Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands
Chapter Eight

Frozen, mesmerized. Nick was beginning to wonder if he completely lacked the sense to run when all signs said RUN! But then, as he stood staring into those glowing eyes, he realized why he wasn’t running—at least for this time.

“Severus?” Nick whispered to his cat. “What are you doing? Go back.”

‘Mew,’ the tomcat replied. It sounded suspiciously like a ‘no’.

A body stirred in the bed beside them. Lowering his voice even further, Nick hissed at his cat. “Fine, you can come, but for Pete’s sake keep your stupid kitty mouth shut.”

Severus responded by uttering a small a ‘meow’ of consent. He always had to have the last word. As Nick stepped down into the Necromancy common room, something creaked to his right. On inspection, nothing seemed amiss. He was just about to leave when a louder, longer creaking accompanied his footsteps. Nick whipped around. Directly in front of him, standing perfectly motionless was the corroded suit of armor. Nick peered up into the eye-slit of the helmet. Fortunately he did not spy any glowing eyes in there. Next he poked the ribbed breastplate. No response from the mysteriously repositioned armor. Finally Nick took hold of the right gauntlet as if to shake hands.

The metal fingers squeezed his own.

Severus hissed. Whether or not it was this plaintive rebellion or his own belated sense of self-preservation finally kicking in, Nick took off running, heart racing, legs pumping. At the exit the gargoyle stirred. Twenty seconds later when he looked back, Nick was relieved to replace that neither the gargoyle nor the strangely mobile suit of armor were in pursuit. He stopped in the middle of the breezeway to catch his breath.

“Hoo,” he gasped, leaning out one of the openings. “This school is gonna kill me, Severus.”

The cat, too busy licking its paw, couldn’t be bothered to respond.

A chill gust of wind blustered through the breezeway. Through the clear night air Nick spotted a solitary light wavering somewhere out in the depths of the bestiary. Duchaine was at work among the cages. Trying not to think about mythic feces, Nick consulted the map of the castle Richard had provided. The goal of his little nocturnal excursion was not far.

When he had his breath back, Nick made his way downstairs where the Shamans kept their dormitory, and where the sanctum sanctorum, the Institute’s library, lay situated dead center in the castle basement.

With Severus skulking along beside him, Nick trod down a misshapen solid stone corridor. As seen by the dwindling light of candles flickering in sporadically placed sconces, he noticed there were no seams between the walls and the floor and the ceiling, and that there were odd markings pitting the passageway. Drawing a hand over a few, he muttered knowingly to Severus, “Pick axe divots,” though in truth he feared they looked more like the sort of damage enormous fangs might cause.

Just as it was depicted in the map, this seamless subterranean passage meandered and twisted like a snake in agony, without any detectable pattern. Maybe the architects had been drunk when they carved it out of the mountain. Eventually Nick found the doorway he’d been searching for, and paused to take it in.

Bound by heavy iron straps corroded to that peculiar point where the rust serves to reinforce rather weaken, the door looked monstrous enough to defend itself against anything nature or time could throw at her. Nick shoved on it, despite his misgivings.

It opened. Easily. Didn’t even squeak.

At the end of a liquid smooth sandstone landing, a set of sandstone steps led down into the sanctum. A vast atrium opened before Nick, with a cathedral ceiling a good thirty feet up—which made no sense considering this was the basement. Divided by five long wooden tables constructed out of tiger maple and polished to mirror finish, the sanctum could easily accommodate dozens of students from each dorm. Indeed, as Nick discovered on stepping down into it and exploring, each table was labeled. The Dorm Necromancy table stood to the right of the room, parallel to a two story bookcase sporting a polished brass ladder rail.

Yellow candle stubs flickered on metal sconces, their wax entrails dripping onto removable metal catches hanging beneath. Aside from the bright yellow of the candles—chosen for their ability to promote mental work and meditation—the only vibrant colors in the room were claimed by bright red fire extinguishers lashed to the timber posts every few yards.

The choir of insects and critters outside could not be heard from here deep inside the sanctity of the library. Nick breathed in the silence.

Now was his opportunity.

“Okay Severus,” Nick said, scanning his map. “If it still exists, it must be nearby. They had to have placed it adjacent to the sanctum. Let’s see,” he ran a finger along the crinkled surface of the old map. “If I were a secret forbidden library, how would I access me? Better question, how would I conceal my presence from nosy ambitious students? Hmm, Severus?”

The tomcat responded by marching over to a hole in the wooden base trim of one of the shelves. He sniffed at the gnawed opening.

