Scene 1: “Stacy’s Mom Takes Me for a Ride (On Her Coffin Motorcycle)”
It started the way most of my poor decisions do: with a vroom, a wink, and Mrs. Evernight straddling a motorcycle that looked like it had rolled straight out of a haunted Fast & Furious reboot.
I was exiting school, still emotionally hungover from prom planning (theme: Moonlight and Midnight Sacrifices—absolutely NOT metaphorical), when I heard it—the deep, guttural purr of an engine powered by sin and coffin polish. I turned, and there she was, leaning casually against her bike like a gothic perfume commercial no one was emotionally prepared for.
The motorcycle itself? A sleek black beast, shaped unmistakably like a stylized coffin with bat-wing mirrors, red trim that pulsed like a heartbeat, and a faint mist curling off the tailpipes. There were faint runes etched into the exhaust. The headlight blinked. Twice.
Mrs. Evernight, naturally, was dressed for the occasion.
Black leather riding pants, boots laced with silver thread, a blood-red blouse with the top three buttons undone (which was, mathematically, the exact number required to destroy me), and oversized sunglasses shaped like upside-down hearts. Her lipstick matched fresh blood. Her smirk matched danger.
She patted the seat behind her.
“Hop on, Todd. I don’t bite…” Her glasses lowered slightly, revealing eyes that gleamed like secrets. “Unless you ask nicely.”
I forgot how to exhale.
“I—I don’t have a helmet.”
“You won’t need one.”
“Is that because I’m going to die?”
“Possibly,” she purred. “But what a way to go.”
My legs moved before my brain did. I swung onto the back of the coffin bike, gripping the back handlebar with the nervous energy of a boy who’d Googled “do vampires date high schoolers” one too many times. The seat was made of something soft but definitely not ethical.
She revved the engine.
The bike growled.
Not purred. Not roared.
Growled.
Then we were off.
Down the road. Past the gates. Into the woods. Through the veil of what I’m 80% sure was sentient fog.
I screamed once.
Just a little.
She laughed—a rich, velvety sound like vintage sin.
“Relax,” she called over the wind. “It’s not a ride if you’re not a little terrified.”
“That’s a red flag, Mrs. Evernight!”
“Call me Veronica,” she replied, hair whipping back and slapping me in the face with subtle perfume and probably ancient power.
We passed Raven Hollow Cemetery, then veered into it, gliding between tombstones like a bat out of after-school detention. A ghost horse whinnied at us from a nearby mausoleum. I may have shrieked. She did not slow down.
“Do you do this with all your students?” I yelled.
She glanced back. “Only the ones who bleed beautifully.”
I swallowed my own scream.
The sunset dipped behind the hills as we sped along the cemetery ridge. Ravens circled. The bike howled—actually howled—as we hit the overlook. She finally skidded to a perfect stop at the edge of a cliff lined with crumbling statues and questionable Latin graffiti.
The engine sighed.
I, meanwhile, was holding onto the seat like I’d just been reborn through fear and inappropriate attraction.
She got off first, fluid and feline, then offered me a gloved hand. I took it. Mostly because my legs had stopped functioning.
She led me to the edge and stared out across the fog-slicked hills.
“When I was your age,” she said softly, “this whole town was different. Simpler. Louder. Hungrier.”
“You mean... the 1800s?”
She smirked. “Close. 1874.”
“Right. Cool. Definitely cool and not terrifying.”
She turned toward me, face shadowed, haloed in dusk.
“I was married once,” she said. “Briefly. He thought he could save me. Very sweet. Very stupid.”
“Did he die tragically?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “I just got bored.”
I nodded. “You know, I’ve never been on a date that involved ghost horses and subtle homicide threats.”
She stepped closer. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
“You’re not on a date,” she whispered.
“Oh.”
She leaned in—very close. Her lips hovered inches from my neck.
“Yet.”
My brain short-circuited. My aura tried to evacuate my body. Somewhere, my soul composed a will and left me all my hoodies.
“I—I should probably—uh—go home?”
She stepped back, ever so slightly.
“You should,” she said, eyes dancing. “But you won’t.”
She pulled something from her pocket. A key. Silver. Shaped like a fang.
She pressed it into my palm.
“For later,” she said. “In case you decide you want more than a ride.”
Then she walked back to the bike, straddled it like a war goddess, and revved the engine again.
I stood there, key in hand, fully erect with existential panic.
She waved.
