Scene 1: “This Is Fine (It’s Not)”
You ever wake up with the unshakable feeling that the universe is about to pants you in front of everyone you’ve ever loved? That was my Monday.
I rolled out of bed and immediately stepped on a copy of Teen Necromancer Monthly, which my mom insists she doesn’t subscribe to—even though it’s addressed to “Current Occupant: Preferably the Living.” I ignored the faint chanting coming from under my closet door. That could be dealt with later.
Outside, the sky was bleeding red again. Not a metaphor. Actual red. Like someone spilled cherry Kool-Aid into the atmosphere and said, “Yep, that’s fine.” Which it isn’t. But this is Blood River. We’re used to ominous omens. We grade them.
That morning’s score: 7 out of 10 on the Apocalypse Scale. Points deducted because the hell-haze wasn’t playing music this time.
I biked to school past the usual nightmare landscape. The ancient tombstone someone was using as a mailbox had a fresh bouquet on it (how sweet), and the glowing-eyed raccoon that guards the McDonald’s dumpster gave me a nod of recognition. We’ve developed a mutual respect ever since I let him have the last McRib last October.
My mom, bless her eternally anxious heart, shoved a clove of garlic in my hoodie pocket on the way out the door.
“Just in case,” she said with a wink that suggested Just in case actually meant When—not if—you’re hunted.
There’s something deeply comforting about knowing your single mother moonlights as a hedge witch and prepares for PTA meetings the same way she preps for demon sieges.
I pedaled harder.
Blood River High loomed ahead, squatting in the middle of town like a prison warden crossed with a mid-century Dracula cosplay convention center. The flagpole was on fire again. Someone had strung fairy lights around it. School spirit lives here, it just has fangs.
I parked my bike beside the usual suspects: a rusty hoverboard, an old-fashioned broom with a pride sticker, and a Dodge Charger that hissed when I got too close. Probably a vampire senior’s car. Or maybe just really old plumbing.
Inside the front doors, the fluorescent lights flickered with the intensity of a stressed-out exorcist, and the air smelled like lavender, teen BO, and the faintest whiff of sacrificial regret.
And that’s when it hit me.
I’d forgotten my blood match slip.
“Crap,” I muttered, checking my backpack. I had garlic, three pencils, last week’s cursed essay (with Rachel’s dagger still sticking through the corner), and a bag of Sour Patch Souls. But no blood match slip. Which meant I was going to have to sit through morning announcements with the ever-looming threat of “random compatibility screenings.” Nothing like finding out who might feed on you to start your week.
As I slouched toward my locker, trying to blend into the drywall like a human post-it note, I passed a new poster tacked up by the vampire civics club:
**“Donate blood! Or else. ”**
(They always add the kissy face. It’s... disarming.)
I spun the combo on my locker (13-6-66) and dodged a suspicious drip from the ceiling. Our school has at least three haunted pipes, one sentient locker, and a vending machine that grants wishes—if you offer the correct sacrifice. One girl asked for better grades. Her eyebrows haven’t grown back since.
I was just about to slam my locker shut when Coach Fangley’s voice echoed over the intercom.
“Good morning, my little blood sausages. Remember, no transformations in the hallways, and if you must consume a classmate, please keep it consensual. Today’s lunch special is... ‘Mystery Protein.’ You’ve been warned.”
Typical Monday.
I turned, ready to make the trek to homeroom and whatever fresh hell the seating chart had prepared for me, when someone slammed into my side.
“Move it, Todd,” said Travis, captain of the football team and full-time scumbag. He was wearing his usual letterman jacket and a fresh bloodstain across the chest. Probably not his.
I muttered something about karma and continued walking, praying to every deity—including minor eldritch ones—that today would be the kind of uneventful, low-danger, non-flammable school day that never actually happens here.
That prayer died the moment I stepped into Room 113.
Because that’s when I saw them.
The Beautiful People?.
Scene 2: “Why Is Everyone So Hot?”
I stepped into Room 113 and my hormones exploded.
Not figuratively. Not poetically. I mean I physically had to stop walking because my nervous system temporarily overloaded at the sheer concentrated sexual magnetism vibrating off at least three people in the room. It was like being slapped by a cologne ad, a softcore vampire dream, and an A24 horror film all at once.
Let’s break it down, shall we?
Exhibit A: Stacy Evernight.
Black lipstick. Raven-black hair. Boots with spikes that probably had a backstory. And a black mesh top that seemed to break every school dress code but somehow also made the fire alarm go off once. She sat sideways in her chair like the laws of posture didn’t apply to her, absently twirling a pencil with fingers that probably did rituals in their spare time.
Her skin practically glowed, but not in a “uses good skincare” way—in a “might be bioluminescent and/or vampiric royalty” way. I’m not saying I was in love. I’m just saying if she told me to drink pond water and walk into traffic, I’d ask if she preferred left lane or right.
Exhibit B: Rachel Sparks.
Combat boots. Leather jacket. Ripped jeans that had never seen a Gap. Eyes that could cut steel and cheekbones that filed restraining orders against clouds. She leaned back in her chair like it owed her money, one boot up on the desk, sharpening what might’ve been a stake or a very aggressive eyeliner pencil.
I once saw her bench press a vending machine after it “disrespected her aura.” She didn’t blink for ten minutes straight during a fire drill. She growled at a sub who called her “sweetie.” I wasn’t scared of Rachel. I was terrified of Rachel. Which is, of course, why I couldn’t stop thinking about what it might be like to hold her hand. If I survived it.
