There are no rules in college. It doesn’t matter if you skip class, or if you cheat on an exam, or if your fraternity participates in hazing rituals, or if you have sex with your professor, so long as the money-hungry officials in charge are getting paid for it. It’s the world’s biggest pyramid scheme—the idea that a college education equates to knowledge when it can’t be anymore false. I am much smarter than my peers with in-depth knowledge of every subject known to man, and that is simply due to seven hundred years of experience, not because I read about it in an over-priced textbook. |
This is why I am not the least bit surprised when Professor Mackus stops me on my way out of the classroom after Wednesday’s lecture, insisting we need to talk. The bags underneath his small brown eyes are even bigger up close, and it’s clear to me that his morning coffee isn’t doing him any favors. Still, he puts on an uneasy grin when I turn to face him. I know what he wants, but I enjoy playing the unaware role he expects from his students.
“Yes?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“Just wanted to give you a warm welcome.” His grin is anything but warm. “You’ve been here for a week now and you don’t participate in the discussions even though you have plenty to say in your reading assignments.”
“I was not aware that participation was necessary.”
“It’s not, but when someone possesses such radical views as yourself, I think it warrants a class discussion, don’t you?”
Radical. What’s radical is the fact that students are paying money they don’t have just to take a class about fictional creatures. “No,” I say, because it doesn’t. “I wouldn’t describe my views as radical. Do you honestly believe a wooden stake can kill a vampire? This immortal, all-powerful, enhanced being can die by a piece of wood?”
Mackus tries to hide a chuckle. “I don’t believe it, but obviously someone did which is why we discuss the lore of these things in our lectures.” I grimace which makes him continue. “So, what you’re saying is that vampires can’t be killed? They have no weaknesses, then?”
“What I’m saying is that it’s unimaginative,” I retaliate. “If you’re going to make up a story, make it an actual story. Even the werewolves have a better backstory than that!”
“So…” Mackus closes the distance between us, subtlety, but I notice. It doesn’t make me nervous—if anything, it should make him nervous. He’s never met someone like me before, so I know I am only deepening his interest. “…what do you believe kills a vampire?”
“Vampires are human beings and can be killed by anything a human can be killed by,” I state with confidence. It’s a half-truth since I’m sure humans aren’t withering away at the sight of garlic, but at the same time, no one can just kill a vampire. We would see it coming from a mile away.
“Interesting take. So, vampires are just like us.”
Just like us, as if we are the same. I want to laugh, but I entertain his notion and remove the remaining space between us. “But better,” I whisper. I am the first of his students to make the first move and it shows. Professor Mackus doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he ends up shoving them in the pockets of his tight trousers. His bulge tightens and he coughs to change the subject.
His tired eyes are on everything but me when he says, “Very well, Ms. Winters.”
“Please, call me Chloe.” I assure him in a dangerously low voice. I know he’ll be of great use to me, but for what I am not sure of yet.
Mackus doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t know how to operate when he’s not the one in charge. He knows exactly what to say when he’s slithering his way into his other students’ pants and yet, he is speechless. A garter snake in the eyes of a king cobra. His sexual desire for me is obvious, but so is his fear. He thinks I’m trying to catch him in the act—blackmail him, possibly, but I don’t care about his perceived abuse of power since we all know who really holds that.
And just like that, I know exactly how I’ll use him.
“Hey, Paul.” He jumps at the use of his first name. “How about I talk to you more about my radical ideas outside of class? You know, one-on-one?”
“Uh, yeah … sure, you can visit my office hours at any time.”
“I was thinking somewhere a little more private,” I say. “Unless you want one of your students to walk in on us doing something…” My gaze ventures to his crotch, acknowledging its size, before I continue with, “…inappropriate.”
Mackus swallows a lump in his throat, but something inside him tells him that he can’t possibly deny me, so he doesn’t. He scrambles to his desk to retrieve a torn piece of paper and scribbles a number on it. Beads of sweat begin to form on his temples, but he gives me a reassuring smile when he hands me the paper.
“See you next class, Professor Mackus.” I wink at him and saunter out of the grand lecture room. I stare at the series of digits written on the strip of paper and smile to myself. I won’t be too eager to contact him; instead, I’ll let him marinate in the anxious thought of whether or not I am to be trusted.
He’ll prove himself useful in due time, but for now, I have to remind myself that unlike my peers, I did not enroll at SavU to have sex with my teacher. My sole purpose is Amara who in light of our budding relationship, wants to give me a tour of all the local areas that true New Orleanians frequent. She ensured me that if I stuck to her side, I would be one of them in no time.
And according to her, the best place to start is Crawdaddy’s—a packed seafood venue just a few blocks away from the heart of SavU. Amara had to go as far as reserve seats for us to be able to get a table in a timely manner, and I mentally smile at the thought of our friendship going according to plan.