“Tell your aura I said goodnight.”
And she vanished in a puff of tire smoke and crimson mist.
I sat down on a nearby tombstone.
Took a breath.
Wrote in my notebook:
THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED TO TODD TODAY:
– Rode a coffin bike
– Got a key shaped like a fang
– Might be accidentally dating a vampire MILF
– Screamed at a ghost horse
– Questioned my life choices (again)
– Do I need therapy or a holy water bath?
And then, because this is me, I passed out for exactly eight minutes.
Right there. On the grave of someone named Silas Evernight.
Because of course.
Scene 2: “Jessie Confesses. So Does the Moon”
“Bring bug spray,” Jessie had texted.
Followed by: “And maybe something emotional.”
It was 11:59 p.m.
There I was—hiking through Blood River Forest, branches clawing at my hoodie, flashlight flickering like it owed someone money—on the eve of a full freaking moon, because my best friend said he “had something to talk about.”
Which at this school could mean:
- He was in love.
- He was cursed.
- He was turning into a tree.
I found him in a clearing, seated on a rock like a brooding wood nymph with pecs.
Shirtless, obviously.
Because when isn’t Jessie shirtless?
His skin glowed moon-gold. His hair looked like it was absorbing the moonlight and transforming it into shampoo commercials. His jeans were rolled up like he was prepared to sprint or philosophize. Maybe both.
“You came,” he said, tossing me a root beer from a cooler that looked suspiciously cursed.
“I always come when someone says ‘bring bug spray and emotions,’” I replied, plopping onto the grass beside him.
We drank in silence for a second.
Then he said, “Bro... I gotta tell you something.”
I turned slowly. “Are you dying?”
“No.”
“Are we dying?”
“Also no.”
“Are you pregnant?”
Jessie laughed. “No. I’m... not like other guys.”
“Oh God, it is a gender reveal.”
He turned to face me. Serious. Luminous.
“I’m a werewolf, Todd.”
I blinked.
Waited.
Then blinked again.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s not it,” he said. “That’s huge.”
“Jessie, I watched you eat an entire steak with your hands last week and then scratch behind your ear with your foot. This is not a twist.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected. There was fur. And the tail. And the time you growled when I opened hummus.”
He sighed. “I wanted to tell you, like, earlier. But I didn’t want you to freak out.”
“I kissed a vampire and passed out in a graveyard. This is the least weird thing I’ve done all week.”
Jessie smiled.
Then stood.
The wind picked up. Dramatically. As if it had a flair for emotional moments.
He looked up at the moon.
“Do you want to see it?” he asked.
“The transformation?”
He nodded.
“I mean… yeah,” I said, like an idiot. “How bad could it be?”
He closed his eyes.
Took a breath.
And then—it started.
Bones shifted.
Clothes stretched.
His spine arched, and fur spilled from his skin like the moon was pulling it out of him. His hands turned to paws—clawed, muscled, trembling with force. His nose elongated. His teeth grew. His eyes went from hazel to glowing wolf gold.
I screamed.
Just a little.
He growled—loud, guttural, echoing off the trees like a war chant from a sexy shampoo ad gone feral.
Then he stood there, towering, fully transformed.
A very large, very hairy, very shirtless werewolf.
Still wearing jeans. Barely.
And, somehow, still hot.
I ducked behind a log.
“Okay!” I squeaked. “Wow! Yep! Just as furry as advertised!”
Jessie—now Wolf-Jessie—snorted.
Then, in a rumbling voice, he said, “Don’t be weird, Todd.”
“You have fangs!” I shouted. “And paws! And—why are your abs more defined like this?!”
He flopped onto the grass, huge and huffing. Not threatening. Just... tired.
I peeked over the log.
“You okay?”
He nodded. “It gets itchy around the elbows.”
I crawled out. Sat beside him.
“So... what does this mean? Like... for us?”
He looked up. Moonlight shimmered on his fur.
“I dunno. I just wanted to tell someone. And I wanted that someone to be you.”
My chest warmed. Either from feelings or fear. It was hard to tell.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I mean, you did once bite the PE teacher’s whistle in half. So the signs were there.”
Jessie laughed.
Then, after a pause, he said:
“I like Rachel.”
I nodded. “That’s fair.”
“And maybe... Stacy.”
“Also fair.”
He turned to me, eyes soft.
“And I think I might like... soup.”
I blinked. “Soup?”
