Scene 1: “Stacy’s Mom Drinks Pinot and Plasma”
There were exactly seven steps from the sidewalk to the front door of the Evernight residence.
I’d counted them. Twice. Because walking up those steps wasn’t just an action—it was an event. The kind of event that left bite marks. The kind of event you remember during awkward daydreams in algebra.
I didn’t need to come over. I hadn’t borrowed a book. I hadn’t even made eye contact with Stacy in three days. But I told myself I was “returning a borrowed volume of annotated vampire mythology,” which was code for “I hate myself and want to make bad decisions in high definition.”
I knocked.
The door opened before I finished the second tap.
There she was.
Mrs. Evernight.
Velvet robe. Crimson wine glass. Lips like the first sin in a church.
She leaned against the doorframe with all the casual seduction of a Bond villain who’d just discovered yoga. Her eyes glinted. Or maybe they glowed. Honestly, I blacked out for a second trying to process her neckline.
“Todd,” she purred, like she’d been expecting me since 1842.
“H-hi,” I managed. “I, um, brought back the book?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Which book?”
Oh no.
Abort.
Lie, Todd. Lie like your teenage dignity depends on it.
“Uh... Vampire Anthropology and Cultural... Integration?” I said, pretending I wasn’t absolutely inventing a title on the spot.
“Ah yes,” she said, with a small smirk. “A classic. Come in.”
I obeyed because I am very weak and she is very not.
The living room was its usual aesthetic nightmare: velvet couches, floor-to-ceiling curtains that billowed with no breeze, and enough candles to suggest either a séance or a highly impractical fire hazard.
She slinked back to the couch and lounged like a bored panther. Her robe shifted in a way that made me reevaluate my mortal status. The wine glass in her hand shimmered deep red.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked, lifting a second glass.
My throat made a squeaky noise. “I, uh, I’m good, thank you.”
She smiled faintly. “It’s Pinot. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
She sipped. Licked her lips. “I poured it for the color.”
I was not okay.
“So...” I said, very bravely. “Stacy’s not home?”
“No,” she said, swirling the glass lazily. “She’s out... feeding her Vegan Zombie.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, her what?”
Mrs. Evernight shrugged. “It’s a phase. They wear hemp and only drink ethically sourced brains.”
“Is that... better?”
“No one knows.”
I sat down—slowly—on the farthest edge of the nearest cushion. The fabric was too soft. Like velvet mixed with temptation. My legs stuck awkwardly straight out in front of me. Posture of a man in full emotional lockdown.
She crossed one leg over the other, and I swear the air shifted. The candles flickered. Somewhere, a violin started playing by itself.
“So,” she said, “what are you really here for, Todd?”
My soul left my body.
“Uh—I just—I thought I should—make sure the book wasn’t... over...due?”
She laughed. Not a giggle. Not a chuckle. A laugh like velvet dripped in sin.
“You’re very cute when you lie.”
“I’m not—I mean—I wasn’t lying I just—uh—embellished. With... dramatic truth?”
She took another sip. “You remind me of your father.”
That pulled me up short. “You knew my dad?”
“Knew of him,” she said, gaze narrowing. “He once flirted with a banshee on a dare. It didn’t end well. Lost his eyebrows for three months.”
“That explains... a lot actually.”
She leaned closer, voice soft. “You’re not like the others, you know.”
I blinked. “Like... other humans?”
She smirked. “Like other boys.”
I was going to die. This was it. I’d made it sixteen years and would now implode from sheer Mom Energy Overload.
She reached out and brushed a finger along my neck.
I stopped breathing.
“Strong vein,” she murmured.
I yelped.
Audibly.
And then—I bolted.
No ceremony. No polite exit. Just a full-body panic dash through her velvet parlor and out the front door like I was being chased by guilt and pheromones.
I tripped on the third step. Landed on the lawn. Rolled. Died a little.
Then I lay there staring up at the full moon thinking:
Dear Diary,
I went to return a fake book to the hottest undead woman in North America.
She complimented my vein.
I’ve either been emotionally bitten… or spiritually seduced.
Either way, I need therapy.
Urgently.
Inside, the curtains shifted.
A silhouette—tall, robed, and holding a glass of Pinot—watched me for a moment.
Then the curtain dropped.
And I realized, right then, that if Stacy Evernight didn’t kill me first...
Her mother absolutely would.
Scene 2: “Jessie’s Girl Is Definitely Packing Stakes”
I came to school the next morning with a fresh bandage on my dignity and an emergency clove of garlic tucked in my sock.
You know. Just in case.
The walk through the school gates felt longer than usual. Maybe it was the full-body cringe hangover from sprinting out of Mrs. Evernight’s velvet lair. Maybe it was the tiny part of me that wanted to sprint back in and ask her what she meant by “strong vein.” Or maybe it was the blood moon hanging low in the sky that nobody else seemed to think was weird.
