Chapter 7: Fangs and Feelings

  Scene 1: “Todd Learns the Truth (It’s Hot)”

  There are things you don’t expect to hear from the mouth of a vampire MILF.

  “Your bloodline is ancient,” for example.

  Or: “This is my sunroom.”

  Or: “Don’t mind the chanting—it helps with digestion.”

  But that’s exactly where I was.

  Back at Evernight Manor, two days post-prom, emotionally bruised, still partially engaged to a were-chihuahua, and now seated in a velvet chair with a goblet of something that tasted like elderberry and legally questionable cinnamon.

  Mrs. Evernight lounged across from me on a chaise that might’ve once belonged to Marie Antoinette’s mood swings. Candles burned in a circle. Gregorian chant remixes pulsed in the background like haunted yoga beats.

  And I was sweating.

  Because she was talking about my origin story like I was a damn prophecy burrito.

  “I didn’t bring you here for seduction,” she said, sipping something that definitely blinked. “Though you do wear panic handsomely.”

  “Thank you?” I said, adjusting my collar. “Is this... about the whole shirtless prophecy incident?”

  She smiled slowly. “This is about you, Todd. About what’s inside you.”

  “Please don’t make that sound sexier than it already is.”

  She rose—glided, really—and pulled a dusty scroll from behind a bookshelf titled Mating Rituals of the Semi-Corporeal. I didn’t ask.

  “Your blood isn’t just mortal,” she said, voice low, fingers trailing along my arm like a threat and a thesis statement. “It reacted to the stake.”

  I flinched. “I thought that was just poor craftsmanship.”

  “No.” She opened the scroll. “You’re not a vampire. Not a werewolf. Not even a banshee’s rebound. You’re something... older.”

  “Older like... angel? Demon? Early internet?”

  “Druidic,” she purred. “But... tainted.”

  Pause.

  “Tainted how?”

  She leaned in.

  “Postal service.”

  Another pause.

  I blinked. “I’m sorry—did you just say I’m the product of an ancient curse and a mailman?”

  She nodded solemnly. “Your father was one of the last aura-carriers in the Bureau of Paranormal Correspondence. His calves were... famously biteable.”

  My brain began leaking out of my ears.

  “You’re saying my dad was a magic postal worker with hot legs?!”

  “He carried messages between worlds. And wore shorts year-round.”

  I stood up. “This explains nothing and somehow too much.”

  Mrs. Evernight crossed the room. Her dress shimmered like morally compromised moonlight.

  “You have power in you, Todd,” she said. “Half-blooded. Untethered. But unpredictable. The stake didn’t kill you because you’re not bound by the old rules.”

  “Okay, but what does that mean?”

  She touched my chest—lightly, dangerously, as though my sternum was a button marked DO NOT PRESS UNLESS YOU’RE WILLING TO FEEL THINGS.

  “It means you’re a wildcard. A hinge species. The kind that cracks open doors... or closes them.”

  “I don’t even close my locker.”

  “You will learn.”

  She stepped back. Candlelight caught her eyes—they glowed, faintly red. Like stop signs that wanted to seduce you.

  I coughed. “Do... do you tell all your students this? Or just the ones who keep almost dying?”

  “Just the ones who survive. Repeatedly. By accident.”

  Fair.

  “So what now?” I asked.

  She handed me a sealed envelope. Black wax. Smelled like prophecy and regret.

  “This is your inheritance,” she said. “A guide. A warning. And a coupon for 20% off moonroot shampoo. You’ll need it.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled. “Because your aura is starting to leak. And soon, everyone will smell you.”

  “...That’s hot and alarming.”

  “Good. You’ll fit right in.”

  I left the sunroom dizzy with revelation and lust-induced anemia, clutching a prophecy in one hand and my sense of identity in the other.

  TODD’S MAGICAL HERITAGE REVEAL REPORT:

  – Half-blood: confirmed ?

  – Mailman dad with power thighs: also confirmed ?

  – Not vampire or werewolf: disappointing but accurate ?

  – Candlelit seduction lecture: weirdly educational ?

  – Current mood: 30% fear, 70% aroused confusion ?

  Back at school, Zara passed me in the hallway and muttered, “You’ve got residual vamp stink on your aura.”

  I blinked.

  She added, “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  And walked off before I could ask anything else.

  I sat on the steps and opened the envelope.

  Inside: a single card.

  “You are not what they expect.

  You are what breaks the pattern.

  Try not to explode before finals.”

  I stared into the sunset and whispered:

  “I miss when my biggest problem was failing gym.”

