#the third. that feels better when i can sit down and go 'okay. someday isabel will do this too. i might not understand. my friends might not

[isabelguerra]

i dont have an actual name for it but depressed college au is probably one of my favorites. i dont really care for the adults in paranatural and thinking about how the activity club/others might grow up and continue their lives is so much more interesting to me

[bitterlikesweets]

Love Bites Ch 7

This is the seventh chapter of a modern/vampire AU ereri fanfic. You can also read it on Ao3. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Next

There’s a typo in the first text that Eren sends to Levi. Determined to stop overthinking their interactions, Eren is quick with his fingers, typing out a brief message that only requires a quick glance at the screen.

That’s how ‘Be there in a sec’ became ‘Be there in a sex’. A slip of Eren’s finger ruined a perfectly good message.

Eren doesn’t notice until he’s buckling himself into his car and Levi responds.

'Don’t tell me that shit, kid.'

He spends the next few minutes trying to type out a response that doesn’t make him look like a complete fucking idiot, only to resign himself to the fact that there isn’t one. He explains that his finger slipped, but Levi doesn’t answer his text and Eren wants to chomp his stupid, clumsy fingers off.

When Eren gets to the restaurant, Levi is already waiting for him in the break room. He doesn’t say anything about the text as Eren quickly grabs a seat at the table, and Eren drinks in silence. He’s more than happy to pretend that it never happened.

When he feels Levi’s hands in his hair, he’s quick to pull away.

“I’ve got the night shift at an arcade bar,” he tells Levi, an answer to Levi’s raised eyebrow as he watches Eren hurriedly collect his things. “I’ve got to be there in half an hour.”

“Should we skip the lesson?” Levi asks.

“Unless you’ve got some quick advice, yeah.”

“Hmm,” Levi says, wiping his wrist with a napkin. “Lesson one for this week is proofread your texts.”

Eren splutters and aims a glare at Levi, who just stares at him as impassively as ever.

“Fuck you,” Eren says, and he marches out of the room before Levi has a chance to notice his blush.

Eren’s not sure if being pissed is any better than being embarrassed, but the annoyance does feel a bit closer to normal for him.

Lesson two takes place after Eren’s six o’clock statistics class. His warning text was safer this time—a simple ‘On my way.’ Levi is the one in a rush today; Isabel is off and he can’t leave Furlan being both a waiter and a chef for long. He talks while Eren drinks, and his hand is preemptively resting on the crown of Eren’s head, so Eren has to wait for the tug and pretend that Levi’s hand isn’t distracting him from properly listening to the man’s words.

Lesson two is about myths. Levi tells him not to worry about not appearing in mirrors and photos, but to be wary of any liquid claiming to be holy water.

“Can I turn into a bat?”

Levi scoffs.

“Maybe through reincarnation.”

The third day is more relaxed. Levi’s not rushing, and Eren has at least an hour until he needs to be at work, but Levi’s hand is still on his head from the start, and Eren suspects this is going to be part of their routine now.

The lesson is about partners. How to choose them and when to drink from them.

“Nobody anemic,” Levi says. “And never after they’ve had alcohol or drugs or any of that shit. You’ve got to wait until it’s out of their system, or you’re both going to feel fucked up once you’re done. Especially you, as the vampire, since you’ll already be half drunk with blood.”

The next day’s lesson is also about partners. But it’s also about Eren.

“You both need to know your limits,” Levi says. His voice is stern and his fingers tangle in the strands of Eren’s hair. “You need to be careful not to drink too much.”

There’s that tug at his scalp and Eren pulls back, swiping his tongue across the bite mark on Levi’s wrist.

“How do you always know when to stop me?”

“You slow down once you’ve had your fill,” Levi replies, “so it’s easy to notice. Normally it should take a few tries to figure it out, but you’re consistent.”

“What should I do if not everyone’s as observant as you?”

“They’ll get dizzy or weak and will know then that you’ve had more than necessary. But I’m hoping to have trained you to recognize the right amount on your own by then.”

“Sounds like work,” Eren grumbles, and he thinks Levi gave him a little extra today, because he feels more blood drunk than usual. “Why don’t you just stay my partner?”

Levi’s silence is sobering, and Eren nearly takes the words back.

“I doubt you really want that,” Levi says eventually.

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t either.”

Eren feels like he should argue with that statement, but he doesn’t know what to say. So he says nothing, and Levi doesn’t say anything either.

Day five’s lesson is not about partners. Levi is busy and impatient. His hand only falls upon Eren’s head when it’s time for him to stop. The man’s tone is clipped and stiff when he speaks, and Eren has to remind himself that Levi is just in a rush because Furlan isn’t there today, so there’s no substitute chef. It’s not at all because Eren said something stupid the day before.

