Elderic: A Sanctuary for the Strange Vol. 1

Lyra Ashwood woke three minutes before her alarm and lay very still beneath the blankets, staring at the pale ceiling while rain tapped softly against the window beside her bed. The house was quiet in the peculiar way it had been quiet for the last several weeks, as though everyone inside it had agreed not to make too much noise in case something fragile broke. She had noticed it first at dinner, when her mother had started asking strange questions about what Lyra would miss if they ever moved away. Then there had been the whispered conversations behind closed doors, the phone calls that stopped whenever she entered a room, and the stack of unfamiliar envelopes her father kept tucking beneath newspapers on the kitchen counter as though she hadn't already seen them.

Her alarm began to chirp, and Lyra reached for her phone and silenced it before the second note could sound. She remained in bed another moment, reluctant to surrender the warmth of the blankets. Outside, the sky was the dull silver of a morning that had not quite decided whether it intended to become day. The rooftops across the street were dark with rain, cars hissed along the wet road beyond them, and somewhere nearby a dog barked twice before apparently deciding the weather wasn't worth the effort. It should have felt normal, and for fifteen years normal had been something Lyra never needed to think about. Normal was school on weekdays, cereal eaten too quickly in the kitchen, arguments with her mother about whether a jacket was necessary, and her father pretending not to notice when she stole the last piece of toast from his plate. Normal was counting down to her sixteenth birthday and wondering whether turning sixteen was actually supposed to feel different or whether everyone had simply agreed to pretend it mattered. Lately, however, normal had begun to feel temporary.

Lyra pushed herself upright and swept a thick fall of hair away from her face. Most of it was dark brown, although streaks of color had begun appearing through it over the past year in ways no hairdresser had managed to explain. A faint violet strand curled near one temple, blue threaded through the ends on one side, and there was even a narrow streak of silvery pink at the back that her mother insisted was probably some strange result of hormones. Lyra had stopped pointing out that hormones generally didn't produce purple hair.

She climbed out of bed, pulled on jeans and an oversized gray sweater, then leaned toward the mirror above her dresser and examined herself. Brown eyes, freckles scattered lightly across her nose, a sleep-creased cheek, and multicolored hair doing whatever it pleased greeted her in the glass. Nothing appeared particularly unusual. She looked completely ordinary, or at least ordinary enough if she ignored the increasingly colorful evidence growing directly out of her head.

Lyra reached for the brush on her dresser and stopped when it moved.

For several seconds she stared at it, wondering whether she had imagined the movement. The brush sat exactly where she thought it had been a moment earlier, and the quiet bedroom offered no explanation. Frowning, Lyra reached for it again. This time there was no question about what she saw. Before her fingers touched the handle, the brush slid perhaps an inch across the wooden surface toward her hand.

Lyra jerked backward.

“No.”

The brush remained still, apparently having nothing further to contribute to the conversation.

Lyra looked toward her bedroom door and then back at the brush. Her parents had been weird enough lately without her walking downstairs and announcing that her hairbrush had developed opinions. She reached for it deliberately, picked it up, and turned it over in her hand as though she expected to discover batteries hidden somewhere in the polished wooden handle.

“You slid.”

The brush offered no defense.

She brushed her hair quickly, shoved the offending object into the drawer, and closed it hard enough to make the mirror tremble against the wall. She had just begun telling herself that there had been some perfectly sensible explanation for what she'd seen when a thin veil of mist crept across the mirror.

Lyra froze.

There was no steam in the bedroom. The room wasn't particularly warm, the window was closed, and the glass had been perfectly clear seconds earlier. Nevertheless, condensation spread slowly inward from the edges until Lyra's reflection became hazy behind the gray-white film. Her pulse quickened as she stepped closer despite every horror movie she had ever seen suggesting that investigating a mysteriously fogging mirror was an exceptionally bad life choice.

“This is how people die,” she whispered.

She leaned closer anyway. Something moved behind her reflection, a dark shape crossing the room where nothing should have been. Lyra spun around so quickly that her hair struck her cheek, but her bedroom was empty. When she looked back at the mirror, the fog had vanished. Her own startled face stared at her from perfectly clear glass, and there was nothing standing behind her.

“Okay. Definitely hormones.”

Lyra backed away from the mirror, grabbed her school bag, and left the bedroom without looking at the glass again.