Exhibit C: Jessie Wolfhart.
My best friend. My shirtless best friend. Again.
He claimed his shirts “itched during full moons,” which might’ve sounded like a metaphor if he hadn’t actually shed his hoodie at that exact moment and revealed what can only be described as an eight-pack with optional side abs. His torso looked like it had been carved by a Renaissance sculptor on steroids.
“Yo,” Jessie said casually, tossing his hoodie across the room and nearly decapitating the class hamster. “It’s humid today.”
“It’s always humid, Jessie,” I whispered.
“Exactly.”
My mouth went dry. Not because I was into Jessie, I mean, not really—okay, maybe a little?—but mostly because standing in this room felt like being caught between a Maxim photoshoot, a weapons locker, and the inside of a very confusing dream I was going to have again tonight.
I tried to sit down in my usual spot in the back, clutching my garlic clove like a security blanket. The desk was sticky. Possibly from blood. Possibly from sap. Possibly from... other fluids. This is Blood River. You learn not to ask.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my notebook to make a list entitled:
“People I Can’t Look At Without Questioning My Entire Existence.”
- Stacy
- Rachel
- Jessie
- Possibly me? Let’s check back later.
I had just started doodling a very tasteful heart around Rachel’s murder boots when Jessie plopped down beside me and grinned. “You okay, bro? You look like you walked through a very specific kind of haunted dream.”
“I’m fine,” I said, voice cracking so hard it probably opened a portal.
He sniffed me. Like, full-on inhale.
I froze. “Did you just—?”
“New soap?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
“No.”
“Hmm. You smell different.”
That would be the panic sweat and raw, unfiltered teenage shame, thank you very much.
Before I could fire back with something witty like “Your face smells different,” the classroom door swung open and Miss Crenshaw entered. At least, what remained of her. Miss Crenshaw had technically died two years ago but refused to retire due to union protections and “unfinished educational business.” She floated. She flickered. She still gave pop quizzes.
“Welcome to Advanced Paranormal Integration,” she rasped in three tones. “Today, we’ll be exploring the ethics of partial consumption and your compatibility charts.”
Groans echoed from all corners of the room.
Rachel raised her hand. “Is it too late to switch into Summoning for Creeps?”
Miss Crenshaw gave her a spectral glare. “Yes. You missed the blood deadline.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
As she floated toward the chalkboard, I couldn’t help it—I glanced at Stacy. She was looking at me.
Not past me. Not through me. Not like I was a beetle in a trench coat.
At me.
She gave me a small, curious smile.
Reader, I blacked out for three seconds.
When I came to, Jessie was poking me with a pencil and muttering something about “beta waves and soft skulls.”
“She smiled at me,” I croaked.
“Bro. Everyone here smiles before they eat you.”
“No, it was different.”
“Different how?”
“I think she used lips.”
Jessie shook his head. “You gotta get it together, man. You’re twitching like a cursed poodle.”
Miss Crenshaw slammed an incorporeal hand against the board, her claw-like fingers phasing through the chalk.
“Enough. Today’s assignment: Identify your top three compatible feeding matches based on blood type, magical resonance, and emotional toxicity.”
I immediately wrote down:
- Stacy
- Rachel
- Anyone who wouldn’t ghost me before the first bite
As Miss Crenshaw began explaining the compatibility algorithm (which sounded suspiciously like Tinder meets a sacrificial altar), Rachel turned around slowly in her seat and locked eyes with me.
Her gaze was the emotional equivalent of being frisked by a SWAT team made of pure judgment.
Then she said, quietly, “Your aura is weak.”
I laughed.
She didn’t.
I died.
Not literally. But emotionally, socially, spiritually—I flatlined. Right there at Desk #19.
Jessie slapped me on the back. “Classic Rachel,” he said. “She once told a priest he was spiritually beige.”
The bell rang, cutting through the tension like a vampire’s nail file. Everyone stood, but I stayed seated for a moment, trying to collect the shattered remnants of my confidence from the floor.
Rachel slung her leather jacket over one shoulder, winked—wait, no, glared—and walked out.
Stacy paused in the doorway. “See you in Biology,” she said, voice velvet with a hint of could-murder-you.
I nodded. Probably too many times. Like a bobblehead on crack.
Jessie watched them go and then leaned in. “You good?”
“I need holy water,” I whispered. “And maybe a helmet.”
“Nah,” he said. “You just need to grow some fangs.”
Scene 3: “Stacy’s Mom Bit Me (Emotionally)”
The Evernight house sits on the edge of town like a seductive bruise. All black wrought iron, blood ivy, and wind chimes that whisper things like “leave while you still can” or “we see you, Todd.” You know, the usual.
I stood outside the gate gripping my project folder like it was a holy relic, trying to remember if I brushed my teeth twice or three times. I’d definitely used mouthwash. Twice. Once with actual mint. Once with that weird herbal one my mom made that smells like grave dirt and regret.
Stacy had texted me “come by after school. Group project. Bring the slides” with no punctuation and a bat emoji. I read it forty-seven times. Then I changed my shirt.
I rang the gate buzzer and immediately regretted everything.
The speaker crackled. Then a voice came through—rich, velvet-coated, and soaked in wine-soaked mischief.
“Come in, Todd.”
The gate opened itself. Because of course it did.
I took three steps in and nearly fainted at the smell of night-blooming jasmine and what I can only describe as very expensive sin. The path up to the house was lit by floating candles. The lawn had gargoyles. Not statues—actual, small, yawning gargoyles wearing tiny berets and smoking ghost cigarettes.
