Scene 1: “Laundry Day Reveals Too Much Chest Hair”
You don’t really know someone until you’ve seen the insides of their laundry bag.
I didn’t want this knowledge. I hadn’t asked for it. I just wanted to wash the gym socks that were actively trying to chew through the bottom of my duffel bag and maybe feel like a normal teenager for one single hour of my cursed, teenage life.
But no.
Instead, I found myself standing in the warm, lint-scented humidity of the Blood River Coin-Op Laundromat, watching my best friend Jessie pull what could only be described as a werewolf’s softcore wardrobe malfunction out of a mesh hamper.
I mean... shredded shirts.
Ripped down the middle.
Claw marks.
Sweat stains that smelled like pine trees and unresolved trauma.
“I don’t think this one’s salvageable,” Jessie muttered, holding up a tank top that looked like it had been mauled by a particularly judgy squirrel.
“That used to be your geometry shirt,” I said.
He nodded, then peeled it off and tossed it in the “questionable rags” pile without a second thought.
I stared at his chest.
Because.
I mean.
Chest.
Jessie was tall. Built like he bench-pressed forest creatures for fun. And now, under the flickering fluorescent lights and beside the cursed vending machine that only sold soda with Latin inscriptions, he was folding towels completely shirtless like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And the chest hair?
It wasn’t just a little.
It was... pelty.
Like someone had grafted a very polite bear pelt onto his torso and then taught it how to glisten under bad lighting.
“Okay,” I said, voice cracking like my GPA. “Slightly personal question, but have you considered—hypothetically—manscaping?”
Jessie raised an eyebrow. “What, like waxing?”
I nodded. “Or trimming. Or... shearing. You know. In case you plan to go near a campfire.”
He smirked and kept folding. “I like it. Makes me feel wild.”
“You could feel wild in a sweater.”
“I run hot.”
“You are hot,” I blurted.
Silence.
Jessie looked up.
I blinked.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “That wasn’t out loud.”
“It was.”
I turned to the dryer. Pressed my forehead against the spinning door and begged it to suck me in.
“I meant... thermally hot. Not like, hot-hot. I mean, you are—objectively, many people would say that—but I didn’t mean to say it and now I’m dying and this dryer is my coffin.”
Jessie chuckled. “You’re adorable when you panic.”
“You’re adorable when you don’t randomly sprout fur.”
He grinned. “Speaking of...”
He turned slightly to one side—and I saw it.
A bite mark.
Right below his collarbone, near the base of his neck. Faint. But there. Angry. Swollen. Shaped suspiciously like a crescent moon.
My eyes widened.
Jessie noticed.
“Oh, that? It’s nothing.”
“Nope,” I said, pointing. “That’s a something. That’s a major something. That’s a crescent-shaped uh-oh on your werewolf bingo card.”
He laughed it off. “Just an aggressive raccoon.”
“Raccoon my ass,” I muttered. I pulled out my notebook.
Notes to Self:
– Jessie is hiding something.
– Something furry.
– Not a raccoon.
– Definitely not a raccoon.
– Possibly cursed.
– Still hot.
I looked back up. He was casually folding socks like he hadn’t just confirmed my supernatural suspicions with one (very hairy) shrug.
“Jessie.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know you growl in your sleep?”
He blinked. “You watch me sleep?”
“You growl in class, too. Also howl. And sniff people.”
“Maybe I’m just passionate.”
“Maybe you’re not entirely human.”
He stopped folding. Turned. Smiled.
“Would that be a problem?”
I stared at him. At the mark. The hair. The occasional fang. The way his eyes glowed just a little too gold under bad lighting.
“No,” I said, honestly. “I just want to know if I should start carrying raw steak or a tennis ball in case you panic during midterms.”
He laughed. Loud. Unapologetic.
Then pulled on a fresh T-shirt. It immediately stretched over his shoulders like it was afraid.
“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “I’m in control.”
“Sure. That’s what people say before they bite someone under the bleachers.”
He winked. “Only if they ask nicely.”
I blushed. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“I’m concerned for you.”
“I’ll take it.”
As we packed up our laundry, I couldn’t help but glance at the claw-marked clothes still sitting in the reject pile.
Not a raccoon.
Not normal.
Not subtle.
I didn’t know what Jessie was fully. Not yet.
But I had a feeling that laundry day was just the beginning.
Scene 2: “Mrs. Evernight Invites Me to Yoga (Why?!)”
