Scene 1: “Rachel’s Actually Really Cool, Honestly”
Detention.
A sacred ritual in Blood River.
Normally reserved for necromancy incidents, hallway maulings, and PTA slander.
This time?
It was for me.
Crime: “Repeated supernatural disruption with emotional glitter residue.”
Sentence: One hour in Room 3B with no phone, no summoning, and no snacks.
What I didn’t know?
Rachel was already there.
And she was meditating.
Like, legs-crossed, incense-burning, black-metal-in-her-earbuds meditating.
I froze in the doorway.
There was a crescent of salt around her desk.
A dagger stuck into the chalkboard that said “Namastake” above it in red ink.
(Or blood. It’s Blood River. You learn not to ask.)
She cracked one eye open when I stepped in.
“Todd.”
“Rachel.”
“Try not to ruin the vibe.”
I raised my hands. “I come in peace and emotional disrepair.”
She smirked and returned to her pose, smoke curling around her like it was scared not to.
I chose the desk furthest from the salt circle. Sat. Sweated.
“Is that... cedarwood?”
“Dragon’s breath and regret,” she replied, not missing a beat. “Good for banishing lingering romantic humiliation.”
I winced. “Wow. Hits close.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen your prom photos.”
Oof.
She paused the music. Pulled out one earbud.
“You meditate?”
“I panic in bathrooms. That’s similar, right?”
She considered. “Close enough.”
—
We sat in relative silence.
Which, with Rachel, still felt like she was aiming a stake at your soul with affection.
Eventually, she said, “Breathe in.”
I did.
“Now out.”
I did that too.
“Now picture your aura.”
“It’s probably soggy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Focus, Todd.”
I closed my eyes.
Behind my eyelids, I saw… something.
Swirls. Sparks. A faint tattoo growl.
Then a hamster on a throne.
Weird, but emotionally accurate.
“Okay,” she said, “not terrible.”
I opened one eye. “Wait—really?”
“You’re better than Jessie. He tried to sniff the incense and burst into tears.”
“Jessie has a lot of feelings.”
“I know,” she said, with just enough fondness to give me hope for humanity.
—
She stood. Walked over. Pulled a pair of training stakes from her bag and tossed one to me.
“Duel?”
“What?”
“Detention rules: no talking, no magic, but no one banned sparring.”
I caught the stake. Nearly dropped it. “You wanna fight?”
She rolled her eyes again, but it came with a smile. “Think of it as emotional cardio.”
We cleared a space between desks.
She raised her stake.
I raised mine like I’d only watched vampire movies and used spatulas for training.
“First to three taps wins,” she said. “Loser buys the next round of salt lattes.”
“Deal.”
She moved first.
Fast. Sharp. Like a nightmare in eyeliner.
I dodged.
Kind of.
Okay—I tripped over a chair and landed in a semi-dignified crouch.
She grinned. “Point one: me.”
—
It got better from there.
Sort of.
We traded strikes.
Laughed.
Sweat.
Her hair fell into her face once and I thought, I would 100% die for her if she asked politely.
She spun.
I parried.
She tapped my wrist.
“Two.”
I lunged—completely by accident—and somehow grazed her shoulder.
She blinked.
“That... counts.”
We reset.
She looked at me—really looked.
“You’re getting better.”
“Emotionally or physically?”
She tilted her head. “Both. Which is alarming.”
We circled.
Silence stretched between us like pulled thread.
Then she dropped her stake.
Paused.
“Final point,” she said, low and dangerous. “Go.”
I hesitated.
She lunged—
I dodged—
We collided.
And suddenly I was holding her.
One arm around her back.
Breathing hard.
Stake at her ribs.
Her hand at my throat.
And then...
She let go.
“Match,” she said.
“Who won?”
“Who cares?”
—
We stayed there a moment.
The incense burned down.
The room smelled like ash and maybe something sweeter.
She stepped back. Picked up her stake. Brushed hair behind her ear.
“You’re not the worst,” she said. Again. This time like she meant it.
“You’re... actually really cool,” I said. Soft. Sincere.
She didn’t smile.
But she didn’t roll her eyes either.