Right?

The lesson is about turning people. A bite to the neck doesn’t automatically turn someone into a vampire, but Levi tells Eren that the blood spills faster there, so it’s easier to take too much. And taking too much from the neck creates new vampires. Something about the vampire healing saliva overcompensating for the blood it takes, enough of it that it overwhelms the human. There was something else too, about proximity to the heart.

Eren lays a hand over his chest. He forgot that there’s a heart in there. A heart that used to beat.

Levi watches him, tells him something else on his way out.

His heart can beat again, at least for a moment, but only at the cost of someone else’s. That’s what turning people is; a brief breath of life, gained by stealing someone else’s.

Eren touches the scar on his neck and feels sick to his stomach.

On day six, they’re both a bit calmer. The restaurant is busy, but Furlan and Isabel are as lively as ever, and they encourage Levi to take his time. They’re both used to Eren by now; they greet him with smiles whenever he arrives, and he feels guilty for not having any full conversations with them yet.

He feels that he is drinking slower than usual, but that doesn’t stop Levi from knowing when to stop him, detecting a change in speed that Eren is always too hazy-brained to notice.

“What am I learning today?” Eren asks, resting his head on the table.

Levi is walking around the room, probably choosing a weapon to reveal. He’s taken to finding them as he teaches, to save them both a bit of time. The weapon is usually a stake, but he’s also pulled out vials of holy water out of the filing cabinet in the corner a few times.

“I want to talk about turning again,” Levi says, and Eren frowns. He doesn’t like this topic.

“Okay.”

“It’s not always involuntary. Actually, it’s more likely to be voluntary these days.”

Eren’s frown deepens.

“Who would volunteer to be a vampire?”

“People who want to be immortal, usually. Sometimes they want the strength. Some just want to stay with the vampires they’ve partnered up with.”

Levi stops by a photo on the wall. Eren recognizes it as the one he knocked down when he threw the table over a week ago. The photo of Levi as a child, with the cardboard Kuchel’s Kitchen sign. Levi pulls it off the wall and flips it over, carefully removing a wooden square from the back of the frame.

“Have you ever thought about getting turned?” Eren asks.

Levi scoffs.

“Fuck no. A hunter becoming a vampire? I doubt anyone would even turn me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“No vampire in their right mind would want me to live forever. It’s in everyone’s best interest that I die someday,” Levi says, and his voice is completely calm, like he’s thought about it and accepted it.

Of course, it makes sense that Levi will die eventually. Levi is human. He’s going to grow old, just like everyone else. But the thought still puts a sour taste in Eren’s mouth.

Maybe it’s because Eren’s never going to grow old and die.

The weapon hidden in the picture frame is a knife, small and thin and sharp, but Eren isn’t looking at it. He’s staring at the table, twiddling his thumbs, thinking about how he’s not going to die and Levi is.

“What?” Levi says, coming to sit back down at the table. “You going to miss me, brat?”

“Yeah, maybe I fucking will,” Eren snaps, and he really doesn’t know why he’s so worked up over this because of course Levi’s going to die someday, he’s human—

A hand comes to rest on his head, heavy and familiar and comforting. And when Levi speaks, it’s like a sigh, with something in his exasperated words coming off as almost affectionate.

“You’re so damn honest.”

Eren shifts just enough to look at Levi, not wanting to lose the hand Levi is resting on him.

“Is that a bad thing?”

Levi huffs, but he sounds like he’s on the border of a chuckle.

“No. It’s refreshing. But you need to learn to take a joke.”

“I can take a joke,” Eren insists. “You’re just bad at telling them.”

“Oh, don’t turn your shit sense of humor back on me—”

“Wha—you’re the one who has the shit sense of humor!”

Their conversation devolves into half hearted insults that leave Eren laughing, and he’s so distracted by Levi’s teasing that he almost doesn’t notice the way the man’s hand lingers on his head, fingers combing through his hair.

They only stop when Furlan comes in, begging Levi to get back to work. Eren is still grinning on his way out.

~ ~ ~

The lights are off in Kuchel’s Kitchen on day seven. The day marks a month since Eren first met Levi. A month from the day he mistakenly ate garlic and tasted Levi’s blood.

Eren presses his face against the front windows of the restaurant, trying to see inside. The chairs are all flipped upside down and on the tables like they are after closing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s only eight. He sends another text to Levi, asking if everything’s alright. Levi simply texts him that he’ll be out in a minute.

Eren huffs a sigh, leaning against the brick wall of the restaurant.