  Scene 2: “Stacy’s Mom Turns Into a Bat and Steals a Prius”

  You know the morning’s going to be weird when the first thing you hear is:

  “Blood River PD! Nobody move!”

  And the second thing you hear is:

  “Except the succubus. She can move. Slowly.”

  I was standing outside the school, holding a cursed envelope from a vampire MILF who just told me I was some kind of druid-mailman hybrid chosen one, when three cop cars pulled up. Well, technically two cop cars and one magical enforcement unit shaped like a haunted golf cart.

  They screeched to a halt in front of the steps. Fog spilled from the wheels. One officer stepped out and his badge levitated off his chest, glowing faintly with “truth compulsion.”

  “Is Mrs. Evernight on school grounds?” he barked.

  I blinked. “Why are you shouting? This is a community college prep school.”

  “She’s under investigation,” the other officer said, holding a clipboard that sizzled with faint eldritch whispers. “Unauthorized enchantment. Hex-based prom incidents. Improper use of blood-based catering permits.”

  I opened my mouth to say That seems like a lot for a hot woman with great taste in cursed upholstery, when—

  The doors burst open.

  Mrs. Evernight.

  Descending the front steps like a gothic goddess on a runway built entirely out of mistakes I’d love to make again.

  She wore an all-black bodysuit trimmed in lace and menace. Her heels made the pavement purr. Her hair was pulled back in a way that said I have secrets and at least three ancient lovers in jars somewhere.

  Behind her, a cloud of bats fluttered for dramatic effect. One of them might have waved at me.

  “Officers,” she said silkily. “So lovely to see you without a warrant.”

  “Ma’am,” one of them said, “we have questions about the shirtless spell.”

  “That wasn’t me. I’ve never stripped anyone against their will. Well… not with magic.”

  Pause.

  Everyone processed that.

  The golf cart whispered, “She’s lying.”

  She smiled, fangs glinting. “What a rude vehicle.”

  I stepped aside, still clutching my envelope like it could deflect consequences.

  Mrs. Evernight looked at me. Just once. Just long enough to melt every logical thought I had and replace it with a throbbing inner monologue that sounded like Enya on fire.

  Then she turned to the parking lot. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for bureaucratic flirting today.”

  “Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to come with—”

  Too late.

  She blurred.

  Shifted.

  Her body shimmered mid-turn like a heat mirage full of sin.

  And then she was gone.

  In her place: a giant bat.

  Not, like, cartoonish. Not goofy.

  Elegant. Monochrome. Wearing designer sunglasses on its fuzzy little face.

  “Did she just—” I began.

  The bat flapped once, swooped over the officers’ heads, and landed on the hood of a beige Prius.

  Coach Whipple’s Prius, to be specific. Still covered in dried smoothie stains and at least one outdated bumper sticker that said "REAL MEN RESPECT CAULDRONS."

  The bat shrieked.

  The Prius unlocked.

  And the bat, sunglasses and all, crawled in through the sunroof.

  “IS SHE STEALING A CAR?!” the PD officer yelled.

  The engine roared to life like it, too, had given up on rules.

  Then came the voice—telepathic, sultry, echoing in every mind present:

  “Tell Todd I’ll text him.”

  The Prius peeled out of the lot, tires squealing, bumper scraping on enchanted gravel. One of the side mirrors fell off mid-turn and shattered in a puff of bat glitter.

  The entire courtyard fell silent.

  I adjusted my shirt. Which wasn’t necessary, but I needed a gesture that screamed “I’m totally normal and not deeply into that.”

  Rachel walked up beside me, chewing on a cursed biscotti.

  “That woman,” she muttered, “makes felony look flirty.”

  “I know,” I said softly, still staring at the streak of smoke where a Prius had been.

  Jessie emerged from the side entrance, half-dressed and holding an iced protein shake.

  “Did I miss something?”

  Rachel gestured vaguely. “Todd’s MILF just committed a mid-morning escape via Prius theft and high-level bat shapeshifting.”

  Jessie nodded like this was a Tuesday.

  “Nice,” he said. “She always did have style.”

  I looked at both of them.

  “Am I the only one concerned?”

  “You’re the only one blushing,” Rachel said.

  “I’m not blushing,” I snapped.

  “You’re glowing like a cursed lava lamp.”

  Jessie offered me a sip of his shake. “Protein helps with MILF-related shock.”

  I took it.

  It tasted like guilt and whey.

  TODD’S VAMPIRE-MILF ESCAPE REPORT:

  – Blood River PD: baffled ?

  – Sunroom vampire: vanished via batform ?

  – Prius: stolen ?

  – Witnessed it all: unfortunately ?

