Orleans. In 1876, after her younger sister, Margaret, perished while having her powers stripped by the Council, Miss Prentiss proposed the idea of a safe house of sorts, a place where witches whose powers were potentially harmful could live in peace."
The portrait faded and the old photograph that I'd seen earlier, the one of the school in 1903, appeared.
"It took almost thirty years, but her dream was realized in 1903," Mrs.
Casnoff continued. "In 1923, the Council granted shapeshifters and fae the right to come to Hecate as well."
No mention of vamps, of course.
"This isn't so bad," I whispered to Archer. "Just a history lecture."
He shook his head slightly. "Just wait."
"In 1967, the Council realized that it needed a place to train and mold young Prodigium who were using their powers without the proper level of discretion. A school where they would learn more about the history of
Prodigium, and of the dreadful consequences of exposing their abilities to humans. And so Hecate Hall was born."
"Juvie for monsters," I muttered under my breath, earning me a low laugh from Archer.
"Miss Mercer," Mrs. Casnoff said, making me jump. I was afraid she was going to bust me for talking, but instead she asked, "Can you tell us who
Hecate is?"
"Um, yeah. She's the Greek goddess of witchcraft."
Mrs. Casnoff nodded. "Indeed. But she is also the goddess of the crossroads. And that is where all of you children now find yourselves. And now"--Mrs. Casnoff's voice rang out--"a demonstration."
"Here we go," Archer murmured.
Once again, a small speck of light sparkled in the front of the room, but this time, no screen appeared. Instead, the light took the form of an old man, maybe around seventy. He would have looked completely real if it hadn't been for the slight shimmer that clung to him, making him glow in the dark room. He was dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt, and a brown hat was pulled low over his eyes. A scythe dangled from his right hand. For a moment he was totally motionless, but then he turned and began swinging the scythe near the ground, like he was cutting grass that wasn't there. It was . . . eerie. It was like we were watching a movie, but the action was happening live.
"This is Charles Walton," Mrs. Casnoff announced. "He was a white warlock from a village in England called Lower Quinton. He kept to himself and earned one pitiful shilling an hour as a hedge cutter for a local farmer. In addition to that, he performed simple spells for the people of Lower
Quinton: potions for gout, the occasional love spell . . . simple harmless things. But then, in 1945, the village had a bad harvest." As she spoke, more figures began to materialize behind the man. There were four of them in all: normal-looking people in cardigans and sensible shoes. Two of them had their backs to me, but I could see a short, squat woman with a rosy face and steel gray hair, and a skinny guy wearing a deep burgundy hat with earflaps.
They looked like they should be on a box of shortbread. Both also wore stark, scary expressions on their faces, and the skinny guy was holding a pitchfork.
"The people of Lower Quinton decided that Charles must have been to blame for their crops failing, and . . . well, you can see the rest."
The man with the pitchfork darted forward and grabbed the old man by the elbow, whirling him around. The old man looked terrified, and even though I knew what was coming, I couldn't turn away. Instead I watched as three people, people who looked like they should be baking pies or sipping tea, forced the old man to the ground, and the skinny man drove the pitchfork through his neck.
I thought for sure someone would scream; that someone in the room would cry out or even faint. But it seemed like everyone was as frozen as I was. Even Archer had stopped slouching in his seat. Now he was leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, hands clenched.
The sweet grandmotherly woman knelt down next to the body and picked up the scythe, and just as I was thinking that I really did regret that cake, the scene in front of us shimmered and vanished.
Mrs. Casnoff filled us in on what we hadn't seen. "After stabbing him, the villagers went on to carve symbols on Mr. Walton's body, which they hoped would ward off his 'evil' magic. After five decades of trying to help his fellow villagers, this is how Charles Walton was repaid by humans."
And suddenly the room was full of images and sounds. Just behind
Mrs. Casnoff, a family of vampires were staked by a group of men in black suits. I could actually hear the horrible wet sound, almost like a loud kiss, as the wooden stakes pierced their chests.