“You make good soup.”
I stared.
Jessie gave me a half-smile—half-wolf, all chaos.
“I might like you, too, Todd.”
My soul briefly left my body.
Then re-entered with a full blush and a mental note to cry about this later.
“I don’t know what’s happening anymore,” I said softly.
“That’s the point,” he replied.
We sat in the clearing, under a wolf moon, beside a cooler of enchanted root beers, with the sound of distant ghost howls echoing in the hills.
It was weird.
It was wild.
It was wonderful.
Jessie howled once—loud, proud, echoing from his chest like a confession.
And somewhere inside me, I felt a little braver.
Even if I still screamed when he licked my face.
Scene 3: “Todd Tries to Be Cool and Fails Spectacularly”
I woke up feeling powerful.
Okay, maybe not powerful, but definitely emotionally swollen.
Jessie had turned into a werewolf under the moon, howled his feelings, then licked my face. I’d survived. I’d bonded. I’d maybe been sort-of confessed to via soup metaphor. Which meant...
Today was cool Todd’s day.
So I did what any sixteen-year-old freshly flushed with confidence and supernatural drama would do:
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
I reinvented myself.
Step 1: Leather jacket. Slightly too big. Smells like a thrift store and wet ambition.
Step 2: Hair gel. Overused. Slight curl still visible. Possibly flammable.
Step 3: Sunglasses indoors. Classic move. Timeless. Obnoxious. Ready for rejection.
Step 4: “Walk like you’re in a music video.” — Quote from Jessie, 4 hours post-howling.
I slow-walked down the hallway like a myth no one asked for, ignoring the muffled giggles and the audible whisper of “why is Todd dressed like he lost a bet to a biker ghost?”
Confidence. I was radiating it. Or something like it. Or possibly just nervous sweat mixed with expired cologne.
I shoved open the double doors of the cafeteria like I was entering a Western.
Eyes turned.
Forks paused midair.
One goth kid dropped his protein shake.
I had ARRIVED.
And then my foot hit something.
Something slick.
Something cold.
Something very, very red.
Blood.
Well, okay—Blood Drive Booth blood. It had spilled. Apparently, they’d had a little accident trying to restock the O-negative next to the chocolate milk.
My boot slid.
My confidence died.
I wiped out like I was auditioning for a B-horror remake of Grease.
My tray flew into the air—nachos, juice box, dignity.
I hit the tile hard.
Directly into a pool of someone’s spilled plasma smoothie.
The entire cafeteria gasped.
Stacy stood nearby. She slowly turned.
“Are you bleeding again?” she asked, deadpan.
Rachel, spooning yogurt with a silver dagger, muttered from her seat, “Just emotionally.”
I stared at the ceiling tiles. One had a crack shaped like a disappointed bat.
I tried to sit up. The ketchup packet in my jacket pocket exploded with tragic symbolism across my chest.
Rachel tossed me a napkin without looking.
“It’s not helping,” I whispered.
“I didn’t say it would.”
Jessie, now somehow at my side, offered me a hand. “Cool entrance, bro.”
“I was trying a vibe.”
“The vibe was concussed.”
He helped me to my feet. The cafeteria was still watching. Someone clapped. I wanted to die and/or become vapor.
“I had a whole... thing planned,” I muttered. “I was gonna do the lean-and-smirk at Stacy. Rachel was gonna roll her eyes. You were gonna fist bump me. We were gonna own this day.”
Jessie looked me over. “You’re covered in blood and condiments.”
“Do I still look hot?”
“You look like a sexy trauma patient.”
“Close enough.”
I sprint-hobbled out of the cafeteria and locked myself in the janitor’s closet.
Sat on an overturned mop bucket.
Stared at the smudge on the mirror labeled “Reflect only if emotionally stable.”
My reflection looked like a disaster who’d watched The Lost Boys once and took all the wrong notes.
I sighed.
Pulled out my notebook.
TODD’S PUBLIC HUMILIATION SCORECARD:
– Leather jacket = too squeaky
– Hair gel = flammable and now full of beef juice
– Sunglasses = cracked, possibly cursed
– Blood pool dive = unintentional
– Stacy = confused
– Rachel = arched eyebrow of doom
– Jessie = amused and slightly too helpful
– Overall rating = 2/10, would not recommend
From behind the door, I heard Rachel’s voice drift by.
“Was that ketchup or arterial spray?”
