Omen almost sighed. Axelia Lukt was the prettiest girl in school, with hair almost as blonde as Miss Wicked’s and big blue eyes and the cutest Icelandic accent Omen had ever heard. Omen had had many conversations with Axelia, conversations where he’d joked and laughed and made incisive comments about world events. He’d been charming, funny and considerate, and the fact that she hadn’t yet fallen in love with him was a puzzle he just couldn’t solve. Maybe the fact that all of these conversations had taken place entirely in his head had something to do with it, or perhaps it was because he had yet to engage her in an actual, physical, real way. Whatever the reason, girls remained a mystery to him, but he was determined to figure it out.

He’d started practising in the mirror.

“Morwenna Crow,” Axelia said, answering the question while simultaneously proving that a better volunteer could not have been chosen. “Melancholia St Clair. Lord Vile.”

Miss Wicked nodded. “Lord Vile. The most notorious. Can you tell me the object into which he poured his power?”

“His armour,” said Axelia. She was so smart.

“Very good. Necromancy is death magic. Shadow magic. As such, it is a lot more volatile than Elemental magic, or even most Adept disciplines. Necromancers store a good portion of their power in an object that they either wear or carry around with them.”

“Necromancers are sad little lunatics,” said Jenan Ispolin, his lanky frame lounging back in his chair. “My father rounded them all up years ago, dragged them out of their little temple and kicked them out of our country.” Jenan’s father was the Bulgarian Grand Mage, and his smirking son rarely let anyone forget it. Like Omen, Jenan belonged to a Legacy family, where everyone was encouraged to take on the same surname – but, whereas the Darkly name had somewhat positive connotations, the Ispolin name brought to mind brutality under the auspices of law. “That’s what you do to people like that.”

Miss Wicked observed him. “People like what, Jenan?”

Jenan sat up a little straighter, and cleared his throat. “Uh, Necromancers, miss.”

“Necromancers are sorcerers, the same as you or I. Are you going to condemn them for their chosen discipline?”

“No, miss,” Jenan said, flushing red. “I just meant … when the Death Bringer was around, she—”

“Her name, please?”

“Melancholia, miss. When Melancholia was around, she tried to kill billions of people. That was the Necromancer plan all along. My father said they were all murderers and he didn’t want them in our country so he … he kicked them out.”

“And what if some of your classmates harbour a desire to join a temple and study Necromancy?” Miss Wicked asked. “How do you think they feel right now, to hear you speak of them this way?”

Jenan shrugged. “Dunno, miss. Don’t care.”