The School of Nine (The Mythic Academy Collection Book 1) Read online

  The School of Nine

  The Mythic Academy Collection

  Amanda Marin

  Iron Blossom Press

  Copyright

  The School of Nine

  © 2019 Amanda Marin

  All rights reserved. No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without permission from Amanda Marin, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions or other queries, write to:

  [email protected]

  ISBN (print): 978-1-7345058-0-1

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7345058-1-8

  Cover Art by Najla Qamber

  Edited by Enchanted Quill Press

  This story originally appeared in Academy of Magic, a limited-edition digital boxset published by Enchanted Quill Press.

  The characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is strictly coincidental.

  www.amandamarinwrites.com

  Dedication

  For my sister, Emily,

  who didn’t understand the can of worms she opened when coining the term “man muse”

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Also By Amanda Marin

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  I kick the empty can by accident, then startle as it clanks across the sidewalk and ricochets off the side of a lamppost before rolling to a stop against the wall of a building. Ace Cola, the label reads. The champion of power drinks. At least that’s what the commercials say. Personally, I would have gone for something a little less cliché. Less obvious. But that’s just me. Maybe the Muse who inspired that one was burnt out. Or inexperienced. Or feeling pressure from a deadline.

  Or maybe there was no Muse involved at all.

  That seems to be happening more and more lately.

  “We’ve probably practiced enough for today,” Kash says. “We should start heading back.”

  Her words jerk me out of my private critique. Somewhere, in another part of the city, a marketing executive will just have to keep waiting and hoping to cross paths with me. Right now, all I can do is groan. I have Poise and Charm class this afternoon. I hate Poise and Charm. She knows that.

  “Just one more each, okay?” I ask.

  Kash rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile dimpling her round, pink cheeks. “Last one.”

  For a moment, we scan the faces of passersby, searching for our respective marks—our unsuspecting test subjects. I spot mine almost immediately: a woman with an expensive-looking handbag and a cell phone practically attached to her ear. She walks right by the can of Ace Cola, glancing at it a second before continuing on her way.

  “Watch this,” I whisper.

  Clearing my throat, I turn my wrist, moving my hand like a ripple on a wave. I feel the energy leave my body, flowing from my heart, down my arm, and through my fingertips. Warm and tingling, like a kiss traveling across my skin.

  “Hang on a sec,” the woman says into the mouthpiece of her phone. She pauses and turns back to scoop up the empty can of cola. She steps toward a bin for trash and recycling on the corner, then tosses the can inside. As she stands at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn and the chance to cross, she resumes her chatter on the phone.

  “No, nothing’s wrong. Just picking up some litter,” I hear her say before the beacon beeps and she disappears into the mass of cars and people on Fifth. Oblivious to what just happened. Completely unaware I just inspired her.

  Exactly as it should be.

  “Nice job, Bee,” Kash says, nodding with approval.

  “Thanks.” I grin, then nudge her in the side. “You’re up.”

  Kash does this thing—bouncing lightly, shifting her weight from one foot to another—when she’s thinking too hard or can’t make up her mind. She starts doing it again now. So indecisive. So predictable. So Kash. It always makes me smile.

  “How about him?” I suggest, pointing out a young man whistling while walking a dog.

  She shakes her head. “He seems happy already. It’ll be too easy.”

  “Her, then,” I say, nodding toward a mother scolding the child at her side.

  Another head shake. More indecision. More subtle bouncing. Still, I’d rather do this than sit through Poise and Charm.

  We walk further down the block, away from Grand Park and the academy. Continuing our search.

  “Him,” Kash says excitedly at last.

  Across the street, a man in shabby clothes sits on the ground, his back to the building behind him. He’s unshaven, with stringy hair, and he looks like his last bath may have been this past weekend’s rainstorm. But he has a violin in his hands—a beautiful, well-made instrument. He sways in time with the sad, lovely notes that dance upon the strings when he guides his bow over them. The music reminds me of something … honey. If honey had a sound, it would be this song.

  As if agreeing with me about the sweetness of the music, a woman passing by drops a few dollar bills into the open violin case at his feet. He grins at her appreciatively, giving a small nod of thanks—all without missing a single note.

  “He’s already inspired,” I protest. “Look at him.”

  “Not him,” Kash clarifies. “Him.”

  That’s when I notice a tall man in a finely tailored, black suit. Everything about him seems immaculate—from the slick, silvery hair combed perfectly in place atop his head to the carefully folded, emerald-green silk handkerchief in his chest pocket. I recognize his type immediately—we were trained to as freshmen, in Inspiration 101. And even if we hadn’t been, I’d sense it anyway: I’m an excellent judge of character; it comes with my powers. This man is cold. Unimaginative. Maybe even cruel. He’s the kind of person who needs us the most—the most mundane of all the Mundanes, as we call the non-magical.

