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The lock clicks, and Ange seals herself inside. She sighs, her brow pressing against the cool, dark door. The evening inspection had taken longer than anyone would have appreciated. For once, her classmates were unable to point their fingers at Ange. The unclean bathrooms were the responsibility of another class, but the blame was collective. Everyone was subjected to an intense grilling, though the words were directed at the squirming underclassmen. The first years burned under harsh, snarling words, as well as the narrowed glares of their seniors. Ange couldn’t summon a shred of sympathy, staring ahead at the opposite wall until the mutual dismissal was issued.
“You know, I wonder if Belphe-nee tempted them.”
Slim arms wreathe around Ange’s waist as the words, like the warm body, materialize behind her. Mammon sets her sharp chin to Ange’s squared shoulder. The full, long waves of her hair descend across Ange’s chest, softer than any silk.
“Belphegor, right?” Ange wonders, still learning the names of her sisters. “She’s the one before you.”
Mammon nods. “Mm! She rules over sloth. She tends to tempt older men, but agitating, haughty girls are also a shared favorite. Anyone with their noses lifted to the sky makes for excellent prey. They think they’re above us, so when they fall, they tumble like boulders down the sides of Mount Purgatory.”
She tilts her head, envisioning such a scene. The prim and proper students of St. Lucia have always carried themselves with an air of superiority, but it’s undeserved. They wear the guise of sophistication like veneers. They haven’t worked a day in their lives, and despite the chores given by the faculty, Ange’s classmates prefer foisting the work upon her whenever they aren’t carving crass comments into her desk.
Ange turns, Mammon loosening her grip and floating around her. Her dorm is otherwise empty, and appears larger when it’s only them. She sweeps her side of the room, her belongings carefully curated and supplied by her aunt. She has everything a dutiful student should own and nothing more. Compared to the modest glitz and glam of the neighboring décor, her side is considerably drab.
Yet, the princess has left the castle, and the pauper is allowed to play.
Mammon flits and twirls, kicking her legs. She pries open the window, bringing in a refreshing draft of cool, autumn air. Summer vacation ended some weeks ago, but her roommate had been called home. She refused to provide a reason. It isn’t as if Ange inquired, either.
“You know, it isn’t often that - what’s her name? Ah, who cares. We rarely get the evening to ourselves without that stuffy hussy,” Mammon declares, and clapping her hands together, she leans into Ange. Faint traces of lingering iron lift off her skin. “Now, I can truly monopolize Ange-sama for myself! So, tell me, tell me! What should we do first?”
Ange’s gaze drifts to her desk. There is an assignment due in about a week, and it holds little value. Mathematics can wait. She refuses to squander an opportunity that some would deem miraculous.
“Well, it’s a peaceful night,” she states, crossing to the hutch attached to her desk. Kneeling, she procures an exemplary biography and the source of happiness. “Want me to make your wish come true?”
Mammon gasps. Her heels click soundlessly on the carpet. She breathes Ange’s name, watching how Ange’s fingers flit through the pages. The key to Mammon’s delight is nestled within the strokes of genius penned by the great apprentice witch.
But Mammon, when Ange reaches the proper page, sticks her palm on the spine, and snaps the book shut.
Ange blinks, nostrils twitching as a slight plume of dust rises. The weathered pages press together, and then, Ange is suddenly staring at her hands. Her fingers flinch into her palms, and at once, she stiffens, finally discerning what Mammon has done.
Holding the treasured tome, Mammon cradles it to her chest, and her word fails Ange’s comprehension.
“No.”
Ange cannot smother her tremor. “Eh? Come again?”
Once in Ange’s service, Mammon made a wish for all Seven Sisters of Purgatory to be summoned by Ange. As Ange still needed time to master the basics, she is only capable of calling Mammon. Knowing how much Mammon adores her siblings, Ange had assumed the evening would have been perfect to make that dream a reality.
“Without my roommate’s toxins, tonight is just right. I can bring them to you. Isn’t that what you want?”
Mammon places the grimoire in the hutch, and slides it shut, treating the book as reverently as a priest holding the eucharistic bread. Standing tall, she tuts, and waves her finger, seemingly amused by the wrinkle in Ange’s brow.
“We can do that tomorrow. She’ll be gone then, too. My sisters can be patient for now,” she insists, and coming forward, she rests those greedy hands on Ange’s shoulders. With a deft nudge, she teases Ange back, her knees bumping against her bed, and down they fall. The dark sheets welcome them, though the pillows falter. She sidles next to Ange, one leg looping over her waist, one hand resting on Ange’s jaw. Like her skin, her breath is like cool iron. “Didn’t I say it clearly? Don’t tell me you listened with your hands covering your ears. I want to monopolize you.”
Ange mouths Mammon’s name, and heat flourishes across her body. She has never been so close with another woman. She has never known such intimacy, relishing how Mammon threads her fingers through Ange’s hair. Her caress is so gentle, such a foreign feeling when Ange has only been accompanied by strife and isolation. When Mammon’s hand strokes her cheek, her thumb resting on a bone that has been bruised countless times over, Ange’s tension vacates with a sigh.
She leans into Mammon, murmuring her name.
Mammon grins, demanding she state it louder.
“Mammon,” Ange says in sweet compliance.
As if she is the master, Mammon’s grin is wolfish.