Rogue Magic: The Natural Order School of Magic, #2

By R.J. Vickers

His professors are convinced theirs is the only magical organization in the world. Tristan isn't so sure.

Just before Tristan returns for his second year at the Lair, he wakes to the smell of smoke. His house is on fire, and he suspects Darla Merridy is involved.

His professors think otherwise.

Accused once again of arson, Tristan is certain someone is targeting their school. For some reason, groups of mountaineers have suddenly begun leading tours through their valley—in the dead of winter. And Zeke's home mysteriously disappeared in a mudslide over the summer.

But no one listens to him.

Meanwhile, classes have begun, and this time Tristan and Amber are learning to use the Map Room themselves. While their classes grow more challenging than ever, the students are forced to reconcile themselves with the academy's dark purpose. But their work will be for nothing if the school isn't safe.

Something is lurking in the forest nearby, and it won't stay hidden forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.J. Vickers
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798201818180

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Copyright © 2016 R.J. Vickers

All rights reserved.

Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

www.rjvickers.com

Contents

Chapter 1 – Negotiations

Chapter 2 – Smoke and Flames

Chapter 3 – Auras in the Dark

Chapter 4 – Forgotten Elementals

Chapter 5 – The Mountaineer

Chapter 6 – Whitney

Chapter 7 – The Disaster Reference Manual

Chapter 8 – Ashes to Ashes

Chapter 9 – The Midnight Gathering

Chapter 10 – The Hailstorm

Chapter 11 – The Shattered Dome

Chapter 12 – A Walk in the Woods

Chapter 13 – Drakewell’s Revenge

Chapter 14 – Sabotage

Chapter 15 – The Earthquake

Chapter 16 – The Second Globe

Chapter 17 – Amber’s Crime

Chapter 18 – The Magicians’ Hideout

Chapter 19 – Master of the Globe

Chapter 20 – The Flooded Cave

Chapter 21 – Ilana

Chapter 22 – Drakewell’s Plan

This book is dedicated to Aimee. Without her, the Natural Order series would never have found its place in New Zealand.

Chapter 1

Negotiations

B

y the end of his first week of summer break, Tristan wished he had never left the Lair. By the second week, he was growing delusional from boredom. He wondered what his friends were doing—were Leila and Eli and Cailyn spending their days playing cards and lounging about, or were they learning advanced magic without him? What about Amber? Had she wandered farther than ever, enjoying the freedom of the mountains?

Before long, Tristan was so starved for magic—for the soft light of auras and the thrill of collecting raw power—that he started pacing the streets in search of any stray auras he could find. His mother’s garden, brown and neglected as it was, did not look promising, so he wandered farther afield, hoping to find a scrap of wiry forest, or at least a patch of marsh.

The next day, the police came knocking to report complaints from neighbors who thought Tristan was still meant to be in Juvie.

That ended the wandering.

And so Tristan was forced to turn his attention to matters closer to home. There were only so many books he could read before he grew cross-eyed from trying to decipher the tangled text, though his professors would have been impressed by his unprecedented studiousness. Most days, he spent hours sitting at the kitchen counter, gazing out the windows at the dreary world that no longer tolerated his presence. He could see a line of houses, each with a matching picket fence bordering its own square of grass in various stages of decay.

Though the grass in his mother’s lawn was so long dead it had mostly been overtaken by dirt, the dandelions flourished. As the summer grew hotter and drier, Tristan began surreptitiously to cultivate the dandelions, leaning out of the kitchen window to dump a glass of water over the nearest patch whenever it was wilting. Then, as soon as evening fell, he crept around the house and collected the largest of the dandelion leaves for his stash. He felt like some nocturnal creature.

Downstairs, he had borrowed a laundry rack and stuffed it into the closet, where he hung his dandelion leaves to dry. If the police ever raided his house, suspecting to find a covert marijuana-growing operation, they would be sorely disappointed. But the dandelion leaves were far more valuable. Though Tristan could not find any trace of an aura, he could still collect magic when he burned the crackly, dry leaves on his mother’s gas stove.

