Page 27 of Let Us Prey

I’m floating away… floating above the fray…

The only way I can grieve…

The ache in my lyrics echoes that of my soul as I finally release my desire to change the past. As always, my music helps meprocess my overwhelming emotions, and I breathe a little easier as the melancholy notes of the outro ring through the empty theater. I think I might have this song almost finished—it needs only a little more work before I can add the chorus.

Just like me.

Defying Gravity

Renard

I’m forevergrateful I’ve menaced the office staff enough over the years to keep my teaching schedule light after mid-day. My species needs nighttime shifting when we hunt. Having others present when the itch to transform begins is irritating, and except for my adopted pack and closest companion, I am uncomfortable with the curiosity my shifted form engenders. I’m able to do things other shifters can’t, and the vow of secrecy my clutch took around those abilities remains deeply ingrained in me, even though I’m no longer living among them.

There are some species you do not want to start a war with.

Henrietta uses my less-than-friendly demands to force me to teach one class of her choosing each semester. This fall, it’s an advanced placement course for fourth and fifth-years about the evolution of shifter politics and governments. Despite Aubrey’s imminently longer lifespan, she insistedmyknowledge of the relationship between pred and prey was invaluable to the understanding of students with a career path in leadership.

She told me to present a carefully curated version of interspecies relations, told from the viewpoint of someone who's been alivelong enough to remember how it was used as propaganda. Unfortunately for the Council, I have no need of their favor, and I’ll teach the damned class however I see fit. That’s going to make for some very interesting phone calls from angry parents to the Headmistress, but gargoyles are stubborn as fuck by nature and she shouldn’t have backed me into a corner.

The classes I offered this year are far more interesting and useful, if you ask me. My fall schedule—besides the interminable year-long Henny course—comprises Gothic Literature, Shakespeare in Reality, and Music of the Night.

Reading has always been one of my vices, and that love of literature and knowledge is another reason my scaly companion and I bonded so easily. I teach many things to the students here based on how much my clutch moved around—languages, history, culture—but English courses are by far my favorite. I’ve also occasionally taken Chess on in independent study, but both our schedules are often hectic, so these private lessons are sporadic. My secret love of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber is the reason I named my nocturnal predation course the way I did, and if anyone besides the book wyrm knew that, I’d have to murder them on the spot.

Obsidian is supposed to be hard and unyielding: the depth of my emotions is not something I wish to advertise.

In the spring, I’ll teach botany, Romantic Lit, and poetry, but I prefer to do that when my garden is in bloom. The imagery flows so much better, and I’m able to use the lifecycle of nature to enhance the themes I emphasize. The beginning of the wheel of the year is a good time to show the beauty and ferocity of nature as it ebbs and flows.

Turning to the single Rothschild’s slipper orchid sitting on the pedestal by the bookcase in my Tower, I close my eyes. Like me, it has survived out of its natural habitat for far longer than anyone would have believed. Memories of transplanting that flower into the crystalline container where it still grows flashthrough my mind, and I shake my head to clear it. The pain that comes with ruminating on the origin of my most prized possession feels fresh, despite the passage of time. I’ve considered getting rid of the orchid countless times over the years, knowing it’s a masochistic symbol of a wound that cannot heal. Each time, I place it back in its suspended reality with its heat lamp and humidifier, unable to bring myself to cut the ties to my past.

Now that a certain bunny showed up in my classroom, I wonder if perhaps it’s time.

“If you want it gone, I can take care of it for you.”

I roll my eyes as the dragon stomps in, offering the same solution he’s voiced a hundred times before. “Have I ever taken you up on that, Flames?”

His eyes narrow, and he glares at my choice of moniker. It’s a game we’ve played for many years, and probably will continue long after those with shorter lifespans are gone. The more our respective days get filled with irritating students and posturing colleagues, the more we rib one another until something amusing enough to break the tension sticks. Our ability to find humor in the petty grievances of day-to-day life keeps us sane, and our grumpy old shifter routine is one of my favorite ways to pass the time.

“Listen up, granite-for-brains. You keep telling me to let go of the past, but you moon over this flower like Viola and the Duke. You’re the poster shifter for handing out sage advice you don’t take,” Aubrey muses. He drops a stack of texts I requested from the library on the end table, running a hand through his short hair, and when I don’t respond, I can smell the sulfur threatening to turn into irritated smoke rings.

So predictable.

Ignoring his insult and unnecessary commentary, I walk over to the balcony outside of the bedroom, climbing up to look out into the starry sky. It’s almost dark enough for us to head out on thehunt. Neither of us needs to go every day—the bland groceries we ingest to seem more like the rest of the population sustains us well enough in between larger kills—but the start of the school year and one chaos-inducing student seems to have shaken up the entire campus, including us.

Aubrey’s destroyed at least ten squishies since she arrived.

Something about Delores Drew has both of our preds in a knot, and I’ll be damned if I know what it is.Even my meeting with her in the garden left me with questions I couldn’t answer and thoughts I can’t escape, so I can’t blame the others for being similarly distracted. Her presence has thrown our comfortable routine into unmanageable entropy, and I don’t know how I feel about it.

“If you lurk there, staring at the sky long enough, some idiot first-year is going to think you’re Batman when you shift. It happens every year, you morose asshole.”

My eyes narrow as I look over my shoulder at the bulky librarian as he fussily sheds his accouterments to prepare for our nocturnal feeding. He’s one to talk about being a sulky old grump—when I came to Apex, it took him fifty years to evenspeakto me. Even after thousands of years, my scaly companion was so immersed in his shame and misery, he barely talked to anyone unless the Headmaster at the time forced him to.

After the first decade, I almost taught myself sign language because I thought he might be deaf; that’s how anti-social he was.

“I’d rather the dimwits think I’m the morally gray, winged billionaire than a roided-out Indiana Jones. Elbow patches have never been hot, and your wardrobe needs serious attention that doesn’t involve folding it into origami because you’re so obsessive,” I reply.

His snort makes me grin, and I give in, half-shifting so I can stretch out my wings. I don’t know what it feels like to shift for other species, but for winged shifters like Flames and I, letting your wings out is like stretching your legs after they’ve been in acramped space for a long time. If the two of us weren’t such fucking novelties at Apex, we’d probably stay half-shifted most of the time.

Alas, neither of us enjoys feeling the weight of explaining our entire species to looky-loos and exotic shifter buffs.

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