Chapter 6

Part III

"The construct of a sigil is, in terms of Transmutation, paramount to every other systemic work in Chaos Magic. A sigil is personal, and yet universal. It opens the doors for the species, and for the individual. It works magic in a wide and a narrow scope. It provokes a change in the course, the imprint, the very brain of the collective. If used wisely, a sigil can unlock the doors to the secrets of the universe."

Jakobus Wettlig, Principles of Chaos Magic, ed. Rotheimmer, 1892

September 8th, 2018

Collège de St. Cyr

Serpens Hall

Moon in Leo - Waning Crescent

It's past midnight, so it's officially Saturday. The students are either asleep or out partying in town. It's probably their last chance of doing so, once the term starts loading them up with work, the crazy, wild nights will come to a natural end. Substituted by long hours of intense studying, of distilling, brewing, mixing, writing and general schoolwork. But not tonight. Tonight is for letting loose. I know this for a fact, haven't forgotten what it's like to be their age. And the thought Serpens will be mostly empty is rather comforting.

I crawl up the stairs to the third floor, where the A.A.S. has hold of the best quarters in St. Cyr. It wasn't so, back in my time, A.A.S. did not have separate, special lodgings. We bunked with the other students, although our sessions were held at the Sagittarius Wing, where faculty have their offices, where the rector presides, where the library is located. It is also where Professor Whitford had his two-room quarters: office and private lodgings. But the students deserved no special treatment, back then. Montpelier changed it all. After Ferragani passed away - heart attack, while he was staying at his family home on the Naples coast - and Montpelier took over his position, a lot has changed at St. Cyr. This is one of those changes, and I'm not sure it's for the best. I don't find the idea of being cooped up with these students, in such close quarters, an appealing one.

And I'll delay facing them as long as I can.

Well, not them, per se, just her.

Hence the arrival undercover of the night.

The landing is dark; the door closed. I fish out my keys and slide them in, trying to be as silent as I can, although I'm sure no one is in. I don't bother with turning on the lights, my door is the one at the back of the corridor. I did come here before taking off to Somerset, if only to get rid of my luggage, taking with me the least I could get away with. Everything else is inside that room. My books, my research, my laptop even. Which I should have taken with me, I could have gotten some work done. But I wasn't thinking, brain addled by the news. It's not everyday you're told the man who mentored you, who was your father figure, has passed away. It's not everyday you're told his passing was not due to natural causes, being attributed to a possible murder.

It's not everyday you find yourself suspect of such murder.

Even though your alibi places you miles away from the crime scene.

When Darren was murdered, I was actually sitting at a table at Les Magots d'Amandine, a favourite restaurant of mine at the deuxiéme arrondissement in Paris. Surrounded by former lab mates from Notre Dame. It still took the British Police quite a number of days to clear me of the suspected crime. That they could think me responsible for Darren's death is beyond offensive, the man was like a father to me. I loved him, admired and respected him. He's the only reason I took this blasted job. That brings another issue to my attention; should I stay? Now Darren's gone, I'm free to resign, right?

'You'll be preparing them for the future, dear boy,' he said. I can still hear his voice in my head, and it's laced with a guilt trip I'm not prepared to take. 'You'll be forming the bright young minds of our world, handing them a set of morals and ethics, a sense of responsibility, of honour and duty no one else can impart. These children are special, just as you were, still are. Who better than a man of your talent to guide them?'I can't even think of leaving, at least for now. My brain would never let me see the end of it. As it is, just by having the thought cross my mind, my anxiety threatens to jump me. Suddenly, the distance to the bedroom seems to have doubled, and I need to get inside. I need to get inside, where the last of the Essens Lunaire from the last full moon is hidden away in a corner of a drawer.

And boy, do I need to get that white poppy milk into my system.

The moment my feet realise they can walk, a door opens at the end of the hallway and a head pops out. I need the damn drugs even more, now. My heart speeds, my hands and forehead start sweating, my mouth's gone dry and my throat clogs up. I'm a mess, but my eyes still lock with hers, I can't avoid staring at her beauty even if I wanted to. Which, of course, I don't. But I still can't believe it's her, inside the room next door to mine.

My tantalising, alluring Cassandra.

Of all the people in the world, it had to be Cassandra Tremayne who was afforded the room adjacent to my door. And it had to be her who stayed in, instead of painting the town with the rest of the students. It had to be her who'd still be up after midnight, ears pricked to the sound of footsteps down the hallway. My heart lurches. My guts coil.

"Professor King," she greets, a smile so luminous I can see it in the dark.

We never met, not officially. Of course we've crossed paths many times over the past two years; after all, I'm a teacher at the school she attends. But she was never in my class, and we never met outside these halls. We've never exchanged words, except for the first time we met. Well, not met, we ran into each other; it was more like bumped into one another. I was leaving Lab Room 5, and she was already late for a class. Only hers was Lab Room 7, which was the other door. So she runs into Lab 5, the door hits me right across the face; I jump back and strike my leg on the table, let out a yelp of pain, and the girl just stands there, hands over her mouth, huge blue eyes made bigger by shock, laughing under her breath as if she was a dimwit. Whispering how sorry she is, and have I hurt myself.

