torment / a michael langdon fic

2

Within an hour, all the girls were assembled in two long lines near the front door. Everyone was dressed in black - it was an unspoken uniform. We didn't always play to the stereotypes, but when company came knocking, we all knew we had a duty to look the part. There's power in community, and even more as a bunch of strong young women in all black.

"Girls, the men that are coming-" Cordelia began.

"Hold on – men? Why?" One girl piped up.

Cordelia chuckled softly. "I'm not thrilled about it either. The men that are coming over are warlocks."

A murmur rippled through the room. I knew warlocks existed, but I'd never met one. They mostly stayed out of the witches' way, and we stayed out of theirs. Some girls swore warlocks were a myth, that they'd gone extinct ages ago.

My experience with witchcraft had definitely been dominated by feminine energy. I loved it, but I couldn't deny that the thought of men and boys like us, with our power, excited me.

"Dear God, let them be cute." The girl next to me whispered.

I guess life at Miss Robichaux's Academy felt pretty small sometimes. I loved all of the girls here; they were my family, through and through. I knew they'd die for me in a second and they knew I'd do the same for them. But sisterhood only goes so far...if another witch stole my hair straightener, I think someone would end up hexed.

So, some fresh faces – and maybe some cute ones – were appreciated, needed even. A buzz of excitement and pure curiosity hung in the air as we fussed with our stockings and lipstick. There was a collective inhale as the door clicked open softly. Cordelia seemed to brace herself.

The front door creaked open agonising slow.

A short man dressed in black stepped through the door first. His eyes were ringed with lines, wrinkled from years of laughter. Now, his face was set in a gentle smile, but there was a determination, almost intimidation, behind it. A long red scarf hung around his neck. I could only assume it meant something significant – he was clearly someone in charge.

"Ms Goode, and all young witches. Good morning."

Following the first man were three other older men. Behind them were rows of boys, ranging from twelve to well into their twenties. They were all dressed impeccably. I guess we all got the same memo: black.

"Ariel. How lovely to see you this morning." Cordelia kept up her smile.

I could practically hear the cogs turning in her head, trying to figure out what exactly these warlocks were here for, and what they wanted. The strong maternal instinct she had for all of us was in full force; she was a lioness, crouching watchfully in the shade, waiting to pounce as soon as it was necessary.

"My name is Ariel Augustus. I am Grand Chancellor of the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men, an institution much like Miss Robichaux's."

A snicker echoed through the witches. We all had the same thought: Nothing compared to Miss Robichaux's. No warlock school would change that.

Ariel's jaw tightened, as well as many of the men in the crowd behind him.

One of the younger boys held a great bouquet of red and white roses. Ariel motioned him forward silently.

"Let me get right to it, then. Witches and warlocks haven't been on the best of terms, for many years. Cordelia, in her reign as Supreme, has emphasised the importance of belonging, unity, and magical pride. We think the most logical next step is for witches and warlocks to come together as a united whole. We come to the Academy today as friends."