  – Emotional response: 60% aroused, 40% unfit to testify ?

  – Awaiting text: desperately ?

  Rachel slapped a “WANTED: Batform and Fabulous” poster onto the school wall.

  Jessie updated the group chat:

  Jessie :

  todd’s mom-in-law just gta’d a prius

  blood moon energy is back, baby

  I looked up at the sky, half-expecting her to circle back for a dramatic encore.

  No such luck.

  Only a lingering scent of vampire perfume and mild vehicular recklessness.

  I exhaled.

  “Yeah,” I said aloud to no one.

  “I’m definitely into that.”

  Scene 3: “Rachel Says ‘I’m Not Mad, Just Disappointed’ with Knives”

  You ever walk into a room and immediately feel like the walls are judging you?

  Yeah.

  That was me.

  Gymnasium. Tuesday. 4:17 p.m.

  Three days after the worst prom in recorded history and about thirty seconds before I got verbally eviscerated by a girl who could kill me in eight languages and still be home in time to water her nightshade plants.

  The gym was mostly cleared out—streamers hanging like limp regrets, punch stains that would outlast civilization, and one single tiara fused to the floor with what we were all hoping was glitter glue and not exploded vampire goo.

  And there was Rachel.

  Standing in the middle of the gym, tossing a silver knife from hand to hand like she was waiting for her target to walk in.

  Which I had.

  Because apparently I have no survival instincts.

  She didn’t say anything at first.

  Just turned slowly, eyes narrow, mouth set in that expression that somehow combined smoldering and murder.

  “Hi,” I croaked.

  She caught the knife mid-flip. “We need to talk.”

  My spleen winced. “Okay.”

  She pointed to the busted punching bag in the corner. “There.”

  I walked like a condemned man to it, barely managing to keep my knees from knocking.

  She followed.

  “Do you know,” she said calmly, “how many emergency scrolls I’ve had to burn since you started flirting your way through the monster caste system?”

  “Okay, that’s not fair—”

  “Is it not?”

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  She flicked the knife and embedded it into the punching bag with a thunk that echoed like guilt.

  “You flirt with vampires,” she said, pulling out a second blade. “You flirt with werewolves.”

  “Technically Jessie flirts with me.”

  She ignored that.

  “You flirt with death. With curses. With your own demise like it’s hot.”

  I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I crossed them. Then uncrossed them. Then settled for shoving them in my pockets like they were misbehaving toddlers.

  She stepped closer.

  Eyes blazing.

  Voice low.

  “What exactly do you want, Todd?”

  Silence.

  The kind that slices your excuses before you can make them.

  I swallowed.

  “...Validation?” I offered.

  She blinked once.

  Then laughed. Just once.

  “Cute,” she said. “Try again.”

  I looked away. “I don’t know, okay? I didn’t ask to be half-anything. I didn’t know a damn thing until Mrs. Evernight started feeding me plot points and protein-rich beverages. I didn’t ask to be chosen or sniffed or sparkled on.”

  She pulled out a third knife. Where was she keeping them? I didn’t want to know.

  “This isn’t about your bloodline, Todd.”

  She threw the knife. It hit the wall. A puff of glitter exploded. Somewhere, a forgotten prom banner died.

  “This is about how you keep acting like you’re a spectator in your own story.”

  I froze.

  That hit deeper than the glitter dagger.

  “You’re not a monster, Todd,” she said, voice quieter now. “But you’re getting real comfortable with them.”

  I felt like I’d been punched by an honest thought.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I muttered.

  “You’re not that special,” she snapped. “You don’t get to be the center of the apocalypse and pretend to be innocent. You set fires, and then act surprised when someone burns.”

  Ouch.

  She walked up to the punching bag and carved a word into it.

  “INTENTION.”

  I stared.

  “Start with that,” she said. “Figure out what you want. Who you are. Because ‘hot mess’ isn’t sustainable, even with dimples.”

  I tried to joke. “But it’s my signature.”

  She looked at me. Really looked.

  And I realized she wasn’t just mad.

  She was hurt.

  “I liked you,” she said. “Still do. In a way. But I’m not here to be one of your character development checkpoints.”

  Silence again.

  I wanted to say something smart. Something sincere.

  But all I could manage was:

  “...Can I hug you or will I lose a kidney?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a monster either, Todd.”

  And she let me.

  Just for a second.

  She smelled like leather, ash, and a very specific kind of pain that didn’t go away with time, just sharpened.

  When we stepped apart, she handed me a fourth knife.

  “This one’s rubber,” she said. “Start practicing. You’re going to need it.”

