Chapter 11
Scrivening was Cally's last class of the night. She eyed the double row of antique lift-top desks with builtin inkwells. She knew she'd miss her friends, but she didn't expect to miss Varney's modern feel. Bathory was so retro it was like walking into a time warp, right down to the sputtering gaslight fi xtures that were the only light in the winding subterranean halls. As Cally moved to take a seat at the front of the room, Carmen Duivel stepped around her and quickly sat down at the desk.
"This is my seat, newbie." Carmen smirked. "I always sit here."
Cally sighed and moved to the next desk over, only to have Melinda Mauvais block her attempt to sit down.
"Sorry," Melinda said, trying not to look at Cally's face as she spoke. "This seat's taken."
Cally had already experienced this childish strategy in both her beast mastery and mesmerism classes. She took a seat in the back of the class and hoped the instructor wouldn't spend the entire period staring at her like she was some kind of repulsive bug.
"Young ladies, please open your desks and remove your scrivening kits," Madame Geraint announced as she stepped in front of the blackboard. The scrivening instructor was a thin woman with exceptionally wellformed hands. Her fi ngers moved with an otherworldly grace, like seaweed fl oating in a gentle current. Cally opened the top of her desk and found a black lacquer stationery box. Its lid was decorated with a mother-of-pearl inlay depicting the Bathory Academy seal: a capital Gothic script B framed by wolfsbane and deadly nightshade. Inside, the box held several sheets of vellum parchment, a fl at stone paperweight, and a six-inch scrivener's talon fashioned of ebony. Madame Geraint used a wooden pointer and tapped a chart showing what looked like a cross between a Chinese ideogram and a line drawing by a drunken Picasso.
"Tonight you will be practicing how to properly write the chthonic word for blood. In the true tongue it would be called thusly." She cleared her throat, then issued a rapid series of ultra-high-frequency clicks and chirps. "Note the accent on the last syllable.
Depending on the context, the word for blood can be used to describe life, food, or family, making it the most important word in our vocabulary. Talons up, ladies! And - commence!"
Cally removed a sheet of vellum from the stationery box, carefully placing the paperweight at the bottom of the page. Luckily, she had taken scrivening at Varney, so she wasn't completely lost. Still, mastering a scrivener's talon was diffi cult even for an Old Blood, so she had to pay extra attention to what she was doing at all times.
She picked up the talon, using her thumb to hold it correctly against her right index fi nger, which she then bent to match the curvature of the instrument, and dipped the talon's nib in the glass jar of ink set within the inkwell. Cally carefully tapped off the excess ink before placing the nib onto the parchment.
"No, no, no! This is utter guano! Start again with a fresh sheet!"
The class raised its collective head to see who was being reprimanded. Madame Geraint was standing over Carmen Duivel's desk, shaking her head in disapproval.
"Who cares if it's not perfect?" Carmen retorted, her cheeks red with embarrassment for being singled out. "If I want to write anything, I can just type it on my computer. That way if I make any mistakes, I just hit delete instead of having to start a whole new page. Writing this way is stupid, if you ask me."
A nervous titter ran through the rest of the class.
"Computers!" Madame Geraint snorted derisively.
"Keyboards have ruined your generation's ability to hold a talon properly, much less write legibly. Of course, in the earliest days, there was no need for such things as writing instruments. Our ancestors simply dipped their claw tips in ink and wrote directly onto parchment scrolls.
"While we have embraced such technological advances as the printing press and have even developed software that allows us to communicate with one another via the internet, our most important documents are still generated by hand. Let me assure you that the ability to read and write chthonic script is far from 'stupid.' In all the legal documents, religious writings, and genealogical data generated by our people over the millennia, not one word has ever been penned in a language known to humans. This is how we protect ourselves from those who would eradicate us from the face of the earth.
"Skilled scriveners are highly prized by the Synod's law keepers, and scrivening plays a major role in electing the Lord Chancellor and other high offi cials."
