Scene 1: “Jessie’s Girl Hates Me. It’s Fair.”
You ever walk into school and immediately regret every single thing you’ve ever written, thought, doodled, or emotionally projected?
That was me.
Monday morning. Cloudy sky. Slight scent of burnt sage in the air. Probably because someone lit a cursed candle in AP Calc again. I had exactly one granola bar left, a sleep-deprived brain still recovering from vampire cookies, and the bone-deep knowledge that I was absolutely about to die.
Why?
Because Rachel Sparks had found my notebook.
Not my main notebook. Not the ritual-tracking, bleeding-heart poetry one. No.
The bad one.
The one labeled “Do Not Read This, Especially You, Rachel,” complete with glitter skull stickers and a crudely drawn pentagram made out of Red Vines.
And oh, she read it.
Every doodle.
Every theory.
Every list.
Including—but not limited to:
- “Top 5 Creatures Rachel Might Secretly Be (Ranked by Bite Potential)”
- “Things That Could Be Hidden Under That Jacket”
- “Would She Kill Me? (Yes/No/Yes But Make It Romantic)”
I hadn’t even made it to my locker when I felt it.
That primal, cold, throat-clenching sensation that only comes when Rachel is watching you like you’re a frog in biology class—and she’s got the scalpel.
I turned slowly.
There she was.
Leaning against the lockers.
Black leather jacket.
Combat boots.
Stake tucked into one boot, lip gloss in the other.
Arms crossed. Eyes locked on me.
Predator mode: activated.
I froze.
She pushed off the locker like she was approaching a snack, not a conversation.
“Morning, Todd,” she said, too pleasant.
“Morning, Rachel,” I squeaked.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
“Like a terrified chicken.”
She smiled. “I read your journal.”
“It’s not a journal, it’s a creative expression document with optional delusions—”
“Page twenty-three.”
I groaned. “Oh God.”
She recited, “‘Things I would say to Rachel if I wasn’t afraid she’d decapitate me and wear my spine like a belt.’”
I tried to vanish into the nearest locker. It did not open.
“You listed: ‘Nice boots,’ ‘Great aura,’ and—and I quote—‘Please step on me but gently.’”
“I was in a mood!” I shouted, flailing.
Students stared. Jessie sauntered up, holding a protein bar and the emotional stability of someone who once howled into a volleyball net.
“Play nice,” he muttered to Rachel.
She didn’t blink. “I don’t kill humans. But I’m open to exceptions.”
Jessie took a bite of his bar and turned to the vending machine. It immediately jammed.
He growled.
The vending machine spit out three extras.
“See?” he said, smugly. “Progress.”
Rachel grabbed my collar.
Not aggressively.
Not quite.
More like she was debating whether to lecture me or just hex me into a fog bank.
“You wrote a ranking of my possible monster species, Todd.”
I nodded vigorously. “For safety! I needed to know whether you were more likely to eat my soul or just my lunch money!”
“And you gave me five out of five fangs for ‘Succubus energy.’”
“That was respectful!”
She raised one eyebrow. “You drew hearts around it.”
“I’m a deeply confused boy with an active imagination and a death wish shaped like you!”
That—actually got a chuckle. Just a small one. Barely a noise. But still. Victory.
She let go of my shirt and rolled her eyes.
“You’re lucky I don’t hex you into a raccoon.”
“I’d accept that. Raccoons have thriving social lives.”
Jessie leaned on my other shoulder. “Is this foreplay? Or are we about to have a school-wide incident again?”
Rachel glanced at him. “If I wanted to fight him, you’d be cleaning his blood off your claws already.”
Jessie shrugged. “Fair.”
Rachel turned back to me. Eyes narrowed.
“One more thing, Hawkins.”
“Yes?”
She reached into her back pocket. Pulled out a sticky note from the notebook. Held it up.
“You circled my name. Three times. And wrote: ‘Emotionally confusing. Probably smells like danger. Would still risk it.’”
I winced. “Look, that’s not even the worst one—check the page where I say you remind me of my sleep paralysis demon but with better taste in jackets—”
She cut me off.
“You’re an idiot.”
“I know.”
She leaned forward.
Paused.
Smirked.
“Try not to die before prom. I want to see what happens when the prophecy kicks in.”
She walked off, hips swaying with either fury or amusement—or both.
Jessie gave me a look.
“She didn’t stab you,” he said. “That’s flirting.”
