Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The shop was a squat, rundown, perilous affair populated almost to the brim with awkward bottles and jars and tomes and cauldrons, all labelled and filled differently. The only light came from an open window at the far right, the moon staring coldly into whatever dark dealings occupied here. Shelves stood in front of the walls like a disordered rabble fresh off the latest round of drinks, both them and their contents jostling for respective space. Bar a few gaps in between them and space still allowed to gasp in breath, not many people traversed here for a reason. You’d have to be quirky indeed to set foot inside the storage room of Cee’s Cauldron, yet here a handsome, aloof vampire boy found himself all the same.
In his very best formalwear, phone out to choreograph every risk he took, Kieran Valentine edged further into the shop. What he was here for, he had no idea. More than a little bit of him hoped it never came. He swatted his low fringe out of his eye for the umpteenth time, murmuring in a mixture of worry and annoyance. The only sign that he hadn’t lost his way came from the quiet tramp of his boots, still deliberately on the solid, wooden floor. Not sent into the air by a rogue beaker, or stopped by a shelf. One after the other. In near total darkness. In a shop of magics.

“What could possibly go wrong?” he said grimly.
“
Gee, Kieran, lighten up a little!” another voice echoed back from the deep. “We’re not in the fucking maze of the minotaur or anything.”

“Where are we then?” he shouted back.

“Just in my Mama’s potion store.”

The voice drew closer now, a face accompanying it. The boy emerging into vision a clear, regular image to Kieran. Still, that beautifully strange power it held of refracting time and giving him a warm feeling inside burned bright as the first time they’d met. Warm, welcome and empowering, like a campfire on the harshest winter night. When the elements and those near him found his very name to be a dire curse, all it took for Kieran to feel at ease again was one look at his lover, knowing they could take it together. Before he could stop himself, a smile crept across his face to reveal his fangs, left edging more down than the right.

“Oh, it’s you.” Kieran said.

“You only just realised now?” the boy giggled.

“Eh, uh-well…I had a hunch.”

The boy leaned in closer till their chests were together, looking up at Kieran and beginning to sway gently. “Did you now?”

“Yeah, have a hunch about a lotta things.”

“Like what?”

Kieran stared right into his face, tracing it out in the darkness. Tall hair, green skin, rounded eyes, a juvenile goatee. He could make out some of his baby blue shirt with a bright rainbow flag, a comforting slogan peeking out of the dark.

“Kiss whoever the fuck you want.”

“Hmm, good idea.” He leaned in further, lips teasing Kieran’s.

Almost there before Kieran felt a hard slap on his cheek.

“Ow! What the-”

He turned, a sting throbbing across his face. Standing before him was another vampire with her hands on her hips, large blue eyes piercing through the abyss. Two silhouettes behind which Kieran took to be their friends. Holding a clipboard, bored and tired as its owner. Her gaze never moved from the two boys, somewhat of a motherly gaze in them.

“Hi Mavis,” the green boy said cheerily.

“Can you guys stay on track, please? There’s a lotta potions here, so if we’re gonna be out of your mom’s shop by next Halloween we all need to be checking…whatever the hell she wants us to check.”

“I can barely read potions at the best of times, you think I can read them in the dark?” the green boy asked.

“Okay, point made.” Mavis said. “Still, if we’re gonna find this ‘unfinished business’ your mom talked of, we needa do so together.”

“Help each other out with the problem.” Kieran interjected.

“Yeah, exactly.” Mavis said. “Thanks, Kieran. Yeah. I mean, in this weird ass place we need all the help we can get, to be honest. Alright then, now we’re all on the same page-Kieran, you go with Spelldon to cover…whatever’s over there,” she instructed, pointing into an unknowable far corner. “If something goes bump in the night, I’ll be with Casta and Ely. Besta luck.” Flipping her hair back, she strutted
off into the moonlight, leaving the two boys alone again once more.

Kieran sighed, trying to figure out where to cautiously tread next. Despite having been in here for who knows how long now, navigation still remained an impossible task.

“Any idea what we’re looking for?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Mama didn’t really have time to say before leaving,” Spelldon confessed. “Only something about fish, eyes and ashes. And that her fried cod tail stew is for dinner tonight-can’t wait!”

He sighed. “Great.” He reached his hand back, shrinking from the shadows. Though the shop remained quiet, that wasn’t enough. He could never be sure. Anything could come out and wreak its worst at any moment. Not a problem unique to this place. Since they were concealed by dark, they could do it without warning. Only when he felt Spelldon’s hand connect did he edge forth.

“Y-you ever been in this place? Like-have you ever come back here for something?”

“Once or twice when we lived in Singapore. But most of the time that was Casta’s privilege because she could actually read what she was supposed to. Here, never.”
Kieran felt his way along the closest shelf, still clutched tight onto Spelldon’s hand. Phones out, the feeble lights guiding them just enough to put one foot in front of the other.
A few paces behind them, Spelldon’s sister glanced around with her companions. Mavis, and a tallish boy with rock-like skin and yellow eyes, having to squint everywhere to read the labels.

“How’s it going, guys?” Mavis called back.

The boy groaned. Mere thought had to be forced into his head sluggishly, when even earlier today it reached his head at lightning speed.

“Feel you there, Ely.” Casta replied.

“Why do we have to search for whatever we’re searching for in the dark?”

Mavis examined her clipboard. “Says here that the electricity for the shop isn’t fully up and running yet, so we can’t risk turning on lights as they could short-circuit.”

Casta scoffed. “Mavy, babe, we’re monsters. I don’t think a little electrocution could kill us. Allow me.” She chanted in a mysterious language, the air around the five suddenly becoming static. When she finished, her left hand burst into green flame. All were relieved to see a circle of light develop around them now.

“Let there be light, bitches!” Spelldon squealed.

“Now we can actually see where we’re going.” Kieran added. “Still not what we’re actually looking for other than ashes, fish and…” he tiptoed back and gulped, staring at a jar higher up holding one eyeball inside murky, green water. “Eyes.”

Ely grabbed the jar off the shelf. “The Eye of Euna-for use in Evil Elixir Ultimo.” No sooner had he uttered that name than a haunting cackle sounded, unknown forces sending Kieran reeling back into a shelf with a yelp.

He screamed, a shower of jars and books leaping into his lap and around him. One collapsed by his side to release an ominous red mist. It crept towards his body, strange instinct taking over. He could start to smell another, smoky aroma behind it. Beside him, the contents of the jar began to form. First legs, then arms, then a face. All bearing an uncanny resemblance to him. The only differences were their being. A solid mass of red powder, their expression lashing terror into his soul.

The face a mirror image, but beholding pure, unfiltered rage.
“
What the he-” Before he could finish, the clone charged him into Ely, more potions showering them both. The mist came for Ely next, making him cough before injecting into his copy’s eyes a cold, merciless expression that would make even his berserker forebears shudder in their armour. In mere seconds, the five were flanked by the powdery clones with their hackles up, grunting in warped fury.

“What’s up with these two?” Mavis shouted. “And why does it smell like a barbecue in here?” Kieran’s clone came for a second charge, missing her by a hair’s breadth and instead crashing headlong into a second shelf in a roar of dismay. A second array of jars spilling down as he collapsed among them out of the light.

“My guess,” replied Casta as she dodged Ely’s sledgehammer of a fist, “is that some of the potions smashed around Kieran and created…those things.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Kieran’s never this violent!” Spelldon exclaimed. “Betcha anything it’s an Angerlixir ingredient. Casta, see if you can find some antidote.”

“What antidote?” she screeched.

“I dunno.”

“Check the shelves until you find something.” Mavis ordered, turning into a bat to narrowly miss Kieran’s clone. “Ely, you hold this guy off while Spelldon and I take care of the real Kieran.”
Casta nodded. All that stood between her and the shelf was an angered Lightning Demon partially free from her light. His lip twitching as he panted like a hunting dog. No pressure. He made the first wild move towards her, a rush of wind in his wake as Casta felt her back thud on the ground. On scampered Ely’s clone headlong into him, launching itself onto his arms. For once, he agreed with his father-maybe it was worth putting a little more effort into Phys Dead. Staring into the clone’s dull yellow eyes, his strength on an uphill slope as he could hear its teeth gnashing evermore. Slowly down, into the floor, a ring of faint acridity floated near them. Its powdery face millimetres away from his, tempting his nostril into action. His gaze darted in all directions, anything to not look at the monstrosity clamping on his skin, clothes tattered.