"Well, that's nothing I have to worry about." Carmen sniffed. "I have no plans on being a civil servant when I graduate."
"That may very well be, Miss Duivel," Madame Geraint said with a sigh. "But seeing as your mother is the one paying your tuition, it is my job to make sure you do not leave this school a functional illiterate. Now start again."
Carmen scowled but dared not say anything else as she restarted her copying. Madame Geraint watched over her shoulder for a couple of moments before resuming her silent patrol of the classroom, her strangely elegant hands clasped behind her back.
As the bell signaling the end of the school night sounded, Madame Geraint pointed to the front of the room. "Young ladies, please put away your scrivening kits, sign your work sheets, and leave them for me on my desk."
Cally quickly replaced her scrivening instruments and gathered up her work sheet. As she approached the line of students waiting to drop off their work, Samara Bleak turned to fi x her with a withering glare.
"Back of the line, newbie."
"But there are other people behind me . . ." Cally protested.
"You heard her, bitch. She said 'back of the line,'"
Carmen snarled, giving Cally's shoulder a sharp shove. Cally staggered backward, her thigh striking one of the desks.
"You having any trouble, Carmen?" Melinda asked, glaring at Cally.
"No problem. I'm just teaching this newbie her place, that's all."
Cally wanted more than anything to punch her in the mouth, but that was exactly what they wanted her to do. She clenched her fi sts so tightly the fi ngernails drew blood from her palms. As much as she loved the idea of grinding Carmen's evil Kewpie-doll face under her heel, she had to restrain herself. If it was up to her, she would blow off Coach Knorrig and the stupid assessment and walk out the front door and never come back. But doing that meant completely destabilizing her living arrangements, not to mention Sheila. Despite her weaknesses and failings, Sheila was still her mother and it was up to Cally to protect her as best she could. And if that meant having to eat the oldies' shit, then so be it.
As she placed her work sheet atop the others stacked on the desk, Madame Geraint stepped forward, placing her hand on Cally's own. Although the teacher's fi ngers looked as fragile as stalks of new grass, they were surprisingly supple and strong.
"May I see that, please?" Madame Geraint asked as she picked up Cally's work sheet. She held the page at arm's length, studying it with an intent look on her face, then glanced down at Cally. "It would seem you possess a dab-hand."
"Is that a good thing?"
"Yes, child, it is," Madame Geraint said, smiling with one side of her mouth. "It means your work shows power and control, as well as a certain refi nement. I could tell you had talent while I was supervising the class but did not consider it wise to call attention to you in front of the others."
"Thank you, ma'am - I guess."
"I'm certain you are aware there are instructors who resent your being enrolled at Bathory, Miss Monture. I am not one of them. I fi nd such snobbery grossly hypocritical." Madame Geraint sniffed. "After all, instructors are invariably the last of usurped bloodlines. It's like the old saying: 'Those who can become New Bloods; those who can't teach.'"
Cally changed into her gym suit and stood waiting for her assessment.
"Learning about the history of our kind and how to scriven is all well and good. But if you don't master the ability to shapeshift and fl y, you'll never live to see your centenary," Coach Knorrig stated as she paced back and forth.
"While shapeshifting is an ability all of us possess, it is not something you just fall out of bed knowing how to do. When you get right down to it, it's all a question of muscle memory. In order to maximize muscle memory, you have to repeat the transformation process over and over again until it becomes automatic. That means practice, practice, and still more practice.
"I'm not gonna to lie to you - shapeshifting hurts, especially when you're new to it. Luckily, the more you do it, the easier it becomes. However, it is highly dangerous to attempt to shapeshift before you know what you're changing into. Depending on your lineage, it could be any number of things."
She fi nally got to the point.
"We need to fi gure out your totem animal fi rst and work from there. Maybe it's a wolf. Or it could be a big cat, like Mauvais. Although it's not very likely, you might even be one of the rare ones who turns into a king cobra or some other kind of snake. We'll just have to see. Okay, Monture, just do what I tell you, okay? First I want you to close your eyes and clear your mind."