I passed the trophy case (someone had added googly eyes to the “Most Likely to Be Undead” plaque), made it through the hall of cursed lockers, and dragged myself into Room 209 with all the enthusiasm of a man on the run from his own libido.
That’s when it happened.
The Incident.
It started so innocently. So mundanely.
I dropped my pencil.
Rachel was sitting one row over. Her combat boots were propped on the back of the chair in front of her like she was auditioning for a goth action movie. Her leather jacket was unzipped just enough to suggest she could win and survive a bar fight. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun that looked like it had fought gods and won.
Jessie was sitting next to her, smiling like someone who had no idea how close to death he lived every single day.
And I, being both clumsy and cursed, bent to retrieve my pencil and—because the gods hate me—elbowed Rachel’s bag off her chair.
It hit the ground.
And split open.
Contents:
- Three sharpened wooden stakes
- A small vial of what was either holy water or aggressively blessed essential oil
- A black leather-bound notebook labeled “Kill List”
- A silver nail file that hummed
- And a tiny stuffed bat plushie with fangs
I froze.
Jessie blinked once and said, “Oop.”
Rachel didn’t move for a full five seconds. Then she reached down, slowly, calmly, like a lion about to politely murder someone, and zipped the bag back up.
“Mind your business, Todd,” she said, voice like cold steel wrapped in eyeliner.
“Right. Yep. Absolutely,” I squeaked. “Business-minded. Mind closed. Business is bankrupt.”
Jessie leaned over and whispered, “She’s quirky like that.”
“Quirky?” I hissed. “She’s one crucifix short of her own spinoff.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes. I swear she heard that.
The teacher walked in—Professor Thorne, a literal revenant who ran the class like an undead TED Talk—and began droning about “Mythological Boundaries and Why They’re Sexy.” I barely heard it. My brain was stuck on a single track:
“Todd Hawkins, you are definitely going to die. Probably soon. Probably hot.”
I opened my notebook and started a new list:
Reasons Rachel Might Kill Me:
- Elbowed her murder kit
- Saw her bat plushie (probably off-limits)
- Might’ve called her quirky
- Am a living hormone tornado with no stealth
- Jessie likes me more than she’s comfortable with?
Wait. That last one slipped out.
I looked over. Jessie was... staring at me?
He did the thing. The sniff.
Then he winked.
I panicked.
The lesson continued. Something about vampires dating dryads and whether consent spells counted as magical signatures. Rachel was taking notes with a quill pen. Jessie was sketching a wolf howling at a prom crown. I was doodling a stick figure labeled “Me” being chased by three other stick figures labeled “Danger,” “Hormones,” and “Rachel.”
Then, just to really nail the coffin shut, Professor Thorne said, “Mr. Hawkins, would you care to share your thoughts on stake ethics in mixed-species relationships?”
I looked up like a deer caught in full emotional headlights.
“I... think stakes are... probably best kept... in metaphorical boundaries?”
Rachel side-eyed me. “Weak answer.”
Jessie gave me a thumbs-up. “Still better than your werewolf mating essay.”
“I thought it was deeply personal!” I hissed.
“It was about fur compatibility!”
Rachel smirked. “Maybe you do have a death wish.”
Class ended five years later.
I collected my things with the speed of a man trying not to provoke someone with concealed holy water and a thirst for vengeance. Jessie clapped me on the back on the way out.
“Don’t worry, bro,” he said. “She’s only stabbed one guy. And he deserved it.”
“What’d he do?”
“Called her ‘cute’ in front of a mirror.”
“Was it... magic?”
“No. Just rude.”
Rachel brushed past me. Her jacket brushed my arm. I felt my entire skeleton do a cartwheel.
She didn’t say a word.
But as she walked away, the bat plushie peeking from her bag... winked at me.
I think.
Or maybe I was hallucinating.
Either way, I ran to the bathroom and splashed water on my face.
This school is trying to kill me.
And I might let it.
Scene 3: “Todd Gets Bitten... by Love”
I left the bathroom with water on my face, a prayer on my lips, and the vague sense that Rachel’s plush bat was following me.
It probably wasn’t. Probably.
The hallway buzzed with energy—students teleporting between classes, a warlock cheerleader levitating her textbooks, and one freshman trying to hide a tail under a very unconvincing hoodie. Classic Tuesday.
I checked my schedule, groaned, and made my way toward the double doors of doom: Gym class.
A place where dreams go to die, usually face-first in a dodgeball.
Coach Fangley greeted us with his usual enthusiasm: half-shirt, all abs, and a clipboard made of polished bone. He blew a whistle that definitely summoned demons somewhere.
“Alright, you hormonal cryptids!” he barked. “Today we’re doing Dodgeball: Apocalypse Mode.”
Half the class cheered. The other half sniffed the air.