That’s when he saw it. The solution. Barely able to utter it out before rolling to the side again, a thump on the floor as rock covered the nearby floor in powder.

“Casta, I have an idea to get rid of these guys,” he barked.

“Do tell,” she grunted, potions lined up for her frenetic inspection. “Nightmare Salt-no, The Tome of Thunderstrox-no, Ale of Ailments-definitely not…”

“Well”-thump- “these monsters are”-thump- “made of powder”-thump- “agh! Right?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Angerlixir is an emotional brew, so probably involves some form of powder-oh fuck!” One yellow potion spiralled below her, a gaping void now on the floor. That same acrid smell tainting her nostrils now, sweat formed into beads on her face as the chaos flitted in and out of her light. “What d’you have in mind?”

“Well,” Ely said with a noticeable strain now, “I found a vacuum cleaner nearby. Maybe we could use that to suck up the clones?”

“Are you crazy? They’re enchanted, who knows what they’d do to it? How d’you think Mama’s gonna react when she sees that her vacuum cleaner is cursed and she needs it to clean up the shop?”

“Casta, let’s examine what we know. I can see down here, they’re coming for the other three. If we don’t hurry up, who knows what they’ll do to Kieran? Maybe that unfinished business stuff, or something worse. We know it won’t be a pretty sight. Besides, you got any better ideas?”

She stared into the iridescent void. Smoke and its heavy aroma almost at full power, the shop fading back to darkness. The tips of her fingers reddening, tired of clawing at the shelf. Anxious conversation from her brother, her friend, her brother’s boyfriend in danger. No time. Only danger and a dimming world.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“I’ll try and catch you on three, alright?” Ely picked his way through, barely able to make out Casta’s dangling feet. “One…Two…Three!”

Contents of the shelf giving to her feet as she curled up, Casta jumped. For a brief moment, she was sandwiched in freefall, reality not quite close enough to strike her back yet. Daring to feel elation in this synapse, like her shows and music.

Thud. Wait, wasn’t Ely supposed to catch her? But upon looking down, in a way he had.

Not with his hands. But with his body.

“Mmrf-gotcha.” he grunted.

“Thanks Ely.” A moment later, there they stood, both Ely variants deadlocked in a stare. When one Lightning Demon fights their opponent, it’s a cathartic, often visceral sight to behold. But when two are fighting each other-hoo boy…

Ely could not help but gulp.

Meanwhile, Mavis and Spelldon found themselves against a shelf and crumpled Kieran, on the border between light and smoky black. Spelldon crouched over his boyfriend, Mavis guarding them from Kieran’s powdery emulation.

“How’s it going back there?” she asked shakily, the clone’s fingers grazing her cheek with a sly smile its original may have made before meeting his new friend group. “Goddamn, Circe, this is some unfinished business you got going on here.”

“I can still feel his heartbeat.”

“That’s a relief, but is he awake yet? I don’t have enough space on my motorcycle to take him to normie hospital.”

“I’m not sure how to wake him up, I’d never be able to find the right potion in time with all this stuff going on, not to mention that I’m dyslexic.”
Kieran’s clone gnashed, grabbing a jar from the far left shelf. In one fluid second, Mavis was barely able to make out the word “Mightiness” on the label before it, like many other jars, gave to the hardwood floor and expelled its contents. Mavis choked as the opposing grip tightened rapidly, her only breaths tainted by that burning smell through her nose.

“What about the kiss of life?” Spelldon asked frantically. “That always works in movies when scenes are like this. They did it on Drag Race once, I think.”

“Don’t…have-time…”

“Okay, how about this?” A loud thwack rumbled across the room, red blossoming on Kieran’s cheek. The response was almost instant-he came to, hand on cheek and thoroughly bewildered. Even scared for a moment before Kieran saw that same green face in front of his, and everything felt like it would all pan out okay in the end.

“H-hey, Spelldon,” Kieran said groggily. “Wait, did you just slap me in the face?”

“Maybe.” Spelldon replied, smiling coyly.

“Why?” he laughed, eye contact unbroken.

“Guywhogotknockedoutbyhisownreflectionwhosenowattackingyourtherapistsayswhat?”

“What?” A fist on the wall mere seconds later. “You get me every time with that!” he laughed.

“I know, and it doesn’t get any less funny.”

“You don’t get any less cute, you know that right?”

“Fucking hope not!” Spelldon smiled. “Takes me hours to get my hair like this, and don’t even get me started on shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Yeah! I swear, what was up with my sister and wearing Demoanias when she was my age? And why do they have to be slaying so hard?”

“High boots do be slaying pretty hard though.” Kieran affirmed, staring down at his own, a blush racing across his already tomato-hued cheeks. Their hands gravitating towards each other, neither of them needing to say a thing. Just add love, even when your clone is causing hell on your friends and you can barely see.

“Yep, there’s a reason why me, you, Mavis and Casta wear them every day.”

“What about Ely?”

“Ely wears New Boo-lance like a basic bitch.”

“Erm, a little help here?” Mavis called.

“Oh!” Spelldon exclaimed, their trance-like gaze shattered. “Yeah, of course.”

Kieran still felt chained to the floor behind, a hot throb from where he’d hit the wood not leaving his head. Sharp edges in his vision a little blunt, plunging back into the irregular cacophony his clone had forced him out of. Quickly as his zombie-like body would allow, he crawled over to Mavis, buckling under his malevolent clone. Them advantaged almost to the point where the two vampires would lay on the floor beside each other.

The clone laughed manically, grabbing Mavis by the lapel of her leather jacket. Readying for another wild, deadly throw.

“Agh!”

Instead, it was a mass of formed powder which dusted the floor once more. A loud, lilting series of gasps in the corner while they refocused their strength. Deciding to go for the weaker target who’d just punched them. Now that expected thud of his skull back on the floor arrived. Smog almost shutting his eyes for him in pre-emption. Then, it said something which sickened Kieran right down to his very core.

“How may I-romance you?”

“Unhhhhh…That’s my liiine-” The world around him faded out one last time, tighter and tighter on his neck. A shrill, mechanical whirr in the distance; some supernatural, anticlimactic death knell. The clone’s grip getting lighter until it dissipated completely. He could only assume that was because he had too. Some way to go, though. Dead in a potion shop of the boy he’d met and loved not even a month ago.

“Kieran! Kieran!”

It felt like floating on water, dull to others’ senses, only a slow motion pushing you ever further out to who knows where. The overbearing copy now gone, a few light smudges in his vision which he could only guess were faces once.

Then another sharp slap in the face.

“Ow!” He jerked back up, the tingling pain and senses now equally sharp again. Under his palm he felt something metal, humming somewhat.

“A vacuum cleaner?” A tube arched up into the smoky roof, the end held by none other than Ely. The scene unchanged, bar who was in it. Casta at the back, fist bumping the rock monster next to her. Ely, staring at the glistening canister of his vacuum cleaner. Mavis, in her usual assertive position but not without a slight affectionate smile. And to the far right, that same quirky green boy rocking a baby blue shirt, a skirt coloured like a pumpkin and the warmest, most loving personality Kieran had ever known.

“H-hey.”

“Hey.” Spelldon said.

“Wait…what are you guys doing? Aren’t those weird powder monsters still about?”

“Not anymore!” Ely announced triumphantly.

“How?”

“Let’s just say we did some cleaning up.” Casta smiled.

“Yeah, great job.” Mavis affirmed. “But speaking of which, this place is a fucking mess.”

“Well, nothing new there.” Spelldon piped up.

“No, I mean even more so than before. We need to get back to work big time. Fan out, each of you guys take a different corner. Casta, go find something to sweep up all this glass. And guys, for the love of all that is unholy please be careful. You saw what happened to Kieran.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Spelldon barked, jerking up into a mock salute. Kieran followed his lead a few seconds later, their other hands met in the middle like growing ivy.

Mavis giggled, shooing them away. “Go on, clean up your mom’s shop. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Uhhh…think I found what the unfinished business is, guys.” Casta called a while later. The entire group were right behind her, the source of the acrid smell in full, insulting force.

“Oh fuck, that’s nasty.” Mavis mumbled.

“Are you shitting me?” Spelldon asked dejectedly.

“Ugh, I do not envy your mom for having this unfinished business,” Kieran grimaced. “Like, what even is that?”

Spelldon sighed, flapping at the smoke below with a towel. “What that’s meant to be, Kieran, is my dinner. Mama left the oven on.”

“And now your stew is overdone.” Kieran added.

“It all makes sense now,” Ely pondered. “She wanted you to keep an eye on the fish-so it wouldn’t turn to ash.”

