felt the heat of them against his skin, felt the chill in his bones, smelled something clogging his nose, like rosemary and thyme and earthworms. He choked, attempting to thrash his arms, but his body was gone. He was gone. His whole existence had melted away, leaving only those spinning stars of power.

And then he was lying on the cool, strangely grassy floor of the Head’s office.

The man was still watching him, in the same exact position, his frail hand planted on the firm, unmoving stone of his desk.

“And now?” he asked.

Alex, completely stunned, could only stare. All mundane explanations—drugs, lights, trickery, even madness—were gone from his mind. He felt the truth of his experience all the way to his core, knowing, without doubt, what had just happened to him.

“I-I see,” he choked out.

The Head’s smile was back. He nodded, and once again Alex caught sight of those eyes. Eyes like stars of ice and fire. He felt himself trembling involuntarily, and could not rise.

“Mave,” the Head called.

The door opened, and Siren Mave bustled into the room.

“All done?” she asked in her cheerful voice. It seemed out of place here, like a child laughing in a cathedral.

“All done,” the Head replied. “Take—I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name. Who are you, young man?”

“Alex Webber,” Alex whispered without thought, his breath still short.

The Head nodded, then looked back to Siren Mave. “Take Alex to the boys’ dormitory. I think he’ll be needing to rest up before he starts classes in the morning.”

Siren Mave gave a tittering laugh, then gripped Alex under the arm. He hadn’t the strength or the power of mind to protest as she lifted him to his feet and shoved him back out into the hallway. He felt drained of all energy, exhausted beyond belief.

At some point, he was directed to a bed, and Alex fell into it, his mind blank.

All he could see was that endless expanse of power. He was blind to everything else, not even struggling yet to come back to himself, still lost in that unfathomable void.

He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

Chapter 8

“Come on, you can’t tell me that nose isn’t the most perfect nose you’ve ever seen.”

“I, for one, do not spend much time looking at noses.”

“Was that meant as an insult?”

“Just an observation.”

Alex didn’t open his eyes. He was struggling back to wakefulness, still feeling like a part of him was spinning eternally in the void. Overhead, the voices continued.

“Observations can be insults, you know.”

“Facts are only facts, Jari.”

“See, this is why you have no friends.”

A snort. “Because you have so many friends.”

Alex felt a weight on his chest now, felt it shift forward a little. It wasn’t uncomfortable, and actually seemed to help him come back to reality, grounding him. Despite having some sort of cover over him, he felt cold.

“I do too have friends.”

“Name one.”

“You.”

Alex could now identify two speakers. One of them spoke with a high, excitable voice, and seemed to be coming from directly above him. The other had a dourer cadence, laden with a heavy accent