The Secret of Spellshadow Manor (Spellshadow Manor #1)

It was almost empty. There was a table strewn with tools, and opposite that a grate had been built into the floor beneath a pair of manacles that hung from the ceiling, almost invisible among the hanging ivy all around them. Alex felt a shiver run through him as he approached the chains.

The ground near the grate was sticky, and Alex could guess why as he looked up at the hanging manacles. They should have been hard to see, but something about them drew the eyes. The black crust that flaked on their surface. The gleam of oil on the locking mechanism.

The smell of blood was so strong here.

Alex turned away, looking back toward the table, and for the first time he noticed a painting hanging above it. It depicted a large mouth, rows and rows of teeth layered one on top of the other, dripping with spittle, an unnaturally long tongue twisting at their center. Looking at it, Alex felt a wave of nausea roll through him.

The table itself held only a few things. A shirt, ripped at the sleeve, where a dark stain covered the fabric. A rather ordinary-looking clipboard, with a list of names and dates. The handle of a knife which seemed to have lost its blade.

Alex leaned over, picking up the list and glancing over it. There were several pages, and he flipped through them, skimming the entries. It seemed that most of the names were associated with a single date: the 7th of May. Frowning, Alex flipped to the most recent page, and saw a name there that he recognized.

Blaine Stalwart.

The boy who had been caught out of bounds.

A date, the day the boy had disappeared, was written beside his name in neat handwriting. Alex looked back at the bloody shirt, then over his shoulder at the manacles. He looked up at the painting, the mouth full of teeth seeming to smile at him.

Beside the name and date, there was another note, written in a short, frustrated hand.

Not matured enough.

Alex rose, feeling sick. He wasn’t here to look at these things. He needed to get going, find the book on necromancy. For a moment, he thought about swiping the papers, or even the bladeless knife, but he thought better of it. It was best to make as small an impact as he could. He could come back for them if he needed.

He exited to the hallway, breathing hard. The torches crackled, the smell of blood mingling with the oil and smoke as he tried to get his bearings. The manor suddenly felt an awful lot like that mouth, with all of them sitting inside it, waiting for it to swallow. He looked around, then made his way deeper in.

But if he had thought to escape the image of the mouth, he quickly found that he could not. There were more paintings in a similar vein, and even the ivy itself seemed to align itself like gaping lines of teeth. The leaves brushed against him, and he could feel the way they clung to him, leaving his skin icy as they passed.

Once more he opened door after door, but now he was almost grateful when he found them empty. The smell of blood faded behind him, leaving only ice and dew and rot.

He didn’t know how long he had been searching when he finally came across the Head’s office. He opened the door, letting out a sigh of relief as he saw the familiar features: the stone desk, littered with papers; the bookshelves; the tree-filled fireplace; the great window overlooking a frozen lake.

Alex let himself in, his breath catching with anticipation. This was it. What he had come for. He was almost there.

He made his way over to the bookshelf.

Most of the words on the spines were in Latin. While Alex knew some basic roots, he didn’t know nearly enough to understand half of what was before him. He recognized a few books of what must have been anima magic, something that read Monstrum Dica, a few books of what may have been more pyromancy. He was starting to wonder just how he was supposed to locate his objective when he spotted a small black book shoved into a corner of the shelf. Dust covered its spine, where faded words read:

Nobilitum Mortem.

Alex reached out, fingers ready to brush the ancient leather cover, when his eyes caught sight of a thin crimson line on the interior of the bookshelf. He cursed under his breath.

Alex would have bet anything that he was looking at another curse. He stared at it with hard eyes. His bones still felt icy after the last piece of magic he had recklessly flung himself through, but the book was right there, within his reach. They could stop Finder with it, free a trapped soul and prevent any more students from being dragged to this place. Alex clenched his fist, drew in a breath, and seized the book.

A spark of energy started in his toes and crackled up him, sending him twitching to the ground. He only just managed to close his fingers around the book and yank it free before agony rolled through his being, his vision washed away by a blur of multicolored sparks and pain. He must have cried out as ice erupted within him with the sensation of being impaled upon countless spears. His body convulsed, and he felt bile frothing up into his mouth, his eyes wide, mouth gaping like a fish out of water, hands clinging desperately to the book in his hands.

He was only dimly aware of it when the door opened and a dark figure stepped inside. He heard the shuffling of rags, smelled the scent of grave dirt.

Through his pain, he heard a voice.

“There was a puddle of water by the entrance,” it said softly. “A puddle of water. How strange is that?”

Finder.

No, not now…

There was the soft tread of boots as the man in rags crossed the room to the window. Alex bit back a groan as his spine convulsed, arching in pain.

“That spell does not make water,” Finder continued. “And yet there was water. There was ice.”

He turned, sweeping the room, but once again seemed thankfully unable to see Alex. His robes hung in tattered streams at his sides, dragging over the ground in his wake. In the midst of the pain, with his whole body tense and burning, Alex couldn’t help but think how very real the man looked. He didn’t look like any ghost he had ever heard of—Finder looked solid, present, as he dragged one finger along the windowsill, sending a cascade of dust spinning through the air.