The smell of coffee and toast greeted her before she reached the kitchen. Her father stood at the counter in a dark sweater, pouring coffee into a travel mug despite the fact that he wasn't dressed for work. Her mother sat at the table with both hands wrapped around a mug she didn't appear to be drinking from. Whatever they had been discussing ended the instant Lyra entered.

She paused in the doorway and looked between them.

“Good morning to you too.”

Her father gave her a smile that arrived a little too late.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

“Did you sleep okay?” her mother asked.

Lyra dropped her bag beside the kitchen table and opened a cabinet.

“That depends. Are we using the normal definition of okay, or the one we're apparently using in this house now?”

Her father's gaze flicked toward her mother, and Lyra caught the silent exchange immediately. There it was again, the same look that had been passing between them for weeks. She pulled down a cereal bowl and set it on the counter.

“Seriously, you two are terrible at secrets.”

“We aren't keeping secrets,” her mother said, then hesitated. “We aren't trying to keep secrets.”

“That was much more believable.”

Her father raised his coffee mug, unsuccessfully hiding what looked suspiciously like a smile. Lyra poured cereal into the bowl and sat across from her mother, watching both parents as she took her first bite.

“So, either you've joined a cult, Dad is secretly an international spy, or we're moving.”

The silence that followed made Lyra's spoon stop halfway back to the bowl. She looked from her mother to her father and slowly lowered it.

“You're kidding.”

“We were going to talk to you tonight,” her father said.

“Oh my God. We're moving?”

Her mother reached across the table.

“It's complicated.”

Lyra pulled her hand back before her mother could take it, more from disbelief than anger.

“Where?”

Another glance passed between her parents, and Lyra leaned back in her chair.

“Oh, that's reassuring.”

Her father sat down beside her and rested his coffee on the table.

“I've accepted a position.”

“What kind of position?”

“A new one.”

Lyra stared at him.

“Excellent description.”

“It involves consulting.”

“Consulting where?”

Her mother answered this time.

“Overseas.”

Lyra's stomach dropped. Moving somewhere else in town was one thing. Moving overseas was something entirely different, and the casual way her mother said it made the announcement feel even more unreal.

“Overseas?”

“We've been discussing this for quite a while,” her father said.

“That is fascinating, considering I live here too.”

“We know.”

“Do you?”

Her voice sharpened more than she intended, and the almost imperceptible hurt in her mother's expression brought an immediate sting of guilt. Lyra pushed the cereal bowl away and tried to keep her voice steadier.

“Where are we going?”

Her parents hesitated for just a fraction too long before her father answered.

“A place called Valeria.”

Lyra frowned.

“That's not a country.”

“Not exactly.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Not exactly a country?”

Her mother sighed.

“It is difficult to explain.”

“Well, you've apparently had quite a while to practice.”

Her father rubbed a hand over his jaw before answering.

“It's an old region. Very old. It isn't somewhere most people travel.”

Lyra stared at him, trying to decide whether he could possibly hear how ridiculous that sounded.

“So you're moving me to some ancient mystery place nobody travels to because of a consulting job you can't explain?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.”

“Lyra.”

“When?”

Her mother looked down at the mug between her hands.

“Tomorrow.”

Lyra laughed once, waiting for either of them to smile. Neither did. The laugh disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Tomorrow?”

Her father nodded.

The kitchen suddenly seemed too small. Lyra looked toward the rain-streaked window, then back at her parents as the reality of what they were saying began settling over her.

“You're telling me the day before we leave?”

“We couldn't tell you until everything was finalized.”

“I have school.”

“We've already arranged the transfer.”

“You arranged my school?”

“Yes.”

“What school?”

Again came that hesitation. Lyra's pulse began tapping faster beneath her skin as her mother folded her hands together.

“Elderic.”

The name settled strangely into the room.

“Elderic what?”

“Elderic Sanctuary Academy.”

Lyra blinked.

“That sounds made up.”

“It isn't,” her father said.

“Sanctuary Academy? What does that even mean?”

“It is an old boarding academy,” her mother explained. “Although you'll be living with us nearby.”

Lyra stared at them both, trying to understand how her parents had apparently reorganized her entire life without bothering to mention it.

“You've already enrolled me in a school I've never heard of, in a place that apparently isn't exactly a country, and we're leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

Lyra rose so quickly that her chair scraped across the floor.