They all groaned.

“Ah well,” Mavis said. “I think we all know what this means.”

“That we’ve got nothing to eat tonight?” Casta suggested.

“What, no! Stop being a drama queen,” Mavis chuckled. “All it means is that I gotta order pizza.”

The next morning, deep inside Monster High far away from any of their influence, a small werewolf girl trudged to her locker. Another day, another round of lessons. Whatever. Nothing she couldn’t handle, supposedly. She’d handled far, far worse. Hell, the memory of her doing far worse was still etched firmly into her mind.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Inside her locker, everything else to one side, lay an ornate, golden lantern like an emperor regarding the peasantry from his throne. Hexagonal, a scorpion motif centre to each of the six faces. Propped up by six struts on top of her Shriekonomics book, displaying itself so there could be no escape from the memories. Round the rim a loping, wavy line like a wisp of smoke. Howleen wished dearly that this object was new to her-but nothing could be further from the truth. Others may have forgotten. But she never could. Not taking her eyes off the lantern, she backed away, but soon felt a furry presence
behind her.

Another worst fear confirmed. A wily meow announcing the undue interest of Toralei Stripe.

“H-hey Toralei.” Howleen murmured shyly, noticing a vampire beside her. She couldn’t help but fixate on her hair. Was it trying to emulate maybe Dracula? Or a Karen, or a mishmash of the two? “Wassup?”

“I already told you to watch where you’re going,” the vampire said mockingly. “Don’t you remember?” She went low, grinning ear to ear at the opportunity to patronise a werewolf. Clawdeen’s little sister, no less. “Awwww, doesn’t little runty Howleen Wolf remember?”

Howleen sighed. “I remember, Gory. My bad. Just let me pick up my books, and I’ll go to class.”

“Your locker’s open, though.”

“Oh, yeah, how could I forget?” Howleen simpered.

“Look at her,” Toralei murmured. “Can’t even remember to close her locker.”

“Can’t remember to dress half-decent either-I mean just look at those shorts. I swear her sister’s meant to be all fashionista, but where the hell did she get those? Fucking Wail-mart’s secondhand corner?”

“Ugh, can you not, Toralei?” Howleen grumbled. “I’m not Clawdeen, and I’m not trying to be.” The lantern a magnet to her tired eyes again, not even the first period and she already wanted to go home.

Evidently, the wily werecat had caught on, preparing her first attack not even a few breaths after she’d finished talking, cutting her just short of the locker.

“I have an idea,” she purred. “And it involves that snazzy lantern inside your locker.”

“What about it?” Howleen inquired. If Toralei was going to do what she thought would happen, she was playing a dangerous game. Even for someone with nine lives.

“You are having-shall we say-a few fashion hiccups. But that’s easily fixable.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, of course! I’ll help you get outfits that slay more, using the lantern to wish up the perfect one just for you!” Toralei proclaimed, rising her head majestically.

“Hmmm, no.” Howleen said. “Not buying it.”

“I’m gonna be honest with you, ghoul. Your outfits are giving little sister vibes. It’s not your fault that Clawdeen has more money to spend on her clothes than you, but it kinda shows.”

“What’re you bringing up my family’s money for? Mind your own business.”

“Well, with the lantern we could always help them out, you know? What about that ski resort you went to last year? Oh wait, you couldn’t go. Shame.”

Howleen gritted her teeth, a growl resonating through them. “Toralei…”

“With the lantern, you could go on as many ski trips as you like, all you’d need to do is wish for them.” Toralei glanced behind Howleen’s back, a devious smirk going even further across her striped face. “We’ll be coming with you, of course.”

“What makes you think that? We wouldn’t invite you. Besides, the lantern’s too unpredictable-I can’t risk it.”

“Oh little Howleen Wolf,” Gory sniggered behind her. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Now!” Toralei shouted.

Where Gory stood immediately vacated itself in a puff of ruby steam, a bat sailing over Howleen’s head.

Lantern in hand.

All Howleen could do in response was call her bullies back, claw at the air in a feeble hope of stopping them. Nevertheless, on they ran with their ill-gotten gains, through the corridor and past the massive Graveball team until Toralei, Gory and the lantern were out of sight.

Howleen had no doubt whatsoever that control would soon fall too. Any wish of a normal day being granted in the foreseeable future was now well and truly gone like smoke on a morning breeze.

Chapter Text

“Dad, you said that when I turned 118, you’d let me go out into the world like every other adult that comes and goes into this hotel.” Mavis recalled in her room to nobody. Wriggling into her jeans, hands up in claws to emulate her father. “But Mavy Wavy, it’s not safe, bleh-bleh-bleh,” in that same rich, overdone accent she often used to recreate one of her father’s limitations.

None of those anymore. She didn’t quite know if that was a good thing.

Nothing else in the room, only her and her little rebellion confined to a house in the middle of New Salem. Clothes strewn about her bed, the dresses and duties of the past long since banished. Not grandiose or gothic like she’d once loved to be. A newer, more relaxed style prevailed even after the person who’d shown it had been left. No large malachite forest to symbolise isolation. Only more houses with humans and monsters of equal measure all together. One may expect the daughter of Dracula to be at least somewhat traditional, satisfied with what others had laid out to be compulsory. No initial thought for who they must ostracize to get there. That had gone thanks to her initially, but when it returned it did so with such venom, such conviction it couldn’t be ignored. Only stared at through Instagroan pages, sometimes for hours. One part of life she couldn’t manufacture a defence for even herself, let alone clients. All she could do was grab the nearest leather jacket in her wardrobe and move on with her life (or at least act as if she did so).

“Well dad, guess I’m free now.” Mavis claimed, unable to hold the conviction in her voice right to the end. No matter.

She’d run late for her current life if she didn’t get a move on. Leather jacket draped over her shoulders. Downstairs quickly, new life beckoned in a clatter of cutlery and what lay outside just for her. Not even checking back for a “good morning” as she dashed out into the crisp air, habit shoving motorcycle keys into her hand. Ready to ride.

At least she would be normally.

Duly, instead of revs behind the Cauldronello family’s breakfast, all they could hear was one long, dumbfounded “Ceeeeeeeeeeee!” Spelldon up first, arm on his housemate’s shoulder, threading his fingers through the studs of her jacket. She’s there for people every day, least he could do was return some of that when she needed it.

“Where’s my motorcycle?”

Hours later, that morning still hung in Spelldon’s mind as he navigated Monster High. Poor Mavis. Most of the time he’d known her, the impression she gave off was mixed. Flitting. Sometimes she’d be unsentimental, almost abrasive. But underneath, he could see that it didn’t carry right down. Of the two vampires he knew best, they both seemed to have a past that wouldn’t unveil easily. Kieran’s had come in due course, promptly followed by a gratuitous kiss square on both their lips. And how he’d blossomed alongside his new friends since!

Therapy Vamp Dr L wasn’t quite there yet. Indeed, the very thought of that destination seemed to plague her face, her cyan eyes further into her skull every time they met. Even when she was with Casta, Kieran and Ely there too, shadow still clutched on, almost as if she were terrified to let it go.

“Everyone battles their own demons.”

The clients he’d seen from a makeshift lens marked by banister posts as a kid or interwoven beside innocent play had shown theirs in all shapes and sizes. Symbolic of a less innocent world which spared no one, not even those who tried to help others bear the tides. He couldn’t read that well, but what he could interpret was that she was suffering from something very personal, very deep. Something only one thing was known to purge, if briefly.

And now that one thing was missing.

Ely now walked into his side with a curt hello, neither of them pausing their onward march through the many meandering corridors. “You ready?”

“Ready for what?” Spelldon murmured.

“It’s Wednesday P1,” Ely informed, voice tinged with excitement. Spelldon did not share his enthusiasm, realising that Mavis wasn’t the only one with a needlessly long day in store.

“Dammit, I forgot to do my Hiss-tory homework. Ughhhhh-who do we have?”

Ely analysed his timetable. “Wednesday P1 is…History, 20th Century Politics.”

“You’re kidding. We’ve got Mr Forster?!”

Ely smiled. “What a way to start the day, amirite?”

“Why are you so excited, Ely?” he groaned. “Not only is it a lesson with Mr Forster, it’s a lesson with Mr Forster where I haven’t done my homework. You’d think I’d get a break after that shitshow down at the shop last night, but nooooo. And he’s gonna give me extra notes to do as well, which will take forever cos I can barely read them. Ughhh, just why?”

