The Lay of the Land

A Story from the Journals of Astoria Yee, Vice Principal of Bear Mountain High School

I. Morning

I loathe mornings.

The sun should be my undoing. Should blister my flesh, curl my bones, reduce me to ash on the wind. That’s the natural order for my Kind. But Bear Mountain is no ordinary place. It sits on a web of ley lines—ancient, humming rivers of earth-magic that bend the rules of nature. Here, my people walk beneath daylight without smoke or scream, provided we stay inside the lattice of power. Step beyond the invisible threshold, and the sun will remember what I am.

I know the exact edges. I can feel them. Just past the football field’s goalposts, for example. Or at the bottom of the ravine that cuts behind the cafeteria dumpsters. I do not cross those places. Not unless I wish to test cremation firsthand.

So yes—mornings. I awaken, not in my coffin (oh, the clichés), but in a condominium with beige walls, because apparently eternity means dealing with Homeowners’ Association fees. I pull on my armor: a pencil skirt, a navy blazer, sensible heels. A crucifix dangles at my throat—no, it doesn’t burn. That’s another myth. Mostly it just wards off the truly gullible.

And then I drive to Bear Mountain High School.

You might imagine the vice principal of a mountain-town high school as a bright-eyed former coach with a clipboard. Instead, it’s me: Astoria Yee, 178 years old, five feet two inches, fangs discreetly filed down for appearances, running on an IV drip of student detentions and institutional despair.

I hate my job.

II. The Ritual of Hallways

The school bell rings, and the stampede begins. Hormones in hoodies. Sweat. Axe body spray. The smell of human blood beneath it all, coppery, loud.

You have no idea what discipline it takes not to listen too closely. Every heartbeat is a drum solo. Every papercut a temptation. I could drink the sophomore class dry before lunch period. Instead, I scowl, confiscate vape pens, and lecture about tardiness.

“Vice Principal Yee,” a teacher hails me. Mr. Dorsett, Social Studies, balding at thirty-six. “Got a moment?”

I don’t, but I pause anyway. Authority requires theatrics.

“There’s been another graffiti incident,” he says.

Of course there has. There is always graffiti. The students think themselves clever, spraying pentagrams, vampire fangs, and the occasional phallus in places only custodians will suffer to scrub. If only they knew how dull their rebellion looks to me, who saw revolutions topple empires.

“I’ll handle it,” I tell him, voice like the crack of a coffin lid.

And I will. Detentions are my currency. Suspensions my sermon. Expulsions my symphony.

III. The Student Body (In More Ways Than One)

Let me introduce some of the zoo exhibits:

Tyler Montgomery, quarterback, who thinks he’s a wolf because he howls at girls from his car windows.

Elena Cruz, sophomore, doodles skulls in her margins. She tastes of melancholy and too much coffee.

Maxine “Max” Wu, debate team, razor-tongued, dresses like a future senator. If I were to sire one student into immortality, it might be her. Not that I will. I’ve sworn off progeny.

I read their files, stalk their halls, pretend I care about their futures. Sometimes I almost believe the act. Other times, I wonder what would happen if I shed pretense and fed openly. I could clear the cafeteria in minutes. Would the PTA hold an emergency meeting or simply faint?

The fantasy sustains me during long assemblies.

IV. Faculty Meetings (Hell by Another Name)

Hell is not fire. Hell is not pitchforks.

Hell is a Wednesday afternoon faculty meeting in the library.

Imagine thirty mortals arguing over standardized testing. Imagine my ears, sharper than knives, catching every nasal whine, every pen tap, every gurgle of stomach acid. Imagine knowing I could silence them with one flash of fang, one hiss, one reminder that they are fragile sacks of meat and I am not.

Instead, I sip burnt coffee from a Styrofoam cup and make notes about budgetary concerns.

Principal Howard drones on. He is not unkind, just oblivious. “Astoria,” he says suddenly, “what’s your take on the new anti-bullying initiative?”

My take? I’d prefer to line the bullies against a wall and drain them one by one. But such feedback does not belong in the minutes.

“I’ll draft stricter enforcement policies,” I say.

Everyone nods, relieved. They mistake my quiet for competence. Fools.

V. Night

Night is better.

After the buses crawl away and the janitors lock up, I linger. The school empties, leaving only shadows and the hum of fluorescent lights. I wander the halls like a ghost in heels, listening to the building breathe.

Sometimes I stand on the football field, right up to the edge of the ley lines. The stars burn above. Beyond the invisible boundary, the sun waits like a patient hunter. I imagine stepping past it. I imagine bursting into flame, ending the charade.

But I don’t. I never do.

Instead, I return to my office, unlock the bottom drawer, and pour myself a thermos of blood. Type O, chilled. Acquired discreetly. Call it “donations.”

I drink, and the night is kind again.

VI. A Glimpse of the Past

I wasn’t always this.

Once, I was Astoria Yee, daughter of railroad laborers, born 1847. My father broke his back laying tracks across mountains that never cared for his bones. My mother sold steamed buns to white men who spat at her accent.

I was turned in San Francisco. Not by romance. Not by choice. A stranger’s bite in an alley, and I woke up changed. I’ve forgotten his name. Or perhaps I never knew it.

Immortality is not a blessing. It is paperwork. It is PTA luncheons. It is 150 years of pretending I still care about what humans do.

And yet—sometimes, I do care. Against my will.

VII. The Incident

It happens on a Thursday. Always Thursdays.

A fight breaks out near the gym. Tyler Montgomery, the quarterback, has a sophomore by the collar. His fists are raised, his veins loud in my ears. Blood will spill if I do not intervene.

I appear between them. No one sees me move—I’m simply there. My hand clamps Tyler’s wrist. He freezes, eyes wide. Perhaps he feels the strength coiled beneath my skin. Perhaps some primal part of him remembers what predators look like.

“Office,” I say. Just one word.

He goes. He always goes.

The sophomore scurries off, trembling. I could comfort him. I don’t. Empathy is dangerous.

Later, I will call his parents, file the report, issue the detention. But in that moment, I feel it: the rush of dominance, the pulse of fear, the reminder that no matter how human I pretend, I am still Other.

And it feels good. Too good.

VIII. Confession

Do I want out? Sometimes. Do I dream of leaving Bear Mountain, crossing the ley lines, and letting the sun end me? Often.

But then I watch Elena Cruz scribble her dark poetry. I listen to Max Wu dismantle her opponents in debate with surgical precision. I see a hundred tiny futures crawling toward adulthood, messy and mortal, fleeting as mayflies.

I envy them. I despise them. I protect them.

That is my curse.

IX. Closing Bell

The day ends, as it always does, with the last bell shrieking through the halls. Students scatter. Teachers retreat. The mountain air cools.

I lock my office. Step outside. The sun hangs low, golden on the horizon. Within the lines, it cannot touch me. Outside, it waits.

I smile at it, baring just a hint of fang.

“Not today,” I whisper.

Then I turn back into the building, because detention waits. And I am nothing if not dutiful.