Scene 1: “Stacy’s Mom Apologizes with Fresh Blood”
It was a quiet night.
Too quiet.
Which, in Blood River, usually meant one of three things:
- Something was plotting.
- Something was already dead.
- Something sexy was about to crawl through my window.
Spoiler alert: it was number 3.
I was mid-scroll through “Is My Bloodline Destined for Doom or Just Emotionally Unavailable?” forums when a soft tap tap tap hit my bedroom window.
I peeked through the curtains and nearly inhaled my own uvula.
Mrs. Evernight.
Levitating.
In a satin cloak.
Crimson heels.
Holding a gift basket.
The basket sparkled.
So did I, internally.
I opened the window like a Victorian heroine with a hormonal death wish.
She floated in, heels never touching the floor.
“Hi, Todd,” she said, voice honey-dipped and time-warped. “Miss me?”
“Like garlic bread in a vampire rave,” I croaked.
She handed me the basket. It was chilled. Labeled with a handwritten note:
“Sorry I stole a Prius. Things got batty. – M.E.”
Inside:
? A flight of rare blood samples, organized by vintage.
? A thermos of “Type O Negative, lightly spiced.”
? A novelty mug that said #BittenButNotBeaten.
I stared at her.
“You stole a Prius.”
“I liberated it. Temporarily.” She perched on the windowsill like an erotic gargoyle. “The police were rude. You know how I feel about rude men in polyester.”
I nodded. “Their jackets are very boxy.”
She sipped from her own flask—glass, etched, black lace glove around it like sin itself—and gave me the once-over.
“You’re changing, Todd.”
My stomach did gymnastics. “I... am?”
She stood and walked slowly—predatorially—across my room.
Her heels didn’t click. They whispered.
“Your aura’s louder,” she said. “Richer. Dense with choice. And something else...”
She leaned in, right up to my ear.
“Fear. And temptation. Delicious.”
I dropped the basket on my bed.
“You can smell that?”
“I can smell everything.”
Cool cool cool.
My soul screamed.
I took a step back and promptly sliced my finger on a magical promotional postcard for Inkfernal Tattoos (why were they everywhere now?!).
“Crap—ow—paper cut!”
Blood welled.
Mrs. Evernight’s pupils dilated.
I froze.
She stepped closer, nostrils flaring like a sommelier presented with a particularly flustered merlot.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I won’t bite.”
Pause.
Beat.
“...Unless you ask nicely.”
My knees had a meeting and filed for early retirement.
She reached out—slow, gentle, completely inappropriate—and brushed her thumb across the drop of blood.
Then licked it off.
I died.
Came back.
Died again.
This time emotionally.
“You taste conflicted,” she said.
I croaked, “Most of that is embarrassment.”
“Some of it’s power.”
I whimpered. “Please don’t say power while looking at my neck.”
She leaned in closer.
We were this close to... something.
A kiss?
A bloodletting?
A sensual Denny’s coupon handoff?
But then—
BOOM.
Something hit the roof.
Clawed. Screeched.
A squirrel.
On fire.
It tumbled past the window, shrieking like a banshee on Black Friday, and disappeared into the bushes.
Mrs. Evernight sighed and stepped back.
“Timing,” she said, “is everything.”
I collapsed onto the bed, pulse sprinting.
She walked to the window, paused, turned.
“Soon,” she murmured. “You’ll have to choose, Todd. Between safety… and the pull.”
“What pull?”
She just smiled.
Fangs. Dimples. Sin.
“Your blood already knows.”
And then she was gone.
Like smoke.
Or common sense.
—
TODD’S VAMPIRE MILF WINDOW DATE REPORT:
– Gift basket: luxurious and unsettling ?
– Prius theft: confirmed, unrepentant ?
– Almost kissed: 98% proximity ?
– Cut self on paper, bled on a queen ?
– Flaming squirrel interruption: classic Blood River ?
– Emotional condition: aroused, terrified, deeply moisturized ?
I stared out the window for a long time after that.
Trying not to think about fangs.
Or necks.
Or bloodlines that whispered in Latin.
Somewhere downstairs, my mom yelled, “TODD, ARE YOU BLEEDING AGAIN?”
I muttered, “Only emotionally.”
Scene 2: “Rachel and I Bond Over Trauma (and Stakes)”
There are two kinds of rooftop conversations in Blood River:
- The kind where someone gets kissed.
