Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands

Lunch was a miserable hour; gawking students and unanswerable questions abounded. Nick brushed off most of them with a simple ‘I have no idea who he was, do you?’ which served to shut up most of the interrogators but strangely enraged others.

To top it off, Delrisa Morgana dropped by at Nick’s table. She paused there to say, “Man, I thought you were messed up before, but associating with him? Whooboy. At least there’s no question anymore if you’ll turn or not. You’ll be expelled.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick spat.

But the Shaman girl had already turned her back on him. Besides, he knew what she meant. A wizard could ‘turn’ to sorcery. Given the remarkable circumstances of his birth, he’d expected rumors like this one.

The second Necromancy session of the day went without incident, save for an encounter with cute twin Asian girls. While listening to Mr. Ussane drone on about the proper method of summoning the deceased (whom he seemed to like more than the living), the girls approached Nick at the back of the crowd. Fortunately Bruno was up front, listening intently to his favorite teacher, so he wasn’t there to embarrass Nick with any stupid comments—or to witness his awkward exchange with the girls.

“You’re Nick Hammond,” they said as one, in a soft whisper Nick found irresistible.

“I know I am,” he smirked at his cribbing of Harry Potter’s line.

The girls giggled. It was just like one of his daydreams. Next they would ask if he wanted to make out, to which Nick (in his daydreams) always said, ‘Giggity’.

“What are your names?” he asked, when they failed to make the offer.

“I am Wut Wen,” said the one with the mole beneath her right eye.

“I am Hu Wen,” said the one with the mole beneath her left eye.

Flabbergasted, Nick said, “What?”

“That’s me,” Wut said, pressing a slender hand to her chest.

“No,” he responded. “When I said what, I meant who.”

“Then you meant me,” Hu said. “Wen is our surname. It’s best to just call us Wut and Hu.”

“When?” Nick asked stupidly.

“What?” Wen said.

“Yes?” Wut said.

Nick scratched his chin. “Maybe I should just call you the Sisters When?”

“Whenever you like,” Hu Wen tittered. “But Wut is a bit sensitive when it comes to our surname. It’s because of Her.”

“It’s because of her what?”

“Not Wut,” Hu said. “Her.”

“Her who?”

“Not Hu,” Wut said. “Her Wen, our mother.”

“Your mother’s name is Her When?” Nick asked. “Doesn’t that get confusing?”

“Only when Wut asks Her if she knows Howe,” Hu declared.

“H-how to what?” Nick reluctantly asked.

“Not how,” Hu said, “Howe. Her wants to know when Wut will consent to marrying Howe Weare, so Wut Wen will become Mrs. Howe ‘Wut Wen’ Weare.”

“Um,” Nick said.

Fortunately Mr. Ussane interrupted at this juncture, reprimanding not just him, but Wut and Hu as well.

Before the end of class, Mr. Ussane came up to Nick while he was helping Bruno work on perceiving spirits from the astral realm without summoning them. It was a difficult exercise, made harder by Bruno’s lack of focus. Mr. Ussane nudged Bruno out of his trance and asked him to team up with Charlie, who was back from tattling on Nick and currently partner-less.

Alone with his teacher, Nick tried to think happy thoughts.

“Dean Delacort has asked for a conference of the heads after supper tonight, at six. You are to meet him in his office. Wear your jerkin and belt.” With that Mr. Ussane whipped around and steamed away.

Normally students were permitted to attend meals and roam the halls in regular clothes. Nick could not figure why he would need his uniform and tools to meet with teachers after classes. Was this detention? Was he in trouble for conjuring that man? Expulsion-worthy trouble, as Delrisa seemed to think? Nick shivered and started picking up his paraphernalia.

After supper he made his way down the halls to the Dean’s office, Severus scampering alongside him. He didn’t want to face the dorm heads and the Dean alone.

Fifteen feet outside the office door, Nick stopped. The gargoyle perched on its dais was already stirring, as if it could smell him, as if it wanted nothing more than to eviscerate Nick and maybe take a nibble out of his belly.

He sighed, walked up to the mythic.

The hideous stone statue crackled to life but did not hop down from its perch. It sniffed at the air silently. Looked at Nick with dead stone eyes. Then it cocked its head. Even stranger, it bowed, lowering its head so that its horns and pointed ears were directed at Nick. It didn’t look like a threatening stance; he was not sure at first what the mythic was doing, but after a few seconds, he braved a move, reaching a hand out towards the grotesque noggin.

Slowly, hesitantly, expecting it to give up its ruse and snap at his fingers any moment, Nick stroked a smooth section of the gargoyle’s head between its horns. Severus hissed at it.

