Devil May Cry - Series Fan Fiction ❯ By Blood Connected ❯ Teacher ( Chapter 3 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

The class was eerily quiet as the bell rang.

For five minutes we sat in utter silence, waiting for something to happen. Sarita’s friends had seen him earlier, so he was obviously at school somewhere. His exact location was the mystery.

And, being the diligent little students we were, we waited.

Another five or so minutes passed, and I was growing impatient. Leaning back in my chair and propping my feet on the desk in front of me, I remarked on what I thought to be the obvious:

“Well, this SUCKS.”

My twenty or so class mates all turned to look at me, and began to murmur amongst themselves. Ami elbowed me in the ribs. I grunted, but otherwise ignored her. I tilted my head back so that I was looking at the ceiling, then closed my eyes.
“Seriously though, guys,” I began. “If he doesn’t think we’re worthy enough to merit punctuality, then I don’t see why we should be such precious little angels and sit around waiting for him.” My eyes snapped open as I rocked forward in my chair, letting its legs hit the floor with a loud bang, and swung my own legs off of the table. I stood, picking up my book bag.

“I don’t know about you,” I began again, “but I’m no angel.” I walked past Ami, who latched onto my skirt. I turned and looked down at her.

“Need something?” I asked, grinning. She looked up at me pleadingly from her chair.

“Come on, Jira...” her grip on my clothing tightened slightly. “Let’s not start this year off with you skipping class, okay?” Her brown eyes were desperate, her ever-present maternal instincts rising up. I grinned again.

“Look,” I said. “I’m just gonna pop on over to the department head’s office and report a missing teacher is all.” I winked at her. “You’ll pass that message along to Aeneid when he finally decides to show his face, okay?” She sighed, looking defeated, and muttered an affirmative. Chuckling, I descended the steps to the lowest level of the class room. I strode over to the door, grabbed the doorknob in one hand, and wrenched the thing open–

The man was tall, very tall. I had always thought Ms. Saxen to be on the higher side of the fence, but even SHE would have been dwarfed by this man.

And it wasn’t just height wise. He was broad-shouldered and muscular; I could tell even through the black, teacher-edition school jacket. But however impressive in height he was, it was nothing compared to the heart-stopping features of his face.

He had high, sharp cheekbones that could have ground female hearts into dust, a straight, aristocratic nose, and slightly hollowed cheeks which only added to the intrigue of his features. His eyes were, as I have said, a brilliant, electric, ice-chip blue, set slightly back into his face, giving them a shadowed, mysterious look. His hair was a bright white, the term ‘platinum’ doing nothing to justice it, and he wore it swept backout of his eyes, exposing his pale, perfect forehead. Just as Sarita’s friend had said earlier, he was indeed pale.

He stared down at me coldly for what seemed like an eternity. With a jolt, I realized that the entire class was sitting in shocked silence. Then he spoke.

“Take your seat.”

He promptly pushed past me, somehow managing to gently shoulder me out of his way without making contact. His walk was smooth and predatory, like a feral cat’s, and his eyes darted over the classroom like a hunter’s, missing nothing. His eyes flashed to me again when he reached his desk, and I jumped as he addressed me a second time:

“I believe I told you to take your seat, miss.”

His voice was deep and masculine, resonating as he spoke. It had a slight nasal quality that was not unpleasant, only intelligent-sounding, but there was a sharp edge to it that set my teeth grating.

Realizing I had been standing there gaping like a fish, I spun on my heel and marched back up the stairs to my seat next to Ami and Sarita, trying to look dignified, and undoubtedly failing miserably. I sat myself down into the chair heavily, as if I had been longing to sit right there all day, crossed my legs, and began to stare straight ahead blankly, hoping he’d ignore me.

Inside, my heart was pounding. He IS gorgeous. I thought. I mean, they said so n’ all, but I was completely unprepared for THIS. My eyes, completely ignoring my desire to continue staring blankly, shifted to look at him. One thing was becoming apparent though, despite my admiration of his looks:

He turned to us again, his eyes once again sweeping over the room. He gestured at the blackboard.
“You will address me,” he began, “as Mr. Redgrave.” His face remained blank. “My real surname is written on the board.” He had penned the letters ‘A-E-N-E-I-D’ on its surface in a sharp, liquid script. “But given that the majority of students here are so uneducated that they would be unable to pronounce even the first syllable correctly--” his face remained unfettered by emotion despite the insult “--I will be forced to use my mother’s maiden name during class.” He continued. “When filling out forms requiring my name, however, you will use my formal one .” He then walked back to his desk and set himself down on its edge, facing us.

“I believe a roll call is in order.” He said softly. His voice cut through the silence like a knife despite its low volume. He promptly produced a sheet of paper from nowhere and called the first name.