- The kind where someone gets emotionally stabbed, handed a literal weapon, and left questioning the structural integrity of their soul.
I was hoping for a combo platter.
It was midnight, maybe later. The school sat quiet and twitchy, the kind of silence that comes right before a janitor summoning or a PTA hex audit.
I climbed the fire escape with half a slab of stale prom cake in my hoodie pocket and a hope that Rachel hadn’t already left the mortal plane or murdered someone for stress relief.
She was already up there.
Kicking her boots against the edge of the roof, wearing a jacket made entirely of bad decisions and probably lined in silver. Her hair caught the moonlight. Her eyes caught mine.
She didn’t look surprised.
“Took you long enough,” she said, like she’d been waiting since last semester.
I flopped down next to her, offering a slightly squashed piece of cake with one bite missing and a fondant rose that had seen better timelines.
“I brought carbohydrates,” I said.
“Impressive.” She took it. Didn’t thank me. Bit into it like a threat. “Is that raspberry?”
“Allegedly.”
We sat in companionable doom for a minute.
Below us, Blood River shimmered—haunted streetlights, half-dead vending machines, a bat circling ominously like it had a vendetta and a tiny Wi-Fi tracker.
“So,” I said. “How’s the emotional collapse going?”
She smirked. “I only cried once today. That’s restraint.”
I nodded solemnly. “I considered therapy. Then I remembered I can’t afford it and my werewolf best friend ate his therapist.”
She snorted. “Classic Jessie.”
I looked at her sideways. “You ever want to just... not be involved in all this?”
Rachel chewed her cake. Swallowed. Looked at the sky like it owed her answers.
“My mom’s a hunter,” she said. “Vampires. Ghouls. Paranormal pyramid schemes.”
I blinked. “Wait—like... family business?”
She nodded. “Started when she was sixteen. Fell in love with a vampire. He bit her. She staked him. On prom night.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sensing a pattern.”
“She always said emotions are vulnerabilities disguised as choices.” Rachel picked at the frosting. “So I trained. I staked. I got straight A’s and extracurricular rage.”
I handed her a plastic fork I didn’t know I was holding.
She stabbed it into the cake. “But then I met you idiots. You, the prophecy meatball. Jessie, the emotional werepoodle. Stacy and her Hot-Topic-mom-from-hell. And I realized something.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re all disasters. And I’m tired of surviving alone.”
I didn’t breathe for a second.
“Cool,” I said finally. “Same.”
We didn’t say anything for a while. Just sat with it.
Then she reached into her coat and handed me something cold, sharp, and extremely Rachel.
A stake.
Carved.
Engraved with the words: “JUST IN CASE.”
I blinked at it. “Are you giving me... a romantic weapon?”
“It’s not romantic,” she said too fast.
I twirled it. “It’s kinda romantic.”
“You’re kinda annoying.”
I smiled. “You like me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I tolerate you. Occasionally. With snacks.”
Pause.
Then she handed me the rest of the cake.
“Split it with me,” she said. “Before I stab you just for fun.”
I broke it in half. We ate in silence.
The wind rustled. A nearby owl hooted judgmentally.
Rachel looked at me sideways.
“You’re not the worst,” she said.
“Wow. Calm down. I might get a boner.”
She shoved me off the ledge.
(Not really. But emotionally? I flew.)
—
TODD’S ROOFTOP TRAUMA DEBRIEF:
– Shared cake: yes ?
– Shared trauma: also yes ?
– Romantic weapon exchange: new life milestone unlocked ?
– Emotional progress: slow but snarky ?
– Heart? Doing the dumb flutter thing ?
Scene 3: “Jessie Tries Therapy. Eats the Therapist”
I didn’t expect to receive a text that read:
Jessie:
hey bro, tried therapy.
ate the guy.
feeling better tho. thx :)
But welcome to my life.
Let’s rewind.
—
Jessie signed up for “mandatory supernatural emotional remediation” after the last school assembly where he howled through the Pledge of Allegiance and tackled a guest speaker mid-sentence because “she smelled like silver and father issues.”
So the school counselor-slash-licensed necromancer, Ms. Harrow, referred him to Dr. Carl.
Dr. Carl:
? Ethereal.