I slumped against my locker.
“Why is everyone at this school so hot and terrifying?”
“Because the guidance counselor’s a witch and the air vents are full of vampire pheromones.”
“That... checks out.”
We stood in silence for a second.
Jessie munched his protein bar.
Rachel disappeared around the corner like a myth with combat boots.
And I...
...wrote a new sticky note.
TODD’S MENTAL DAMAGE LOG:
– Rachel found the journal ?
– Did not murder me ?
– May have flirted with me using death threats ?
– Am I into this? ???
– Should I see someone about it? (Possibly a therapist or a priest) ?
“Let’s go,” I muttered.
Jessie tossed me a granola bar.
“You’ll need fuel. That was a lot of flirting trauma.”
Scene 2: “Stacy’s Mom Invites Me Over (Again)”
The text came during seventh period, right as my Biology teacher handed out an assignment titled “Flesh, Bone, and the Ethics of Reanimation.”
It buzzed on my phone, delicate and deadly:
From: M.E.
Come over. Need help unboxing cursed cutlery. Bring your aura and steady hands. Also, don’t wear garlic again. – V.
My soul briefly left my body, checked my pulse, sighed, and reentered with dramatic flair.
Because when Mrs. Evernight invites you to “unbox cursed cutlery,” you say yes. Even if your blood pressure says “please stop.”
I showed up at Evernight Manor twenty minutes later, heart thudding like it was auditioning for a teen horror soundtrack. I wore my cleanest hoodie and carried absolutely nothing protective except a roll of gum and a laminated “Please Don’t Seduce Me, I’m Fragile” sticky note in my pocket.
The front door opened before I knocked.
Of course.
Inside, the parlor smelled like rosemary, smoke, and secret betrayal. Candlelight flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows that definitely winked at me. And in the center of it all, perched on a fainting couch that probably had opinions, was Mrs. Evernight.
Draped in a satin blouse that violated school board policies and possibly physics. Tight black slacks. Hair swept up with a dagger-shaped pin. Her nails gleamed like polished blood.
“Hello, Todd,” she said, voice like aged wine poured over velvet. “You look edible.”
I blinked. “That’s... certainly an adjective.”
She stood and glided—because she doesn’t walk—toward a long obsidian table covered in ornate boxes sealed with wax sigils and caution tape that read “DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT GLOVES, A CIRCLE OF SALT, AND THERAPY.”
“Do you know how hard it is,” she purred, “to find a teenager with steady hands, a resilient neck, and a flexible moral compass?”
“Uh. Nope.”
She handed me gloves.
“Start with the mahogany one,” she said. “The one humming in Latin.”
I approached the box. It vibrated softly, like it knew I was nervous and wanted to be a little extra.
I peeled back the wax seal.
A wisp of cursed air hissed out and sang the chorus of “Ave Maria” backwards.
Inside: cutlery.
Dark, sleek, bone-handled cutlery with names engraved like “Despair,” “Whisperfang,” and “Jeff.”
“These are dinner knives?” I asked.
She grinned. “For very interesting dinners.”
I laid them out as instructed, trying not to bleed on anything or accidentally activate a soul contract. Every time our fingers brushed, the air sparked with tension. The sensual, might-turn-into-an-apprenticeship-or-a-fatal-attraction kind.
Mrs. Evernight offered me tea halfway through.
“It’s nightshade,” she said. “But ethically sourced.”
I sipped. Because fear makes you polite.
“Tastes like... regret and cinnamon.”
“That’s how you know it’s real.”
She watched me. Closely. Like she was evaluating my soul through my cutlery etiquette.
“You’ve changed,” she said. “Less trembling. More resolve.”
“I’ve been emotionally mangled by three women and attacked by leeches in gym shorts,” I said. “You grow.”
She laughed. “Stacy was wrong about you. You’re not a mortal boy pretending to be brave.”
“Oh?”
“You’re a mess. But you’re interesting.”
She leaned in. Her eyes locked on mine. “You smell like potential. Or maybe rosemary. Hard to tell.”
I stopped breathing.
Time stopped breathing.
Even the knives seemed to blush.
“Tell me something,” she murmured. “Why do you keep coming back?”
“Because... I want to know what I am in this story,” I whispered. “Am I the hero? The snack? The sacrificial fool?”
Her smile was slow. Dangerous.
“Why not all three?”
My heart screamed. My common sense left the group chat.