The invitation came the way all of Mrs. Evernight’s communications did: hauntingly direct, vaguely suggestive, and impossible to refuse.
I was exiting the laundromat, clutching my still-warm gym socks like a fragile baby bird and mentally unpacking the fact that Jessie had just laughed off a crescent-shaped bite mark while shirtless, when a sleek black car the size of a hearse pulled up beside me. The window slid down, soundless, and there she was.
Mrs. Evernight.
Elbow perched on the window ledge, sunglasses perched on her head like a tiara of secrets, red lipstick immaculate and somehow glossier than the laws of physics allow. She looked like every inappropriate fantasy I’ve ever had while pretending to understand Shakespeare.
“Todd,” she said smoothly, voice like velvet dipped in expensive wine, “are you flexible?”
I blinked. “I—uh—excuse me?”
She tilted her head. “For yoga, darling.”
“Oh,” I said, brain short-circuiting. “Right. Yoga. Limbs. Movement. Yes. I mean—sort of? I’ve been told I have the hamstrings of a retired accountant.”
She laughed. The window rolled down a little more. “Come by tonight. Sunset. My house. Bring a towel... and an open mind.”
Then the window rolled up. And the car vanished.
Like—literally vanished. There one second. Gone the next. No tire sound. No smoke. Just an elegant poof of perfume and implied danger.
Cut to four hours later and me standing in front of Evernight Manor in borrowed sweatpants and a moisture-wicking shirt that did nothing to wick the absolute tsunami of anxiety pouring out of my pores.
I rang the doorbell.
It chimed—not like a regular chime, but like a crystal glass being stroked by ghost fingers. Naturally.
The door opened on its own.
Of course.
Inside, the velvet sunroom glowed a deep burgundy from sunset light filtered through sheer curtains. The only source of illumination? Candles. So many candles. Some floated. Some flickered. One was definitely weeping.
And there—on a black yoga mat that looked more expensive than my mom’s car—was Mrs. Evernight.
Stretching.
In crimson leggings.
And a cropped tank top that said “Bite Me Gently” in cursive.
“Welcome, Todd,” she purred, turning into a perfect downward dog. “So glad you could make it.”
I tripped over my own shoelaces and nearly dislocated my dignity.
“Hi—hello—I’m just—standing. Yep. Standing’s good.”
She motioned for me to sit on the mat across from her. It was black. Embroidered with tiny moons. Probably cursed.
I sat. Slowly. Carefully.
The playlist kicked in.
Gregorian chants.
With bass drops.
“You’re tense,” she observed, crawling—crawling—closer. “Let’s start with a little breathwork.”
“I’ve actually forgotten how lungs function,” I wheezed.
She placed a hand gently on my back. “Inhale... through the nose.”
I did. Immediately choked on the scent of clove, wine, and something that felt like making out in a cathedral.
She leaned forward, pressing just a little closer, voice low. “Good. Now exhale your fear.”
“Where do I put the rest of my emotions?” I whispered.
She smiled. “On the mat.”
We moved through a series of poses: corpse, scared corpse, mildly aroused corpse. She demonstrated warrior pose. I tried it. My leg spasmed. I yelped. She caught me.
I blacked out for a second.
When I came to, I was in child’s pose. There was glitter in my hair. A glass of something red beside me.
“Hydrate,” she said, handing it to me.
“Is this... Pinot?”
“It’s pomegranate and intention.”
I sipped it. It tasted like secrets and bad decisions.
She reclined on her mat, hair fanned out like a shampoo commercial, and said, “You have a very... reactive energy, Todd.”
I was sweating through my shirt. “Yeah, that’s probably the hummus residue.”
“No,” she said, propping herself up on one elbow. “Your aura—it pulses. Like someone caught between fear... and desire.”
I swallowed.
Hard.
“I get that a lot.”
She tilted her head. “You’ve never had anyone... reach through your aura before, have you?”
“Is that like second base?”
She laughed. “Not quite. Though the effects can be similarly euphoric.”
I nearly fainted.
She leaned forward. “Would you like me to show you?”
I made a squeaky noise. Might’ve been Latin. Might’ve been a yes.
The candles flared.
The music deepened.
She touched my wrist—just lightly—and for one terrifying, exhilarating second, I felt something shift. Like something ancient woke up. Just a blink. But it was there.
And then—
Darkness.
