“Nothing there for me.”
“I’ll fail out anyhow.”
“The band will profit.” The Viking-looking man nodded. “This is good.”
“Who wants to go back to life without magic!”
“My son!”
The last one was more scream than word. The speaker, an angry-looking auburn-haired white woman, seemed to deflate, as if the weight of her loss was too much. She glanced at the headmaster, who steadfastly did not look her way.
The chief witch, however, was moving on to the next item on his agenda. “Some of you have magic that has called out to specific heads of houses. They will be taking turns instructing you, and should you succeed, you may find yourself under one of their umbrellas.” He motioned to the very pale witch with the white-and-red hair. “With us today is Agnes, Lady of House Grendel, head of our house of justice. She studies the laws we have here—as well as patrolling the borders in case our walls falter.”
He then gestured to a Black woman whose hair was a series of long waves that fell to her waist. “Lord Scylla is a master of illusion. The House of Scylla primarily keeps the walls in place to protect Crenshaw from discovery.”
This time, the murmurs were a few quiet sounds asking why Lord Scylla, who dressed in feminine garb, used the male title. The only answer forthcoming was Scylla saying, “Because I like it.”
“All of you have met Dr. Jemison.” The chief witch beamed at the doctor, who merely nodded.
“Allan, current Lord Dionysus, head of our plants and drinks. His associate, Jörd, who fulfills the gardening and food production part of the duties when Allan is, er, resting.” The chief witch looked vaguely awkward as he glanced at the woman, Jörd, who sprawled over a chair like she was bored with the whole meeting.
Jörd, who was barely clothed and had deep red scratches all over her muscular arms, grinned. “I handle the earth’s fertility. I won’t be found inside classrooms.”
“Welcome!” Allan said cheerily, lifting a horn overflowing with some sort of liquor. “If you stay, please stop in at the Tavern of No Repute for celebration!”
A glance too long at Jörd had Ellie ready to blush at the thoughts that rose unbidden.
Magic,she reminded herself, jerking her gaze back to the chief witch.
“Omer and Fatima, Heads of House Hephaestus, who manage building, roads, and general infrastructure.” The chief witch motioned to a brown-skinned man and a woman with a hijab covering her hair and neck. “They repurpose housing materials, too.”
The pair murmured greetings, but they seemed distracted.
For a moment, the chief witch looked like he needed a stiff drink, but then he gestured at a group of people currently arguing. “The house of… which of you is currently the name of the house?”
“Xochipilli.”
“Nike.”
“Lugh.”
“Hermes.”
“Takemikazuchi,” said an Asian man.
The five answered simultaneously—and loudly. Ellie wasn’t sure which name was the person’s name and which was the god or being after which they were arguing the house’s name ought to be.
“The entertainment house,” the chief witch muttered. “Not arts, but—”
“Sports!” Xochipilli, who was as Latinx in appearance as the god whose name he carried, cheered in a husky voice. “We have a gaming space with—”
“Races,” said Hermes, who was a short man with calves so overdeveloped that they appeared carved.
“Combat sport,” Takemikazuchi added.
“I won that last bout,” grumbled Lugh, who was ginger-haired and stout.
“You cheated,” argued Nike, a non-gender-specific person with a slight tan.
