Resurrection. Derek Landy
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magical community in his hometown near Galway was small and suspicious of their mortal neighbours. His parents, in particular, were guilty of harbouring a deep and abiding distrust of anyone born without magic. Of course, they distrusted most people born with magic, too, so he had been glad to leave it all behind and come here, to the most exclusive school in the world. The fact that he had only been invited to attend because of the Darkly Prophecy did not matter to him one little bit.
Omen even liked the uniform. He said he didn’t, claimed he hated it to anyone who would listen, but it was actually pretty cool, all things considered. Black blazer worn with black trousers or skirt, white shirt and tie. Each of the Years, from First to Sixth, had a different colour, starting with yellow and ending with black. As a Third Year, Omen’s tie and the piping on his blazer were both purple. The school crest, a dragon and three burning towers, was captured in a patch worn on the left breast, and the uniforms looked cool no matter the size or weight of the student. Omen may not have won any Student of the Year prizes (they usually went to Auger), and he wished he could fit into a uniform a size or two smaller, but he definitely felt that all-too-rare sensation of pride whenever he donned those clothes.
Now he joined a line of smartly dressed students as they filed into class. He did his best to tuck in his shirt, then sat at his desk and pulled a book out of his bag.
“Where’d you get to?”
Omen looked up. Never’s ash-brown hair was tied back today, which meant he was identifying as male. This was unusual for a Tuesday. Normally he was a she by this stage of the week, although Omen knew by now that to assume anything of Never was a mistake. Back in First Year, she had stood up in class and declared loudly that he would not be held to anyone’s expectations but her own. He sat next to Omen in most of their classes together.
“I had a study period,” said Omen. “Where were you?”
“Maths,” said Never. “Where you should have been.”
“We have maths next class.”
“No, we had maths last class. Peccant has you down as ditching.”
“Aw, man.”
“You should really look at your timetable every once in a while.”
“He hates me so much.”
“You’re not his favourite, it has to be said.”
The door at the front of the class swung open and Miss Wicked walked in. Immediately, the chatter died. Miss Wicked was one of those teachers who demanded obedience from even the unruliest of students. In his three years of attendance, Omen had never seen her angry, had never heard her raise her voice, and yet she somehow remained intimidating despite this calm demeanour.
She was tall and brilliant and blonde and slender, and she had a tongue as sharp as her cheekbones and always wore pencil skirts and high heels. Omen was a little bit in love with her.
“Today we are going to be discussing Necromancy,” Miss Wicked said in that precise way of hers, where every word was perfectly formed. “Can anyone tell me the names of some prominent Necromancers of the past?”
Hands went up, Omen’s included.
“Axelia,” Miss Wicked said.
Omen almost sighed. Axelia Lukt was the prettiest girl in school, with hair almost as blonde as Miss Wicked’s and big blue eyes and the cutest Icelandic accent Omen had ever heard. Omen had had many conversations with Axelia, conversations where he’d joked and laughed and made incisive comments about world events. He’d been charming, funny and considerate, and the fact that she hadn’t yet fallen in love with him was a puzzle he just couldn’t solve. Maybe the fact that all of these conversations had taken place entirely in his head had something to do with it, or perhaps it was because he had yet to engage her in an actual, physical, real way. Whatever the reason, girls remained a mystery to him, but he was determined to figure it out.
He’d started practising in the mirror.
“Morwenna Crow,” Axelia said, answering the question while simultaneously proving that a better volunteer could not have been chosen. “Melancholia St Clair. Lord Vile.”
Miss Wicked nodded. “Lord Vile. The most notorious. Can you tell me the object into which he poured his power?”
“His armour,” said Axelia. She was so smart.
“Very good. Necromancy is death magic. Shadow magic. As such, it is a lot more volatile than Elemental magic, or even most Adept disciplines. Necromancers store a good portion of their power in an object that they either wear or carry around with them.”
“Necromancers are sad little lunatics,” said Jenan Ispolin, his lanky frame lounging back in his chair. “My father rounded them all up years ago, dragged them out of their little temple and kicked them out of our country.” Jenan’s father was the Bulgarian Grand Mage, and his smirking son rarely let anyone forget it. Like Omen, Jenan belonged to a Legacy family, where everyone was encouraged to take on the same surname – but, whereas the Darkly name had somewhat positive connotations, the Ispolin name brought to mind brutality under the auspices of law. “That’s what you do to people like that.”
Miss Wicked observed him. “People like what, Jenan?”
Jenan sat up a little straighter, and cleared his throat. “Uh, Necromancers, miss.”
“Necromancers are sorcerers, the same as you or I. Are you going to condemn them for their chosen discipline?”
“No, miss,” Jenan said, flushing red. “I just meant … when the Death Bringer was around, she—”
“Her name, please?”
“Melancholia, miss. When Melancholia was around, she tried to kill billions of people. That was the Necromancer plan all along. My father said they were all murderers and he didn’t want them in our country so he … he kicked them out.”
“And what if some of your classmates harbour a desire to join a temple and study Necromancy?” Miss Wicked asked. “How do you think they feel right now, to hear you speak of them this way?”
Jenan shrugged. “Dunno, miss. Don’t care.”
“We have a Necromancer on our teaching staff, here at the Academy. Are you calling her a murderer, too, Jenan?”
He shrugged again. Defiant this time.
Miss Wicked nodded, like she had reached a conclusion she had no intention of sharing. “I see,” she said.
There was a knock on the door and a blushing First Year came in. He hurried up to Miss Wicked, passed her a note, and hurried out as fast as his little legs could carry him. Miss Wicked glanced at the piece of paper, then looked up.
“Omen,” she said.
Omen sat straighter. “Yes, miss?”
“Your presence is required elsewhere.”
A creeping dread came over him. Peccant must really be on the warpath if he was taking Omen out of class. “Do I really have to go?”
Miss Wicked gave a half-smile, and a part of him, beyond the dread, delighted in being able to amuse her. “Yes, you do. Take your bag and report to the South Tower.”
Omen frowned. “Mr Peccant isn’t going to throw me off, is he?”
“I have no more information than that, I’m afraid. You’ll have to take your chances. Off you go.”
Omen glanced at Never and got a sympathetic look in reply. He stuffed his book into his bag, headed for the door and tripped over Jenan’s outstretched foot. Omen went stumbling and the class erupted into laughter that was immediately curtailed by Miss Wicked’s arched eyebrow.
Omen left the room and dragged himself to the South Tower. Peccant may have been an excellent teacher, but he was also a terrifying man with an explosive temper, and Omen had always got the impression that