Wesley leaned back in the chair in his office, contemplating the tentative schedule of classes for the next quarter. There had been the usual caveat that some classes would not be offered without sufficient enrollment, and that times might be changed, but this was the current plan. He would be teaching Intermediate Latin, Medieval British Literature, and continuing to instruct certain students in fencing. He would have official classes. An official listing, making it clear that he had a place, he belonged here.
He was resisting the most immature urge to taunt his father about that fact. That despite everything Roger Wyndham could do, he had found worthwhile employment. He contented himself with imagining his father turning unflattering colors and blustering futilely in the face of the incomparable Ms Frost. His father would no doubt attempt to puff himself up and seem important, Ms Frost would not be impressed, and his father would bluster and glare. It would be a memorable sight… and it wouldn't happen. He doubted that there would ever be any reason for the two to be in the same room.
Having permitted himself a few minutes to indulge in satisfied gloating that he had a job, one attained by his own merits and imagining his father flummoxed by the unforgettable and elegant Emma Frost, Wesley refocused his attention on the responsibilities of his job. If he was supposed to instruct two classes, he needed to prepare lesson plans, determine the required reading materials, compare the things he wanted the students to read with the texts that had been expected before, and sort out how much homework would be assigned and of what nature. As he would be the one grading the material, would he rather look at lines and exercises, reports and analysis, or translations? How much class participation and discussion did he want to encourage? There was actual work involved in being a teacher, and if he wanted to remain employed, he needed to carry out the responsibilities of his position.
He'd already established office hours for students who had questions, though not too many had made use of them. Perhaps it was more of a victory that the other members of the faculty had adjusted to his presence, something that might have been aided by his calm acceptance of a small office with only one small window and an uninspiring view. His most frequent student visitors had been Amara, who seemed to enjoy having someone around who would talk to her in Latin, though she seemed quite amused by 'his strange accent', Daphne Langamer with her quest for perfect grades asking dozens of questions about better references and revisions for her reports, and the occasional student from a class that he'd substituted for double checking assignments and due dates.
After spending several hours consulting the other Professors and making lists and schedules as well as scratching out items on those lists, Wesley decided that he'd worked enough on lesson plans for the day. Leaving the building, he discovered that while he was working, it had gotten dark. Night, and here he was without the usual preparations. Bugger.
"Mister Wyndham-Price! Can you help us?" The voice carried the distinctive Moorish accent of Haroun, thicker than normal and full of worry.
"Haroun, what seems to be the matter," Wesley turned towards the voice, blinking at what looked to be wisps of fire around the young man's ankles and the fact that someone else was draped over his shoulder, a hand clutching at his throat. "What happened?"
"Manuel and I were at one of the smaller clubs tonight. He was speaking to a woman near the door when she attacked him, she had sharp teeth and went for his throat," Haroun shuddered, and looked at Wesley. "I am not crazy, and I know what we saw. But I also know how a hospital would react to such a tale."
Wesley considered the young man's words and what he knew of psychology and had to agree. "Presumably she didn't cause too much damage, or you would have sought a medical doctor, not a professor. Follow me to a place with better lighting and some bandages, and tell me anything else that might be of assistance. Anything else about the woman, how to find her, what else she might have done, what prompted her attack on Manuel."
They followed him towards his flat, offering fragmented details about the club, about the music that had been performed. The trip had been Manuel's idea, and Haroun was quite sparse on the reasoning for going along, leading Wesley to assume a bit of manipulation had taken place. There had been something about discounted drinks, and Manuel had mumbled something about buxom blondes in tight dresses. At the doorstep, he uttered words that filled Wesley with dismay – "her eyes turned yellow, with horrible heavy eyebrows and she bit me."
"A vampire. Of all the bloody foolish…" Wesley stopped, taking a deep breath as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. While he made a gesture indicating that they should follow, he did not make the slightest sound that could be counted as a verbal invitation. "Manuel, you foolish boy. While the very idea of using an innate ability to manipulate women into sexual liaisons with you is particularly dishonorable and you should know better, using some sort of mental manipulation on a vampire is beyond dishonorable and well into suicidal stupidity."
"A vampire!" Haroun yelped, jumping into the apartment, as if he expected to be attacked.
"But she…" Manuel faltered, and in a softer voice continued, "There isn't such a thing. Not really… there can't be."
Pulling a first aid kit from under the couch, Wesley tossed some burn cream towards Haroun. "You seemed to have bits of fire near your ankles, you might want this. I'm going to get a damp cloth and then I'll take care of Manuel's neck."
