Lakeshore

Chapter 1
Introduction

Chapter Description: Introduces our two main characters, and sets the stage.

Lakeshore

1

“Welcome to the real Scholomance!”

-- Emilie “Em” Tate

By late summer of 2014 the “Tricksters” had become a factor to be reckoned with in the social, intellectual and political life of campus life at Scholomance University. They were quoted almost daily in the press, and no half-baked party made the grade unless there were strong rumors -- circulated by the host -- that the Tricksters would also attend. I was vaguely afflicted by this syndrome, since my name was becoming associated with them and there was a feeling in the air that I was able to contact them with the snap of my fingers. This was never true, though I did what I could to become a conduit for the strange drugs and services they were rumored to offer. At the same time I loathed the responsibility for their services. Their pre-eminence on so many guest lists made it inevitable that a certain amount of excitement and mirth would be universal amongst students, despite the fact that not a single member would usually attend. I recall one party at which I was badgered by freshmen and seniors alike because the Angels didn’t show up. Most of the guests were “respectable” Scholomance socialites, whose idea of drug dealers was not consistent with reality. I told the single Trickster I knew about the party and gave her the address, a quiet residential street in the near the lake, but I hoped they wouldn’t come. The setting was guaranteed trouble: heaping tubs of beer, wild music and several dozen young girls looking for excitement while their boyfriends wanted to talk about “trying an X” and “looking for the ‘Dark Room’”. Even a single mention of Tricksters would have quickly reduced the scene to an intolerable common denominator: Who’s getting fucked up?

It was the usual thing all over again, but with a different breed of voyeur: this time it was Scholomance’s own brand of college fuck ups, who adopted the Tricksters just as eagerly as any crowd of tourists at a sketchy ‘Chinese’ tea house. They were very much the rage. They were mysterious, crazy, and titillating. . . unlike the fraternities one would normally find at colleges, who were small and clean on every level of comparison. As the Kappa Sigma’s drifted out, they created a vacuum that sucked the Tricksters in. And right behind the shady dealers came my best friend Travis saying, “They’re the last real partiers we have, man.” Travis was so interested in the tricksters that he began producing art to immortalize their existence -- canvas pantings of party scenes, and so-called “Trickster Pendants” which he sold on the teen-age market in the towns across the lake.

The only problem with the Tricksters’ new image was that they themselves didn’t understand it. It puzzled them to be treated as near Gods by people with who, when they took their figurative masks off tormented them as the geeks and nerds of the school. Yet they were gaining access to a whole reservoir of women, booze, drugs and new action -- which they were eager to get their hands on, and symbolism be damned. But they could never get the hang of the role they were expected to play, and insisted on improvising the parts. This cursed them wildly when taking calls from clients, which made them nervous. . . and after a brief whirl on the hipster party circuit, all but a few decided it was both more convenient and easier, in the long run, to stick to just dealing and selling while focusing on their education.

The only really successful connection I made with them was with Emilie Tate, a young, soon-to-be chemist living in the apartments near the lake, about about a 20 minute walk south of school. During high school, Emilie’s father was arrested countless times for drug smuggling and domestic abuse, finally forced to flee the country to avoid a long prison term. Her association with the group was not to reconcile her troubled past or anything complicated like that; It was to capitalize on the skills she had learned from watching her father do business for years in their own home. Generally she aligned with the forces of law and decency, but he pursued drug money nevertheless, and with overweening zeal.

I met Em (We had nicknames for each-other, she called me Ry) one afternoon in August during the entrance ceremony, the educational program mainly for upperclassman to scout out fresh meat. We had been assigned seats in the auditorium, but I was forced switch places with a football player whose girlfriend was seated next to me. Em seemed daily amused by my off-color comments at the headmasters speech, and I spent the rest of the afternoon with her. After several hours of talking about our plans for the future, and eating and the symbolic Instagram follows, Em and I became each other’s first friends at Scholomance. In the three years that followed, she continued to pursue her passion for chemistry, eventually getting pegged by the Tricksters (who were mostly chemistry majors anyway) while I focused on not much of anything but trying to determine whether this girl I spent all my time with would ever invite me back to her apartment or let me bring her to mine.