Coach Fangley explained the rules with all the grace of a drill sergeant hopped up on wolf testosterone.
“You get hit, you’re out. You catch a ball, they’re out. You bleed on the court—clean it up yourself.”
I backed toward the wall and began calculating the odds of surviving without trauma. Spoiler: not good.
Jessie, shirtless—because of course—bounced in place like a golden retriever made of testosterone and hair product.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll protect you.”
“Why do I feel like that’s a threat and a promise?”
He grinned. “It is.”
The whistle blew.
Chaos.
Dodgeballs flew like fireballs. One girl summoned a shadow clone to dodge for her. Someone exploded into glitter. Rachel took out two kids with a dodgeball she’d carved runes into.
I, meanwhile, tried to play it safe. Hug the wall. Don’t engage. Channel human camouflage.
Then it happened.
I saw it in slow motion.
A dodgeball—thrown by someone with vengeance in their heart—hurtling toward my face.
I dove.
Which was a mistake.
Because instead of heroically dodging, I tripped over a gym mat and landed neck-first onto someone’s chest.
Correction: onto a necklace.
A necklace with two very sharp, very realistic vampire fangs.
They embedded themselves into the side of my neck.
I shrieked.
Everyone paused.
I rolled off the mat, clutching my neck, and gasped, “I’ve been bitten! Tell my mother I loved her! Tell Stacy I loved her mom!”
Jessie ran over, panic-laughing. “Dude, what—”
“I’m turning!” I moaned dramatically. “I’m cold. My soul’s evaporating. The light’s leaving my eyes.”
“It was plastic,” he said, poking the necklace still tangled around my ear. “Plastic, Todd.”
“I feel it. The change. The hunger.”
Jessie sighed. “You fell on Greta’s novelty fang choker.”
“She’s a junior vampire LARPer!” Greta yelled from the sidelines, flipping me off with glittery claws.
“Goodbye, cruel daylight,” I whispered. “Goodbye, blood pressure. I loved you while I had you.”
“Dude, it didn’t even pierce the skin.”
“I wrote a will!” I cried, yanking a napkin from my pocket. It had been folded seventeen times and smelled faintly of garlic hummus.
Jessie squinted. “Is this a Chipotle receipt?”
“Back. Page two.”
He flipped it over. Sure enough, scribbled between “extra guac” and “double chicken” were the words:
Stolen story; please report.
In the event of my tragic turning, I bequeath:
– My gaming PC to whoever doesn’t stake me
– My hoodie collection to Stacy (or her mom)
– My body to science fiction
Jessie stared at it, then at me. “You’re so dramatic it physically hurts.”
Coach Fangley strolled over, chewing on a protein bar shaped like a femur.
“Did someone actually get bit, or is this just another ‘Todd Moment’?”
“Definitely a Todd Moment,” Jessie said.
“Carry on.”
He walked away muttering about “teen blood cults with no discipline.”
Jessie helped me to my feet. “You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine,” I hissed. “I flirted with death. Again. And worse—I flirted poorly.”
He wiped a smudge off my cheek. “You flirt like a squirrel on espresso.”
“I try so hard.”
“I know, buddy.”
Then a voice behind me—smooth, familiar, fang-curled—said:
“Todd?”
I turned. Slowly.
Mrs. Evernight stood by the gym doors in a tight black pencil skirt and a silk blouse that deserved a fan and mood lighting. She had a clipboard, red lipstick, and the aura of a woman who knew she was legally banned from PTA meetings for “unholy disruption.”
She walked toward me, heels clicking like danger, and said, “I heard someone was bitten.”
Jessie vanished.
I stood very still. Possibly combusted. Just a little.
She stopped in front of me. Tilted her head. Stared at my neck.
I coughed. “It was... decorative?”
Her eyes lingered too long. “Are you sure you’re not... changed?”
I think my soul hiccupped.
She leaned closer. I smelled clove, red wine, and a sin I can’t legally describe.
“I’m fine,” I whispered. “Mostly emotionally wounded.”
She smiled. “Good. I like your blood where it belongs.”
Then she turned on her heels and walked off to supervise Vampire Dodgeball Practice, which is a real thing and may or may not involve capes.
I collapsed onto the gym mat in a heap of sweat, confusion, and hormonal fallout.
Jessie peeked back around the corner. “You dead yet?”
“No. But I might be in love.”
“Which one?”
I stared at the ceiling.
“All of them.”
Scene 4: “Is This a Love Triangle or a Death Hex?”
After gym class, I did what any overwhelmed, underqualified teenage boy does when faced with a supernatural romantic crisis:
I hid in the library.
Not the main stacks, either. No. Too risky. Too public. Too full of whispering books and enchanted encyclopedias that rearranged themselves into passive-aggressive acronyms like YOU DUMB, TODD.