“Hey, try to focus here, kitty-boy, this is important. I need information, and the Grimoirium is a frigging vault of knowledge no one else is sharing. So . . . hey, Sev!”

The cat perked his ears up at the sound of his name, but refused to come.

“Stupid cat—whoa, what’s this?” he’d spotted a tiny square section on the map that didn’t seem to correlate with any of the other markings. Guided by the permanent locations of the tables and the labeled reference sections, Nick found the spot in the sanctum that was marked on the map. It was a slightly inset two-foot wide section of shelving.

As he was walking towards it, he was struck by a flash of another boy taking the same detour through the sanctum. It wasn’t a memory. Shaking it off as a mystical case of déjà vu, Nick spent the next few minutes scanning the books on the shelf, looking for clues. Mostly dry tomes on the Inquisition, a few paperback manuals and essays on invocation. At a loss, he stood back to take it in as a whole.

Nick scratched his chin. “What does that look like to you?”

‘Meoooew?’ Severus answered.

“My thoughts exactly,” Nick beamed. “It does looks like a door.”

As every novice witch and wizard knew, when all else fails, you meditate. The Fates might take notice and provide the answer. Nick nestled down to the cold floor, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. For the longest time he focused all his attention on his breathing—that, and nothing else. The world faded away. When he could hear his own heart beat, Nick sensed a startling moment of intense awareness approaching; his Third Eye began to open, his consciousness of the mystical world beneath and behind and within all things beginning to expand. He understood his own deepest desires. He knew how stubbornly the stone of this room had resisted construction, and he perceived the nature of his cat, that Severus was more than just another feisty feline.

That boy from the déjà vu vision returned. Nick could see him in his minds’ eye as clear as day. He could even detect a hint of powder. What had Priestess Carnivales called this gift, clairolfaction?

Dark haired, flesh deeply tanned, dressed in a well tailored but long out of fashion jerkin, the boy seemed to meld with the shadows of the vacant sanctum. He didn’t walk so much as saunter to his destination. Nick admired this boy’s unusual degree of confidence. As he watched, the boy stood before the inset bookcase, removed several books and set them down, and promptly drew his athame from the sheath hanging on his belt.

Black handled and double-edged, this catch-all knife was one of John Dee’s Eight Weapon’s of Magic and an essential tool of every student at the Institute.

The boy slashed at his palm quicker than thought, no hesitation. The athame was back in its sheath before a line of blood could even begin to seep out. When the weeping red line threatened to drip, the boy pressed his palm to the back of the bookcase in the opening he had created by removing those books. Eyes closed he spoke: ‘Freely I offer this sacrifice. Open unto me your secrets. So mote it be.’

It looked as if the boy was shoving on the back of the bookcase, but then he stepped back and wrapped his hand in a strip of cloth. The inset bookcase began to slide to the left. Light burst from the opening . . .

Nick’s eyes whipped open, he crawled backwards, and three of the candles guttered out.

“What the heck was that, kitty boy?”

‘Mew.’

“I know it could be a trick,” Nick said. “I’m not stupid. Blood-locks are pretty dark stuff.” He waited a few ticks. Scratched the back of his head. “Still, maybe it was placed here by a wise man because he didn’t want anyone else to learn what he had learned, which would mean he found answers inside—”

Severus interrupted with a long whiny cry.

“Shut up,” Nick said. “What would you know? You’re just a little cat.”

Still, he thought, Severus does have a point. This is clearly black magic. It was also a complete mystery, how he’d seen that vision. “This is how the good guy always gets himself in trouble in the movies,” he told Severus. “Going against his better judgment, like an idiot.”

Nick turned to leave, but hesitated at the great iron-shackled door. How else was he ever going to replace the answers he desperately needed? There had to be a book in there with a spell that could reveal the past.

Now was his chance.

He leaped down from the sandstone landing and marched back over to the inset bookcase. Athame unsheathed, Nick drew it across his right palm, being left-handed. “Oh shoot,” he said, realizing he’d forgotten to first remove the books. Slipping the blade back into place, he used his left hand to remove the books the boy in his vision had taken down, placed his bloody palm against the back of the book case, and finished the working by reciting the incantation.

Then he stepped back and waited.

Nothing happened.

“Did I say it wrong?” he asked Severus. “Maybe ‘to’ doesn’t work. Maybe you have to say ‘unto’ like in the old days.” He pressed his palm to the bookcase, smearing yet more blood over the old wooden surface. This time he used the word ‘unto’ and also applied a bit more pressure than before.