As it happened, I had received a text from her just last night with an address and a time; this was duly noted in the forefront of my mind, which generally couldn’t even retain my GPA or the day of the week: REMEMBER THIS PLACE AND TIME BECAUSE YOU’RE FINALLY GETTING LAID. The single bit of memory was all I could think of. Needless to say, it had a bad effect on the neighbors (such as the memory that rent was due in my building). When I got there, in the later half of the afternoon, none of the usual joggers or moms were moving about in front of Em’s property. A single car (Hers!) was parked in the lot; nineteen others numbered spaces were visibly empty. The pot was boiling nicely.

I had brought a bottle of wine and condoms along, and hoped to God I wasn’t making any dangerous assumptions. Several miles down the road I had stopped at the store for my purchases, and the clerk had raised an eyebrow at the condoms, then quickly stifled laughter at the sight of the the wine. The store was completely empty except for the clerk, but this didn’t even register with me.

“You have a good afternoon,” he had said, although I swear I heard him mumble “Stupid kid” as I walked through the door, blushing crimson.

By then it was almost the appointed time, and I made my way to Em’s building and up the steps, waiting at her door and ringing the bell only when it was approximately 10 o’clock. Her door was decorated with strange decorations scattered on the wood, with a soft mat at the ground covered with phrases in what appeared to be latin. It was in this position, head down, that Emilie opened the door and blinked a few times, her hazel eyes scanning me and the bottle in my hand.

She tilted her head to the side. “What are you staring at?’

I looked up, gave the question a moment of thought, then immediately did a double take at her appearance. She was wearing a sleeveless white shirt with a baby blue bra just visible through the fabric, coupled with a pair of black yoga pants accentuating her hips and not too skinny, not too large ass. It may have been my imagination, but that blue bra seemed to be struggling to hold back what was beneath, and I wondered it she had grown in the two days I hadn’t seen her.

She was still waiting for me to answer her question.

“Ah, it was just the mat…” I said, nervously handing her the bottle as I felt a bead of sweat begin to form on my brow. “What does it mean?”

She smiled strangely and said “Adaperiat cor vestrum. Open your mind.” With that, she spun on her foot and gestured for me to follow her into her house.

Immediately I was struck but the contrast between my hormone driven expectation and reality. To be brief, I was expected a small studio filled with the the scent of incense, a kiss after sharing the white wine the same shade as her light blonde hair, passionate love making (of course), and finally wrapping our nude bodies in pristine white sheets, her head resting on my averagely muscled chest as we drifted off to sleep, riding a passionate afterglow…

What greeted me at the threshold of Em’s apartment was more worthy of a mansion, no, even that paled in comparison to the vast space I found myself in. It reminded me of a castle, with an incredibly high ceiling and straight walls cornered by round columns, all the uniform gray belonging to smooth stone. The floor, which I assumed was the same material, was covered was glowing with a pale light, and, looking up, I could see that the ceilings too gave off this peculiar light.

Immediately before me though was a large circular table with an opening in the middle with a small portion missing in the front reminding me (somehow) of a bundt cake with a slice missing. Seated around the table were nine men each clothed in long, white, wool cloaks over their normal outfits. Each had a thick, worn looking volume in front of them, and looking at the book made me feel a strange internal tingling like electricity flow through me. The man closest to me, looking annoyed yet frightened somehow made a noise with his throat, and Em quickly began to speak in an official sounding voice.

“Umm….Prospect Riley Gerard, welcome to the hall of darkness, realm of otherworldly instruction, academy of the truly enlightened, school of black magic, Scholomance.

I stood still, stunned. After a pregnant pause, I finally mustered up the courage to ask, “L-l-like Hogwarts?”

The entire table groaned in unison, then the oldest looking man stood from his seat. Retrieving a small glass orb, he looked straight at me and tossed the orb into the air. As it struck the stone floor and shattered, small beams of light flew toward and enveloped each of the cloaked men, and began to glow brighter.

Looking toward Em for an explanation, she sighed.

“Yes, like Hogwarts, but not quite. We’re the only chapter this young, but our specialty is bodily transformations.”

As she spoke, the light receded from each of the men, and I began to make out their diminished forms when I trained my eyes. Looking toward the head of the table, the man whom I had assumed to be close to 50 slowly youthened until I could recognize the face of our school’s valedictorian, Brian Stoker.

He cracked his skinny neck as the light around him dissipated and said, “Specifically, we focus on age-changing magic.”

Em beamed strongly. “Welcome to the real Scholomance!”