11. Michael
11
Michael
“Professor Jessup.”
I look up and see the Deputy Headmaster, Abigail, in front of me. I put my pen down from grading a half-hearted essay some second year turned in about the Rift War and fold my hands together.
“How can I help you today, Deputy Headmaster?”
Abigail steps to the side, gesturing forward a tall, slim male with black hair that matches her own. Though she keeps hers about chin length and this male’s brushes his ears, the resemblance is impossible to miss. They’re family.
“This is my brother, Yuri. He works for the Tioney Times,” she says in a clipped tone. “Mister Sinclair has asked him to put together a story about the Academy. He thought you may want to be interviewed.”
I squirm uncomfortably in my seat. The last thing I want is to be interviewed. My name attached to a vapid advertisement disguised as journalism? And having to pretend to be the brainless simplynatural they expect me to be in front of a journalist? I have no doubt this male is trained to extract the truth.
But I cannot say no.
No one says no to a request from Robert Sinclair.
“That sounds like a wonderful idea, Abigail. I’d love to participate. The more supernaturals who see the benefit of this place, the better.” The lie nearly chokes me, but she doesn’t notice.
The Authentics never do.
“Perfect! Well, I’ll leave you two be. Yuri, do come find me when you’re done.” She claps her hands and exits swiftly, leaving me alone in my office with this stranger.
His face cracks into a wide, handsome smile as he flops into the chair across from me. “My sister can be a bit much sometimes, huh?” he chuckles.
I keep my face neutral.
He squirms uncomfortably at my non-reaction but soldiers on. “Anyways, this isn’t my usual type of piece. I’m an investigative journalist, but I just got hired full-time from my internship, and I’m not going to look a gift centaur in the mouth, you know?”
The joke doesn’t land. If he continues like this, it won’t be a stretch for me to fake the simplynatural countenance.
“Alright,” he drags out the last syllable, “we’re trying to get a slice of life piece of attending the Academy. An insider’s look, if you will. So I’d like to interview you and then maybe follow you around a bit, have you introduce me to some students. How does that sound?”
I know one student I certainly will not be introducing him to.
“That sounds fine, Yuri. Whatever you’d like to do.”
A black recorder clatters on the table. “I’m gonna start recording now, yeah?” It’s not really a question. He pulls a notebook out as well and then reclines. “What brought you to the Academy?”
“I was a scholarship student.” I will have to keep my answers short and vague to get through this. I don’t know how I’m going to be portrayed in print, and I can’t risk any inconsistencies in my story.
He clicks the pen and scribbles a bit. I get the distinct impression that he’s not writing down anything. I think he’s just scribbling on the page.
“What about the Academy appealed to you?”
I clean my throat, straighten my spine, and try to adapt a passive expression. “I was unhappy being controlled by my spirit. I felt like a slave to primitive instincts and knew I could have a better life as a simplynatural.”
“What’s your spirit?”
“I’m a red cervidae shifter.” Shit, does that need to be in past tense?
Yuri leans forward, resting his elbows on my desk. “Interesting. I feel like that’s not that common. A deer, yeah?”
“Not a deer in the common understanding of the word. While a red stag is a deer, it’s much larger than a common white tail. Closer in size to a moose.”
I am proud of my spirit but can’t let that tone bleed into my voice.
My father is a red stag, but my mother is a white tail. We were unsure which spirit would manifest in me, but when I first shifted at five years old, and my stag spoke to me, my father’s face lit up with pride. Since it is a recessive spirit, there are few of us left, and it gave us something special to connect over.
I miss running through the woods with my herd.
“That’s pretty badass, not going to lie,” Yuri says, jarring me out of my memories. “I’d love to see it.”
This feels like a trap.
“I do not feel the need to shift anymore. Since attending the Academy, I have learned that there is nothing I need my spirit for. In releasing that desire, I can focus on more important things and become a better member of society.”
My stag, who has been quiet for so long, bucks inside of me, and I feel his anger like a punch to the gut. He’s been more prevalent since I met Stella, and I don’t want to examine what that means. I hate that he’s awake to hear this.