“I dunno, Forster’s nice sometimes.”

“Puh-lease. Are we talking about the same teacher? Maybe he’s nice to you because, somehow, you like his subject.”

“His lessons are really interesti-”

“Let’s just get this over with.” Spelldon harrumphed, marching straight into the Hiss-tory classroom’s cavernous mouth of a door. All Ely had to deny a possible fallout was their hands still interlocked.
Now three people Spelldon held dear were confused.

Inside, the temperature immediately crashed off a cliff. Unforgiving wintry gusts gnashing right at the boys, almost threatening to grab Spelldon by his bare arms and suffocate. Punish him for lack of sense. Other students sat in rows, all pointing their unwavering gaze at the chalkboard as if they’d been hypnotised. No one made a sound. A stoic, static atmosphere had silenced them so there could be no question who was in charge. No one even lay a hand to paper yet. To do so out of turn violated unspoken, yet enforced law. Even movement seemed regulated. You did so when permitted and in a set direction. No sooner. Nowhere else. Or else. He hadn’t even said a word. He wasn’t even in the room. Yet, despite the indomitable teenage hunger for rebellion and individuality, Mr Forster already grabbed authority by its horns in one swift, crushing stroke.

Spelldon sat down, drawn to the empty board himself. Regret at neglecting homework had keeled over and died, another unsettling, unwelcome emotion replaced it. Pure, unrefined fear. Eyes not once straying from the board, lest he be caught unawares. He longed for Kieran, at least he was only emotionless in the past before they’d met. His little mismatched fangs, aloof aura, ability to just roll with it-that’d be the perfect remedy to this place. But there were reasons that couldn’t happen, some of them only a few seats across. A boy with snakes in a Mohawk rather than hair, feet up on the desk. A werewolf girl, fashion rivalling Mavis’ for gender subversion (and metal studs), scribbling another design in her notebook. Maybe he’d see what they were giving after class-one skirt wasn’t enough for the scaremester.

And in front, the main reason Kieran never came near this place. But everyone else called him Clawd Wolf. A large brute of a boy. Muscular. Handsome. Tidy. Bearded already. Pruned back for high school life and both sides of the teenage equation. Academically, he did well, but you did not want to be up against him on the casketball court. Or, as Kieran found out the hard way, when his girlfriend was involved.

“Your homework please, Mister Cauldronello.” a baritone voice hissed above.

“Huh?” Immediately after looking up, Spelldon wished he hadn’t. Over his desk loomed a tall, light blue man, his face contoured over the desk like a vulture surveying their next helpless meal. Long nose and sharp wrinkles accents to his signature austere expression. Hair in squalid patches, light reflected into his glossy aqua scalp as if it were shining on ice. Up close the temperature dropped even further, the only sound being a small click-clack of Spelldon’s teeth beginning to chatter. Lanyard drooping down onto the desk, so there could be no mistake. One name to focus on right now.

Marcus Farbauti Forster.

“Your homework? Essay on Germany’s rulers? Where is it?”

“Oh! Uhhh…you see, sir-”, Spelldon scratched the back of his head, coyly smiling. All Forster responded with was that same, stern look. “I don’t have it on me right now. I can get it for you tomorrow if you want, it’s at home.”

Forster’s eyes narrowed. “Failing to do your homework is one thing to me, Mister Cauldronello. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lie to me on top of that.”

“Sir, I’m telling the truth. I swear!”

“This appears to be a regular occurrence for us, doesn’t it?” Forster concluded. “It seems there are three things inevitable in life and un-life, aren’t there, Mister Cauldronello? Death, taxes-and Spelldon Cauldronello leaving his Hiss-tory homework at home.”

“Hey, isn’t that where homework’s meant to be, though?” an eccentric, yellow skinned boy implored across the room, firehouse red hair slicked back into the silhouette of a burning flame. “Cos, yknow, it’s at home? Home-work? Ya get i-” Before he could say any more, another ice elemental next to him put her hand over his mouth.

Forster turned his vulture’s gaze to the pair. “You’re lucky to have friends like Miss Bominable there to protect you, Mister Burns,” he sneered icily. The boy shrunk in comparison, the fire in his being suffocated by Forster’s sharp presence on him like a creeping winter. “However, she won’t always be there to protect you. Some things must be taught so they stay with you. I believe an after-school detention should serve that purpose, agreed?”

The girl opened her mouth in protest, only to be immediately shut down by his hand slamming on the desk, all hope of conversation culled in an instant.

“Consider your next move very carefully, Miss Bominable. Unless, of course, you wish to join Mister Burns here in his detention.” he offered smoothly.

“N-no, sir”, the girl replied in a thick Russian accent, her eyes unable to land on a place between her boyfriend’s eyes and her teacher’s. Her usual stoicism evaporated from her posture. His usual, unspoken demand for submission replaced it. Uniform for everyone in this class at some point. “Please, continue your lesson.”

He smiled. Not warmly, as most at the school did when pleased for someone. Instead, even him smiling felt slimy. Machiavellian. Almost evil. It prompted a chill to sting your spine, made all the more terrifying when it replaced his usual frown. Spelldon just managed to keep an “Eugh” under his breath; he was in enough trouble already.

“That’s the spirit I like to see from my students, Miss Bominable. An eagerness to continue with the lesson.” Now it was the gorgon boy’s turn to be scrutinized, the two could have held a staring contest even if Deuce’s shades were off. “Some of you could learn a thing or two from that, hmm?”

“Uh-yeah, dude”, Deuce blurted.

“Hmph. It’s Mr Forster, if you please, Mister Gorgon. You will be joining Mister Burns in detention to ensure basic manners do not elude you again.”

“Aw, fuck.” Deuce whispered.

“Unlike Mister Burns,” Forster added, “you will also be in detention tomorrow so you may learn not to use foul language in my classroom. Swear again and I shall not be so sympathetic. Now, if you please, I would like to begin my lesson-we’ve already wasted five valuable minutes because of your various instances of carelessness. As for you, Mister Cauldronello, I expect that essay on my desk at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Failure to do so will mean detention with me every evening until the end of scare-mester, where you shall do your homework in front of me and neither of us leave until it is finished.”

“But sir, Spelldon can barely read the essay question. He’s dyslexic. It takes him far longer than most students to do your homework, he doesn’t want to fall behind in other subjects.” Ely protested.
“Very well.” Forster pondered. Even his best poker face couldn’t hide that ugly, annoyed scowl at this development. “You two will meet me at lunchtime to clear this issue up, I shall send for Miss McShmiddleBopper. If, Mister Cauldronello, that meeting finds you do have dyslexia, then we shall install a system to ensure your work is completed while considering your needs alongside my schedule.”

“Thanks, Ely!” Spelldon beamed. Ely saluted.

“It would be a shrewd move for you not to push your luck.” Forster snapped. “That is, if you wish to leave school at the same time as the better portion of your comrades. Now, finally, on with the lesson. To start, here is a map of the world at the turn of the 20th century, with colonised countries the same colour as their colonisers. Consider especially the colour of Prussia-do many countries share that colour?”

Ely’s hand shot into the air.

“Yes, Mister Hutning?”

“No, sir. Most of the countries outside Europe, especially in Asia and Africa, either share a colour with Britain or France.”

“Precisely. The British Empire is in full swing, as you can see up here they have retained their territory from Dutch colonies and even expanded somewhat through Africa. However, as Mister Hutning pointed out their growth is not limited to here. Is there anywhere else on the map they appear to be doing well in?”

Up went Ely’s hand again.

“Someone other than Mister Hutning.”

If Mr Forster was hoping for a weaker morsel, he got it. Behind Ely, a ghost girl slowly dared to make herself known. Her eyes were a black abyss with beautiful blue irises striking through, chains hissing against the wooden desk as her hand raised. Her indigo lips pursed into a solemn, almost pained expression as her eyes didn’t leave the map. If anyone knew about Prussia, it would be her. That was a fact only she and Ghoulia knew, and didn’t dare to share with anyone else. Sometimes, she failed to find even the strength to share it with herself, shrouding it in a million fantasies like little news stories. Hot off the Gory Gazette-and all lies consigned to her foolish head.

“Yes, Miss Vondergeist?”

She cleared her throat, slowly gravitating from Prussia’s slice of the projector. “There…also appears to be a strong British presence in India, sir. They...later called on India for aid in the Great War. Prussia-wasn’t-so happy about that.” She finished dishevelled, her desk nearly a shield from the class. The past could swallow her up at any moment now.