“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered, turning back toward her desk.
And maybe, just maybe, her ears were a little pink.
—
TODD’S EMOTIONAL SPARRING SUMMARY:
– Aura: soggy but evolving ?
– Meditation: mostly didn’t pass out ?
– Duel: lost with dignity (ish) ?
– Stakes: literal and metaphorical ?
– Rachel: terrifying, beautiful, probably my soulmate ?
—
As the detention bell chimed, she grabbed her bag.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked casually.
I blinked. “For what?”
She turned in the doorway, silhouetted by moonlight and menace.
“To keep you alive.”
Then she vanished down the hall.
Scene 2: “Jessie Howls a Love Ballad”
Confession:
When your best friend is a werewolf, you learn to ignore certain noises.
Like soft howling under his breath when math gets hard.
Or the occasional bark-laugh during emotional moments.
Or the guttural growl of primal longing when Stacy wears leather.
But tonight?
Tonight the howling was intentional.
I got the text after detention:
Jessie: rooftop. bring Capri Sun. emotional support may be required.
So I climbed the fire escape.
And found Jessie—shirtless, naturally—standing on the edge of the school roof in jeans so ripped they were basically denim whispers.
He looked like a Teen Wolf perfume ad directed by Baz Luhrmann.
The moon hovered behind him like a dramatic spotlight.
A breeze tousled his hair just enough to make it look like he’d emotionally stormed off a soap opera set.
And at his feet?
A crumpled notebook, three half-used Capri Suns, and a small, glowing rune that pulsed to the beat of his heartbeat.
“I wrote a song,” he said without turning around.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
“It’s about... feelings.”
“Even worse.”
Jessie smiled. “It’s called You’re My Moon, My Meatloaf, My Mayhem.”
“I’m sorry, did you just rhyme emotional intimacy with lunch meat?”
He raised a hand for silence. The wind literally died down.
Then he howled.
But not just any howl.
A melodic, haunting, soul-twisting musical howl.
Like Bon Iver got possessed by a werewolf and decided to drop a concept EP about romantic devastation and protein cravings.
“You’re the full moon to my rage,
The bone in my chew toy cage,
The silver bullet in my latte foam—
Baby, come howl me home.”
I dropped my Capri Sun.
Because I... might have been crying?
Below, the gym lights flickered.
A lone dog in the distance answered the chorus.
Someone somewhere slow clapped.
I pulled out my phone.
Because obviously this had to be documented.
—
TODD’S EMOTIONAL LIVE BLOG (CAPTIONED):
[ Video: Jessie shirtless under the moon, howling into the abyss]
#BloodRiverHowls
“Is that... a minor key howl solo?”
“Yes, and I think it’s working???”
—
Except—I accidentally pressed upload.
Not to Insta.
Not to TikTok.
To FullMoonMatch?.
The werewolf dating app I downloaded as a joke last week during a garlic coma.
Seconds later:
38 notifications.
9 direct messages.
1 love bite emoji from someone named LunaSnax89.
“Jessie,” I said, panicked, “you’re... you’re trending.”
He blinked. “Trending what?”
“Like—romantic icon. Werewolf thirst trap. Emotional alpha bait.”
He looked at his notebook.
“I didn’t even finish verse three,” he whispered.
“You haunt me like rawhide,
You broke my soul AND my chew toy—”
“Okay, we get it!” I yelled, already fielding text requests from people wanting a remix.
—
Down below, someone turned on a spotlight.
Rachel leaned out the gym doors holding up her phone. “Do the second verse or I stake you ironically!”
Jessie beamed.
I—still tear-streaked, emotionally confused, and holding a glittery Capri Sun—just nodded like this was fine.
It wasn’t.
—
TODD’S WOLF BALLAD WRAP-UP:
– Lyrics: legally cursed ?
– Shirt: still missing ?
– Emotion: raw and chewy ?
– Crowd response: sobbing ?
– Viral status: unlocked ?
– My soul: howled into submission ?
—
When it was over, Jessie turned to me.
“Do you think she heard it?”
“Rachel?”
He nodded.