She leaned back, picked up a blade named “Doubt,” and spun it casually between two fingers.
“One more delivery,” she said. “Take this box to the librarian. Don’t open it. Don’t drop it. And if it hums your name, hum back louder.”
“...Cool.”
“And Todd?”
I paused in the doorway.
“If you survive next week,” she said, “you might just earn a promotion.”
“To what?”
She smiled with her fangs now.
“To something less human.”
The door closed behind me before I could ask how much less.
Outside, I collapsed on her garden bench shaped like a screaming angel and hyperventilated into my hoodie sleeve.
Then I opened my notebook:
TODD’S LIFE CHOICES – WEEK 5
– Unboxed murder cutlery ?
– Drank plant-based witch tea ?
– Was possibly seduced ?
– Smelled like potential/rosemary ?
– May be apprenticing to the gothic Oprah of blood rituals ?
– Still into it? ...Unfortunately, yes.
Scene 3: “Jessie Sniffs Me. Like, On Purpose.”
The gym at Blood River High smells like old sweat, haunted rubber, and generational trauma.
Today, it also smells like me.
And unfortunately, Jessie knows that.
Coach Fangley had barely growled out the phrase “dodgeball free-for-all” before Jessie grabbed my arm and declared, loudly and aggressively, “I’m partnering with Todd.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a claim.
Coach shrugged. “Fine. Just don’t eat anybody this time.”
I blinked. “Excuse me—what?”
Jessie looked at me with a face full of barely-contained wolf.
“You smell different.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
And then—he sniffed me.
Long. Deep. Purposeful.
Right up in the hoodie.
“What are you doing?!” I shrieked.
“Confirming a theory,” he muttered, nose still pressed to my collar like I was a bottle of cursed cologne.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
I backed away. He followed.
“I bathed! I swear I bathed!”
“Did you go to the Evernight house?”
My soul made a break for the nearest exit.
“Define ‘go.’”
He squinted. “Did she touch you?”
I exploded with sputters. “Not like—It was—She made me tea!”
Jessie growled. Not metaphorically. Actually growled.
“Nightshade tea?”
“I don’t know! I didn’t read the label! It tasted like cinnamon and disappointment!”
He circled me. Sniffing like a bloodhound with boundary issues. His muscles twitched beneath his shirt like they were debating whether to turn into fur.
“Jessie. Jessie, buddy. We’re friends, remember? Bro-code? Boundaries? Consent-based sniffing?!”
“She marked you,” he said through clenched teeth. “Not permanently. But... it’s there.”
“Oh my God.” I clutched my chest. “Is this about dominance? Is this one of those ‘I licked it so it’s mine’ moments?!”
“I didn’t lick you.”
“Not helping!”
The other students continued dodgeballing like nothing was happening. Rachel casually nailed a vampire linebacker with a rubber ball and called him “a weak little twinklebat.” No one noticed me having an olfactory crisis.
Jessie stopped.
Sniffed again.
Then looked me straight in the eye and said, “I can smell her on you.”
I promptly fainted into the dodgeball rack.
It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t planned.
One second I was upright, the next I was tangled in netting, covered in balls, and emotionally shattered.
When I came to, Coach Fangley was throwing holy water on me “just in case.”
Jessie crouched beside me, face full of concerned wolf-boy guilt.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“You inhaled my soul,” I croaked.
“I had to be sure. She’s powerful, Todd. And seductive. And weirdly into seasonal herbs.”
“You think I don’t know that?! She complimented my neck symmetry.”
Rachel appeared above us, arms crossed. “You smell like prom problems and bad choices.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” I wheezed.
She dropped a juice box on my chest. “Hydrate or die.”
I sucked on it through the straw, still buried in dodgeballs, as Jessie sat beside me and sighed.
“I’m not mad,” he said. “Just... worried.”
“About me?”
“About us.”
I blinked. “Is this about us us?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. But I do know that if you keep getting scented by vampire women, my instincts might do something... primal.”
“Like rip out my spine?”
He winced. “No! Just... bark. Loudly. Maybe pee on a bush. Assert boundaries.”
I stared. “You’re one romantic crisis away from becoming a full golden retriever.”
Rachel snorted. “He wishes. He’s a territorial husky with unresolved feelings.”
Jessie grumbled, “You’re not wrong.”
TODD’S PERSONAL SPACE UPDATE – WEEK 5
– Was sniffed. Aggressively ?
