Elemental Shining (Paranormal Public Series) (14 page)

They were just arriving at the Long Building when there was a blinding flash of light. As they moved to cover their eyes an explosion quickly followed, shaking the very snow they stood on and the frozen ground beneath. Knocked backwards, none of them saw exactly what happened next, but one brave senior described the sudden blast of heat to his face and the burst of color that hurt his ears. He heard the slam and crack of breaking masonry and ruined work and smelled the odor of burning dreams and soot.

The Long Building was so far away from the rest of campus that it took several minutes for help to arrive, but of course professors came running as soon as they heard the noise, which carried in every direction. The students didn’t say much, but one observant professor thought that one of the students had been tramping around in the charred remains of the building. When questioned, the student said that she wanted to see what had become of Professor Artle. Of course, the question was a useless one. Professor Artle had blown himself to bits. It had happened so quickly that it was unlikely he had felt a thing. So he never knew that his life’s work had not only failed, but destroyed him.

Even with so much destruction, there was enough residue left, and the experiment had been successful enough, that parts of the Long Building were to this day expertly shielded from prying spells, which was why my friends had suggested that I make the Long Building the place where I practiced my elemental powers. It made perfect sense, because that’s where the Museum and Dacer were, and HE would want me to practice my magic, even if none of the other professors did.

The Long Building had stopped being much used after the disaster. Professor Artle’s workshop, what was left of it, had been shuttered, and the legend had grown, a sorry reminder of what could happen with talent going awry, and of just how much damage and death could be caused by misplaced ambition, not to mention the loss of Professor Artle’s life and work.

At least, that’s how the story goes.

There were other stories about the Long Building, but that was definitely the most epic.

“Are you afraid?” a muffled voice asked behind me, as a hand reached out of the dimness and grabbed my shoulder.

I screamed.

“Dacer!” I cried, spinning around in surprise. Then I grinned. Today he was dressed like a large confection, with a pink top hat and a cane to match, plus a white suit and shoes decorated with purple trim. He looked flawless.

“You like?” he asked, spinning around and posing. “I have decided to have a themed semester and my first theme is cake!”

“You look so good it’s almost edible,” I said, still grinning. “Amazing.”

“Why, thank you, my dear little elemental,” said Dacer, taking a graceful bow. “And now, back to my question, are you afraid?”

“Of what?” I asked, a little breathless at the reminder of this morning.

Dacer looked one of his long arms around my shoulder and led me in the direction of the Museum.

“Of the catacombs in this very building, for instance, where there are unknown paranormals like Slime Dwellers lurking,” he said. “Or of the Map Silver falling into the wrong hands. Or of what happened this morning.” His dark eyes got even more serious. “You are not one of the ones vampires should fear, and yet if Daisy had her way they would. That Demonstration was disgusting. And then, of course, Risper made the deans’ declaration. Lots has happened.”

“Okay, maybe I’m a little bit afraid,” I said. I could say that to Dacer. He understood.

He smiled thinly. “Good, that means you aren’t stupid.”

I would have asked him what he meant, but at that moment I heard a hissing sound, followed by a howl.

“What the blazes,” Dacer muttered, glaring down one of the dark corridors we were passing.

“That sounded like a cat,” I said. “And a dog.”

“Obviously,” said Dacer. “Pests. I hope the dog mauls it. Cats think the world of themselves.”

“The nerve,” I said, grinning. Dacer squeezed my shoulder tighter.

“There is still lots to be done in here,” he said, ushering me into the Museum and letting his free hand trail reverently along the wall. “I talked to Dove, that despicable vampire, and he said that a new building right in the center of campus is to be built. Not where the Tower was and not nearly as high, but there needs to be a place for the dining hall, and the librarians are complaining that the Museum will be in the same building. I was delighted, which unfortunately Dove realized, because then he went off on some nonsense about how he wasn’t sure how much longer I should run the Museum. Blah, blah, snore fest, blah.”

I grinned up at my mentor and tutor. He had a flare for the dramatic and he definitely didn’t talk like a professor, let alone a vampire professor.

“Have you spent any time exploring around here over the summer?” he asked quietly, looking thoughtfully around at the decaying walls. My work with him had been restricted to the Museum itself, and oddly enough we had never talked much about the rest of the building.

I shook my head. “No time, and it’s kind of creepy.”

He nodded serenely. “I’m sure you’ve heard stories.”

“Of course,” I said excitedly. “Professor Artle is legend.”

Dacer’s face closed. “Ah, yes, that. I do wonder what happened there.”

“The story says that he blew himself apart,” I said. “He destroyed all his work, not to mention his life.”

“Funny thing about stories,” said Dacer. “They are so hard to remember accurately.”

“What did you think about this morning?” I asked cautiously. Although Dacer had been there, as had all the other professors, I had never had a chance to ask what he thought of the Valedications.

“I think it will go down in history,” he said, “as the single most significant Demonstration ever witnessed at Public. With the exception, of course, of last year’s, when a little elemental joined our merry forces once again.”