I blinked awake ten minutes later, lying flat on my mat. The sun was gone. The candles were out. She was gone.
Beside me was a note, handwritten in black ink and scent-marked with sandalwood:
You said yes. I’ll let you know when it begins.
—V.E.
I sat up slowly.
The glitter was still in my hair.
So was the feeling that I’d agreed to something very important.
Possibly forever.
Possibly Tuesday.
Scene 3: “Jessie’s Howl Is Not Metaphorical”
The thing about chemistry class is: it’s supposed to be predictable.
Elements, formulas, the occasional light explosion—not life-altering revelations about your best friend being a full-time wolf and part-time educational hazard.
And yet here I was: third period, still emotionally hungover from a yoga session with a possibly immortal seductress, sitting in the back of the chemistry lab with glitter in my hair, garlic in my breath, and dread in my heart.
“Today,” droned Mr. Thistlebane, who may or may not have been taxidermied and reanimated by the PTA, “you will complete a solo assessment. Do not mix potions unless instructed. Do not summon anyone without proper containment glyphs. And do not, under any circumstances, touch the mercury.”
I nodded absently while sliding a laminated “Prayer for Academic Survival” under my beaker.
Next to me, Jessie was... twitchy.
Not fidgety. Not “oops I forgot to study” anxious.
No.
Full-body, vibrating-with-energy, twitchy.
His hoodie sleeves were rolled up. His skin had that faint golden shimmer again. His pupils were dilating. Fast.
I leaned over and whispered, “On a scale of 1 to full moon, how hairy are we talking today?”
He smiled, sharp and shiny. “I’ll be fine.”
“That’s what you said before your tail knocked over a recycling bin.”
He grunted and opened his test booklet.
The first question read:
Balance the following magical combustion equation using appropriate elemental stabilizers.
Stolen story; please report.
Jessie cracked his knuckles. The sound was... wetter than it should have been.
I watched, horrified, as his fingernails slowly—subtly—began to sharpen.
“Jessie?” I whispered. “Your cuticles are becoming claws again.”
He growled low in his throat.
“That’s not helping.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Jessie, you’re vibrating like a phone on demon mode.”
Then it happened.
One second, peaceful academic silence.
Next second: HOWL.
Deep. Full-chested. Echoing. Like a sad trombone met a timber wolf and their baby discovered teen angst.
Glass beakers shattered. The fluorescent lights flickered. A pentagram on the whiteboard spontaneously burst into flames.
I dropped my pencil and screamed, “I KNEW IT!”
Jessie leapt up, face flushed, body trembling. His hoodie split down the spine like a horror movie zipper. Fur—actual fur—sprouted along his collarbones.
Everyone froze.
Then—
BWEEEEP BWEEEEP BWEEEEP!
The fire alarm blared, finally catching up to the supernatural energy bar Jessie just cracked in half with his emotions.
“EVERYONE OUT!” Mr. Thistlebane shouted. “AND TAKE YOUR BEAKERS!”
Jessie didn’t wait. He vaulted over the desk, fur growing by the second, and bolted for the open window like a teenage forest cryptid late for gym class.
“WE HAVE DOORS, JESSIE!” I screamed after him.
No response. Just a flash of golden muscle and a very audible snarl.
The rest of the class sprinted out behind him. Chaos. Screams. One girl tried to bring her lab frog. It turned into a squirrel mid-evacuation. I don’t know why.
I ducked under a lab table and pulled out my notebook with trembling hands.
CONFIRMED: JESSIE = WEREWOLF
Evidence:
– Howling during exams
– Claw-popping mid-equation
– Leapt out a second window this week
– Hairier than my Uncle Vince
– Smells like cedar, rage, and Axe body spray
I crawled out once the flames died down.
Rachel was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing an expression somewhere between “I told you so” and “do not test me.”
“You knew,” I accused.
“Obviously.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
She shrugged. “I thought you were into surprises.”
“Not when they involve shirtless best friends and mid-class transformations!”
She handed me Jessie’s half-completed test—still warm. “He still scored higher than you.”
I looked at the paper. He’d written the correct answer mid-transformation. The final line was trailed off into claw scratches, but the math? Spot on.
I slumped against the wall, defeated.
Then Rachel leaned in close—close enough that I could smell her leather jacket and mild threat level—and said, “You should keep an eye on him. Things are about to get hairy.”
“That pun hurt me.”
She smirked. “Good.”
