Budget Cuts for the Dark Arts and Crafts
Budget Cuts
for the
Dark Arts
and
Crafts
WOMBY’S SCHOOL FOR WAYWARD WITCHES
SARINA DORIE
Copyright © 2018 Sarina Dorie
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1722645547
ISBN-13: 978-1722645540
OTHER BOOKS IN THE womby’s school for wayward witches SERIES listed in order
Tardy Bells and Witches’ Spells
Hex-Ed
Witches Gone Wicked
A Handful of Hexes
Hexes and Exes
Reading, Writing and Necromancy
Budget Cuts for the Dark Arts and Crafts
My Crazy Hex Boyfriend
Spell It Out for Me
Other Titles To Be Announced
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Excerpt from
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
http://sarinadorie.com/writing/short-stories
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
If you are reading this far in the Womby’s School for Wayward Witches series, I’m guessing you have read the other books as well. Whether you have stuck with the series because you love the quirky characters, you want to know if Clarissa will turn into a wicked witch like her mother, or you are waiting to see what happens with the potential love interests, I appreciate your enthusiasm.
If you haven’t already signed up for my newsletter, I want to encourage you to do so. This helps me as an author connect to my readers, lets you know when books are being released, and gives me a way to gift you with free books and short stories.
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Happy reading!
CHAPTER ONE
Another Year, Another Hex
My first year at Womby’s School for Wayward Witches had been filled with students cursing me and teachers cursing at me. For my second year, I hoped for less dark arts and crafts, and more fine arts and crafts.
I sat in the sanctuary of my classroom among a dozen of my most artistic students. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I hosted after-school Art Club meetings. These were my favorite days, the excuse I needed to create my own art with my most talented and enthusiastic students.
I had transformed the gloomy stone tower of the art room into an inspiring classroom full of motivational quotes and cheerful paintings. Vincent van Gogh’s Sunflowers and Georgia O’Keeffe’s Red Canna hung above my beginning class’s close-up drawings of flowers, leaves, and pine cones. The Mona Lisa, one of Chuck Close’s grid-style self-portraits, and a Frida Kahlo self-portrait hung above my advanced class’s self-portraits. Students sat in desks and chairs placed into a horseshoe shape, chatting amiably and working on their independent projects.
It was a much better start than the previous year. Students had realized I couldn’t do magic and glued me to the ceiling on my first day. This year, incoming freshmen had already heard the rumors that my biological mother was the baddest badass witch of all time, and I was someone not to be meddled with. They had learned Alouette Loraline had released a demon and destroyed part of the school . . . and so had I.
Teachers stayed away from me, thinking I might explode with magic at any moment. Students respected me because they thought I was powerful. Little did they know how wrong they were.
Six months before, I had pushed my affinity into Derrick to resurrect him. Until my magic recharged, I couldn’t actively use it, though something in me still brought out the magic in others. If I couldn’t use magic, that meant I was defenseless against soul-sucking Fae, homicidal students, and teachers who probably wanted to kill me.
I couldn’t protect myself against the boyfriend who had attempted to kill me once and would try to do so again.
At the start of last year most of the teachers had disliked me, now they hated me. Including my friend Josie. Mostly that was for releasing Khaba into his demon form. That was only the start of my problems.
Despite my attempts to combat my worries, uneasiness wormed its way under my skin and threatened to sink its teeth in. I distracted myself with other concerns about job security and the school’s budget. At this point, I still couldn’t figure out why they’d hired me back.
I flipped through my sketchbook, considering which of the renderings of the school might show it off in the best light. No matter what angle I chose to draw Womby’s School for Wayward Witches, it resembled an architectural monstrosity. Arms stretched out from the great hall like a spider constructed from mismatched brick, stone, and wood. The boxy buildings were stacked onto each other, gables contrasting with turrets on round towers, reminding me of Howl’s moving castle—but on crack. I’d included the charred stones and wood from the school’s most recent fire in my rendering, though I hadn’t yet decided if I intended to include that in my final painting.
It seemed unlikely I was going to be able to capture a viewpoint of the school that would entice anyone to buy the painting in a charity auction to raise funds for the school. I’d said as much to the principal, but the scars of the fire were at least in part my doing, so I felt obliged to help the school in any way I could.
I would do anything to redeem myself in the eyes of the teachers and staff. After the explosion and the repairs needed after I had accidentally released a demon from the school—or as I thought of it, a djinn from his lamp—it was likely they would need to cut a teacher at the end of the year—if not sooner.
I selected the least hideous perspective of the school and sketched the building on a canvas.
“Miss Lawrence, look at my collage,” Chase Othello said, waving me over. “Do you think it’s good enough for the auction?”
Chase was a junior this year. She was tall, with purple hair and a lip ring. She didn’t have time for art class, so I was pleased she had joined Art Club after school.