? Ph.D. in Paranormal Psychiatry.
? Dead since 1842.
? Still billing insurance.
The sessions took place in Room B-13, which I’m 80% sure didn’t exist last semester and now smells like rosemary and guilt. The chairs float. The tea screams.
Jessie went in alone.
But he didn’t come out that way.
—
The official report, as told to me via Jessie’s rambling voicemail, went like this:
JESSIE’S VOICEMAIL, TRANSCRIBED
“So the dude floats in, right? No legs, smells like old scrolls and aftershave. Introduces himself as ‘Dr. Carl, but you can call me Void Dad.’
I sit down. The chair floats. Not the comfy kind. The emotionally vulnerable kind.
He asks me to start with my ‘inner animal,’ so I say ‘werewolf,’ duh, and he goes, ‘No, the emotional one.’
And I say: hungry.
He writes that down.
We talk about my childhood. I cry. He gives me a spectral tissue. It passes through me. Which honestly felt like a metaphor.
Then he brings up... you.”
Uh-oh.
“He says, ‘Tell me about your friend Todd.’
And I say, ‘He’s funny, and dumb, and smells like cinnamon trauma.’
Then he says, ‘And how do you feel when he’s near Stacy?’
And that’s when things got... teethy.”
According to Jessie, his fur bristled. His claws sprouted. His heart rate hit emotional turbulence. Dr. Carl floated closer. Too close.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
“He said, ‘Let it out.’
So I did.
I howled my truth. I told him I don’t just get jealous—I feel pack-shifted. Like I’m losing my ground. Like Todd is part of my circle and Stacy’s this gravitational anomaly who smells like forbidden eyeliner.
Then Carl tries to pat my head.
And... I blacked out.”
When Jessie woke up?
He had ghost chalk in his mouth.
His shirt was gone.
The chair was on fire.
And Dr. Carl?
Now a poltergeist fragment swirling in the corner whispering things like “emotional digestion is still growth.”
—
Later, Jessie texted me again:
Jessie:
bro i think i unlocked a memory
also possibly devoured a therapist soul
is that bad
I replied:
Todd:
You literally ate your feelings.
Jessie:
healing isn’t linear
—
He showed up at lunch wearing a shirt that said "Howl If You're Healing."
Rachel gave him a look and muttered, “So you’re full now?”
Jessie shrugged. “Emotionally? No. But spiritually? I burped up a suppressed trauma loop this morning, so... progress.”
TODD’S THERAPY-EATING WOLF FRIEND REPORT:
– Therapist: ghost ?
– Session: haunted ?
– Jealousy toward me: deep ?
– Breakthrough: chewed ?
– Apology? None yet. But I got a scented candle labeled “Boundaries.” ?
Later that day, he dropped a sticky note into my locker:
“Thanks for being patient. I’m working on the part of me that growls when you smile at other people.”
So... that was a lot.
But I kept it.
And maybe I smiled a little.
Just not in front of him.
Scene 4: “PTA Votes on Eternal Damnation”
There are few things in life more terrifying than a PTA meeting at Blood River High.
Maybe vampire tax audits.
Maybe Coach Fangley’s late-night protein sermons.
Maybe Mrs. Evernight’s fanged whisper of “Come in, I just baked.”
But this?
This was a new kind of bureaucratic horror.
Because tonight’s PTA wasn’t about cookies or prom themes.
It was about me.
More specifically:
Proposal 666b:
“Should Todd Hawkins Be Banished to the Shadow Realm (or something slightly less eternal)?”
The cafetorium had been converted into a tribunal chamber with unsettling efficiency. The long lunch tables were replaced by obsidian benches. The normal fluorescent lights were swapped with floating spectral orbs that glowed like disapproval. And in the center of the room—on a slightly raised stone platform—me.
Wearing a button that said “Hello, I May Be the Problem.”
At the front, behind a podium carved from cursed mahogany, stood Chairwarlock Mortimer D. Wraithbourne III, Esq., who smelled like mothballs and brimstone.
He cleared his throat, a sound like dead leaves crunching over buried regret.
“This emergency session of the Paranormal Tribunal Association—known colloquially as the PTA—will now commence.”
A banshee in pearls screamed “ORDER!” in five tones simultaneously.
I waved. “Hi. Just for the record, I’m innocent of at least 60% of this.”
