Rafael

My cousin Helena was waiting in my apartment when I got back from Dean Hale’s office. She’d let herself in using the spare key I’d made the mistake of giving her three years ago.

“We need to talk,” she said from where she sat on my couch, arms crossed.

“Hello to you too. Make yourself at home, please.”

“This isn’t funny, Raf.” She stood, and I was reminded that despite being four inches shorter than me, Helena had a presence that could fill any room. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”

I dropped my bag by the door and headed for the kitchen. “I taught a lecture. That’s literally my job.”

“You publicly challenged a D’Armand. In front of students. On the first day of a course that every elder in our clan already had reservations about.”

“Those reservations are exactly why the course needs to exist.” I pulled a blood bag from the fridge, trying to keep my voice calm. “The D’Armands have controlled the narrative for too long, Helena. Someone needs to push back.”

“Push back in academic journals. At conferences. Not in a classroom where you’re supposed to be building bridges, not burning them.”

I turned to face her. “Since when do you care about building bridges with the D’Armands?”

“Since the elders told me this morning that if you keep this up, there will be consequences. Not just for you. For the whole family.” Her voice was tight with frustration. “Do you understand what you’re risking?”

“The truth?” I shot back. “That’s what I’m risking. The chance to finally get our history, our perspective, into the official curriculum instead of relegated to the margins.”

Helena closed her eyes, taking a slow breath. When she opened them, her expression had softened slightly. “I know you believe in this. I know Great-Grandmother Katarina’s work means something to you. But you can’t fight three hundred years of D’Armand institutional power by shouting at Lucien D’Armand in a lecture hall.”

“I wasn’t shouting.”

“You were close enough that students are already posting about it on social media. There’s a hashtag, Raf. #VampireHistorySmackdown.”

I winced. “Okay, that’s unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Helena laughed without humor. “The elders are furious. They think you’re making us look unprofessional. Like we can’t engage in serious scholarship without it devolving into emotional outbursts.”

That stung because it was exactly what the D’Armands always said about our clan. That we were too emotional, too invested in personal grievances to maintain scholarly objectivity.

“What do the elders want me to do?” I asked, though I already knew the answer wouldn’t be good.

“They want you to be more careful. More strategic. They want you to remember that everything you say reflects on the entire Voss clan.” Helena moved closer, her voice dropping. “And they want you to stay away from Lucien D’Armand as much as possible. Do the bare minimum for the course, but don’t get pulled into any kind of partnership or collaboration.”

“Dean Hale just mandated exactly that. We’re supposed to co-teach as equals, plan lectures together, present a united front.”

Helena’s eyes widened. “No. Absolutely not. You have to get out of that.”

“I can’t. It’s either work with him or lose the course entirely.”

“Then lose the course!” She threw up her hands. “It’s not worth the risk. The D’Armands are already looking for ways to undermine our credibility. If you get too close to Lucien, if you give them any ammunition at all, they’ll use it against the entire clan.”

“Or,” I said slowly, “this is exactly the opportunity we need. A chance to work directly with a D’Armand, to challenge him face to face, to force him to engage with our scholarship instead of dismissing it from a distance.”

Helena stared at me. “You’re serious.”

“Completely. Look, the elders want to protect the clan’s reputation. I get that. But maybe the way to do that isn’t by avoiding the D’Armands. Maybe it’s by proving we can hold our own in direct engagement. That our work stands up to scrutiny.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“It will.” I had to believe that. Great-Grandmother Katarina hadn’t spent decades collecting testimonies and documenting suppressed histories just to have her work dismissed as emotional speculation. “But I need to be smart about it. Strategic, like you said.”

Helena studied me for a long moment. “You’re going to do this regardless of what the elders say, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to do my job. Teach the course. Work with Lucien because that’s what the academy requires.” I met her gaze. “I won’t apologize for challenging D’Armand scholarship. But I’ll be professional about it.”

She sighed. “I’ll try to run interference with the elders. Buy you some time to prove this can work. But Raf, you need to understand something. The elders aren’t just worried about academic reputation. They’re worried about what happens if the clans start cooperating too closely. About what it means for our identity as Voss vampires if we blur the lines that have defined us for centuries.”

“Maybe those lines need to blur.”

“Maybe.” Helena headed for the door, then paused. “Just be careful. Lucien D’Armand isn’t your friend, no matter how engaging the intellectual sparring gets. He has his own agenda, his own clan pressures. Don’t forget that.”

After she left, I stood in my empty apartment, her words echoing in my mind.

She was right, of course. Lucien and I weren’t friends. We were colleagues forced into collaboration by administrative order, representatives of clans that had been at odds for three hundred years.

But there had been that moment in Dean Hale’s office when he’d said he was willing to try. When I’d seen something in his expression that looked like genuine commitment rather than just professional obligation.

Or maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: “This is Lucien. Dean Hale provided your contact information. Faculty library tomorrow at 2pm to begin joint lesson planning.”

I stared at the message. Formal, precise, exactly what I’d expect from Lucien D’Armand. No greeting, no pleasantries, just the necessary information.

I typed back: “See you there.”

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I added: “We should probably establish some ground rules.”

His response came quickly: “Agreed. Come prepared with suggestions.”

Of course he’d want a structured approach. Probably color-coded guidelines and numbered protocols.

But as I set my phone down, I found myself almost looking forward to tomorrow. To the challenge of working with someone who pushed back, who made me defend every position, who refused to simply accept my perspective without question.

Even if that someone was a D’Armand.

