Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

"To achieve grandeur, there must be sacrifice. No new knowledge comes without a price, and those who set out on the course of clarity must be willing to pay it. For none is too high, too costly, when faced with the wonders of a breakthrough, an unimaginable discovery. Nothing is sacred when placed before science and its advancements, nothing is sacrosanct before the wonders of magic."

Darren J. Whitford in Principles of Nonpareil Alchemy, ed. Cours St. Cyr, 1993

May 27th 1999

Collège de St. Cyr,

Outer grounds

Moon in Scorpio - Waxing Gibbous

Mist rises from the ground, despite the mild temperatures. A layer of frost clings to the vibrant, green blades of freshly mown grass, to the bush leaves, the petals, the twigs. It sticks to the windowpanes and the stonewall, the outside furniture. Like a sprinkling of jewels, a dusting of icing sugar. A coat of marvel. A harbinger of dark things to come, even though the sun's just rising above the treetops and the high, gabbled roofs of the Collège de St. Cyr.

The rooftops; where a silent, solitary figure can now be seen.

The girl is young, perhaps not even twenty. Her glazed eyes are set on the horizon, her bare feet balanced on one of the small turrets. She stretches her arms, the folds of her white nightgown billowing around her legs, the wind ruffling her hair. She has painstakingly climbed all the way up, from the balconied rooftops to the turrets, the chimneys. As if she longs to reach for the stars, touch the sky. As if she longs to become part of the very firmament. A lone, lost, fallen star.

On the grounds, down below her, life slowly begins to stir. Students and teachers alike are waking up to a new day. It's Thursday, there are classes to teach, lectures to attend, school papers to grade, essays to finish. Life is still taking place at St. Cyr, home of the bright young things who excelled on their previous academic path. This is where they come to further their knowledge, their studies. All the Nonpareil whose grades were good enough to grant them entrance at one of the courses in this particular university, hidden from the world of Regulars behind a sheen of illusion. A sheen that has the place posing as a vineyard in an old château, somewhere in the French countryside.

Oh, if the normals only knew. If they had any idea what hides amongst the fabric of their well-constructed world. The hidden gems, the magical universe where Nonpareils are forced to exist and secret away their talents. And this is where the best, the most talented, come. Hand-picked from rows and rows of Shifters and Sanguinaires, to be a part of the elite. To be one of the few who will later rule and command their secluded, secretive world. To be one of those who cast the spells that keep them all safe and hidden amidst the Regulars. Who'd probably hunt them down. For their differences; and for their powers, of course.

But the normals don't know, and they don't see the flocks of students on the grounds of the old château. St. Cyr may look like a thriving wine-production business from the outside, but this is one of the foremost schools in the Nonpareil universe. And every single Shifter and Sanguinaire works their butts off in the hopes of attending it.

Like the young man jogging down there, far below the girl in the turrets.

Ezra King, who excelled his admittance exams, now on his third year at St. Cyr, he's already a rising star. Invited to join the selective group led by Professor Whitford as early as his second semester at the Collège, Ezra's brains are raved about by all his teachers. A bright future awaits him, doing research into magic, surely. An academic future in the footsteps of his mentor, the highly respected teacher of Advanced Alchemical Studies. Who'd probably wish Ezra spent more time working on his curricula than jogging in the woods and the Collège's grounds. But the boy is keen on his health and has far too much energy boiling inside him. The only way to let out steam is by running, which he often does, bright and early. As on this fine May morning.

As he approaches the wing of the massive building - very much an old château, yes, with chamber after chamber after chamber, all of them transformed into classrooms and accommodations for the students and the faculty - his attention is caught by the flicker of white playing on the corner of his eyesight. Raising his head, he sees the girl, and his mouth drops open in awe. Fear runs through his spine, a tingle that rushes to the tips of his fingers, as if an electric current travels along his skin. The air hums and then goes silent, as Ezra waits for the spectacle to unfold, wondering what sort of theatre is at play, here. He recognises the girl, she's a four-year student, one of the A.A.S.'s picked by Professor Whitford. A Shifter, and rather good at harnessing water energy. Her blood is spicy, rich, filled with the flavours of her South American heritage. Mayara Cortez, one of Professor Whitford's favourites.