After three or four strokes the mythic resumed its frozen standing-at-attention position.

“Cool,” Nick exhaled.

After knocking and being led inside, Nick found himself the center of attention, surrounded by all five Dorm Heads. The delightful Mr. Ussane was favoring Nick with a Cheshire cat grin. Fortunately Agabus Duchaine was also here.

The Dean gestured for Nick to take the anachronistic chrome chair. He dropped into it, too weary to indulge in the tedious idiosyncrasies of decorum, folding his arms as Severus leaped up into his lap. Taking his much more luxurious chair, Delacort waved everyone into some folding chairs situated to either side of his. He then looked down his dark nose at Nick.

“You’ve been here forty-eight hours,” Delacort began. “And already I’ve heard reports of questionable behavior and mysterious incidents. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Kerfuffle’s seem to follow me around,” he winked at Lamborghini.

Delacort leaned forward and glowered at Nick. “This is not a laughing matter, Mister Hammond.” He promptly scooped up a few sheets of pink paper from off his desk, shuffled through them. Delacort shook his head. “When I received a letter from your parents last summer, requesting permission to open our doors to their son, to the worlds’ first genetically engineered wizard, well, I admit, I was excited. It’d been years since I’d experienced such a rush. Do you know what you are?”

Nick uncrossed his arms and began to pet Severus. The cat did not purr, but he also didn’t jump off and embarrass Nick, for which he was deeply grateful. “I’m a freak?” he hazarded.

“No,” Delacort smiled sadly. “You are a forerunner, a potential vanguard. If things work out here, and you go on to make a name for yourself, displaying control over engineered magic, a new age will begin. Parents will be able to choose whether their children are magically inclined, and if so, which branch of magic they will excel at.”

There were many snide remarks Nick considered employing, some along the lines of ‘Designer wizards’ and ‘That’ll make life simpler’ but in the end decided to keep his mouth shut.

Delacort leaned back in his chair, making it creak. “But looking at these reports, well, I can’t help but worry that your behavior and inclination to the black arts will set back this new age indefinitely.” He looked over at Duchaine. “Not to mention all the other hopes we have riding on your success.”

“Why are we even discussing this?” Ussane interrupted, standing up. “What he did in my class was unacceptable. If he already knows that man, what else might he be planning?”

Nick locked eyes with Mr. Ussane. He didn’t like the way he’d said ‘planning’. Not one bit.

“Perhaps there is some explanation,” Delacort offered. He glared at Ussane until the man sat back down, and then turned his dark eyes onto Nick, the pink slips still in his hands.

“Level with me here, son. You’ve been involved with incidents even before you arrived here. That whole wardstone episode in Border Sidhe—”

“You told him?” Nick accused Duchaine.

“Didn’t have to,” the man said. “There were hundreds of witches and wizards there that day, and every one of them a first-rate eavesdropper.”

“And there was that disturbing exchange I was sorry to hear about with Amberly Lamborghini your first hour here,” Delacort continued.

“What was I supposed to do?” Nick’s voice rose a few octaves. “She was trying to get inside my head. I only did what she was doing, only I happened to do it better . . .” he trailed off as he realized his faux pas.

Ms. Lamborghini spoke up: “The boy is clairsentient. That is a trait only the most dangerous sorcerers possess. Sir,” she looked over at Delacort. “The boy is clearly communing with demons. How else could he have achieved this ability?”

“I don’t work with frigging demons,” Nick said. “I just sometimes . . . pick stuff up. I can’t help I’m different.” Severus tried to jump down, annoyed with his owner’s tension, but Nick held him tight.

Delacort cited another report: “And there are rumors that you possess a strange connection, some say bond, with the mythics. That is something we have seen in only one other practitioner.”

A hush fell over the room at this announcement.

“Who?” No one answered, so he followed this question with, “Was it that man in the smoke today? Is that why you all look like someone painted your crystal balls?”

“Why were you in the Grimoirium?” Delacort demanded.

That was one out of left field. Nick had to readjust his defensive strategy. “How—?” But he knew. Richard must’ve tattled on him after all. What a rotten turncoat, Nick thought.

“The boy shouldn’t even know about the Grimoirium,” Melisandra Mannik, head of Dorm Enochian, said. “It was closed up for a reason. Only blood magic could’ve opened it. You see he’s already dabbling in the dark arts. Next we’ll start finding dead familiars around him.”

“I used my blood!” Nick said. “I didn’t hurt anybody.”

