Can she escape her witchy past? Plotting revenge, Fustia Necromancy begins her search for ex-pupil Goodrun who destroyed her Witches Academy. But Goodrun has changed her name and returned to the mortal world where she thinks she is safe. Meanwhile, sister Evilyn is looking for mischief and finds it – when she gets a job as a reporter on a new magazine, The Hag Mag, editor: Fustia Necromancy! With Evilyn’s help, Fustia leads Goodrun into a trap. But half-witch Goodrun still has a trick or two up her sleeve...

 

Madame Fustia Necromancy had once been in charge of a famous
establishment for the training of
young witches. She was a malevolent old
harridan with an evil disposition and had,
therefore, made an excellent Head Teacher.
Everybody hated her at the Witches
Academy. Pupils and teachers alike cowered
in her awesome shadow and dreaded the
sting of venom which lay on her acid tongue.
But the Academy was no more. Fustia
Necromancy was Head of nothing and
nowhere. Her Witches Academy, once housed
in her large un-stately home, had been
ruined, ravaged, by a terrible flood. Years of
research into evil had been reduced to soggy ruins. Rare potions, ancient documents,
irreplaceable objects from Fustia’s foul
family treasures, had been swept out to sea
on the rushing tide of floodwater.
Goodrun Badmanners, one of the finalyear
pupils at the Academy, watched in
horror from the dormitory roof as the
floodwater swirled round the courtyard
below, surging into doorways and spilling
out of windows, bringing with it a cascade of
desks, chairs and tables. But this was no
ordinary flood; this was magic, her magic,
and it had all gone terribly wrong. Goodrun
had never been very good at witchcraft,
unlike her brilliantly wicked sister, Evilyn,
but she had worked hard at the Academy and
hoped that one day she would graduate from
witchling to witch. She had just returned
from her practical examination to find the
Academy suffering from a freak storm.
“Goodrun Badmanners?” The feared,
harsh voice of Madame Necromancy made
Goodrun jump.
She looked down to see her ex-Head
Teacher floating past on her upturned
desk, a quivering finger pointing in her
direction.
“You little toad!” screeched Madame
Necromancy. “No diploma for you. You are
expelled. You are the worst pupil I’ve ever
had. I know this storm was your fault.
You’ve ruined my life’s work and I shall
never forgive you. Nevarr! Neva-a-arr!”
As she spoke dozens of old crones floated
out of the Academy, bobbing about in the
water like old black sacks. It is well known
that witches hate water and their terrified
screams echoed eerily round the courtyard.
Goodrun shuddered. The air was so full of
dark curses it made her feel ill.
“Brilliant?” said Evilyn, who was also
watching from the roof. “How did you do it?
I wish I’d thought of it.”
“It was my final exam,” said Goodrun,
miserably. “It was supposed to be a spell of
bad weather, but I think I overdid it a bit.”
“A bit?” Evilyn nearly fell off the roof,
laughing. “Hey, you lot!” She shouted down
to the other witchlings who were hanging
out of the dormitory windows. “You know
what this means? No more Academy. No
more school!”
The pupil witches screeched and cackled
their delight and some of the younger ones,
who were still unable to cackle properly,
whistled noisily as, led by Evilyn, they
chanted, “No more Academy. No more
school!”
Then another cheer went up as the waters
surged again and Fustia, and her flotilla of
angry witches, shwooshed through the
school gates.

 

 

 

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