The whole restaurant has a sort of old fashioned, cozy feel. The red bricks on the outside, the heavy wooden door with a literal bell hanging on the inside. The tables inside are all dark wood and thick red tablecloths, and there are black and white photos on the walls, most of people that Eren doesn’t know or recognize, though he has noticed a few of Isabel and Furlan on his trips to the break room. Eren can picture it all in his head fairly clearly, even without having to look through the window.

It’s different from the vibe he gets from Levi. The white and yellow tiled floor, the red walls… It’s colorful and bright, and it feels more like something Eren’s mom had decorated, rather than a no nonsense, practical man like Levi. The wallpaper even has fucking flowers on it.

And then there’s the name. Kuchel’s Kitchen. Who is Kuchel?

Eren thinks of the picture in the break room. The small kitchen, the cardboard sign. Little Levi, and the dark haired woman handing him a plate.

Maybe Levi’s mother helped him with the decor. Either that or Levi’s got a soft spot for flowery wallpaper and pretty colors.

It’s sweet, either way.

Eren hears the sound of the door unlocking, and he’s already looking when Levi steps out, the chime of the bell accompanying him.

“Sorry,” Levi says, beckoning Eren inside. “Isabel and Furlan said they both couldn’t make it to work, so I had to close early.”

“Are they your only employees?”

“They’re the evening shift,” Levi says, “I’ve got a few others that work during the day.”

Eren hums a little, casting a glance around the still darkened room.

“We could’ve met somewhere else if you wanted,” he says, and Levi just shrugs in response.

“I needed extra time to clean up around here anyway.”

They slip into their normal seats in the break room, and Eren leans onto the table, resting his chin in his hands as he watches Levi push up the sleeve of his shirt.

“I’m not busy today,” Levi says. “Are you?”

“No. No work and no school for me today.”

Levi nods, laying his arm across the table.

“Then, today, feel free to ask me anything you’re still not sure about.”

Eren pauses, his hands reaching for Levi’s arm.

“Is Kuchel your mom’s name?”

Levi’s entire body tenses, and Eren stops with his mouth halfway to Levi’s wrist.

“I meant questions about being a vampire, shitty brat.”

Eren tries to apologize, but Levi’s hand is on his head and he practically shoves Eren’s face into his wrist, stifling anything he was trying to say. Eren lets out a little grumble of protest, but he obediently sinks his fangs in. Levi sighs after a moment.

“...Yes, Kuchel is my mother’s name.”

Eren’s mouth is still occupied, so he squeezes Levi’s arm with his hands, hoping the man understands his request for the man to continue.

“You know that vampire hunting was the family business,” Levi says slowly. “My mother… she didn’t enjoy it. She was the one who taught me that vampires are still people. She learned all the tricks because she had to, but she only killed if it was absolutely necessary.”

Levi tightens his grip on Eren’s hair.

“She wanted an Italian restaurant. Went on and on about that shit. We’re not even fucking Italian, but that’s what she wanted. She started collecting shit—decorations and plates for her future restaurant. Started writing down recipes.”

Even in the midst of his explanation, Levi must be observing Eren, because Eren feels that familiar tug, that silent instruction to pull back. Eren does remove his teeth, complies with the obligatory healing lick, but he doesn’t pull all the way back. He keeps his head low, his lips pressed against the man’s pale skin.

“She was killed when I was a kid,” Levi says and the quiet statement hits Eren like a pound of snow dropped on his back. “She… she always tried to talk shit out, even in the midst of a fight. But there was no point to talking to the ferals. She knew that. She was just stalling—stalling so that my uncle could get me out of there. We all lived together. She was letting us escape.”

Levi takes in a shuddering breath, and Eren sits up, tries to look at him, but the man’s head is turned away. His hand falls away from Eren’s head, and Eren takes it, cradles it in his own.

“When you told me about your mom, I—it was too similar,” Levi says. “I looked at you, and I saw myself. That’s why I let you bite me.”

Eren’s stomach is a painful knot as he thinks about his mother, about that day, about how he couldn’t do anything for her. And he imagines Levi, just a little kid, watching it all play out, knowing exactly what was happening. He feels his own helplessness from the day he was turned and knows that Levi has felt the same. And his mother’s face, her scream are too vivid to Eren now. The images, the memories flash in his head and he squeezes his eyes shut, his hand tightening around Levi’s as his chest starts to burn—

“Sorry,” Levi says, and the word only makes Eren ache even more. “I shouldn’t have—it’s still fresh for you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Eren says, and the words are like a growl, far harsher than he meant to say them. Levi doesn’t even flinch at his tone, but Eren still pulls in a rough breath, trying to calm down, to stomp out the burning. “I’m glad you told me.”

Levi is looking back at him again, and in the place of his usual mask of indifference, Eren sees sorrow and guilt, even as he huffs a sigh and tries to change the subject.