Chairwarlock Wraithbourne ignored me. “Tonight we review charges against one Todd Isaac Hawkins, age sixteen, species: undetermined.”
A goblin with a briefcase hissed, “Halfblood. Probably volatile.”
Jessie, sitting in the audience wearing emotional support denim, whispered, “Volatile’s just a personality type.”
Rachel, two rows back, held up a sign that said “LET HIM SPEAK (SO I CAN HECKLE).”
Wraithbourne unrolled a scroll.
The charges were... extensive.
- Unauthorized ley line manipulation via glitter bomb
? Inciting magical prom-based chaos
? Conspiring with a known vampire felon (Mrs. Evernight)
? Emotional endangerment of at least two cryptid factions
? Dating across bloodlines without permit
? Possession of a tattoo that talks back
“Objection!” I blurted. “I didn’t ask for the tattoo to whisper Latin in the mirror!”
“Noted,” the warlock said, adjusting his monocle. “Still creepy.”
The banshee slammed a gavel shaped like a screaming ferret.
“Let the floor open for commentary,” Wraithbourne announced. “Civilians may now speak. Keep it under two minutes. And no summoning circles this time.”
First up: Mrs. McShriek, a worried cyclops mom in a shawl.
“I mean, he’s sweet,” she said. “He volunteers. He helped my son with math tutoring. But then again… last week my cauldron exploded when he walked by.”
Next: Coach Fangley, wearing a tie made of iron-on sigils.
“Look,” he said, flexing casually. “The kid’s got hustle. Core instability, sure, but promise. I’ve seen worse from vampires in gym class. He just needs direction. Maybe more pushups. And a little fear-based discipline.”
“Coach,” someone whispered, “you gave him a prophecy workout plan.”
“Exactly,” Fangley said. “Invested.”
Then: Stacy’s Dad.
A vampire who looked like he’d filed his taxes in blood and still paid a premium for it.
“He brought garlic into our home,” he said, fangs gleaming. “Garlic knots.”
I shouted, “IT WAS A PROMPOSAL!”
The room gasped. Someone fainted. Probably me, emotionally.
Then—Rachel.
She approached the podium, slow and confident, boots echoing like judgment in a metal music video.
“Look,” she said. “Todd’s a menace.”
Gee. Thanks.
“He’s clueless. He falls down more than he walks upright. He’s got a face that screams ‘oops, I summoned that.’”
Chairwarlock Wraithbourne nodded solemnly.
“But,” Rachel continued, “he’s also… loyal. Dumb, but loyal. He gave me the last bite of cursed prom cake and didn’t even flinch when it bled.”
The audience murmured. One ghost sobbed.
“And if this school can survive three vampire cults, a demonic bake sale, and a gym teacher who talks to biceps, it can survive Todd.”
She dropped the mic.
It shattered.
Then floated.
Then tried to bite someone.
“Thank you, Ms. Stryke,” Wraithbourne said. “The vote shall now commence.”
A panel of parents, magical entities, and the spirit of one deeply irritated substitute teacher took their seats. Each held a card:
YES – Banish him
NO – Let him vibe (for now)
The votes rolled in:
Tie.
8 for banishment.
8 for letting me live.
I swallowed. “T-Tiebreaker?”
Wraithbourne turned to the librarian.
Mrs. Grimsbane.
Who had, until now, been asleep in a floating chair with a teacup balanced on her hat.
She opened one eye.
Looked at me.
Sniffed.
Sighed.
And said, “Let the boy suffer. It’s tradition.”
The gavel slammed.
RULING:
Todd Hawkins shall not be banished... yet. But he shall remain enrolled under Magical Observation Probation, Emotional Stability Watchlist, and the Cafeteria Seating Discretion Act of 2004.
—
TODD’S PTA SURVIVAL SCORECARD:
– Banishment: avoided ?
– Shadow Realm: still theoretical ?
– Magical probation: achieved ?
– Emotional state: sweating under public scrutiny ?
– Rachel: defended me ?
– Mrs. Grimsbane: hates me, but in a consistent way ?
I staggered off the platform.
Jessie offered me a Capri Sun.
Rachel punched me in the arm.
I grinned.
I wasn’t exiled.
I was still in school.
And my tattoo only whispered “lucky bastard” twice before fading.
