I’ve been reading too many fantasy novels again, the only explanation for why I dream I am in a graduate school for monsters. My friends and I are vampires, fairies, mermaids, angels, demons – the list goes on – and the faculty are angels and demons, with Michael as headmaster. We do the drudgery of classes, flirting with boys with fangs and comparing the color of wings and lipstick, spend late nights in the enchanted library pouring over living tomes as we cram for finals write foot-long essays with parchment and quill – clearly my subconscious still wishes I could have attended Hogwarts. I am Jophiel, par for course in dreams, with a pink and yellow aura and opalescent white wings, and my best friends and I laugh over drunk antics and party like there is no tomorrow in between the heavy load that is a magical monster grad school.
We learn ceremonial magick, sacred geometry, astrology, potion making, spellcasting – all taught by different angels and demons, but mostly we are on our smartphones texting each other about how hot the professors are and where the next kegger is located. Spring break finally rolls around and we pile like sardines into a VW Bug with shag carpeting and drive to an old English estate that’s doing the magical equivalent of an Air BnB.
Unfortunately, as we learn from the staff of the English mansion’s bed and breakfast, there has been an outbreak of vicious vampires who move fast as lightning unseen, do not pause for rest or sleep, only to eat, but thank god they cannot enter rooms uninvited. Instead they linger outside your doorway, starving you out, and the staff begin to fall like flies with bite-marks on their necks and blood at their feet.
We take it upon ourselves to use our magick to fight the vampires, and we think we have succeeded in an epic battle of silver against pale skin and ivory fangs, but they follow us somehow back to graduate school after break. The archangel professors hold council and summon me and my friends, then charge us with eradicating the vampire infestation as our final thesis before graduation.
We lay out traps for them, dummies stuffed with blood, and the vampires will pause momentarily to bite the necks only to find they are plastic, not flesh. Then we strike, stakes in hand. We pour over coffee and arcane grimoires on this ancient race of vampires unlike our fellow students – the Nightwalkers they are called – heartless and without conscience, killing machines.
The days wear on and finals draw close. Our thesis is due. One vampire is left. I am the decoy, a pretty blonde bombshell that cuts herself on her hands to lure the vampire in. He arrives, but before he can bite me my friends and I attack, staking him through the heart. We present the desiccated corpse to our thesis council and we pass with flying colors.