Irina Syromyatnikova - My Path to Magic

Clicking the “whistle” in my pocket (do not sleep, shitheads, do not sleep!), I burst into the kitchen door with a businesslike air, ignoring the blank stares and surprised faces; my eyes were fixed on the tables, and I did find on one of them the remains of the sliced ​​green.

“Where is the rest?” I asked stupidly, thinking that I could still use some of the grass, perhaps.

The chef began to breathe air into his chest to make a perturbed retort, but my stupor was over; I pulled out my temporary certificate and jabbed it in his face. “The combat operation of NZAMIPS. This herb is poisonous. Where did you put it?”

Frightened eyes shifted toward a large soup pot.

I tossed a chromatic curse in the pot, which stained the contents with a threatening scarlet color (harmless, but impressive).

“Who brought this stuff here? Name!”

They did not know, could not recall, and became horrified with it. It was a typical reaction to the masking spell.

“All kitchen supplies (all, got it?) are arrested until the experts’ arrival. I hope no one tasted it? It is deadly poisonous.”

A portly cook got very pale and gripped her chest.

“Wash out your stomach, quickly! And pray that the poison hasn’t been inside long enough to absorb into the blood.”

I waited until all the cooks left the kitchen and tied the door handles for safety with a cord I had found right there.

“What is happening here?”

It was the directrix. I gave her the damned leaf; she frowned, trying to identify it. Mrs. Hemul seemed not to know much about poisons.

“It is Opal Buttercup. Someone brought it in the kitchen and made sure that the plant got into the soup.”

She still did not understand.

“Did you hear about the potion of Red King? Opal Buttercup, the main component, is harmless, but after the heat treatment it is transformed into a lethal poison—the antidote to which does not exist.”

By the way, the growing of that plant without a license was punishable by three years in prison.

Mrs. Hemul became very pale. “Who could have done…”

“I do not know, but I’ve got one person in mind, who has some explaining to do. Come on!”

The rapid response team was still responding. I suspected that the “cleaners” went to Clarence to get his car (the one that Alfred and I had dismantled) and now they were giving him a “concert”. Poor people of Mihandrov!

“But who could…” Mrs. Hemul was stuck.

The white cannot tolerate stress well, and they take a long time to respond to threats. They try to understand the reasons, but the dark do not need reasoning; they just get hit in the face and move on.

“There is only one employee at the school who has worked here for over ten years. I’m not saying he’s guilty; I mean he should give us an account of his today’s activities.”

Some understanding glimmered in the eyes of the headmistress.

Five minutes later we stood before the assistant principal’s office. I knocked, pulled the handle—it was locked.

“Perhaps he is gone,” Mrs. Hemul suggested.

I looked through the keyhole—the key was inserted from the inside! Indeed he left!

“Step aside!” I was not going to ask permission.

My kick broke off the lock along with part of the doorpost (I was not that strong, it was just a good curse), and we entered. Quite a large room: two tables, bookcases, chairs and a sofa, comfortable and modest, unlike our dean’s office or Satal’s. A completely dead Mr. Fox (face up) and Petros (in an unknown condition—face planted) lay on the worn carpet in the center of the room. I didn’t think that my talk with Fox would turn out like that.

“Oh my lord!” Mrs. Hemul rushed to the child first. “How do you feel, my dear?”

The kid was breathing—that was a good sign. While she lamented, professionally checking his pulse and pupils, I feverishly looked around the room for the cause of death. No bloody knife, no empty glasses, no smoking censers could be seen, but there was surely something that killed the big guy and nearly killed the boy! Some black fragments crunched under my foot—that was my ward-off amulet. The realization dawned on me like lightning.

“It’s magic! Mr. Fox has a spell on him. Find out which ritual he had used!”

Mrs. Hemul indignantly shook her head. “Fox was a white mage!”

“Was” was the appropriate word choice.

“I do not care who he was! Look for it, or let me do it.”

“You are mistaken,” she murmured through her tears, but the brooch on her jacket began to glow, “you are deeply mistaken. You just cannot imagine how wrong your idea of ​​white magic is…”

Sergeant Claymore (no, he didn’t break in - it would be unprofessional) cautiously peered through the door. Ensuring that there was no need to fight anyone right now, he came in, forcing me to make room for him. He nodded to Fox: “Your work?”

“No, he did it himself. Have you searched the kitchen?”

He chuckled. “It’s not just a kitchen, it’s a necromancer’s dream—one could murder a whole army. We’ll have to throw out all the contents and re-floor the room. As I see, the suspect kicked the bucket?”

“To hell with him!” I did not care that we had spoiled Artrom’s crime statistics.

“This face looks familiar,” the “cleaner” said thoughtfully, “though not from that angle.”

Surely Fox developed his skills somewhere. I shrugged and attempted to leave the room.

“I’ll be waiting for you at the office at nineteen hundred,” the sergeant said to my back.

I nodded silently and went off to look for Lyuchik.

The square in front of the main entrance was crowded with frightened white kids. The teachers tried to calm the pupils, the staff and cooks were whispering—huddling at the fountain—and Gorchik grimly guarded them all. Lyuchik sat next to him on a bench with a very serious look, and I could see that he was there for a reason.

On seeing me, people became agitated.

“Stay still!” Gorchik barked.

“He says please to stay where you are, for the sake of your safety,” my brother perked up.

Ah, he had latched onto the “cleaner” as an interpreter! Gorchik looked at me with grim doom; I smiled back without any sympathy.

I had some business to Lyuchik.

“Hey, they aren’t serving lunch today. Let’s go find something to eat in town?”

“Can we take Petros?”

At that moment, I realized that the kids should not know the details. “He will be fine; Mrs. Hemul is with him now.”

The kids put their necks out to listen to our talk; someone could not resist saying, “What happened? What’s going on?”

I cleared my throat diplomatically. “I cannot violate the confidentiality of the investigation. You’d better direct your questions to Sergeant Claymore; he is the boss. I am sure he wouldn’t mind holding a press conference.” I knew that one mention of the press conference would stall his brains. “I can only say that the danger is over, but the school is poised for change.”

“We’ve been experiencing an entire year of ‘changes’, ” one of the teachers muttered.

“You are mistaken; nothing has changed since the commission’s work. But there will be changes now, and I’m sure, for the better.”

That was it. If they had any brains, they would understand the hint, and if not, it would be better for them to keep the state of blissful ignorance.

Lyuchik didn’t go with me; he decided to stay with the white to support them morally. I made sure the “cleaners” understood the simple idea that Lyuchik was my brother and then portrayed myself as a battle-worn warrior and went off. I could no longer look at the white and the “cleaners” together! I came back to the garage and worked on the famous Mihandrov car until evening. I enjoyed the work as a cat delights in valerian, and I was late for a meeting with Claymore by half an hour.