“Abbot?”

When no one answered, he sighed wearily, and repeated it more loudly, this time adding the owner’s given name as well as their last.

“Charlie Abbot?” The boy in question squeaked out a frightened “here.” Redgrave scowled.

“Please raise your hand when you announce yourself. I need a face.”

“No he doesn’t!” whispered Sarita suddenly, making me jump. I looked at her quizzically.

“His own is fine enough!” She intoned vehemently. “He’s so ho-“

“Is there a problem, miss?” I snapped my face back to our instructor, who was regarding us cooly.

“There will be no talking.” He said icily. Sarita replied with a weak ‘yes, sir’ while I opted for saying nothing at all. He turned back to his list and continued to call names.

“Higgins?”

“Here.”

“Holding?”

“Here, sir.”

“Jenkins?”

“H...here...R 21;

I mentally braced myself; I was coming up soon.

“Lancaster, Jira?”
I didn’t say a word, simply raised my hand until it was level with my ear. His head was bowed, staring at the sheet, waiting for my to identify myself, and when, after a moment, I had still not said anything, he raised his eyes.

Our gazes locked. So we’re gonna have a starin’ contest, buddy, izzat right? I thought. Well, two can play at that. Without breaking my gaze away from those cool eyes, I nodded. He stared back, unblinking.

“Jira... that’s an unusual name.” This caught me by surprise; I hadn’t been expecting that casual of a remark. “Is it African?” I nodded. He stared.

“What does it mean?” This COMPLETELY threw me. Usually no one seemed to care about its meaning, or if they did, they didn’t usually inquire right away like this.

“It means “tied by blood,” or “related by blood,” depending on the translation.” I finally said.

Then something flickered across his face. For a strange moment, he seemed confused, and then elated– but then it was gone, replaced by that cold, empty look. I nearly did a double take– what had that been about?-- but then he spoke again, interrupting my train of thought:

“And how did your parents come to choose it, I wonder?” His face was impassive as I answered.

“They were missionaries.” I said quietly. “I was born in the village they were witnessing to, and as a gesture of love, they named me as a daughter of the tribe.” I inclined my head. “I have no African blood though; I’m Czech and German.” He sat there, still. Then, after a long moment, spoke.

“Interesting.” He was all he said. Then he turned back to his list.

The rest of roll-call breezed by. I was still preoccupied by the emotions I had seen flickering in his eyes. I had written it off to a trick of the light when he stood, and regarded the class with that cold gaze.

“You are,” he said, ”As my students, my responsibility. Those of you who choose to slack off reflect badly on yourselves, and above all–“ His blank eyes grew fierce, flaring with jagged flames. “Above all, you disgrace me.” He began to sneer, emotion finally breaking through the dead mask. “If you are looking for an easy course, get out now.” The students looked around at each other unsure of how to take this. “I am not nearly as forgiving as your other teachers.”

“Furthermore, there will be no gum chewing during class, no note passing, no working on other class’ assignments, and above all: no TALKING.” He looked pointedly at me at the last remark.

“There will also be–“ he began, but before he could finish, he was interrupted by the opening of the door. Principal Clark poked his gleaming, be-walrused head in, grinned as he saw Redgrave, and stepped fully inside.

“Vergil, m’boy!” He boomed cheerfully. “Would you come help me move that blasted table next door? It must way two-hundred...”

The rest of his request didn’t register. The only thing I could think of was what he’d called “Redgrave.”

Vergil. I thought. The ‘V’ stood for VERGIL. The historical connection between his sur and given names suddenly clicked. The name of the poet who wrote the ‘Aeneid,’ his name was Vergil! This guy, his real surname’s Aeneid, and his first is VERGIL!? Vergil Aeneid? Were his parents literary NUTS to name their kid THAT?

For some reason, the whole thing struck my historian side of me as funny-- outrageously so. I began to chuckle under my breath, then shake with the effort of penning it inside. Finally, I couldn’t hold it in any longer: I began to laugh, great peals of sound that echoed throughout room. Through tear-seeping eyes I saw him look at me, saw Principal Clark staring open-mouthed, saw the classmates staring at me quizzically, and finally saw the horrified look on Ami’s face. I pillowed my head in my arms, unable to stop.

Vergil Aeneid.

Vergil AENEID!

“Something funny?” Aeneid, Redgrave, whatever his name was, was regarding me cooly. I caught my hiccuping breath, then choked out:

“BITCH of a name, Aeneid. Bet your parents sure did LOVE fine literature.” I pronounced his name correctly: ‘ih-NEE-ihd.’ I began to laugh again.

“I believe a set of disciplinary sessions are in order, Miss Jira--”

My laughter stopped instantly as I snapped up my head to look at him, eyes wide. His stare was icy.