And just like that, she walked away.
I stared out the window Jessie had launched himself through.
Somewhere in the woods, a very hormonal, very confused, very shirtless werewolf was probably chasing squirrels or contemplating his feelings.
And me?
I had two hours of school left, half a chemistry grade, and a new plan.
Find Jessie.
Ask him the truth.
And maybe bring a leash.
Just in case.
Scene 4: “Rachel Sharpens Things at Lunch”
There are three kinds of danger at Blood River High:
- The obvious, like dodgeballs laced with hexes.
- The subtle, like cafeteria meatloaf that blinks.
- And Rachel Sparks at lunch with cutlery.
I entered the cafeteria like a man entering a gladiator arena—head down, tray in hand, eyes scanning for flying fangs or flaming drama. Jessie was AWOL, probably naked and sprinting through the woods. Stacy was across the room deep in conversation with her vegan zombie rebound (still in his “cured kombucha cleanse” phase). And there, like a gothic goddess sharpening her patience into a murder weapon, sat Rachel.
Alone.
Table to herself.
Fork in one hand.
Steak knife in the other.
She wasn’t eating. Not yet.
She was... sharpening.
A wooden hairpin. With a knife that glinted silver. The kind of knife you didn’t buy in stores—you inherited it from an ancestor who once seduced Death and then stabbed him in the kneecap.
I sat across from her. Because I have no sense of self-preservation.
“You’re sitting,” she said without looking up.
“I’m brave now,” I replied, unwrapping my sandwich slowly in case it tried to bite me first.
Rachel examined her hairpin. Gave it one final stroke along the blade’s edge. Then slid it back into her ponytail like a secret promise.
“I heard Jessie howled,” she said.
“He transformed mid-chemistry quiz.”
She finally looked up. “Did he at least finish the test?”
“Better than me. Again. Even with claws.”
She smirked. “Furry jerk.”
I bit into my sandwich. Something inside crunched. I paused. Opened the bread. Found a baby bone. Labeled “cursed wish fragment.”
I sighed and tossed it onto the table like it was just another Tuesday. “So. Is everyone at this school secretly a monster?”
Rachel pulled a container from her bag. Inside: pudding. Smooth, brown, demonic. She stirred it with a spork shaped like a crossbow.
“Not everyone,” she said. “Just the interesting ones.”
“You’re not eating the pudding,” I noted.
“I’m watching it. It’s been moving lately.”
“Right.”
A freshman nervously approached the table. He was holding a flower. Actual rose. Slightly wilting. He was sweating.
“Um. Hi,” he said, voice wobbling like a Jell-O shot on a Ouija board. “Rachel, I was wondering if—um—you’d like to go to prom? With me?”
Rachel didn’t blink. She slowly unsheathed a second knife from her boot and used it to slice the air between them with all the warmth of a guillotine.
“Only if you survive the month.”
He fainted.
I kept chewing.
“Was that a no?” I asked, wiping mustard off my face.
“Depends on his recovery time.”
Rachel spooned some pudding. Held it in front of her lips. Stared directly at me.
“You haven’t asked anyone to prom.”
“Why would I? My aura’s allergic to commitment and most people here want to drink my blood.”
She tasted the pudding. Smiled.
“You’re funny when you’re scared.”
“I’m always scared.”
She passed me a napkin. I unfolded it.
Scrawled in dark ink:
Nice aura today. Almost like it’s learning to defend itself.
I choked. “Is this... a compliment or a warning?”
Rachel smirked. “Both.”
I stared at her for a moment. The way the candlelight (yes, there was candlelight in the cafeteria now, don’t ask) glinted off the blade in her boot. The way her pudding didn’t dare twitch anymore. The way she always looked like she could kill you or kiss you, depending on her mood—and maybe both in the same breath.
She stood. The table shivered.
“I’m heading to Ritual Theory,” she said. “Coming?”
“I thought you didn’t take that class.”
“I don’t.”
And she walked off, heels clicking, ponytail swaying like a sharpened metronome of doom.
I sat there. Alone. Staring down at my lunch, my cursed sandwich, and a napkin that somehow felt like the first line in a love hex.
And in that moment, I realized something awful.
I might actually be falling for her.
Scene 5: “PTA: Paranormal Tragedy Association”
“Welcome to detention,” said Vice Principal Shrike, a sentient trench coat with a clipboard. “You're here because you failed to evacuate during a werewolf event, used sarcasm in a sacred hex zone, and refused to eat your emotional stabilizer pudding.”