“Oh, Dacer,” I said glumly, my shoulders drooping lower from my own despair and the weight of Dacer’s arm. “That wasn’t even a big deal. I thought it was a good thing after the first semester, but the deans told me I wasn’t even allowed to practice my magic!”

Dacer stopped in his tracks outside the Museum door. Since his arm was around me, I was forced to stop too.

He looked down at me, his eyes alight with fury. His face wasn’t as scary as some others I had seen wrapped in anger, mostly because it’s hard to be intimidating with purple eye shadow, pink lipstick, and a white-painted face. But Dacer was almost pulling it off.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured. “We might just have to do something about that.”

His decorated arm, draped around my shoulders, started us moving again. Somewhere nearby, a cat howled.

“Now, what exactly is this class about?” Risper asked, clasping his hands behind his back. He was ramrod straight, his eyes probing. This might turn out be the first class ever in which no student cheated, even once. I had a feeling that Risper would know if someone was cheating from miles away. A History of Death had begun.

He paused before continuing, glancing out the window. It was a gray and cloudy day, my least favorite for fall. I liked blue sky, a crisp wind, and golden leaves blowing. Somehow this weather reminded me of demons, and demons reminded me how angry I was about what the deans were doing at Public.

They had ordered me not to practice my magic and were now planning to send groups of students outside the protections of Public—protections I had almost died to put in place—so that they could “learn to fight.” Whose idea was that?

My steely gaze returned to Risper.

Once he started talking I forgot my anger and got lost in his words.

“The History of Death isn’t about disease,” he began, “that would be the humans’ history. No, the History of Death for paranormals is about murder, plain and simple, because paranormals don’t die unless they are killed. Our magical powers are such that we are very good at saving each other from everything except extreme magical harm. The arc of history is such that our most important death question has been, is, and will likely always be, how do the Demonites factor into our lives?

“Rake, do you have a problem?” Risper’s eyes bored into the vampire, who was sitting slouched in his chair in the back of the room. I turned around to look. He was glaring at Sip, and therefore Lisabelle.

Caught by surprise, Rake started to stammer out a response.

“Shut up,” said Risper. He walked toward the back of the room, seeming to grow larger with each step, his features darkening. “Do I make myself clear?”

I watched Rake’s Adam’s apple bob up and down before the massive junior nodded. He looked like a scared little boy with Risper glaring at him so ferociously.

“Now, where was I?”

“I believe you had just said ‘the arc of history . . . how do the Demonites factor in?’” Sip said. I glanced at her notes. There was a very good chance she was writing down every word our new professor was saying.

Risper raised his eyebrows at Sip. He hadn’t had much interaction with my werewolf friend except when she had stood up to Dove last semester. He smiled thinly. “You are just like your brothers, aren’t you? Definitely a Quest, through and through.”

Sip looked a little stunned, much like when Risper’s niece made sarcastic remarks. Before she could recover, Risper continued. “Of course, one longstanding event stands out among the others when we discuss the murder of paranormals in the modern age. The most serious topic of this class will be the systematic and nearly complete extermination of one of the five main classes of paranormals, the weakest and therefore the most vulnerable. I am talking about the elementals. We will also address the question of the sixth class of paranormals—”

Risper stopped mid-sentence, turning his black eyes to Rake. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled. “I am losing my patience.”

Rake was staring at Sip again. “It’s just,” Rake muttered, continuing to glare at the tiny werewolf, “she’s an Airlee.” He said the word “Airlee” like it was some confusing thing.

Sip stood up, her chair scraping across the stone floor. “SO?” Her fists were shoved onto her hips. “You want to do something about it?” Her purple eyes blazed. I looked at our professor, but Risper looked more amused than anything.

“Uh,” said Rake, looking confused.

“Just ignore him,” said Dirr. Lanca’s sister was one of three Starters in the class, the other two being the Valedication siblings, who were sitting in the back, the only students who were even further away from the professor than Rake was. Neither had said a word, and I was glad. After their Demonstration I was just a little scared of both of them, but when Dirr spoke Daisy looked at her in much the same way that a cat looks at a mouse she hopes to eat. I felt a chill run down my spine, and even though I didn’t know Dirr I was grateful for the other vampires protecting her.

“Sit down, Sip,” said Lisabelle. “Your hackles are raised.”

Sip stood for another few seconds, then slowly pulled her chair around and sat back down. Turning to Risper she said, “You may continue.”

Risper raised his eyebrows, but when all Sip did was cross her arms and wait, Risper started talking again. “The unusual paranormals,” he said, “or the sixth class, don’t factor into the power of Five, obviously. Examples of these include Tempests and Fiends. The sixth class, as you know, is not represented at Public. It is too small and too . . . unusual.”

I leaned over to Sip. “What’s a Tempest?”

Sip rolled her eyes.

“Tempests are wild creatures. They hate the demons with a passion, which is good, because the demons are targeting them next.”

“Next?” I asked.