The first time he tried it, Tristan felt like an arsonist about to do his dirty work. Shutting the curtains and locking the front door, he disabled the two smoke detectors. Then he gathered a decent mound of dried leaves into a bowl. He had a pair of mason jars ready to collect the magic, though he did not expect to use them both. If dandelions had been a useful supply of magic, they wouldn’t have gone to the bother of searching for such rare plants to burn instead.

As the stove sparked to life and the blue-yellow flame flicked around the burner, Tristan lifted the bowl of dried leaves. He dumped them in a big heap onto the burner; three fell onto the ground, but the rest caught fire almost at once. There it was—a thrill ran through Tristan as he recognized the sheen of pure magic rising from the flames. Grabbing the first mason jar, he held it over the crackling dandelion leaves and scooped up as much of the magic vapor as he could. When the last ember sparked out, he closed the jar and clamped down the lid. Then he doubled over coughing. Clutching at his chest, he dragged back the shades and opened a window, checking to be sure no one was watching.

The dandelion smoke smelled foul.

Once he had turned off the stove and waved most of the smoke out the window, Tristan took the mason jar to the dining room and sat at the table, watching the magic swirl into a dense cloud.

By morning, the magic had congealed into a gold marble, cold and heavy in his palm. Tristan rolled the marble back and forth, delighting in the sensation.

It felt like an anchor tying him to the Lair.

When the students had flown home for the summer, Drakewell had searched them for any marbles they might be smuggling out of the Lair. Tristan had been forced to relinquish the usual five marbles he had grown accustomed to carrying in his pockets, and Zeke produced close to fifty. Until he arrived at his mother’s bleak, magic-less home, Tristan had not realized how much he would miss the comforting familiarity of the marbles. They were a backup, an exit strategy, a crutch he had come to rely on at the Lair. He would never have dared to lose his way without a marble to track the way home, or confront anyone stronger than him without a bit of magic to catch them off guard. After months of following the Intralocation spell through the bowels of the Lair, Tristan found it strange to see people using GPS apps to navigate when they drove.

* * *

Two months and a week passed in a haze of boredom. Tristan started gathering magic orbs whenever his mother was at work, until he had nearly forty piled in a pair of boots under his bed. The house was beginning to reek of smoke, so he started baking cookies and banana bread to hide the smell. Nothing turned out as well as it did when Quinsley and Leila made it, but the food was better than the tasteless canned food his mother produced night after night.

She had been working long hours for several years now; after losing her accountant’s job in the recession, she had taken a position at a discount retail chain, a demeaning job that barely paid the bills. Tristan wished he could have done something to help earn money, but no reputable business would hire someone with a criminal record.

Near the end of July, his mother arrived home early and kicked off her shoes, sinking into the couch with a moan of pleasure.

I thought we might go out tonight, she said, eyes closed. I have the evening off for once.

Won’t it be too expensive? Tristan asked. He loved the idea of escaping the house, even if it was just for a few hours.

Don’t worry about it, honey.

Tristan dug up a pair of old black pants and a button-up shirt for the occasion; both were a bit tight, which meant he had grown. He eyed his reflection in the mirror, combing his hair more carefully over his scars. He had given his hair a sloppy trim earlier that summer, leaving it nearly chin-length, and with the scars hidden, he almost looked normal again.

You look so nice, darling! his mother said when she joined Tristan at the door.

You do too. She was wearing a dress for the first time in years, and a pair of strappy heels.

They drove into town in silence. Tristan tried to think of something to say, but every idea led him back to Marcus—forbidden territory. Stopping at a fine diner Tristan had never seen before, his mother checked her makeup in the rearview mirror before stepping out.

As soon as they stepped into the restaurant, he realized what the fuss had been about.

His dad was sitting at a booth near the far wall.

He looked up as Tristan entered, trailing in his mother’s wake, and waved them over. Tristan froze in the doorway. His father was suntanned and smiling, and had lost weight since Tristan had last seen him. But Tristan could not forget the way he had thrown a bottle at Marcus just before the car crash, or how he had chased his mother from the house with his fists.

Oh, don’t be shy, his mother said, dragging Tristan forward by the shoulder. Your father and I wanted to discuss our future, and we thought you should join us.