I raised a hand to knock on the front door, but it opened before I touched it.
And there she was.
Mrs. Evernight.
Stacy’s mom.
The reason my frontal lobe occasionally short-circuits and my dreams require age restrictions.
She leaned against the doorframe in a black velvet robe with crimson trim, cut just low enough to make my hormones attempt parkour. Her hair was glossy enough to deflect small projectiles, and her lips were red like freshly spilled detention slips.
“Todd,” she purred, eyes glowing faintly crimson like the world's most seductive smoke alarm. “Do come in. You look... flushed.”
I absolutely did. And not from the weather.
“Hi, uh... Mrs. Evernight,” I croaked, voice cracking with enough power to awaken ancient spirits. “I brought the slides.”
“Oh,” she said, taking a step closer. “I love a man who comes prepared.”
She reached out and took the folder from my shaking hands. Her fingers brushed mine. Her nails were painted a shade I can only describe as funeral-chic. I forgot my name for a full five seconds.
The inside of the house was... a lot.
A chandelier made of antlers and bones. Walls draped in silk, velvet, and what I swear was human-sized spiderweb lace. The air smelled like clove, firewood, and forbidden thoughts. A black cat with two tails hissed at me from a crimson chaise lounge and then winked.
Mrs. Evernight led me into the parlor, which had more candles than fire code would allow and furniture so plush I briefly sank six inches into a chair shaped like a coffin.
“Tea?” she asked, already pouring something blood-red into a goblet.
“Is it... caffeinated?”
She smiled. “In ways you can’t imagine.”
I took a sip. It tasted like cherries, danger, and the kind of dreams that end in velvet ropes and safe words.
“So,” she said, sitting across from me, one leg draped over the other like a goddess on PTO. “You and Stacy are working on... what again?”
“Our, uh... joint presentation. On... blood types in ancient civilizations,” I said, blinking too much. “She said we needed the... slides.”
Mrs. Evernight chuckled. It was the sound a dark chocolate fountain would make if it learned how to flirt.
“Yes, she’s always had an eye for the academic,” she said. “Though I do worry sometimes about the company she keeps.”
I nodded, then realized what she said. “Wait, do you mean... me?”
She tilted her head, feline and slow. “Should I?”
I briefly debated fleeing out the nearest stained-glass window.
Instead, I said, “I’m very safe. Like... extremely not dangerous. Milk-toast. Human toast. Toast with SPF.”
“Mm,” she said, setting her goblet down and leaning forward slightly. “But sometimes the safest things... taste the sweetest.”
I nearly fainted. Actually, I think I did for half a second because the room did a little spin and I ended up hugging a throw pillow shaped like a bat with rhinestone eyes. I realized I was gripping it a little too tightly and gently loosened my death-grip.
She smiled again. That smile could ignite entire villages.
“So tell me, Todd,” she said, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “What’s it like being... normal?”
I blinked. “I... I wouldn’t know. I’ve been awkward since birth.”
She laughed, a low, smooth sound that made the candle flames flicker.
“Well, that’s something,” she said. “There’s power in awkwardness. It’s... disarming.”
Oh, I was disarmed. De-armed. Possibly de-legged.
And then—like some divine lifeline—I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Stacy appeared at the top, in a hoodie that said “HEX ME” and socks that featured dancing skeletons.
She took one look at me and rolled her eyes.
“Mom, stop emotionally seducing my lab partner. Again.”
Mrs. Evernight gave her an innocent smile. “He offered tea.”
“I said slides,” Stacy muttered, bounding down the steps.
“Slides are boring. Todd isn’t.”
I turned bright red and stared into my goblet like it might have a portal I could dive through.
Stacy grabbed my sleeve and pulled me up. “We’re going to my room. No offense.”
Mrs. Evernight leaned back and raised her glass in salute. “None taken. Though if you ever want to be studied, Todd... I’m very thorough.”
I died again. Resurrected out of sheer social obligation.
As Stacy yanked me up the stairs, I dared one glance back. Mrs. Evernight winked.
My soul left my body. Again.
Scene 4: “Biology Class: Now With Actual Blood”
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Stacy didn’t just drag me up the stairs—she practically teleported, all annoyed footfalls and eye-roll propulsion. I clutched my folder and tried not to trip over her judgment.
We didn’t say much as she walked me out, but I could feel her mom’s gaze all the way until the front door slammed behind us. The air outside was cooler, which didn’t help because my skin was still overheating from that “thorough” comment.
“So,” I said as we reached the sidewalk. “That went well.”
“You looked like you were about to lick the doorknob,” she deadpanned.
“I wasn’t!”
“You would have.”
“…I’m not ruling it out.”
She side-eyed me. “You okay?”
“No.”
She snorted and offered me a sour blood-orange candy from a packet marked HEX SNAX (NOT FOR DOGS). I took one and tried not to inhale it out of gratitude.
By the time we got back to school, the hallway was already buzzing with the second period bell. Our biology lab sat tucked between the nurses’ station (which doubled as a low-grade hex clinic) and the broom closet that screams at night.
Room 204. Home of the frogs that regenerate limbs. Home of Ms. Drach, our biology teacher-slash-blood enthusiast. And home of what I would soon classify as The Worst Blood Typing Class Ever Invented.
Stacy and I slipped into our usual seats at the back. Jessie was already there, chewing on the corner of a pencil like it owed him money. He gave me a nod that said, “Bro, did you survive her mom?” I nodded back with the look of a man who had seen things.
