Chapter One: Revenge of the Gods
I never saw her coming.
She was a tiny girl; that was one sure thing. Nonetheless, there was some sort of certainty about her; like she was determined to survive the night. I rarely saw that in a person. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line as she tottered forwards precauciously, fragile neck exposed to to the chill and the bite of the night. She turned, and her eyes found me. I stood still. They were human eyes, filled to the brin with fear, and yet, perseverance burnt on. The girl wavered, wondering whether to ask why I was hiding behind a pot plant, and then turned to continue on her own way.
That was exactly what I wanted ... and what I didn't want. Her scent wafted over me temptingly, and I could almost imagine it. Hot red blood, flowing freely down my throat, quenching that insatiable thirst. And how it would taste! - my mind burnt with the invisible sensation. Beautiful, creamy blood pouring against my tainted lips, smooth and rid of all impurities, freeing my soul of it's human restraints. My body strained against my will; I could feel that every muscle was tensed, ready for the strike. Within the moments, the agonizing seconds, it took that little girl to totter to the curb of the road, schoolbag slung over her slight shoulders, I had calculated how long it would take me to move in, how silently and swiftly I could skid across the burnt-out pavement. I slavered; you had no idea how much I dragged myself back.
Finally, the girl was gone. But her scent wasn't. It still lingered hesitantly in the air, a sweet aroma – imagine the most wondrous bouquet of flowers, and that heaven-touched scent that leave behind, and you'll get the picture. Even then, I could still pick up her trail. She was a fool, alright, leaving a clear path of footprints as she weaved in and out of the snow on her way home. I forced myself back, drawing blood from the crescent moon scars on my palm, where I'd dug my nails in to restrain myself before. I licked them thoughtfully, but the metallic taste was repulsive.
It was a bittersweet revenge of the gods.
OoOoOoO
Two days passed in rapid succesion. Human life was so fast, so fickle. But I should've learnt not to think poorly of humans, for they would always bite back. Sure enough, on the third mundane day, I smelt that overwhelming aroma of blood. And this time, it beckoned with a honey-coated voice, dripping sugar and candy.
The girl was accompanied by friends, all of them wrapped up warmly for winter. London was cold, after all. I, who had barely slept, and spent the nights stalking every shadow and every ray of light that plagued me, followed silently. The girl chattered easily, and it only dawned upon me then on how young she looked – she could barely be past ninth grade. Yet, I took her life for granted. She walked; I followed. I caught snippets of the conversation on the way.
"Shanra," said my unsuspecting victim, "did you do your French oral script?"
"Yeah, I did." Shanra grinned back; she was a dark-skinned girl, who smelt of French lavender, "I guess you didn't though, Joy?"
A bitter smirk twisted my features; Joy. What a typical human name, a mockery of the fate that might soon befall her. I'd make sure she lived up to it. That was, she would give a vampire plenty of joy in her final hours, squirming and shrieking with pain. That would be enjoyable. I wanted to see her go, and see her go slowly.
"Yeah, I didn't," Joy said fretfully, "Reckon our teacher's going to blow it?"
I would, I commented mentally. Neither of them responded; I wouldn't expect them to.
The bell tolled, a slow, mournful sound, like the requiem for my death – so many centuries ago, I had lost count. Joy turned, sending wafts of scent my way; I wrinkled my nose, and forced myself back, furious at having walked so close to her. Still, her hold over me was overwhelming. I turned, and hustled away as quickly as I could. The snow crunched underfoot, and I did my best to concentrate on that sound rather than Joy and Shanra's voices.
It was easier said then done. Soon, all I could hear was the fierce crunch of grains of snow scraping against once another, infinte particles in a web of ice, of cold nothingness ... My head spun, and I glanced up. To my horror, I found I had made no progress in moving away from Joy. Instead, I was right outside her principal's office. Dimly, I recalled the sound of crunching ice echoing in my mind; the sound must've disguised my body's true intentions.
For a moment, I stood and stared. The paintwork was chipping off, but the sign declaring 'Mrs. Hamzie', Principal of Hetlock High School, looked like it was frequently buffed. On the far corner of the door, someone had scraped off the paint with something blunt, and graffitied an image of an ugly woman, eyes bulging, accompanied with the caption 'look me noobs im zoooo awsum lol'. I wrinkled my nose in distaste.
At that exact moment, Mrs. Hamzie decided it was time to make an appearance. She threw the door open forcibly, sending a cool gust of wind my way. Papers and posters tacked to the wall by dried up blu tack fluttered and then settled. The woman herself was just like her caricature – eyes that looked like they were about to explode out of her head any moment, wrinkled flesh that bulged in all the wrong places, and flyaway hair. She had a stack of neat folders in one hand, and I could just imagine her going over them gleefully with a red pen.