What is she doing up there, in her nightie, at this hour? Ezra gazes at her, and fails to see the figure leaning from a corner window, the third-floor window on the stairway leading up to the roofs. If he'd caught sight of her, he'd know this, too, is one of Professor Whitford's rising stars. Sabine Weber, a third-year as he. He knows her well, better than Mayara, for they have plenty of other classes together. She leans from the window, perilously; long dark hair flowing, eyes streaming with tears. But Ezra's too intent on the girl on the roof, only has eyes for her. Mayara steps closer to the edge, and he catches his breath, mouth snapping shut as he gasps. She fumbles, one foot losing its hold, regains her balance in the space of a heartbeat, a heartbeat Ezra fails to deliver.

And then she dives.

From the gabbles she plummets, soaring like a comet through the sky, white nightgown riding up her legs, showcasing the powder blue knickers and bruised thighs, the cuts and scrapes along her legs. The caked blood, where a blade cut lines into the flesh of her underbelly. She dives, and is made more beautiful by the abandonment in which her body flies through air, momentarily rendering Ezra prisoner to the sight. He's unable to think, to act, to discern the urgency of what's going on. He can't make sense of it.

Until a thud echoes in his ears, the sound of a body hitting the ground; but it can't be Mayara, for she's still falling. Diverting his attention from the plummeting girl, Ezra's eyes fall upon the sprawled figure of Sabine Weber, whose body just crashed to the ground. Blood pools around her head, a dark stain to match her dark hair, running around her like water. He's too far to see if she's still alive, and too shocked to move. Just when Ezra is about to force himself into action, another thud fills his ears, and this time he knows it's Mayara. He doesn't have to look up to see if she's still falling; he knows she's reached her destination. With only seconds apart, the two girls have plunged to their deaths, the terrible, terrible sound echoing in his ears. It'll stay there forever, and hunt him through life.

His legs give in. Ezra falls to the gravelled ground on his knees, scraping them. Pain rides up his thighs to his groin, but he doesn't register it, shock prevents him. One trembling, sweaty hand slides up to cover his mouth, where a screech is trapped, a yell he knows will only come out at night. All is silent, now, and it would be ungraceful to break the silence. It would be ungraceful to disturb the girls in their deaths.

The stillness lasts less than a minute. Shouts arise, screams echo, the sound of footsteps breaks out around him, and a pair of brawny hands alight on Ezra's shoulders. Wide-eyed, he turns to face whoever joined him, latches onto the equally shocked mien of his best friend. Tom Berry, shaking as if he was cold. He's wearing sweats but his feet are bare, hair tousled and wet, a pair of plastic pool slippers in one hand. Must have been swimming, then, he's come from the indoor pool just in time to watch the show. And what a show it was.

"Shit," Tom whispers, and Ezra tries to stand up. "What the fuck happened?"

"She... they..." He can't speak, his brain still trying to make sense of what it was he saw.

"Do you think it's because of what happened?"

Now a thought jogs his mind; a foggy memory, is it? Something he knows he should remember but can't quite grasp. What happened. And what, pray, did happen? When? What is Tom talking about?

"Oh, man, fuck, this is serious. This could be bad. What if it all comes out? What are we going to do? What's he planning? What if more of them decide to off themselves like these two?"

His friend's thick American accent has never grated on Ezra's nerves, but now it does. It does, and all he wants is to shout at Tom to cork it, stop talking, stop speaking nonsense. Before he can do anything, Professor Whitford shows up with Miss Lake, the school's counsellor. They usher the two boys back to the conservatory that houses the indoor pool, where steaming mugs of tea already await them, alongside the rest of the restricted group of students that form Professor Whitford's rising stars. Davide Appoloni is there, hands tightly curled around Brian Templeton's fingers, Thierry Favreau to their right. Alone, slightly apart from the rest of the group, Noelle Paillard stares into the still waters, her short blond hair standing on end, her dark brown eyes massive in a pinched, pale face. Ezra's heart catapults at the sight of her, it has been doing so for the past year.