  I nodded, throat tight.

  She left the gym without a sound.

  And I stared at the punching bag, reading the word she’d carved.

  Intention.

  For the first time in a long time, I wondered what mine actually was.

  TODD’S EMOTIONAL DAMAGE REPORT:

  – Verbally sliced ?

  – Guilt baked and served hot ?

  – Hug survived ?

  – Given homework in knife form ?

  – Emotional growth: loading... ?

  I looked at the knife in my hand.

  Rubber.

  But still heavy.

  Still sharp in all the ways that mattered.

  Scene 4: “Jessie Admits He’s a Dog. Literally”

  There are two types of people who hang out under the bleachers after school: the ones looking to make out, and the ones trying really, really hard not to cry in front of other people.

  Jessie was definitely the second one.

  I found him tucked under the last row of aluminum benches, halfway through a protein bar and fully curled into a sad werewolf crescent, his duffel bag acting as a makeshift pillow and his soul hanging out somewhere around the soles of his muddy sneakers.

  He looked up when he heard me. His ears didn’t twitch, but they might as well have.

  “You come to stab me too?” he asked, biting off a chunk of peanut butter sadness.

  I shook my head. “Nah. I got emotionally gutted earlier. Rachel’s knife budget could fund a small uprising.”

  Jessie nodded. “Yeah. She’s been doing cardio with sarcasm lately.”

  I sat beside him. Close, but not too close.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Just sighed, long and low, like a dog who’d just been told the mailman wasn’t coming back.

  “I’ve been pretending,” he said finally.

  “Pretending what?”

  He looked at me. Eyes brighter than usual. Not glowing. Not monstrous. Just… honest.

  “That I don’t like being this way.”

  I blinked. “A werewolf?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Everyone thinks it’s this cursed tragedy—'oh no, the full moon is coming, woe is my shirt'—but it’s not. Not for me.”

  He pulled his knees up, rested his chin on them.

  “I like it,” he said. “I like sniffing stuff. I like running until I can’t think. I like the moon. I like my fangs. I like it.”

  “And you think… that’s bad?” I asked.

  “I think,” he said carefully, “that when people find out you enjoy being the thing they’re scared of, they stop calling you a victim and start calling you a threat.”

  We sat with that.

  The hum of distant magical janitorial equipment buzzed somewhere in the background. A ghost PE teacher floated by, muttering about dodgeball injustice. And Jessie picked at a sticker peeling off the bench.

  “I like you, you know,” I said quietly.

  He looked over.

  “I mean—not like, like-like,” I added. “Or maybe. I don’t know. That’s beside the point.”

  “Is it?” he said, eyebrow lifting.

  “Okay fine, no. But my point is—you could tell me you secretly enjoy licking your own elbows during eclipses and I’d still think you’re… good.”

  “Even if I accidentally bite people during group hugs?”

  “As long as it’s consensual nibbling.”

  He snorted.

  “I get it though,” I said. “This whole town is obsessed with monsters struggling to be human. But maybe it’s okay if you just… are what you are.”

  He didn’t speak. Just leaned over until his shoulder bumped mine.

  And then—nuzzled me.

  Like, full-on canine affection press. No warning.

  I froze.

  He pulled back, cheeks red. “Sorry. Instinct. That was a dominance gesture.”

  “Did you just dom me under the bleachers?”

  He threw his protein bar at me. “Don’t make it weird.”

  “You nuzzled my clavicle, Jessie. It’s already weird.”

  Then he grinned.

  The kind of grin that split clouds.

  “Thanks, Todd,” he said. “For letting me be a dog.”

  I nodded. “Anytime. I mean, I’m already betrothed to a were-chihuahua, so my standards are basically interdimensional.”

  Jessie laughed so hard he howled. Just once. Short and sweet and full of something that felt like healing.

  And I felt it in my chest—something unclenched. Something settled.

  TODD’S BROMANTIC AFFIRMATION REPORT:

  – Jessie: furry ?

  – Emotional vulnerability: achieved ?

  – Nuzzled: yes ?

  – Bitten: not yet ?

  – Best friend status: secured with mild fur transfer ?

  – Moon feelings: mutual ?

  He lay back on the grass, stretching like a sun-drenched dog with a secret.

  “You ever think maybe we’re the least monstrous people here?” he asked.

  “Jessie,” I said. “The prom ended in a cage match and a shirtless enchantment orgy. I hope we’re the least monstrous people here.”

  He chuckled again.

  “Full moon’s tomorrow,” he murmured. “You wanna run with me?”

  I blinked. “Run?”