No, I slunk into the Library Annex—a dim, dust-cloaked corner that smelled like spell candles, failed potions, and the faint tang of lemon-scented despair.
The janitor passed me as I slinked in. He nodded once, solemnly, like he could smell the romantic confusion radiating off my skin. “Pick one before they pick you,” he muttered.
I froze. “I—I beg your pardon?”
He kept walking. Whistled a tune that sounded like Latin. Disappeared into a wall. Literally.
Right. So. That’s not ominous at all.
I collapsed into the beanbag chair of emotional trauma and cracked open my notebook, flipping past:
- Page 12: Reasons Rachel Might Kill Me
- Page 19: Things Mrs. Evernight Has Said That Made Me Blush Through My Soul
- Page 22: Stacy’s Hair – Is It Magical? A Working Theory
And stopped at a blank page.
I titled it:
“Love Triangle or Death Hex? Pros, Cons, and Crying”
Then I started writing.
STACY
? Gothic beauty
? Laughs at my jokes (sometimes)
? Boots that make me question the nature of reality
? Might be undead
? Dating a vegan zombie
? I am absolutely in love with her mom
MRS. EVERNIGHT
? Literal vampire goddess
? Once called my neck “elegant”
? Has a throne made of velvet and probable sin
? Is Stacy’s mom
? Probably centuries older than me
? Might drink my blood and call it flirting
RACHEL
? Hot
? Lethal
? Owns at least four knives I’ve seen
? Told me my aura was “spongy but interesting”
? Might stake me in my sleep
? Has a literal “Kill List” notebook
? Dating Jessie… I think?
JESSIE
? Best friend
? Shirtless 83% of the time
? Called my scent “comforting”
? Probably a werewolf
? Definitely a werewolf
? Has kissed Rachel
? Might also have a thing for me????
I stared at the list for a long time.
Then added one more line:
ME: Bleeding, blushing, and definitely doomed.
I let the notebook fall onto my lap and closed my eyes. Tried to meditate. Channel peace. Manifest clarity.
Instead, my brain whispered:
“What if Rachel and Stacy teamed up and seduced you into oblivion?”
“Shut UP,” I hissed to myself. Loud enough that the floating book nearby flapped angrily and dove at my head.
I ducked.
The librarian appeared without warning—Ms. Grimsbane, whose glasses were made of crystal and whose soul was held together by caffeine and spite.
“You’re not supposed to be in this section unsupervised,” she hissed, stacking a pile of cursed romance novels nearby.
“Sorry. I’m emotionally fragile and escaping gym trauma.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Teenagers.”
Then handed me a book titled “The Love Hexagon: Surviving Romantic Entanglement in Magical Communities.”
I stared. “This is... real?”
“Sadly.” She sighed. “Chapter six is about vampire MILFs. You’ll need that one.”
“...How did you—?”
She vanished behind a shelf.
I read the chapter.
It was disturbingly accurate. Described the symptoms of vampire MILF intoxication as:
- Sweaty palms
? Excessive stammering
? Dreams involving candlelight and blood puns
? Sudden interest in gothic architecture
? Acute neck awareness
Check, check, check, double check.
I closed the book and whimpered.
My phone buzzed.
STACY: “Can u send me the biology homework? also r u ok?”
I replied: “Yes. I mean no. But yes. You’re very pretty.”
Read. No response.
Great.
Another buzz.
RACHEL: “I know you’re hiding in the library. That’s not where the smart people go, Todd.”
I responded with a bat emoji and a heart.
I have no idea why. I’m losing it.
Third buzz.
JESSIE: “You okay?”
“Define okay.”
“Still hot. Still confused?”
“Inexplicably more.”
“Cool. Meet me outside in 10?”
I closed the notebook. Stood up. The floating book tried to follow me. I threw a garlic mint at it. It hissed and retreated.
As I exited the annex, a faint shimmer glowed under the chair I’d been sitting in.
A chalk pentagram.
Drawn recently.
Marked with three initials.
S.
R.
J.
And a fourth in the center:
T.
I knelt. Squinted. There was a note.
“Make a choice. Or the choice makes you.”
I stood slowly.
And whispered to myself:
“…definitely a death hex.”
Scene 5: “There’s a Werewolf in My Geometry Class”
There’s a sacred rite in the life of every high schooler: the complete and total mental shutdown that occurs the moment you hear the words “pop quiz.”
Now, layer that with romantic confusion, mild blood loss, and the creeping suspicion that your best friend is one hairball away from going full Teen Wolf: Howling Honors Edition, and you’ve basically got the state I was in when I walked into Room 317.
Geometry.
The academic equivalent of being gently smothered by invisible triangles.
Ms. Hexley was already at the front of the room, writing formulas in chalk that glowed faintly with eldritch energy. The windows were open, not for airflow, but “to reduce full-moon distortion,” as per the new district policy. A rune circle buzzed faintly under the whiteboard. I took my seat, still emotionally rattled from the pentagram in the library and the “Pick One Before They Pick You” vibe that was very much not metaphorical anymore.