“I have dietary restrictions,” I mumbled.
“Fear is not a dietary restriction.”
So that’s how I ended up sitting in Multipurpose Room B, folding chair squeaking under me, surrounded by folding tables, cold coffee, and the faint smell of scorched sage. I thought detention meant writing lines or maybe being haunted by educational disappointment. But this?
This was a PTA meeting.
Not Parent Teacher Association. No. Here at Blood River High, it stood for:
Paranormal Tragedy Association.
A bureaucratic circle of hell designed to manage things like “student bloodlust incidents” and “cheerleaders summoning Beelzebub in the girl’s locker room.”
I glanced at the sign-in sheet. Among the names:
- Mrs. Grimsbane – Head Librarian & Moonlight Safety Officer
- Coach Fangley – Physical Exorcism Coordinator
- DeShawn Vexley – Vampire Football Captain
- Banshee Mom #3 – Vocal Representation
- Todd Hawkins – Punishment Observer (Aura Unstable)
They gave me a laminated visitor badge that read “Mostly Harmless (For Now)”.
Coach Fangley stood at the front of the room beside a PowerPoint labeled:
“Mitigating Paranormal Disruption Through Fog Machine Integration”
“Let’s begin,” he barked, pounding a gavel that was definitely just a femur.
“First order of business: hallway maulings.”
Grimsbane raised a hand. “The janitorial staff is still recovering from the claw marks in the west wing. The carpets are bleeding again.”
“Noted,” Fangley grunted.
“Also,” she added, adjusting her eyeball-shaped brooch, “someone replaced all the Latin safety wards with TikTok hexes. I caught a freshman twerking into a minor possession.”
“That’s called expression,” muttered one of the banshee moms, sipping from a mug labeled I Scream Because I Care.
“Expression,” Grimsbane hissed, “should not end with a blood pact and a missing mascot.”
A banshee at the far end shrieked high and long at the phrase “missing mascot.” Her husband handed her a crystal to scream into.
Coach Fangley cleared his throat. “Next issue: vampire monopolization of vending machines.”
DeShawn Vexley stood, fangs glinting, voice silky. “Look, we need plasma pouches between periods. Our blood sugar gets low and then we get... bitey.”
The crowd murmured.
I raised my hand.
Every head turned.
I regretted everything.
“Uh, I just wanted to ask—does anyone know if the garlic in the cafeteria hummus is, like, intentional?”
Silence.
Like... spiritual silence.
Grimsbane narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to sabotage interspecies lunch relations, Mr. Hawkins?”
“No! I just... my aura... it’s been inflamed lately.”
Vexley sniffed the air. “You’re the one with the haunted locker.”
“That was one time—”
“A demon tried to kiss you.”
“It was consensual-ish!”
Coach Fangley raised a clawed hand. “Enough. We’ll table garlic tensions. Moving on. Prom planning update?”
From the shadows, Mrs. Evernight emerged.
I hadn’t noticed her enter. Of course not. She doesn’t enter. She materializes.
She was draped in a black velvet pantsuit, eyes rimmed with smoky charm and vague threat. Her clipboard sparkled with evil glitter.
“Decor will feature starlight, soul-binding banners, and a dancefloor that reflects your darkest secrets,” she purred.
I raised my hand again.
Everyone glared.
“Will there be... snacks?”
Her lips curved. “Of course. Deviled eggs. Literally.”
Someone scribbled “Need sulfuric mayo” in a notebook.
Grimsbane asked, “Who’s handling the blood rite security perimeter?”
Rachel—seated in the back, flipping a silver coin—raised a hand. “I’ll stab whatever needs stabbing.”
Coach Fangley nodded. “Approved.”
I whispered to her, “You’re on the PTA?”
She grinned. “Detention hours count as community service.”
The meeting devolved into an argument about whether demonic possession required waivers or just parent initials.
I slipped my notebook out and scribbled:
TODD’S MEETING TAKEAWAYS:
– Vampires need vending snacks.
– Rachel volunteers to stab.
– Mrs. Evernight is in charge of everything.
– I might be the prom sacrifice.
– Garlic hummus is political now.
As the banshee next to me began keening softly about the lack of gluten-free necromancer options, Fangley slammed his femur gavel again.
“Meeting adjourned! Go in peace, and may your paranormal conflicts be mild and containable.”
