Word Spreads Around Town

CHAPTER TWO

WORD SPREADS AROUND TOWN

FLINT

My conversation with my uncle is short-lived when the Sheriff stops by. With that, Uncle Myers sends me upstairs to retrieve a duffel bag of my belongings. How I can fit my life into one bag still amazes me. I've never been a man of materials much, but I'm starting to regret it when I realize just how light my bag feels.

I tried conjuring memories of my dad giving a glimpse of light on what Myers said mom was or even where she was from. But the only thing I remember him expressing was his love for her, and how she put up a chase. Dad was like Myers anyways, a man of little words and a whole lot of action.

Dragonling sounds exactly like it is. Dragon. It's right there. But those things don't exist, right? It's all mythical bullshit that kids like the Morrels believe with graph paper and sets of dice in dingy basements. Roll a twenty to kill the big bad monster or perish with your party. That kind of nonsense.

I pull a picture from the frame that sits on my desk. It's from my thirteenth birthday. Dad is behind me with a home-baked cake that's sloped to the side from his infamous baking skills. He was never much of a man in the kitchen, but I miss the days he slaved over a hot stove top to serve a skillet pan of omelets or tomato-based pasta. I slip the photo into my bag on top of my clothes. There's no way I'm leaving this behind.

That's when I noticed an envelope with a fresh wax seal untouched. I've never seen it before, and I doubt my uncle would drop this by. He doesn't care to get out much nowadays, and I know he'll hide for months when I'm gone because of the trouble I caused. There's no return address. Just mine.

I break the seal of a lion and pry thick parchment from the envelope.

Dear Flint Anderson,

Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that I inform you of your acceptance into the dominus armorum program at Mythicae and Astral Arts Academia of Montana, US. You have been given this opportunity in recognition of the alum scholarship in memory of the late Jean-Jasper Anderson.

We have enclosed a starter package with this letter to familiarize yourself with the campus and the amenities that are offered to you. Student orientation is an offered privilege to alleviate the pressures but not mandatory. Our mission is to set our students on a path of success as they change the world with their passions and ambitions. We at Mythicae and Astral Arts Academia are pleased to welcome you and feel you will make a great addition to our student body.

We look forward to having you join our academy as the next generation.

Sincerely,

HeadMaster Grimm

I stare at the letter longer than I care to admit, trying to comprehend how I received it or what it even meant. Tucked inside the letter is a pamphlet of the academy along with a map and student ID. I set the acceptance letter I never asked for, and glanced at the picture of an ominous building front center of the brochure. The place looked like it belonged in Rome with its castle-like structure. There's no way my uncle could afford to send me here.

The map looked trippy too. Cursive writing labels and what looked like fifty different structures, classes, and dorms. But what caught my attention was the fact that the letters moved. As if it was a GPS on parchment paper. Red letters wiggled beneath my fingers and stilled when I removed my tips.

I flipped over the glossy card that stuck to the acceptance letter. My heart raced like I ran a marathon when I saw the contents on its front. My name is in bold letters with a dorm address printed under my name.

FLINT ANDERSON

HARLEM DORMITORY

ROOM 59B

4TH FLOOR

I hold the card up, thinking it's a trick when a bright bulb of light flashes. I throw the card against the room, panic rippling through my chest.

What the fuck was that?

The card sparks, rumbling on the floor with a dull yellow glow. I edge myself closer to it. Using the tip of my sneakers to nudge the bastard away from the heap of laundry I never intended to do.

That's it. I've lost my fucking mind.

This must be a mental breakdown.

In a tiny square rested my picture. My eyes are bulged with a face of fear, and of course, I look like an idiot. The card took my picture. How that's possible is beyond me. Hell, all of this is beyond me. I might as well be in calculus because x equals insanity.

I pick up the ID and shove it into the pocket of my jeans. I tuck the envelope and its contents from hell into my bag, and make my way downstairs. Sheriff Bishop is long gone while my uncle is pacing his rundown shlope we call a kitchen. The bastard is probably getting ready to place cuffs on me for arson, and Myers is ready to be my accomplice in fleeing. My uncle has done a lot for me, but even this was too much. Man, I really fucked up.

My uncle turns his attention to me, and I stop in my tracks. Sitting behind my anxious uncle is a tall suited man. His hat dips to his hairy dark brows, and a crooked blinding smile is placed when our eyes meet. Two short stubbed black horns are nestled in the man's dark hair. I'm dumbfounded by the man's attire. Halloween is still one month away. The man's dull skin and sharp teeth caught my attention first before I realized he said my name.

"My, my," the man quips, "Flint Anderson in the flesh. It's an honor."