Page 85 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

I've apparently been staring longer than realized, because Nikki's voice cuts through my assessment with teasing precision.

"How long are you going to stare at Mortimer before you just accept this oddly 'younger' dress-up outlook of him?" she asks, amusement coloring her tone despite the slight edge that seems a permanent fixture of her speech since transformation.

Blood rushes to my cheeks at being caught so blatantly studying our scholarly companion.

"He looks pretty good for an old guy dressing up as a youngling," I retort, the words emerging before proper consideration.

Feeling immediately defensive, I add with mock sweetness.

"Though you could try to look younger than a whore."

The gasps around the table are immediate and gratifying. Nikki's jaw drops in perfect indignation, golden eyes wideningwith shock that quickly morphs into outrage. Cassius chokes mid-sip on his tea, one hand rising to cover his mouth while his shoulders shake with what might be suppressed laughter or genuine surprise at my audacity.

Atticus has the most dramatic reaction, coffee spraying from his nose in undignified spray that completely undermines his usual composed demeanor. He coughs violently, crimson eyes watering as he struggles to recover both breath and dignity.

Mortimer's expression shifts through several emotions in rapid succession before settling on something between professional disapproval and personal amusement.

The slight cough he uses to cover what's clearly suppressed laughter only partially succeeds in maintaining scholarly decorum.

The most delightful reaction comes from Mini Grim, perched comfortably on my shoulder throughout my approach.

The tiny shadow being's skull face somehow manages to convey malicious glee as high-pitched giggles emanate from his ethereal form, the sound carrying notes of genuine delight at witnessed chaos.

Even more surprising is the reaction from Cassius's actual Duskwalker being, which has taken station behind my chair without my conscious notice. The larger shadow entity sways with obvious amusement, tendrils extending to play absentmindedly with my hair in a gesture that feels simultaneously proprietary and affectionate.

"I see you've recovered your energy," Mortimer observes dryly, passing me a cup of coffee with scholarly precision. "And your characteristic lack of filter."

"I slept for nearly twenty-four hours," I remind him, gratefully accepting the offered beverage. "I'm entitled to dramatic entrance."

Nikki sniffs dramatically, tossing her golden-red hair with practiced indignation that looks startlingly natural despite being recently acquired mannerism.

"Some of us maintain standards regardless of circumstances," she declares with aristocratic certainty that makes me wonder if Fae royalty receives specific training in looking down their perfect noses.

"Yes, I'm sure those standards were foremost in your mind when you were trying on my lipstick earlier," I counter, having noticed the faint traces of my favorite shade on her currently pursed lips. "The burgundy suits you, by the way. Brings out the gold in your eyes."

The unexpected compliment embedded within teasing throws her momentarily, confusion flickering across features still adjusting to new feminine arrangement.

Before she can formulate response, Atticus interjects with casual precision.

"Both of you look stunning in your uniforms," he states, crimson eyes carrying appreciation without objectification. "Though I imagine Gabriel will be equally impressive once the wards trigger transformation."

The casual reminder of my imminent return to masculine disguise brings momentary pang I hadn't anticipated.

After enjoying the freedom of my natural form within these walls, the thought of resuming Gabriel's identity —even with the efficiency Mortimer's wards provide— feels suddenly constraining.

"Speaking of which," Mortimer says, sliding a folder toward me with scholarly efficiency, "these are your class schedules. Year Two curriculum differs significantly from introductory coursework, with specializations based on both demonstrated aptitudes and future potential."

Grateful for the distraction, I open the folder to find several pages of elegant script detailing course listings, instructor names, and classroom locations. The organization appears logical enough, though certain subject titles suggest material far beyond standard paranormal education.

"Advanced Manipulation of Elemental Boundaries," I read aloud, finger tracing the unfamiliar course title. "Theoretical Applications of Cross-Dimensional Magic. Historical Imperatives in Blood Ritual Development." I look up, brow furrowing slightly. "These sound more like graduate-level research topics than standard classes."

Mortimer nods, scholarly satisfaction evident in his expression.

"Year Two curriculum assumes foundational knowledge has been established, allowing progression into more specialized and complex magical theory. Your schedule has been tailored to your specific abilities and demonstrated potential."

"What does that mean for practical purposes?" Cassius asks, voicing the question forming in my own mind. "Will we still train together, or does this represent complete separation during academic hours?"

"Both," Mortimer explains, lifting his coffee with deliberate precision that speaks of centuries refining simple movements into art forms. "Core physical training remains collective, ensuring baseline combat readiness across all specializations. Theoretical coursework diverges based on individual talents, then reconverges for practical application sessions where diverse approaches enhance collective problem-solving."

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