I promise I don’t mean this. You know why we’re here.
He steadfastly ignores me.
“Right, right, of course. Tell me about the Academy. Why do you think it works so well?”
After two hours of answering Yuri’s questions, I’m exhausted. I do not see how those questions could make for a good article, but who am I to question Robert Sinclair’s desires?
Yuri trails beside me as we leave the Academic building. He wants to be introduced to some students and interview a few. I’m not too fond of the idea of exposing a student to him, but I cannot decline.
The dining hall is bustling during the dinner hour, with all manner of spirits milling about. In a large group like this, it’s easy to tell how long they have been attending the Academy. The second-year students move slower, with more precise movements. They’re quieter, more subdued. Mostly, they don’t even smile.
A necromancer could reanimate a corpse, and it would have more personality than these students.
“So this is the dining hall. The Academy provides all meals. It is very generous. We only serve Authentic food. All spirits must learn to adapt to the Authentic diet,” I tell him as we grab plates. “No outside food or drink is allowed on campus.”
He hums as he piles his plate high with roasted potatoes and chicken. “Makes sense. Who knows what people could sneak in in food? Could be dangerous.”
“Exactly,” I respond with no inflection. “Plus, there is everything we could want here. The menu changes daily.”
The reporter grabs a large slice of chocolate cake and looks around the hall. “Where do we sit?”
“Normally, I eat with the staff. Is there any spirit in particular you’d like to meet?”
Sucking his teeth and scanning the room, the reporter shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t spend any time with supernaturals. Just whoever.”
I gesture to a table on the opposite end of the hall where a coven – not a coven, can’t have one of them, it would be against the rules – of vampires sit on their own. They’re staring at plates with large steaks on them.
“Can we sit here?” Yuri asks as he slides onto the bench without waiting for an answer. The quartet of vampires stiffens, nostrils flaring at the Authentic.
He’s oblivious to the effect his scent would have on hungry vampires.
“Sure,” the male with short dark hair says sharply. Tree, I recall. I had him in a class last quarter.
“Yuri here is the Deputy Headmaster’s brother and a reporter. He’s doing an article on the Academy and wanted to speak to students about their experiences. Would you be willing to answer a few of his questions?”
The sole female of the group whimpers and ducks her head, cutting into her steak and rapidly chewing it. I glimpse the inside and see it might as well be raw.
The treatment of vampires, in particular, at this place is atrocious. How the simplynatural vampires survive without blood amazes me, and it’s clear that these students are not to that point yet.
As I slowly eat my pasta, Yuri peppers them with questions about their classes, their friendship, and how they ended up here. My eyes glaze over as I listen.
The male is cocky. His attitude makes him seem like he is gracing us with his presence, as if no one has ever told him no. It’s not sinister. It’s entitled. He’s oohing and ahhing over lives. Over the extreme reconditioning that we have to go through to be a part of a society that would rather us dead.
It’s gross.
Based on the questions he’s asking, I’m sure this piece will be warped into a story about Robert Sinclair’s wonders and how he’s guiding our wayward spirits back into the light.
As we clear off our trays and head out, a flash of white, gold, and bronze catches my eyes. A pair of wings wrapped around bare shoulders sandwiched between a Cyclops and a male whose spirit I can’t immediately discern.
I want to stop her.
I want to speak to her.
But I don’t. Not with the reporter here.
Yuri stiffens next to me.
“Who’s that?” he asks in a low voice, inclining his head at Stella’s retreating back.
“Who?”
“The female with the wings. Who is she?” I don’t like the tone of his voice. It’s dropped into something darker, something angry. I stare blankly at him, and his lip curls. “I said, who is she?”
“I do not know all of the students, Yuri,” I answer smoothly, turning him in the opposite direction of the one she walked away in. “Let’s get you back to the Deputy Headmaster’s office. I’m assuming you got enough information?”
“Sure,” he says, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the spot Stella disappeared. “For today.”