From the left I heard the sharp rattle of gunfire, and I instinctively ducked as a werewolf collapsed, riddled with silver bullets fired by an old woman in, of all things, a pink housecoat.
It was like being thrust into a horror movie, and it was everywhere. In the center of the room, I now saw two faeries, both with translucent gray wings, forced to their knees by three men in brown robes. As the faeries screamed, their wrists were shackled in iron that immediately seared their flesh, filling the room with a smell that was disturbingly like barbecue.
My mouth went so dry I could feel my lips sticking to my teeth. That's why I couldn't even gasp when a gallows full of hanged witches sprung up right next to me.
Instead of fading in as the other pictures had done, this one shot straight up from the ground like a jack-in-the-box. Their bodies actually jolted and started spinning on their nooses, their faces purple, tongues protruding from swollen lips. I could hear faint screaming, but I wasn't sure if it was from my fellow students or the images themselves. I wanted to cover my face, but my hands felt heavy and clammy, my heart stuck in my throat.
Something warm settled on the back of my hand. I tore my eyes away from those dangling bodies and saw that Archer had covered my hand with his. He was staring straight at the witches, and I realized they weren't just women. There were warlocks hanging too. Without really thinking, I curled my fingers around his.
And then, just when I was sure I was going to be sick, the images vanished and the dining hall lights came on.
Mrs. Casnoff stood at the front of the room, smiling serenely, but when she spoke, her voice was cold and hard. "This is why all of you are here. This is what you all risked when you recklessly used your powers in the presence of humans. And for what?" She looked around the room. "To gain acceptance? To show off?" Her eyes fell on me for a second before she continued. "We've been persecuted unto death by humans who will happily use our powers if it suits them. And what you just saw"--she swept her hand around, and I could almost see those hanged witches again, their eyes cloudy, their lips blue--"is just what normal humans have done. This is nothing compared to what is done by those who've made it their life's work to eliminate our kind."
My heart was still pounding, but my stomach was no longer threatening mutiny. Next to me, Archer had resumed slouching, so I guess he was feeling better too.
Mrs. Casnoff waved her hand again, and like before, images sprang up behind her, only this time they were still pictures instead of movies from hell. "There's a group that calls themselves the Alliance," she said, sounding almost bored as she gestured to a group of bland-looking men and women in suits. I thought her tone was awfully dismissive for a lady who worked for a council called "the Council," but I had to agree that "the Alliance" was pretty lame.
"The Alliance is made up of agents from several different government agencies from several different governments. Luckily, they stay so bogged down with paperwork that they're rarely an actual threat."
That picture faded as a trio of women with the brightest red hair I'd ever seen appeared. "And, of course, the Brannicks, an ancient family from
Ireland who have been fighting 'monsters,' as they call us, since the time of
Saint Patrick. These are the current keepers of the flame, Aislinn Brannick, and her two daughters, Finley and Isolde. They tend to be a little more dangerous, as their ancestor was Maeve Brannick, an incredibly powerful white witch who renounced her race to join with the church. They're therefore imbued with more power than your regular human."
She waved her hand again, and the women disappeared.
"And then there is our most forceful enemy," Mrs. Casnoff continued.
As she spoke, a black image formed over her head. It took me a minute to figure out that it was an eye. But not an actual eye--more like a really stylized tattoo sketched all in black, except for the iris, which was deep gold.
"L'Occhio di Dio. The Eye of God," she said. I heard the room draw in a collective breath.
"What's that?" I whispered to Archer.
He turned. That sarcastic smile was hovering around his lips again, so
I figured our earlier camaraderie was pretty much over. He confirmed it, saying, "You can't do a blocking spell, and you've never heard of L'Occhio?
Man, what kind of witch are you?"
I had an incredibly nasty retort ready that involved his mother and the
U.S. Navy, but before I could get it out, Mrs. Casnoff said, "L'Occhio di Dio is the greatest threat to any Prodigium. They are a group based in Rome, and their express purpose is wiping our kind off the face of the earth. They see themselves as holy knights, while we are the evil that must be purged. Last year this group alone was responsible for the deaths of more than one thousand Prodigium."