I shrugged. “She screamed ‘YOU’RE INSANE, BUT THAT WAS GOOD’ and threw a dagger shaped like a heart. So... yes?”
He smiled.
“Thanks for uploading it, man.”
“You owe me therapy fees.”
“I’ll give you a paw massage.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“No. Never say that again.”
We howled once—together. Soft. Synchronized.
And maybe the moon smiled.
Or maybe it blinked.
Either way…
it was a vibe.
Scene 3: “Mrs. Evernight Offers Immortality (With Dental)”
Let’s start with this:
Nothing good has ever happened at 2 a.m.
Nothing normal either.
Unless you count emotional texting, cryptid sightings, or accidentally summoning feelings you weren’t ready to unpack.
So when I woke up to candlelight, the scent of wine and moon dust, and the soft thud of stilettos landing inside my bedroom, I didn’t scream.
I sighed.
“Mrs. Evernight,” I whispered, still half under my Star Wars blanket.
She stepped out of the shadows like a Dior campaign haunted by secrets. Black velvet. Crimson silk. Eyes like forbidden library sections.
“Hello, Todd.”
Her voice sounded like warm blood poured over piano keys.
I sat up. Fluffed my hair. Regretted everything about my Scooby-Doo pajama pants.
“Am I dreaming?” I asked.
She raised one perfectly arched brow. “Do your dreams usually come with paperwork and bone toothbrushes?”
She held up a scroll sealed in wax and a toothbrush clearly made of fossilized femur. It sparkled.
“Wow,” I said. “Very... promotional.”
She smiled, fangs peeking just slightly. “I’m here with an offer.”
“You’re standing on my Algebra homework.”
“Then I’m here to save you from that too.”
—
She crossed the room in three glides, sat on my desk like she owned the moon, and unrolled the scroll.
It glowed faintly in violet, runes shifting like seductive tax clauses.
The Evernight Eternity Package?
- Immortality: Includes sunlight insurance
- Transformation: Zero down, one bite, minimal side effects
- Dental: Lifetime fang maintenance, whitening, and “bite sparkle” enchantments
- Eternity Companion Option: Pending aura compatibility
- Blood Sommelier Access Tier: Optional but strongly encouraged
She slid it toward me.
“You’ve shown... promise, Todd.”
I blinked. “Is that a compliment or a recruitment slogan?”
“Both.”
She leaned forward, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. Her fingers were cool, impossibly smooth, and smelled faintly of night jasmine and danger.
“Your blood hums. Your aura’s unruly. You’ve survived prophecy, glitter warfare, and emotional exorcism.”
She tilted her head, those eyes catching mine like fish on a hook.
“Why waste all that potential... growing old?”
—
I swallowed.
My tattoo pulsed.
“I don’t— I mean, like... I still live with my mom.”
Mrs. Evernight smiled. “You’d have to move out eventually. Why not ascend instead?”
She rose from the desk, heels barely making a sound on the carpet.
“Todd, darling, this isn’t just about power. It’s about belonging. No more garlic fear. No more cafeteria anxiety. Just... eternity. With benefits.”
She held out the toothbrush.
“Symbolic,” she said. “Start your new life with clean fangs.”
It glowed faintly.
So did I.
—
I stared at the scroll.
I mean, it sounded amazing. Eternal charisma. Undead cool factor. No more gym class.
But then...
I glanced at my nightstand.
At the photo of me and Flapjack—my late hamster. Gone too soon. Probably in rodent Valhalla.
I remembered his tiny eyes of judgment and unconditional love.
I remembered Rachel’s voice:
“You’re not a monster, Todd. But you’re getting real comfortable with them.”
And I thought...
Do I want to be seductive and powerful and clinically ageless?
Yes.
But do I want to become that guy?
Also yes.
But... maybe not yet.
—
I looked back at her.
She was watching me, eyes steady. Maybe a little hopeful.
And that’s what did it.
Because Mrs. Evernight doesn’t hope.
She expects.
She seduces.
She wins.
And right now?
She was waiting.
Which meant I mattered.
And that meant... I had to say something deeply Todd.
So I did.
“I think... I need braces first.”
A pause.
Then she laughed.