– May be slightly marked ?
– Collapsed into dodgeballs ?
– Confirmed Jessie’s scent-based jealousy issues ?
– Kind of flattered? Definitely terrified ?
I stood slowly. Brushed off rubber shame.
“I’m going to shower. Alone. Unsniffed.”
Rachel muttered, “For now.”
Jessie gave me a sheepish look. “Just... be careful, okay?”
I nodded. “If anyone else tries to smell me, I’m joining the choir.”
“Good luck,” he said. “They rehearse in a crypt now.”
Of course they do.
Because this is Blood River High.
And I... reek of problems.
Scene 4: “Rachel Stakes the Prom Queen”
Prom assemblies are usually a harmless form of torture.
You sit in a sweaty auditorium. You pretend to care about balloon budgets. The class president cries because someone stole the glitter cannon. The AV guy plays the wrong version of “Time After Time” and accidentally summons three ghosts. Classic.
But this assembly?
This was different.
Because Rachel brought a stake.
And Brinley Sparkleton—the reigning prom queen and cheer captain with a jawline blessed by ancient magic and collagen—was about to go full vampire exorcism on stage.
It started normally.
Kind of.
The lights dimmed.
The school spirit committee (a coven of peppy witches in matching sequin capes) twirled glitter batons and chanted something vaguely ominous.
Principal Gravestone welcomed everyone with his usual “we survived another quarter, mostly” speech.
Then Brinley floated onto the stage.
Floated.
Not walked.
Not strutted.
Floated.
Gliding across the stage like a Macy’s Day Parade balloon with sass.
Her eyes were glowing faintly.
No one commented.
Because at Blood River High, glowing eyes are just… Tuesday.
“Welcome,” she purred, voice amplified and dripping with otherworldly charm. “To the Year of Eternal Glamour.”
Students clapped. Some drooled. One sophomore fainted into a tub of glitter.
I squinted.
“Jessie,” I whispered. “Is she... levitating?”
“Only a few inches,” he said, totally calm. “Maybe four. Five max.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“She’s had practice.”
Then Brinley turned her head toward Mr. Krall—the math teacher who’d once tried to ban calculators after a prophetic vision involving pi—and hissed.
Not “booooo” hissed.
Fanged. Guttural. Wet.
A hiss with agenda.
And just like that, Rachel launched.
One minute, she was sitting behind me, sharpening her eyeliner with a silver knife.
The next?
She was onstage, leaping over the podium, coat flaring like a bat signal in eyeliner form.
She drew a stake—disguised as a curling iron—and shouted:
“NOT THIS YEAR, BRENDA!”
Pause.
Jessie muttered, “That’s not her name.”
But it didn’t matter.
Because Rachel yeeted herself at Brinley with terrifying accuracy, tackled her mid-float, and drove the stake straight through her sequined top.
Brinley screamed.
Glitter exploded.
Like a unicorn had been murdered during a drag show.
Gasps filled the room.
Brinley crumpled to the ground, writhing.
Smoke poured from her sparkly torso as she dissolved into a pile of ash, rhinestones, and what I could only describe as lip gloss-scented vengeance.
Rachel stood up slowly.
Bleeding from one eyebrow. Lip curled in a perfect snarl.
Then she turned to the mic.
Tapped it once.
And said, cool as the grave:
“She was undead. I have receipts.”
She tossed a vampire registry card onto the stage, flicked her hair back, and walked off like a leather-clad stake goddess of school hygiene and sass.
I clapped.
Slowly.
So did Jessie.
Then the whole auditorium joined in.
Because what else do you do when your classmate commits public prom regicide and bathes you in glitter gore?
Principal Gravestone cleared his throat.
“Well. That was... assertive. Gym is now closed for cleansing.”
The student council held an emergency meeting and immediately voted to rename the gym:
“The Ashtray.”
I sat in stunned silence behind a bleacher, legs trembling, cheeks dusted in vampire residue.
Jessie tossed me a glitter wipe. “You okay?”
“I smell like justice and hairspray.”
Rachel reappeared beside us, adjusting her jacket like nothing had happened.
“You could’ve waited,” Jessie said. “Maybe talked it through?”
“She hissed at Krall,” Rachel deadpanned.
“He gives everyone hissing urges.”
“She was turning,” she snapped. “Her aura was pulsing. Her shadow was doing jazz hands.”