Scene 5: “Todd Gets a Tattoo That Bites Back”
There are worse things you can do after being nearly banished to the Shadow Realm.
Like, for instance, buying cursed skincare from a fae influencer.
Or dating Stacy again.
Or summoning a minor love demon during midterms.
(Been there. Done that. Still finding glitter.)
But today, my post-tribunal coping mechanism was very clear:
Get a tattoo. A cool one. A mysterious one. Possibly evil, but like, aesthetic.
Which is how I ended up standing outside Inkfernal Designs, the only tattoo parlor in Blood River with a “legally binding regret clause” printed on the door.
It smelled like burnt citrus, dark secrets, and cheap cologne.
I stepped inside.
A bell rang—but instead of ding, it went “ominous chime in D minor.”
The front desk was manned—if you can call it that—by a bored succubus chewing astral gum and flipping through a grimoire titled Hot Ink, Cold Blood.
She looked up. Raised one eyebrow high enough to touch the aesthetic plane.
“You got an appointment, Prophecy Boy?”
“Yes,” I lied.
She rolled her eyes and pointed to the glowing clipboard. “Sign your name in blood. Or vibe ink. Whatever leaks naturally.”
The pen burned my hand a little. Of course.
And then… he emerged.
From behind a velvet curtain covered in band logos and protective runes, came the tattoo artist:
Malakai.
Species: probably not listed in any textbook.
Eyes: one silver, one void.
Apron: bloodstained, but make it fashion.
Vibe: eldritch Hot Topic with a side of “please sign this waiver.”
He looked at me, sniffed once like Jessie does when I’ve emotionally sweat too hard, and said:
“You’re here to reclaim power, reject narrative, or spiral into chaos?”
“Yes,” I said, with conviction and deep teenage unwellness.
Malakai nodded once. “Cool. Let’s start.”
—
THE DESIGN PROCESS:
Me: “Something cool. Maybe a symbol. Mysterious. Ancient. Not, like… overtly evil.”
Malakai: Draws a snarling phoenix-wolf hybrid biting its own tail, wrapped in runes I swear blinked at me.
Me: “Okay that’s… hot.”
Malakai: “It also binds your aura to lunar convergence. But only if you bleed on a Wednesday.”
Me: “That feels right.”
—
The inking process?
Painful.
Cathartic.
Like emotional exfoliation if your trauma was made of fire and Latin.
I didn’t scream.
Okay, maybe I whimpered once. But it was a masculine whimper.
Halfway through, the lights flickered. My phone shorted out. And I swear someone whispered “veniat tempus” in my left earlobe.
When it was done?
Malakai handed me a mirror.
The tattoo pulsed.
It glowed faintly—red under moonlight, silver under stress.
And it growled.
Just once. Softly. Like a warning or a purr.
“I think it’s alive,” I whispered.
Malakai grinned. “Of course it is. You paid extra for the sentient ink upgrade.”
—
TODD’S MAGICAL TATTOO AFTERCARE LOG:
– Glows: yes ?
– Whispers in Latin: frequently ?
– Snarls at Stacy’s aura: concerning ?
– Reacts to moon phases and ex-girlfriends: absolutely ?
– Rachel said “kinda hot”: life achievement unlocked ?
– Jessie sniffed it and muttered “smells like destiny”: unsettling ?
—
Later that night, in my room, I caught the tattoo looking back at me in the mirror.
It blinked.
I blinked.
We… bonded?
I don’t know.
But it whispered something else.
“Lux in tenebris. You are chosen, little chaos.”
Which I think means: “You light the darkness.”
Or possibly: “Buy moisturizer.”
Either way, I pulled my hoodie over it, grabbed a juice box, and whispered back:
“Let’s just try to survive prom.”
Scene 6: “Prom Part Deux: This Time It’s Personal”
You know that feeling when you're standing in a re-cursed gymnasium wearing a secondhand tux from a ghost and three layers of anti-possession charms, Zara had helped pin one of the charms on, muttering something about how “chaos follows boys who date their teachers.”
I told her it was just a one-time enchanted tutoring session.
She didn’t laugh. But she did fix my collar. and the punch bowl is bubbling like it's about to declare war?
That’s re-prom at Blood River High.
The official title this time?
Fang Bang 2: Redemption Boogaloo
(Because apparently, someone gave Rachel naming rights and no adult said “please don’t.”)