Rachel was seated across from us, legs crossed, arms folded, wearing a T-shirt that said “Slay, Then Homework.” Her desk was already prepped with vials, gloves, and what looked suspiciously like a silver scalpel she definitely brought from home.
Ms. Drach glided in wearing her usual white coat, latex gloves, and her signature “fresh from the ritual” perfume. Her smile was all teeth, none of them completely human.
“Good morning, class!” she said, chipper as a humming guillotine. “Today we continue our blood unit—types, magical responses, and how to ethically reject a donation request from someone whose aura clashes with yours.”
A few kids groaned. Jessie cracked his knuckles like this was P.E.
Ms. Drach clapped her hands and little blood-sizzle sparks flew out. “Now! Everyone take a kit. Find your partner. Prick a finger. Fill the sample. Try not to scream.”
“Love when school gives you options,” I muttered as I opened the kit. Inside: a tiny glass vial, a strip of paper labeled with runes, a lancet that glowed slightly, and a pamphlet titled So You Might Be Bleeding: Now What?
Stacy and I exchanged a look. She shrugged. “Let’s just get it over with.”
I nodded and rolled up my sleeve.
Big mistake.
Because Jessie leaned over, sniffed the air, and said, “You’re nervous.”
“You can smell that?”
“I can hear your heartbeat,” he said with a grin. “It’s adorable.”
“Jessie, stop trying to flirt using werewolf senses,” Rachel growled.
“I’m not flirting. I’m complimenting.”
“You’re growling compliments.”
He winked.
Meanwhile, I was trying to prick my finger like a normal human. Except I missed. Twice. And then, when I did manage to poke the right spot, the blood dripped onto the paper and hissed.
Hissed.
Stacy blinked. “That’s not... normal.”
“Oh my gods,” I whispered. “I’m a vampire.”
“You’re not a vampire,” she said, inspecting the strip.
“Then why did it hiss?!”
“It’s reacting to something in your blood,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Could be aura contamination. Could be magical trauma. Could be that bat-themed soda you drank at lunch.”
“But it hissed.”
“Are you always this dramatic?” she asked.
“Only when I’m bleeding in front of girls I’m into.”
She paused. Smirked. “Noted.”
Internally screams.
At the front of the class, Ms. Drach made her rounds. She passed Rachel, nodded approvingly at her technique (which involved a miniature obsidian ritual knife), and then paused at Jessie, whose vial was already filled, labeled, and color-coded.
“Well done, Mr. Wolfhart.”
Jessie gave her a thumbs up. “O-negative. Classic.”
Ms. Drach sniffed it. “Slightly spiced. Earthy. Carnivore notes.”
“Breakfast burrito,” Jessie said.
Rachel gagged softly and muttered something about “fasting until the moon phase resets.”
Then Ms. Drach reached us.
She leaned down and peered into my hissing sample.
“Oooh. Todd Hawkins. You’ve got a spicy little secret in there, don’t you?”
“I—no? I mean—I don’t think I’ve ever—”
She hummed and turned the strip sideways, holding it up to the rune light. “It’s reacting to... something ancestral. Or forbidden. Maybe both. Did either of your parents sign a blood pact with a midnight entity?”
“…is that a thing?”
“It’s always a thing.”
Stacy looked sideways at me. “Wait—are you the reason our group projects keep summoning shadows?”
“I thought that was you!”
“I channel shadows, I don’t summon them.”
“Guys,” Rachel hissed from across the aisle, “if you could keep your flirtation/bloodline drama to yourselves? Some of us are trying to not fail.”
Ms. Drach smiled dreamily. “Ah, young hormonal chaos. Nothing like it. I remember my first ritual duel-slash-kiss. Brings a tear to the eye.”
The class bell rang, somehow managing to echo with both finality and mild dread.
Everyone stood. I wiped my bloody finger on a napkin. It immediately turned black and crumbled into dust.
“Okay, what the hell was that?” I asked.
“Probably nothing,” Stacy said, grabbing her bag. “Or maybe you’re cursed. Hard to say.”
Jessie sniffed me again and said, “You do smell different.”
“Stop sniffing me, man!”
“It’s comforting.”
“To who?!”
He shrugged. “My nose.”
Rachel passed us on the way out and gave me a look.
“Your aura’s flickering, Todd. Fix that. It’s annoying.”
“Do I look like a magic electrician?!”
“No. You look like someone who’s gonna attract a demon if you keep bleeding in ritual zones.”
And with that, she was gone.
I stood in the hallway, still holding my charred napkin, wondering if anyone else’s high school biology class involved this much mystery bleeding, aura insults, and sexual tension.
Jessie clapped a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. You’ve only got about seven more periods before you die of embarrassment.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime, bro.”
Scene 5: “Jessie’s Girl Smells Like Danger”
I was bleeding. But only a little.
Mostly from my finger. Some from my pride. And a lot from the hole in my chest where normalcy used to live before it packed up, flipped me off, and left town on a broomstick made of teenage chaos.
I stuffed the ruined napkin in my hoodie pocket and let Jessie lead me down the hallway like a very patient emotional support wolf.
“Okay,” I said, glancing behind us to make sure no teachers or bloodhounds were following. “What the hell was that in Biology? Did my blood actually sizzle? Or was that my self-esteem reacting to Stacy being three inches from my face?”
Jessie grinned. “It was kind of cute, actually.”
“The sizzling or the panic?”
“Both.”