“Didn’t mean to tell you my sob story today,” Levi says, and his voice is under more control than his expression is. “Let’s move on. What else do you want to know?”

The fire in Eren’s chest helps him answer.

“Tell me the best way to kill a vampire.”

[iamwhelmed]

Win One, Have Two: Chapter 13

Okay, it has been 9 long months and I haven’t updated. For that, oh my god I am so, so sorry. I knew I was feeling uninspired but that’s really no excuse! It’s okay, it’s summer now, so I can focus a little more on writing. Hopefully you guys still have interest ^^’ Anyway,

Here it is on AO3

It'd taken them the better half of thirty minutes to collect what they'd need for what Miss Rose was referring to, for the moment, as a "field trip"- no parental release forms necessary because, as she'd made abundantly clear, "I am the only adult you need to be worried about". Except for Crawford, who spent the fifteen minutes it took everyone else to get ready standing outside smoking a cigar with an unbothered look on his face. Clara was the first of the three students done, and waited next to Crawford with her messenger bag full of supplies slung over her shoulders. She looked to him, and he lazily glanced at her from the side.

"You know smoking is horrible for your lungs, right?"

"If anything's gonna take me out 'for my livin' does, I'm gonna die a happy man knowin' it was my vice."

Clara's lips pursed into a straight line.

The front door creaked open; Hardy stepped out first, unzipping his backpack to slip the dagger through its army green folds. Isaac was right behind him, arching an eyebrow at the very functioning door that he, quite frankly, was surprised was still on its hinges after last night. He frowned and grabbed Hardy's wrist, twisting it around to look at his watch. Hardy remained unbothered, trapping his bag between his legs as he used his other hand to close the zipper the rest of the way, concealing the dagger safe and sound in a multitude of pockets. Isaac huffed through his nose- 5am. Correction, then; the attack happened *earlier this morning. Adrenaline and the primal need to not get his head torn clean off of his shoulders had kept his sleep-addled brain at bay, but now that it had time to process that the world had settled again, it was urging him to rest.

There was a hand at his shoulder. Isaac jumped, but he saw the streak of purple in raven hair and found the nerves of his brain settling. It was just Miss Rose. She caught his gaze and gave him a small smile, soft, though he could tell she was strung a little higher than usual. She brushed by him and turned only to lock the door behind her. "Is everyone ready to go?"

"Yeah," Isaac watched as Hardy slipped his bag onto his shoulders. "So, how exactly are we planning on finding our friendly neighborhood home invaders?"

Rose smiled, this time more like she usually did, bright and reassuring. "Same way I look for spectral artifacts! I let Magnus lead the way!"

Isaac raised an eyebrow, and god help him, he swore the top half of his face was going to get stuck that way someday. "Magnus?"

Crawford took another puff, rounding his lips so that the smoke took on a circular shape. Miss Rose waved it away and gave him a look- the kind wives give their husbands over shoes left at the front door- and he grimaced, but dropped the cigar and put it out with his heel anyway. "Well, don't keep 'em waitin', Rose." Clara moved closer to Isaac and Hardy, eager to get a look. Isaac glanced at her and Hardy, and the looks of curiosity so plainly painting their crinkled noses and furrowed brows. Must be new to them, too.

Rose rolled her shoulders in a semi-committal, but ultimately nonchalant shrug. "Yeah, yeah. I'm just not looking forward to the lecture I'm gonna get." She reached into her back pocket and procured what appeared to be a compass. Small, silver, sat perfectly in the palm of her hand, like it was sculpted especially for her. Her eyes fluttered shut, and Isaac could tell from the small rim of purple aflame under her eyelashes that she'd connected with her spirit.

"What is it this time, Mari?"

Rose opened her eyes, finding beady black staring into the abyss that was her soul- or, rather… maybe staring into the abyss that was her curious nature. It made her good at artifact hunting, maybe not the best spectral partner, though. "Okay, okay. I deserve that. But it's important this time!"

Magnus turned and flew a few feet away, back of his body (a long eel-like tail covered in fur) brushing vaguely against her nose. He looked a lot like a basset hound, one that a particularly squealing-prone Sherlock Holmes fan had dressed in a deerstalker and matching coat for a cute scrapbook. She remembered meeting him the first time, back when she was still greener to the spectral world.

Before she knew that spirits were typically averse to hugs and scritches, no matter how much they looked like a good boy.

Magnus huffed from his throat, gave her a look that only an elderly butler with far too much experience and Magnus himself could level her with. The expectant kind. The kind that dared her to make her case. "So you're admitting you were using me for fun before?"