Jessie’s voice replied: “It’s Todd. So... both?”
I groaned.
This wasn’t how cool Todd was supposed to debut.
This was how cool Todd got banned from prom for blood-related food safety violations.
I whispered to myself, “You’re still cool. You’re just... redefining it.”
The mop bucket squeaked in response.
Outside, someone opened the door, paused, then slid in a single moist towelette packet.
It was labeled For When It’s Both Your Blood and Your Sauce.
I pressed it to my forehead like it was holy.
I may not have been cool.
I may have looked like a crime scene and smelled like regret.
But dammit, I tried.
Scene 4: “Rachel Wants Blood. Not Like That.”
There are places in Blood River High where the lights flicker just a little longer, where the janitors mutter prayers under their breath, and where you know—know—you’re not supposed to be after third period.
So of course that’s where I found Rachel.
I was still damp with cafeteria shame, blood (some of it mine), and the spiritual residue of failed swagger when I ducked into the back hallway behind the auditorium to hide.
That’s when I saw her.
Rachel Sparks.
Leaning against a faded mural of the original Blood River settlers.
Arms crossed.
Boot propped against the wall.
Expression unreadable.
The mural itself? Dusty and weird. Muted figures in buckled shoes, painted in unsettling earth tones, all staring at a river that looked suspiciously red. One figure—female, tall, dark hair—was holding a dagger up to the sky like she’d just canceled a man and felt great about it.
Rachel was staring at her.
Silent.
I cleared my throat. “Hey.”
She didn’t look at me. “You’re dripping ketchup on a ghost.”
I looked down. She was right. My shirt was still stained from the cafeteria incident, and a glob of red was sliding off my sleeve onto one of the painted pilgrims’ haunted eyes.
“I was going for a cool moment,” I said. “I landed in a blood puddle and got heckled by a vegan vampire.”
Rachel finally turned. Her gaze was sharp. Tired. And something else.
Fear.
“I know what you did,” she said.
I blinked. “In the cafeteria? Because I swear that wasn’t on purpose—”
“No,” she cut in. “The spell. The one in the bathroom. You read something. You woke something.”
My spine iced over.
“I thought that book was a joke,” I whispered.
“It wasn’t.”
Rachel walked up to the mural. Tapped a name beneath the dagger-wielding woman. Rosalind Sparks. Her great-great-grandmother.
“She was the town’s first sanctioned hunter,” she said. “She staked half of these people. Because they weren’t people anymore.”
I stayed silent.
Rachel turned to me. Her eyes glittered—but not with magic.
With memory.
“With every generation, the blood calls to someone. Someone stupid. Someone good. Someone who doesn’t know how much danger they’re in.”
I tried to steady my breath. “So... me.”
She didn’t deny it.
“You think this ritual thing is just about prom and kissing girls and getting glitter in your soul? It’s not.”
Her voice cracked, just a little.
“It’s older than all of us. It doesn’t care about crushes. It wants blood. Real blood. The kind that sticks to you.”
Something in my chest curled.
“Why are you telling me this?”
She stepped closer.
“Because I don’t want to stake you.”
“That’s...comforting.”
Her face softened. Just slightly.
“You’re not built for this, Todd. You make dumb jokes and you apologize when you bump into lockers.”
“I’m very polite under duress.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
“But something wants you. Probably to chew on. And I don’t think you’re ready.”
Silence stretched between us.
So I did the only thing I could: I told the truth.
“I know I’m not. But I’m trying. Even if all I’ve done so far is flirt poorly, bleed often, and summon a spell while trying to pee.”
Rachel exhaled.
“I hate that I believe you.”
“I hate that you might have to kill me.”
She stepped closer.
“I won’t kill you unless you start floating and your eyes go black.”
“That’s my Tuesday plan.”
She rolled her eyes. But softer this time.
“Just... promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“If it gets bad—really bad—you’ll let me end it. Quick. Clean. With flair.”
I swallowed. “Flair?”
She pulled a silver hairpin from her ponytail.
It was sharp. Ancient. And very, very shiny.
“Glitter bomb finale.”
I nodded. “Fair.”
She tucked it back into her hair. Stepped past me. Paused.
Then, with her back still turned, she said:
“You have a good heart, Todd. Try not to waste it.”
And just like that, she disappeared around the corner, boots echoing like a warning.
I stood there, staring at the mural of her ancestor, and tried not to panic.
TODD’S MENTAL TO-DO LIST:
– Avoid floating.