Head back. Full fang. Velvet thunder in the night.
“Oh, Todd.”
She reached forward, cupped my cheek, kissed my forehead so gently it sparked like a spell, and whispered:
“You’re not ready.”
“I know.”
“But you will be.”
And then—like mist, perfume, and emotional confusion—she was gone.
Leaving behind the toothbrush.
And a single fang-shaped chocolate wrapped in black foil.
—
TODD’S UNDEAD LIFE DECISION REVIEW:
– Immortality: deferred ?
– Offer: flattered ?
– Dental: still curious ?
– Emotional progress: made ?
– Vampire MILF status: still dangerously high ?
—
I lay back down.
The scroll curled softly on the desk.
The toothbrush gleamed in the moonlight.
And somewhere deep inside me, the tattoo whispered:
You’re going to bite something eventually.
I sighed.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “But I’m not doing it in Scooby-Doo pajamas.”
Scene 4: “Stacy Finds Herself… In Romania”
It was 4:17 a.m. when my phone buzzed.
I was mid-dream—something about Rachel fencing a sentient broom while Jessie sang a Meatloaf ballad in the background—when reality yanked me out by the hoodie strings.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
I fumbled for my phone, still half cocooned in my blanket of emotional avoidance, and saw the screen:
?? Stacy Evernight
1 new voicemail. 3 minutes long. Sent at 4:16 a.m. Romanian time.
(Also? Romanian time?!)
I sat up.
My tattoo purred. My curtains flinched. Outside, a bat made eye contact and nodded like yeah, bro, you should listen to this.
I pressed play.
—
Stacy’s Voice.
Breathy. Dramatic. Like she’d just walked off a Dracula-themed runway and paused to record her truth in a graveyard fog bank.
“Hey, Todd. So… hi. Don’t freak out. But I’m in Romania. You know, like, the place from vampire postcards and black-and-white trauma.”
There was a pause. A sigh. The sound of wind and possibly a theremin in the distance.
“I needed space. After the prom. And the prophecy. And the vegan zombie. Who, by the way, didn’t survive customs. Turns out Kale was ‘too reanimated’ for Delta Airlines.”
I blinked. “Wait, Kale’s dead again?”
“Anyway. I’m okay. Better than okay, actually. I joined a blood-positive vampire commune in the Carpathians. We wear robes. We journal. We drink responsibly sourced plasma. It’s all very vibey.”
The voicemail crackled slightly. I swear I heard someone chanting “eternal empowerment” in the background.
“I dyed my hair. Again. It’s like… obsidian now. With streaks of midnight guilt. You’d love it.”
Would I?
“And here’s the thing: I’m not someone’s maybe. Not some guy’s fantasy. Not even my mom’s heir. I’m me. A nocturnal being of mystery, eyeliner, and self-worth.”
She paused.
“I don’t regret you, Todd. You were... warm. And funny. And your blood smelled kinda hopeful.”
That felt like the best compliment I’d ever gotten. Or the weirdest. Or both.
“But I can’t go back. I have to see who I am when I’m not dodging prophecy or your emotional monologues.”
Rude. Accurate. But rude.
“So yeah. If you ever find yourself in Eastern Europe, look for the tower that sings at night. I’ll probably be there. Laughing. Floating. Maybe... forgiving.”
The voicemail clicked softly, like a casket shutting with class.
Then... beep.
—
TODD’S BREAKUP PLAY-BY-PLAY:
– Location: Romania. Foggy. Spiritual ?
– Status: gracefully dumped ?
– Zombie ex: deceased again ?
– Compliment: blood smelled hopeful ?
– Closure: weirdly beautiful ?
—
I lay back in bed. Stared at the ceiling. Whispered, “She joined a vampire commune.”
My tattoo whispered back, Power move.
I nodded.
“I’m proud of her,” I said aloud.
And I meant it.
Because sometimes letting go isn’t about who hurt who.
Sometimes it’s about finding yourself.
Even if you’re wearing a hooded cloak while drinking ethically chilled AB-negative.
—
A postcard arrived two days later.
Black envelope. Red ink.
Front: a misty castle with a quote that read, “Eat. Pray. Stake.”