We rounded the corner toward the courtyard, where Rachel was leaning against a brick column like a cover model for Teen Witchblade Monthly. Combat boots planted, leather jacket sharp enough to cut glass, and that look on her face—the one that said I dare you to talk to me but also kind of want you to try.
And, of course, standing beside her with his arm casually draped over her shoulder like he was born in a Calvin Klein campaign... was Jessie.
“Oh right,” I mumbled. “Your girlfriend.”
“You okay?” he asked, a little too sweet.
I cleared my throat. “I’m great. Bleeding slightly. Spiritually combusting. But, you know, thriving.”
Rachel flicked her eyes over to me. Her expression was neutral, but somehow still managed to suggest I was an inconvenience to the atmosphere.
Jessie grinned, oblivious or maybe just drunk on her scent. “You should’ve seen her in P.E. yesterday. She bench-pressed a were-sprinter and won the javelin toss with a flaming spear.”
Rachel casually adjusted her glove, revealing the silver-tipped stake she had strapped to her wrist like a corsage forged in a weapons lab.
“P.E. was underwhelming,” she said. “The equipment was flammable.”
“Pretty sure that’s not a complaint,” Jessie added. “She likes when things burn.”
I shifted uncomfortably, trying not to look directly at Rachel for too long. Because every time I did, I got that tingly feeling behind my eyes. The one that screamed You should leave. And also Or stay. But don’t expect to live.
Jessie leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. The scent of burning sage hit me like a punch to the sinuses. My left eye twitched. My right leg tried to walk away without permission.
Rachel turned toward me fully, then.
Her pupils narrowed. Her lips quirked. Her eyes flicked down to my still-bandaged finger and back up.
“Your aura’s still leaking,” she said. “Fix it before something follows you home.”
“That’s comforting,” I muttered.
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
Jessie laughed and pulled me into a very bro-style half hug. “She’s just teasing. That’s how she says hi.”
Rachel stepped forward.
I did not.
She leaned in, maybe an inch too close. I swear the temperature dropped five degrees. Then she sniffed.
Actually. Sniffed.
I flinched.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She stared at me like I’d just asked a ghost if it wanted fries. “You smell like ash and citrus. And something... older.”
“...Like expired lunch meat?”
She blinked slowly. “No. Like you’ve been marked.”
Jessie made a mock-scary face and wiggled his fingers. “Oooh, Todd’s cursed. Again.”
I stared between the two of them. “Wait—again?!”
“Yeah, remember the squirrel thing?” he said.
“That was not a curse. That was a caffeine-induced panic attack and a very aggressive rodent.”
Rachel said nothing. Just kept watching me, like she was waiting for my soul to do a backflip.
Then, with the same casual grace she used when breaking hearts or necks, she stepped back.
“You’re leaking energy,” she said. “Figure it out. Or I will.”
“Is that a threat?” I asked.
“Only if you want it to be.”
I felt something stir inside me. Fight or flight. But also... flirt?
Jessie rubbed his neck, completely unaware of the static snapping between us.
“You two always talk like that?” he asked. “It’s like watching a vampire and a candle trying to out-brood each other.”
Rachel gave him a look so soft it made me nauseous. “He’s cute when he’s dumb.”
Jessie grinned. “I’m always dumb.”
I couldn’t take it. I needed distance. Air. Garlic.
“I’m just gonna... go sit over there and not be stared at like a microwaved soul-snack, thanks.”
I made my way to the bleachers, dragging my dignity like a wet mop behind me.
From a safe distance, I pulled out my notebook and scrawled:
“New Theory: Rachel’s either a vampire hunter, a chaos demon in human skin, or my soulmate. Possibly all three.”
Then I started a list titled:
“Reasons Jessie Probably Isn’t Human”
– Super sniffing
– Shirtless in 48° weather
– Calls his growls “emotional reactions”
– Thinks my aura “tastes funny” (what?!)
Just as I was adding “once licked a moon rock and claimed it tasted like secrets,” Jessie plopped down next to me, fresh from flirting like it was an Olympic sport.
“She likes you, you know,” he said.
I choked. “Rachel?! No. No no no. She’d rather chew glass and spit shrapnel.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s how she flirts.”
“She told me my aura was offensive.”
“Again—flirting.”
“I think she threatened to exorcise me.”
“She once threatened to bury me in a salt circle because I left crumbs in her locker. She was smiling.”
“…She was definitely not smiling at me.”
He smirked. “You’re her type.”
“What’s her type?”
“Emotionally unstable with unresolved magical trauma.”
“...Oh no.”
“Welcome to the club.”
We sat there in awkward silence as the breeze picked up and carried the scent of burnt sage and cafeteria disappointment across the field.
Finally, Jessie clapped me on the back.
“Don’t worry, bro. You’ll figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
“Whatever you are now.”
“Wait. Now? What do you mean now?!”
He just stood, stretched, and jogged away like that wasn’t the most cryptic thing he’d said all week.
I stared after him. And then at Rachel, still lounging like a gothic stormcloud in the sun.
My nose twitched.
She smelled like danger.
Like heat and ash and sugar-free sin.
And somewhere in my chest, something answered.
Scene 6: “Flirting Is Hard When You’re Bleeding”
By the time I made it back inside the school, my brain was a smoothie of lust, confusion, and mild blood loss.
Flirting—if that’s what that was—should not feel like a near-death experience. And yet, there I was, limping down the hallway with one arm clutching my still-throbbing biology finger and the other shielding my face from the flickering hall lights, as if a fluorescent bulb could read my shame.