I blinked. “That... actually happened?”
Rachel leaned close, brushing stray glitter off my sleeve with unsettling tenderness.
“Don’t worry, Todd. You’re safe.”
Pause.
“Unless you’re next.”
Then she walked off.
Jessie and I sat in silence.
A chunk of rhinestone clinked to the ground.
TODD’S PROM ASSEMBLY SUMMARY:
– Prom queen: dusted ?
– Rachel: emotionally glowing ?
– Me: still bleeding internally ?
– Gym: renamed ?
– Glitter: in my soul ?
– Definitely hiding behind furniture again ???
Jessie clapped me on the shoulder.
“Welcome to prom season, bro.”
I whispered, “I miss the days when awkward boners were my biggest problem.”
He nodded solemnly. “Now you’re the awkward boner and the chosen one.”
Scene 5: “Todd Crashes a Vampire Book Club”
The invitation was handwritten. In calligraphy.
On parchment that smelled faintly of rosewater, regret, and first editions.
“Todd, darling—
Book club tonight. Dress dark. Bring insight. Do not bring garlic snacks again.
– V.”
This was either a trap or a job requirement. Maybe both.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in the Bloodwood Parlor of Evernight Manor. Picture: low velvet armchairs, a roaring fire that whispered, “Tell no one,” and walls lined with books bound in leather, shadow, and what might’ve been human skin.
A tray of blood cocktails sparkled beside an assortment of labeled bookmarks:
? O-Positive & Pining
? AB & Angsty
? Type A for Absurdly Pretentious
Mrs. Evernight floated in like she was being summoned by the scent of plot tension. She wore reading glasses that defied science and a robe that probably had its own tragic backstory.
“Welcome, Todd,” she said. “Try not to upset the elders. Or contradict Lord Byron.”
“Is he… actually here?”
“Spiritually.”
She led me to a circle of vampires seated around a table stacked with annotated editions of Interview with the Vampire, Carmilla, and Pride and Prejudice and Predation.
The air smelled like parchment and judgment.
I took a seat beside a vampire named Claudius who wore a cravat, horn-rimmed glasses, and the constant aura of a Goodreads moderator.
Across from me, a woman with obsidian nails and a voice like wine gone sour asked, “What is your opinion of Lestat?”
“Uh… kind of a drama queen?”
The silence was instantaneous.
Someone hissed.
Someone else dropped their monocle.
The fireplace flared.
Mrs. Evernight arched one eyebrow like I’d just farted during a requiem.
I coughed into my sleeve. “I mean... in a compelling way?”
Claudius leaned in. “You believe him melodramatic?”
“I mean… yeah? He throws existential tantrums in lace and screams about sunlight. He’s basically an immortal theater major.”
A faint gasp rippled across the undead circle.
Then a vampire in a burgundy waistcoat stood up and said, “You have insulted the sanctified heart of our curriculum.”
Mrs. Evernight sipped her wine and murmured, “And here it comes…”
“I challenge you,” the waistcoat vampire announced, “to a duel.”
I blinked. “A duel? Like… with swords?”
“No.” He narrowed his eyes. “With haiku.”
My soul briefly stepped outside for fresh air.
“You’re joking,” I said.
He stepped forward, eyes glowing, fingers twitching with unspoken iambs.
“I am not.”
A bell rang—somewhere—and the fire crackled to a rhythm that screamed “poetic showdown.”
I looked around. Everyone was watching. Mrs. Evernight gave me a small, amused nod.
“Begin,” she whispered. “Or perish via metaphor.”
I stood.
Cleared my throat.
Him first.
He said:
Blood drips on the page
Fangs sharp like editorial
You lack metaphor.
Polite golf claps. A sniffle from someone in the corner.
Now me.
My brain went full hamster wheel.
I blurted:
Your waistcoat is nice,
But your plot arc? Second draft.
Please don’t eat my spleen.
There was a pause.
And then... someone giggled.
Then someone else clapped.
Claudius snorted into his goblet.
Mrs. Evernight raised her glass. “Brave. Na?ve. Rhythmic. Approved.”
The waistcoat vampire sighed, lowered his glove, and mumbled, “Fair.”
He sat back down.
I collapsed into my chair, adrenaline still buzzing, fingers twitching like I’d just faced down an AP Lit final written in blood.
Mrs. Evernight leaned over.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “You made it through a literary duel without vomiting.”
“Barely.”