  “You can try,” I tell her, shrugging.

  Not exactly a vote of confidence, I know. But I’m not trying to be mean. I just don’t want Kash to be disappointed. Even the strongest Muse among us would have a hard time inspiring beauty to flood his soul.

  Kash accepts the challenge anyway. We stand together, pretending to compare shades of nail polish, until the dark-suited man gets close enough. And then Kash does it. The moment the man crosses paths with the violinist, she squares back her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and turns over her hand in his direction.

  “Did it work?” she asks, bringing her fingers immediately to cover her eyes. “I can’t stand to watch—I’m too nervous.”

  So I watch for her.

  “Hang on—and stop bouncing like that, will you?” I whisper.

  The dark-suited man stops short and looks down at the violinist. Although he heaves a sigh, he reaches into his coat, searching for something in an interior pocket. The fading rays of the late afternoon sun flicker off the metal of his watch when he moves; it looks like it cost enough to feed half the city for a week.

  “I think so,” I gasp, expecting him to pull out his wallet.

  “Really?” Kash’s voice squeaks hopefully, and she peeks through the cracks between her fingers, as stunned as I am.

  But the man doesn’t withdraw his wallet and drop money into the violin case like the woman
did a moment ago. There’s no tribute to the struggling musician at all. Instead, he’s holding another green handkerchief—one he must actually use, that isn’t just for show. He unfolds the fabric and, using it like a glove to shield him from filth, quickly bends down and reaches out to the musician, snatching the violin from his grasp.

  “Hey, you can’t take that—”

  The violinist’s bow slips against the strings, and he gapes, stunned, as the delicate instrument is wrenched from his grasp. He struggles to his feet to confront the thief, but the dark-suited man doesn’t apologize or acknowledge him. Instead, he just keeps walking, composed and unmoved, with the violin tucked under his arm like it’s been there the whole time. Like stealing the other man’s livelihood is normal, part of his everyday routine.

  “Wait—come back—that’s a family heirloom—” the violinist sputters, reaching out helplessly toward the man who robbed him. He glances around him, his disbelief hanging on his haggard face like one of the low, lonely notes from the tune he was just playing.

  No one passing by stops to help. No one pauses to ask if he’s all right. No one seems to care.

  For a second, Kash and I glance at each other, mouths dangling. And then I close mine, determined. The dark-suited man is getting away. My muscles tense, and my fists tighten at my side. As I start down the street after him, I feel the familiar heat and prickling building in my palms.

  “Bianca, don’t!” Kash begs, using my full name for emphasis. She trails at my heels, trying to keep up.

  But I’m darting and weaving through the people on the sidewalk too quickly. Keeping him in my sights. Biding my time. Waiting for an opportunity.

  An opportunity to do what, exactly, I’m not quite sure yet. But I have a feeling I’ll know when the time comes. I always do. I’m a Muse, after all. I’m creativity incarnate.

  Finally, the man turns right at an intersection. In a moment, he’ll disappear around the corner of a building and I’ll never see him again. This is my chance. I have to take it.

  My heart beats against my ribcage like a metronome at high speed. I scan the road for a break in the traffic. Just. One. More. Taxi. Then the coast is clear.

  I dart across the street toward him just as he slips into the crowd again. My calculations are off, though. A car swerves to miss hitting me. The driver leans on the horn and shouts out the window.

  “Watch where you’re going!”

  But I’m already across the street.

  And the man is already gone.

  I whirl in circles, searching for him among the people around me. Each heading someplace different—to work or home, school or the park. A hundred different lives on every street, all unique, all beautiful. But the man in black isn’t one of them. I’ve missed him.

  Unless …

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of bright green down a nearby alley.

  His handkerchief.

  Tentatively, I step forward into the shadows. Wooden crates and cardboard boxes are stacked everywhere, and mice scamper out of my way as if racing for their lives. Thanks to the dumpster overflowing with scraps from the French restaurant around the corner, the whole space stinks of mustiness and decay. And further down, a door creaks, then slams against the brick façade of the building as it opens.

  “You have the parcel, I assume, Butler?” The man’s voice is thin and haughty, a tightrope that the person he’s visiting must cross to gain his approval.

  My heartbeat quickens. I duck behind a nearby stack of crates and stand on tiptoe, hiding while trying to see over them. It’s no use, though. All I manage is a partial view: the tuft of green in the pocket of the man’s suit coat and the gray metal of the door behind him.

  “Yes, of course, right this way …” Butler’s reply is practically a whimper. A timid, shaky tone.

  “And what of the other matter we discussed—the one regarding the boy?” the man asks as he steps forward, standing on the threshold of the entryway. “Has he responded yet?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not …”

  I try to stretch myself just a little taller and lean in a bit closer. I know what to do now. If I could just get a better view of the man in the suit before he disappears into the building, I can inspire him to give the violin back to the musician down the street. There’s no promise that I’ll do any better with him than Kash did, but it’s worth a shot.

