Page 9 of Strange Familiars
In fine Bridie form, she responds by moaning even louder. I glower at the wall before powering up my strap, then turning the volume up high. Maybe it’ll drown out the noise, at least partially.
The familiar buzz of the nightly news spills into the dank air of my dorm, and I push up my sleeves again, which have annoyingly fallen down.
“—tonight’s charity gala, which was being held by Magecorp CFO Darghan Briggs to raise funds for the Society of Magical Veterans—”
My ears prick up at the mention of Harrisford’s dad, and I stare down at the screen. A charity gala? Was that where Harrisford was headed tonight?
The news anchor is wearing a salmon pink jacket and a tiny downturned frown. “The entire museum has been cordoned off in an attempt to identify the source of the explosion, though eyewitnesses say it seemed to originate from multiple locations at once.”
A face I recognize, TV presenter Samuel Sloane, flashes onto the screen. He’s wearing a large furry sort of hat that has been scorched beyond recognition. “It was my hat at first,” he rants, pointing at the blackened lump atop his head. “It seemed to start here, and then, just…boom!”
The camera cuts to a scene outside the Natural History Museum, which has been barricaded behind yellow tape and is crawling with journalists and police. I sit forward in my chair, my heart thumping. A field reporter stands before the camera, holding a large gray magephone emblazoned with the news station’s logo. “While a number of suspects, including several high-level members of the Magical LiberationOrganization, have been brought in for questioning,” the reporter says, “no group has yet come forward to claim responsibility for this act of terror, which so far has resulted in zero casualties.”
I blow out a breath. Zero casualties. That’s good. Just some random explosion that affected a bunch of rich people who don’t concern me in the slightest.
Not that I care what happens to Harrisford.
Chewing my lip, I frown at my strap screen. The fact the authorities are questioning the Magical Liberation Organization is interesting. The MLO, an extremist group that actively works against the Ministry, are activists who want to dismantle the tight regulations on magic; their mission statement is that everyone should have equal access to it.
While they haven’t been too active in recent years, in the past they’ve been known for agitating, for disrupting, sometimes even for violence. Years ago, the Ministry officially labeled them a terrorist organization.
I shake my head. I have no idea why the MLO would try to blow up a charity gala, but right now I need to focus on my own problems. Turning my attention back to my rationing spell, I prepare to make the first cut with the scalpel. Slowly, I unwrap the blade, then shimmy my jeans down past my thighs.
Sometimes I do my forearms, but my legs are easier to hide—so most of the cuts I make are there, on top of the already present, unsightly mess of scars.
I’d started doing this for practical reasons, but after a while it became routine. A sort of anchor to my anxiety. Often, the pain helps me to stop thinking—even if only for a few moments—about the stress of vet school. About my family and how much I miss them. About how they’re on the brink of losing the restaurant they’ve owned for as long as I can remember.
Or about how, since they’ve sunk all their money into the business and put none toward a pension, they’ll end up destitute…unless I can win.
Each year, whoever comes first at Seamere is automatically offered a lucrative graduate role at the Ministry’s Office of Magical Animals. To be honest, if I could choose anything, I’d probably prefer an internal medicine internship, but the low pay wouldn’t be enough. Whereas with the Ministry job, I’d be able to help haul my parents back from impending bankruptcy.
It’s why I want to beat Harrisford. Scratch that, it’s why Ineedto beat Harrisford. The thought steels my resolve. We’re weeks away from exams; if I want to win, there are no two ways about it: Ineedmore magic. I inhale. Exhale. Then continue.
The news I leave running in the background. I’m only half listening, and there isn’t much more information—just some interviews of patrons who’d been at the gala. But neither Harrisford’s father nor Harrisford himself shows up on-screen.
Again, I’m interrupted, because there are the sounds of footsteps running down the hall outside. A scream. Then—a bang. Another bang. And a shout. Percy streaks out from under the bed and leaps into my lap, trembling.
What the hell is going on? I need to complete this ritual without being continuously interrupted. Clenching my teeth so hard my masseter muscles ache, I try to ignore the noises. But when the footsteps and shouts and bangs and screams don’t stop, I fling the scalpel down, tug up my jeans, scoop Percy up with one arm, and cautiously crack open the door.
The corridor is dark. The fluorescent magelights have gone out. There are more distant shouts and thumps and something that sounds like…an explosion?
“Gwen! Gwen!” Pen Ferguson rushes up, their generous curvesswathed in a purple dressing gown, their hair in rollers, their feet shod in fuzzy slippers. “You’d better come—”
I’m about to ask why when Pen cuts me off. “The animals are going wild,” they say, panting. “There’s been an explosion.”
I tear after Pen, following them to Heywood Hall’s enormous common room. We arrive to find a scene of total pandemonium. Students are crammed in there, many of them already in nightwear. It’s where most of them hang out before bed, chatting and socializing and playing games over their straps. Not me, though. I’m normally shut up in my room, studying.
Those who had brought their familiars into the common room are struggling to keep ahold of their pets. There’s Danny Wong, already out of Bridie’s room, wrestling with his carpet python, Artemis. Isla Ennis is grappling with her flapping, squawking eclectus parrot, and Conall Peters is there too, pleading with his guinea pig, Gary, who is glowing like a firework and throwing off sparks. Outside, Heloise Chapman is being dragged along by her unicorn, Lightning. Lightning is usually stabled overnight, but somehow he’s managed to burst out of his pen and is bolting across a paddock. Even though it’s nighttime I can see that Heloise’s skin is flushed, her braids flying, her eyes wide with panic.
What is going on? I take in the scene, my mouth falling open. First the museum explosion, and now this? What on earth is actually happening?
I startle when I hear the voice echoing through my head.
This is what happens, the voice says, sounding weary and jaded and thoroughly bored,when there is simply too much magic.
5
Gwendolynne