  “Yeah. Through the woods. Just you and me and the moon. You don’t have to shift. Just… show up.”

  I nodded. “Okay. But I’m not waxing for it.”

  He smiled, eyes golden and warm.

  “Wouldn’t want you to. You’ve got good patchy ankle fur.”

  “Jessie—shut up.”

  Scene 5: “Prom Gets Postponed by Prophecy”

  You haven’t lived until your local high school librarian unrolls a scroll that says you're the reason the apocalypse might kick off during prom.

  And you definitely haven’t cried in a library until that same scroll glows, sings in Latin, and shimmers directly at your face like it's trying to do an ancient PowerPoint titled: “Todd: The Problem.”

  Welcome to my life.

  I was in the library—still sort of emotionally sticky from Jessie’s heartfelt were-snuggle—trying to find a book on “Druidic Ancestry for People with Commitment Issues” when the air got cold. Which isn’t unusual here. The library is always 15% colder than emotionally safe.

  But this wasn’t climate control.

  This was omen chill.

  The kind of chill that says someone’s about to read something aloud that ruins your life.

  Enter: Mrs. Grimsbane.

  Librarian. Witch. Possibly powered by caffeine and mild spite.

  She slammed a scroll onto the table so hard three spellbooks fell off the shelves and one student screamed and turned into a fog. That’s normal.

  Everyone turned.

  “I have an announcement,” she rasped. “Prophecy stuff. Mandatory attendance. No snacks.”

  I tried to escape behind a bookshelf labeled “Mildly Possessed Romance.”

  No dice.

  She stared directly at me. “You especially, Halfblood.”

  Of course.

  She unfurled the scroll. It stretched unnaturally far. Like, waved past the nonfiction section far. The script glowed red. The wind picked up. There was distant thunder, and someone’s lunch thermos began hissing.

  She read:

  “At the fall of the red moon, when the veil wears thin and the hopeful bleed twice, the Halfblood shall choose. The veil shall split. One world shall fall. Another shall feast. And the punch bowl shall run eternal.”

  Silence.

  So much silence.

  Then someone in the back coughed. “Wait… is that Todd?”

  All heads turned to me.

  I smiled weakly and waved. “Hi. Just… browsing.”

  The scroll glowed brighter and rotated itself to point directly at my nose.

  Mrs. Grimsbane leaned in. “You, Todd Hawkins, are the fulcrum. The pivot. The chosen teen disaster. You shall choose between blood and balance, between heritage and high school.”

  “Can I choose between pepperoni and mushroom?” I offered.

  Nobody laughed.

  Rachel muttered, “You always have to make a scene.”

  Jessie looked mildly proud. “At least he’s consistent.”

  Mrs. Grimsbane threw a puff of bat chalk at the ceiling and declared, “The dance must be delayed!”

  “Wait—prom is canceled?” someone gasped.

  “Postponed!” the librarian snapped. “Until the red moon prophecy has either been fulfilled, averted, or untagged from the Instagram post of fate.”

  Principal Grudge slithered in from the broom closet and sighed. “We’ve never had a prophecy on a school night before.”

  Students began murmuring. A girl near the encyclopedias screamed, “BUT I ALREADY BOOKED A LIMO MADE OF BONES!”

  “Refund it,” Grimsbane said. “Or bury the driver. Either works.”

  I slowly raised my hand.

  “Does this mean I have to, like… sacrifice someone? Or... am I the one being sacrificed?”

  Grimsbane narrowed her eyes. “Unclear. Prophecies are metaphorical until they’re bloody.”

  Awesome.

  Then the librarian fainted. Like, dramatically. Cloak flaring. Runes scattering. Eyelids fluttering with style.

  Two werewolves caught her mid-drop.

  The scroll rolled itself up, slapped me on the forehead, and levitated back onto its shelf labeled: “Prophecies That Make Teenagers Cry.”

  Everyone stared at me.

  Again.

  TODD’S APOCALYPSE PROM POSTPONEMENT REPORT:

  – Ancient scroll: pointed at my face ?

  – Red moon: ominously scheduled ?

  – Blood sacrifice potential: 9/10 ?

  – Librarian fainted on cue ?

  – Everyone suspects me: emotionally ?

  – Prom: canceled until further cosmic notice ?

  Jessie whispered, “You okay?”

  “No,” I muttered. “I just wanted to dance and maybe make out with someone morally ambiguous. Now I’m the pivot of the veil. Whatever that means.”

  Rachel handed me a lollipop.

  “Welcome to supernatural adolescence,” she said. “Try not to break reality before finals.”

