“Like… the seven deadly sins?” I venture, teetering on the edge of losing my shit as she info-dumps cliff notes of the last few millennia.
She nods. “You’ll probably make a lot of connections between our history and ancient mythology as you get farther in your studies, so don’t freak out. Or at least try not to freak out yet.” I nod as if that’s even an option after the last twenty-four hours. I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t some elaborate delusion, but for the sake of the plot I’m just going to roll with it.
“I promise it’ll make more sense. So, before I can explain about demons, you need to know about The Fall. When the Devil was banished and imprisoned in the realm we call Hell, the most powerful elemental angels who Fell with him became the Elemental Princes. Their descendants are known as the “Heirs”. Once he installed himself as King of Hell, he began creating other demons from the essence of Hell—each imbued with elements of the sins that precipitated his Fall: pride, greed, lust, apathy, wrath, gluttony, and envy. These demons became the Demonic Princes, and their descendants are known as the ‘Legacies’.” I desperately want to explore the library in thedistance, barely reining in the urge to spring towards it as we approach the Student Union instead.
“Don’t worry—we’ll go there next. And I’ll introduce you to the librarian who can help you find some books that explain all this—” she copies my Captain Jack Sparrow finger wiggles from, “in more detail. Anyway—demons. The Elemental Princes were imprisoned and corrupted alongside the Devil, but they were still technically angels. Their descendants found a way to come to Earth and eventually spread their power and influence. Three of the four Heirs currently attend Dreadhurst.” My eyebrows raise—everything she’s said so far just reinforces how ill-equipped I am to survive this fairytale.
“The Demonic Princes, having been created in Hell, couldn’t just climb out like the Elementals. They had to be summoned by someone who could create and power a “Hellmouth”, a kind of portal that creates a bridge between realms. Any guesses as to who might have been able to create and power a Hellmouth?” She asks The memory of Augustine drawing runes on my apartment window come to mind.
“Freaking witches.”
“Freaking witches,” she says with a self-satisfied smile, and I actually laugh out loud—a genuine, spontaneous sound I’ve almost forgotten how to make.
“Once the bargains were fulfilled—usually to the detriment of the summoner—archdemons and higher-level demons were essentially free to roam about the cabin. They interbred with Fae, shifters, humans, witches, other demons, and on rare occasion, angels. Most of the mythical creatures and legends throughout human history can be attributed to those kinds of hybrids.” Our conversation is interrupted when someone greets her as we arrive at the Student Union. The high-end clothing boutique she brings me to seems out of place among theimposing gothic architecture. When we enter, I feel even more out of place, thinking of how little I have to my name.
“So, uh, not to be rude—which I’ll be the first to admit is rare for me,” I start, and she giggles, “but I don’t think I can afford anything in here.” I follow her through the racks of clothes, shoes, and everything in between to where an elegantly-dressed woman is ringing up another customer. When I see the total amount due on the register, I pretend like this girl isn’t spending the equivalent to a couple month’s rent in one transaction.
“Don’t worry—your scholarship will include a stipend for things like this. Once you get your new computer, you’ll be able to access your student email which should have all the information you need to find your account,” she dismisses easily, and I’m reminded once more of the disparity of my upbringing.
In Lynden, nearly everyone was poor. Suffering and strife were how we trauma bonded. Here though, not only am I the newest student on campus, ignorant about this world, and most certainly weaker, but likely also the poorest as well. And that feeling—much like hearing that fucking demons are not only real but walking around wearing skin suits—leaves my stomach churning with dread. Augustine’s parting words echo in my mind as I try to mask my discomfort.
“Maeve!” Tori greets the woman behind the counter. The girl in front of us side eyes me with a barely disguised sneer, and gathers her bags, giving me a wide berth like my socioeconomic status is catching. Maeve, who witnesses the girl’s reaction, rolls her eyes behind her back and returns Tori’s greeting with a polite smile.
“Ms. Hektreia, what can I do for you today?” she asks, glancing briefly at me. That’s all she needs, really—in mere seconds, she’s evaluated, drawn her conclusions, and discarded me into a tiny little box put in its proper place.
“We’re here to pick up some uniforms.”
“Last name?”
“Byrke.”
“Ah, yes. I saw an email come through earlier. I won’t have anything tailored until next week at least, but I’m sure there’s something that will fit. Find an empty room in the back so I can get your measurements, then we’ll see what I have stock,” she orders in a tone that I don’t dare disobey. With a look back at Tori—in case I need a witness or something—I find an empty fitting room and sit down on the plush velvet stool. My heel bounces from anxiety and adrenaline, and I startle when the heavy velvet curtain parts moments later. Maeve enters with a tape measure around her neck, a notebook in one hand, and a bundle of clothes hangers in her other.
“Strip, please. I’ll take your measurements first and then we’ll fit you for the uniform.” She looks at me expectantly and for the first time in a long time, I’m self-conscious about my body. I know what she sees as I begin to undress.
A stomach that’s seen too few meals.
Weak arms and legs, sapped of strength.
Scars from the only kind of love an abandoned orphan could find.
Piercings to take back ownership over the body that poverty stole.
Her gaze softens. Mine hardens, and I fix my eyes over her shoulder, ignoring her pity. I don’t need to look in the full-length mirror behind me to know what my body looks like. She clears her throat and gives me a tight smile before taking my measurements, careful not to touch my skin as she records whatever it is she needs.
“May I measure your bust as well? You might need a different sized bra.” I nod. After putting her notebook away, she directs me to put on the plaid skirt while she searches for a bra soI can try on the shirt. When she leaves, I rub the soft, supple fabric. Whatever it’s made of is more luxurious than anything I’ve owned before. Despite balking at the concept of uniforms—down with the patriarchy’s sexualization of young girls and all that—I indulge as I pull it around my waist. For the first time I can remember, I twirl. Just enough for the fabric to swish and sway, back and forth. Maeve knocks on the wall and thrusts her hand through the curtains, holding several lacy bras worth more than my entire wardrobe combined.
“Try these, then call out when you’ve found the one that fits best so we can continue.” I take the bras without responding and listen to her footsteps fade. The first two bras are a bust, but the third—a pink mesh and ribbon contraption—fits perfectly under the white button-down shirt. When I finally face the mirror, the girl—no, woman—staring back at me is a stranger. I’ve never met her before, but she looks like she has her shit together. Like she knows how to walk into shops with thousand-dollar purses without reflexively making herself smaller. She looks…not happy, exactly, but—assured? That’s it. Like she’s not ashamed of taking up space.
“Maeve,” I call out softly, and hear her footsteps as she approaches. More gently this time, she opens the curtains and hums in approval as she takes in how everything fits.
“Excellent. I wasn’t sure how much tailoring you would need but this fits nicely already. It may not take the whole week to fill your order.” With that, her fingers fly over the clothes, pinching and tucking and pinning until I hesitate to breathe deeply.
“Finished,” she says, standing. “You can get dressed, but keep the bra for today and leave the fitted uniform on the hanger. I’ll send more when the rest of your wardrobe is complete. In the meantime, I’ll pull together some things for you to take with you now and have enough standard uniforms delivered to your dorm this afternoon so you can last the week.” Inod, but she leaves without waiting for a response. When I walk out to the front of the store again, Tori’s looking at a shoe display that makes me physically ill when I see the prices.
“All set?” she asks, tearing her eyes off a particularly sparkly set of high heels that would lead to my premature death if I tried walking in them.
“Yep. She’s just grabbing a few things for me to take with. Thanks for sticking around.”
