Excerpt: Magickal

Headmaster Vernon Crowley sat in his office wistfully staring out the window. The fog was thick, but even his pathetic eyesight could make out a crimson truck parked almost exactly on the boundaries of the campus. "Magic is difficult to control, it must be said."
"Certainly. Even I know that." The speaker....well, Crowley rather preferred not to think about him. He seemed inherently evil. If not now, then certainly later in life.
"What you may not presently know are the dangers inherent of losing control, something that, at your level, is depressingly easy to accomplish."Crowley turned back around. The other man was dressed in a cloak of black. Crowley couldn't help but think No one dresses like that these days. Those who do misrepresent everything I stand for, including magic, secrecy, and the useful implementation of towels.
The conversation took a turn for the worse. "...Hmmm. Very well. I see how it is. How it must be."
And with that, Crowley was left alone in his office. "Do you? Do you really?"
This comment was met with silence, then copious swearing from somewhere above Crowley and his office. He grimaced; trolls were trolls, and trolls were stupid. Good for tourism, sure ("Mommy, mommy, I wanna see that big man over there!" "Alright, Timmy, ten minutes with 'the big man'."), but stupid as all hell.
"If only you knew just how much danger you really were in-" Crowley began, but was cut short by the untimely appearance of a second man clothed completely in black. He was armed with a shovel. "Oh. You again. Hello." He raised his eyebrows unconsciously at the sight of the shovel.
Crowley, by nature, was not a cowardly man. But this shovel seemed wicked somehow. It glinted maliciously in the office's half-light, as did the disturbingly white teeth of its wielder. "Hello, Crowley," he said to the mildly unnerved headmaster. Then he brought the stone-grey shovel down on Crowley's head. Blood poured forth from his forehead; death was more or less immediate- and exceedingly painful.