  Scene 6: “A Stake to the Heart Is Just a Suggestion”

  It was supposed to be a regular Wednesday.

  Which, at Blood River High, meant only minor demonic activity, maybe one flaming locker, and a detention scroll that whispers insults when you walk by.

  Instead?

  I got staked.

  With glitter.

  Let me back up.

  The gym had been reopened for “emotional resolution activities.” Which meant they cleared out the prom wreckage, aired out the sulfur, and set up a “safe space” with meditation crystals, apology cupcakes, and a surprisingly aggressive beanbag chair pit.

  I was there because the school counselor—a half-banshee named Ms. Harrow—said I needed “emotional grounding before the red moon devours us all.”

  Whatever.

  I was sipping cursed Capri Sun and avoiding eye contact with the punching bag Rachel had emotionally carved two scenes ago when Brinley Sparkleton happened.

  Brinley: former prom queen candidate, current delusional sparkle gremlin, always armed with an emotional vendetta and a glitter glue wand that may or may not be sentient.

  She stormed in, tiara crooked, eyes glowing faintly with spite and trauma.

  “There he is!” she shrieked. “The boy who ruined prom with his existential aura!”

  “Hi, Brinley,” I said. “You look very emotionally stable today.”

  “You don’t deserve sarcasm!” she howled. “You deserve consequences!”

  She yanked a glitter-encrusted stake from her sequined purse and charged.

  I did what any dignified halfblood would do.

  I screamed, tripped over a yoga mat, and faceplanted into a pile of enchanted stress balls.

  And then—impact.

  Right to the chest.

  The stake sank in.

  Not deep.

  But enough to count.

  Gasps echoed around the room.

  One pixie fainted into the fondue.

  Jessie shouted, “TODD!”

  Rachel screamed, “I told you to learn knife defense!”

  I blinked.

  Looked down.

  Yup. Stake. Chest. Covered in pink rhinestones.

  It had the words “BAD BOYS BLEED CUTE” etched into the side.

  I waited for pain. Darkness. Collapse.

  But instead… the stake sizzled.

  Then… melted.

  Into my hoodie.

  And my skin?

  Glowed. Just for a second.

  A soft, pulsing gold light. Like a nightlight possessed by destiny.

  Everyone went dead silent.

  Brinley dropped what was left of her stake and shrieked, “IS HE A DEMON?!”

  “I’m not a demon,” I said faintly, sitting up. “I’m just… disappointing in a magical way.”

  Rachel ran to my side. “Did that hurt?”

  “Emotionally, yes.”

  Jessie poked me. “You’re not bleeding.”

  “I never bleed. I just internally scream.”

  Ms. Harrow stepped in, clipboard glowing, eyes wide. “Todd, that should’ve vaporized your heart. Even a mild-mortal should’ve gone full glitter explosion.”

  “Cool,” I croaked. “So why didn’t I?”

  Rachel stared at me. “Because you’re not a mild anything.”

  TODD’S ACCIDENTAL IMMORTALITY CHECKLIST:

  – Attacked with glitter stake ?

  – Glowed instead of died ?

  – Blood: still internal ?

  – Death count: 0 (again) ?

  – Entire gym: staring like I’m an unboxed curse ?

  Mrs. Grimsbane showed up two minutes later via smoke portal, sniffed the air, and declared:

  “The prophecy deepens. Also, someone owes me a new cardigan.”

  Jessie helped me up.

  “You’re glowing,” he said softly.

  “Do I look magical or like I swallowed a nightlight?”

  He squinted. “Somewhere between chosen one and radioactive intern.”

  Rachel crossed her arms. “Well, congratulations. You’re now officially too powerful to be relatable.”

  Brinley sat on the bleachers sobbing into her glitter purse.

  The stake had fully dissolved. Only one rhinestone remained, clinging to my hoodie like a badge of supernatural resilience.

  “Should I get that looked at?” I asked.

  “No,” Rachel said. “But you are gonna need therapy. Probably a full moon’s worth.”

  Jessie just grinned.

  “You know,” he said, “this means you’re kind of invincible.”

  “Cool,” I muttered. “Maybe now I can finally ask someone to prom without triggering an apocalyptic interdimensional love triangle.”

  A pause.

  Then everyone turned to look at me again.

  Even the fondue trembled.

  Scene 7: “Coach Fangley’s Hidden Lair of Sweatbands”

  Let me be clear: I never meant to discover Coach Fangley’s secret lair.

  I just wanted to skip Flexibility Thursday.

  But as is my luck, dodging the mystical yoga session led directly to finding a **chrome-plated dungeon of enchanted sweatbands, whey-scented scrolls, and one terrifying revelation: Coach Fangley was preparing me for supernatural P.E. on a cosmic scale.