Back, in her slanted handwriting:
“Found a place where no one asks me to prom.
– S.”
I pinned it to my wall.
Right next to the prophecy scroll, the flyer for DJ NeckSnap’s next gig, and the note Rachel once left on my locker that said, “Don’t die stupid.”
Scene 5: “Coach Fangley Joins a Boy Band”
Some moments change you.
Others… emotionally maul you in high-definition while wearing leather pants and lip-syncing into a fog machine.
This was the second kind.
It started harmlessly enough.
I was sitting in the living room, eating vampire-safe microwave popcorn (laced with holy salt and mild regret), flipping through channels while my mom brewed “emergency calming tea” in the kitchen.
I was fine.
Totally normal Tuesday.
Heartbreak lingering. Tattoo whispering showtunes.
Standard post-prophecy funk.
And then…
“Next up on Paranormal PopWatch: Blood, Beats, and Boy Bands—The Rise of Nocturnal Thirst!”
I froze.
Nocturnal Thirst?
Hadn’t heard that name since—
Oh.
Oh no.
The screen flickered.
And there he was.
Coach Fangley.
Leather pants so tight they defied both physics and decency.
Slicked-back hair. Fanged grin.
Backup dancers made of smoke and low standards.
And then—he danced.
If you could call it that.
It was like watching a werewolf trying to vogue while evading a garlic sprinkler.
He hip-thrusted.
He lip-synced.
He winked directly into the camera while mouthing, “I want your love... and maybe your liver.”
—
TODD’S COACH-TO-POPSTAR PROCESSING LOG:
– Leather: offensively snug ?
– Backup vocals: suspiciously ghostly ?
– Choreography: gym warmups turned erotic nightmare ?
– Emotional state: rapidly declining ?
—
I screamed.
Not a horror movie scream.
Not a “vampire in the hallway” scream.
A deep, wounded, “that man graded my mile run with this pelvis” scream.
My mom peeked in.
“You okay?”
I pointed at the screen like I was hexed. “That’s my gym teacher. Singing. About... blood-based consent.”
She nodded. “Finally doing something with his energy. Good for him.”
“Good for him?!”
She shrugged. “At least now he’s yelling at a camera and not at children.”
—
The commercial continued.
“Nocturnal Thirst’s debut single ‘Stake Me Baby One More Time’ is climbing the crypt charts!”
The screen cut to Coach Fangley, standing shirtless, wind-blown, arms outstretched on top of a mausoleum stage as lasers shot bats into the sky.
“Available wherever morally ambiguous music is sold.”
—
The next day at school?
No one was okay.
Rachel greeted me with, “Did you see it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Jessie whispered, “He’s got moves, though. Like... apex predator Zumba.”
Someone in the hallway was humming the chorus. Someone else had printed T-shirts.
Coach Fangley?
He strutted into first period like a rockstar who just bench-pressed his ego.
“Alright, meatbags,” he said, flicking on the overhead lights with unnecessary pelvic thrust. “We’re doing vampire squats today. Four sets. Think about your eternal legacy.”
No one made eye contact.
Everyone was emotionally bruised.
But deep down?
We were kind of... impressed.
Not because it was good.
But because he owned it.
And in Blood River, that’s the real power move.
—
Later, as Rachel and I passed the trophy case, I saw it.
Right between “Most Improved Cross-Country Team” and “2014 Pep Rally Spirit Stick”?
A framed still shot of Coach Fangley mid-pirouette in fanged eyeliner with the caption:
“Follow your dark heart. And stretch.”
—
TODD’S FINAL COACH FANGLEY THOUGHTS:
– Trauma: yes ?
– Pride: also yes ?
– Confusion: spiritually profound ?
– Dance fever: probably contagious ?
– Boy band name: still unforgivable ?
—
I pulled out my phone.
Sent a single text to the group chat:
Todd: Coach Fangley may be cursed. But he’s our curse.
Jessie responded with a howling emoji.
Rachel sent back a black heart and the words: "I hate how catchy it is."
We didn’t talk about it again.
But that night?
When the moon was high and the tea was warm?
I caught myself humming the chorus.