She abided. "Well no, that stuff was important too, but this is…"

Magnus sighed, the sign he gave her, every single time, to signal he was acquiesce. "What do you need?"

Right, down to business, then. She sobered and stripped her hand of her black glove, holding it out for Magnus to sniff. "There should be a saliva sample on this glove. Can you track it for me?"

He hovered closer, inching his wet nose toward the glove. He sniffed once, then twice, and nodded. He registered the smell, compared it to the large database of scents and stenches he'd picked up on in his near-infinite lifetime. She watched him in silence, but took the moment to slip her glove back on. If she knew Magnus, which she did, then he'd give her a destination, maybe a word for warning. He took a few moments, then did something she hadn't seen him do before. He paused. "This could lead you into Consortium territory, you know…"

"What?" She would have hid the trepidation in her voice, but Magnus had known her too many years for her to play anything cool ever, not that she ever got it by him before. She had a feeling he was a little more a detective than he'd like to admit. Magnus glanced at her with droopy eyes, big ears flopping as he floated in place, like there was an undercurrent breeze that blew from below. "Why?"

"The scent you're handing me matches somebody long lost to the Consortium, I'm afraid. One Catriona Barrett." Rose glanced down at her hand, squeezed her fist around the glove that still had traces of saliva on it. "Disappeared after the Consortium eliminated her lover, which I'm sure you know was a spirit by the name of Emmerich."

"That doesn't make sense. The dagger is perfectly capable of killing humans, but it's just as capable of killing spirits. What would she want with it?"

"A conundrum not meant for me to solve, I'm afraid." Magnus hummed floated away from her, cracking only an eye open to glance at her. He must have seen her frown, because he sighed and momentarily moved closer to her, moved around her in a circle so that his tail could brush up against her cheek and make her nose wiggle. "We were lucky that the dagger was within Cousinhood territory, but you know I'll be leading you-"

"- All over god's creation. Yeah, I know." She smiled his way, gave him a scratch under his chin either to calm herself down or to annoy Magnus. She had no plans to ponder which it was. He glared at her, unamused as always, as he faded from her sight. "I'm afraid that's a risk we're going to have to take."

The compass hovered in mid-air, faintly radiating with the same purple that surrounded herself and Magnus. As the last of Magnus's spirit world faded from view, the compass itself pulsed, like a heartbeat. She held out her hand and waited for it to fall into her palm, cold detailed silver against the fabric of her glove. The pulsing became faster, a more constant stream of vibration until it was buzzing in her hand, meaning Magnus had decided precisely what direction to go in. She nodded south and said "Let's go."

Clara, Hardy, and Isaac glanced to Crawford, who only tipped his hat as confirmation before following closely behind Rose. Hardy exhaled, shoulders slouching as air deflated him like an old balloon. "This should be fun…"

He trudged after Rose and Crawford, Isaac and Clara close behind.

She walked beside Isaac, but he felt her eyes watching him as though they were on his back. He tensed up. "You know, if we pass your hometown…"

He grimaced. "I wouldn't say a word."

He hurried hurried to catch up with Hardy, ignoring the set of eyes that were now definitely watching his retreating frame.

Sewing, as any 18th century woman would tell you, is the cornerstone of femininity. Women practiced the art often, and with the persistence of anybody who had to live their entire life without video games or sports. Sewing also, as any of these 18th century woman would tell you, is a real pain.

Isabel pricked herself for the third- or fourth- time, tried once more to stitch the two pieces of cloth together, and instead decided she'd had quite enough of whatever purgatory she'd found herself stuck in. Sleeping Beauty only had to get pricked ONCE to fall asleep, she'd say that she more than earned a nap. "This is so-!" She flicked her tired wrist around, trying to find the right word. How to best describe the ludicrousness of her current task without lowballing her grievances or insulting her teacher. Ah, yes. That's the right word. "Stupid! This is so stupid! How is sitting here sewing going to save anyone?"

Dimitri glanced up from his sewing job, cool eyebrow raised. Zarei, too, glanced up from her task, reading a book which, comparatively, was a favorable task to whatever this nonsense was. Zarei herself looked bored, but not surprised. She'd most likely been anticipating Isabel's outburst, as was customary once every class. Not every period, no, every class that Isabel had to be subjected to some of the most boring, menial tasks she'd ever had to do for a grade. Zarei's class. "Isabel," Zarei started, and she could already hear the routine disinterest. "In a life or death situation, you may have to temporarily sew and dress or cauterize a wound." She adjusted her glasses and mumbled, in equal irritation, "they wouldn't let me have fire in the classroom, so this will have to do."

"This is a waste of our time!"