“Great conversation.”

“Lyra, please.”

“I have to get ready for school.”

“You don't have school today.”

Lyra stopped. Her mother's expression had become almost apologetic.

“We withdrew you yesterday. We thought it would be easier.”

Lyra slowly turned around.

“You did what?”

“We thought—”

“For whom?”

Neither parent answered, and Lyra decided that was answer enough. She grabbed her bag even though she no longer had anywhere to take it and started toward the stairs.

“There are things we need to explain,” her father said.

Lyra stopped halfway up and turned around.

“Then explain them.”

Her parents stood together in the kitchen, and for the first time Lyra noticed something beneath their nervousness. She had assumed they were afraid of her reaction, but the expression on her mother's face wasn't guilt over moving her away from her friends, and her father's rigid posture wasn't that of a parent preparing for an argument with his teenage daughter. They were afraid of something else.

Her mother rose from the table.

“We will. I promise. But not here.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have to trust us.”

The words irritated Lyra more than they reassured her.

“That's usually what people say right before explaining why you shouldn't trust them.”

Her father exhaled slowly and glanced toward the windows.

“In a few days, things may begin changing for you.”

Lyra's fingers tightened around the stair railing.

“What things?”

Her mother's eyes moved briefly toward Lyra's hair, and suddenly the violet strand near her temple felt considerably more noticeable.

“Things you may not understand at first.”

The brush sliding across the dresser flashed through Lyra's mind, followed immediately by the fogged mirror and the dark movement she had seen behind her reflection. She said nothing, but her father was watching her face too carefully.

“Has anything unusual happened recently?” he asked.

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

Her parents exchanged another look, and Lyra felt the skin along her arms prickle.

“Why?”

Her mother stepped closer to the stairs.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Lyra.”

She hesitated before finally surrendering.

“My brush moved.”

Neither parent laughed. Neither even looked confused. Their lack of disbelief frightened her more than the brush itself had.

Her father stood slowly.

“Moved how?”

“Across my dresser.”

Her mother's face lost color.

“And anything else?”

Lyra thought about lying again, but there seemed little point now.

“My mirror fogged up. I thought I saw someone behind me.”

Her mother closed her eyes for only a second, but Lyra saw it.

“What is going on?”

Her father crossed the kitchen and rested both hands on the back of a chair.

“We need to leave sooner.”

“We're leaving tomorrow.”

“We may need to leave tonight.”

Lyra stared at him in disbelief.

“No. Absolutely not. You don't get to say something creepy like that and then start packing.”

Her mother approached the stairs.

“Lyra, sweetheart—”

“What is happening to me?”

Her parents went very still. Lyra had never seen them look at her quite that way. They weren't frightened of her. Whatever they knew, whatever they had spent years hiding, they were frightened for her.

Her mother spoke first.

“Your birthday is in four days.”

“I know when my birthday is.”

“When you turn sixteen, there may be changes.”

“What changes?”

Her mother's eyes glistened.

“The kind we've spent fifteen years hoping you would never have to face alone.”

Lyra descended one stair.

“Mom.”

Her father came to stand beside her mother.

“There are things about our family that we haven't told you.”

Lyra's heartbeat became painfully loud.

“What things?”

Her mother looked at her father. He gave a small nod, and when she turned back toward Lyra, something in her expression had changed.

“You were never supposed to grow up believing the world was as small as we told you it was.”

Lyra stared at her. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far away, low enough that she almost felt it beneath her feet. The kitchen light flickered once and then went out. A second later, every light in the house followed it, leaving only the gray morning filtering through the windows.

Her mother whispered something beneath her breath just as a violet glow bloomed around Lyra's hand.

Lyra looked down and watched threads of purple light curl between her fingers like luminous smoke. Panic surged through her. She screamed and jerked backward, and the light flared in response. Every cabinet door in the kitchen flew open at once. A plate launched itself from the counter and shattered against the floor, the clock dropped from the wall, and her father's coffee mug lifted six inches into the air. For one impossible second, everything loose in the kitchen seemed almost weightless, suspended around them as though gravity itself had forgotten what it was supposed to do.

Then everything crashed down.

The kitchen became silent except for Lyra's ragged breathing. She stood on the stairs staring at her own hand, but the purple light had vanished as completely as though it had never existed.