Cally closed her eyes and tried to relax, taking in a deep breath through her nose and drawing it into her belly.
"That's good. Very good. Now I want you to reach down deep, deep inside your mind," Coach Knorrig said, her voice taking the tone of a mother urging her child into sleep. "Go down into the darkness. Tell me: what do you see?"
Cally was about to tell Coach Knorrig all she saw was a bunch of purplish blots pulsating behind her eyelids when she realized she was looking at a dense cluster of trees and underbrush.
"I-I see a forest," she stammered.
"Good. Very, very good," the coach said encouragingly. "What greets you in the forest?"
Cally's brow furrowed as she concentrated harder, trying to bring the forest behind her eyes into sharper detail. As she moved farther into the edge of the woods, a pair of eyes as red as live coals suddenly blinked into existence in the oil-black darkness between the trunks of the gnarled trees. There was a low growling sound and a gray timber wolf stepped out of the shadows, sniffi ng the air cautiously.
"I see a wolf," she said excitedly.
"Excellent," Coach Knorrig said. "That is your totem, the beast of your family line. It is as much a part of your heritage as the color of your eyes and hair. I want you to try to touch it."
Cally nodded and took a tentative step forward as she raised her right hand. The wolf sniffed her as it moved toward her in a series of cautious half steps, as if uncertain whether to attack or fl ee.
"Can you see its energy?"
Although she had not noticed it at fi rst, Cally could now see that the timber wolf was bathed in a strange, greenish glow.
"Yes," she said, nodding.
"Good, good. Place your hand on the wolf and let its energy fl ow into you."
Cally reached out and cautiously stroked the wolf 's fur, running her hand along its spine. Even though she knew there was nothing in front of her but empty air, she could feel the warmth of its body underneath her hand and feel its soft fur between her fi ngers. Petting the creature triggered an unexpected sense of well-being within her, as if she had returned home after a long trip to fi nd a fi re crackling in the hearth and her loved ones gathered to greet her.
The greenish fi re that surrounded the wolf wrapped itself around her hand, traveling up her arm like a quick-growing vine. But as it reached her shoulder, she was suddenly gripped by searing pain, as if someone was breaking her bones from the inside out.
Coach Knorrig watched intently as Cally dropped to her knees, grimacing in agony as her right arm began to swell and contort into the foreleg of a wolf.
"C'mon, Monture - you're doing great! Don't be afraid. Take the wolf 's power and make it your own!"
Fearful that the animal would slip free of her grip, Cally dug her fi ngers deep into its fur, only to have the beast turn and snap at her with its fearsome jaws. Even though she knew what she was seeing was not real in the physical sense, she instinctively pulled away as the animal lunged at her. The wolf promptly turned and bounded off into the shadows between the trees, taking with it her sense of well-being.
"No! Wait! Don't go!" Cally cried out, reaching out as if to summon the creature back.
The smell of ozone fi lled the air and Coach Knorrig gasped in shock to fi nd her student's outstretched arm sheathed in dark energy. The ectoplasm was as black as spilled oil and laced with traceries of scarlet that seemed to pulse like veins and arteries. As Coach Knorrig watched in amazement, black ectoplasm began to drip from the schoolgirl's straining fi ngertips, sizzling as it struck the cold stone fl oor of the grotto like beads of water on a hot skillet.
"Open your eyes!" Coach Knorrig yelled. "Monture, open your eyes!"
The moment Cally's eyes fl ew open, the black ectoplasm disappeared, reabsorbed into her body. Her arm dropped limply to her side as she looked around at her surroundings, slightly dazed.
"I'm sorry, Coach," she said. "The wolf ran away. Do you want me to try again?"
"That's okay, Monture," Coach Knorrig replied as she scribbled notes on her clipboard. "I think I've seen enough."