Note to self: never again make direct eye contact with Rachel Sparks after being told your aura is offensive. It’s like spiritually dropping your pants in front of a judgmental demigod.
“Okay, Todd,” I whispered. “Pull it together. Breathe. Pretend your aura isn’t bleeding out like a busted juice box.”
I turned the corner and saw her.
Stacy.
Standing at her locker, humming something low and minor-key while applying black lipstick using a compact that reflected nothing. Literally nothing. I could see the locker behind her in the mirror, but not her face.
Okay. That’s fine. Mirrors are suggestions anyway.
She caught sight of me, eyes flicking to the bandage on my finger, then back to my face. She tilted her head, lips quirking in what might’ve been amusement or maybe hunger.
“Rough day?” she asked.
I nodded, trying to play it cool while casually wiping the sweat off my upper lip with my sleeve. “You know. Just standard teenage blood rites. Also, Rachel might’ve told me my soul needs recalibration.”
Stacy laughed—a soft, velvety sound that made the hallway feel smaller.
“She says that to everyone she likes,” she said.
“Wait... likes?”
“Relax. It’s more of a ‘might-not-kill-you-first’ kind of like.”
“Oh good,” I said, voice squeaking. “That’s comforting.”
“You’re weird, Todd.”
“I get that a lot. Usually right before someone throws a lunch tray at me or hexes my water bottle.”
She shut her locker and started walking. I panicked and fell into step beside her, clutching my folder of still-unfinished slides like it might defend me from judgment.
“So...” I said, voice wobbling, “you, uh, going to Prom Part Deux?”
Stacy glanced sideways. “Why? You planning to die there?”
“I mean, maybe socially.”
“You’d probably be safer at a vampire mixer.”
“Considering the last mixer I went to ended in an allergic reaction and someone combusting mid-tango, that’s... not encouraging.”
She smiled again. Like she knew she was a living temptation and I was a discount offering.
As we passed the trophy case—which now featured a plaque for “Most Undead-Friendly Cafeteria 2022”—I decided to take the risk.
“Cool boots,” I said, nodding at her lace-up black monstrosities covered in spikes, zippers, and what might’ve been tiny, silver fangs.
She stopped.
I stopped.
Her gaze slid from her boots... to my face.
“Thanks,” she said slowly. “They’re cursed.”
“I figured,” I said, trying to be chill. “They hissed at me.”
“They only do that to people with questionable moral alignment.”
“Is... is that a good thing?”
“For me, maybe.”
I grinned. That was flirting, right? That was a moment. We had a moment.
Which was exactly when I tripped.
Not a stumble.
Not a “cute little misstep.”
No, I full-on launched myself into the row of lockers like I’d been tackled by gravity itself. My slide folder exploded in a blizzard of loose papers and glitter glue. A rogue pushpin embedded itself in my hand.
“OW,” I hissed, holding it up. Blood welled instantly. Bright red. Way too red.
Stacy crouched next to me, eyes fixed on the droplet forming on my palm.
“Uh,” I said. “Little help?”
She didn’t move.
Just stared.
At the blood.
For a second too long.
Her eyes darkened. Her lips parted slightly. The air around us shifted like someone had opened the freezer section of a haunted Whole Foods.
“Stacy?” I asked.
She blinked and snapped out of it. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
She helped me to my feet and muttered, “You really know how to make an impression.”
“I do try to injure myself in front of every woman I like. It’s my signature move.”
She snorted and handed me a bandage from her bag—black, of course, with tiny skulls printed in silver foil. I applied it with all the grace of someone trying not to faint in front of their crush.
“I should, uh... go to the nurse,” I said. “Just in case I’m now bleeding vampire pheromones or something.”
“Probably smart,” she said. “Don’t want to attract... attention.”
From you? I wanted to say.
Instead, I nodded like a functional human and walked as quickly as possible toward the east wing.
The nurse’s office at Blood River High is exactly what you’d expect from a town where medical insurance includes curse-breaker coverage and spectral therapy.
It smells like rubbing alcohol and regret. There’s a wall of herbal tinctures. One shelf labeled “DO NOT TOUCH (Yes, Todd, even you)” has my name etched into the wood.
Nurse Morga sat behind her desk knitting what looked suspiciously like a shroud.
She looked up as I entered and raised one immaculately sculpted gray brow. “Let me guess: blood loss, aura leakage, or girl trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
I held up my finger. “Do I need to be purified?”
She squinted at the wound. “No glowing, no spores, no bite marks. You’re not cursed. You’re just... Todding.”
“That’s fair.”
She handed me a juice box and told me to sit.
As I sucked on the world’s most aggressively tangy cranberry elixir, I stared at the cracked ceiling tile shaped like a screaming duck and replayed the last ten minutes.
Stacy smiled at me.
Rachel stared at me like I was a magical crime scene.
Jessie sniffed me.
And I bled.
That about sums up my love life.
As I left the office, slightly less sticky and only mildly woozy, I passed the trophy case again.
There, underneath the plaque, someone had scribbled in red sharpie:
“LOVE BITES. SO DO WE.”
And for the first time all day, I smiled.
Scene 7: “The Cafeteria Serves Plasma Now?”
I left the nurse’s office with a juice box, two new bandages, and a diagnosis of “Spiritually Congested and Probably Crushing Too Hard.”
Nurse Morga had offered to “balance my humors,” which I politely declined, mostly because last time that involved leeches and a VHS tape labeled Todd’s Past Lives: Rated PG-13. I wasn’t emotionally ready to see myself as a 12th-century goat whisperer again.