I stepped into the gym—correction, the ceremonial glitter pit of potential death—and immediately regretted everything.
There were garlic-laced streamers.
Floating runes pulsing like they were synced to a blood moon.
The disco ball occasionally blinked.
Jessie stood at the DJ booth, shirtless, furline fading back in after a full-body wax, nodding to the beat of Hungry Like the Wolf (Eldritch Remix).
Rachel? By the entrance, patting down students for cursed artifacts and trauma. She wore a slitted black dress that could probably double as a combat uniform and had a tiny silver stake tucked into her garter “just in case someone gets flirty and bitey.”
I? Was sweating through a tux borrowed from Greg the Ghost, who died in 1987 and had opinions about lapels. His spirit lingered faintly in the collar muttering “Real men cuff their sleeves.”
My tattoo?
Glowing.
Pulsing with anxiety and possibly caffeine I hadn’t consumed.
I adjusted my necklace—a blessed charm from Ms. Harrow, a raven’s feather dipped in holy oil and sarcasm—and took my first step into the ballroom.
The gym floor creaked ominously.
That was normal.
Until it sighed.
The runes at the edge glowed just a bit brighter.
Cool cool cool. Probably fine. Definitely not a magical pressure plate ready to explode in metaphor.
“Hey,” Jessie called, waving. “You look good.”
“Thanks. I feel like a possessed waiter at a blood bank wedding.”
He grinned. “That’s… weirdly specific.”
“Live here long enough, you get niche.”
Rachel joined us, licking frosting off a silver dagger. “FYI, the punch bowl’s sentient. Don’t taunt it.”
I blinked. “Like… alive?”
“It snapped at a freshman and hissed the word ‘destiny.’ We’re still workshopping what that means.”
Behind us, Stacy walked in.
With Kale.
Still dead. Still vegan.
Now dressed as a glitter skeleton.
He passed out pamphlets titled “Plant-Based Necromancy for the Ethical Afterlife.”
I politely burned one with my eyes.
“Ready to dance?” Stacy asked me brightly, not realizing my soul had just ruptured at the sight of her plus-one’s soy-based aura.
“I’m... gonna hydrate first,” I said, backing toward the refreshment table like a vampire-avoidant turtle.
The punch bubbled.
Steam rose.
A spectral hand flicked out of the bowl, flipped me off, then vanished.
“Yep,” I whispered. “Totally fine.”
—
TODD’S RE-PROM SURVIVAL KIT:
– Blessed cufflinks: barely holding it together ?
– Greg the Ghost’s tux: judgmental but stylish ?
– Stacy’s undead boyfriend: glittering threat ?
– Rachel’s dagger-flirting: oddly comforting ?
– Sentient punch: angry, fizzy, likely prophetic ?
– Emotional condition: pre-meltdown with bonus flair ?
—
Jessie changed the track.
The floor shifted.
The central rune—the one shaped like a spiral with teeth—began to glow.
Faintly. Then brightly. Then aggressively.
Rachel grabbed my wrist. “Is that your tattoo reacting to the music?”
“Unclear,” I said, sweating. “It might just be shy. Or preparing to open a portal.”
“Or both,” she muttered. “Why is your life like this?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the lights dimmed. The rune pulsed. The DJ booth rose two feet off the ground. Jessie yelled, “WHO’S READY TO LET THE PROPHECY DROP?!”
And the punch screamed.
Like, actually.
In Latin.
Somewhere, the janitor muttered, “Not again,” and pulled out his emergency salt cannon.
—
And I?
I stood there in Greg’s dead man tux, my glowing tattoo rumbling, surrounded by exes, curses, and looming prom doom.
And I said, very softly, to no one in particular:
“Please. Just one dance before reality unravels.”
The punch hissed again.
So... maybe.
Scene 7: “The DJ Is a Vampire DJ”
There are vampire DJs.
And then there is DJ NeckSnap.
Blood River’s most in-demand undead audio alchemist.
Fanged. Ferocious. Legally dead.
Spins vinyl literally made of bone.
Takes requests in blood or whispered regrets.
He once DJed a banshee divorce party and ended it with a dubstep exorcism that collapsed a ley line.
So yeah. He’s legit.
And right now?