“Correct, Miss Vondergeist. And congratulations on your extra knowledge.”

“No problem, Mr Forster,” she muttered, the sound concealed under her breath like a ghost on the winds of death.

That static air returned to the room. Mr Forster seizing his opportunity, his long male droning voice in dominance within seconds. Sometimes, he’d move under a shadow cast by the projector, giving the illusion of having a longer fringe partially covering one eye. His sleek face underneath tricked Spelldon sometimes-surely Kieran wasn’t teaching this lesson. Or was he? Surely not, Kieran actually had a decent hairline. Worksheets eventually doled out. He muttered thanks to Clawd’s sister above before staring at it, in the vain hope comprehension would soon unveil itself. Spelldon’s eyes soon gained weight, focus accompanied by ever heavier sways in and out. A part of him screaming desperately to hold on, stay in the fight. Words on the board lost their structure, only the first and last letters of each remained. The rest sandwiched between into an incomprehensible jungle. His brain trying with all its might to regain reason. All that accomplished was a throb in his temple, and frustration. Frustration at the letters which appeared to move at will, almost teasing him. At the teacher and his snide mannerisms. At things which jumped from his memory even now. A few embers sparked for Ely, for Clawd. Who could go between questions at rates normal to them yet completely insurmountable to him.

“Whew. Calm down.”

Forster seemed to forget he was there.

The bell went. Thank fuck.

He left last, a stew of unknowable papers demanding his attention before freedom. Tiny dark scribbles barely distinguished notes from scrap paper, but to sort by subject? He wished. What did he have next? It’s Wednesday morning, so that would mean he had something, then another subject, then Drama. He could never forget Drama. Then he probably had Math, finishing the day with S-pain-ish. As if Mr Forster in Period 1 wasn’t enough, he got to spend the final period getting screeched at by Senorita Howlemos. Lovely. Aside from The Addams Family on TV, Wednesdays always appeared to suck in his life.

A slap on the ground below him. One of his textbooks again. Honestly, where was Kieran when you needed him at school? Bending down to retrieve it, more joined in an avalanche of books. He rammed them all back into his bag while traffic parted around him, off into the corridors to find someone he recognised. Maybe he could get to class that way. Ah yes, he saw someone. Time was running out before class began. Hell, it probably already had run out. Quick!

“Scarah! Hey, Scarah!”

A banshee girl all in green faced him, smiling innocently. “Hullo.”

“Do I-have-a class-with you next?” he panted.

“Let’s see.” She pulled out her own timetable, gently patting out the creases with long, calculated, light sweeps of her spring green hand. She hummed lightly, each run of her hand over the paper slower than the last. “Hmm, okie dokie then…today’s a Wednesday…”

“We don’t have all day!” Spelldon worried. “I’m gonna be late to class if we don’t hurry up!”

With one more sweep of the page, her eyes submerged themselves further, analysing each slot. “There’s no need to be snappy. Your thoughts alone are telling me quite a lot that you’re stretched for time, nor have you had the nicest of days so far.”

“How did you? W-why?”

“Telepath. Okay, so Period 1 is English-which I just had, so Period 2 is…Biteology with Miss Laroux! Splendid.”

Spelldon groaned. More writing he couldn’t understand. Weird formulae and images alongside which made no sense without their miniscule, scrawled explanations. Mama may be able to speak this hybrid of pictures and words, but he was not his mother. He stood alone in a developing, mysterious labyrinth, unable to help the longing more than anything for Period 4, for Kieran, for a friend. And from what he’d seen of this innocent banshee so far, she couldn’t fit the bill. His erratic, unsure dance could not be in step her elegant, traditional Irish patterns,

“Oof, you just had Mr Forster?” Scarah exclaimed. “That’s rough. Don’t worry, Miss Laroux is far nicer.”

“Except when you’re late to class.” Spelldon grumbled.

“Good point well made. We’d better get going then, hadn’t we?”

“That’s kinda exactly what I’d been thinking.”

“I know, I know. Being rude just makes your thoughts a bit louder and more annoying to me. Cmon, let’s go together.”

The river of students finally sucked them under, pushing them into one ambiguous direction between monsters of all shapes and sizes. Squishing them into one odd corner. Different colours, ideologies, smells, all packed into one tiny space and made to move with a regular, shrill bell.

“You’re Spelldon, aren’cha?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s things for you?” Scarah asked. “Yknow, how’s un-life?”

Spelldon elbowed past a few of the students, one foot closing the gap behind the other. “Thought you could read my mind.”

“I can, was only trying to make conversation. Besides, I can hear everyone’s thoughts. All at the same time. It’s very hard to focus on one person’s thoughts alone amongst a crowd like this.”

“I mean, how’s your life going?” Spelldon asked. Once again, he could feel a small hatred seethe inside for the banshee. She was like so many others he’d known. Well, he’d never really known them. But you wouldn’t perceive that from a first glance. Was it really him she was invested in, or his sister? Calm down.

“Alright for me, but I do worry about my parents and friends nowadays.”

“How do you mean?”

“Work’s been quite hard on Mam lately. She doesn’t get enough credit for what she does. Gets a lot of abuse her way, actually.”

Hard feelings now banished. It was easy, he now realised, to forget someone else’s life only appearing easy. He should’ve known better from seeing the sort of people his mother had served. “Oh dear. What does she do?”

“She’s…a cop.” Scarah mumbled, shrinking into herself. “I saw her after her last shift with something in her eye. At least, she said it was only something in her eye.”

“Oh.” No need to elaborate. Anyone who’d seen the news or lived near the New Salem Police Station saw it all. Easier to cover up the truth when it hurt more, and it wasn’t only Scarah’s mother who knew and practiced that.

“Anyways, we should get going to class. Like you said, gonna be late.”

A sorrowful pang throbbed in Spelldon’s chest for Scarah. The march broke into smaller chunks like a comet closing in on a planet, the pair ascending a staircase with more students in their own year. The walls had a whiter hue on higher floors, cold air drifting around the ground floor now replaced by each classroom now having its own smells, forming an array varied as the backgrounds of students who walked these very halls. Monster High was keen to not forget that last fact. “How about your friends?”

“Draculaura and her lot have been pretty stressed lately. Think it’s because her pet bat went missing lately, no one’s seen hide nor wing of him. Same with Frankie’s dog, and her boyfriend’s pet too.”

“What could someone possibly want with their pets?”

“No idea. I’ve been keeping an ear out for any thoughts that could lead to something, but so far I haven’t found much at all. Although, we may have a chance in Biteology.”

“Huh?”

“Is Toralei in our class?”
“Who’s Toralei?” Somehow, even the main reason Spelldon struggled against this school’s schedule had been forgotten. They would forget time soon if they weren’t careful, almost running between corridors now to remedy their growing lateness. An unspoken hope that Mr Forster hadn’t suddenly been thrusted into hall moanitor duty.

Scarah stared at him. Even without pupils in her eyes, a sheer shock that he didn’t know who Toralei was flared through. “Werecat girl, Karen haircut, loves being up to no good? Are you new here or something?” She screwed up her face for a second, her usual chatty manner silenced. She walked on, entranced by her own power, miraculously not causing a third disruption. The atmosphere seemed to refract in her immediate aura, a minor hum undercutting the students’ continuous, ugly rumble of dialogue and shoes all hitting the floor out of tune. She stopped outside a doorway where a large gaggle of young monsters could already be seen inside, a clear French accent the only voice.

“You are.” she murmured. “The lesson’s already started.”

“Huh?” He could barely register what she’d said before the banshee ushered him inside. Once again, his skin became rougher with goosebumps prompted by a cold, sterile wind. Contrasting the gothic brickwork of Hiss-tory in a modern flourish, remnants of some experiment with fire still not evaporating quite yet. However, the mixture contained more fluidity than the Hiss-tory classroom. The students moved freer, sat with their friends, listened more attentively, some even smiling. In front of them, a plump gargoyle woman almost like a cherub positioned atop her desk previously, radiating serenity and a sense of togetherness through her relaxed posture. She moved her glasses back up her squat little nose to inspect the new arrivals, making a steeple with her bright violet nails. Upon close inspection, Spelldon awed at the little squadron of bats she’d etched onto each one, flying up into their blunt point.

“Bonjour, Scarah and Spelldon. Ah, a full house! What a lovely way to start our Wednesday. Although, do me a favour and try not to be late next time.”

Both apologised, Spelldon resuming his position on the back bench. Below him he could see all the cliques of his year, all foreign to him. A language he didn’t understand, a cult not ready to induct him. Maybe he still had that new kid smell about him. Soon enough, out came the worksheets for Period 2.