Jessie slid into the seat beside me wearing his usual sleeveless hoodie and the faint scent of forest musk. His hair looked fluffier than normal. His eyes? Slightly more... golden?
I squinted. “Did you... exfoliate with moonlight this morning?”
He smirked. “Nah. Just hydrated.”
His hands twitched.
“So... what did you mean earlier about ‘meet me outside in 10’ and then ghosting me?”
Jessie scratched his arm. “Got distracted. Something... came up.”
“Jessie, your fingernails are kind of... pointy.”
“Are they?”
He blinked.
Two of them retracted slightly.
I gulped. “Totally normal. Normal boy behavior. Not suspicious at all.”
He turned to face the front, muttering, “Try not to stare. I get twitchy.”
“You’re already twitchy.”
“Then stop staring.”
Ms. Hexley cleared her throat, turned to face us, and announced:
“Take out your pencils. Pop quiz. No spellcasting. No mind links. No familiars whispering answers.”
Groans echoed around the room.
Jessie whimpered.
Wait. Whimpered?
I turned to him. His pupils had thinned into vertical slits. A vein pulsed in his neck. His hoodie neckline stretched ever so slightly—like his traps were bulking mid-period.
I raised my hand.
“Yes, Mr. Hawkins?” Ms. Hexley said, her tone soaked in disdain.
“I just—uh—quick question,” I said, motioning vaguely toward Jessie. “Is it normal if someone’s, like, molting during a test?”
Jessie groaned softly.
Ms. Hexley looked up, peered at him through her rune-glasses, then said, “It’s a full moon week. He still has to finish the quiz.”
Jessie scratched his neck. His ears twitched.
Not metaphorically. I mean literally twitched.
Ms. Hexley floated the quiz packets to each desk using telekinesis. Jessie stared at his like it had offended him personally.
Question 1: If triangle ABC has sides measuring 9, 12, and x, and angle B is a right angle, solve for x.
Jessie growled.
Jessie growled.
The entire classroom pretended not to notice. Except me. I noticed.
He picked up his pencil. It snapped in half.
He tried another. It melted.
I scribbled a note in the margin of my quiz:
TODD’S PRIVATE MATH PANIC DIARY:
- Jessie is turning.
- Jessie is turning in MATH class.
- This is how people die.
Rachel, three rows up, glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes locked onto Jessie. She mouthed: Seriously? In class?
Jessie hunched over his desk, sniffing the paper.
I mean sniffing it.
Ms. Hexley sighed and pulled out a jar labeled Emergency Lycanthropy Dampener. She unscrewed it. A sharp pine scent wafted through the air.
Jessie sat up straighter.
Then—he howled.
Not a full-throated midnight-in-the-forest howl. More like a restrained “I am deeply unwell and being forced to do geometry” howl.
Every head turned.
Ms. Hexley, to her credit, didn’t flinch.
She simply pointed at the window.
“Out. Five-minute run. Muzzle yourself next time.”
Jessie stood, nodded, and bolted through the open window with the grace of a caffeinated were-deer.
Rachel muttered, “He better bring my pencil back.”
Ms. Hexley turned back to the board and continued as if no one had just fled class via aerial leap. “Problem two involves arcane angles and bloodlines. Please show your work.”
I stared down at my paper, where my answers had now been rewritten in ancient runes.
My pencil floated into the air, cracked in half, and spelled “RUN” in chalk dust across the desk.
I looked up at the ceiling.
“Can I please just take gym again instead?”
No reply.
Just another howl from somewhere outside.
And me—sitting there, trying to solve for x while wondering if my best friend was currently eating the lacrosse team.
Scene 6: “Midterms & Midlife Crises”
Midterms.
A word that strikes fear into the hearts of even the most undead.
Or, in my case, a word that activates my fight-or-flight response so aggressively I nearly roundhouse kicked a fire alarm on the way to Room 666—aka the Midterm Exam Dungeon, aka “Why Does This Room Smell Like Candles and Regret?”
I hadn’t slept. Not even a nap. I’d stayed up the entire night mainlining Red Ghoul Energy Elixirs and stress-scrolling through hex-resistant scantrons. I’d reviewed six different blood type charts, three lunar transformation cycles, and something called “Advanced Fang Trigonometry” that turned out to be an erotic novella by accident.
The test was supposed to cover Paranormal Integration, Basic Curses, and something ominously referred to as “Latin Combat Phrases.”
As I stepped into the candlelit room, my brain was already whispering the gentle mantra of failure:
You’re gonna flunk. You’re gonna flunk. You’re gonna flunk and get eaten by a sentient midterm.
And then she appeared.
Mrs. Evernight.
Our proctor.
