13. Casandra
I slide into a desk in the absolute last row of the lecture hall, melting into the shadows of the steeply raked seating.
I pull my tablet out, keeping my movements small, fluid, and entirely unremarkable.
This class is exclusively for vampires—a specialized seminar focusing on the mechanics of our innate abilities and the training required to strengthen them.
The course is taught by Alistair Hawthorne.
Just looking at him standing at the front podium makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle with an instinctual, systemic alarm.
He carries himself with the quiet, terrifying stillness of a predator that has survived centuries of shifting political tides and bloody conflicts.
He knows too much, sees too much, and keeps his cards so close to his chest they might as well be grafted to his ribs.
My strategy for the next two hours—and every future class taught by him— is simple: stay invisible.
Keep my eyes on my notes, don’t volunteer answers, and do not, under any circumstances, draw his attention to me.
Hawthorne taps a pale finger against the side of the podium. The sharp, rhythmic sound echoes through the hall, immediately bringing the murmuring students to a dead halt.
“Let’s begin,” Hawthorne says, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carries effortlessly to the room. “The curriculum dictates that we analyze the foundational architecture of the vampire physiology. Everyone in this room is well aware of our common traits.”
He paces a slow, deliberate line across the front of the stage, his dark tailored coat sweeping behind him. “Enhanced muscular density resulting in superior strength. Accelerated reflex arcs giving us unmatched speed. Night vision. Enhanced hearing.”
He stops pacing, his piercing gray eyes scanning the tiered rows of desks. “Can anyone here tell me about any other powers? The latent, rarer manifestations of our blood?”
Silence stretches across the room. It’s thick, heavy, and absolute. Nobody breathes. Nobody shifts. The younger vampires look at their desks, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the wood, terrified of being called upon.
Hawthorne lets out a faint, dry mumble under his breath, a flicker of profound irritation darkening his sharp features. “Of course not,” he murmurs, the utter disdain in his tone cutting through the quiet.
He leans his hands on the podium, his gaze dropping to the floor for a brief moment before he raises his head again.
“Before the war, before the treaties forced us to police our own ranks to appease the shifting global balance, vampires were free to explore the deeper recesses of consciousness. We practiced mind wielding. The ability to reshape perception, command obedience, and rewrite memories.”
A collective, silent ripple of tension passes through the room.
“However,” Hawthorne continues, his voice dropping into a colder, more clinical register, “after the war, mind wielding was strictly prohibited. Illegal to practice. Illegal to teach.”
Near the front row, a young female vampire tentatively raises her hand. “If it’s prohibited... how come you are teaching us about it now?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.
Hawthorne’s eyes narrow into razor-thin slits as he fixes his gaze on her. The temperature in the room feels like it drops ten degrees in a single second.
“I am not teaching you how to use it,” Hawthorne says, each word dripping with a quiet, lethal edge that makes the girl visibly recoil. “I am educating you on its historical existence. Do not mistake a history lesson for an instruction manual.”
He lets the warning hang in the air until the girl nods quickly, dropping her eyes.
A few rows back, a male student clears his throat, emboldened by the topic. “Why was is prohibited?”
“Because of how it was abused,” Hawthorne says.
“Before the war, the Sakhrayea used their advanced mind wielding to systematically infiltrate the minds of the other High Elders,” Hawthorne explains, his voice devoid of emotion.
“They turned allies against allies. They overrode free will, forcing the High Elders to betray their own covens and align with the Sakhrayea agenda. It was that overreach that ignited the catalyst for the war. Regular vampires, the lower bloodlines,
could only ever use this power on fragile human minds. It was a parlor trick. But the older, more ancient the bloodline, the more devastating the power becomes.”
He looks towards the back of the room, at nothing in particular, seemingly lost in thought. “The Sakhrayea possessed the second most ancient bloodline in existence. Their leader could bend another High Elder to their knees without lifting a finger.”
The rest of the lecture passes in a complete, agonizing blur.
Hawthorne transitions into a comparative analysis, contrasting the psychological limits of vampire abilities with the pack-oriented, emotional telepathy of the werewolf species, but I can’t hear a single word.
My mind is trapped in a destructive loop.
Mind wielding.
I didn’t know. My father had kept so many secrets, buried so much of our history in a desperate attempt to keep me safe, to keep me hidden.
When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of the class, the sudden scraping of chairs and shuffling of papers snaps me back to reality.
I move instantly. My instincts scream at me to get out of the room, to put as much distance between myself and Hawthorne as humanly possible.
I throw my notebook into my bag, slide out of the desk, and join the mass of students funneling toward the double doors at the bottom of the stairs.
I am three feet from the threshold when his voice cuts through the noise.
“Casandra.”
The sound of my name is low, but it rings out with the clarity of a church bell. The students around me don’t stop, entirely consumed by their own conversations, but my feet freeze against the stone floor. My heart hammers against my ribs.
I swallow the lump of anxiety in my throat and turn around.
Hawthorne is standing behind his desk, methodically stacking a pile of reference books. He beckons to me with a subtle, dismissive wave of his hand. I force my legs to move, walking down the steps against the flow of the departing students until I am standing right in front of his desk.
He looks up. For a fraction of a second, his gray eyes narrow. Then, the intensity vanishes, replaced by a smooth, unreadable mask.
“I hope you enjoyed the lecture today,” he says quietly.
I look around the empty amphitheater, the last of the students disappearing into the hallway. Confusion mixes with a heavy layer of dread. Why is he singling me out?
The answer settles in my stomach like lead. He knows. He knows exactly who I am.
I force my lips to stretch into a polite, entirely artificial smile. “It was very enlightening. History is always... fascinating.”
Hawthorne smiles back, a thin, curved line that doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say anything else. He just continues to stare at me, his silence acting as a dismissal.
I give him a tight nod, turning on my heel to finally escape. I take two hurried steps toward the exit, desperately wanting to breathe the fresh air of the courtyard.
You have no idea how much power you wield. So much raw, unrefined potential, waiting to be unlocked.
I gasp, spinning back around so fast my hair whips across my face. “What?” I breathe out, my hand instinctively flying to my temple.
Hawthorne is still standing behind his desk. He is casually shuffling a stack of papers, his expression a picture of mild, professional confusion as he looks up at me. “I didn’t say anything.”
I stare at him, my breath catching in my throat.
Hawthorne sets the papers down with a soft thud. He steps out from behind the desk, his eyes locking onto mine with a cold, unyielding gravity.
“Go on now,” he says, his tone perfectly pleasant, though the underlying meaning slices through the air like a blade.
“The campus can be quite treacherous this time of year. Accidents happen in the dark, and it would be a tragic shame if a promising student like yourself were to be... killed off by mistake. Be careful where you walk.”
I don’t say another word. I turn and run out into the sunlight, the cold echo of his voice still ringing in my head.