Lunch was already halfway underway when I reached the cafeteria, which pulsed with a kind of energy I can only describe as thirsty chaos. A neon sign above the food line read:
TODAY’S SPECIAL: TYPE O-NEG SHAKE & FRIES
(Free garlic-neutral breath mint with every purchase!)
I stared at the menu for a long time, blinking hard like maybe it would revert back to grilled cheese and existential dread. But no—definitely blood. Possibly blended. Probably pulsing.
The cafeteria used to be a normal place.
Now it looked like a crypt mated with a Hot Topic.
There were glowing chandeliers (blood-red, of course), tables shaped like coffins, and a corner booth roped off with silver cord where only the “platinum-level donors” sat—seniors, mostly, who’d sold enough blood to pay off their class rings and still look ironically anemic.
I slid my tray into line, hoping for something normal. Something safe. Something beige.
Instead, I was handed a steaming bowl of... “bone broth” and a side of something called “moon fries.”
The lunch lady—Mrs. Kreep—looked me over with one milky eye and hissed, “Low iron? Extra marrow.”
I nodded, not wanting to upset her. She once hexed a salad so badly it still twitches in the fridge.
I turned to find Jessie waving at me from our usual table near the exit—easy escape access in case of sudden vampire uprising or Rachel mood swing. He was already halfway through a plastic bottle labeled LUNA FUEL – Made with Real Pack Energy.
I approached cautiously.
“Todd!” he called. “You look only slightly traumatized. That’s progress.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, setting my tray down and poking the moon fries. One of them squealed.
Jessie popped the cap off a second bottle. It hissed like carbonation crossed with a snarl.
“Want some?” he offered.
“What’s in it?”
“Protein. Lunar extracts. Probably creatine. A little fur.”
“No thanks.”
Rachel appeared across the table without warning, like a judgmental ghost who’s also a snack-carrying ninja.
She slammed down a flask covered in etched runes. “If anyone breathes on my jerky, I stake first and ask questions never.”
I nodded and went back to examining my marrow bowl.
“Smells like betrayal and pepper,” Jessie said cheerfully.
“Because it is,” Rachel said.
I was trying to think of a conversation topic that didn’t involve death, rituals, or my aura when a familiar figure sat down next to me.
Stacy.
She dropped her tray. No food. Just a single glass filled with what looked like pomegranate juice and heartbreak.
“Hey,” she said.
My heart hiccupped.
“Hey,” I replied, way too breathy.
Rachel side-eyed me like she could hear my inner monologue and did not approve.
I picked up my carton of chocolate milk—which, now that I looked closer, was labeled:
CHOCO-PLASMA: For the Growing Ghoul
(Fortified with iron, despair, and ethically sourced crimson)
“Uh... what’s this?” I asked.
Stacy took a sip from her glass and said, “They changed suppliers. It’s a new hybrid formula. Chocolate. Plasma. Real blood sugar. Still vegan, somehow.”
I blinked. “Wait—how can it be vegan if it’s made of...”
She grinned. “Marketing.”
I put it back down.
The vampire quarterback, DeShawn Vexley, approached our table holding a tray with what looked like a raw steak still mooing and a coffee cup labeled “Extra Vein.”
He nodded at Jessie. “Wolf.”
Jessie nodded back. “Leech.”
DeShawn grinned, fangs glinting. “Tell your boy to stop stealing my aura juice at the vending machine.”
Jessie pointed at me. “Todd doesn’t even know how to read a vending rune.”
“That’s not what the machine said,” DeShawn replied.
Then he turned to me and winked.
I died.
Again.
When he walked off, Stacy leaned toward me. “You’ve been aura-sticky all week.”
“That sounds like a medical problem.”
Rachel chimed in without looking up from her jerky. “It is a medical problem.”
Jessie added, “It’s kind of hot, though.”
“I’m not trying to be hot,” I said, voice cracking.
Stacy sipped her red cocktail. “You’re succeeding anyway.”
Cue complete Todd system shutdown.
My brain bluescreened. My mouth opened but no words came out. Rachel smirked like she was watching someone slip on emotional ice.
Jessie patted my back. “He’s short-circuiting again.”
Stacy tilted her head. “Do you always get this pink when I compliment you?”
“It’s not pink,” I squeaked. “It’s a... spiritual flush.”
“You’re adorable.”
“Stop saying that. I’ll combust.”
Rachel snorted. “Do it. I dare you.”
Then, because Blood River doesn’t do normal, the intercom system crackled and someone’s voice—possibly possessed—boomed:
“REMINDER: Blood donations are not a form of extra credit unless authorized by administration or performed during a full moon with signed consent.”
Half the cafeteria groaned. The other half licked their lips.
I took a deep breath and tried to eat a moon fry. It bit back.
Jessie slid a Luna bar across the table. “Try this. Less teeth.”
I chewed cautiously, watching Stacy across the table. Her lips were stained crimson. Her eyes sparkled. Her boots were still cursed.
She caught me staring.
I looked away so fast I gave myself whiplash.
Jessie leaned over. “Smooth.”
Rachel shook her head and muttered, “Hopeless.”
Stacy smiled.
And for a moment, as I choked on supernatural snack food and tried not to bleed again, I thought:
Maybe this is what normal looks like around here.
Then my chocolate milk hissed and exploded in my lap.