“One between two.” Miss Laroux ordered, pointing down to the front desk a little sterner. “So Toralei, you can share with Meowlody and Gory, and Spelldon up there can share with Draculaura.”

Spelldon’s sheet and sight both pushed to the right. Mirroring it was a petite vampire with clothes the colour of love, hair bunched into two elegant, striped ponytails. Her fangs, upon close inspection, peeked ever so slightly out of her lips and aligned on a perfect crescent trajectory. Her eyes were a light colour on delicate peach skin, at a squint he may have thought Mavis got her wardrobe mixed. If you were to look at only their faces, though, they’d still be set apart. For on her right cheek Spelldon could make out a small tattoo of a pink love heart.

“You can have this if you want,” he offered, the sheet scooting across the desk until it lay in a small no-mans-land where they’d have to strain.

“Thanks,” she said in a light, almost childish tone. “But don’t you need it?”

“Can’t read a word on that thing.”

“Still, you need somewhere to write down your answers.”

“If I can’t read the sheet, how am I supposed to write on it?”

“Well, maybe I’ll read out the questions and we’ll figure it out.”

Whatever. At least she wasn’t poking and prodding him for compliance, and that was something he could be very thankful for. Strange how he could go from looking down at his classmates, who he could see perfectly, yet when he looked at his own desk everything became blurred, packed together. Look at Draculaura, be met with an almost anime-like level of pinks and cutesy seams, his brain already starting to decode what would have to go where to make the skirt and where he could get one of his own. Would it look good in locking dance? A TikSpook served on a teenage whim? Look at the sheet and meet nothing he could follow. His thought strayed to his family’s housemate again. Looking at Draculaura one final time, he could not ignore their similarities. If he were to combine that werewolf girl and her, he would get a somewhat close resemblance to Mavis, albeit infinitely more colourful. She’d be at work now, responsible for others’ hardships on top of her own.

One morning, he’d woken up on the meniscus of sunrise to see her start off to work, casting echoes of her motorbike across New Salem like a witch summoning a thunderstorm. And for once, despite the cacophony of ear-bloodening revs, to him she’d looked…happy. A feeling seldom exhibited by her, often kept behind a surly shield of leather and commands. Sometimes a motherly smile crept through when surveying him or Kieran, maybe her grip on a firm face would slip for a second or two if one of Casta’s jokes made a dent. Here she only looked happy. Unaffected by what’s around her, she looked content with the moment for once in her un-life.

This lesson soon flew by and out of his control. They often seemed to do that to Spelldon. And the next. Drama, however, was one lesson he could savour. No worksheet flouted in front of him, instead Mr Where gave verbal instructions. Those he could keep pace with. He checked his group to see who he’d be carrying out this script with: Draculaura again, the ghost girl, a pale boy dressed in blue, skateboard tucked under his arm, and a zombie girl Draculaura was talking to.

“Count Fabulous is gone too?” the zombie girl asked.

“Yes!” Draculaura squealed. “Cleo, Lagoona, Astranova, even Gigi’s pet has gone missing!”

“I haven’t seen Rhuen anywhere!” the ghost added.

“Scarah’s been having a look for any clues others may be thinking,” the boy piped up, “but since I last saw her at break she’s not found much.”

“You know Scarah?” Spelldon moved in quick. Part of his dance as the new kid, something he used to help learn his own style as he continued life in a strange land. Others would dance into your arms, and when they did so you had to act. Succeed, and he’d waltz onward one friend richer.

“Yeah, dude,” the boy laughed. “What with being her boyfriend, I’d hope I knew her. How do you know her?”

“We share a Biteology class. Draculaura here sits next to me.”

“Oh, cool!” The boy stretched out his hand. “Name’s Billy.”

“Spelldon.” They shook, both trying to peek over each other’s shoulders at the team’s script. “She talked about the whole ‘pets going missing’ thing to me too. Her hunch is that Toralei’s behind it.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Draculaura huffed. “I swear, she’d better have all nine lives ready if I catch her with Count Fabulous! Or Clawd’s pet, for that matter.” She sniffled somewhat at the absence of her pet bat. Who was this green-skinned boy before her, anyway?

“Wait,” Spelldon interjected. “My housemate thinks her motorcycle was stolen as well. Is it possible that they’re part of the same heist?”

“It’s possible.” Billy agreed.

“Hmm, this could be interesting.” the ghost girl muttered, extracting her phone to tap in details wildly. “Another story for the Gory Gazette, perhaps? And even better, it’s truthful!”
“Lemme text Scarah, tell her to keep an eye on Toralei. If she gets anything, we’ll follow her lead. Your housemate can come too if she hasn’t called the cops.”

No risk of that. Especially after today so far. The cops would only cause more trouble, dealing with monsters only added fuel to the societal fire. Spelldon hadn’t heard of what happened in town a few Halloweens back, but he didn’t need to. Just because something’s embedded in the past doesn’t mean it can’t sneak a few tentacles down to choke you and your reputation slowly.

That much became evident after school.

Chapter Text

New numbers plugged into Spelldon’s phone led him right down to the centre of town, outside a ramshackle excuse for a plant shop. The words “Crazy Dave’s” flickered as the sun did behind its flat, dull roof, some bony zombies ramming an odd foot into the wall for vain hope of some effect. They eventually tired after one offered a sachet of sand-like powder from his hoodie. Just like the faint, rhythmic thumping and chatter from a few houses down, he paid them no mind. Drugs were basically potions in a drier form. The most they could do here was alleviate the smell of food waste lurking in alleys behind. He’d seen both sold, lived off their profit since he was a baby. If there’s one thing time can never change, he’d consider it to be demand for drugs. Love can be fickle and change among the seasons, though his mind bypassed that possibility for now. Who’s in charge could change, in the same amount of time and power it took an axe to behead the innocent. But no matter the time, or the location, someone somewhere nearby would always be getting high. Even if their status desperately pleaded otherwise.

The new group stood outside the door.

“Yo, Spelldon.” The two boys high fived, Draculaura and Spectra in deep discussion over the latter’s writing on her phone. Scarah sidled in behind them, waving a cheery hello.

“Hey guys! How’re you all doing?”

“Lovely, thank you.” Scarah smiled. “How are you?”

“I’m doing okay, just waiting on my housemate to meet us.”

Draculaura broke into sob once more, unable to pull her eyes away from the blank door. “I hope little Count Fabulous is okay in there. He must be feeling awfully lonely.”

“Don’t worry, Draculaura,” Spelldon reassured. “We’ll find him tonight.”

She sniffed, patting her face dry. “Thank you.”

“Okay, so I managed to get hold of Meowlody in Chemistry.” Scarah informed, her voice forcing the makeshift group’s attention straight to her. “She did think about how she grabbed Spectra’s, Cleo’s, Gigi’s, Lagoona’s and Clawd’s pets from Phys Dead, bringing them all in a gym bag to Crazy Dave’s.”

“And what of the other pets?” Draculaura implored. “What of Count Fabulous?”

“I couldn’t read her mind any more before Mr Hack started badgering me about his violin solo,” Scarah sighed.

“If I didn’t know Mr Hack and his violin better, I’d say you were joking.” Billy grumbled.

“Wait, who’s Mr Hack?” Spelldon hurriedly enquired.

“Ugh, science teacher who thinks he can play the violin.” Scarah replied, wrinkling her nose at the mere thought of him. “Hard to concentrate in your class when your teacher stinks of booze.”
Frankie didn’t voice her objection, leaving it to ferment on her face. She doubted that in her magazines was a section on how to diss teachers who merely tried their best at what they loved, but she’d read the one on controversy. All she could do was heed its instructions. She saw some figures dashing in from behind Spelldon. A pale woman in the lead brandishing some sort of loose weapon? Maybe it was the tool of psychotherapists. At least, that’s what her lanyard said. One stone-skinned boy to her left and…Casta Fierce to her right?

“Hey Spelldon,” the woman announced. “We got your text. Apparently the A-holes who stole my bike are round here.”

“You didn’t say our classmates were involved.” Ely pondered.

“You didn’t say Casta freaking Fierce was involved!” Draculaura rebutted.

Casta grinned, flicking her hair back in a wild, theatrical swoop. “You guys want an autograph?”

Now it was Spelldon’s turn to grimace and silently object. Could he really have expected anything else? Frankie and Draculaura were on his sister like vultures on a fresh carcass, routine scribbles being made across paper with room for only the glitz and glamour.

