Touch of Sibyl

Chapter Four

I stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Somewhere deeper in the building, a bell chimed, warning me that I had five minutes to get to my next class, so I fell in with the flow of students walking toward the west wing of the English-history building.

From the outside, Mythical Academy looked like an elite Ivy League prep school, even though it was located in Teide Mountain, just outside of Isheville, up in the high country of western North Carolina. Everything about the academy whispered of money, power, and snobbery, from the ivy-covered stone buildings to the perfectly manicured grassy quads to the dining hall that was more like a five-star restaurant than a school cafeteria. Yeah, from the outside, the academy looked exactly like the kind of place rich people would send their spoiled trust fund babies to in preparation for them going on to Yale, Harvard, Duke, or some other acceptably expensive college.

Inside, though, it was a different story.

At first glance, everything looked normal, if a bit stuffy and totally old-fashioned. You know, suits of polished armor lining the halls, each one clutching a sharp, pointed weapon. Stone carvings and expensive oil paintings of mythological battles covering the walls. White marble statues of gods and goddesses standing in the corners, their faces turned toward each other and hands held up over their mouths, as if they were gossiping about everyone who passed by their perches.

And then, there were the students. Ages sixteen to twenty-one, first-year students all the way up to sixthyears, all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities, with books and bags in one hand and their cell phones in the other, texting, talking, and walking all at the same time. Each one wearing the most expensive clothes their parents could afford, including Prada, Gucci, and, of course, Jimmy Choos.

But if you looked past the designer duds and flashy electronics, you'd notice other things. Strange things. Like the fact that so many of the students carried weapons. Swords, bows, and staffs mostly, all stuffed into what looked like fancy leather tennis bags. Color-coordinated to match the day's outfit, of course.

The weapons were just accessories at Mythics. Status symbols of who you were, what you could do, and how much money your parents had. Just like the colorful sparks and flashes of magic that crackled in the air like static electricity. Even the lowliest geek here knew how to chop off somebody's head with a sword or could turn your insides to mush just by muttering a spell or two.

It was like going to school in an episode of Xena: Warrior Princess.

That's what all the kids at Mythical Academy were--warriors. Real, live mythological warriors. Or at least the great-great-whatever descendants of them. The girls were Amazons and Valkyries, for the most part, while the boys tended to be Romans or Vikings. But there were other warrior types mixed in as well-Spartans, Persians, Trojans, Celts, Samurais, Ninjas, and everything in between, from every ancient culture, myth, or fairy tale that you'd ever heard of and lots that you hadn't. Each one with their own special abilities and magic, and the egos to match.

As a general rule, though, everyone was rich, beautiful, and dangerous.

Everyone except for me.

Nobody looked at me and nobody spoke to me as I trudged toward my sixth-period myth-history class. I was just that psychic girl, and not rich, powerful, popular, pretty, or important enough to register on anyone's social radar. It was late October now, almost two months into the fall term, and I had yet to make a friend. I didn't even have a casual someone I could sit with at lunch in the dining hall. But my friendless state didn't bother me. Not much had, since my mom's death six months ago.

I slid into my seat in Professor Tin's myth-history class just before the bell chimed again, indicating that everyone should be where they were supposed to be by now.