  “You will keep trying, then, Butler. The boy is essential to my plan.”

  Just a bit more …

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

  Come on …

  “And destroy this violin while you’re at it. I expect it to be a pile of matchsticks by morning.”

  “Yes, sir—right away.”

  But the second I lift my wrist and my palm begins to tingle with its familiar warmth, the man in the suit steps inside. Out of sight, and certainly out of my range of inspiration. The door squeals on its hinges again, then bangs against the frame, this time slamming closed with a thud of finality.

  I failed.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I meant for him to give money, not steal the violin,” Kash tells me as we walk back to the academy. Disappointment weighs down her voice like an anchor, dragging her to the depths of some sea. “I mean, I know you’re way better at inspiring actions than me, but I still thought I could manage.”

  “You can, Kash,” I assure her. “We’re all good at different things, and we knew he’d be tough from the start.”

  She sighs and reaches over to push the button on the pedestrian signal at the corner. “I guess … I’ve just never seen anyone react that way to being inspired, have you?”

  Her eyes are so hurt and hopeful that even if I had seen a Mundane resist inspiration like that before, I’d lie to spare her feelings. Fortunately, I don’t have to.

  “Never,” I say, shaking my head. “He basically did the opposite of what you tried to get him to do. He’s either an extremely powerful Muse—or the most dreadful Mundane ever.”

  “It’s hard to think he could possibly have been a Muse,” she says, scoffing, her eyes wide with judgment and horror. “Not after seeing the way he treated that violinist.”

  The streetlight turns color and beeps, and across the road on the accompanying signal, a neon countdown begins. Ten seconds to cross the street … Nine … Eight …

  We step off the sidewalk with the rest of the crowd.

  “What were you going to do if you caught up with him, anyway?” Kash asks.

  I shrug. “Try to make him give the violin back.”

  She shakes her head disapprovingly but grins anyway. My recklessness bothers her, but she puts up with it. By now, she’s learned it comes with the territory of being my best friend.

  “One of these days, Bianca …” she mutters.

  2

  “You’re late, Bianca. Again.” Despite the eyebrows raised in warning, Ms. Dashwood’s voice is soft and harmonic. Hardly threatening. It reminds me more of my grandmother’s pet songbirds, serenading one another in her aviary.

  “Sorry,” I mouth, closing the door behind me.

  I begin to make my way across the room toward my assigned chaise. Tiny steps are all I ever seem to manage in heels this high, so it’s a longer, more labored affair than I’d prefer—one made even harder by the layers upon layers of taffeta swishing around my ankles. And although Ms. Dashwood’s sing-song voice and petite frame may not be intimidating, it is menacing to have my every move followed by twenty-five pairs of disapproving eyes—all my peers, girls who radiate more poise and charm in a single blink of their lashes than I do in my entire body. My cheeks grow hot under their glares, and I look down at the garnet-colored carpet. I’m not sure what’s more red right now: the floor or my face.

  “Ow—watch it, Bee!”

  Juliette Atwell stifles her howl and reaches down to massage the toe I just stepped on, lifting it out of her jewel-encrusted stiletto.

  “Sorry,” I say again as I s
huffle past.

  Another downside of these ornate ballgowns: it’s just as hard to see everyone else’s feet as it is my own. The hazards of being a Muse.

  I lift my skirts even higher now, above my ankles—which Ms. Dashwood would certainly disapprove of if she could see through all the satin and organza stretching from here to the front of the room, where she stands. But at least I can see better. Finally, I make my way to the end of my row and half-trip over the hem of Melody Dillard’s gown into my chaise.

  “Graceful,” says a deep voice behind me.

  A boy’s voice.

  Except there are no boys enrolled in Brightling Academy’s Muse program. Boys are rarely Muses.

  Startled, I look over my shoulder. I don’t know whether to stare or to scowl as I gape at the face gazing back at me. A stone-sharp square jaw. Eyes as bright and frothy as seafoam. And dark hair—trimmed neatly along the edges but overgrown and tousled on top. Perfect and imperfect at the same time. He sits on a chaise of his own—one that’s slightly crooked, like it’s been hastily added to the end of the last row in the back of the room, directly behind me. He’s a student, I realize. Just like I am.

  Correction: there used to be no boys enrolled in Brightling Academy’s Muse program.

  My hands still their work of straightening my dress over my calf. I think I’m hallucinating. I may as well be staring at a pink unicorn or a two-headed dragon, which—despite Aurelia Ketterling’s often-discussed beliefs—do not, in fact, exist. But then the boy blinks, and a half-smile curls the left side of his mouth. And I know that he’s real.

  “Miss Harper and Mr. Greenbriar,” Ms. Dashwood chirps, “eyes forward, please. This is a class in poise, not flirting.”