“Ok, we busting into this place and getting my bike or what?” Mavis interrupted.

“That’s the plan.” Scarah said. “Thing is, we don’t know exactly where the thieves are. Closest we could get was this plant shop.”

“Good enough for me. Ely, let’s go round the back and see if there’s anything to let us down.”

“What if the cops show up?” Ely mumbled. “While we may have cause for breaking and entering, I doubt that the NSPD will see it that way. Especially if monsters are involved.”

“I could cause a distraction,” Casta offered. “There’s probably one or two hexes I could try that would buy you some time, I’ll see if I can lead them away if they do come. Though someone would have to distract the cops while I start the incantation-where’s Kieran?”

“Erm, I think he was busy teaching Clair when I last texted him.” Spelldon weakly suggested.

“Where’s Kieran? I’ll do you one better-who is Kieran?” Spectra interrogated.

“I’ll do you one better,” said a voice with no physique. Then Spelldon felt a small, chilled tap on his shoulder, lukewarm breath rattling across his neck. “Why is Kieran?” asked Billy, prompting a scream of shock from his latest prank’s victim.

“Hold on, the housemate isn’t here anymore.” Scarah said, worriedly surveying the group. “Where’s she gone? She was right outside the shop just a second ago.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Billy began again, but Scarah’s finger over his mouth returned silence to its stranglehold before it ever had a proper chance to leave.

“No, Billy, actually where is she? Spelldon, where’s your housemate gone?”

He shrugged. From a short distance, he could hear the silhouette of a light thumping, some chatter over it. The sound was small enough to be disguised under any drama near him, nevertheless its existence couldn’t be doubted, however vague.

“You hear that?”

The others now paused with him. Any outsiders would have seen them frozen against each other and taking no particular side, both at odds and agreement in their makeshift, ramshackle band.

“Yeah, there’s some kinda music from a few houses down.” Frankie saw. “I’m gonna go check it out.”

“Frankie, wait!” Scarah pleaded. “You have no idea what’s going on there.”

“It could be a party!” Frankie gleefully responded, almost skipping towards the music. And what could the others do but follow? As the noises grew stronger, Spectra shrunk into herself, her ethereal foot phasing in and out of the pavement. Her hands flew to her ears almost free of thought as the music grew most oppressive when they faced the front door. Scarah edged towards the porch, her hand onto the knocker almost refracted by the tense, thick atmosphere. The door tepidly gave way with a mere touch.

“Should we go inside?” Ely asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to ask someone?”

“Count Fabulous is in there, all alone!” Draculaura squealed defiantly.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Spectra murmured.

And so, the music led them inside and down into a crescendo of darkness. Single file from the entrance into the underground, worry and Spectra’s presence chilling in equal measure. Spelldon found himself wishing dearly for Kieran’s hand once more, someone else to share his new friends with. He wondered how the pair would fare at Monster High. He’d almost certainly do English Literature, for once he regretted forsaking that subject, even if he had no chance of success there. Why was he thinking like that? No one could say for certain that he’d fail something just because of how he’d been made. He’d seen that in Kieran, and would no doubt see it done later. Perhaps some he knew had even seen the inverse. Only time could tell him for sure. A cavernous opening soon greeted them.

“Oh. My. Ghoul.”

The opening was one of the most crowded spaces Spelldon had ever seen. Humans filled every corner of the small place, a whole conglomerate of leers and smells of food erupting almost rhythmically. Through the heads in the crowd, Spelldon could make out a bat flapping their wings frantically, a fairy-pink onesie blocking their wings and ascension up the wall from full, necessary power. On another wall, the humans’ frightful cheers reaching critical mass on an innocent, indigo scorpion, their tail tightly trapped in tape. And at the edge of the chaos lay a table where some humans tossed more of their money beside an ornate, gilded lantern, the notes instantly raked under the manicured claws of three werecat women, their leader sporting a striped auburn Karen bob and the most wily, devious smirk Spelldon had ever seen a face be tainted by. He could only assume that, for the first time, the antics and appearance of Toralei Stripe made themselves known to him.

“Agh! What are they doing to poor Count Fabulous!” Draculaura screamed.

“I dunno, but the poor animal looks like he’s going batty.” Billy responded.

Scarah sighed.

“Is one of the missing pets a lilac ferret, perchance?” Ely interrupted, pointing to the table. “Because if so, you may want to check the main table.”

The scorpion heaved its tail over the top of the wall, a deafening rumble of cheers from the far side responded instantly. One werecat to Toralei’s right barely had time to scoop up an urn on one table before the spectators delved their hands into it, withdrawing fistfuls of cash alongside pot-shots at the other segment of the crowd’s pride.
“And it appears Sultan Sting has beaten Count Fabulous as well, to maintain his winning streak at rock climbing!” Toralei announced to more cheers.
The werecats now herded a new animal onto the wall, the ferret choked by their hands holding it like it were a can of spray paint. A fresh round of cheers went up, much to Spectra’s chagrin.
“Alright!” Toralei yelled, thrusting her ferret-sandwiched fist into the air. “Place your bets. Those betting on the ferret winning, put your bet in Meowlody’s pot. Those against, into Purrsephone’s pot.”
In they dove, wooden urns held by the two werecats either side of Toralei soon beholder to a writhing pile of notes, the stern faces of famous academics and politicians past staring up at the cats sternly. Almost to tut at them, say “You shouldn’t be doing this and you know it.” Paid no mind. Indeed, they were the paying tool. Unkemptly stashed on each other more and more with each passing second, each fleeting hand for or against the clueless ferret.

“Rhuen!” Spectra exclaimed.
It took some wrangling to secure the ferret on his wall, meanwhile Purrsephone nabbed the scorpion by its stinger into position again. Squeals of pain only added to the chorus, all bar one of the new arrivals transfixed in the horror. Draculaura froze in indignation, save for her unnoticed tapping fingers of three repeated digits into her phone. Shame behind the shock as she raised the phone to her ear.
But Count Fabulous needed to be saved. They had someone outside.

“Scarah,” Spelldon asked. “What are the werecats and spectators thinking about? What twisted kind of sport is this?”

“Run all yer want, little fella, but you ain’t got a fackin’ chance against Sultan Sting!” one bloated, bare-chested spectator yelled, vacating his left hand of a bet in Purrsephone’s pot only to fill it again with a drink. No one needed Scarah to perceive that it wasn’t his first one. His lopsided gait convinced enough of that.

“Nah, shaddup!” another interjected, sliding his money down the side of Meowlody’s urn. “Ferrets’re supposed t’be nimble li’le fuckers.”

The first spectator turned on his new rival, gut shadowing Spelldon’s view like clouds over the sun. “I won’t be talked to like ‘at from someone who calls footy ‘soccer’.”

“And I won’t be talked to like that from someone who just wasted their money on a lost bet.”

Only promise of the bet being settled stopped fists slinging across the crowd. Toralei counted the two pets off, her goons silencing any last objections from them with a crude shove to get them up the wall. Neither pet took to their strange task quickly, preferring to dare whimpering amongst minimal advances. The chorus now divided even further into two, Spectra’s hands flying to her ears as the noise’s siege finally broke through to her collapse. Even Mavis had trouble filtering through, hawkish gaze targeted at all corners she could weave it into. The first spectator had evidently tired of the poor scorpion dominated by fear, shards of glass and golden, foamed crests of drink now flying wildly, moments tinting the hellish embodiment of danger in all colours as the shards stabbed into the wall, millimetres away from adding red to the vibrant sensory vomit. That was kept at bay, if only for a little longer. Only a slovenly bellow when the pets scampered up in a desperate attempt to stay in one piece offered motive. Cruelty rewarded. Objections silenced.

“There it is! My bike!”

Spelldon felt a slight tingle of anticipation slither down his spine. Mavis intercepted the crowd, that same loose weapon now twirled like a makeshift flail. She’d been the only one to advance; none of the others had remotely thought of anything like this when they’d prepared to retrieve their pets. Toralei had caused calamity and chaos to them more times than the number of grave headstones in the yard some of the students smoked nearby. Yet she often kept it inside school, hated the humans as much as everyone else (one-upping Cleo could know no bounds).

No chance for her to inflict more now.

“What the fuck?” Milliseconds after a cold finger shot up her leg, she dove behind the table in a yowl cut short by the linoleum floor. If possible, the whole scene then seemed to come back into motion.
Anxiety’s powers of refraction unstuck themselves from Draculaura’s legs, instead Count Fabulous now found himself in stasis from canoodles. Scarah’s arms pointed to all corners like a magic wand, the crowd like a comet hurtling towards its nearest unsuspecting planet. The only certainty came from the far end.

