Hades Academy: First Semester Read online

  “Avec passion!” Lamoureux demanded as she strolled the room. “You must rub the sticks with passion and vigor!”

  Aside from a few half-hearted giggles at her unintentional double entendre, she wasn’t inspiring anybody to do particularly better.

  Rarely have I seen a sight as pathetic as a room full of demons boredly playing with sticks. Maybe we deserved to have the ceiling crash down and put us out of our misery.

  As for Remedial Latin, Professor Stultior had no problem passing out at the beginning of class, just as usual.

  “Maybe we should take it as a good sign that he’s not losing any sleep over this,” I joked.

  Teddy, still looking a little green, didn’t laugh. Even with a full day to recover in bed between the ball and classes, he looked like he could unleash a torrent of barf at any given moment.

  “Still feeling crappy, huh?” I said. “Well, if it’s any consolation, you were the highlight of the night before all that other stuff. Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

  “That was the first time I’ve ever danced,” Teddy said. He burped. “I don’t know what got into me, but the moment felt right.”

  “I guess that Hellwater makes for damn good liquid confidence. Although maybe you should drink a little less next time. It figures hangovers from demon liquor would be worse than hangovers from regular liquor.”

  Teddy shook his head. “I think it’s more than just the Hellwater at this point. My insides feel like they’re desperate to burst out of my body. But Gods, the Hellwater sure didn’t help.”

  I absent-mindedly flipped through the workbook to see if motivation to study might suddenly strike. But odds were high I wasn’t going to learn a lick of Latin today. Probably best just to chill out for a bit and chat with Teddy—to the extent he could without puking.

  “That Elysium girl you were with was a babe,” I teased him. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to seal the deal.”

  He moaned before taking his time to respond. “Maybe it’s for the best. A love affair with an angel would be bound to end in tragedy.”

  “Yeah, seems like that’s a theme of angel-demon relationships,” I said.

  Of course I was thinking about Raines. We hadn’t talked since that night, and he wasn’t even doing his annoying “stare at me intensely from across the common room” thing anymore. I was, apparently, persona non grata (which was Latin for “chopped liver”). I was thankful that I wasn’t being subjected to any more of his lectures, but if I was being honest, I missed the attention. Just a little.

  Then there was what he told me about Wilder.

  Was Wilder really so awful? If he’d genuinely been that harsh and jealous of Raines, he probably wasn’t the most trustworthy. But then again, if anyone could sympathize with “being frustrated with Raines,” it was me. So should I refuse to trust Raines, too? I was at a loss.

  The smart idea was probably to be cautious of both of them, I realized. Because maybe neither had my best interests in mind.

  But Raines was so scared of hurting you with the advelum, I reminded myself. That’s not the kind of guy you should be skeptical of.

  I tried my best just not to think about it. And yet, these kinds of thoughts were hard to avoid when I’d have to see both of them in Philosophy.

  Except the first thing I noticed when I walked in was that Raines’s usual seat was conspicuously empty.

  The mood in Wilder’s class was different. We all seemed to realize that of all the professors at Hades, Wilder was always the most likely to go off on a rant or share his own opinions, even when that was kinda sorta something he probably shouldn’t be doing.

  In other words, if anybody was going to spill the beans about what was going on here, he was the one. And everybody knew it.

  “I trust everybody had a boring, but relaxing weekend,” he said with a smirk. It was the first time any professor had so much as acknowledged what happened. And of course he did it with that trademark Wilder sarcasm. “In all seriousness, before we get started for the day, I just wanted to say that I’ll be making myself available this week for anybody who needs to talk.”

  At that, several hands shot up in the air.

  Wilder laughed. “Looks like some of you want to talk now. I can say a few things at present and answer any individual questions later, but it might mean our lesson today is cut a bit short. How’s that sound?”

  He was met with eager nods.

  I was getting better at seeing through him. To me, it was more than obvious that he was dying to share his thoughts. For better or worse, the dude loved the sound of his own voice.