God, tell me you’re not getting back together, Tristan muttered. His mother did not hear him.

It’s good to see you again. His dad stood and enveloped Tristan’s mother in a hug. And you, Tristan. How’ve you been?

Just great, Tristan said sarcastically. His parents both thought he was still living at a juvenile detention center. Did they really expect him to enjoy it?

They chatted about the weather and their new jobs as the waiter brought out water and menus; once they had ordered, Tristan’s mother turned to him with a gentle expression.

Your father and I have been talking, she said. We were both in a bad place when we split up, and everything that’s happened since has made it obvious we messed up in a big way. You should never have been arrested, and your brother— Her mouth tightened with sorrow. But now I have a stable job, and your father has stopped drinking.

Ever since that car crash, Tristan, he said quietly. I blame myself for that. I should have been home that night.

Tristan shook his head, blinking away mist at the corner of his eyes.

Now that you’re away, his mother continued, we’ve realized how much we had together. Besides, I think you might like coming home to a happy family every summer.

Tristan fiddled with the drinks menu, not meeting her eyes. He didn’t think he could stand coming home for another summer. I thought you hated me, he muttered. Why didn’t you come visit me at Juvie?

His mother reached for his hand. Sweetheart! The head of the detention center told us it would be painful for you to see us. She advised us strongly to stay away, at least until things had settled down. I wish I hadn’t listened to her now.

A small warmth burgeoned deep in Tristan’s stomach. Had they forgiven him? How was it possible? He knew who the head of the detention center had been—Professor Merridy, who had tried to ruin his life more than once now.

How’s the place you’re at now? his father asked bracingly. What sort of place is it, anyway?

It’s much better than Juvie, Tristan said truthfully. It’s more of a school than a detention center, though the kids are all criminals. I think they’re doing a rehabilitation experiment with kids who haven’t messed up too badly, though they won’t say if that’s true.

His mother’s eyes softened. I’m so happy for you! I visited the Cass Detention Center after you’d left, and it was just awful. I hated imagining you in a place like that, surrounded by horrible kids.

Tristan just grimaced at the drinks menu. His parents could never imagine what it was like living in a place like that, wretched with guilt, tormented by his inmates and unable to escape the memories.

At last their dinner arrived, saving Tristan from dwelling on that dark time. He ate his spaghetti with great concentration, hoping his parents would not pry more details from him.

So, Tristan, his father said eventually, setting aside his fork. Should we become a family again?

If it’s what you guys want, Tristan said. Don’t do it for me.

They finished the meal in silence, and on their way out, his father gave his mother a kiss on the cheek.

Take care of yourself, he said. You too, Tristan.

Sure, Tristan said.

On the drive home, his mother chewed on her lip, clearly thinking hard. After a while she glanced at him and said, Your father has been volunteering with the Cass Detention Center, you know. I think he feels guilty for—for everything, really. I think I should give him another chance. It’s been hard, living alone.

It’s your choice, Tristan said. He didn’t blame his dad for the car crash, not one bit, but he couldn’t so easily forget the nights he had spent out drinking, not returning home until after Tristan and Marcus had gone to bed. They would have been better off living with their mother, unemployed though she had been.

* * *

Tristan lay in bed late that night, staring at the faint sliver of moonlight just barely visible from the top of his basement window. He no longer felt that he belonged with his parents. Their lives would affect him so little that he might as well pretend they no longer existed; he could not return next summer, not unless he wanted to go insane, and his life was forever tied to the Lair.

Yet still, he had a hard time forgiving his dad. He had caused Tristan’s mother so much heartache. Before the divorce, their arguments had turned violent; Tristan and Marcus had listened to their shouting from the hallway, debating in whispers whether they should be heroic and intervene.

They had never quite gotten up the courage.

Tristan rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillow. It hurt, remembering Marcus and the way things had been before.

When he still couldn’t sleep, he fetched the notebook Leila had given him, which was open to the middle.

Dear Tristan,

You’re lucky, you know, that you have parents who still care about you. Mine wouldn’t take me back, even if I wanted to go. Even if I begged them. I was too much trouble. But I don’t want to go back; I hate them. I tried to help them, and they kicked me out. I slept in an alley one night, did you know that?