Draped in a crimson silk blouse tucked into a black leather pencil skirt that made gravity reconsider its priorities. Her heels clicked against the stone floor like war drums. Her lipstick matched my panic. She held a clipboard and a smile that promised "You may pass this class, but you’ll lose something important along the way."
I instantly forgot every fact I’d memorized.
She locked eyes with me.
“Todd,” she purred. “Still alive?”
“Debatable,” I croaked.
She smiled faintly. “Let’s hope you perform better than you flirt.”
My soul evacuated my body.
She strolled past my desk, a cloud of sandalwood and sinful memories, and handed me an exam packet bound in black parchment. The cover was embossed with the school crest and the phrase “IN BLOOD, WE TRUST.”
I flipped it open.
Latin.
Not just any Latin.
Combat Latin.
The first question read:
Translate and respond to the following insult:
"Tu es mors inepta cum tunica ridicula."
(Hint: Use your dominant wand hand.)
I looked at the wand on my desk.
It quivered.
Jessie slid into the seat beside me—fresh from his werewolf window-leaping episode. He was damp, shirtless (again), and somehow holding a granola bar made entirely of moon dust.
“Hey,” he whispered. “What’d I miss?”
“Sanity. Innocence. My last shred of hope.”
Rachel appeared on the other side of me like a vengeance-themed apparition. She dropped her black quill on the desk, sat down, and immediately began writing.
Mrs. Evernight strolled past. “Miss Sparks, I do hope you refrain from stabbing this exam. Again.”
Rachel didn’t look up. “Only if it behaves.”
Mrs. Evernight placed a hand on my desk and leaned in. Her nail tapped the corner of my test.
“Do try to stay conscious, Todd. Your aura’s practically vibrating.”
I made a noise I’d never made before. It sounded like a dying hummingbird trying to say “yes ma’am.”
The test began.
I translated half a sentence before forgetting the word for “possession,” accidentally invoking “seduction,” and triggering the cursed ink to write “WE SEE YOU” across the margin in dripping red calligraphy.
Jessie growled softly as he worked.
Rachel finished her test in twelve minutes.
She stood. Drove her quill into the table. The candle nearest her burst into black flame.
She walked out without a word.
I was still on question three.
“Match the magical creature to its weakness and love language.”
I circled “silver” and “physical touch” for werewolves. Mostly out of instinct.
Mrs. Evernight appeared again, standing behind me.
Her breath was warm at my neck.
“Doing alright?” she whispered.
“No,” I whispered back.
Her hand lingered on my shoulder for a half-second too long.
“I’ll be watching,” she said, and walked away.
I immediately forgot how pencils worked.
Jessie was humming something. It sounded like a Gregorian chant remixed by an EDM DJ.
Then he stood, stretched (abs), and handed in his test with a wink at Mrs. Evernight, who gave him a gold star sticker.
I almost vomited.
I scribbled through the last page of the exam, skipped two glyph translations I was 93% sure were cursed emojis, and drew a cartoon of myself in a coffin labeled “Nice Try, Todd.”
I handed in my exam, still shaking, still half-erect with fear and confusion, and stumbled out of the room.
I leaned against the cold stone wall, panting like I’d survived a duel.
Rachel passed me in the hallway. She paused.
“You looked like you were having a stroke in there.”
“Thank you. It was my best work.”
“Your aura’s all... sweaty.”
“That’s my default setting now.”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the exam room.
“She licked her lips when you walked in.”
“Don’t tell me that.”
“Why?”
“Because I liked it.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You’re going to die of thirst before she ever drinks your blood.”
She walked away.
Jessie popped up beside me. “How’d it go?”
“I think I passed out for question five and dreamt I was married to a succubus.”
“Hot.”
“I know.”
We stood there for a long second. Then I turned to him.
“Jessie. Be honest. Am I actually... cursed?”
He scratched his jaw. “No. You’re just... the eye of the supernatural horny storm.”
“Cool.”
We started walking.
Then I paused.
“Wait—did you score higher than me?”
Jessie smirked. “Definitely.”
“You don’t even read Latin.”
He shrugged. “I used pheromones.”
I groaned.
My academic career was collapsing, my aura was flickering, and I had officially reached the stage of adolescence where seductive undead proctors were my primary distraction.
This is fine.
Everything is absolutely, academically, magically fine.
Scene 7: “The Full Moon Is Cancelled Due to Drama”
There are moments that define a high schooler’s life:
Failing your first pop quiz.
Your first kiss under a blood moon.
And the time your school cancels the most anticipated supernatural dance of the semester because your friends are emotionally unstable and possibly cursed.
This was that moment.
I stood in the cafeteria—lunch tray shaking in my hands—as Coach Fangley read the morning announcement with all the gravitas of a man who had once ripped off his own sleeves mid-P.T.A. brawl.