– Don’t bleed near murals.
– Don’t kiss any more girls without reading the magical fine print.
– Rachel may kill me. But only lovingly.
– I am maybe the Chosen One. Or maybe just cursed.
I wiped ghost ketchup off the wall.
And kept walking.
Toward whatever the hell came next.
Scene 5: “Werewolf Speed Dating Is a Thing”
If you’ve never been to a werewolf speed dating event held in an abandoned bowling alley under a waxing gibbous moon—congratulations. You’re winning life.
I, unfortunately, was not.
Jessie had dragged me here with the energy of a Labrador who’d just learned he had feelings and no emotional boundaries.
“I need this, man,” he said, pulling on a sleeveless flannel and rubbing moon oil behind his ears. “I’ve been tense.”
“You turned into a werewolf, howled at the moon, and confessed your affection via soup. How much more emotionally regular can you be?”
He grinned, his fangs barely peeking. “Tonight’s about options.”
The moment we entered Blood River Lanes, I knew two things:
- This was no longer a bowling alley.
- I was about to be traumatized by speed-flirted fur.
The lights were dim, the air thick with pheromones and hints of beef jerky. The lanes had been replaced with a series of candlelit tables, each covered in wolf-themed name cards (“LunaSnuggles,” “BiteMeSoftly69,” “GrowlDaddy”). A disco ball shaped like a full moon rotated overhead, casting shimmering light across the crowd of very attractive, very hairy individuals in varying degrees of denim and damage.
“Why am I here?” I hissed.
“Support,” Jessie said. “Also, moral witness in case I get emotionally mauled.”
A werewolf in a crop top and gold chain walked by, sniffed Jessie’s bicep, and winked at me with eyes like nighttime sin.
I made a squeaking sound. Jessie slapped my back.
“Relax. They can smell fear.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of! I reek of fear! I bathed in it this morning!”
A wolf-woman with violet hair and a nose ring strutted up to Jessie. She sniffed. Slowly. Like she was evaluating him for potential pack mating rights or just a good cuddle.
“You’re new,” she said.
Jessie blinked. “Uh. Yeah.”
“I’m Luna.”
“Of course you are,” I muttered.
She ignored me.
“You smell... complicated,” she purred, then full-body sniffed his ear.
I watched. Helpless. Fascinated. Emotionally wilting.
“You’re cute,” she said. “In a brooding-sad-boy-turns-into-a-beast sort of way.”
Jessie blushed. “Thanks. I moisturize.”
She led him to a table. He didn’t even look back.
I was alone.
At a werewolf speed dating event.
In a bowling alley.
Wearing a ketchup-stained hoodie.
Then someone shoved a clipboard into my hands.
“Name?” the coordinator asked. She was wearing a blazer and had fangs. Very efficient.
“I—I’m not a wolf.”
“We’re inclusive,” she said flatly. “Besides, you smell claimed. Sit.”
She shoved me onto a folding chair across from someone with big brown eyes and a fluffy halo of hair. Small frame. Tail wagging nervously. Wearing a pink hoodie that read “Bite Me Later—I’m Shy”.
“Hi!” she said. “I’m Mocha. I’m a were-poodle.”
Of course.
“Hi,” I replied. “I’m Todd. I’m a... mistake.”
The bell rang. 90 seconds.
“Do you believe in soul-mates?” she asked earnestly.
“I believe in soul insurance,” I said.
She giggled.
This was worse.
“So what’s your howl frequency?” she asked, twirling a curl around her finger.
“I... sing in the shower?”
She gasped. “Oh my God. A baritone?”
The bell rang.
She was replaced by a hulking, tattooed wolfman named Hank whose dating card literally just said “Likes Bones”.
I spent the next eight rotations trying to politely dodge questions like:
- “Do you like spooning or howling after?”
- “Would you consider joint territory ownership in the next lunar cycle?”
- “Do you shed under stress?”
Jessie, meanwhile, was absolutely vibing with Luna. They were laughing. Sharing a marrow-sicle. Probably already planning matching flannels.
Finally, after the last bell rang and a slow jam started playing (“Hungry Like the Wolf,” of course), I found Jessie leaning against a claw-scratched vending machine.
“How’d it go?” I asked, collapsing beside him.
“I got four numbers, two scent tokens, and an invite to a lunar picnic.”
“I got licked.”
Jessie paused. “Where?”