Everyone filed out.
Mrs. Evernight passed me on the way to the door. Her fingers grazed my shoulder.
“You showed restraint today, Todd,” she whispered. “That’s... promising.”
My blood pressure screamed. I nodded. Maybe saluted. Not sure.
Rachel smacked a leftover jelly packet into her dagger sheath and muttered, “You’re not going to survive prom, are you?”
“Nope.”
She tossed me a second napkin with a rune I didn’t recognize.
“You’ll want that later,” she said.
I stared at it.
It blinked.
Just a little.
I left the meeting mentally scorched, spiritually singed, and more convinced than ever that detention at Blood River High was just a bureaucratic form of dark comedy.
Still, I survived.
Barely.
For now.
Scene 6: “Todd’s First Kiss Is Mostly Teeth”
There are a few things you expect your first kiss to be:
Magical.
Sweaty.
Possibly awkward.
You do not, however, expect it to involve a fang nick and moderate blood loss.
But this is Blood River High.
And I am Todd Hawkins.
Which means we do things… traumatically.
It started after dusk, when the world was slipping into that weirdly purple light and the crows were circling a little too rhythmically. I was heading to my bike when I heard someone say my name in a voice that slid straight down my spine.
“Todd.”
I turned.
Stacy.
Leaning against the back wall of the gym like a Calvin Klein ad for heartbreak. She wore all black—of course. Boots laced up like declarations of war. Her dark hair fluttered slightly, even though there was no wind. The moon hit her just right, like it had shown up to prom early to fangirl.
“You got a minute?” she asked.
I nodded, instantly convinced I’d forget how to speak in three seconds.
She pushed off the wall and walked toward me, slow and smooth, like someone who was either about to kiss me or slap a blood-binding rune onto my forehead.
My brain: Please let it be the first one. Unless it’s both. Both is good.
She stopped just a little too close. Her eyes studied my face like she was looking for something fragile to accidentally crush with affection.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“That’s illegal,” I whispered.
She smirked.
“I think I like you.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
My heart exploded and tried to crawl out of my chest to high-five the universe.
“Like…” I asked, barely audible, “like you like me, or like you’d spare me if we were in a post-apocalyptic vampire uprising scenario?”
She laughed, quiet and gorgeous. “Little of both.”
I swallowed. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”
She tilted her head, expression serious now. “You’re weird, Todd.”
“I get that a lot.”
“But you’re also... honest. Honest in a way that feels good. And rare.”
I blinked. “I thought I was just sweaty and loud.”
“You are. But you’re mine now.”
And then—
She leaned in.
No hesitation. No dramatic music. Just soft lips, quiet breath, and me, standing still like a tree getting kissed by a hurricane.
It was everything.
Warm.
Brief.
Sharp?
Wait.
Sharp?!
I flinched back.
She gasped, hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
I touched my lip.
Blood.
Not much.
Just a little.
But it was definitely blood.
“You—uh—you bit me.”
“Just a nick!” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to! It’s... I’m still figuring out the tooth situation.”
I dabbed at my mouth with my sleeve. “Okay, okay, no big deal. First kiss, a little blood. Very on brand. Right? Goth romance, teenage pain, minor medical incident—”
She paced. “I told Mrs. Evernight I wasn’t ready. She said the bite reflex would mellow if I did more mindfulness rituals—”
“You talk about your fangs with your mom?!”
“She keeps a spreadsheet!”
“I’m gonna pass out.”
“Don’t you dare!”
Too late.
Everything tilted.
Then—
Darkness.
I woke up on a bench behind the gym. It smelled like chalk dust, regret, and vampire panic.
There were tissues stuffed in my nostrils. My lip was throbbing gently.
Next to me, a folded note.
Sorry. Still learning.
– S
I stared at it for a long time.
She drew a bat emoji.
How was I supposed to be mad?
I pulled out my notebook.
TODD’S FIRST KISS REPORT
? Initiated by Stacy.
? Warm and consensual.
? Bitten.
? Bled.
? Blacked out.
? Would do again. With mouth guard.
I stood slowly, my knees still weak and my dignity recovering in a shallow grave nearby.
It wasn’t perfect.
It wasn’t sparkly.
But it was mine.
And now, officially:
I’ve kissed a vampire.
I survived.
Mostly.
Just another milestone at Blood River High.
Scene 7: “Why Is the Librarian a Witch?”
