Read Online Novel - Arcanum 101 (with Rosemary Edghill) by Mercedes Lackey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mercedes Lackey
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one of those big screen TVs he’d seen in the Student Union for themselves out of what they could make honestly. And not every kid here at St. Rhia’s was college material. Ria Llewellyn knew this. The point was to train young mages and psi-talents in how to safely master their abilities, not prepare them for a life of crime. And so there was what even VeeVee callously referred to as the “Bonehead Track”—the vocational courses. But, as with everything else here, they were vocational courses with a difference.
They might call it wood-shop class in the catalog, but it was a full apprenticeship with a professional cabinetmaker. There was an accredited course in home heating and air-conditioning repair and installation—which included, according to Mr. Fred, a section on removing the Portal to Hell from your furnace (VeeVee still wasn’t sure whether this part was tongue-in-cheek or not). There was another in TV and appliance repair, and one on computer repair—and the sections on exorcising the baneful spirits from all three, VeeVee knew from personal experience, were not tongue-in-cheek.
And there was “Auto Shop.”
This course was taught by a tiny blonde woman named Dottie Davies, who had been recruited from a place called “Fairgrove Industries.” Fairgrove made race cars, and not just turnkey check-book racers either. Real race cars, of the sort that ran at La Mans and Petite La Mans, and Dottie had been one of the chief mechanics there. Dottie didn’t just teach people how to repair vehicles, she taught them how to rebuild them.
That was obviously where Tomas was going to end up, because even on only a couple of hours’ acquaintance, Tomas didn’t strike VeeVee as the college-bound type.
The route Tomas would probably be taking every day was a well-traveled dirt road that wound down through the grounds towards County 6, and St. Rhia’s next-door neighbor.
A junkyard.
A very, very special junkyard.
The “Auto Shop” class took junkers and turned them into working cars, then sold them. Every student in the class had their hours logged, and the proceeds from the sales of the cars were distributed in the form of credit on the basis of hours logged. The credit went towards “buying” your own junker, and the parts, so you could build yourself a set of wheels of your very own.
VeeVee led Tomas up to the high chain-link fence that surrounded the yard. They walked along it until they came to the gate—unlocked and open at this time of day—and then walked through. She’d watched his eyes when he saw the big new industrial garage and the old, the very old, junkyard with its 1920s Art Deco garage and former gas station, and she grabbed him by the elbow before he could start wandering off down the seemingly endless rows of lovingly parked junkers. He barely noticed.
Towing him mercilessly in her wake, VeeVee hauled him in through the side door of the industrial garage. As she expected at this hour, class was in session, and the place was awash with sound—tools on metal, banging, the roar of a welding-torch, and over it all, the blare of rap music.
Five sets of eyes turned in their direction.
The owner of one of those sets of eyes turned off her torch and slapped the mute button for the shop-wide stereo system.
“Folks, this is a new student, Tomas Torres, and he’s a Firestarter.” As Tomas goggled at VeeVee’s bald statement, she turned back to him. “Tomas, this is auto-shop class. And that—” she pointed to the person peeling off her welding helmet, a graying blonde no taller than VeeVee was, “—is the instructor. Dottie Davies.”
“She’s a girl?” Tomas blurted.
“You could say that, if you didn’t want to get to be much older than you are now,” Dottie said. “Know anything about cars, homeboy?”
“Uh—” Tomas goggled at Dottie, who briskly shoved him towards a bench with a gloved hand.
“There. Carburetor rebuild, ‘57 Chevy, should be a piece of cake. Show
They might call it wood-shop class in the catalog, but it was a full apprenticeship with a professional cabinetmaker. There was an accredited course in home heating and air-conditioning repair and installation—which included, according to Mr. Fred, a section on removing the Portal to Hell from your furnace (VeeVee still wasn’t sure whether this part was tongue-in-cheek or not). There was another in TV and appliance repair, and one on computer repair—and the sections on exorcising the baneful spirits from all three, VeeVee knew from personal experience, were not tongue-in-cheek.
And there was “Auto Shop.”
This course was taught by a tiny blonde woman named Dottie Davies, who had been recruited from a place called “Fairgrove Industries.” Fairgrove made race cars, and not just turnkey check-book racers either. Real race cars, of the sort that ran at La Mans and Petite La Mans, and Dottie had been one of the chief mechanics there. Dottie didn’t just teach people how to repair vehicles, she taught them how to rebuild them.
That was obviously where Tomas was going to end up, because even on only a couple of hours’ acquaintance, Tomas didn’t strike VeeVee as the college-bound type.
The route Tomas would probably be taking every day was a well-traveled dirt road that wound down through the grounds towards County 6, and St. Rhia’s next-door neighbor.
A junkyard.
A very, very special junkyard.
The “Auto Shop” class took junkers and turned them into working cars, then sold them. Every student in the class had their hours logged, and the proceeds from the sales of the cars were distributed in the form of credit on the basis of hours logged. The credit went towards “buying” your own junker, and the parts, so you could build yourself a set of wheels of your very own.
VeeVee led Tomas up to the high chain-link fence that surrounded the yard. They walked along it until they came to the gate—unlocked and open at this time of day—and then walked through. She’d watched his eyes when he saw the big new industrial garage and the old, the very old, junkyard with its 1920s Art Deco garage and former gas station, and she grabbed him by the elbow before he could start wandering off down the seemingly endless rows of lovingly parked junkers. He barely noticed.
Towing him mercilessly in her wake, VeeVee hauled him in through the side door of the industrial garage. As she expected at this hour, class was in session, and the place was awash with sound—tools on metal, banging, the roar of a welding-torch, and over it all, the blare of rap music.
Five sets of eyes turned in their direction.
The owner of one of those sets of eyes turned off her torch and slapped the mute button for the shop-wide stereo system.
“Folks, this is a new student, Tomas Torres, and he’s a Firestarter.” As Tomas goggled at VeeVee’s bald statement, she turned back to him. “Tomas, this is auto-shop class. And that—” she pointed to the person peeling off her welding helmet, a graying blonde no taller than VeeVee was, “—is the instructor. Dottie Davies.”
“She’s a girl?” Tomas blurted.
“You could say that, if you didn’t want to get to be much older than you are now,” Dottie said. “Know anything about cars, homeboy?”
“Uh—” Tomas goggled at Dottie, who briskly shoved him towards a bench with a gloved hand.
“There. Carburetor rebuild, ‘57 Chevy, should be a piece of cake. Show
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