“Spiritually.”
We watched Luna wave at him. Her tail wagged with purpose.
“She likes you,” I said.
“She’s cool,” he replied. “Fun. Chill.”
“Not cursed?”
“Not yet.”
There was a long pause.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’ve been emotionally chewed on from every angle this week. I kissed a vampire, got a key from her mom, was maybe chosen for prom sacrifice, and now I smell like anxiety and someone else’s meat pheromones.”
Jessie nodded. “High school’s wild.”
We both laughed.
And then, like bros under a full moon and disco lights, we fist-bumped.
Traumatized?
Yes.
Bonded?
Definitely.
Scene 6: “Blood Drive Gone Wrong”
I knew something was wrong the second the blood cooler purred.
Not hummed.
Not buzzed.
Purred.
Like a very satisfied, possibly carnivorous housecat.
It was Tuesday. Blood Drive Day. A time-honored tradition where the supernatural community donated excess plasma “for the cause” and the rest of us were bribed with juice boxes and bonus aura points.
I wasn’t even supposed to be there.
Technically, I was just walking past the gym on my way to hide in the library and stress-eat educational bookmarks. But Jessie flagged me down with a wave and a lanyard that read “Honorary Bleeder.”
“You’re healthy-ish,” he said. “Give something back.”
“I’ve already given blood,” I protested.
“You gave ketchup.”
“It was an emotionally symbolic condiment spill!”
Before I could escape, someone shoved a clipboard in my hands and pointed me toward a table surrounded by velvet ropes and nurses with suspiciously long teeth.
I sat down. A nurse dabbed my arm with something that smelled like basil and regret.
Across the gym, the Blood Coolers stood like ominous soda machines, humming and fogging faintly.
Then it happened.
A thump.
A rattle.
And then...
A SCREAM.
High-pitched.
Wet.
Followed by the most cursed slurp I’ve ever heard.
The cooler hissed open—and exploded.
Not with blood.
No.
With LEECHES.
Hundreds. Thousands. Swirling in a red mist like evil confetti.
Screams erupted.
Students ran.
One kid dove into a trashcan and refused to come out.
Rachel—because of course Rachel was already mid-combat pose—pulled a stake from her boot and threw it across the gym through a Kool-Aid Man poster and directly into a cluster of airborne leeches.
Mrs. Evernight glided in from the shadows like a Victoria’s Secret bat demon, swooping a silk cloak around a cloud of fanged slugs and siphoning plasma with one elegant gesture.
Jessie tackled a leech the size of a cat. Wrestled it into a recycling bin. Flexed. It popped.
I?
I stood there.
Holding a half-filled blood bag.
Covered—covered—in plasma.
My hoodie was officially more stain than fabric. My aura flickered like a faulty nightlight. I smelled like expired juice and panic.
And then one of the leeches landed on my shoulder.
It looked at me.
I looked at it.
And I screamed.
I screamed into my pudding cup.
Because instinct is weird.
The leech hissed.
I flailed.
I slammed my pudding down and it splattered everywhere—face, shirt, emotional core.
“WHY IS THIS MY LIFE?!” I howled.
The leech flew off, possibly offended.
Rachel materialized beside me and wiped something off my cheek with a napkin that smelled like holy water and disappointment.
“Don’t scream into dairy,” she muttered.
Jessie ran over, chest heaving, arms covered in leech guts and possibly strawberry jam.
“You good?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I have trauma in my hair.”
“Only a few escaped,” Rachel said.
I blinked. “Only?”
Mrs. Evernight floated past us, holding a writhing blood cooler sealed with glowing runes.
“This one’s going back to the vault,” she said calmly, like she hadn’t just fought an airborne blood infestation.
“What even was that?” I gasped.
She paused. Smiled faintly.
“Prom appetizer test. They got the timing wrong.”
I whimpered.
Jessie patted my back.
“You’re covered in protein,” he said, way too cheerfully.
I turned to Rachel.
“Please stab me.”
“Not today,” she said. “You’re already leaking.”
We all stood in silence as the last of the blood mist settled.
My shoes squelched.
The trashcan kid peeked out. Then ducked back in.
Mrs. Evernight clapped once.
“Well done, everyone. Bonus aura credit for swift handling. And Todd?”
I looked up. Slowly. Bleeding emotionally.
“You’re getting better at surviving.”
“Thanks,” I wheezed. “I’m developing a high tolerance for chaos.”