Noelle is a Year Four student, who never gives him the time of day outside this work group. She usually consorts with her fourth year colleagues and pays little to no attention to the likes of Ezra King. But his heart has drummed a beat for her since he first ran into the girl outside Cygnus Hall, and he's carried a torch for her from that day. He wants to run to her side, comfort her and have her comfort him, but knows better. She wasn't friends with either of the dead girls. Mayara and Sabine weren't part of Noelle's crowd. The only thing they had in common were their studies in Alchemy and Chaos Magic, under the tutelage of Professor Whitford. Other than that, they lead separate lives. But they're still part of this study group, this research team, and they're all shocked by what those two girls did. For no apparent reason.

With his eyes still glued to Noelle's back, Ezra allows Miss Lake to lead him to a chair, accepts the mug of tea from Darren Whitford's hands.

"Go on, drink this," the man says, not without tenderness. "It's hot and strong, will do you good." Ezra silently obeys.

"I should go see to the other students," Miss Lake whispers, and Professor Whitford dismisses her with a careless nod of his head.

After she leaves, he pulls up a chair and strides it, eyeing his group of talented students.

"What are we to do?" Tom asks. He hasn't touched his tea.

Ezra, on the other hand, has drained his, and wants nothing more than a refill. His head is misting, muscles relaxing, his body lightweight and numb. Pain, either physical or emotional, no longer registers; and somewhere in his now addled brain, he realises the tea was laced with Essens Lunaire, the white poppy milk they distil monthly. Waning for sleep, Waxing for medicine, Full for clairvoyance, New for a mind-numbing drug. Today is Waxing Gibbous, but what was dropped in his tea is the fruits of a New Moon distil. He wonders if the others were given the same milk in their beverage, realises from Davide, Brian and Thierry's eyes that yes, they have all been drugged. Surely to ease the pain.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, but instead of respite, only hell comes after him. The girl dropping from the gabbles, her chin-length curly hair like coiled snakes. The thud, while she was still falling, and the sight of the other one, blood pooling round her head. This is all he sees. This is all that comes at him. This is all there is. He'll never be free of this, he'll never be sane again.

A scream forces its way out of Ezra's lips, a wail so gruff and thick he doesn't recognise himself in it. He lets it grow, take over, allows himself to give in to this beast-like comfort of screeching his lungs out. Until his throat is raw and burning, aching from the strain. Until his voice is hoarse from shouting. All eyes fall upon him, Tom's terrified, the others numb and listless. Except for Noelle. Her eyes are like embers burning into his soul, and the flicker of a smile shades her lips. She breaks out in giggles, softly at first, soon transformed into hysterical laughter. She laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until tears stream down her cheeks. Ezra stops screaming, stands up, kicks the chair he sat upon.

"Shut up," he shouts, coming for her, fists curled so tightly his knuckles turn white. "Shut up," he insists.

Professor Whitford tries to hold him back, he rolls him off easily, coming to stand before Noelle, who cowers into herself. No longer laughing, no longer hysterical, now fully terrified of Ezra and the rage tinting his face.

"Noe," Professor Whitford cajoles, "drink your tea."

She stands to her full height, which isn't much, and faces Ezra. There's hatred and disgust in her eyes, which he'd never before seen. Had he failed to notice it? Does this girl hate him? When he is so in love with her? What did he ever do to her she'd loathe him like this? It makes no sense. But it cuts him up, like slim blades dancing over the surface of his skin, bleeding him dry, sucking his hopes and dreams.

With a swift brush of her hand, Noelle topples the mug, tea spilling across the table, dripping to the floor.

"No," she says, still facing Ezra. "You band of hypocrites. You monsters. It's your fault, all this, and you sit around drinking laced tea? In the hopes it washes away your guilt? No. I'll have no part in this."

With a shove of her hand, she pushes Ezra aside and storms out of the conservatory, before Professor Whitford can stop her. The man gazes around in a sort of panic, seems to assure himself it's safe to leave, runs after her.

Noe.

He called her Noe.

Not Noelle, Noe.

Ezra's heart stumbles, falls into itself, drops one, two, three sizes.

No wonder she didn't care for him. There was no space left in her heart.