And maybe—just maybe—doing a vampire squat with flair.
Scene 6: “Todd Goes Full Vampire. Kind Of.”
It started with Capri Sun.
Because naturally, all awakenings of ancient power and vaguely sexy chaos start with Capri Sun.
I was sitting on the cracked bench in the Blood River High courtyard, sipping my third pouch of “Pacific Cooler” and trying to forget Coach Fangley’s boy band debut when it happened.
My tattoo—formerly whispering Latin gossip—vibrated.
Not a gentle hum.
A bass-drop-from-beyond-the-veil thrum.
I blinked. Looked at the pouch.
The silver foil glowed faintly.
Jessie, lounging shirtless nearby (because of course), sniffed the air and muttered, “Uh... bro? You smell like prophecy again.”
Rachel, perched on the lunch table like a dangerous crow in black eyeliner, narrowed her eyes. “Todd. Are you doing something... magical?”
“No,” I said automatically.
Then I blinked again.
Because my feet weren’t touching the ground.
—
Cue full panic.
“GUYS,” I shouted.
They looked up.
I was levitating.
Two feet off the courtyard bricks.
Hair fluttering. Aura shimmering.
My pupils probably doing that weird glow thing villains get mid-monologue.
Jessie dropped his sandwich.
Rachel stood slowly. Reached for a rune-stamped bandage from her bag.
“Stay calm,” she said evenly.
“I AM THE DAWN AND DUSK!” I screamed, Capri Sun still in hand, juice straw twitching.
Jessie blinked. “Did you just quote yourself mid-snack?”
“I AM... probably still grounded!” I wailed.
Rachel deadpanned, “You’re about to be buried.”
—
The wind picked up.
A nearby raven cawed and dive-bombed a trash can for emphasis.
My backpack levitated. My shoelaces tied themselves. The Capri Sun began to swirl in my hand like a caffeinated chalice.
“Should I—like—channel this?” I asked, panic-happy.
Jessie howled gently. “You’re glowing, man.”
“I FEEL POWERFUL,” I declared, spinning mid-air. “I FEEL... like my GPA no longer defines me!”
Rachel took out a silver sticker and slapped it on her dagger.
“Todd,” she said. “If you don’t come down in five seconds, I will exorcise you with flair.”
“But this is my moment!”
“I don’t care if it’s your Bar Mitzvah, Dracula. SIT.”
—
And just like that?
I dropped.
Like a balloon with commitment issues.
Landed crumpled on the grass, legs tangled, juice pouch crushed.
Rachel stood over me. Dagger still glowing.
“You done?”
I blinked up at her, eyes slightly bloodshot, hair full anime.
“...probably.”
Jessie offered a paw. “That was so cool.”
“You say that like I didn’t scream ‘Dawn and Dusk’ with fruit juice on my chin.”
“Exactly,” he nodded. “Epic.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You levitated for three minutes and almost ruptured the weather. Be proud. But stop monologuing with children’s hydration beverages.”
—
TODD’S HALFBLOOD POWER MOMENT, RANKED:
– Control: 4/10 ?
– Drama: 11/10 ?
– Beverage synergy: questionable ?
– Rachel’s approval: aggressively conditional ?
– Jessie’s reaction: wants to start a fan club ?
—
Later, in the hallway, my shoes still occasionally hovered an inch off the floor.
A freshman dropped their books when I floated past.
Someone asked if I was “ascending again or just constipated.”
Rachel pinned a sticky note to my locker:
“No more juice magic in public. This is why witches hate you.”
Underneath, Jessie added:
“That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Please teach me the Capri Sun chant.”
—
And yeah...
I may not be full vampire.
Or full druid.
Or whatever magical-bloodline hybrid the prophecy says I am.
But I am Todd.
I am chaos.
I am lightly sparkling with mystic energy and emotional confusion.
And I own it.
One levitation at a time.
Scene 7: “Everybody Fights. Everyone Looks Good Doing It”
Town Hall was on fire.
Okay—not literally.
Not yet.
But metaphorically?
Spiritually?
Fashion-wise?
It was burning in chaotic glamor.