Scene 8: “Howl If You Love Someone You Shouldn’t”
It was midnight. The sky was glowing the kind of silver-blue that makes poets write about loss and werewolves start powerlifting. The moon was so full it looked smug. Judgy. Like it knew.
I sat on the roof of our garden shed wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled like cafeteria blood milk and regret. A bandage clung to my finger like a badge of emotional fragility. My legs dangled over the edge, sockless, because I couldn’t find a matching pair in the laundry pile of doom. One foot was covered in ghosts. The other, inexplicably, in squirrels wearing tiny sunglasses.
My life was, to put it kindly, a supernatural trash fire.
My aura? Allegedly leaking.
My blood? Possibly cursed.
My crushes? All legally dangerous.
And now it was full moon night—which, in Blood River, meant don’t trust anyone, not even your dog.
Our neighborhood was quiet in the way horror movies are quiet right before someone gets emotionally or literally disemboweled. The breeze rustled the trees just enough to make it sound like they were whispering about me.
I stared up at the stars and muttered to myself, “In love with a goth vampire, emotionally intimidated by a stake-wielding goddess, and best friends with a possibly feral nudist. Cool. Yeah. No notes.”
My phone buzzed beside me. A text from Jessie.
J-Dog: “You up?”
Me: “What am I, a Hot Topic booty call?”
J-Dog: “Look outside. Backyard. Now.”
I squinted toward the woods behind our house. Nothing but moonlight. Shadows. And—
Movement.
Something tall. Something shirtless. Something glowing faintly with the confidence of a man who’s never known what body shame feels like.
Jessie.
He padded into view like an Abercrombie werewolf—bare feet, torn jeans, and hair like a shampoo commercial for cursed lumberjacks. His chest gleamed with sweat and moonlight. His eyes? Bright gold. Feral. Familiar.
He stopped dead center in the backyard, tilted his head back...
And howled.
Not a cute “I'm feeling things” howl.
A full, gut-ripping, primal “I need the world to know my heart is a dumpster fire and I’m not okay” howl.
I froze.
He howled again, voice raw, deep, loud enough to shake my ribcage. A squirrel fell out of the tree beside me and ran for its life.
And I just sat there.
Watching.
Feeling.
A lot.
Because, okay, fine—maybe I’d wondered what it would be like if Jessie ever looked at me that way. The way he looked at Rachel. Or Stacy. Or sometimes a particularly well-seasoned rotisserie chicken.
But mostly I wondered what it meant to love someone you probably shouldn’t.
I wasn’t even sure who I was in love with anymore. Stacy? Rachel? Mrs. Evernight’s robe?
All I knew was that I’d been orbiting all of them like some broken planet, just hoping one of them would pull me in or fling me into the sun.
Jessie looked up—straight at me. His eyes still wild. But something softer underneath.
“You okay?” I called down.
He shrugged. “Define okay.”
“Not howling like an unmedicated opera ghost?”
He grinned, wide and fangy. “It helps.”
“Helps with what?”
He dropped onto the grass like a cat, rolling onto his back and staring up at the stars. “Everything. All the stuff. Rage. Horniness. Existential dread. You know.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been screaming into my pillow all week.”
“Same thing.”
“I bled in front of Stacy today.”
Jessie sat up. “On purpose?”
“No! It just... happened.”
“Did she taste it?”
“No, but she looked like she wanted to.”
“Damn.”
“Rachel called my aura weak again.”
“That’s basically foreplay.”
“And your girlfriend?”
Jessie paused. “She’s a lot. Like... leather and judgment and knives.”
“You into that?”
He nodded solemnly. “Deeply.”
“I think I am too. And also into Stacy. And maybe her mom.”
Jessie blinked. “You wanna unpack that last one or...?”
“Nope. Absolutely not. That one’s going with me to the grave.”
We sat in silence for a long moment, moonlight pooling across the yard like cold milk.
Then I said, “Jessie?”
“Yeah?”
“If I turned into, like... a vampire. Or something. Would you still be friends with me?”
He looked over, face unreadable.
“Would you still be you?”
“I mean... yeah? I think?”
“Then yeah. Of course.”
That should’ve made me feel better. But it didn’t. Not really.
Because part of me wanted to be something else. Something better. Stronger. Sexier. With an aura that didn’t shriek like a haunted kazoo.
Jessie stood slowly, cracked his neck, and stretched.
“You coming down?”
“To do what? Barefoot interpretive dance in the fog?”
“To howl, Todd. Duh.”
I stared.
He grinned. “Come on. You’ve been holding it in. Let it out.”
“No way.”
He cupped his hands around his mouth. “TODD IS IN LOVE WITH AT LEAST THREE DANGEROUS WOMEN AND NEEDS THERAPY!”
I flung myself off the shed before he could shout my search history. I landed with a graceless thump and immediately sprained my dignity.
Jessie grabbed my arm, helped me up, and pulled me into the middle of the yard.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For what?”
He looked up. So did I.
The moon looked back.
And then—I howled.
It started awkward. Half-laugh, half-scream.
But then...
Something cracked open.
Something old. Something raw.
And I howled.
Jessie joined in. Loud. Unapologetic.
And maybe the neighbors heard.
Maybe the vampires did too.
Maybe Rachel, sharpening a stake in her window, paused and smiled.
Maybe Stacy twirled a strand of black hair and whispered “finally.”
But for a moment—just one—we were loud and messy and alive.
And I thought:
I’m in love with Stacy’s mom.
Rachel might kill me.
Jessie’s a were-dude.
And this is fine.
This is absolutely, horrifyingly, beautifully fine.