She slid me a copy of Blood is Thicker Than Plot, marked with sticky notes.
“Required reading. Discussion next week is ‘Seduction and Syntax.’ Don’t be late.”
I nodded, dazed, then fled with the slow dignity of a man who had just embarrassed himself in front of immortal bibliophiles.
TODD’S BOOK CLUB AFTERMATH:
– Insulted Lestat ?
– Survived haiku duel ?
– Possibly banned from vampire Goodreads ?
– Gained mysterious reading list ?
– Absolutely cried in the bathroom afterward ?
Literary trauma: acquired.
Scene 6: “Blood Moon Madness”
The sky turned red during third period.
Not “sunset” red. Not “ooh pretty” red.
Blood. Red.
Like someone had cranked the apocalypse saturation setting and hit “enhance.” Twice.
Students poured into the courtyard, phones up, eyes wide, souls halfway into their trauma backpacks.
“Cool sky,” muttered Jessie beside me, chewing gum like it wasn’t visibly raining frogs across the soccer field.
I wiped amphibian slime from my hoodie sleeve. “That’s your reaction to biblical plague drizzle?”
He shrugged. “It’s not acid. Yet.”
A kid screamed as a frog landed in his hair. The frog croaked “Run.”
I turned to Rachel, who was loading a crossbow with the kind of calm normally reserved for librarians or serial killers.
“Is this... normal Blood River weather?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “This is prophetic.”
She pointed to the old stone podium in the center of the courtyard, where Principal Gravestone was unfolding a scroll the size of an Area 51 FOIA request.
It hissed. Glowed. Then whispered something in Latin, backwards.
The sky thundered.
The scroll screamed.
And then Gravestone, in his gravelly deadpan, read aloud:
“On the night of crimson veil and silvered ash,
The Fool shall be chosen.
The Fool shall be tested.
The Fool shall fall or rise or combust.
The Fool... shall reveal the end.”
Silence.
Then every head in the courtyard turned to me.
I blinked.
“What?”
A single crow descended from the bleeding sky.
It landed on my shoulder.
And said—clearly, fluently, judgmentally:
“Debatable.”
My soul packed a bag.
“I’m not the Fool!” I protested. “I got a B-minus in algebra! That’s like... average intelligence with bonus effort!”
Rachel raised one eyebrow. “You summoned a love spell by accident while trying to wash your hands.”
“I was under duress!”
The crow cawed once. “Fool.”
Jessie looked me over. “I mean... you do kind of have Fool energy.”
“What is Fool energy?!”
“You once licked a rune to see if it was peppermint.”
“It smelled minty!”
Principal Gravestone continued. “The prophecy is clear. The Fool shall be... Todd Hawkins.”
He gestured to me like I was being called down on The Price Is Right: Afterlife Edition.
Everyone clapped.
Why were they clapping?!
“I’m not a prophecy person!” I cried. “I’m a background character with a punchable face and a list of bad decisions!”
The crow whispered, “Fool fool fool,” into my ear like it was beatboxing self-esteem destruction.
Rachel stepped beside me. “Don’t worry. If this ends in fire, I’ll put you out. Eventually.”
Mrs. Evernight appeared in the crowd, arms folded, smile like a riddle wrapped in lingerie.
“You’re handling this with flair,” she purred. “That’s important.”
“I’m handling this with panic sobs and a crow sidekick who hates me.”
“Poetic,” she said. “Tragic. Delicious.”
The sky thundered again.
Lightning struck the soda machine.
It dispensed a single can of cranberry juice.
Labeled: For The Fool.
Jessie picked it up and handed it to me. “It’s a sign. Probably.”
I opened it.
It hissed.
So did I.
TODD’S BLOOD MOON NOTES:
– Sky = red ?
– Frogs = real ?
– Prophecy = direct ?
– Labeled “Fool” by a talking crow ?
– Officially the chosen one, somehow ?
– Might die soon ?
I chugged the juice.
Because if I was going to face destiny under a bleeding moon with a vendetta bird on my shoulder, I’d do it hydrated.
The scroll curled back into ash.
The thunder faded.
Rachel said quietly, “This is only the beginning.”
“Of what?”
“Of whatever’s about to try and kill you next.”
The crow pooped on my shoulder.
Because of course it did.
Scene 7: “Mrs. Evernight Bakes With Human Flour”
I came for a book.
A simple book. Just one. Something light, ideally not bound in skin or written in blood.
