The driver snapped his phone shut and blew out a long stream of smoke. "Women, eh?" he said suddenly, switching to broken English. "Always say divorce, divorce. You know what I say? Fine. Take divorce. But leave my fishing boat. She will not get my boat."
Will slid one headphone off his ear and glanced at him. "…Right."
The man laughed, rough and whezing. "Is good lesson for you, boy. Marriage is like Russian roulette. Only difference is… all chambers loaded." He tapped the wheel with his cigarette hand. "Bang, bang, bang."
Will raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"You know why I marry her? Soup," the driver continued, shaking his head. "Best borscht you ever eat. Then one day she say, cook yourself. After that? Pfft." He flicked ash out the window. "Now divorce."
Will leaned back into his seat. "…Bad luck."
The driver chuckled, half coughing. "Luck, no. Choice, yes. Remember this, boy—hide money, never argue hungry, and never trust woman who hates dogs."
Will put his headphone back on. "…Noted."
The ride was… lively, at least.
A wooden sign flashed by on the roadside:
Nevermore Academy – Next Left.
Will straightened slightly. 'Guess this is it. New chapter, four years. Let's see if I regret this later.'
His parents had wanted him at Whitehall Academy, England's premier Outcast school. Tradition, prestige, and every noble family name under the sun.
But Will wasn't interested in being paraded like a prize horse. Arguments turned into shouting matches, shouting matches turned into slammed doors, and in the end, he chose Nevermore, just out of spite.
He glanced at his carrier bag resting beside him. The zipper was slightly open, and tucked inside were two unopened letters, their seals still intact. One gold, one black.
He zipped the bag shut. He would deal with it tomorrow.
The Phantom joined a slow stream of cars pulling up to Nevermore's wrought-iron gates. The academy rose in the distance—an ancient castle, its towers stabbing into the sky, ivy crawling across weathered stone.
Students and families bustled at the entrance. Seniors in black uniforms guided wide-eyed first-years through the chaos.
Parents hauled luggage, siblings ran circles, and the whole courtyard was filled with greetings, laughter, and the occasional argument.
The Rolls-Royce stopped at the main steps.
Will slid out, pulling his headphones to rest around his neck. He inhaled sharply, the air was fresh, just like back home.
The driver grunted as he hauled the first suitcase from the trunk. He reached for another, tugged, and nearly toppled backward. "What is in here, boy?" he wheezed, his accent thick. "Dead body?"
Will stared at him flatly.
The driver chuckled nervously. "Joke, yes? Ha."
Will took the suitcase from his grip with one hand and slung it to the ground beside him. The man blinked in suprise, muttered something in Ukrainian that probably wasn't polite, and went back for the lighter bags.
When the job was done, Will slipped him a thick tip, several crisp bills folded tight. The driver's eyebrows shot up in joy.
"You are good boy," the driver said, bowing slightly. "Wish you luck at spooky castle."
Will gave a small nod. "Drive safe."
The Phantom purred away, making room for the next family's car.
Will turned, taking in the flood of Outcasts spilling across the courtyard. Vampires with shades, sirens with eyes like burning sapphires, faceless kids who were somehow alive and breathing, and humans too, normies as we call them. Mostly parents, humans could have outcast kids if one of the parents were an outcast.
Then a sharp howl interrupted his train of thought.
Will's gaze followed it, where a family of five was unloading. Three boys, most likley brothers were darting around, shoving each other and howling at passing students. Their platinum-blonde sister stood with arms crossed, short hair framing her unimpressed face as her parents wrangled the boys in.
Werewolves. Obvious. Loud, brash, noses twitching like they were one scent away from sticking their heads into a trash can.
The girl glanced at her reflection in a handheld mirror, brushing stray strands into place. Her mother swooped in like a hawk.
"Enid, darling, make sure you shave. Boys don't like girls with facial hair."
Enid's jaw tightened. "Yes, Mother."
"And red meat, don't forget to eat lots of red meat. You look anemic when you don't eat enough. Pale skin isn't attractive, you know."
The father, tall, broad, and grizzly stood silently beside them, hands stuffed in his pockets. Passive. Clearly, the mother wore the shoes in this family.
Enid forced a tighter smile. "Will do." she clearly had enough and wanted to escape as soon as possible.
One of her brothers lunged toward a passing siren, sniffing in a no no area. The mother gasped. "Stop that this instant! We do not sniff strangers' behinds!"
The brothers cackled, howling again, while Enid groaned and snapped her mirror shut.
"Perfect. Thanks for the advice, Mom," she muttered, stepping back. She hugged her father quickly. "Love you, Dad."
"Take care, pup," he said softly, squeezing her back.
Then Enid turned and bolted toward the main entrance. Will watched her go, with one eyebrow lifting. Looks like he wasn't the only one with family issues...
He shifted his bag higher and scanned the crowd again. First things first: figure out where the hell he was supposed to go.
Just as he was about to head inside, a voice called out. "Ah, you must be the new fresh meat." It was laid back, almost lazily so, like the speaker had already used up too much energy for the day. He slowly turned to his right.
Standing a few steps away was a tall Caucasian man, late twenties, maybe early thirties. His clothes were smart in cut but looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. His hair was messy, his beard uneven, and the smell of bourbon drifted faintly on the breeze.
Will narrowed his eyes. He didn't know the man personally, but the face was familiar enough to recognise.
"…Victor Crowley," he said.
The man grinned like a jackal. "Oh, didn't think anyone in this backwater hellhole would recognize me. But just so you know, autographs are only after lunch."
Arrogant. That was the first word that came to Will's mind.
Crowley stepped closer, extending a hand. "Don't let the cheap cologne and stubble fool you, kid. You're looking at one of the best occult brains alive. Victor Crowley, at your service… temporarily."
Will shook his hand once, firmly. His father had always told him the way someone handshakes can tell you a lot about yourself and them.
"Good grip," Victor said. "You already know who I am, so I won't waste my breath. I'm your new temporary teacher. Occult 101, every Thursday morning. First time teaching, so if you walk out of my class knowing absolutely nothing, don't get mad at me. Low expectations are the key to happiness." He chuckled at his own line, clearly amused.
Will blinked, not having anything to say.
Victor leaned back, looking around the courtyard like he was looking for something, or someone. "Well, I've done my good deed for the day. Met a student, pretended to care. That old shifter probably stopped spying on me by now, which means…" He patted his jacket pocket where a flask bulged. "…time for the bar."
He started walking past, then paused and snapped his fingers. "Oh, if you're heading to the dorms, just go through the main entrance, take a right, and you'll find the reception. They'll sort you out."
"Mm."
"Man of few words. I like that," Victor said, "Keep it up, Mushroom Cap."
Will raised an eyebrow. Mushroom Cap?
Victor waved lazily over his shoulder and disappeared into the crowd. Will watched him disapear before turning back toward the entrance. Weird guy.
He shifted his bag higher and followed the directions nevertheless.