“Do we really need any more proof, sir?” Ussane said, taking up Mannik’s argument. “You hear how he speaks to us, how disrespectful he is.” He started counting off Nick’s crimes on his fingers. “Flagrant disregard for authority, underage use of restricted magical paraphernalia, dabbling in demonology and blood magic, somehow enchanting mythics, and worst of all, he is hiding a relationship with that fiend, that sorcerer. Expel him!”

“Consider what he’s done in just two days,” Mannik added. “Imagine what he’ll be capable of if we continue to teach him for the next three years. His magic is an unknown quantity. You need to expel him.”

Nick shook his head. “You know . . . he’s not going to expel me—he can’t.”

“What does that mean?” Ussane demanded.

Heat rose to Nick’s face; he hoped it wasn’t as red as it felt. “He just . . . He would’ve expelled me already. He wouldn’t have invited you here. You’re all ganging up on me—” He turned away from their accusing glares to look straight at Delacort. “I can’t explain these things that have happened. I’m not trying to dabble in sorcery or anything. I don’t know why the mythics are drawn to me. I don’t even know who that man was in the smoke. I don’t know how I found the Grimoirium.” His words picked up in pace as his heart beat faster. “But none of that matters, because you and I both know you need me.”

“Listen to how the boy disrespects you sir,” Ms. Lamborghini said.

“Shut up!” Nick exploded. “Shut up shut up shut uuuup!”

You could’ve heard a spider trotting across the floor, the room was so quiet. A few of the dorm heads—those who weren’t glowering—were sporting satisfied smirks. Perhaps they’d been goading Nick into blowing up.

Duchaine’s attempt at stifling an amused grin within his beard offered small comfort.

“You see, sir?” Ms. Lamborghini said. “You see how unstable he’s becoming? That is a clear sign the boy is dabbled in demonology.”

“Everyone out,” Delacort roared.

“Sir?” Ussane hissed.

“I’m leaving too,” Delacort said, standing. “Duchaine has asked to have a word alone with Mister Hammond. After which, Nick will go to Anaximander’s quarters for their spirit walk.”

“Wait, what?” Nick said. “I thought that was tomorrow. I’m not ready. I’m drained.” Should he tell Delacort about having to stay awake because of his encounter with the efrit? Did Delacort already know, and he just didn’t mind taking risks with Nick’s psychic health?

Dean Delacort came round the desk and set a large hand on his shoulder. He could grip a basketball with that hand. “I’m afraid I must insist. We can wait no longer; the DME has gotten wind of your . . . exploits, and Grand Vizier Vinculus wishes to discover the extent of your journey in the Dreaming, and who or what you encountered there. Anaximander will provide you with an energy booster to help. Well, so mote it be.”

Nick looked down at his shoes. As everyone filed out of the office, a cold shock slithered down his spine, replacing the warm thrill of having shocked a roomful of adults into silence.

Duchaine took the other chrome chair beside Nick. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, the old warlock checked his tarnished pocket watch and sighed. “Forget everything that just happened,” Duchaine said in the gentlest manner he could manage in his baritone. “Because I have worse news.”

At this declaration, Nick looked up. His eyes strayed to Duchaine’s talismanic necklace as it hung swaying on its chain between them.

“What have your parents told you of the W.A.N.D. Project?”

Here it was at last: the real reason his folks had sent Nick off to wizard school, to help the warlocks of the Department of Magical Enforcement create the world’s first wand. Since the day they’d sat him down at home a few months ago, Nick had often wondered if this might even be the reason why he’d been created.

He sat up, back flat against the chair. “Wizarding Anti-Nemesis Device,” Nick recited, carefully enunciating the absurd acronym. “The Project was initiated fifteen years ago, just after the mythics arrived, in the hopes of the warlocks crafting an ultimate wizard’s weapon. Designed to harness the users will and natural energy and channel it into a single concentrated force of pure magic, the wand could theoretically conjure this stream of bioplasma with a thought and be used to instant devastating effect against the mythics.”

Duchaine unleashed a full-throated laugh. “Your parents made you memorize that?”

“They had me memorize many things.”

Duchaine tucked his talisman back inside his shirt. “Listen, we were going to wait a few weeks until you’d properly adjusted to the Institute before we initiated you, but the war with the mythics has taken a nasty turn. Things are getting worse.”

“What’s happened?”

“Well, there’ve been more escapes from the Preserve. You saw the glimmerling. Making it all the way to Philicity?” He shook his head. “And just yesterday the troll king went missing. Without him the troll hordes are unruly, dangerous animals. It’s only a matter of time before they break the treaty and start hunting humans again. Plus there’s the . . . well, another time.”