He was standing on top of the DJ booth wearing sunglasses carved from obsidian and a mesh cape that probably used to be a bishop.
The gym floor trembled.
The punch bowl pulsed with ominous bass.
And my tattoo?
Started beatboxing.
“LET’S BRING THIS CURSED DANCEFLOOR TO UNDEATH!” DJ NeckSnap roared.
The room exploded in sound.
Not just music—feeling.
Deep. Guttural.
Like your emotional baggage just got remixed into club bangers.
The track?
A remix of “Thriller.”
But darker.
Hungrier.
With a breakbeat that sounded like a coffin slamming in 4/4 time.
Around me, vampires started breakdancing.
Real breakdancing.
Like spinning-on-their-fangs breakdancing.
Capes fluttering, fangs flashing, eyes glowing in time with the beat.
Jessie—bless his werewolf heart—howled to the rhythm like a lovesick foghorn.
Rachel stood by the snack table, head bobbing, daggers in both hands, swaying like she was ready to rhythmically eliminate a promposal.
And me?
I stood, frozen, gripping my punch cup as the beat dropped harder than my self-esteem at a parent-teacher conference.
Then a vampire named Rhys backflipped next to me, winked with both eyes (separately), and snarled, “Get in the circle, Halfblood. It’s your prophecy party now.”
A dance circle had formed.
Chanting. Clapping. Rhythmic teeth gnashing.
I was pushed into the middle.
—
TODD’S EMERGENCY DANCE BATTLE CHECKLIST:
– Hair: slightly windblown ?
– Shoes: rented, squeaky ?
– Pulse: sentient metronome ?
– Curse risk: high ?
– Dignity: already sacrificed ?
—
The circle closed. DJ NeckSnap scratched a bone-vinyl. The floor pulsed beneath me.
And I... panicked.
First move?
The classic “I’ve-Just-Been-Possessed” Arm Wave.
Then a flail-spin, which might have been a summon or a seizure.
Followed by the “accidental step-touch because my legs are fear.”
Someone gasped. Someone else clapped.
A ghost cheerleader whispered, “He’s doing the ancient Dance of Anxious Rebirth!”
Sure. Let’s go with that.
Then Jessie jumped in.
He spun. He howled. He body-rolled to hell and back.
His chest hair formed a pattern that spelled “Regret Nothing” under UV light.
Rachel, not to be outdone, casually flipped into the circle, moonwalked with daggers in hand, and shouted, “This is for all my exes who tried to hex me!”
She stabbed the air in time with the beat and every light in the gym dimmed.
DJ NeckSnap lost his mind.
“DROP THE BLOODLINE BEAT,” he screamed, and hit a switch.
A new track started.
A mashup of “Hungry Like the Wolf” and “Don’t Stop Believin’,” featuring ominous chanting in Latin and the sound of a wolf chewing a synth cable.
Jessie growled, spun on one paw (?!), and accidentally tackled me into a coffin-shaped beanbag.
The crowd went wild.
Even the punch bowl clapped.
—
Later, panting, sweat-soaked, and cursed in three minor languages, I leaned against the wall next to Jessie and Rachel.
Jessie fist-bumped me. “You danced like a prophecy having a panic attack.”
“Thanks,” I wheezed. “You tackled me with grace.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “I think your tattoo was dancing independently of your body.”
“I know,” I said. “It whispered ‘Feel the drop’ and started pulsing.”
She handed me a drink. “Hydrate, disaster.”
—
TODD’S VAMPIRE DANCE CIRCLE DEBRIEF:
– Survived: technically ?
– Danced: debatably ?
– Tattoo response: tribal sync mode ?
– Breakdancing vampires: confirmed ?
– Emotional aftermath: confusing but kind of awesome ?
—
As DJ NeckSnap finished his set with a remix of The Monster Mash that summoned a minor demon who just wanted to vibe, I realized something:
Prom wasn’t over.
Destiny was still lurking.
The punch bowl was still muttering.
But for once?
I felt... good.
Like I could maybe survive this.
Or at least die fabulously.
Scene 8: “Todd Gets Dumped. Again. By Everyone”
There’s a moment after every supernatural moshpit where reality returns.
The music fades.
The glowing runes dim.
Your tattoo stops growling “drop the bass” in Latin.
And the gym smells like sweat, emotional residue, and off-brand glitter glue.