He also took the chance to set up his mental protections. Granted, it would be a foolish idea for Manuel to try to manipulate him when he needed his help, but that need made it all the more likely that the boy might try. He certainly wouldn't be used to people helping because they liked him. Or perhaps he would be so shaken from the attack that whatever conscious control he had would be weakened.
He finished cleaning the blood away before either of the young men managed to say anything more coherent or useful than 'ow' if he pressed a bit hard. Haroun had smeared the burn cream over his ankles and calves, which looked reddened and had a scattering of blisters. He'd found the antibiotic ointment, which he intended to use on Manuel's injury, because the very idea of the sort of infections that could come from a vampire bite gave him a cold dread along his spine.
"You believed us about her biting, about the yellow eyes. You said she was a vampire," Haroun paused, and then sighed. "Everyone else says they don't exist, that they're no more than old stories."
"My grandfather believed they were real," Manuel muttered. "He kept saying that he had almost been killed by one when he was younger, and that the vampire owed him money from a card game. An English vampire named William. The rest of the family just laughed at him."
"William the Bloody? It does sound like him… your grandfather was fortunate not to be killed." Wesley smeared the antibiotic over the wound, and started searching for a suitable gauze pad and the medical tape that he knew was in the box somewhere. Probably at the bottom.
"Vampires and demons are quite real. They have a most unfortunate habit of trying to eat humans, and I'm quite certain that they wouldn't separate most mutants from humans," he taped the gauze into place, and shook his head. He really should have known better than to hope that he could forget about everything. Vampires and demons were everywhere, and they wouldn't care one whit that he was no longer associated with the Council. "Some vampires have their own abilities at mental manipulation, and most of them take very poorly to efforts to manipulate them, if they notice them being used. Vampires only have one response to something irritating them, and that is to kill the irritation."
He ignored the rather profane words that emerged from their mouths, though he did think that Haroun's second comment involving camels sounded particularly repellent. "I presume that neither of you want to be killed by a vampire. Some of them rather enjoy dragging such things out by torturing first and then killing."
Both of them shuddered.
"I didn't think either of you wanted that. Vampires can not enter a private residence without a verbal invitation from someone who lives there, neither of you can invite a vampire into my home, but you could invite one into your dormitory rooms. As you saw tonight, vampires are capable of looking human and in some cases quite attractive. They do not reflect, not in mirrors, dark windows, or ponds. Holy water will burn them, as will crosses and crucifixes." Pausing for a moment, Wesley considered what he knew of Haroun's ancestry. "I confess that I do not know if the holy symbols of other religions will repel or injure vampires. I would far rather not find out in a time of desperate need. I do know that the specific denomination of Christian makes no difference, though Catholics seem to be the most likely to have suitable symbols about their homes. Fire, impalement with silver, wood, or horn, and beheading are fatal to them, as they are to humans and most demons, so I suggest great caution. Accidentally killing a human and claiming that you thought they were a vampire would not keep you out of trouble with the legal authorities, and might lead you to spending far more time with psychiatrists and asylums than you wish, and the asylums would not be of a political nature."
"Does it have to be outright fire, or will enough heat work?" Haroun asked his eyes not focused on anything that Wesley could see.
"Historic documentation is a bit unclear on that. They tend to avoid volcanic craters and vents, but that could be a matter of comfort, or the fact that molten lava is detrimental to almost everything, fatal to vampires. There are a few accounts of vampires being thrown into forges, it apparently killed the vampire and had disturbing effects on the swords being crafted. Deserts are not as hot at night, but there have been vampires in most of the known deserts at various points in history. What do you mean?"
"I'm a mutant. I can create heat, something rather like plasma if I try." Haroun's chin lifted, and his eyes dared Wesley to comment.
"Ahh…" Blinking, he considered the burns on the young man's legs. "Is that what happened to your ankles. Perhaps some sort of fire protection would be in order for you, it's bad form to injure yourself. Mind you, I have very little experience with mutant abilities against vampires or demons, but I would guess that if you can burn human flesh with that ability, then it would burn vampires more severely, perhaps even killing them."
"So she isn't dead?" Manuel whispered.
"When a vampire dies, they crumble to ash. Quite unmistakable, really. If you didn't see her turn to ash, she's still out there. Your best hope is that you left very little lasting impression on her and that she'll forget about you and move on to easier prey." Wesley sighed, fighting the urge to grab a crossbow and go hunting vampires. He wouldn't be terribly effective, and would run a high risk of getting himself killed.
They boys ended up staying in his flat for the night, too shaken and worried to go through the darkness to their dorms.
End part 6.