Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The storm had rolled in just as you arrived at Nevermore, thunder shaking the stained-glass windows of the boardroom like some theatrical welcome. The kind of entrance you would never admit you secretly enjoyed. You adjusted your blazer—black over deep silk burgundy—and slid your sunglasses higher up the bridge of your nose.
They weren’t armor, exactly, but they helped. Vampires wore them by tradition. Or superstition. Or survival. No one ever seemed to agree. Still, it was easier to let people meet a reflection of themselves in the lenses than let them stare too long at what lay beneath.
The boardroom smelled of wax and old wood polish, centuries of history clinging to the beams above your head. High-backed chairs creaked as staff filed in one by one. Every face was older, practiced, settled in their place here. You were not. You were younger, sharper, and your very presence was a ripple in their stagnant pond.
Principal Weems’s voice carried easily through the chamber, cutting through the roll of thunder. “We are fortunate to welcome our newest addition to the Nevermore faculty: Professor [Last Name], Head of Literature, and… representative for our vampire students.”
A hush followed. You felt the weight of eyes on you—curiosity, surprise, maybe even doubt. Too young. Too polished. Too composed. You inclined your head, keeping your tone even.
You rose slightly from your seat as all eyes turned toward you. Elegant, pristine. Dark academia made flesh. Your outfit spoke before you did: the black blazer fitted, your blouse silken burgundy, a skirt skimming the tops of your thighs but paired with sheer black tights that made the ensemble professional, albeit more youthful. Sharp lines. Intentional contrast. Even your heels clicked in punctuation when you shifted your weight.
“Professor,” Weems gestured lightly toward you, “comes to us with an impressive academic background, and though young, they carry a fresh perspective I am confident will benefit our students.”
Translation: you were younger than every other professor in the room by at least a decade, maybe more. That wasn’t lost on anyone.
You inclined your head politely, measured. “Thank you, Principal Weems. I’m honored to join the faculty at Nevermore,” you said softly. “I look forward to working with all of you.”
Before you could sink back into silence, another voice cut through. Smooth. Cold. Feminine.
“Impressive background, perhaps,” it said, with a flick of tone that carried all the weight of a judgment. “But youth does not always translate into wisdom.”
Your gaze snapped to its source. At the far end of the table, you caught her.
Isadora Capri. Head of Music. Werewolf.
You had read the name in the faculty briefings but hadn’t met her yet. Isadora Capri. The Academy’s newly appointed Head of Music, and—if whispers around the halls were to be believed—both brilliant and merciless in equal measure.
She didn’t look like a new arrival. She looked like she had been carved into the stone of Nevermore decades ago, perfectly at home in its candlelit gothic sprawl.
She didn’t bother to hide the way her eyes lingered on you—young, new, untested. A glance that was cool, detached, almost bored. And yet… lingering. A half-smile ghosted across her mouth, not quite friendly, not quite cruel. It was the sort of expression that felt like a test in itself, and irritation flickered in your chest before you could choke it down.
You reminded yourself: you were here to build allies, not enemies. You bit back the urge to snap.
Your smile, polite but tight, curved just enough to show restraint. “Wisdom comes in many forms, Professor. Age is only one of them.”
That earned you a sharp glance, one brow arching as though she hadn’t expected you to push back. The air between you tightened like a wire pulled taut.
Across the table, a low chuckle broke the tension.
“Now this is interesting,” Morticia Addams murmured, her voice a velvet ribbon laced with amusement.
You turned your head toward her. Morticia was unmistakable, all obsidian silk and pale poise, her presence as magnetic as the storm outside. She had come to oversee preparations for the annual gala, and though not faculty, she sat with the kind of authority that made everyone else seem smaller.
Her dark eyes lingered on you with something knowing—approval, even. “Nevermore does enjoy fresh blood.”
You managed not to choke on the irony of that statement.
There was a ripple of laughter, polite, before Weems steered the meeting back toward announcements and schedules.
Weems continued, oblivious to the storm at her table. “This semester marks the launch of our Unity Festival—a gala and celebration of Nevermore talent while strengthening ties with Jericho. And so, fittingly, Professors Capri and [Last Name] will be co-chairs.”
A ripple of surprise went through the room. You felt it too, but you kept your spine straight.
At the edge of your vision, Isadora’s lips curved the slightest fraction—an acknowledgment, or a challenge, you couldn’t tell. But she said nothing, not even a glance your way and that quiet indifference burned hotter than open disdain. You clenched your jaw and smoothed a page of your notebook, pretending her nonchalance didn’t bother you. It did.
“I trust you’ll both bring your unique strengths to the event,” Weems finished, her tone leaving no room for refusal.
From across the table, a voice smooth as velvet cut in. “An ambitious undertaking,” said Morticia, her smile as darkly radiant as the black silk she wore. Her eyes flicked to you, appraising but warm. “I imagine our new Head of Literature will rise beautifully to the occasion.”
Something in her confidence steadied you. You returned her look, softening just enough. “I’ll certainly try.”
Morticia inclined her head ever so slightly. Her black silk gown shimmered like spilled ink, but her smile was warm, conspiratorial. “A gala and festival combined, how morbidly exciting!”
Weems nodded. “Indeed. Which is why I chose our two newest heads to be co-chairs.”
Then, a soft huff from Isadora that was not unlike a growl. “A wolf and a vampire planning a gala,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard. “What could possibly go wrong?”
You forced your posture straighter, refusing to let her see even a hint of hesitation. “Depends on whether you prefer your opening number performed with teeth or ink, Professor.”
A few of the faculty shifted uncomfortably. Morticia’s crimson lips curled into the barest smile.
Discussions about syllabi, dormitories, and the upcoming fundraising gala rolled on as the tension dissipated but, you found your attention slipping. Because every so often, when you glanced across the table, Isadora’s gaze was already on you. Unflinching. Assessing. Irritating.
At least, that’s what you told yourself it was.
You ignored the prickle of awareness that crept under your skin whenever her eyes lingered too long. You ignored the way your stomach tightened with something that wasn’t entirely annoyance.
When the meeting adjourned, chairs scraped, papers shuffled, and faculty drifted toward the hall. Isadora rose without looking your way, her red hair glinting as she turned. That same indifference again. And yet, as she passed the door, you felt it—the unmistakable weight of her gaze pulling you in. Her gaze catching yours one last time even through the dark lens of your shades —calculated, cold, almost regal. And yet… your pulse betrayed you, thudding faster than it should.
You inhaled sharply tearing your eyes from her, closing your notebook with more force than necessary before she vanished into the corridor.
Morticia rose with languid grace and touched your arm lightly as you gathered your notes. “Do not let her barbs deter you,” she said in a velvet voice. “She bites at anyone who threatens her spotlight. Wolves often circle before they strike.”
“Good to know,” you replied dryly. “I’ll make sure to keep my throat covered.”
Morticia’s smile widened knowingly.
“It is also a good thing I don’t spook easily,” you said as your lips curved faintly.
Morticia’s smile widened, rich with amusement. “No, I didn’t imagine you would.”
You pushed your sunglasses back into place, notebook tucked under your arm. The first storm of the semester had passed, but you knew better.
The real one had just begun.
You had worked for this position. You were ready.
But nothing could have prepared you for Isadora Capri.