“You’ll need it.”
She vanished in a swirl of drama and lilac smoke.
Jessie handed me a towel. I wrung it out. Blood.
Rachel tossed me a juice box. It hissed.
TODD’S BLOOD DRIVE NOTES:
– I did NOT volunteer for this
– Pudding is not a weapon
– Leech clouds = new fear unlocked
– Rachel stabbed a poster. Hero.
– Jessie tackled a leech. He’s fine. Emotionally. Probably.
– Mrs. Evernight might be grooming me for some kind of Night Intern role
– I need a tetanus shot. And therapy.
We walked out of the gym in silence.
Covered in blood.
Sticky.
Shaken.
And somehow... still alive.
Just another day at Blood River High.
Scene 7: “Stacy Dumps Me. I Think?”
Graveyards are supposed to be peaceful.
Silent. Still. Full of moss and metaphor.
Not... the scene of a possible breakup with a vampire girl you maybe weren't officially dating, but definitely kissed once and bled on.
Yet there I was.
Slightly damp.
Slightly cursed.
Following Stacy Evernight through the misty headstones of Raven Hollow Cemetery while trying not to trip over crypt lids or my own emotional baggage.
She’d texted me after the Blood Drive incident (subject line: “Do you have a minute?”), and I, being a glutton for romantic confusion and ghost-adjacent trauma, said yes.
Now we were walking through a literal graveyard at dusk.
Stacy was silent. Her boots crunched leaves. Her hair glowed faintly, catching moonlight like it had a contract with the stars. She was wearing a long black coat that billowed unnecessarily and probably had a name like “Betrayal.”
“So…” I offered, breaking the silence. “Rough day at school, huh? Leech clouds, blood fountains, me screaming into pudding... classic Tuesday.”
She didn’t laugh.
Okay. Not great.
We stopped at a bench shaped like a coffin lid.
She sat. I sat. A raven landed nearby and glared at me like it knew what was coming.
“Todd,” she said softly. “You’ve been great.”
Oof.
No one says that unless something’s about to end.
“Thanks?” I offered. “Is this the ‘it’s not you, it’s my ancient bloodline’ conversation?”
She looked at me. Eyes soft. Sad.
“I thought I could do this. The normal-ish dating thing. You’re sweet. And funny. And you bled so... romantically.”
“I do that,” I said. “It’s my niche.”
She cracked a smile. Just for a second.
“But I’m not ready,” she continued. “There’s a ritual coming. My mom is... prepping things. And I’m seeing a sentient cloud now.”
Pause.
“Like... metaphorically?”
“No,” she said. “His name’s Mistral. He’s mostly vapor. Very moody. He composes poetry by swirling through grave dust.”
“Wow,” I whispered. “You really know how to pick them.”
Stacy sighed.
“I’m not breaking up with you because of Mistral,” she said. “I’m just... unbreaking what might’ve been broken anyway.”
“Are we breaking up?” I asked.
“We were never officially together,” she said.
“So this is...?”
“Closure.”
I nodded. Slowly.
Tried not to look devastated.
Tried to keep the tears tucked politely inside.
Then immediately tripped over a crypt.
Faceplant. Loud. Echoing.
Stacy gasped. I rolled over and groaned into the marble lid.
“Cool,” I wheezed. “Super dignified. Please remember me like this.”
She helped me up.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “You didn’t deserve that.”
“Which part? The ghost boyfriend or the emotional whiplash?”
She hesitated.
“All of it.”
She reached into her coat and pulled out a small bouquet of dead violets tied with twine.
“I was going to give you these. As a maybe. Now it’s a thank-you.”
I took them.
They crumbled slightly in my grip. Like my heart.
TODD’S BREAKUP CHECKLIST:
– Location: Creepy graveyard ?
– Mood: Gloomy mist ?
– Gift: Crushed corpse-flowers ?
– Emotional state: Possibly leaking internally ?
– Official status: Dumped. Maybe. Sort of?
“Will I still see you around?” I asked.
“I’m not disappearing,” she said. “I’m just... drifting. Like Mistral. But with a better wardrobe.”
I almost laughed.
We stood there for a moment. The raven cawed like it was sick of the angst.
Stacy touched my arm. Just for a moment.
“You’re stronger than you think, Todd. And much, much dumber.”
“Thank you. That feels honest.”
Then she was gone.
Vanishing into the fog like a dream you weren’t quite ready to wake from.