That’s when you realize something very important:
It’s slow dance o’clock.
And I, Todd Hawkins, was about to make a deeply misguided decision.
I approached Stacy first.
She stood near the stage in a satin dress that shimmered like a void with confidence issues.
Her date, Kale the Vegan Zombie, was gently sipping on a brain smoothie through a metal straw and discussing ghost composting with a druid.
She looked up at me.
I had my hands tucked in my sleeves to hide the fact that they were sweating like a haunted dishwasher.
“Hey,” I said, casual. Cool. Absolutely lying to myself.
“Wanna dance? You know. For old time’s sake? Before the veil collapses or the punch bowl ascends?”
She tilted her head. Frowned slightly.
“Todd, I’m seeing Kale now. We’re in... a committed afterlife exploration phase.”
“But—”
“He journals. And he respects my aura boundaries.”
I blinked. “Okay. But does he have a tattoo that snarls when near prophecy portals?”
Kale gave me a thumbs-up. “Love and let live, bro.”
I backed away, nodding. One rejection down. Stacy: soft no with spiritual justification.
—
Next: Rachel.
She was leaning against the bleachers, arms crossed, heels digging into the gym floor like she was ready to fight gravity if it disrespected her eyeliner.
I cleared my throat. “Hey.”
“Still upright, huh?”
“Barely. But it’s the last dance and I figured—what’s one more emotional wound between friends?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You wanna dance?”
“Yeah.”
“With me?”
“Unless you’re secretly Kale in disguise.”
She sighed. Looked away. Then back at me.
“You know what? I could. I could dance with you. I could take your hand. Let you lead badly. Pretend we’re not cursed. But I’d be lying.”
“About what?”
“That I wouldn’t stab you the minute you made eye contact with another vampire MILF.”
I swallowed. “Fair.”
She stepped closer. Brushed something off my lapel.
“You’re not a monster, Todd. You’re just… emotionally radioactive. Like prom punch with extra prophecy.”
Then she walked away.
Rachel: respectful rejection with lethal metaphor.
—
At this point, I should have stopped.
But no.
I turned to Jessie, who was crouched near the refreshment table, sniffing the brownies.
“Jess?”
He looked up, cheeks flushed, shirt half-torn, sweat shimmering like supernatural glitter.
“Yeah, bro?”
“Dance with me?”
His tail (yes, tail—don’t ask) wagged once.
Then stopped.
He stood slowly. Walked over. Put one big paw-hand on my shoulder.
“Todd,” he said, so gently it hurt.
“I’d mate-waltz with you through hell. But we’re better as... pack-adjacent.”
“Pack-adjacent?”
“Like pack… but emotionally guarded.”
“Oh.”
He patted me on the head. “Still love you. Just… like, in a ‘guarding your flank in battle’ kinda way.”
Jessie: heartfelt pack-friendzoning with mild head-patting.
—
And then... Lupita.
My accidental were-chihuahua fiancée.
She appeared out of nowhere—tulle dress puffed, eyes wide, ears twitching.
She held up our engagement bone.
“I... I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I deserve someone who howls for me.”
“I never meant to propose—”
“But you did. With a boutonniere. That’s sacred in my culture.”
She tore the bone in half with her teeny tiny adorable teeth. “We’re done.”
She scampered off yipping heartbreak into the night.
Lupita: annulment by tooth.
—
TODD’S REJECTION ROUNDUP?
– Stacy: ghosted while standing in front of me ?
– Rachel: rejection with blade-themed poetry ?
– Jessie: bro-zoned with alpha energy ?
– Lupita: symbolic bite-based break-up ?
– Emotional state: currently face-down in the punch bowl ?
I staggered to the refreshments.
The punch bowl hissed sympathetically.
I sat beside it. Removed Greg the Ghost’s bowtie. Loosened my prophetic cuffs. Let my hair go full cursed mop.
Rachel walked past and tossed me a napkin that said “You tried. A+ for effort. F for emotional discretion.”
I smiled. Sipped punch.
It tasted like crushed dreams, sugar, and faint demonic whispering.
“Todd,” the punch bowl murmured. “You are loved. But you are...a lot.”
I nodded. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
And then I whispered into the void:
“Am I dating repellent? Or just emotionally radioactive?”
The punch didn’t answer.
But I swear it blinked.