Nocte Yin: Anti-Villain, Anti-Hero and Anti-Everything Else

Chapter Three

It was getting late, but she wasn’t going to stop any time soon. If she didn’t finish going over John, Laurier (the butler) and Alexander’s (the security’s) reports, she would have to include them in tomorrow’s pile. Just thinking of the heap made her cringe.

The fact of the matter was that time was of the essence. She had – she looked at the clock – she was thirty minutes behind schedule. If she became still, she could hear the horses stomping their feet impatiently outside.

It was strange how the house was so quiet and still. It was as if the week hadn’t happened; as if all that fussing and packing and reorganizing hadn’t happened. All that rushing about to decide which clothes to take, which investments to make and who should be holding stewardship – it all stopped, leaving faint traces of whispers, wasted time and faded memories.

“Weird,” she thought, frowning.

If she could, Nocte would freeze the moment – this moment – that was neither here nor there; neither then nor now – the in-between. It was a moment where imagination and reality stretched her out – a moment of black and white – a moment of confusion and clarity.

If she could stop Time, she would do it now, before shit hit the proverbial fan.

Because shit always hit the proverbial fan (poor fan!).

Every time September sauntered into her life and shoved her onto that large, portentous campus with that mocking, time-coordinated schedule, something always went wrong.

If it weren’t falling buckets or hexed pens, it’d turn out to be PMS-ing vampires clawing her face off or that strange hairdresser and his obsession with her hair.

Nocte shivered, stopping her train of thoughts immediately.

Now, really, one had to wonder why she kept going to that accursed school. It wasn’t like she enjoyed it. And now-

Her eyes trailed off Laurier’s reports onto the letter sitting “innocently” by the clock.

She slid the letter closer – silver ink on black parchment. The masthead was that familiar crest of a serpent wrapped around a tree; an apple in its mouth. The motto (Facinus pro vita) was stamped perfectly beneath the roots, solid and overbearing, as if it had been stamped on her forehead instead – sinking into her brain.

It was a letter from Evil Academy. She had received it last week, plenty of time for her to get used to it.

Dear Lady Necromancer,

– It had read. –

We, at Evil Academy, do congratulate you on your success in reaching your last year in school.

– Which was not true. Nocte had not gone to school last year and thus she was technically still in her thirteenth year. (First year started at four-years-old.)

It must mean that her brother, Lord Yin, had pulled a few strings, but not on her behalf. He must not have wanted to support her for two years instead of one. –

However, it can be assured that your last year will be the most difficult.

As you are aware of our academy’s traditions, all graduating students must complete a Final Project.

– Nocte hadn’t, and still didn’t, like the capitals on “Final” and “Project.” –

A dinner will be held accordingly on

Sunday, August # #, # # # #

at

18:00