Page 5 of Before We Burn

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re up to something, Marzana.” My face falls for a moment, my facade slipping, before it goes blank and his thoughts begin to consume my own.

I shake it off, throwing on a big smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, and shrug. “Okay, Headmaster. Whatever you say. Thanks for the help, though.”

I nearly run from the room, my steps too quick and breaths too heavy.

Come on, Marzana. Slow down. You’ve got this. You’ve done this plenty of times before, I tell myself, and it’s true. I have done this all before, except this time everything feels…wrong.

The bell rings and the halls flood, but I still feel Alexander's eyes on me. I know I will be the one spooning those fuckers out soon.

3

YOUNG & RECKLESS

MARZANA

Before every class, I tell myself I will treat each student with the same amount of curiosity as the next. But when the mystery girl is in one of my classes, my curiosity always peaks. She’s sitting in the back today, her eyes distant—somewhere other than here—while I teach a lesson on accessing and rejecting your gift.

If they have one, there’s something they can naturally tap into—like most trackers' first instincts are to smell and close their eyes. I look around the room, noticing a couple of students do it subconsciously. My eyes shoot back to her—she is still, her eyes trained on the window. I walk down the row of wooden desks, my steps slow and quiet, while I try not to break the focus in the room.

“Is there something you can’t stop thinking about?” I ask, keeping my pitch and tone even. “Is there a weird twitch you’ve been noticing more and more lately?”

Step, step.

“Are there tiny whispers in your ears? In your mind?”

I stop next to the girl’s desk, assessing her as her eyes close and she takes in a deep breath. “Is there a story you want to tell?”

She turns to me, her eyes black except for thin irises that shine red. I watch her fangs drop as a wicked smile spreads across her face.

“Bunny is my name, and the eye is my claim to fame. Find me in threes of voices on the breeze. I am not one as we have webs spun. We are those whose powers grow. We are the few you know.” Her voice rasps as it changes into different ones. My heart races, and I move to step back while looking away, but I can’t. I’m frozen in place.

Panic begins to flood me, my chest heaving and eyes wide. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, fighting to move. I feel the room waver like I’m going to fall, but I blink and everything levels out.

I look around the room, all eyes trained on me, and clear my throat before returning to my desk.

“I want you to write it down—your story—then write down what it makes you feel. Angry? Sad? Tired? Try to really hone in on the emotions it brings you, because those are the ones we are going to face first.” Everyone seems intrigued, the sounds of their pencils scraping across paper filling the room as they write their notes.

My mind drifts back to what just happened. I look at the girl—who I’m guessing is called Bunny—and find her staring right at me. This time her brown eyes are sad and apologetic. She looks down and picks up her pencil, beginning to write.

Whatever her gift is, it’s going to eat at me. I’ve never come across a clairvoyant vampire. It would make sense to be one, as vampires are essentially on a bridge of life and death at all times.

Vampirism takes more than just our human lives.

It takes everything of our old selves and locks it up, so we never know where we came from. Most of our names are random things we found on ourselves, as our sense of self disappears while the knowledge of things around us stays.

Those voices—that power to pull me in—came from beings stronger than I’ve ever encountered. It’s like they were able to access my gift, then use it against me.

A cool sweat coats my skin as I consider I would rather be in physical pain than have anyone besides me in my head.

The students write most of the class, and a few of them get up to ask me questions. Some of them ask about the assignment, while others ask questions about being a vampire. It’s strange answering some of the questions, because they look a lot older than I need to treat them. Bloodlings are temperamental, so you never know just what might set them off.

I’ve found that talking to them the way you would talk to a twelve year old works—slower talking pace and asking them questions instead of only answering the ones they ask you. I don’t know if it really does something, but I’ve noticed more self awareness in my students when I stick with it consistently.

But even with that, this group is young—my estimate puts the oldest at twenty-three human years. They need guidance and assistance through their first year of vampirism. Some of them will stay for two or three more years, while others will leave and become nomadic.

The bell rings, and the students begin to pack up. Most of them smile and say their goodbyes as they exit the room.

Bunny’s the only one left, her bag slung over her shoulder and her head hung in shame. She cautiously approaches my desk, her petite shoulders slouched, but I beam at her.