The wood panel at the back popped out of place. Shocked by the sudden movement, Nick heard a click and quickly reversed gears, backing away and looking around to make sure he was still alone. Indeed, no one else was around, not even his cat. When he looked back, Nick found himself facing not a supernova, but a black hole, a gaping crevice in the sanctum. The remaining candles guttered; their flames drawn towards the hole.

Nick could see nothing beyond that black hole. He tugged on one of the sconces until it detached from its stout hook on the wall. The flame nearly died. Nick took the candle back to the hole and peered in.

The air reeked of must and mold. Hope was a tenuous strand of light—hope that the old grimoires and books of magic were still down here, and that time and the elements had not been too cruel to them. A draft of foul wind whisked over his face, threatening to extinguish his stub of a candle. Flaming wick held forward, Nick stepped down into the chill black hole.

His heart raced—but not out of fear. His Plan was at last being executed.

Unfortunately, the walls were not lined with shelves holding ancient irreplaceable books or scrolls. They were not even lined with shelves at all. This wasn’t a library; it was a dank musty tunnel. Trying not to let disappointment kill his buzz, Nick followed the tunnel. Like the basement corridors, it meandered; it also appeared to be sloping downward every twenty feet or so. Soon he was slopping through puddles, soaking his shoes.

A constant and creepy drip-drip-drip echoed through the tunnel, getting neither louder nor quieter. It was as if it were dripping beside him—or inside him. His dim light displayed old wood torches, long rotted to uselessness. Eventually, when all hope of replaceing the notorious and long hidden Grimoirium seemed strangled to death, Nick’s candlelight shone on a door.

Something crawled over his foot. Nick recoiled. Where was Severus when he needed him?

That constant dripping plinking in his ears, tapping out a horrid Morse code, Nick shoved on the half-rotten door. Surprisingly, it gave, its hinges creaking loud enough to wake the dead and deafen the living.

“Please don’t be haunted, please don’t be haunted—or empty of books,” Nick whispered as he stepped past the door.

Holding the candlestick up high, he surveyed his discovery.

He was standing in a room hewn out of the belly of the mountain, shaped into a geometrically perfect triangle, one vertex meeting close to the door through which he had entered. Niches had been carved into the three walls to serve as bookshelves. Many were barren, blanketed in dust. But some still held treasures beyond measure, volumes of such exquisite design they must be original books of magic, others of such antiquity Nick that feared they would crumble if he touched them.

He shuffled forward, noting that the floor in this room was dry. Indeed, though the chalky scent of decay was stronger here than in the tunnel, the reek of mildew was completely absent. The place was dry as a tomb.

Careful not to move the candle too close to the books, Nick shone its light over the shelves. He could barely contain his ecstasy; a giggle escaped his lips. Nestled on a stone alcove just above eye level, were a dozen tomes, their round spines embossed with gold lettering and gilded sigils. Blowing the dust off so he could better spy the titles of these beauties, Nick read: “The Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin the Mage, Volumes One Two and Three. Wow.” Following the line, he cast his light over the next few. “Codes Unwritten, by Leonardo DaVinci? No way. Let’s see, The Key of Great Mysteries, by Eliphas Levi.”

He hopped up and down a few times; he couldn’t help it. This was a dream come true. Nick slapped his cheeks, just to be sure. The smacking sounds echoed through the chamber.

Could he take all the books? Impossible. He considered taking a seat on the settee, perusing the most intriguing titles, or maybe placing one of the tomes on the lectern, but knew he couldn’t; the secret passage was still open. He should probably take one book and run.

A scratching sound interrupted his musing. Nick leaped back as a second flame appeared ten feet away. Nervous laughter escaped as he realized it was only a reflection in an old mirror.

Time was running out—he could feel it. Nick performed another scan of the alcoves, searching for that perfect first book to borrow. “Earth Power, Spell Crafts, Ancient Battle Magic. Cool. Ethics of Magic and How to Circumvent Them. Hmm, that doesn’t sound too legal. Come on, where’s all the advanced scrying books?” Some few titles were in mysterious languages.

The scan of a knee-level niche provided pay dirt. Nick squeezed his fingers around the thin green cloth-cover and tugged. As soon as the book was free of its ancient resting place, the scratching sound returned, much louder this time, and accompanied by tiny hisses. Nick fell over backwards as a half dozen tiny winged people flew out of the niche. Hissing, they snatched up his candle and zipped out of the room, leaving Nick in pitch black darkness.

Shivering and too frightened to move, he could only listen in pure terror as light began to glow across the room, and a voice called to him out of that light. “It’s about time. Get up, we’ve got work to do, you and I.”