Dimitri, as chill as always, lifted one hand, a motion he seemed to carry out every time she had these routine outbursts, as though she was a wild spirit and needed to be tamed and reined in. "Isabel-"

"No! I'm sick of this! The traitor who released those monsters is still out there and we have no idea who they are or what they want!"

Zarei seemed unperturbed, though she shut her book with one snap and set it off to the side of her desk. "Isabel-"

"What are we sitting here sewing for? We're just wasting time-!"

"Isabel!"

She choked, instinctually stepping back as Zarei's hands slammed upon the instructor's desk. This… this was not part of the routine, but she supposed her outburst had been more emotionally-charged than her others had been. Zarei usually took her complaints in stride, even snarked about setting up a suggestions box for Isabel to leave comments in (that way she could dispose of them easier). This time, though, Zarei looked her dead in the eye, unblinking, unmoving. Isabel looked to her left where Dimitri sat at his desk, found his hand still raised cautiously, though it'd moved some to avoid her flaring aura.

Fine.

She growled to herself, sliding back down into her seat, but unwilling to continue stitching. Instead she glared at the two bits of cloth and used the needle to take small jabs at her desk. Zarei wouldn't say anything, would probably just be happy she wasn't complaining. She'd just have to deal with her restlessly squirming in her seat until class was over in another handful of minutes. God, she hoped Max was having a better time.

The gym was larger than the auditorium their Training 101 class typically monopolized. Once the bell had rung and all the class had been seated, when Spender announced that they'd all be transferring to the gym for the day, Max had almost felt the collective sigh of relief that hung like the usual unease in the atmosphere. He glanced at Collin, who had taken to walking the very thin line between the waking world and the unconscious one with his chin rested in his hand, eyes slowly inching shut before they popped open again after a restless three seconds of shut-eye. Johnny sat at his other side, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. Probably the least claustrophobic the psychopath has felt in weeks.

Spender stood at the bottom of the bleachers, raising his hands in a sad attempt to get his large, voluble class to more of a hushed whisper. Because Spender was a quiet man naturally, and passive normally, his voice was lost in the sea of early-morning chit-chat, the kind that was kept in-check by smaller class periods. Max watched with varying degrees of amusement as Spender circulated through every trick in the book to get a bunch of confused, aggravated, loquacious middle-schoolers to shut their overused traps. He first tried to clear his throat. When that didn't work, he tried to drop his teacher's guidebook on the gym floor- when that was stifled and dulled in the vastness of the gym walls, he resorted to yelling at the top of his lungs. That still didn't work, and Max could see the man struggling to figure out how else to reign in a hundred or so students. His calloused hands were clawing at his face, eyes visibly heavy with exhaustion, even behind his shades. When all hope seemed to be lost, Coach Oop set one heavy hand on Spender's shoulder, gave him a pitying look, and got the attention of every student the way only a gym coach knew how- screaming and just being louder than the normal teacher.

Chatter seemed to fade almost instantly, and Spender shot Coach Oop a grateful look.

He cleared his throat as Oop retreated to his office. "Class, today we are going to begin working the physical aspects of your new abilities, rather than your minds." Max could practically feel Johnny vibrating in the seat next to him. He shot the red-head an eye that he ignored entirely. "Now, I've always been more focused on the intellectual end of training-"

"Couldn't tell!"

Spender picked Max out in the crowd immediately, glared at him, and received nothing but a grin in response. "... So I've asked an old master of mine to stand in for me." An elderly man stepped forward, huge and terrifying for being gray in the face. "This is Master Guerra. Say hello, class."

"Hello, Master Guerra…." Roughly a quarter of the class even bothered, and those that did were unenthusiastic at best and downright resentful at worst, clearly not knowing what was ahead of them. Max swallowed hard; he'd heard stories from Ed about Isabel's grandfather, stories that Isabel had commented "didn't even graze the bottom" of just how tough Master Guerra could be. And that was on his granddaughter… what would he be like with kids he had no attachment to? Max felt his spine shiver preemptively at the possibilities. Collin leaned over, now much more awake than he had been two minutes prior, and whispered.

"Hey, is that Isabel's dad or something?"

Max cupped a hand over one side of his mouth so Collin could hear him better. "Grandpa, actually. And probably the embodiment of abuse of power…"

Master Guerra's eyes roamed the crowd, but there was something about his gaze that felt like he was simultaneously singling out every single child in the bleachers. Max had the crazy theory that it was because he was, in actuality, seeing every one of them, judging them, assessing them, what they could do. He clearly didn't like what he was seeing, because he took a step forward and his eyes were no less calculating. "Spineless, each and every one of you. Hardly spectrals, hardly able at all. If you want to be worth anything, you will do as I say, and you will do it the first time!"

The class, silent before, fell deathly mute.

