Chapter 6 Supernatural History 101 (Mira POV)
I made it back to the dorm room at 4:23 AM, slipping through the door with the same practiced silence I'd used to leave. The room was exactly as I'd left it, Zara's breathing still deep and even, her form a bundled lump beneath floral bedding.
Relief washed through me. At least I wouldn't have to explain where I'd been.
I stripped off my hoodie and jeans.
I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin, staring at the ceiling. Sleep seemed impossible after everything that had happened, but exhaustion pulled me under within minutes.
When my alarm shrilled at 6:30 AM, I felt like I'd been hit by a truck.
Zara groaned from across the room. "Why do we live in a society that requires consciousness before 9 AM? It's inhumane."
I managed a laugh that sounded almost normal. "Because suffering builds character?"
"Suffering builds resentment and caffeine dependency." She sat up, her box braids askew. "You look terrible, by the way. Rough night?"
You have no idea. "Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about everything."
"Relatable." Zara swung her legs out of bed and stretched. "First week at supernatural boarding school definitely messes with your REM cycles. Come on, we've got forty-five minutes to make ourselves presentable for the judgmental masses."
We went through our morning routines in companionable silence. I stood under the shower spray longer than necessary, letting hot water sluice away the physical evidence of my midnight excursion. The deer blood Jax had been covered in, the forest debris clinging to my clothes, the lingering scent of vampire that had wrapped around me when Cain stood close—all of it washed away down the drain.
If only the memories were as easy to rinse clean.
By 7:45, we were dressed and caffeinated, heading toward the academic building for first period. Students filled the hallways in various states of wakefulness, chattering about homework and weekend plans with the blasé normalcy of teenagers everywhere.
Except some of these teenagers could shift into wolves. Others could drain you dry. And apparently, the whole school knew about it and just... carried on.
The cognitive dissonance made my head ache.
"You have Montgomery first period, right?" Zara asked as we reached the second-floor corridor.
"Supernatural History. You?"
"AP Calculus, which should be classified as its own form of torture." She squeezed my arm. "Meet you at lunch? I want to hear all about how the vampire professor handles teaching the vampire-human wars without bursting into flames from the irony."
I forced a smile. "It's a date."
We split up at the hallway intersection. I followed room numbers until I found 204—a classroom tucked into the building's eastern corner. Through the door's window, I could see students already settling into desks arranged in a semicircle rather than traditional rows.
I took a breath and entered.
The classroom was unlike any I'd seen before. Instead of sterile institutional walls, these were covered floor-to-ceiling with artifacts: ancient weapons displayed in glass cases, faded maps marking territories with names I didn't recognize, tapestries depicting battles between creatures I'd only heard about in Victoria's bedtime stories—the kind meant to terrify rather than comfort.
At the front of the room stood Professor Isabel Montgomery.
She was younger than I expected—mid-forties, perhaps, with rich brown skin and silver-streaked hair pulled into an elegant bun. She wore a deep purple blouse and tailored black pants, with rings on every finger that caught the light. Her dark eyes held the kind of sharp intelligence that missed nothing.
Those eyes found me the moment I walked in.
"Miss Ashford." Her voice was warm honey with an edge of steel. "Welcome. Please, take any available seat."
I chose a desk in the second row, aware of the other students tracking my movement. I recognized a few faces from the dining hall—a blonde girl who'd been sitting with the Nightbloods, a tall Black guy who moved with athlete grace, a redheaded girl who'd smiled at me yesterday.
None of them looked hostile, just curious. The new girl in Supernatural History 101 was apparently interesting.
The bell chimed precisely at 8:00. Professor Montgomery closed the door with a soft click.
"Good morning, everyone. For those who don't know me yet, I'm Professor Montgomery. I teach Supernatural History, Practical Magic Applications, and occasionally serve as a mediator when students decide to settle academic disputes with violence instead of vocabulary."
A few students laughed. I stayed silent, hands folded on my desk.
"Today we begin our unit on the First War—the conflict between humans and vampires that shaped the modern supernatural world. But before we start, I want to establish something crucial." She moved to the center of the semicircle, her rings glinting. "History is not objective. It's written by those who survive, those who hold power, those who control the narrative. Every account carries bias. Every version has an agenda."
She gestured to the artifacts lining the walls. "These items come from both sides of the conflict. Human weapons that killed vampires. Vampire relics stained with human blood. Each tells a story. The question is—which stories do we believe?"
The blonde girl raised her hand. "Professor Montgomery, my father says vampires started the war by attacking human settlements in the 1600s."