“Effective immediately,” he growled over the intercom, “the Mid-Moon Mixer scheduled for Friday is officially canceled due to... emotional werewolf volatility, unauthorized summoning rituals during slow dances, and... excessive cryptic pining.”
A collective groan erupted from the cafeteria like someone had just announced garlic was a banned substance.
I dropped into my usual seat at the end of the coffin-shaped lunch table, defeated.
Rachel slammed down her lunch tray across from me. On it sat a tupperware container filled with raw steak cubes, a flask labeled “Not Holy Water (Definitely Not)”, and a wooden stake she was whittling with a butter knife.
“Well,” she said, not looking up. “Guess the DJ won’t get eaten this year.”
I blinked. “Is that... good?”
She shrugged. “Depends on your taste in music.”
Jessie arrived seconds later, shirt half-buttoned and glowing faintly with post-gym sweat. He dropped a tray of what looked like bloody tofu and moon-sprouts in front of him.
“I was gonna ask Stacy to the Mixer,” I muttered into my hummus.
Rachel made a noise between a scoff and a laugh. “Pretty sure she was going with the vegan zombie.”
“I thought they broke up.”
“She posted a cryptic haiku on BloodTok and he commented with a bat emoji and a skull. That’s legally still dating.”
Jessie said nothing. He just tore into his food like it owed him child support.
I stared at my tray. Chocolate milk (normal?), hummus with “Blessed by Garlic” stamped on the lid (fine), and a sandwich that growled when I touched it (less fine).
I ignored it. Focused on the only thing that made sense anymore: the garlic hummus.
I dipped a cracker. Ate it.
It burned.
Like emotionally burned.
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Is that your coping snack now?”
“Yes,” I said with a mouthful of repressed feelings and chickpeas. “Leave me alone.”
Jessie leaned in. “She wasn’t even going to say yes, you know.”
“Stacy?”
“Yeah.”
I blinked. “Wait—how do you know?”
He paused. “She told me.”
“Why would she—?”
“Because she knows you’re... emotionally allergic to direct interaction.”
Rachel snorted. “And girls.”
“Shut up,” I mumbled, shoveling in more hummus. My nose burned. My soul wept.
Just then, Stacy walked by our table.
Her boots clacked. Her eyeliner was extra sharp. And yes, she looked like a goddess who wrote tragic poetry in the dark and made men cry with her pinky finger.
Trailing behind her was Kale—the vegan zombie—wearing a hemp tunic, Birkenstocks, and a faint odor of fermented kombucha.
I watched them walk by.
I stared into my hummus.
And I howled. Quietly. Internally.
Jessie handed me a tissue.
Rachel muttered, “Don’t do it.”
“What?” I sniffled.
“Don’t go full garlic spiral. Once you dip the pickle chips in, there’s no coming back.”
I grabbed the chips.
“Don’t!” she warned.
I dipped.
The burn was righteous.
Jessie groaned. “Todd, buddy, you gotta talk to her.”
“I did! I told her I liked her boots! Then I bled on the floor and got escorted out by a janitor in a hooded robe.”
“That’s fair,” Rachel said.
“I liked her before she got all undead-chic and started dating a guy who drinks recycled plasma!”
“You also like her mom,” Jessie pointed out.
I paused. “Okay, yeah, but that’s like... an external problem.”
Rachel leaned back, eyeing me with the cool detachment of a girl who has absolutely imagined murdering me at least once.
“She’s not into you.”
“Neither is your mom,” I snapped, instantly regretting it.
Rachel smiled. “No, but mine might be.”
Jessie choked on a moon sprout.
I turned red.
She winked.
I died.
Emotionally. Just keeled over right there into my hummus.
Across the room, Stacy laughed at something Kale whispered into her ear. It echoed. It stung. My garlic defense wall cracked.
I stood. “I need air.”
“You need therapy,” Rachel said.
Jessie offered, “You want me to shift and maul him a little? Just enough for a limp?”
“No,” I sighed. “That’d be a hate crime.”
I pushed open the cafeteria doors and stumbled into the courtyard.
The moon was already rising, early and judgmental.
I sat on the bench, head in my hands, fully immersed in the throes of a supernatural emotional collapse.
Behind me, I heard the school intercom crackle back to life.
“UPDATE,” Coach Fangley growled. “The Mixer is rescheduled for Never. Go howl at your feelings on your own time.”
I did.
Right then and there.
Just one sad little “Awoo” under my breath.
Then I pulled out the hummus and finished it.
It didn’t fix anything.
But it was the only thing that didn’t flirt with me or carry a stake.
Scene 8: “Todd Does a Ritual. Accidentally.”
Let’s get this out of the way up front:
I did not mean to do a ritual.
I didn’t walk into the bathroom thinking, “Hey Todd, let’s go summon unspeakable forces of heartache and doom in the name of teen romance.”
No.