Because the rogue vampire horde picked tonight to invade.
And apparently, their dress code was “murder prom meets Renaissance nightclub.”
Leather. Lace. Fangs polished to runway gleam.
They didn’t knock.
They didn’t monologue.
They just burst through the stained-glass windows of Blood River Town Hall like bat-shaped glitter bombs and started screaming in perfect harmony.
Which is how you know they rehearse.
Rachel stood next to me in her full battle fit:
Black corset reinforced with silver thread.
Combat boots that had definitely kicked more than feelings.
Bandolier of stakes.
Eyeliner so sharp it could draw blood just by blinking.
“Showtime,” she said, unsheathing two daggers like she was hosting Deadliest Catch: Ex-Girlfriend Edition.
Jessie, already shirtless (obviously), cracked his knuckles. His ears twitched. His tail flexed.
“I’m gonna tear those bloodsuckers like SAT practice packets,” he growled.
I, standing in a dramatic trench coat stolen from the school’s drama department, adjusted my anti-possession amulet and looked into the infernal glow ahead.
“I’m gonna scream and hope I don’t die,” I said honestly.
Rachel patted my shoulder. “Growth.”
The air trembled. The vampires hissed. Somewhere, a fog machine coughed.
“Positions!” Rachel barked.
“I didn’t study!” I yelped.
“Just yell something dramatic and stab anything that sparkles wrong.”
“Copy that.”
A rogue vampire lunged.
Rachel dropkicked him into a potted plant.
The battle had begun.
—
Cue chaos.
Silver flashed. Claws slashed.
Jessie went full wolf in the foyer and tackled two vamps into a bulletin board about community gardening.
Rachel whipped her daggers in lethal pirouettes, spinning like a ballet dancer fueled by spite and coffee.
The librarian—yes, still a witch—cackled from the podium and rained down magical overdue notices that exploded on impact.
Meanwhile, I?
I stood on a chair.
Tore open my trench coat to reveal six layers of mismatched protection charms, spellproof glitter, and a temporary tattoo that read “PROPHETICALLY HOT.”
I held up a glowing staff I may or may not have stolen from the school theater prop bin.
And I screamed:
“FOR EXTRA CREDIT!”
And charged.
—
Let me be clear: I do not have training.
I do not have control.
What I do have is raw magical panic and an unhealthy amount of costume jewelry that turned out to be mystically charged.
I slapped one vampire with a pentagram medallion.
It sizzled.
I accidentally flashed my eyes—full gold glow—and a vampire fainted.
Not from pain. Just, like, overwhelmed.
Same, girl.
Jessie ran past carrying two vampires over his shoulders like cursed gym bags.
Rachel stabbed a vampire mid-backflip and yelled, “SIT. DOWN.”
DJ NeckSnap—yes, the vampire DJ—appeared with a portable speaker and dropped a remix of “Battle Hymn of the Republic” featuring chainsaw solos.
Even the town mayor got involved, swinging a rake while yelling, “I KNEW THIS TOWN WAS BUILT ON SIN!”
It was...
the hottest chaos Blood River had ever seen.
—
We fought for what felt like hours.
In reality?
Probably fifteen minutes.
Because fashion-forward fights don’t last long when everyone is busy looking good and trying not to ruin their makeup.
At one point, a vampire hissed at me and I hit him with a book titled Hexes and the Teen Soul.
It worked.
At another point, Jessie and Rachel tag-teamed a vampire into the municipal recycling bin.
Then—
silence.
One last rogue vampire tried to stand.
Rachel flipped her stake like a cocktail shaker and whispered, “Goodbye, sparkle teeth.”
Thunk.
He turned to glitter. Which Jessie accidentally inhaled and sneezed into a backflip.
The battle was over.
—
TODD’S POST-BATTLE RUNDOWN:
– Still alive ?
– Covered in blood: 40% mine, 60% stylish ?
– Rachel complimented my aim: “Not the worst” ?
– Jessie hugged me shirtless and howled ?
– DJ NeckSnap started slow-spinning “I Will Survive” ?
– I whispered “We did it” like a dramatic CW lead ?
—
The town stood quiet.
