If there was one thing that Ophelia Peringrose knew, it was that her shoes were supposed to be on the mat beside the door, not stuck to the ceiling. But there they were, soles stuck to the paint as if someone had put them on and was now standing up there. It was very possible someone had done that, knowing what she did about the Ghouls that often visited the Academy. But she knew better than to hope it was as simple as that.
She huffed an annoyed breath before climbing out of bed.
Nobody else had to retrieve their items from the ceiling, especially not their brand new sandals. Perhaps that’s why the ceiling had stolen them, because they were new. Maybe it simply delighted in tormenting her, just like her classmates did. But of course, she was not privy to the reasons or desires of the ceiling, or any of the walls caging her in. It was the second thing she had learned when she first arrived at Miss Albany’s Academy for Magyks and Mystics. The first thing she had learned was that it was not ‘Albany’ like the city in New York, but ‘All-bane-y,’ as in the absolute bane of her existence.
Back to the problem at hand: pulling her sandals from the clutches of the ceiling without causing such an insult that it would rattle the walls around her. The ladder, if you could call it that, wobbled beneath her feet as she climbed up. The makeshift structure had been cobbled together with desperation and broken stools from around the Academy. Ophelia turned her concentration back to her sandals, which were now half sunken into the chipping white paint.
“Give them back!” Ophelia glared up at the ceiling, adding a reproachful “please,” afterwards. A few flecks of paint fell into her face, landing on the lenses of her glasses in what could only have been described as a dramatic sigh.
The ceiling rippled. Her sandals were swallowed entirely.
“No!” She shrieked.
One sandal was spat back out, falling to the floor before Ophelia had time to catch it.
“I swear to the Fates I’m going to switch rooms.” Abitha groaned, her head shoved beneath the pillow.
“It’s not my fault, Abitha!” Ophelia glared at her best friend and roommate, though she wasn’t entirely sure if that was true.
Abitha made a non-commital noise, a cross somewhere between a groan and a sigh. She didn’t have early classes, none of the midnight Mystics did, and hated being woken up before ten in the morning. Ophelia, on the other hand, had to be up and to class by six fifteen.
It was six fifteen.
Ophelia shoved her feet into a pair of boots and ran out the door, hoping against all hope that Professor Mercurial wouldn’t notice her slip into the classroom, late as usual.
***
Ophelia slid behind her desk at the back of class two minutes later, panting from her sprint down steep staircases and painting-adorned hallways. Some of the portraits had waved hello in passing while others sneered and threw insults at her. As if I haven’t heard any of them before she thought.
“Ophelia, how nice of you to join us.” Professor Mercurial drawled from the front of the room, though his back was to her and she hadn’t made a sound.
“Sorry professor,” Ophelia mumbled. Immediately she began doodling in her notebook, drowning out the sound of Professor Mercurial’s voice about the history of their kind. She knew that history better than anyone, given how often she’d turned to it for answers about her own powers.
The door slammed open.
Ophelia jumped at the sound, eyes widened in surprise when Miss Albany herself stalked into the room. On her heels, a boy clad head to toe in black leather, the shaggy mess of black hair not long enough to cover the silver hoops decorating his ears. Great, Ophelia thought, another bad boy wannabe.
“Miss Albany.” Professor Mercurial raised an eyebrow, scowling at the interruption. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“New student.” Miss Albany quipped. “Transfer from The Institute.”
And then she was gone.
Murmurs rippled through the classroom, and Ophelia looked back at the boy with renewed interest. Maybe not such a wannabe afterall, Ophelia noted. She couldn’t imagine what kind of chaos he had caused to get transferred out of the Demon Institute.
“Magyk or Mystic?” Professor Mercurial asked, though they all knew demons were Magyks.
The demon held the professor’s stare and tilted his head to the side. “Neither, both, either and whichever.”
The room went silent. Ophelia’s jaw dropped.
“Another floater?” Rozia snorted from the Magyk section. “Looks like you’ll finally have a friend, Ophelia. Gods, they’ll just let anyone in these days!”
Ophelia’s cheeks burned as everyone turned to look at her, laughter breaking out across the room. Wisps of magyk, red for her embarrassment, floated out of her fingertips. She dug her nails into her palms, closing her hands around the display.
The demon did not laugh.
“Settle down class.” Professor Mercurial waved his hand and a desk appeared beside Ophelia, the first one ever in her section. “Your name?”
“Arro.” The demon smiled, revealing slightly elongated canines and perfect teeth. “Arro Sylvaris.”
“Holy gods.” A morning Mystic whispered from their section.
“Take a seat, Arro.” Professor Mercurial nodded and turned back towards the board.
Everyone in the class looked between the demon and Ophelia. Her cheeks flushed crimson once more.
“Hello, friend.” Arro said, his dark eyes burning like coals as he sat. Flames danced through his hair, forming a crown before disappearing. A ring of purple fire encircled their desks, the flames dancing up a few feet. “You don’t mind, do you? My father’s wishes, for protection.”
All Ophelia could do was stare at him, mouth gaping open. She closed it a few times, then opened it, unsure what to say to the youngest son of the Bone King.
A sandal fell from the ceiling and clattered onto Ophelia’s desk.