4. Briar
brIAR
T he office smells like burnt coffee and printer ink, the kind of tired, lived-in scent that clings to overworked spaces. I stand just outside of the doorway, my shoe awkwardly tapping the tile, clutching my satchel strap like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Behind the small oak desk, a woman in a soft pink cardigan sighs so heavily it rustles the papers on her desk.
Her blonde hair is scraped into a bun that’s seen better days, and she looks one loose button away from snapping at me outright when she finally notices me.
Every time I open my mouth to try to get her attention, I end up saying nothing.
Stress and exhaustion pours off of her in waves as she flips through folders.
Maybe this really isn’t the best time to plead my case.
Just as I turn to leave, the heel of my boot squeaks against the sleek tile. Her head snaps up at that and I grimace as her mouth pinches into annoyance.
“Hi,” I manage to force out, turning back to face her fully. My throat constricts as I swallow my nerves and wet my lips. “I was hoping to have a moment of your time to discuss admissions.”
No sense in trying to escape unnoticed now.
“I told those boys the same thing I’ll tell you,” she mutters, giving her attention back to shoving a stack of folders into a crooked pile, “this office is closed and all decisions are final at this point, with the school year starting in two weeks.”
“I, uhm, haven’t applied,” I admit, stepping fully into her office now. Her warm brown eyes shift back to me with a furrow to her brow. I force my hands from my satchel strap to my sides, trying my best to not fidget.
Her eyes narrow and her mouth pulls into a pinched line. “So then what is it you want exactly?”
The excitement that carried me here fizzles a little under her stare. My voice catches in my throat, already anticipating her answer, but I force it out anyways. “I wanted to ask if you ever accept late applicants? I was hoping to start this fall.”
My spine straightens and I hold her silent stare.
She barks out a laugh without humor moments later, already moving to close her laptop. “The deadline was a month ago. You can check our website for spring applications. Goodnight.”
The chair creaks as she stands, already reaching for her bag. Panic jolts through me, sharp and electric. This can’t be the end. Not when I’m so close.
I dart forward a step, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
“Wait, please,” I plead, eyeing her nameplate on the desk before glancing back to her. “I know I missed the deadline, Ms. Tomlinson, but isn’t there anything–”
A huff puffs over her parted lips as she regards me. The creases at her eyes deepen as something akin to pity builds in her face. “Do I look like I can procure a spot for you out of thin air? I’ve been doing this for twenty years, dear. There’s late and then there’s impossible. You’re the latter.”
Heat flushes the back of my neck with the embarrassment I feel putting myself out there like this.
Her irritation scrapes against my already-frayed nerves.
For a moment I think I should just leave this poor woman alone, but then I remember.
The program. The one thing that had set my heart pounding when I read about it.
“The exchange program,” I blurt out as she pushes by me.
Instantly her feet stop and she turns back to look at me. “What?”
Curiosity reflects back at me now, and I let it spur me on.
“The exchange program,” I repeat, more certain now, “for magical applicants. You’re taking magical students, right? For the first time?”
It’s like an internal switch is flipped within her at the mention of it. The exhaustion drains out of her posture as she perks up, eyes suddenly sharp.
“You’re magical?”
I nod, slow at first, then firmer when her eyes widen. “Yes. I’m–” I hesitate on how much to tell her about who and what I am. “Well, I’m not human.”
The weariness that had draped her like a blanket vanishes, replaced by an energy so sharp it practically buzzes in the air between us as she rushes back to her desk.
She throws her purse on the ground and flips her laptop back open.
My own excitement and hope begins to slowly grow as she grabs a pen from the counter and clicks it with rapid-fire urgency, her hands trembling as she snatches a pad of sticky notes.
“You have no idea,” she gushes, almost to herself, “how long we’ve been waiting for this.
Not a single application. Not one. Do you know how embarrassing that is when we’ve been given full funding for the first magical program in the entire country and nothing to show for it despite our focus on outreach? ”
I blink, caught between disbelief and relief as she looks at the bright screen illuminating her face and taps her fingers along the keys.
“What’s your focus? What program?” she demands quickly.