  Let me explain.

  —

  It started with Jessie, Rachel, and me loitering behind the gym after the glitter-staking incident.

  “So what now?” I asked, clutching the leftover rhinestone from the failed assassination attempt like it was a cursed friendship bead.

  “You glowed when stabbed,” Rachel said. “We need answers.”

  Jessie nodded, still licking frosting from his hoodie. “Answers and probably electrolytes.”

  Rachel squinted at the gym wall. “That supply closet’s always locked.”

  We stared at it.

  Grey door. Always locked. Marked “PE STORAGE – KEEP OUT – DO NOT BLEED NEAR THIS DOOR.”

  Subtle.

  Rachel stepped forward, muttered something in Latin that definitely wasn’t part of the regular language curriculum, and the lock hissed, popped, and… giggled?

  The door creaked open.

  Inside: darkness.

  And protein-scented dread.

  Jessie sniffed. “Smells like creatine and repressed trauma.”

  I stepped in first.

  Because I make terrible decisions.

  —

  What we found inside?

  A hallway.

  Not a closet. Not a room.

  A freaking underground gym bunker with glowing floor tiles that pulsed to the beat of Eye of the Tiger.

  Posters of ancient warriors doing squats covered the walls.

  There were shelves of sweatbands labeled with arcane runes and color-coded for “emotional stability” and “moon cycle compatibility.”

  A chalkboard read: LEG DAY IS EVERY DAY IF DESTINY REQUIRES IT.

  I was already terrified.

  And then we found the map.

  A glowing display table in the center of the room, projecting ley lines, star charts, blood moons, and something labeled “INTERDIMENSIONAL ZUMBA GATE.”

  “What… is this?” I whispered.

  Jessie blinked. “Is that… the gym curriculum?”

  Rachel leaned in. “Or a battle plan. There’s a red dot over your house.”

  I screamed internally.

  Then Coach Fangley appeared.

  Not walked in. Appeared.

  In a cloak made of braided gym towels and vengeance.

  “Well, well,” he boomed. “Took you long enough.”

  Rachel immediately drew a blade. Jessie cracked his knuckles.

  I whimpered and clutched a nearby resistance band like it was holy.

  “You knew?” Rachel snapped. “About him?”

  Fangley nodded, stepping toward me with a reverence usually reserved for cursed relics or surprise protein deliveries.

  “He survived the glitter stake,” he intoned. “The prophecy tracks. The aura flares. The calves… acceptable.”

  “Please don’t talk about my calves,” I begged.

  He ignored me.

  “You, Todd Hawkins, are The Fulcrum. The center of magical imbalance. The apex of supernatural puberty.”

  “Okay, I’m filing that under ‘phrases that make me want to throw up in my locker.’”

  Fangley gestured to the wall. A VHS tape inserted itself into a floating player and projected a montage of me dodging death, getting kissed by accident, glowing, screaming, and tripping in every hallway of Blood River High.

  Set to Chariots of Fire.

  “Why… why do you have footage of me?” I asked, horrified.

  Fangley turned, eyes glowing beneath his sweatband.

  “Because you, Todd, are being trained. Prepared. Fortified. For supernatural physical education beyond this dimension.”

  Jessie whispered, “This is so messed up I might cry.”

  Rachel actually crossed herself.

  Fangley grinned. “You’ve already passed Agility: Escaping Death via Slapstick. And Endurance: Surviving Emotional Damage Weekly. But you’ve yet to complete—”

  He pulled out a scroll titled:

  "The Prophecy Fitness Final: Cosmic Capture the Flag.”

  I was done.

  TODD’S GYM-BASED APOCALYPSE PREP LOG:

  – Accidentally entered magical fitness dungeon ?

  – Ley line map includes my house ?

  – Coach Fangley: 60% biceps, 40% prophecy ?

  – Apparently in training for interdimensional dodgeball ?

  – Emotional state: cramping ?

  “I’m not a hero,” I said. “I’m barely passing algebra.”

  Fangley stepped forward, resting a hand on my shoulder with all the weight of gym class humiliation and supernatural burden.

  “That’s what makes you dangerous.”

  Jessie screamed. Rachel stabbed the nearest protein shake.

  And I, Todd Hawkins, officially knew:

  Prom being postponed was just the warm-up.

  Scene 8: “Werewolf Wrestling & Emotional Breakdown”

  Some people end their week with Netflix and a breakdown.

