“Shit!” Seth glared at Nine Eleven. “Why?”

Out of all the 2000 people Seth tried his psychic thought transfer abilities on, it seemed like Christopher Robyn was the only person it worked on.

When Seth's eyes fell on him again, his smile got all the bigger, and he gave a quick salute to Seth, answering his thought with a telepathic “I hate that dumb son of a bitch, that’s why!”

 Diaz made it back to the front of the classroom and just smiled deeply at Vegas. Without any further thought, Vegas tugged on his robe and made his way down to the stage at the head of the class. 

“And could I ask for a more adorable model?” Diaz asked. The class chuckled as Vegas joined Diaz and completed his act by doing a little thugged out, rap star pose in front of the Professor. The sillier Vegas acted, the more the class laughed and whistled. Getting attention was never a problem for Vegas.

Seth, on the other hand, was nearly dead, and no one gave the slightest fuck. 

No one. Nada. Nobody. NOPE. No one cared. But when he died, they would care. Chris and Vegas and Eddie, when he gets out of the mental hospital. They would care once he was dead, because they all only love dead things.

On that note, he looked up at the Rangwark tapestry again. Maybe for some sort of inspiration or some final words from the heavens, before he took his eternal dirt nap and became a refugee from the land of the living. 

When he looked at the Rangwark tapestry, the calm and peaceful older gentleman’s face was distorted in a hideous, open-mouthed laughter. Jagged little razor sharp teeth were exposed, and the eyes on his face were looking directly at Seth. 

Through the strands of long blue hair, Seth blinked while slowly raising his head. His face dusted with fright as he looked at it. Seriously, that is just effin’ creepy! 

“Now Vegas, while you were reading pornography, your classmates and I discussed time manipulation. What are your thoughts on the subject?”

“Well,” Vegas gave an exaggerated smile to the class, his now captive audience. “If you could manipulate time so this bell would hurry up and ring, I'd think it’s doper than a basket of Christmas kittens!” 

The class laughed again, but not everyone, since someone else had made a similar joke just several minutes prior. Naturally, Vegas hadn't heard it over his own snoring.

Diaz grinned big, but the murder in his eyes betrayed the real sentiment behind the smile. The lens of his glasses glimmered with light as he wrapped his hand tightly around the back of Vegas' neck.

The crow on Diaz's shoulder squawked loudly and seemed troubled by Vegas’ disrespect. No one understood raven talk, but for whatever reason, the squawking coming from the creature with the black razzled feathers sounded crass, perhaps even vulgar. It was as if it were cursing Vegas out in its own little birdie slang. 

Diaz’s fingers began to dig into the flesh of Vegas’ neck as Diaz squeezed. The blond grimaced, and his face started to grow red and burn, but he didn’t shout out or struggle. He refused to let the vampire intimidate him. 

Diaz then turned to Professor Roth. “And herein’ lies a situation like what we discussed in my office, Professor Roth. For students like young Mr. Beltran here, I hoped by hiring more Mid-Realm Professors I could reach them on their level.” 

The side of Diaz’s fist bashed into the side of Vegas’ face and Vegas unleashed a little surprised scream.  

“Most of these youths come from non-magical families and have entirely different ways of thinking than us First Realmers,” he explained. “Even students like young Mr. Beltran here, who do come from magical families, have problems adjusting to this new way of thinking. Recently, I have started to implement many changes within the school. Hoping to make these promising young witches and warlocks more impassioned about their success and graduating. I think I may have to use Vegas here as the harbinger of this new school disciplinary system of mine…”

The squabbling bird on Diaz’s shoulder let loose a few squawks as its body began to warp and transform. 

Black wings flapped, material in the form of bone, beak and feathers began liquefying, dripping over Diaz’s hands like an oily tar. “That’s the problem with this generation of spell casters, Professor Roth,” said Diaz, as the melted mass grew, stretching over the professor’s fingers and then change color. “Everything has to be a big show! Their attention spans are ridiculously short.”  

Rahbeem’s eyes shifted to the right. The tattoo was gone from the butterscotch witch's neck. Then he realized there was a light tickling moving across his hand. Momentarily frozen in shock, Rahbeem watched with some relief as the black widow panicked and raced from the back of his hand, up Dorothy's arm to take its place on her neck again. Dorothy cracked none the wiser and watched the events on stage, fascinated. She didn't look alarmed, so Professor Roth figured perhaps he shouldn't be either. Even as he still felt the frosty tingle of the spider's legs on the back of his hand like a living memory.