Instead, I walked into Hell’s Bake-Off.
Evernight Manor’s door creaked open without touch—as usual—and I stepped into the front hall cautiously, hoping Mrs. Evernight would be in her usual parlor of temptation, maybe reciting erotic poetry to her wine goblet or arranging skeletons by cheekbone symmetry.
Instead, I followed the scent of sugar, cloves, and something definitely not FDA-approved into the kitchen.
Which I didn’t even know existed until now.
And I immediately regretted discovering it.
The room glowed with candlelight and something suspiciously red simmering in a copper pot. Shelves lined with jars labeled things like “Tears (Virgin)” and “Cinnamon (Probably)” cast eerie shadows on the black marble counters.
And in the center of it all?
Mrs. Evernight.
Wearing an apron that said “Kiss the Cook (If You Dare)” over a form-fitting black dress that looked like it was tailored by someone who wanted me dead—but flustered first.
She looked up from a tray of organ-shaped cookies and smiled.
“Ah, Todd,” she said sweetly. “Just in time to test the frosting.”
“Please clarify which kind of frosting,” I said, eyeing a nearby jar that was glowing.
“Edible. Probably.”
She beckoned with a flour-dusted finger.
I hesitated.
Then stepped closer.
Because I’m weak. And she smells like sin dipped in vanilla extract.
“Are those… intestines?” I asked, staring at the cookies.
“Entrail-shaped,” she corrected. “Symbolic. Invokes fear. And hunger. Would you like to ice the lungs?”
I blinked.
She handed me a frosting bag shaped like a miniature dagger.
“This is so... festive,” I mumbled, awkwardly squeezing out a swirl of suspicious pink goo over what I hoped was a fictional spleen.
She moved behind me, close—too close—adjusting my grip like she was teaching me archery but with more sexual tension and fewer arrows.
“Delicate pressure,” she murmured, her breath dancing against my neck. “You’re squeezing like a mortal.”
“I am a mortal!”
“For now.”
I may have frosted my own hand by accident.
She laughed—low, indulgent, like velvet dipped in sarcasm—and moved to a mixing bowl made of pewter and mild dread.
“I’m using a new flour today,” she said, voice casual.
I eyed the bag on the counter.
It read:
Flour (Type O Positive – Organic, Gluten-Free, Soul-Retaining Formula)
I blinked.
“You’re baking with blood flour?!”
She shrugged. “It holds shape beautifully. And it’s ethically sourced.”
“From where?!”
“A Whole Foods. In Romania.”
Of course.
She pulled a batch from the oven, the cookies hissing softly, one of them whispering in Latin.
I leaned in.
“What did that one just say?”
She listened.
“Oh,” she said, amused. “It called you ‘delicious.’”
I backed away. Slowly.
“Todd,” she said, smiling, “you survived a leech attack, three love triangles, and Rachel’s judgement. Surely you can survive a cookie.”
“That’s what people say before dying dramatically on camera.”
She handed me one.
Shaped like a heart.
A real heart. Not the Valentine kind—the “has ventricles and recent trauma” kind.
It was warm.
I bit it.
It was... good.
Moist. Cinnamon-forward. Slightly iron-rich.
I whimpered.
“You like it,” she said smugly.
“I hate that I like it.”
“Get used to that feeling.”
She returned to the oven.
I sat on a stool, watching her whisk something glowing.
TODD’S KITCHEN REALIZATIONS:
– Mrs. Evernight can bake. Too well ?
– Cookies may contain legally questionable ingredients ?
– My morals are not strong enough to resist moist pastries ?
– I may be in too deep. Emotionally. Gastronomically ?
She slid another tray in.
“Why cookies?” I asked. “You’re immortal. You command shadows. Why Martha Stewart your way through the blood moon?”
She paused.
Then said, almost wistfully, “Because everyone expects death. But cookies? Cookies disarm. Cookies confuse. Cookies... betray.”
Pause.
“That’s the most terrifying thing anyone’s ever said about baked goods.”
She turned, holding a frosting knife.
“And yet here you are. Eating your feelings in my cursed kitchen.”
I looked down at the half-eaten lung in my hand.
It winked.
I screamed. Just a little.
She smirked. “It does that.”
I stood up, wiping icing from my palms.
“Well. This has been... oddly nourishing.”
“Come back tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll be testing blood meringues and plotting fate.”