I set down my sketchbook on my desk and went over to see Chase’s work. I complimented what she had done well and gave suggestions for how she could improve her collage with contrast.
Imani Washington, a dark-skinned girl seated to Chase’s right, sketched her friend Grogda, who insisted on being called Greenie, while the other girl more or less stayed still as she drew anime characters. Considering Greenie had mossy skin and leaves grew in her verdant hair, she’d never been able to leave the Unseen Realm, or else it would have drawn attention. She had never experienced Morty culture firsthand, so I didn’t know how she’d been exposed to Dragon Ball Z.
Maddy and Hailey chatted while they sculpted using clay.
“Son of a succubus,” Hailey Achilles swore. “This stupid clay keeps cracking.”
“Language,” I reminded her.
“Sorry.” Hailey tucked her brown hair behind a pointed ear and cast her amber eyes downward.
I walked closer and said with my patient-teacher smile. “Think about the outcome you want and the path you need to take to get there.”
“I want the clay to stop being so dry so I can work with it.” Hailey looked to Maddy, the blonde water siren sitting beside her. Hailey clomped the gob of clay on her friend’s desk and looked at her expectantly.
“What?” Maddy asked.
Hailey waved a hand at it. I hadn’t been the most articulate high school student either. I stepped closer and spoke quietly so I wouldn’t embarrass Hailey. “Use words to ask for what you want. She isn’t a mind-reader.”
Hailey lifted her chin. “Do your water magic and fix it.”
Maddy rolled her eyes and sighed. “You could just get a cup of water.”
Even so, Maddy picked up the crumbling brown mess in one hand. With the other she pinched something invisible in the air and drew it toward the clay. Blue light danced around her fingers, and she wove water back into the clay. Maddy’s siren magic was subtle, the task easy for her skills. Her creamy skin turned pearlescent, and she grew so beautiful it hurt my eyes to look at her. She already was tall and blonde and could have passed for a model, but when her magic shimmered through the wards used to tone down her siren affinity, boys tended to drool.
Like Balthasar.
Hailey smacked him on the back of his head. “Close your mouth before a fly lands in there.”
&nbs
p; The clay became moist and pliable in Maddy’s hands. Too moist as a gush of water surged forward and mud splattered the front of Hailey’s white blouse.
“Son of a fucking succubus!” Hailey yelled.
“Language,” I said.
“Sorry,” Maddy said. “I didn’t mean for that much water to come out.”
Balthasar laughed, his mop of black hair falling into his freckled face. “You always have accidents when you’re in Miss Lawrence’s classroom.”
Maddy bit her lip, looking from me to Hailey. Imani ducked her head down. Balthasar was right. The more time she spent with Imani and me, the more her magic went overboard.
Hailey pretended to be more interested in drying the mud from the white shirt of her school uniform than our conversation, but her pointed ears twitched as though she was listening.
I tried to think of a valid excuse. “It must be that everyone feels so at home in the art room, we let our guards down.” I strolled away from Maddy in case I was the cause.
After what I’d done last year, my affinity wasn’t drained, just depleted, like a battery with some juice still left in it. I still had a knack for drawing out the powers of others. Over summer vacation while I had resided with my fairy godmother in Oregon, I’d inadvertently brought out her plant magic. Either that or it had been Imani, who had stayed with us during the summer months and also had that effect on people with her secret Red affinity.
We had been fortunate Gertrude Periwinkle had looked after Maddy, otherwise I would have needed to bring her home with me. Her proximity to so much of our magic would have drawn the attention of Morties and Fae alike.
Imani met my gaze. Worry tugged the corners of her mouth downward. One of these days I would give myself away, and when I did, it wouldn’t just be myself I took down but Imani and Thatch.
The uncomfortable quiet of the room stretched on. Hailey coughed.
The awkward silence was broken by Trevor. “Look what I made!” he said, holding up a chunky clay animal.
Unlike most of the other students at the school, Trevor should have been in middle school. But his powers had manifested early, and he’d needed a place to go. I’d never been clear on what his affinity was, only that he had a talent for eating my glue and crayons.
“Is it good enough for the art show?” he asked eagerly.
From the way he’d overworked the clay, it had dried out. He’d mashed the cracked clay coils together so that it resembled a dinosaur made out of turds. A Turdosaurus rex.
I didn’t want to break his heart, so I opted for a half truth. “Remember, these projects are just experiments. We don’t even know if the clay from the stream banks can be fired or if it will fall apart. We need to let this dry out and build a kiln out of—” I stopped midsentence, eyeing Trevor warily. “Why is your mouth brown?”
Trevor’s cheeks flushed scarlet. Quietly, he said, “I wanted to see if it tasted like chocolate.”
“The clay?” I asked.