Lucien

The faculty library was nearly empty at two in the afternoon. Most professors preferred their own offices, but I’d always found something peaceful about this space. The high ceilings, the rows of specialized academic journals, the silence broken only by the occasional turn of a page.

I’d arrived fifteen minutes early and claimed a study table near the back, away from the main circulation desk. My materials were already organized: syllabus draft, reading lists, proposed lecture topics, and a document outlining potential ground rules for our collaboration.

Rafael arrived exactly on time, which surprised me. He carried a worn messenger bag that looked like it had survived multiple academic conferences and probably a few natural disasters.

“Lucien.” He dropped into the chair across from me.

“Rafael.”

We stared at each other for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us. Our clans’ disapproval. The administrative pressure. The fact that we’d barely managed to get through one lecture without it becoming a public spectacle.

“So,” Rafael said finally. “Ground rules.”

I slid my document across the table. “I took the liberty of drafting some proposals.”

He scanned the page, eyebrows rising. “You outlined eleven separate protocols for classroom interaction.”

“I believe in being thorough.”

“You believe in being controlling.” But he said it without real heat, almost with amusement. “Okay, let’s see. Rule three: ‘Each professor will have exactly fifteen minutes to present their perspective on any contested topic before opening for discussion.’ That’s very specific.”

“It ensures balance.”

“It also ensures we sound like we’re giving depositions rather than teaching.” Rafael pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his bag. “I wrote some ideas too.”

I took his page. The handwriting was nearly illegible, and there were only three items listed.

“‘Be honest. Be respectful. Be willing to change your mind.’” I looked up. “This is your entire framework?”

“Sometimes simple is better.” He leaned back in his chair. “Look, we can create all the protocols we want, but if we’re not actually listening to each other, none of it matters. And if we are listening, we probably don’t need eleven rules to tell us how to do it.”

I wanted to argue that structure was important, that clear guidelines would prevent the kind of chaos we’d created in our first lecture. But there was something appealing about Rafael’s approach. Something that felt more authentic than my carefully constructed protocols.

“What if we compromise?” I suggested. “We establish some basic parameters for classroom management, but we keep them flexible. And we both commit to your three principles.”

Rafael grinned. “Look at you, being reasonable.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We spent the next two hours hammering out a revised syllabus. It was harder than I’d expected, every reading list becoming a negotiation about which texts to include, every lecture topic requiring careful balance between traditional and alternative perspectives.

But it was also productive in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Rafael’s suggestions forced me to think more carefully about my assumptions. My insistence on primary sources pushed him to be more rigorous in his methodology.

“What about the Arcanum?” Rafael asked as we worked through week seven’s materials. “Are we going to address the fact that most of the restricted texts in there are ones that challenge D’Armand narratives?”

“That’s not why they’re restricted,” I said automatically.

“Isn’t it?” He fixed me with a steady gaze. “Every text Great-Grandmother Katarina cited in her book is locked in the restricted section. Every oral history collection, every alternative account of the Separation. Meanwhile, your family’s official histories are freely available.”

I started to respond, then stopped. Because he was right. I’d never thought about it that way before, but the pattern was undeniable.

“The texts are restricted because they’re fragile,” I said slowly. “Because they require special handling.”

“Or because they’re dangerous. Not physically, but to the approved narrative.”

We looked at each other across the table, books and papers scattered between us.

“What if we requested access?” I heard myself say. “To the restricted section. For the class.”

Rafael’s eyes widened. “You’re serious.”

“If we’re going to teach students to think critically about historical sources, they should see the full range of materials. Including the controversial ones.” Even as I said it, I could hear my uncle’s voice in my head, warning me about giving legitimacy to Voss propaganda.

But this was about education. About intellectual honesty. Wasn’t it?

“The elders will hate this,” Rafael said.

“Both our clans will hate this,” I agreed.

He smiled slowly. “When do we submit the request?”

Despite everything, I found myself smiling back. “Tomorrow.”

We worked for another hour, finishing the syllabus revision and outlining our next three lectures. By the time we were done, evening had fallen outside the tall windows, and the library was empty except for us.

“This might actually work,” Rafael said, gathering his materials. “The co-teaching thing, I mean.”

“As long as we maintain professional boundaries and remember we’re colleagues, not friends,” I said, perhaps more sharply than necessary.

Something flickered across Rafael’s face, too quick to read. “Right. Professional boundaries. Wouldn’t want to blur any lines.”

There was an edge to his voice that I couldn’t quite interpret. Had I offended him? But we barely knew each other. Why would he care about being friends?

“I’ll submit the syllabus revision to Dean Hale,” I said, changing the subject. “And draft the request for Arcanum access.”

“Sounds good.” Rafael slung his bag over his shoulder. “Same time next week to plan lecture four?”

“I’ll send you a calendar invitation.”

“Of course you will.” But he said it with that half-smile that made it impossible to tell if he was mocking me or actually amused.

After he left, I sat alone in the darkening library, looking at our revised syllabus. It was better than what either of us had produced individually. More balanced, more thorough, more likely to actually accomplish what the course was meant to do.

Working with Rafael Voss was frustrating and challenging and intellectually exhausting.

It was also the most engaged I’d felt in my scholarship in years.

But I couldn’t let that matter. This was professional collaboration, nothing more. We had our separate clans, our separate loyalties, our separate lives.

We would teach this course, prove we could work together, and then return to our respective corners when it was done.

That was the only sensible approach.

So why did it feel like I was trying to convince myself?