The new teacher moved like a predator pretending to be prey.
I noticed it the moment Alaric Saltzman walked into history class—the way he positioned himself with his back to the chalkboard, never the windows. The slight bulge under his jacket at the hip. The eyes that scanned the room before settling on each student, lingering fractionally too long on Stefan.
"I'm Mr. Saltzman," he said, writing his name in neat letters. "I'll be taking over for Mr. Tanner. I know some of you were affected by his... departure. If anyone needs to talk, my door is open."
Mr. Tanner. The teacher Damon had killed weeks ago, ripping out his throat at a football game in what the town had classified as an "animal attack." I'd been so focused on Vicki that I'd barely registered another death in the supernatural chaos.
But Alaric Saltzman had noticed.
I watched him throughout the lecture—genuinely good, actually, engaging in a way Tanner never had been. He moved around the room, asked questions that made people think, referenced primary sources instead of just reciting textbook facts.
And every few minutes, his attention drifted back to Stefan.
After class, I took my time packing up, letting the other students filter out. Elena caught my eye questioningly, but I shook my head slightly. She left with Stefan, and I approached Saltzman's desk with my notebook.
"Mr. Saltzman? I had a question about the reading."
He looked up from papers he'd been organizing—or pretending to organize. I caught a glimpse before he shifted them: photocopies of old documents, hand-written notes in the margins. Words like vervain and founding families and 1864.
"Matt Donovan, right?" His smile was friendly, practiced. "What's your question?"
"The Civil War section mentions Mystic Falls as a strategic position. But I've been doing some research, and the town's history during that period seems... incomplete. Like there's another story no one talks about."
It was a gamble. A test. I wanted to see how he'd react.
Saltzman's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. Recognition. The particular awareness of someone who knew what they were hearing wasn't innocent.
"History often has layers," he said carefully. "The official record isn't always complete. If you're interested in local history, I'd recommend the historical society archives. They have documents the textbooks don't include."
"I've been there." I met his gaze directly. "Fascinating reading."
We stared at each other for a long moment. Two people who knew more than they were saying, each measuring the other's threat level.
"I think you'd do well in this class, Matt." Saltzman's voice was neutral. "Come back if you have more questions. I appreciate students who dig deeper."
"I will."
I left the classroom with my heart beating faster than it should have been. Alaric Saltzman was a hunter. I was as certain of it as I'd been of anything since arriving in this body. The weapons under his jacket, the research on his desk, the way he watched Stefan—it all added up to someone who knew about vampires and had come to Mystic Falls for a reason.
That night, I ran a search on "Alaric Saltzman" at the library's public computers. The results were sparse—a teaching credential from Duke, references to published papers on mythology and folklore—but one link caught my attention.
A wedding announcement from three years ago. Alaric Saltzman and Isobel Flemming.
Isobel Flemming. The name tickled something in my memory, and I searched again.
A missing persons report from two years ago. Graduate student at Duke, researching Appalachian folklore and... vampire mythology. Last seen in a small town in Virginia. Case unsolved.
The pieces clicked into place. Alaric's wife had been researching vampires and disappeared. Now he was in Mystic Falls, watching Stefan Salvatore, carrying weapons under his jacket.
He wasn't just a hunter. He was looking for answers about what happened to his wife.
Another player on the board. Potential ally or potential threat.
I added him to my mental map of Mystic Falls' supernatural politics and headed home to practice the meditation technique Grams had taught me.
Feel first. Control second. Connection, not force.
The room around me came into focus—not visually, but through the blood sense I was slowly developing. My own heartbeat, strong and steady. The faint pulse of a mouse in the walls. The neighbor's dog three houses down, barking at shadows.
Progress. Slow, but real.
I held the meditation until my concentration broke, then collapsed onto my bed with the particular exhaustion of mental rather than physical work.
Alaric Saltzman. Lexi Branson arriving soon for Stefan's birthday. The tomb vampires still sealed beneath Fell's Church. And somewhere out there, Damon plotting whatever came next.
One thing at a time. Feel first. Control second.
Sleep came eventually, dreamless and dark.
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