The principal met my eyes. Her greying skin took on a slight hue of pink, like she had sunbathed too long – a sight I definitely didn't wish to see – and her gaze slowly travelled up and down me. I knew what she saw. I knew what all people saw when they saw vampires. I caught sight of my reflection in her eyes, stretched to a width I never would have imagined possible. The only thing that disturbed me was my white skin, pale as marble. I waited.
Finally, Mrs. Hamzie spoke, sounding a little out of breath.
"Good morning, Mr ...?" her eyebrows arced up in a crude imitation of a question mark.
"That won't be necessary." I said, speaking with more force than an average human would've deemed necessary. I tried a smile; apparently, it worked, for the woman went pale, swooning. "Please, just call me Ambrose."
"Very well then, Ambrose." Mrs. Hamzie said; from the way she said my name, I could hear a hint of breathless longing in it, "Might I req ... be. .. ask what is your business here?"
She winced, and flushed. I imitated her previous expression; I arced an eyebrow neatly, and the principal went red. Score one to me, Carlisle, I said, remembering the man who had helped me through some of the most difficult stages of my life, I saw blood rush to someone's face and did nothing. Still, that simple action amounted to nothing. Mrs. Hamzie's blood was as dried up as her body.
"I- I was just w-wondering," the principal blustered, "I-If you'd ... pre. .. like to request a job here?"
I paused, and in that moment alone, my instincts took over. Bloodlust, the need to trap several dozen students in a stuffy classroom with the A/C broken overwhelmed me. I could picture that blood-filled girl, Joy, sitting at the back of my class, providing me joy alone by merely letting her delicious scent waft towards me. Granted, the students would be alarmed by a slavering teacher who dug his nails in every second moment, but it would be worth it. A life on animals was ... no life at all. Sorry, Carlisle, I added silently.
"That sounds appealing. Would you like to see a resume?"
Something about me seemed to have hypnotized Mrs. Hamzie. While she had been staring at my chest, which was at her face-level, she had been spaced out. Now she snapped out of it, shaking her head vigorously. She was still quite red. She didn't have to seem to have heard my question either, which bugged me. She glanced up at my face dazedly, and then dragged her eyes away once more.
"No, that won't be necessary. I can see ... I know you'll be a good teacher." the principal mumbled, abashed. "Would you like to choose a specific position ... y'know, teachership – ah! I mean, a specific teaching post?"
" I'd," I began slowly, "I'd like to interact with students as much as possible. Yes, that would be good."
"That can certainly be arranged, Ambrose!" Mrs. Hamzie said briskly, all business once more.
She dug in her laminated folders, and I watched. The Principal seemed to have no end to the amount of work piled upon her; old homework sheets, notices, reports, and complaints from staff, students and street-savvy parents alike came roiling out off that sea of paper. I picked up the sheets that fell, and she accepted them willingly, all too happy to brush my hand with hers. Finally, she thrust a handful of forms my way.
'Homeroom Teacher for 10-A' the notice proclaimed, 'Job Specifications: taking care of year ten students and their welfare, seeing to conflict between pupils, organizing activities, spending long time in proximity to hormonal teenagers, issuing notices, collecting homework'. Grade ten ... that wasn't the grade Joy was in, I was sure. That was good. That was better than having to slave away in front of her, determined not to launch myself at her.
"I'll take it." I said, with more determination than I had right to, "Is there anything else?"
"Well," Mrs. Hamzie chuckled, returning to her sunbathing overdose color, "there is one other teensy-tiny thing."
She paused, teeter-tottering on the edge of revelation. I turned to her, ducking my head in an unaffected manner so my eyes connected directly with hers. For a moment, the chocolate-brown of my eyes bored into her watery grey eyes. She had no resistance.
"Homeroom teacher ... is not enough, is it? No, we have several roles that need to be filled ..."
"Sacre bleu," I added quietly; a little bit of French always went down nicely. "It must be difficult for you." Flattery worked, as well.
"But of course!" Mrs. Hamzie exploded, and I took the smallest of steps backwards, "We need a French teacher for 10-A also! That would be a brilliant idea, don't you think? Spending more time in close proximity to your favorite pupils..."
She dragged the word 'favorite' out like it was a song, and I winced; her shrill voice was far too loud for my ears. Correction; my vampire ears. The elderly woman didn't notice, though, and went babbling on excitedly, thrusting form after form my way. It was sheer genius I'd made my way into the school, recieved a teaching post without any true application -for once, it seemed, the vamprie looks helped – and found myself packed into a place where I could relish, but not taste. I was good at control.
This was every vampire's dream come true. A strong-willed vampire's dream, anyway.
OoOoO
Liking it so far? I know, Joy hasn't come majorly into the story, but nyeeeh. Mrs. Hamzie will not be majorly featured unless she's to be mocked; don't worry about that. Well, please R&R!