“Please tell me you’re not fucking Professor Mackus,” are the first words to leave Amara’s lips when we settle into our comfy booth nestled in the corner with ample view of the restaurant. She’s quite observant for what I expect from people her age who are so obsessed with themselves to notice the world around them.
“I am not fucking Professor Mackus…,” I reassure her, “…yet.”
Amara grimaces. “I don’t get it. He’s not even cute—then again, neither are half the dudes that the entire student body is obsessed with, so … as long as he puts it down right, I guess.”
“Why are you even enrolled in his class? Do you believe in the supernatural?”
She pauses to ponder the question. “I wouldn’t say I believe in it, but I’m supposed to. My parents say we’re descendants of witches, but my dad can’t even get his taxes in order, so I think that’s highly unlikely.” She laughs in an attempt to illustrate the absurdity of her statement, but she doesn’t realize how right she is. “What about you?”
“Well, I don’t have any familial ties like you do, so I guess it’s just a free elective for me.” And the conversation continues with Amara giving me the lay of the land and the “who’s who” of SavU.
She tells me she thinks she can sense auras, always having a feeling about something or someone and I try to tell her it’s because she’s a witch, and she laughs. I don’t want to press the issue more than I already have because I know I have to build her trust. I know a lot more about Amara than she does me thanks to my extensive research and pseudo-stalking, but I can’t let that show.
Decades of being an apex predator taught me how to be patient.
“Ugh, speaking of…” Her dark gaze drops from mine just as a group of tall men stroll past us. The first of which, I am able to recognize immediately from his unorganized head of brown curls—Theo, the tour guide. He isn’t dressed in his red and gold uniform and is sporting a tee and sweatpants instead. “…he’s always here. I swear he’s stalking me.”
My brows furrow. “What’s the matter?”
“That’s Theo. My ex.”
The furrow only deepens as I am momentarily taken aback at my lack of knowledge of this information. My overseas businessman assured me he had given me everything there is to know about Amara Landry and her life, and yet, I am lost. “You dated the tour guide?”
“Yeah, you and me both. Remember that thing I said about me being able to sense auras? I sensed bad things about him from the start, and I ignored them because he’s hot and because my friends wouldn’t let me not date him,” I don’t have to say anything for her to know I want her to continue. “He’s bad news.”
It seems my assumption about Theo being a heartbreaker was correct, but this information doesn’t faze me. I am quite the heartbreaker myself. “Can you sense anything about me?”
She’s stunned by my question based on the way she blinks at me in bewilderment. It takes her a moment to draw her attention away from her ex-boyfriend and back to me, her deep brown eyes narrowing into slits as she studies me. It’s silent for a full moment before her shoulders slump in defeat and she returns her attention to her food. “Is it weird that I can’t? I mean, I’ve noticed ever since I met you that I don’t sense … anything.”
“Don’t know if that’s good or bad,” I joke, but I know it’s mostly good. The less Amara knows about me, the better—at least, for now.
“Dunno.” She shrugs it off and continues to push her food around her plate. “But I’ll figure it out eventually—I always do.” Her last words are laced with a hint of malice that I can’t truly decipher. She is cautious, attentive, and guarded—all things I knew about her prior to our organized meet-cute—but I take the time to remind myself I can’t be sloppy with her. If I say the wrong thing, Amara will notice, and I can’t risk losing her.
I give her a reassuring smile and return my attention to Theo, who is settling into his booth alongside four other unrecognizable men—friends, probably. He senses me staring and looks up from the table to meet my gaze with his piercing green eyes, and he smiles.
“God, would you look at that!” Amara exclaims from in front of me, slamming her hands down on the counter. I am almost worried she believes I want her ex-boyfriend, but when I return to face her, her eyes are glued to the TV posted above the bar.
I follow her gaze and am slightly shocked by the breaking news.
Late night jogger finds body in the woods
A man’s face appears on the screen, and I recognize him from his sleazy smile. They have already found and identified my dinner from a few nights ago, even though I was sure they wouldn’t. I was right—he isn’t a local—but he does have family in New Orleans who were concerned when he didn’t return Monday night. A slight lapse of judgment on my part, sure, but I am sure this won’t be traced back to me.
“This is the third time this month,” Amara adds.
I whip around to face her. “Third?”
“Oh, yeah, bodies have been dropping like crazy lately. Always showing up in the woods. The police think we have a serial killer.”
I force a laugh. “Serial killer? The news says it looks like he was bitten? Sounds like it’s an animal attack or something.”
“Or someone who likes to bite people.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Or a vampire.”
My laugh deepens. “Really? You really think it could be a vampire?”
She shrugs. “It’s not an animal. I’ll tell you that.”
The rest of our lunch is filled with pleasantries as I pretend to get to know Amara for the first time and tell her things about me that aren’t true. I want to be more involved in the conversation, but my mind can’t help but drift to the story on the news. There is one thing I know for certain: I am responsible for Monday’s murder.
But who is responsible for the others?
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