Spender stepped forward, chuckling with a nervous edge as he set one unsure hand on Guerra's shoulder- er, tried to. He decided against it last moment. "Master, these children still hardly understand the concept of tools, perhaps you should tone it down just a little-?"

"You asked for my help. This is what you receive."

"Ah."

Isaac cringed. The little cabin he'd taken shelter in was just as creepy and run-down as when he'd last seen it. Creepier, in fact, now that he'd bled all over its floors.

Crawford stopped at the front door and puffed on the last bit of his cigar. Rose passed him by and reached for the handle, eyes on the compass in her hand. "Should I do it?"

Rose shook her head. "Don't waste the energy yet, Crawford. We know the story here pretty well already." She pressed the door open with a sickeningly loud creak, a sound that made Isaac shudder. "Catriona left this place in a hurry in the dead of night. If we want Magnus to keep her scent, we've gotta find something that will lead us to where she went next."

The group pushed on. Crawford went first, one arm protectively extended in front of Rose, other hand cocked with one of his guns. Rose glanced around, looking for anything that may emit a trace of Catriona's aura, careful to let Crawford open doors. The place should have been abandoned, but the odds of Consortium pawns and antagonistic spirits were a possibility she was unwilling to overlook. Clara clung to one of Hardy's sleeves. They were switching off who was looking out in which direction, leaving Isaac to keep his eyes straight ahead. More of a challenge than it may seem, with the cabin's darkness spanning well past Rose and Crawford. He tried to keep in pace with them, but his legs were shaking and he wasn't sure if it was because he was three different kinds of dead the last time he was here, or if the draft of the run-down walls was getting to him.

Clara edged closer to Isaac, willing herself to feel calmer with somebody on either side of her. "There's so much blood, everywhere…" Her breath hitched and trembled with every word, hot breath running down his neck. Miss Rose looked back and found his eyes. He frowned and glanced away. They made it to the end of the hallway, what Isaac remembered as the bedroom he'd taken residence of that night. He was right; Rose raised the compass and the light of her aura illuminated the very edge of the bedpost, rotting and covered in, what Isaac assumed was probably, more of his dried-up blood.

Hardy's foot made contact with something at his feet, and he leaned forward to pick it up. "Oh hey, a diary!" He said one second. "Ah!" He said the next.

Clara glanced over Hardy's shoulder to see the page he'd opened up to by chance, and stifled the scream she instinctually reacted with behind her interwoven fingers. The page was yellow with age and slick with dust from infrequent use, though it had clearly been handled somewhat recently, the way fingerprints edged the pages. The page Hardy had opened up to, the one Isaac now glanced over Clara's shoulder to see, was covered in nothing but pen- and a lot of it. Frantic. Some unlegible. Dark and as black as a widow drenched in the blackest of inks. Words scribbled next to sketches of spirits, of auras and eyes that seemed to watch from behind the safety of the page.

Why can't he see them

I'm not crazy

Help

Hardy screamed and accidentally tossed the book a foot in the air, only to start juggling it with unsteady hands the moment it came back down, whimpering the whole time. Isaac snorted and held out his hand so Hardy could pass it to him- and he did, by using one juggling hand to smack the book mid-air in Isaac's general direction. Isaac caught the diary by the spine in his open palm, flipping it back open with relative ease. "This is her's?"

Just as soon as he opened it, a gloved hand snatched it from him. Miss Rose grinned and raised to compass to the diary, humming at the confirming buzz of her tool. "This is the next piece in Catriona's puzzle, kiddies!"

Kid after kid lined up in parallel with the bullseyes across the gymnasium floor, each new frontrunner as confused as the last. Guerra and Spender stood to the side, eyeing individual auras as they hit or missed the targets- and they rarely hit. Guerra was grimacing, looking every bit terrifying as Spender felt. He kept switching from watching the students to watching his master, frequent enough to keep an eye on his reactions, but not frequent enough for Guerra (hopefully) to notice.

Max was third in one of the first lines. All the better, in his opinion, for getting this over with as fast as possible. He aimed at the target a few feet away, concentrated. He'd had so much on his mind lately. Isabel, Spender, Ed…. His eyes narrowed as blue crossed his vague vision- the kid next to him, but it was enough. He took one quick breath and took his shot. Black gas, perfectly rounded, perfectly paced, hit the bullseye head-on, nearly knocking it over in a clash of red and white against a crawling web of black that descended over it.

Spender's eyes widened, a small smile inching across his face. He'd been worried that all of the attention he'd had to put into training these classes had denied his original students somehow of the attention he felt was vital to truly learning to hone their new powers, but if Max's spectral shot was any indication-!