The wind outside rattled the shutters.
Hailey snorted. “Was it everything you hoped for and more?”
I shook my head at her. “Don’t encourage him.” I turned back to Trevor. The wind whistled so loud, I had to raise my voice to be heard. “Honey, we’ve talked about this before. “You cannot eat art supplies. If you want to be in Art Club, you have to—”
“C’est pas vrai!” someone said from the door. Pierre halted in the hall, a bundle of canvas under one arm. He scowled.
I waved to him and welcomed him in. He wasn’t one of my usual Art Club enthusiasts—I could barely get him to do his assignments in my class—but Maddy had asked him to join and he’d attended three meetings so far. He was an Elementia with a rock affinity, which gave him the bulging muscles of the Hulk. Those body-builder muscles coupled with his baby face made him a favorite among the girls.
He glared at Balthasar Llewellyn. The smaller boy’s goblin-like features couldn’t compete with brawny and handsome Pierre.
Pierre’s voice rumbled like rocks rolling down a hill. “It was my turn to sit next to Maddy.” Or that’s what I suspected he said. Between the unusually low voice and his French accent, it was often difficult to understand what he said.
“Oh.” Maddy looked from Pierre to Balthasar seated next to her. Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’m sorry. You didn’t say you were coming and wanted me to save you a seat today.”
“You snooze, you lose, loser.” Balthasar chuckled. “That’s what you get for being late.”
Ugh. There would be no end to the teenage crushes and the hormonal conflicts that spilled over from classes into Art Club.
Pierre’s words came out in a landslide of anger. “Shut up, penis breath!”
Even with his accent, I had no trouble mistaking that.
Balthasar whipped out his wand faster than you can say “abra-cadaver,” the tip fizzling with magic. Pierre rushed forward, raising a meaty fist that either was going to break one of my tables or Balthasar’s head.
Maddy squealed, diving for Trevor and yanking him back. Imani and Greenie grabbed their drawings and backed away, eyes darting between the two boys. Hailey leapt to her feet, a fireball in her hand and her eyes glowing as brightly as orange lava. Panic shot through my veins like a jolt of caffeine, switching me from calm art mode to teacher ninja in two seconds.
“Hey!” I shouted, wedging myself between the two boys, which, in hindsight, might not have been the safest move. “Stop, right there. This is Art Club. No fighting allowed, or I’ll kick both of you out.”
“If that happens, then neither of you will get to sit next to Maddy,” Hailey said in her ever-so-helpful way.
The wind whistled through the cracks in the shutters, whipping my pink hair into my face. It should have smelled like fall, but it smelled like spring.
“Pierre, take a step back,” I said. “Balthasar, hand over the wand. We are going to put it on my desk until Art Club is over.” Grudgingly, they both followed directions. “Now, I want us to use words, not wands. Do you remember those I-statements and the active-listening exercises we’ve been practicing?”
“Oh no! Not this again!” Balthasar wailed.
The shutters burst open in a flurry of decaying leaves and biting droplets of ice. It was far too warm a day for ice, but we were at a magic school—nothing was impossible. Papers fluttered from my desk to the wall, where they pirouetted against the rough stone. One of the students squealed. I rushed to the window and fought against the wind to latch the shutters. The moment I succeeded, the shutters of another window popped open.
“Get those!” I pointed to the students and the window on the other side of me.
More shutters burst open.
I shouted to be heard over the banshee howl of wind. Students ran in every direction. The air whistling through the cracks of the shutters I held closed whispered against my skin like a lover’s breath. The wind felt unseasonably cold for September, followed by a rush of warmth, carrying with it the perfume of spring flowers and exotic spices. I tasted faraway places and magic, reminding me of Derrick.
Derrick, my former best friend and the love of my life.
Derrick, whom I had trusted above all others. Every time I recalled how I’d made his curse worse and turned him evil, a chasm of pain cracked open inside me and threatened to swallow me whole. Even after he’d tried to kill me, I couldn’t bring myself to hate him.
My chest ached where the void of hope and love for him had once been. The memory of what had transpired six months before was still too raw to think about. I blinked the tears from my eyes.
When the wind had stopped, all of us picked up the scattered papers and art supplies that had fallen to the floor. Rhett Jacob’s pallet of cool-colored paint had fallen onto his chair. I showed him where the rags were to clean up. Eventually we all returned to our seats to continue with our art.
I found my sketchbook still open, but it was no longer turned to the angle of the school I intended to paint. Instead, I found myself staring at the portrait I’d drawn of Derrick the year before. The sketch was whimsical and light, rendered in pencil. I had reworked his eyes, and when the pencil hadn’t erased, the paper had become smudged with graphite. The haunted expression resembled Derrick as I’d last seen him more than the smiling, jovial man I’d grown to love.