Her mother looked at her father. Her father looked toward the darkened windows before turning back to Lyra.

“We're leaving tonight.”

Lyra barely heard him. Her attention remained fixed on her hand.

“What am I?”

Her mother climbed the stairs until she stood one step below her. Fear and sadness filled her expression, but beneath them Lyra saw something else she had never noticed before. It was recognition, as though her mother had been waiting years to meet this version of her daughter.

“You're our daughter.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“I know.”

Lyra swallowed as her mother reached for her hand. This time she allowed her to take it.

“You're not human,” her mother said softly.

The words should have sounded ridiculous. An hour ago, Lyra might have laughed. Now, standing in a darkened house with shattered dishes on the kitchen floor after watching purple light curl between her own fingers, she couldn't find anything remotely funny about them.

“What am I?”

Her mother's fingers tightened around hers.

“A witch.”

For several seconds, Lyra couldn't speak. The word seemed too familiar and too impossible at the same time, belonging to fairy tales, Halloween decorations, old movies and books rather than a fifteen-year-old girl standing barefoot on the stairs.

Something slammed upstairs.

All three of them looked toward the ceiling.

The sound had come from Lyra's bedroom. A moment later, something heavy moved across the floor above them, slow enough that each scrape was unmistakable. It moved once, then again, before abruptly stopping.

Lyra looked at her parents.

Her father had gone pale.

“That is why we need Elderic.”

By midnight, Lyra's entire life had been reduced to three suitcases. She sat in the back seat of the car with her coat wrapped tightly around herself as familiar streets slipped past the rain-streaked windows. Her school disappeared behind them, followed by her friend's house, the little café where she bought hot chocolate on Fridays, and the park where she had learned to ride a bicycle. Every ordinary landmark she had spent years barely noticing suddenly mattered now that she didn't know when she would see any of them again.

Her parents spoke quietly in the front, but Lyra wasn't listening. One word had been circling inside her head for hours.

Witch.

She couldn't make it fit.

Her father had tried explaining pieces of it while they packed, but every answer seemed to create three more questions. Yes, magic was real. Yes, her parents had known. Yes, they had deliberately kept her away from it. No, Elderic wasn't an ordinary school. No, they weren't ready to explain everything yet.

That last answer had nearly resulted in another argument.

Lyra lifted one hand and studied her fingers. Nothing glowed now. Nothing floated. They looked exactly the way they had yesterday, and that somehow made everything stranger. They were ordinary fingers attached to an apparently very unordinary girl.

The car turned toward the station. Her father had explained that Elderic could not be reached by ordinary roads and that there was a train they needed to catch before dawn. Every question beyond that had received some variation of the same infuriating promise that everything would make more sense once they arrived.

Lyra rested her forehead against the cold window and watched the dark city slide past. Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass, broken occasionally by passing streetlights.

Then another face appeared over her shoulder.

Lyra spun around.

The seat beside her was empty.

Her heart began pounding as she slowly turned back toward the window. Her reflection was still there, but something about it was wrong. The girl staring back at her had Lyra's face, yet she looked several years older. Her hair was longer, its colors deeper and more pronounced, and a pale scar ran along one cheek.

Lyra didn't move.

Neither did the girl.

Then the reflection lifted one hand.

Lyra's remained in her lap.

Cold spread through her body.

The older girl leaned closer from somewhere that could not possibly exist on the other side of the glass. There was fear in her eyes, but there was something else too, something almost desperate.

Her lips moved.

Lyra stared at them, understanding the two silent words with perfect clarity.

“Not yet.”

A streetlight swept across the car.

The window flashed bright.

When darkness returned, Lyra saw only herself.

She remained pressed against the seat, staring at the glass long after the other girl had disappeared. Up front, her parents continued speaking softly, unaware of what had just happened behind them.

Lyra looked down at her hands and then back through the rain-covered window toward the station drawing closer in the distance.

Until that morning, the strangest thing about her life had been the unexplained colors appearing in her hair. By midnight, she had discovered she was a witch, learned that her parents had hidden an entire world from her, and seen an older version of her own face staring back from a window.

Somewhere beyond the station waited a train to Elderic.

For the first time, Lyra wondered whether her parents were taking her there because Elderic could teach her what she was, or because they already knew exactly what she was becoming.