But I didn’t mean to start blabbing on about myself. I still don’t know what you did to land yourself in Juvie, but it can’t be that bad if your parents are ready to forgive you. Anyway, I bet you’ll probably be bored out of your mind—I know I would be, if I were restricted to the house—but you’re still luckier than some of us.

I hope your summer is going well; I’m sure we’ll be having a good time back here, what with all the mess in the Map Room to clean up. We’ll all be thinking of you.

Love,     

Leila

He read the letter through several times before returning it under his bed. He missed Leila and Rusty and Amber and Evvie—he wished he could write to them, to complain about how boring everything was here and how resentful he was about his dad returning to his life.

Just as he flopped onto his back once more, eyes still wide open, he smelled something odd.

At first he thought it was just the remnants of smoke from his magic-collection. Then a wave of smoke wafted into the room, and it didn’t smell at all like burning dandelion leaves.

Tristan jumped to his feet. Flicking on the light, he tiptoed to the door. For a moment he wondered why the smoke detectors hadn’t gone off. Then he remembered they were still disconnected.

Swearing under his breath, Tristan cracked open the door and peered up the stairs.

A strange orange light cavorted across the walls of the living room, accompanied by a burst of heat.

The house was burning.

Chapter 2

Smoke and Flames

T

hrowing back the door, Tristan dashed up to the living room. The entire kitchen was on fire, and the stairway to his mother’s room was beginning to smolder.

Phone first, or find his mother?

Phone.

Grabbing the phone off the counter, Tristan yelled up the stairs, MOM! FIRE! Then he dialed 911. It took a long time for anyone to answer, longer than it should have, so he ran up the stairs, staying as far away from the flames as he could. Inside his mother’s room, he slammed the door, temporarily cutting out the heat and smoke. A thin trail of smoke curled through the crack above the door, hazy in the lamplight.

His mom was still snoring, blankets wadded up around her stomach.

MOM! Tristan yanked her pillow from under her and shook her shoulders. Get up now! The house is on fire!

He spoke those last words just as the emergency operator answered.

There’s a fire? Address?

Tristan quickly recited his home address. We’re inside, he said urgently. I think we’re trapped. Come fast!

Then he dropped the phone.

MOM!

I’m up, she mumbled. With a groan, she stretched and rubbed her eyes. What’s happening?

The house is on fire!

This time the words seemed to register. She sat up quickly and threw off the blankets. We have to get out. Barefoot, she crept to the door and put a hand on the wood. It’s too hot. We can’t go that way.

Tristan ran to a window and raised the glass. A cool rush of night air flooded in; he hadn’t realized how hot it was in the bedroom until just then. He punched the corners of the screen until the panel popped free and fell to the dirt below. When he leaned out of the window, he could see flames in the kitchen, smoke billowing against the glass.

Is it safe to jump? he asked.

Don’t ask me! his mother said shrilly. I haven’t been testing it. But it’s certainly not safe to stay in here.

You first, Tristan said. He knew he could jump the distance; if he had to, he would lower his mother on a bedsheet.

Cautiously approaching the window, his mother grabbed the sill with both hands. Her hair was tangled from sleep, her eyes still bleary. Dropping her feet over the edge, she slowly lowered herself until she was hanging straight down the side of the house. Her fingers had gone white.

It’s not far, Tristan said. Just let go.

She took a breath, jaw clenched. Then she let go.

Tristan heard the soft thud as her heels hit the dirt. A second later, she straightened. I’m okay. Your turn now.

The smoke was beginning to leak into the room faster than before, as though the house was a kettle coming to the boil. Coughing, Tristan copied his mother and lowered himself out the window. The plastic sill bit into his hand, leaving a deep indent across his palm.

The flames in the kitchen window flared brighter than ever, roaring hungrily against the glass.

Tristan released his hold and dropped to the ground. His knees buckled, but he caught himself against the side of the house and remained standing. Legs aching dully, he turned and reached for his mother’s arm. Together they ran from the yard and into the street just as the flames burst through the kitchen wall and leapt to the roof. The house exhaled a cloud of rancid black smoke.