The next morning I shuffled into the school library like a man who had kissed a vampire, blacked out from blood loss, and woke up with bat glitter in his hair.
Because I had.
My lip was still sore, bandaged with two “hello kitty” stickers and some sort of clove-scented ointment I found in Jessie’s gym bag (I didn’t ask, he didn’t tell). My aura, according to Rachel, was “flickering like a bad rave.”
And I needed answers.
Specifically about accidental love spells, dental-based trauma bonding, and whether a papercut that oozes purple is considered a minor or major curse.
The library was eerily quiet.
Well, quieter than usual. Normally you hear whispers that aren't connected to mouths, books rearranging themselves in protest, or the occasional pained moan from the occult aisle.
But today, just silence. And a smell like burnt sage and antique secrets.
Then I saw her.
Mrs. Grimsbane.
The librarian.
A woman who looked like she had brewed tea with souls and filed taxes for the dead. Her hair was iron-gray and perpetually levitating in some unseen breeze. Her shawl sparkled faintly with embedded runes. She moved like someone who had cursed kingdoms before coffee.
She looked up the moment I stepped inside.
“Todd,” she said, voice like rustling parchment and vaguely ominous honey. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Of course she had.
I approached the counter, clutching my notebook to my chest like it could shield me from eldritch bureaucracy.
“Hi. Hello. So. Quick question. Hypothetically—if someone kissed a vampire and maybe there was, like, a spark and maybe some blood—what section would that fall under?”
Mrs. Grimsbane didn’t even blink. She turned, plucked a glowing tome off a shelf behind her, and slammed it down with a thud that rattled my dental work.
HEXUAL EDUCATION: A Comprehensive Guide to Magical Misfires, Miscommunication, and Unintended Emotional Bonding.
I stared at the cover. It stared back.
“Is this... safe?”
“Define safe.”
She handed me a pair of gloves.
I sat at the reading table, opened to the index, and immediately got a papercut.
“OW—seriously?!”
Blood welled up.
Not red.
Purple.
Like grape juice and trauma.
The book purred.
Mrs. Grimsbane looked over. “Don’t drip on the pages. They remember.”
I stuck my finger in my mouth and muttered, “What are you?”
She smiled. “A librarian, dear. And a very disappointed witch.”
I flipped through the pages, scanning topics like:
- “Soul-Bonding for Beginners”
- “Your Aura and You: Flammable Personality Types”
- “The Bite Means Maybe: Navigating Fanged Affection”
- “Curses, Crushes, and Cryptic Consent”
I froze on a page titled:
“Lust Runes and Unstable Boys Named Todd.”
It was underlined. Twice.
I turned slowly toward the desk.
“Have I... been in this book before?”
Mrs. Grimsbane poured something from a teapot shaped like a screaming skull.
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she said, “You’re not the first Todd to kiss something he shouldn’t. But you might be the first to survive it with a working pulse and a full tongue.”
“I’m honored. Terrified. But honored.”
“Just wait until the craving hits.”
I blinked. “What craving?”
She smiled again.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t elaborate.
I wrote in my notebook:
NOTES:
– Papercut = not normal
– Mrs. Grimsbane = witch confirmed
– Books = possibly sentient
– My name is cursed
– I have been referenced in print
– There is now a craving I must worry about
I closed the book. It hissed. The gloves turned black around the fingertips. The air smelled like eucalyptus and mild panic.
Mrs. Grimsbane handed me a sealed envelope with a wax stamp.
“This appeared when you opened the index. It’s for you.”
I stared at it. “Did the book... write me a letter?”
“It dictated one.”
I opened it.
Inside:
Dear Todd,
You are now 72% entangled in an active enchantment. Side effects may include: impulsive attraction, aura static, prophetic kissing, and mild levitation near Stacy Evernight.
Congratulations. You’re part of the curriculum now.
Love,
The Archive
I sat there. Stunned.
“Does this mean I’m magically bonded to Stacy?!”
Mrs. Grimsbane sipped her tea. “No, dear. It means you might be. Which is worse. Because now the outcome depends on how dramatic your feelings are.”
I whimpered. “They’re VERY dramatic.”
“Good,” she said, slamming the book shut. “That makes it interesting.”
Scene 8: “Prom Planning and Paranormal Panic”
It was supposed to be a casual after-school meeting.