  Not that I could blame him.

  “Well, sure thing,” he said, as if he hadn’t been expecting that exact reaction. “And remember, this is just my opinion. But in recent years, we’ve been teaching demons to create fear too dispassionately. And there is something to that, certainly. But I worry that in emphasizing this point so heavily, we’re producing weaker demons. Telling students that they should perform their duties with studied detachment is counterintuitive. Of course you shouldn’t go into the human world and relish in creating as much terror as possible—not at all. But if you perform your duties and have maybe just a little bit of fun—I don’t think there’s necessarily anything wrong with that.”

  I looked around the room. Nobody—including myself—was quite grasping the connection yet. This wasn’t so different than the usual controversial opinions Wilder sometimes spouted.

  “I know, I’m repeating previous lectures here,” he said as if reading my mind. “But here’s the point. A bored, totally dispassionate demon is a weak demon. Weak demons can’t do their part in creating balance. And this...this provides an opening for Chaos. At this point, I know you’ve all heard the rumors about missing relics. It’s pointless for the staff to play dumb with you. I believe that all this trouble is only possible because we’ve let our guard down. Putting that guard back up, despite what other professors might tell you, is going to involve putting passion into our work.”

  He paused, knowing full well that he was heightening the drama of the moment. This went against almost everything we’d been taught so far, and while it was always clear Wilder had his own opinions, to hear them voiced so bluntly made all the difference.

  “Take joy in your work—the balance of the entire universe is at stake,” he concluded, before smiling one of his handsome grins. “No big deal.”

  He sure had a flair for the dramatic.

  And personally, my mind was racing. Wilder so casually dismissed the maxim that demons should perform terror without passion, that part of me felt that perhaps his ideas weren’t as radical as I might assume. If it were such an extreme notion, would he even be on the faculty at Hades Academy?

  Professor Lattimore’s history class was full of examples of demons overstepping their responsibilities and going too far. Surely, many of those demons of the past enjoyed creating fear in the hearts of humans. I had to wonder—was all this business about “creating fear dispassionately” something that most demons only prescribed to in theory rather than practice? And were they right to do so?

  Wilder continued on with class as normal. He was discussing something about demonic existentialism, but I just couldn’t pay attention. As much as Hades Academy felt like my new home, I hadn’t been engrossed in this world long enough to know right from wrong when it comes to demon-ing.

  I thought back to my three-card monte scams in Brooklyn. I was doing it for money, of course, but didn’t I also take a sort of pleasure out of tricking my marks? Was it wrong that I enjoyed parting fools from their money?

  When the bell rang and Wilder said “class dismissed,” I realized I hadn’t been paying any attention for at least the last half hour. I got up, ready to head back to the common room and just process a little, when I heard my name.

  “Nova.”

  It was Wilder, of course. As the rest of the class trickled out, I lingered. He was leaning on his desk, the way he a
lways did, the same smile on his face.

  “Hi,” I said, clutching the strap of my satchel.

  “Hi yourself,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’m glad to see that you’re all right. Do you...need to talk?”

  Did I? Even with my self-appointed mission to get to the bottom of this, to see what I might have to do with the stolen relics and the Chaos emerging, I didn’t feel like I wanted to tell Wilder everything. Not now. It felt too much like showing my hand.

  “No,” I said. “Not really. I mean, this stuff is all crazy, but everything seems like...weirdly normal, now.”

  My eyes went to Raines’s empty seat—not on purpose. I shook my head, hoping Wilder didn’t notice.

  He chuckled. “Yes, well, as with any academic bureaucracy, Hades is committed to the appearance of authority and normality.” He licked his lips. “I only ask since our conversation the other day was cut a bit short, and your next exetasis is...on the horizon.”

  On the horizon, meaning tomorrow. I nodded.

  Maybe there was a way to learn what I personally had to do with all of this, and learn more about what Wilder and Raines’s deal was, and do it through my exetasis.