“--For insolence on your part, and for foul language not befitting a young lady. Starting tomorrow, my office.”

There were two types of punishments that could be issued by teachers: disciplinary sessions and detentions. Detentions were the same as in all the American schools. The teacher chose the length of time you’d serve, be it ten minutes or two hours. They were held every Sunday in the library, and you were to simply sit and do nothing.

“Disciplinary sessions,” however, were quite different. They were the most severe form of punishment a student could earn short of expulsion (suspensions were not present at Tyler’s due to the fact that most of the student’s lived on campus and would wreak havoc if left alone in their dorms all day). You were to meet with the teacher who issued the sessions for two hours every day after school for two weeks, including Saturdays (which were held at nine in the morning) and Sundays (held from six PM. to eight P.M. in respect towards morning-held religious services). You did as you were told: file papers, sit in silence, grade tests, etc, basically whatever the teacher thought would be the best punishment.

They were normally given to only the most disruptive of students, and almost were never given on the first day.

Yet here I was, landing one with the teacher I was beginning to hate the most.

I blinked at him. He stared back.

“You heard me.” He said clearly. Then he turned and stalked out the door, the principal following after.

As if on cue, the bell rang.

“You idiot!” Ami hissed at me as we rose. “Landing yourself a D.S. the first day! I thought we agreed that we were going to be a little more–“

Sarita, on the other hand, was praising me.

“Twenty-eight hours with the hottest man I’ve ever seen! You lucky dog! Maybe I should talk during class or chew gum or–“
I ignored them and stomped out of the room, cheeks burning. Ami’s condescending prattle continued throughout the day, as did Sarita’s “lucky you” remarks. I was on the verge of pulling my hair out by the time school was released. Ami walked me to the gate before heading back to the dorms, only stopping her scolds to say a curt, disapproving goodbye.

I mean, I loved Ami and all, but when she got like this my life turned into a virtual hell. Plus, with the new addition of “The Teacher From Hades,” my life was going to be fire and brimstone anyway.

As I trudged my way home through the gorgeous afternoon, I resolved to be as difficult as possible during my sessions with Aeneid (which I was now resolved to call him, punishments notwithstanding). I mean, I could understand why he was mad because of my usage of the word ‘bitch,’ but he didn’t have to give me a set of sessions for it! Most teachers would have given me a half-hour detention, at the very most.

He just felt he needed someone to pick on. I decided. And I just happened to be the most out-spoken of the class, so... I’ll just have to be good.

My step lightened from its pounding pace to a less angry one as my mood brightened.

I’ll still call him ‘Aeneid’ though. Thought my grinning devilish side. I can’t get in too much trouble for that...

I had reached home more quickly than usual due to my frantic pace. Stopping to grab the paper off the lawn, I fished for my key, then let myself in.

Home again, home again. I thought bitterly. I called into the dark interior
“I’m home!” I was not surprised to be greeted silence.

I went upstairs and showered, letting the hot water soothe the tension in my muscles. I toweled dry and put on my pajamas, then headed downstairs for dinner (a.k.a: leftover take-out).

I spread the newspaper out before me as I munched. I’d always enjoyed reading the paper; it was like a history update delivered daily to your door. It had the tendency to depress me though, so I didn’t read it before school; it would ruin my day.
I paused, spaghetti noodles hanging from my lips, as I read the headline of The Post, our small-town paper. It read:

“MAIMED BODY OF YOUNG GIRL FOUND IN CANARY”

Canary was a town a bit bigger than ours located about seventy-five miles away, close enough to share major news, but far enough away to be reported on as if it were a foreign country. It, just like my home, was a town whose largest local news story was usually something along the lines of “CAT CAUGHT IN TREE” or the like. In other words, this was HUGE for local news.

I skimmed the article: a girl was found cut cleanly in half, skull crushed, on the out-skirts of town, right outside a small, burned down church (an arson case, the paper said)... and the strangest part: a number of unidentified scale-like objects and feathers were found around the crime-scene. The paper reported that is was an intentional burn and kill, though the cause of the fire itself was still unknown.

I flipped away from that and read an article about the war on terror to pass the time, then put my dishes in the sink along with the older ones from breakfast. I washed them and put them back on their appropriate shelves, grabbed a soda from the fridge, and headed up to my room to do homework.

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AUTHOR TIME:::
Okay okay okay , before I get any crazy fan-girl reviews, lets get one thing straight: NO, THIS IS NOT GOING TO BE A TEACHER-STUDENT AFFAIR! There’s going to be romance, but it won’t be for a while, and by the time we get there, she won’t be in school... that’s not to say she’ll have graduated though. What do I mean by that? Well, you’ll just have to read to find out *wink*. OH the plot twists I have in store.... the SUSPENSE!!!!!