With a groaning of timbers, the dining room roof crumpled into the inferno.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Across the street, their elderly neighbors had ventured onto the front step to watch the commotion, both in bathrobes and fuzzy slippers.

They paused in front of their neighbor’s house to watch the fire. Tristan’s mother rubbed his shoulders in a comforting way, though she seemed more shaken than him.

Tristan’s first instinct was to flee. If the cops got involved, they would know him from Juvie, and a lot of uncomfortable questions would be asked. Tristan didn’t know what story his teachers had fed the detention center; anything he said would be dangerous.

But fleeing would put his mother in danger as well.

As they watched, something in the basement exploded. The walls shattered, and the entire top half of the house sagged into the flames.

The magic Tristan had spent months collecting was gone.

Before he had time to contemplate it further, the first fire truck arrived on the scene. As men spilled from the truck, one paused to ask, Everyone out of the house?

Tristan’s mother nodded. It’s just us. She was shivering, dressed only in a tank top and shorts. She looked terribly fragile.

While the firefighters rigged up their hose and advanced on the house, a pair of police cars arrived. One parked behind the fire engine, surveying the scene, and the other pulled up beside Tristan and his mother.

C’mon, the driver said, rolling down his window. We’ll get you warmed up, eh?

Tristan’s mother slid gratefully into the back of the car, and after a moment, Tristan followed.

The cop chatted reassuringly with Tristan’s mother as they drove, while Tristan clamped his hands on the seat and tried not to let the memories consume him.

On the night of the car crash, he had lost consciousness, roused by the wail of an approaching siren. It was the police who had cut him from his seat. It was the police who had said, He’s dead.

The voices had floated to Tristan as though in a dream, flickering lights swimming above him, and he had seen his brother’s sloppy black hair splayed over the seat, his face pale and empty.

Then Tristan had been hauled off for questioning. Crushed beneath the weight of guilt and self-hatred, he had almost lost the will to live. His memories from that time were all tinged with black. It was only when the reality of a life in prison caught up to him that he attempted to explain the earthquake, and how he had tried to get himself and Marcus to safety.

That was when they started questioning his sanity.

When Tristan had first caught sight of himself in a mirror, had seen the still-bloody gashes gutting the left side of his face, he had nearly disgorged the entire contents of his stomach into the sink. Then he had wept for Marcus, for the brother he had killed, the innocent life he had ended. Once the nausea passed, he had stared at himself until he was accustomed to the sight.

His was the face of a murderer.

The police car pulled up outside the station, and his mother’s hand on his shoulder tore Tristan away from his disturbed memories. Feeling weak, he raked his hair over the scars and followed his mother up the steps.

A sleepy-looking man reading the newspaper greeted them at the reception, and the cop who had given them a ride explained the situation in a low voice. He found coffee and blankets for Tristan and his mother, who sank into plastic seats by the far wall.

His heart racing from caffeine and fear, Tristan began for the first time to wonder what had started the fire.

Was it random chance? Had an electrical wire frayed and sparked a flame, or had his mother, sitting up late to contemplate what her ex-husband had proposed, made a cup of tea and forgotten to turn off the stove?

But something told him it was not a coincidence.

Maybe someone back at the Lair had decided to have a bit of fun. Damian was there, after all—could he have sneaked into the Map Room and started the fire while the professors were asleep?

Or it could be Merridy. Perhaps she had not given up so easily; perhaps she continued from afar her mission to eliminate the Lair and all magic-workers.

But she had no globe to work from. To start a fire here, in North Dakota, she would have to be lurking somewhere nearby.

At last the cop at the station desk approached Tristan and his mother and said gently, We have beds here, if you would like to get some sleep. We’ll try to sort you out in the morning. Do you have any relations who might take you in?

His mother nodded. I’ll call Patrick in the morning.

So she would move in with Tristan’s father again, just like that.

When they were shown to a room at the back of the station—not a cell, though it was outfitted as sparsely as one—his mother said quietly, Do you think they’ll check your record when they start investigating the fire?

Tristan nodded, hunching forward. "They won’t let me out of this easily. I’m pretty sure it was a nightmare sending me off to