"Don't get so excited." Guerra was watching the children still, but Spender could feel the disappointment in him radiating from his drilled eyes. He pretended not to notice. "Spectral shots are child's play. That your student is capable of such a feat places him on par with Isabel at five years of age."

The next group of students stepped up. Max met Collin's eyes on his way back to the bleachers.

Collin looked panicked, gesturing to the targets, then gesturing back to the hands Max was well aware would be unable to conjure up any aura at all, let alone get a spectral shot off. Max winced and shrugged at him. Can't help ya there, man.

Collin got up to the bat and mimed for dear life, found other kids doing the same thing. Each pointed and breathed and stood there waiting for auras that never built and shots that never burned through the distance. They turned to each other, confused, some agitated, some lackadaisical about the whole thing.

Guerra turned to Spender with a glare in his eye, and all he could do was smile nervously and swallow the fear gnawing at his throat like acid.

Nature walks were run-of-the-mill for Master Hashimoto's dojo. Ed never quite got the importance of them, and when he asked for clarification the answer was always "something-something peace" or "something-something tranquility".

Aka, "Something-something Ed isn't interested."

But alas, they were required. Every student in the dojo would wake up at roughly 5am, clothe themselves, then walk a mile-long hike through the woods before they could all return home to feast upon the breakfast Hashimoto no doubt would have laid out for them when they got back. As beautiful as the scenery was this time of year, Ed was far more interested in getting back so he could settle the uncomfortable tugging and gurgling of his stomach.

The start of the day was always the hardest. He knew this. And like always, he'd get through it. That didn't mean he felt like trekking up a mountain of flowers today, though.

He sighed and carried onward, barley giving the beautiful red roses he passed a sidelong glance. Well, he almost didn't. The vibrant red caught his eye, and he fell a few steps behind admiring the way the morning dew dripped from the soft petals.

Red was supposed to be the color of aggression, of hunger and anger and danger, but it was also adventure, passion…

Love.

A laugh he knew better than his own crossed his mind's ear, and he almost hated the way he instantly drew the connections to tan skin and red, so much red. Ed shook his head clear and turned away, transitioning into a light jog to catch up to the rest of his peers. This was crazy, he was being crazy. What that girl said meant nothing. What Dimitri said meant nothing, just people being people and misunderstanding his relationship with Isabel. They were like siblings! She was his best friend! He shook his head clear with finality.

He caught up with the rest of the group with ease, not that it was difficult. It seemed like he was the only one eager to get back to food, because his peers had taken a decidedly slower pace. He'd lightly jogged like an old man who'd just watched his small weiner dog steal his slipper, and still, he'd managed to catch up in about thirty seconds. Ed huffed, shoulders slumping in the way that usually got him a fist upside the head from Guerra and a small scolding from Spender.

"Guys, look! He's letting me feed him!"

One of the other students had paused to bend down a few feet in front of him. A quick side-step confirmed that she'd palmed a nut from the ground, and that a small squirrel had taken interest in it. A few other students coo'ed and some bemoaned not having their phone to take a picture. Ed felt himself smiling despite his grouchy mood. The squirrel was, after all, pushing the boundaries of cute. Big beady eyes, tail twitching, head tilting as it tried to communicate with his fellow student in a language it didn't know she didn't understand. Part of his heart, which he found had somewhat frozen over the last few weeks, melted on the spot. She opened up her palm, and the squirrel readily sprinted for it, pausing on her fingers to test the nut and see that it was real. Chestnut brown fur, spots of darker hair that looked black in the early morning sunrise-

-- brown eyes under long lashes, squinting with mirth as he made her laugh, his favorite sound in this world and the next.

Ed froze mid-thought, eyes widening so much he thought they would fall out of the sockets. He'd done it again, the same thing he'd been doing the past- how long had it been? Too long! Too long for this to still be a problem! Ed took several deep breaths, one hand pressed to his chest as he hyper-ventilated, or something close to it. He was just tired, that's all. He was busy a lot of the day training to become a man worthy...of… his mind trailed off again, and Ed felt his hands tearing his hair straight off of his head before he even registered the deep-seeded hand that felt like it was tugging twenty different chords of his heart.

I do not like Isabel! I do not like Isabel! I do not like Isabel!

"Get out of my head!"

There was a silence around him, and he couldn't help but think that it was a little odd, considering all the cute-animal-fawning that'd been happening a few seconds ago. He opened his eyes, which had been screwed shut in his agony, to find his entire class staring at him. Even the squirrel, which had been so content with its nut before, had turned its curious eyes on him as if waiting for an explanation. Ed blinked. "I yearn for the sweet embracing heat of my gaming console."

His peers seemed to shrug it off, nod, mumble "yeah, yeah that sounds about right".