Five students. A whiteboard. Some glitter glue. Maybe a banner that said “Dance Like Nobody’s Cursed.”
Instead, I walked into Room 13B—also known as the Home Ec Dungeon—and found a full-blown war table glowing with red runes and prom flyers written in blood-compatible ink.
“Ah, Hawkins,” said Vice Principal Shrike, appearing from a shadow that hadn’t existed two seconds ago. “Excellent. Our... final committee member.”
“Wait, what?” I blinked. “I didn’t join this committee.”
“You were voted in.”
“By who?”
“By the cursed hat in Lost & Found.”
He gestured to the corner, where a moldy top hat sat humming to itself.
Rachel was already at the table, leaning back in her chair and casually spinning a stake between her fingers. Jessie stood by the refreshment layout board, chewing on something that may have once been a stress ball. Stacy sat across from me, studiously ignoring my face like she hadn’t bitten me two nights ago under the gym bleachers.
Mrs. Evernight, of course, presided from the head of the table like a sexy prom CEO of doom.
“Let’s begin,” she said, adjusting her silk cape (yes, cape), and unveiling a scroll that rolled itself across the entire length of the table.
Jessie whistled. “That’s long.”
“That’s fate,” she said.
I leaned over Rachel’s shoulder to read the heading:
PROM THEME: “Moonlight and Midnight Sacrifices.”
I blinked. “Sacrifices??”
Rachel smirked. “It’s metaphorical.”
Mrs. Evernight raised one eyebrow. “Mostly.”
Jessie handed me a prom duties list. It was written in cursive and blood.
Decor: Rachel (plus sigil warding)
DJ: Jessie (as long as he doesn’t shed on the soundboard)
Refreshments: Assigned to a coven of gluten-free witches
Chaperone: Mrs. Evernight (unless blood moon activates, then auto-delegated to Coach Fangley)
Main Attraction: ???
The last entry had a sticky note attached.
“Should probably be Todd. He’s glowy lately.” —R
I turned to Rachel. “Did you vote for me to be the attraction?”
She nodded. “It was unanimous. Even the hat agreed.”
Jessie shrugged. “Your aura is loud.”
“I don’t want to be an attraction!” I cried. “At best, I’m a side quest!”
“Too late,” Mrs. Evernight said. “The bond has begun.”
“The what now?”
She leaned forward. Her smile was equal parts seductive and apocalyptic.
“Your kiss with Stacy activated a latent soul-thread. The archive confirmed it. That thread will glow under moonlight. And prom... happens to fall on a blood moon.”
“Is that bad?”
“No,” she said sweetly. “It’s just very... attention-grabbing.”
I slumped in my chair, head in my hands.
Stacy finally spoke. “We don’t have to make it a big thing.”
“You bit me.”
“You were bleeding anyway.”
“Not the point.”
Jessie muttered, “You guys are cute in a ‘this is how prophecies happen’ kind of way.”
Rachel added, “Don’t worry. If the crowd turns feral, I’ll stake whoever lunges first.”
“Reassuring,” I deadpanned.
Mrs. Evernight clapped once. The scroll rolled itself up with a puff of enchanted dust.
“We’re done here. Todd, stay a moment.”
The others filed out—Jessie wolfing down a moon-shaped cookie, Rachel eyeing Stacy like a threat she half-approved of, and Stacy slipping me a folded note with a tiny fang doodle before vanishing.
I turned to Mrs. Evernight, who stood before me like a dream you try to explain but just end up sweating.
“What... exactly am I supposed to do?” I asked.
She smirked. “Shine.”
“Is there a magical term for ‘panic attack in slow motion’?”
“Not one that isn’t banned by the Ministry.”
She placed a hand over my chest. My shirt didn’t burn, but it smoldered.
“Your heart is changing,” she said. “You’re becoming something rare. Something very, very... interesting.”
“That sounds like a medical condition.”
“It’s more of a destiny.”
I swallowed hard. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“You kissed a vampire under a full moon while emotionally unstable. That’s basically a contract.”
She leaned in.
“Now go. Pick a tux that won’t combust under supernatural scrutiny.”
I stumbled out of the room and down the hallway, heart pounding, Stacy’s note crumpled in my fist.
I opened it.
“You’re not ready. Neither am I. But maybe that’s why this works. – S”
I exhaled.
Long.
Slow.
Then immediately Googled:
“how to survive a blood rite with style.”
Because prom was coming.
And I was the main event.