"An excellent example, Natalie. That is indeed one version of events—the one taught in most human history courses." Professor Montgomery walked to a glass case and removed what looked like an ancient letter, yellowed with age and sealed with wax. "But consider this: a letter written in 1687 by a vampire elder named Matthias Graves to the Governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony. May I read an excerpt?"
She didn't wait for permission. "'Sir, we come to you not as enemies but as refugees. The plague that sweeps through your lands does not discriminate—we too bury our dead. We seek only shelter and the right to exist in peace. We offer our strength to help rebuild what disease has destroyed. We ask for covenant, not conflict.'"
The classroom had gone completely silent.
"This letter," Professor Montgomery continued, "was delivered by vampire emissaries under a flag of truce. According to human records, those emissaries were captured and burned alive. Three days later, vampire forces attacked the colony in retaliation. Human historians mark this attack as the beginning of the First War. Vampire historians mark it as justified response to unprovoked murder."
She placed the letter carefully back in its case. "So I ask you: who started the war?"
I found myself leaning forward, Victoria's lessons warring with what I was hearing. My mother had taught me the First War began because vampires saw humans as prey, nothing more. That early vampires were monsters who had to be contained or destroyed.
She'd never mentioned peace negotiations. Never mentioned emissaries burned alive.
"For today's lesson," Professor Montgomery said, returning to the front of the room, "we'll examine primary source documents from both perspectives. I want you to think critically about what you're reading. Question the narratives. Look for what's missing as much as what's present."
She distributed packets of photocopied documents—letters, journal entries, official proclamations. My packet felt heavy as lead in my hands.
The next hour was a systematic dismantling of everything I'd been taught.
Document after document showed vampires attempting diplomacy. Offering to help human communities in exchange for acceptance. Proposing laws to govern vampire feeding that would prevent human deaths.
And again and again, humans responding with violence.
There were atrocities on both sides—I wouldn't pretend otherwise. Vampires who saw humans as cattle and acted accordingly. Humans who tortured vampires for sport. The war, once started, brought out the worst in everyone.
But the pattern was undeniable: vampires had tried for peace first. Humans had chosen war.
"Miss Ashford."
I jerked my head up. Professor Montgomery was watching me with those penetrating dark eyes.
"You seem troubled by these materials. Would you like to share your thoughts with the class?"
Every instinct screamed at me to deflect, to play it safe. But something about her steady gaze demanded honesty.
"I was taught differently," I said quietly. "About how the war started. About who the aggressors were."
"And what were you taught?"
"That vampires were monsters. That they attacked first. That humans were just defending themselves."
Professor Montgomery nodded slowly. "Many people are taught that version. It's a comfortable narrative—humans as victims, vampires as villains. Simple. Clean. Morally unambiguous." She paused. "It's also incomplete."
The blonde girl—Natalie—raised her hand again. "But Professor, even if humans struck first, that doesn't make vampires innocent. They still killed people. They still fed on humans."
"True," Professor Montgomery acknowledged. "This is not a lesson in absolution. Both sides committed horrors. Both sides have blood on their hands. The point is to understand that villains and heroes are rarely so clearly defined in reality. Most conflicts arise from fear, miscommunication, and the failure to see humanity—or personhood—in those we perceive as different."
She walked along the semicircle of desks, rings catching the fluorescent light. "Vampires needed blood to survive. Humans needed safety from predation. Both were legitimate needs. Both sides could have negotiated a solution. Instead, they chose mutual destruction. Three hundred years later, we're still living with the consequences."
The bell rang, signaling the end of class. Students began gathering their materials.
"For homework," Professor Montgomery called over the rustling papers, "I want a two-page analysis comparing any human historical account with its vampire counterpart. Focus on identifying bias in both versions. Due Friday."
As students filed out, chattering about lunch plans and other classes, I remained seated. My mind was churning too fast to move.
Everything Victoria had taught me was built on a foundation of lies. Or at minimum, selective truth presented as complete fact.
If she'd lied about the First War, what else had she lied about?
"Miss Ashford." Professor Montgomery's voice was gentle. "A moment, please."
I looked up to find the classroom empty except for the two of us. Professor Montgomery sat on the edge of her desk, studying me with an expression I couldn't quite parse.
"You're struggling," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar." A small smile touched her lips. "Which is admirable, actually. Lying well requires either extensive practice or a flexible relationship with morality. I'm glad to see you haven't developed either."
I didn't know what to say to that.