I nodded slowly.
Because I would.
Of course I would.
I always do.
I walked out with a Tupperware full of dangerous pastries and a soul that smelled faintly of rosemary and surrender.
Scene 8: “Todd Gets Grounded. By the Coven”
There are few things more humiliating than getting grounded.
Unless it’s getting magically grounded by three cloaked witches in your bedroom while you’re still wearing pajama pants with dancing grilled cheeses on them.
Which is exactly what happened at 12:01 a.m. on a Wednesday.
I was mid-sip of a suspiciously iron-rich cocoa (thanks, Mrs. Evernight) and reading a cursed prom pamphlet when my bedroom light flickered—then shattered.
Wind howled through my walls.
My posters fluttered like guilty parchment.
My Xbox sighed and powered down with what sounded suspiciously like “traitor.”
And then they appeared.
Three witches.
All tall, all hooded, all floating slightly above the floor like budget Sith Lords who’d raided a Hot Topic.
The one in the middle had glowing eyes and a clipboard. A literal clipboard.
“Is this Todd Hawkins?” she intoned, voice echoing like she was trying to summon Alexa from beyond the veil.
“I—uh—yes?” I said. “Unless this is about taxes. In which case, I’m a minor and very fragile.”
The witch on the right pulled out a scroll. “You are hereby found in violation of Article XIII, Subsection 7: Unauthorized Aura Entanglement, Article IX: Unlicensed Spell Activation, and Article IV: Cross-Bloodline Flirtation Without Supernatural Clearance.”
“Wait, THAT’S illegal?!”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Very.”
The clipboard witch stepped forward. “Due to repeated infractions, the Coven has decided to place you under... magical probation.”
“Probation?”
“You are now grounded.”
“Like... emotionally?”
“Magically,” she corrected. “Every time you try to leave this house after sunset, spectral vines will appear and drag you back.”
My jaw dropped. “That’s unconstitutional!”
“We wrote the constitution,” she said dryly.
As if on cue, glowing green vines slithered up from beneath my floorboards and wrapped around my ankles. Gently. Like aggressive therapy.
“Oh my God,” I groaned. “My room is sentient now.”
The left witch spoke for the first time. Her voice was raspy and filled with centuries of passive aggression. “You’ve activated two latent spells, kissed three supernaturals with active hexes, and summoned a leech storm. On school property.”
“I survived all of that!”
“Barely.”
Just then, my mom knocked on the door. Pajama-clad. Sleepy.
“Is he finally being handled?” she asked the witches.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Clipboard Witch. “Magically confined until further notice.”
“Excellent,” Mom said. “He left the milk out and summoned something in the garage. Enjoy.”
She closed the door and whistled happily down the hall.
Et tu, Mom?
The vines coiled tighter around my legs. My nightstand sprouted a tiny sign that read: DO NOT FLEE.
I collapsed onto my bed.
“This is cruel and unusual.”
The witches ignored me and placed a rune-stamped sticker on my wall. It glowed and read:
PROBATION STATUS: ACTIVE
Days without magical chaos: 0
“You will remain confined for one moon cycle,” the clipboard witch intoned. “You may attend school under direct enchantment supervision, but any unsanctioned rituals, flirtations, or enchanted snacking will result in escalation.”
“Escalation like what?”
“Possession.”
“Okay! No snacks. Got it.”
They turned to leave—floating through the window like a trio of cursed influencers.
As they vanished, the last one paused and muttered, “Nice aura, though. Shame it’s unlicensed.”
The room fell silent.
The vines relaxed slightly. Not enough.
I lay in bed, wrapped in magical roots, with my cocoa now cold and my dignity thoroughly strangled.
Then my phone buzzed.
Rachel:
LOL
Sucks to suck
– R
Jessie:
Bro…
What did you do now?
Also I think your vines are leaking into my dreams. Weird.
Mrs. Evernight:
Grounded already?
Todd, I’m so proud.
Don’t forget your delivery. The vines like dark chocolate.
I stared at the ceiling.
A vine gently patted my cheek.
TODD’S MAGICAL CONFINEMENT REPORT:
– Grounded by literal witches ?
– Vines have mood swings ?
– Mom has betrayed me ?
– Probation status: Cursed ?
– Somehow still hot to supernatural women ?
– Is this growth? Or just magical rot? TBD.
Somewhere outside, the moon smirked.
And the vines whispered:
“Fool.”