Smoky.
Wrecked.
Victorious.
Rachel leaned on her stake like a queen after war.
Jessie sat on a broken bench, panting, covered in scratches and absolutely loving it.
I stood between them.
Tattoo softly humming.
Eyes flickering.
And for once?
I felt ready.
To be part of this.
To fight with them.
To save Blood River while looking like a mall goth who got blessed by a prophecy and cursed by Sephora.
Scene 8: “The Town Votes to Ban Garlic”
Blood River Town Hall had seen a lot.
Glitter explosions.
Vampire cage matches.
Jessie howling a love ballad from the roof.
(That got printed in the PTA newsletter under “Arts Enrichment.”)
But today?
Today it was filled with folding chairs, bad coffee, powdered mini muffins, and an agenda item that would haunt me forever.
Proposal 87-F: The Immediate Banning of Garlic from All Public Institutions, School Cafeterias, and Bingo Night Buffets Due to "Aggressive Odor and Vampiric Sensitivity."
I stared at the agenda packet.
It was printed on pink cardstock.
Rachel sat next to me with sunglasses, a thermos of blessed espresso, and a look that screamed I will stake someone with a pen if this goes the way I think it will.
Jessie was eating three muffins at once.
“Why are we here again?” I whispered.
Rachel muttered, “Because apparently surviving a supernatural battle now comes with paperwork and democracy.”
—
The mayor banged the gavel.
He was still wearing glitter in his beard. Probably permanent.
“Let the record show that the town of Blood River is deeply proud of its youth for defending the municipality from—” he paused, looked at the charred wall behind him, “—a rogue vampire faction and several extremely enthusiastic werewolves.”
Jessie waved.
A few people clapped. One banshee sobbed gently into her complimentary garlic-free scone.
“However,” the mayor continued, “in light of recent... olfactory incidents and cultural tensions, we now open the floor for a vote to ban all garlic from town premises.”
Rachel made a choking noise that sounded like a battle cry wrapped in sarcasm.
I stood.
Slowly. Dramatically.
The way one does when they’re about to ruin someone’s spreadsheet with emotional truth.
“Hi,” I said into the mic, which shrieked because of course it did.
“My name’s Todd Hawkins. I’m a junior. I have a prophecy tattoo. I was dumped by a vegan zombie. I’ve fought vampires, watched my P.E. teacher join a boy band, and recently hovered two inches off the ground while monologuing with a Capri Sun.”
People nodded.
One ghost whispered, “Relatable.”
“And yes,” I continued, “garlic smells bad. It does. But it also saved my life—twice. And flavored my lunch—four times.”
I glanced at the audience. A mix of witches, PTA vampires, confused mortals, and at least one disguised gremlin holding a clipboard.
“If you ban garlic,” I said, “you’re not solving a supernatural crisis. You’re just… seasoning your fear.”
Rachel raised one eyebrow in approval.
“And besides,” I added, holding up a muffin, “without garlic, this tastes like despair.”
I dropped the muffin.
It exploded into dust.
Jessie howled. Briefly. Out of respect.
—
The room went silent.
Then the mayor cleared his throat.
“All in favor of banning garlic?”
Ten hands.
“All opposed?”
Forty-seven.
Including a local were-caterer who shouted, “I REFUSE TO MAKE FETTUCCINE ALFREDO WITH SHAME!”
Motion failed.
—
After the meeting, I stood outside Town Hall.
The fog was light. The air smelled like possibility... and lingering vampire glitter.
Rachel walked up beside me.
“That was... not the worst public speech I’ve heard.”
“High praise from you.”
“You dropped a muffin like it was a mic.”
“Symbolism,” I said.
She nodded. “Still radioactive, though.”
“Emotionally or mystically?”
“Yes.”
Jessie joined us, licking frosting off his arm. “So... garlic night at my place?”
Rachel smirked. “You buying?”
Jessie flexed. “I stole a wallet from a vampire.”
I grinned.
We walked off down the street. Into whatever came next.
No more vampire attacks.
No more surprise transformations.
Just... school.
Friends.
Prophecies.
And maybe—just maybe—a little less garlic in my pocket.