Nick could only whistle. “When do you want me to start?”

“Saturday morning,” Duchaine said, getting to his feet. “The other warlocks want me to take you out mythic hunting. Make sure you appreciate the dangers we’re facing.”

“That sounds nice and safe.”

Duchaine snorted. “No worries. We’ll just go after some sprites, or maybe a crumple-horned Snorkack. Something easy.”

“It’s still dangerous though, I bet,” Nick said. “What do my parents think about this?”

Duchaine produced a slip of paper. “They already signed a waiver.”

Spotting their unmistakable signatures, Nick shook his head and grumbled, “Glad to see they care so much about my safety.”

Duchaine looked as though he was trying to summon a comforting line, but in the end all he managed was a pat on Nick’s back, and then he walked out. Following his school map, Nick wandered down the mostly empty hallways until he came on a vaulted doorway on the first floor, its carved trim work and angled header emblazoned with glowing runes.

He pushed on the door and entered.

A lone red candle flickered to the right. Its wavering flame illuminated a figure before the window ahead of Nick; it was Anaximander, hovering three feet off the floor.

“Holy crap!”

Turning slowly in midair, the Voodoo priest faced Nick. He uncrossed his long legs and set his feet on the floor.

“You were levitating,” Nick gushed.

“Indeed,” Anaximander replied. His long dreadlocks dangled like living tentacles.

“How?” Nick asked.

“A communion with the air elemental,” he responded at length. “This comes only through years of deep meditation and a complete surrendering of one’s will.”

Ah, thought Nick. It’s just a lesson. Surrendering one’s will was the opposite of sorcery, which involved the forcing of one’s will.

“Take this,” Anaximander handed Nick a Monster drink.

Nick took the large can. “An energy drink, seriously? When Dean Delacort said you were going to give me an energy booster, I kinda figured he meant some magical herb or a Voodoo head trick, or a pranic transfer.”

The Haitian grinned. “Some buffer methods actually work. Drink.”

Nick guzzled the sugary drink, burped, and then assumed the meditative position on the dark purple shag rug. He doubted he’d be able to slip into a sleep state with Monster flowing through his system, but as soon as he took Anaximander’s hands and closed his eyes, he felt his spirit unshackling from his body.

Something was wrong.

Instead of taking a stroll down memory lane beside Anaximander, Nick found himself confronting endless abyssal corridors. He peered into the darkness. Tiny images flashed along wall and ceiling alike, vague impressions of memories spawning into existence and swiftly flickering through the stages of life before fading to death. As he walked, Nick observed one such memory depicting his parents arguing in their dining room at home. Barely making out the decorations, Nick crouched down to hands and knees for a closer look, trying to ignore the hollow sounds of water dripping and a voice babbling mindlessly.

Could this be the argument they’d had before deciding to turn to a geneticist to overcome the Voodoo infertility curse?

The floor began to sink beneath him; Nick turned and rolled away.

Screaming, limbs flailing, Nick still managed to snatch a glimpse of a man in the distance, scanning the walls for memories.

Mind reeling, Nick experienced a fleeting moment of intense certainty: this man did not belong here. Whatever it was he wanted to see, he had no right to it. Nick reoriented himself. With a measure of control he could not explain, he stood and sped down the corridor. A head weighted with dreadlocks came into view. Nick slammed into the man, tearing him off the surprisingly soft wall and dragging him down in a vicious, skin-defacing fall to the rough stone floor. A moment later, Nick released the struggling man. Floating there, thrumming with a sense of power, Nick turned around and drifted over to the wall. This close, he realized the entire structure was one giant living memory construct, holding everything Nick had ever seen, heard, or otherwise learned throughout his entire life. The thought of it: perhaps he could forego most of his risky Plan and simply search for the answers here.

When he pressed a hand to the membranous wall, however, hoping to access some sort of living repository, it jolted him. Shockwaves coursed through Nick’s system. He shot backwards, tumbling over and over.

Before he could recover, gravity returned, yanking him back down. He succumbed to the onslaught of something far more powerful and nefarious. The walls began to cave in. Memories flickered, mere blurs of recollection. The encroaching sights before his eyes were incomprehensible. Nick breathed. Instead of inhaling oxygen, he sucked in nothing. A clawing panic took hold, settling into his bones until he could not even forge a single coherent thought.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Anaximander slapped him back to the physical world.

Nick gasped for air as sweat beaded down his forehead.

The Voodoo priest, clutching his head, gawked at Nick. “How did you do that?”

“I’m sorry,” was the only response his addle pated brain could come up with.