  I held up my hand. “What’s the deal with this? The sun line?”

  “Ah.” Wilder ducked his head at my outstretched hand. “May I?”

  I gave a small nod, and he took my hand in his, holding it gently, examining my palm.

  “The outlaw’s crossing,” I prompted. “What does it mean? Am I the only one who has it? Or are there...more?”

  Maybe I was pushing it. But if Wilder noticed me nudging him towards revealing his own family secrets, he didn’t show it. His brow furrowed above his glasses.

  “You’re not the only one,” he said, still intent on my hand. “But the crossing doesn’t always correlate with the same origin. It’s a phenotype, not a genotype. An outward manifestation, but not the cause,” he explained.

  I blinked. “Okay.”

  “What it means is that you came from some kind of powerful union,” Wilder went on, almost transfixed. “Something more than just a demon and a demon. The sort of thing that drives the demon purists crazy.” His eyes flashed. “Personally, I’m agnostic. I see their arguments for purity. And yet I can’t help but be intrigued at what limits we might push if we loosened those strictures.”

  “Wait,” I said. “So demon purists aren’t just snobs? They’re trying to make sure demons don’t have these...uncontrollable offspring? With...this?” I pulled my hand back, skin against skin, and traced my own palm.

  “Partially,” Wilder said. “I’m sure some of it is more garden-variety prejudice. But philosophically—so, you know, the way I think of it—there is that argument for demon purity. Control. Bloodlines. Strength.”

  “What’s happened to the relics?” I blurted out. I didn’t like toeing this close to the line about my origins, not in front of Wilder. Not if he knew more than I did.

  Wilder tightened his jaw. “Nova, I really can’t tell you more than I did. You’re a student.”

  A desperate feeling clawed in my chest. I was getting so close to answers. “But someone’s taking them,” I said. “Is it a demon purist?”

  Is it Camilla?

  Wilder stood to his full, impressive height. “I think we’re done here, Nova. I’m glad you’re holding up.”

  “But—”

  He folded his arms. “I’ll see you at your exetasis.”

  Before I could protest any further, Wilder disappeared in a column of smoke.

  I GOT BACK TO THE DORMS ten minutes later, desperate to find Morgan.

  I knew exactly what I wanted to ask her.

  “Nova Donovan!” she greeted me when I walked into the room. “How are ya, lady?”

  I climbed onto her bed and wrapped my arms around her.

  “Poor girl!” she said. “Having a bad day?”

  “A bad week,” I corrected. “But I guess we all are. I could just use some girl time.”

  “What’s up? Feeling torn between Mr. Mopey and Professor Hottie?”

  I laughed. “It’s more...fundamental than that.” I hesitated. “Morgan, what did your parents tell you about what it means to be a demon?”

  Wilder’s comments made me realize that what I was missing the most was context. Morgan or Teddy could filter all they learned at Hades through the things they understood to be true as the children of demon parents. And my supercharged potential lineage notwithstanding, I just didn’t have that background. When it came to demon stuff, their bullshit barometer was much better than mine. Maybe if I knew a little more about how Morgan was raised, I’d get at least a small chunk of that much-needed context.

  “Well they each felt differently about it, of course,” Morgan said. “Typical parent stuff, really. Dad is a real hardliner. He scares the pants off of humans then laughs about it at the pub with his friends. My mum hates creating fear. She’ll find any excuse to get out of her duties. She finds it uncouth. Sometimes I wonder if she’s secretly a guardian and that’s why I’m such a messy bitch—bad DNA, or whatever.”

  I ignored that last line even though it stung to think about. “But they’re not...purists,” I said, carefully.

  “Gods, no!” Morgan looked alarmed. “What on earth has gotten into you?”

  I took a deep breath and explained: about Wilder, about the argument for demon purity, about the uncontrollable nature of my power.