“Uh, fine arts,” I hedge, heart racing as her gaze pins me. “Studio art, specifically.”
Her whole face lights up like I’ve just personally presented her with a million dollars. “Oh, this is perfect.” She’s already typing away before the printer comes to life. “Steinhardt needs this. This is it. This is the story.”
“The story?” I echo, slowly sinking into the chair in front of her desk, as if proximity will help me catch up.
“First magical student here and in the fine arts program, no less. A success story that proves our exchange program has value.” She spins in her chair, suddenly grinning at me like we’re coconspirators instead of strangers.
“Dear, if this goes through, you’re looking at a full ride.
Tuition, housing, materials. Anything you need, all covered. ”
The words sink in slowly. Full ride. My heart stutters and then kicks into a gallop, my whole body buzzing with a fragile, giddy hope. It’s almost hard to believe, given the stark difference to the beginning of this conversation.
She slaps a freshly printed packet onto the desk. “Fill this out. Every line. I’ll talk to the dean in the morning and see what strings we can pull. If you meet me back here at two o’clock tomorrow, I should know by then.”
My fingers hover over the application as if it might vanish. The black ink shines under the fluorescent lights. “You mean this is really possible?”
“Yes,” she answers, nodding her head while gesturing at the application. “Now fill it out. I’ll wait.”
It feels like the universe is finally tilting in my favor.
But as her earlier words process through my mind as I glance down at the blank lines waiting for me to answer, my stomach twists. Success story. That’s what she called it.
A story means attention. A headline. The kind of spotlight I’ve been desperate to slip out of my entire life. All it would take is one photo attached to some university announcement and all hunters would know exactly where I am. There would be no blending in with my fellow classmates either.
The smile stretching my lips falters for half a second before I force it back into place. She doesn’t need to know why the thought of being paraded around like a poster child makes my skin crawl.
I press my palms flat against the counter, willing my pulse to steady.
This is what I came here for. A chance to build a life that belongs only to me.
If that means playing their little game, smiling for their cameras, I’ll just have to be careful.
Maybe I can make a deal that they can run a story on me when I graduate.
I’ll give them all the details they could want, then, to make the story shine.
“Thank you,” I murmur, meaning it. Despite the dangers, she’s still giving me a chance at my dream.
My fingers tremble slightly as I take the pen she offers. Name. Birthdate. High school GPA. ACT and SAT tests results. It’s obvious they haven’t had a magical applicant, given so much of this only applies to humans.
“Some of this doesn’t translate to our schooling,” I murmur, letting my eyes continue to scan. “Is it okay if I cross some things out and write in what does?”
“Of course,” she rushes to agree. “We haven’t exactly had a welcome to Praeditus, despite the attempts to mend the rift between realms, so we were unsure of what to list.”
My head nods absentmindedly. Despite the humans attempting peace and changing their ways, no one in our realm will be quick to forget the past, except for apparently me.
Each blank box stares up at me, demanding not just facts, but pieces of the life I’ve spent years trying to keep contained.
Writing Briar Van Helsing in tidy black ink feels like carving truth into stone.
If this ever reaches the wrong hands…hunters won’t need to track me; the paperwork will do it for them.
The woman taps her manicured nails on the desk, impatience bleeding through even as her excitement lingers. “This could change everything,” she whispers under her breath.
I force my lips into a faint smile, nodding like the thought thrills me too, while my chest knots tighter.
When the last line is scrawled out, I slide the application back. She tucks it neatly into a folder and stands, smoothing her wrinkled white blouse beneath the cardigan. “Two o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I murmur, though the idea of waiting until tomorrow for a decision feels unbearable.
She ushers for me to head out the door before her and I hesitate, staring at the folder with my information. “Ms. Tomlinson, can you do me one more favor?”
Her head tilts slightly, waiting for me to continue.
My throat suddenly feels tight as I try to find the words. I don’t want to ruin my chances of getting in, but my priority must be my safety. There’s no point in thinking this could be the beginning of my new life, if it immediately starts with being hunted.
I lift my chin and let my resolve fill my words. “I need to know that nothing will be spoken about, with my being here, until I agree to it. That’s my condition.”