The moment I looked up and really saw her, I was kind of lost. Something about her pulled all the cords in my heart, all its strings. It pulled cords on other parts of my anatomy, too, and it was unexpected, but all the more agreeable for it. It had been a while since I'd last experienced such a strong attraction for someone. From that moment on, all it did was grow. I managed to keep away from her, of course, and when I was offered her class last year, I refused, stating I was far too busy with the A.A.S. to teach Year Two students. Bishop wasn't happy, it forced him to postpone his retirement, but I couldn't care less. I didn't want to be anywhere near that girl. We still crossed each other throughout the school, and I saw her every day in the refectory. Ended up hearing one story or other about her, from my colleagues, especially Bishop, who tended to go on about how talented she is. That's how I know her name, by the way. Bishop was kind enough to inform me.

And now here she is, and I can't help but being thrown in with her, sharing the same quarters, with her attending my class. Couldn't keep her out, could I? Not after that outstanding essay she wrote on the implications of physical transmutation to the brain and personality of the subjects. Something I fully intend to have her delve deeper into. It was actually one of the many things I discussed with my former colleagues from Notre Dame, this Summer. Miss Cassandra Tremayne will have a full scholarship awaiting her there, if it depends on me. She's indeed as good as Bishop told me. She's indeed as beautiful as I remembered.

And all the more forbidden for being my student. Ethics, morals alone, prevent me from letting this get any more awkward. She's old enough to be my daughter, for fuck's sake. She's my student, the fact I'm entertaining such thoughts about the two of us is on itself wrong.

"Miss Tremayne," I finally manage to reply. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Wasn't sleeping," she says, and opens the door further.

Now it's not only her head that pops out, it's her entire body, clad in a dark green, silk kimono, tied round her waist. One leg is on display, though, breaking free from the slit. It's creamy and white and her thigh has a couple of bruises my eyes latch on to. Wonder how she got those. Clamp the route of my thoughts the very minute I realise where they're going. Her private life is nothing to me, nor can it ever be.

"Well, I'm rather knackered, so if you don't mind, I'll retire. Unless there's anything I can do for you?" I could slap myself for saying this, for opening this can of worms.

I could beat myself black and blue for the instant prayer rising to my lips that yes, she has something I can do for her. Something that involves getting rid of that green robe and running my tongue all over her soft-looking skin.

Enough. I cannot go there.

Her smile is all too-telling in itself. An open invitation. Or maybe I'm seeing things. I don't wait for her to reply, instead I as good as bolt down the corridor, towards my room. Next door to hers, actually, right above hers. We're so close I can sense the heat from her body, scent the lingering perfume from her skin. Figs, and almond. Perhaps a moisturiser of sorts? It's heady and tantalising, deepening the longing I have for a taste of her skin. I push the key into its hole, all the while my brain making comparisons between this action and that of sliding something else into an altogether different type of hole. I'm glad I didn't turn on the lights, my face must be as red as ripe tomatoes on the vine. The key fights me, doesn't want to turn, but finally I manage to get the door open. Just as I'm about to slide in, she speaks.

"Is everything all right, Professor? Why were you away, has something happened? Are you sick?"

I turn my head round, face her. There's concern in her eyes, and it drives me off balance. "My health is perfectly all right, thank you. I left to bury a friend," I explain, and wonder why, this is none of her business, after all. I'm her teacher and should strive to keep a distance. "He was like family; in fact, he was the closest thing to family I ever had."

Her eyes darken, and they look grey, now, with the dim, soft light from her bedroom hitting her from behind. "I'm so sorry." Her hand darts forward, lands on my arm, and I can't help but shiver at her touch. I hope she hasn't noticed. "You're all alone, now. What a shame."

Our eyes lock again, and her gaze is so intense I can feel myself smouldering under her stare. Oh, this girl is temptation, she's pure delight. This is not going to go down well. As I blink, my head is flooded with wild meanderings, images of me pulling her into my arms and covering her lips with mine, as we both slither into my room, where we.... Her voice breaks through my thoughts, drives away the pictures, and I narrow my eyes at her in confusion.

"I said we must make sure to take good care of you, sir," she says, and now she blushes.

Sir, she called me. I could show her a thing or two about how she can take good care of me. I want to show her a thing or two about how she's going to take good care of me. Instead, I nod a silent thank you and dive into my quarters, locking the door behind me. This is not going to end well. How am I supposed to live cooped up with a woman I'm this attracted to? It's uncanny, she has this effect over me I can't control. I don't recall ever having felt this way about a woman. Only she's not a woman, is she? Seventeen years separate us, I'm far too old, she's far too young. This, what I feel for her, is wrong in so many ways I can't even begin to count them. So I repeat it to myself, like a mantra 'She's not a woman, she's not a woman, she's just a girl'.

Maybe my brain will get the message.