Out of Salem: Chapters 4–6

Tommy had braided two twigs of rosemary and a length of black ribbon into a plait on the top of his head.

The Eastern Warlock Union made inroads toward workers’ rights in the 1880s in the wake of the Great Fire of Baltimore.

Ginger was in the very middle of the middle row, discreetly coloring a detailed pattern of stained glass on the cover of her notebook, her long straight red hair falling elegantly to one side.

Mr. Holmes either did not notice her or chose not to reprimand her.

It’s the breakdown of law and order, I swear. We’ll be overrun. Anarchists burning things down and opening the way for the monsters.

They smelled slightly acrid as they approached the sinks.

They looked apathetically at the mirror, and for an instant Aysel had a horrifying impression of a hollow, unmoving body, a corpse propped up.

“It’s a good look,” Aysel said. “I want to dress like that—I don’t know what you’d call that style. It’s not goth, just minimalist maybe. Goth is overdone.”

Aysel saw again how much Z resembled a corpse but tried not to let it faze her.

“Do you want to come to my house?” Aysel asked suddenly. She heard her voice shake.
“Why?”
Aysel floundered. “Well, just because..."

The source described an underground operation that had continued for over a decade, through which potentially thousands of unregistered werewolves were rendered nonmagical.

A few dogs barked at them as they ambled along in the shadows.

Z released the clump of hair and watched it float toward the drain. They sat down, clutching at themselves as if their whole body might disappear, just dissolve and diffuse down the drain, so many particles of carbon.

“Nothing really awful,” Aysel said elusively.

It was close to the center of town, but in one of the older, more dilapidated neighborhoods of tiny bungalows.

“Three of my brothers work in computers, one is a glassblower, one is figuring himself out and working in a pet store, and one has been directing a reality television show about narcissistic personality disorder for six years running.”

“Originally it was going to be named after a US senator from Oregon, but once the senator was investigated for affiliation with dissident magical groups, the committee in charge decided to call it the Wells Library instead. After the Boeing guy,” he said.

The only other people in the library early on a Saturday were students who looked harried and sleep-deprived and carried with them large stacks of books or papers.

Mr. Weber pressed one hand lightly to Z’s forehead and muttered a rapid-fire incantation.

All at once, a bolt of brilliant blue emanated from their palm and an acrid chemical smell surrounded Z.

The subject listings stood out on their small white placards, written haphazardly in a way that contrasted with the orderly university shelves outside the black room.

A woman’s head peered around the corner, wearing a surgical mask and glasses that had a slight tint. She was otherwise dressed with exacting plainness, in a brown sweater and corduroys.

Z frantically opened the remaining drawers in the cabinet. They were empty—folders divested of contents, and spaces where the books should have been.

A story appeared in the Sunday paper. Local Man Apprehended; Materials on Necromancy Found Missing from Willamette, the headline read.

His voice was reedy and high.

She braced herself against the cold and tripped down into the dark garden with the big colander and a pair of scissors.

They ate dinner on the couch, Aysel trying not to drip onto the red fabric upholstery.

“You care about Tommy Wodewose?” Bill asked incredulously.

Mr. Bentwood looked seriously down at Aysel, his skinny face hollow and dour.

“I still have to call your mother,” Mr. Bentwood said. He smiled primly and shuffled the papers on his desk.

“Okay,” Mr. Bentwood said, trying to sound accommodating.

She wasn’t sure what she thought. Everything was so convoluted.

Aysel froze in the doorway and almost turned around again, but made herself take the few steps to her desk. She sat down and stared resolutely at Z.

Azra had made Aysel promise that she would never tell anyone about her lycanthropy.

They lay in reverent silence, a tribute to the blue spots.

It does of course make for a very complicated bureaucratic situation.

She looked out the window instead, at the dark cold yard where several cats still circled, waiting until the last possible second to show humility and ask to be let in.

Sometimes it seemed like school didn’t teach students magic so much as slow them down and mire them in busywork so they would never move on to the good stuff.

“They say they found evidence that Archie Pagan treated werewolves after all,” Mrs. Dunnigan commented nonchalantly.

“It was covert, I suppose,” Mrs. Dunnigan said.