I walked in because I ate an entire tub of garlic hummus, chased it with a sympathy pudding, and felt the urgent call of intestinal justice.
The stalls in the Blood River High library bathroom are weird. First of all, it’s the only bathroom with velvet curtains over the mirrors. Secondly, the air always smells like lavender and regret. And third, there’s a whispering echo that says your name if you’re alone too long.
I was not in the mood.
Post-Mixer cancellation, post-Stacy snub, post-Rachel sass, and full of garlic-fueled emotional gas, I needed solitude.
I stumbled into the last stall. The big one. The one that always feels... colder than the others. I didn’t care. I had hummus to expel.
There, perched on the toilet paper dispenser, was a book.
A big one.
Leather-bound. Ancient-looking. The title etched in fading gold:
How to Win Your Crush Without Dying Horribly
A little on the nose.
I picked it up with hands that were already tingling from too much sodium and curiosity.
Inside: handwritten text, swirling script, illustrations of teenagers holding hands under blood moons while floating two feet off the ground. And spells.
So many spells.
One caught my eye:
Chapter IX: The Binding Whisper
“A simple incantation for tethering romantic energy and guiding mutual attraction. To be read aloud under pressure, by accident, or by those deeply stupid in love. Warning: Side effects may include spectral interference, emotional possession, or rapid romantic escalation.”
I laughed. Obviously a prank.
Probably planted by Rachel to mess with me. Or Coach Fangley as a motivational tactic. Or Jessie, who once drew a pentagram in my soup just to see if I’d drink it. (I did. It tasted like rosemary and guilt.)
Still, I read it out loud.
“Ad invicem cor, per lumen lunae, vinculum fiat. Cordis arcanum aperiatur.”
The light flickered.
Nope.
Not kidding.
The overhead fluorescent buzzed once—hard. The mirror cracked slightly at the corner. Somewhere, distant and high-pitched, a bat screamed.
Then… silence.
“Okay,” I said to the air. “Hilarious.”
I closed the book. The book whimpered.
I dropped it. It vanished.
I flushed the toilet in panic and ran to the sink, splashing my face.
Then the air shifted.
A low, growling hum filled the space. Like music. But wrong.
And then—
A bat slammed into the window.
Like full-speed, “I saw what you did” energy.
It hung there. Upside down. Staring directly at me.
I backed away slowly, water dripping down my face, my soul begging for a nap.
Then the bathroom stall doors all creaked open on their own.
That’s when I heard it.
A voice—low, husky, and completely not mine—whispering from nowhere and everywhere:
“Too late, Todd.”
“NOPE,” I shouted and bolted out the door.
I ran straight into Jessie, who was leaning against the wall with a juice box and a deeply confused expression.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“I may have summoned... love.”
He blinked. “On purpose?”
“No. I just read Latin in a bathroom.”
“That’s how at least two marriages in this town started.”
“I know!”
Jessie sniffed. “You smell like old parchment and doomed desire.”
“I know!”
He stared at me for a second too long.
Then… he sneezed.
Like, full-body convulsion. And when he sneezed—
A tail sprouted.
Right through his pants.
I stared at it.
He stared at it.
It wagged.
“I think the spell’s loose,” I whispered.
“I think you just love-cursed the entire school,” he replied.
We turned slowly as the hallway lights dimmed.
Rachel rounded the corner. Stopped. Sniffed the air.
“You did something,” she said flatly.
“I did not!” I blurted.
“You smell like Latin and desperation.”
“That’s just my natural state.”
Rachel pulled a dagger out of her bag.
“Is that necessary?”
She tilted her head. “Do you feel possessed?”
“Not yet?”
“Then it’s preemptive.”
My phone buzzed.
STACY: “wtf did u just do?? my vegan zombie ex just tried to soul-bond me through finger painting”
I dropped the phone.
Jessie’s tail knocked over a trash can.
Rachel’s dagger glowed.
I backed toward the janitor closet.
“I think I need to hide.”
“You need,” Rachel said, advancing, “to explain exactly what you read, how loud you read it, and whether or not it involved your actual blood type.”
Jessie sniffed again. “Oh yeah. You definitely activated something.”
And that’s when the school-wide intercom system buzzed to life.
Principal Gravemeyer’s voice crackled through the speakers, sounding frazzled and half-cursed.
“Attention students: If you feel an uncontrollable urge to confess your darkest feelings or start levitating near your crush, please report to the exorcism tent outside the gym. That is all.”
I sank to the floor.
“...I think I need to drop out.”
Jessie patted my shoulder with his clawed hand.
Rachel crouched beside me and whispered, “Next time you want to fall in love, just text someone. It’s less dramatic.”
“But is it?” I mumbled.
Somewhere in the distance, a guitar began playing a love ballad backwards.
Jessie’s tail knocked over another trash can.
I looked up at them and said the only thing that made sense anymore.
“…Can one of you take me home before I start glowing?”