  I ended mine by being shoved into a magical referee shirt stitched with runes, thrown into a wrestling ring made of enchanted jump ropes, and told:

  “You’re the emotional anchor. Just try not to cry on the mat.”

  Thanks, Fangley.

  The gym had been “temporarily reallocated” for Werewolf Wrestling Night — a new school-sanctioned initiative designed to “channel supernatural aggression into productive expressions of dominance and unresolved feelings.”

  Translated?

  Two fur-covered emotional disasters were about to body slam their way through trauma, and I was officiating.

  Because apparently I’m now emotionally durable and moderately absorbent.

  “ARE YOU READY TO HOWL FOR HEALING?!” Coach Fangley bellowed from the announcer’s table, flanked by a flaming scoreboard and a spiritually compromised mascot in a blood-soaked wolf costume.

  The bleachers were packed.

  Rachel sat in the front row eating cursed nachos. “Don’t die, Todd!” she called sweetly. “But if you do, die with core stability!”

  Jessie stood in the ring, shirtless, shoeless, hair braided back into what I could only describe as battle-mode-fab.

  Across from him?

  A massive werewolf named Milo “The Emotional Avalanche” Grimstein, flexing through his mesh tank top and growling softly to an internal playlist of heartbreak ballads.

  “Remember the rules!” Fangley shouted. “No biting unless metaphorical. No shifting past mid-form. And all tears must be wiped with enchanted towels provided by the Emotional Wellness Committee.”

  Jessie turned to me.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I adjusted my referee shirt—it glowed faintly when I was anxious, which meant it currently looked like a sentient lava lamp—and muttered, “As I’ll ever be.”

  He nodded. “Just be honest with your calls. And if I start sobbing, throw me the cinnamon-scented towel.”

  “What if I start sobbing?”

  “You’re the anchor. Anchors don’t sob. They weep silently into their emotional runes.”

  Oh. Right.

  —

  ROUND ONE: Repressed Feelings vs. Arm Day

  Jessie lunged. Milo countered with a howl that triggered the fire alarm.

  They grappled, growled, and monologued.

  “You always took the last deer!” Jessie shouted, flipping him over a mat.

  “You always took my hoodie!” Milo roared back, chokeholding Jessie in a hug.

  Sweat flew. Emotions flared. Someone in the bleachers fainted from secondhand vulnerability.

  I blew my whistle.

  “Time out for internalized pack hierarchy tension!”

  Jessie slumped against the ropes.

  “Is this even helping?” I whispered, handing him a cucumber water.

  He looked at me—eyes damp, nostrils flared, soul somewhere between howl and hug.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But it feels good to stop pretending.”

  I nodded. “Me too.”

  —

  ROUND TWO: Dominance vs. Tenderness

  This time, they hug-fought.

  A werewolf technique involving snarling through apologies and suplexing through insecurity.

  Milo yelled, “I MISS OUR CAMPING TRIPS!”

  Jessie screamed, “I STILL HAVE YOUR SOAP!”

  They collided mid-air in a burst of fur and regret. I ducked and avoided a flying claw that embedded in the snack table.

  The gym was silent except for the soft sound of someone softly weeping into a foam finger.

  I blew the whistle again.

  “Final round: Reconciliation Throwdown!”

  —

  They circled each other.

  Panting. Glaring.

  Then—embraced.

  Full, bone-cracking, tail-wagging hug.

  Fur flew. The rune shirt vibrated like it had just witnessed something sacred.

  Jessie sniffled. “I’m sorry I made fun of your howl.”

  Milo whimpered. “I’m sorry I called you a drama puppy.”

  They sobbed.

  So did the crowd.

  So did I.

  Rachel threw me a rune-emblazoned tissue and shouted, “LET THE BOYS FEEL THINGS!”

  Fangley raised both hands.

  “AND THAT, BLOOD RIVER HIGH, IS HOW YOU WRESTLE YOUR INNER WOLF.”

  —

  TODD’S THERAPEUTIC WRESTLING REFLECTION LOG:

  – Refereed emotional werewolf match ?

  – Discovered “hug-suplex” is a thing ?

  – Got snot on my rune shirt ?

  – Survived with my soul and most of my dignity ?

  – Emotional growth: pinned, tapped out, and healed ?

  After the match, Jessie pulled me into a side-hug that smelled like cedar and catharsis.

  “Thanks, man,” he said. “You were the best emotional anchor I’ve ever sweated on.”

  I smiled. “You’re welcome. But I’m never doing this again.”

  “Sure you will,” he said. “You’re the Fulcrum.”

  I groaned.

  And somewhere, under the bleachers, I swear the scroll of prophecy giggled.