I sat on the coffin-bench. Laid the flowers beside me. Pulled out my notebook.
BREAKUP NOTES:
– Not official. But also official.
– She’s dating a cloud.
– I am now emotionally available and extremely confused.
– Crying in cemeteries is goth, right? That’s normal? That’s fine.
And then, very quietly, I cried.
Just a little.
Into my hoodie sleeve.
Because even in a town full of fangs, rituals, and moonlit murder... heartbreak still sucks.
Scene 8: “Mrs. Evernight Offers Me a Job… At Night”
There are worse things than getting dumped in a graveyard by a vampire girl who’s now dating a sentient cloud.
For example: immediately getting summoned to her mother’s mansion afterward, still holding a bouquet of wilting corpse-flowers and sobbing into your sleeve like a Victorian orphan who just got ghosted by Wuthering Heights.
The invitation came by bat.
Literal bat.
Small scroll tied to its leg.
It smacked into my window, looked extremely over it, and flew off before I could offer it emotional support or granola.
The note was simple.
Todd,
Come to the manor. Bring nothing but your wounds.
—V.
Ten minutes later, I stood outside Evernight Manor, damp with heartbreak and ghost pollen, staring at the gothic behemoth glowing faintly with crimson light and audible minor-key violin.
I rang the bell.
It howled.
The door creaked open with maximum haunted energy.
Inside, low candlelight flickered against velvet walls. Shadows moved in ways that made physics file a formal complaint. I stepped in cautiously, guided by nothing but instinct and the smell of cloves and disappointment.
She was waiting.
Mrs. Evernight.
In the parlor. Draped across a fainting couch like a curse lounging between scandals. Tonight, she wore something long, lacy, and absolutely illegal in four provinces. Her hair coiled like smoke. Her eyes glinted like forbidden offers.
“Todd,” she purred. “You look... emotionally weathered.”
“I got dumped. By your daughter. In a cemetery. While she told me she’s dating a cloud.”
Mrs. Evernight raised a brow. “Ah. Mistral. Fluffy. Pretentious. Smells like ozone and bad poetry.”
I sat stiffly in the armchair across from her, clutching the key she’d given me days ago—the one shaped like a fang, cold in my palm.
“I’m not here for revenge,” I said. “Or therapy. Unless that’s included in your vampire dental plan.”
She laughed—low, luxurious, probably cursed.
“No, darling. You’re here because you’ve survived.”
I blinked. “Survived what?”
“This school. This semester. My daughter. A leech bomb. A ritual half-awakened. Your own hormones. And... yourself.”
She stood slowly and crossed to me.
I didn’t move.
(Partially because I couldn’t. Partially because her perfume made it impossible to spell my name.)
She handed me a black envelope with my name written in red ink. Possibly blood. Possibly lipstick.
Inside:
Official Offer of Employment
Title: Night Assistant (Junior Grade)
Duties: Parcel delivery, minor enchantment errands, light bleeding if required
Dress Code: Flexible (but flattering)
Perks: Access to ancient knowledge, immunity from certain curses, dental
Compensation: TBD. Also: experience, which is priceless.
“You’re offering me... a job?”
“I’m offering you a purpose.”
She leaned down, just slightly.
“You’re already in this, Todd. The rituals know you. The archives recognize you. The cafeteria no longer flinches when you enter. That’s power.”
“I thought it was trauma.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
She handed me a small box. Inside: a sleek black pin shaped like a drop of blood, and a folded map with moving ink that spelled Do Not Open This Map Unless You Mean It.
“You’ll start by delivering this to the library,” she said. “Don’t read it. Don’t look too hard at it. And if the ink starts to whisper your name, run.”
I stared at her.
“This is not a normal job.”
“Neither are you.”
That one hit somewhere deep.
“Do I get a nametag?”
She smirked. “Only if you earn it.”
I stood, envelope in hand, blood-pin clipped to my hoodie, and made the very poor but very compelling decision to say:
“I’m in.”
Her smile widened.
“Excellent. Be here tomorrow at sunset. Wear something that breathes.”
She leaned forward—her lips near my ear—and whispered:
“We all have to start somewhere.”
Then she handed me a blood-red umbrella and opened the door.
The wind outside howled like it knew what I’d done.
I walked down the path with my new job, a weird key, a cursed envelope, and the very distinct feeling that I had just become... something else.
Not quite human.
Not quite safe.
But very, very interesting.