  “But I thought you said you didn’t have powers,” Morgan said. “Or that they weren’t coming through properly.”

  “They’re not,” I explained. “But I think there’s a reason.”

  Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And this has to do with the relics...how?”

  “I’m not positive,” I said. “But I think that a demon purist—let’s just say Camilla—is using the relics to create chaos and blame it on someone like me. Or, no, not like me—exactly me. Then she can make the argument to close ranks in the school, kick half-demons out, and keep things, well, pure.”

  Morgan looked shocked. “But what if someone gets hurt?”

  “You really think she’d care?” I said. “Especially if it’s someone worthless like me. Or Teddy. Or maybe even you. Just for being sympathetic to half-demons.”

  Morgan fluttered her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. “Gods, and here I was thinking the biggest drama of first year would be who’s sneaking off to whose dorm room for a quick shag.” At that, she opened her eyes. “Speaking of, where do you think Raines has gone? Awfully suspicious not to be in class, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I strolled into my second exetasis session with a renewed confidence. I felt like Teddy after a few slugs of Hellwater.

  I had some kind of power, even if I couldn’t control it or channel it.

  I had a strong lead on who was messing with the relics—Camilla—and why—to screw me and other half-demons over.

  But what gave me the biggest boost was my realization that my destiny was mine to create. Nobody at Hades was going to tell me who I was. That much was for me to determine.

  Well, me, and the results of my exetasis.

  “As you can see, I still haven’t straightened up,” Wilder immediately apologized when I walked in. His office looked just as messy as before, if not even more so. “You’d figure I would do that after the first session, but I guess I’ve just been busy. But here I am, making excuses.”

  “It’s fine,” I assured him. I took my seat in front of his desk. “So what semi-awkward thing are we gonna do this time? Hug for an hour or something?” I couldn’t stop myself from chattering. It was weird.

  Wilder didn’t laugh, but instead gave me a strange look, which he blinked away quickly.

  “I mean, not that that’d be awkward,” I rushed on. “Hey, so, I wanted to ask you something about the relics. Because I was wondering—”

  Wilder put up a hand.

  “Nova, I’m going to have to ask you to stop right there.
”

  “But—”

  “This is your exetasis, and I need you to focus,” Wilder said, all congeniality gone. “If you don’t mind.”

  Embarrassment flooded me. I shook my head.

  “You should know that even if your exetasis produces satisfactory results, that does not guarantee your continued matriculation at Hades,” Wilder went on. “I don’t mean to be harsh, but if I were you, I’d stay out of trouble. Given what happened at the ball, all first-year students are under extra scrutiny. Professors are now designated reporters for any student mention of curfew-breaking or trespassing, including even a passing mention of the relics. Is that understood?”

  I nodded.

  “Very well. Tonight is a measurement of your mental powers.”

  “Meaning?”

  Meaning, it turned out, a pen-and-paper test. Well, a quill-and-parchment test, but same diff. For the next two hours, I wrote out answers to questions both basic (“Full name”) and complex (“In seconds, how old were you when the sun, Venus, and moon were last in ascendant syzygy?”). Each letter of my responses was then assigned a number based on a chart that Wilder referred to constantly.

  “I prefer the Chaldean method to the Agrippan,” he explained, pushing his hair out of his face as he scribbled. “It eliminates the number 9, but it draws more closely on the Hebrew alphabet, which I feel, kabbalistically speaking, is sounder, but—”

  “So what’s it coming up with?” I asked. “How am I doing?”

  Wilder said nothing, but his face went dark. “Let’s just proceed, Nova.”

  I was so completely tuned out by the end of it that I felt almost as drained as I had after tunneling my way to freedom with Raines, Tavi, and the angel twins. That, and my hand was cramping like a mofo. At about two in the morning, I finally left Wilder’s office, not even knowing my results, since apparently they had to be calculated in what I assumed was some kind of demonic scantron machine. No on-the-spot clues. Nothing.