Mavis could do something awful to this girl she barely knew and earn the love of an entire student body.

A vermillion mist descended onto her face, Toralei seemed like a mere imitation of a bully in this new girl’s horrid, viper-liked wake. She could make out the corner of a lanyard drooping down like a strung up head. Dr Loughran, Psycho? That checked out. Suddenly, all other noise in the room vanished. In its place was a ghastly, transcendental, spine-chilling roar. All that could retreat from this was the auburn, striped hair on Toralei’s head as she stared down those accusing, merciless eyes and felt an emotion that was unrefined, unrequited, and some would argue long overdue.

Fear.

Toralei kicked like mad. A brief synapse of freedom gasped. Covering her under a table. Snatched away.

“Little tip for when they ask what hurt you,” the girl hissed. Her eyes looked even more forbidding from the same level. “Tell them that it was a sock filled with butter.”

“Okay, I’ll tell ‘em.” Toralei nodded, still trying to smile. Fake it till you make it, she supposed. A distant wail behind them. Human smokescreen gone. Fear and hatred ruled. More would come. Thwack! Then a closer yowl joined the sirens ringing their tired song of authority. Toralei could pay no attention, another thwack clean on her cheek removed any opportunity. They rained on her like hailstones, the other girl twisted into some odd trance where all she could do was strike again and again. The floor had previously been littered with shards of glass and other detritus, but now the perpetrator’s blood was free to sort that out. Toralei had stripes on her face beforehand, and from a distance it merely looked as if she had more. Their crimson hue could only be seen up close, their pains only truly known inside. There, maybe one could find reason.

But outside?

Only the monstrous wail of the sirens, and other bellicose demands for justice and principle. No matter how oddly fitting.

Barks of “Freeze!” and “Drop your weapon!”

The long arm of the law barring her from her wish, her peace.

But did that really matter?

From outside, the picture was clear enough. A girl almost scarred beyond recognition, scrabbling like a rat towards the back. The cops only saw a tail slip out of the back door with a flash of gold. A fanged woman breathing great sighs, an almost feral spark still buzzing in her eyes, shrouded in sparkled, dark purple smoke. Alone. Among shattered glass, a floor glossed in alcohol. The high voice which had called was nowhere to be seen. Nor were the real criminals. But in a way, they were. So abhorrent, so violent.

You could call them monsters.
The (albeit partially obscured) lanyard showed who this one could be. The human officer took no chance, his moustache curling into a grin as he slapped handcuffs on this monster’s wrist and led her out. It reminded him of that Halloween years ago. The only difference was, justice would be served this time. He would be known as a respectable lawmaker for stopping this despicable subhuman.
Every word beyond the “t” stayed hidden, yet that was what would be spilt against her like white water rapids. No check for innocence. Only the nature.

Outside, the sirens wailed on. After about twenty minutes, Casta had received a call from somewhere, her drawn face rocketing her off to another world away from these squabbles. Time to move on.

However, Draculaura was still not ready to free Count Fabulous from her pink embrace.

“Awwwww, did you miss me? Did you miss me, Count Fabulous?” she cooed. “Yes, of course you did. Don’t worry, I’ve got you now. I’ll never let anyone take you. Come here.” One final time, she buried the bat in her chest, a muffled coo sounding from the pink pile for several moments.

“Well, all’s well that ends well.” Scarah said. “Got the pets back, who knows what would’ve happened if we hadn’t.”

"I wouldn’t have got to make some more friends otherwise.” Spelldon cheerfully offered.

“True that.”

“So, Spelldon,” Billy asked, revealing a thin wafer of paper and a translucent sachet, “you got a girlfriend?”

“Nah, but I have the sweetest boyfriend ever.”

“Porter Geiss has entered the chat,” Spectra joked.

Billy thinned the contents of his sachet into a small, verdant line central to his paper. “Ooh, okay! What’s he like?”

“He’s so, like, he’s such a cinnamon roll, yknow?”

“What?” Spectra said.

“Oh, it’s that meme on TikSpook,” Frankie explained. “You know that one I did with Clawdeen after Mr Rotter’s class?”

Spectra caught on. “Cinnamon roll boys are the best.”

“I know, right?” Spelldon said. “Yeah, he’s my lil cinnamon roll. And I love him. He’s such a good listener as well.”

“Slay!” Draculaura exclaimed. “Not many boys do that. Even Clawd struggles sometimes. You’ve found a real keeper.”

“Hold up,” Billy interrupted, now taking the first puffs of his newly-rolled cigarette, “is that him?”

A tall, aloof figure picked his way behind the shops and police car, waving to Spelldon. From a distance, he merely looked like a smartly dressed human a long way from where he’s expected to be. Which was partially true. If nothing else, the students would argue that he wasn’t from round here. Most would bar him from that distinction forever. That was their truth. Based off their pasts. Who could blame them? And who was he to try and be the good shepherd now? He was the reason Clawd kept one eye over his shoulder when on dates. The reason the lead-up to this year’s Fraidy Hawkins dance had been so chaotic. The reason every time anyone uttered Valentine’s Day, one could not think of the love without a diabolical, black tinge of hatred at the past. It seemed to the students now that he remained the same; chestnut hair drooped over one eye like a vampire’s cloak, appearance so formal and crisp to sell himself to innocent young girls, one fang a little shorter than the other, always eager to make the first move and sweep the rug under those unsuspecting later. All he could do was deny, but would they ever believe him?

“Wait, what?” Draculaura screamed. “W-what? What the fuck? What the actual fuck?”

“Who,” said Scarah, already knowing the answer deep down and not particularly eager to regurgitate it, “is that?”

“Whaddya mean who is that?” Draculaura shrieked, turning paler than the moon above. “It’s Valentine! What’s he doing here?”

“Guys,” said Spelldon, “this is my boyfriend, Kieran.”

The two boys hugged a few paces outside the group, the void they felt in their own strange places finally closing as they snuggled, a warmth from each gifted to the other. An equal exchange of love, something treasured by both after so long in the dark before that fateful morning.

They looked back on their new company full of pride and joy in each other’s company and requited love. Yet in all bar Frankie and Ely’s faces, they saw only horror.

Chapter Text

No. No, no, no, no!”

Draculaura retreated into her friends. Any glee at finding her pet struck cruelly out.

“What the fuck?” Scarah shouted.

Before them, no matter how badly they wanted otherwise, stood Kieran Valentine. How could he be here? Everything he’d done, everything about him said he wouldn’t have the nerve. Without even doing anything, he still held such a power over how girls could act. They could be all of different opinions, feeling well, but when he came-everything’s about him. It seems, he thought darkly, that even after so much repentance, emotions remained as his puppets. All he could do was lift a finger, watch them dance. As if love was his own plaything to manipulate and, when he finally grew bored, break it forever.

That's what he should be doing in most people’s minds. Equally, he shouldn’t.
He looked over his shoulder, down the road as indigo rolled over the sky. A blank, dark, monotonous cloak that only cared for time, little stars of hope or other blunt knife-points barely making a dent. In the night, he could only sit there and take what was perceived as long, long overdue by his ex. His toes wriggled with shame as he clasped onto his boyfriend’s body, the usual magic of their intimacy weak against a dull armour of guilt. Their eyes met once more, locked in a tepid stare. The last time he’d surveyed Draculaura like this was when duty had called, and she merely the next victim of his power.

“I don’t even know what to say.” Spectra said.

“Spelldon, what the hell?” Billy added. “This is your boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Spelldon replied innocently. “So what?”

“So what?” Draculaura shrieked. “Do you have any idea who you just hugged? That’s Valentine! My ex Valentine! Don’t you know what he tried to do to me? If I know him, he’s doing the exact same to you now!”

Kieran’s chest puffed out in a sigh heavier than his sinking, remembering chest. “Draculaura…it’s not what it looks like, okay?”

“I mean to me, it looks like two of my friends are blessed with a happy relationship.” Ely mumbled.

“Don’t you start!” Draculaura snapped. “You’re meant to be smart. Valentine tried to quite literally break my heart. I don’t think he even deserves happiness!”

Kieran opened his mouth to explain, no sooner had he done it than Draculaura and her friends retaliated in full force. Nowhere to run. Ghosts of both the present and past in his face, those dance nights where he’d fell from power. Been seen for who he really was.

“What’s with going for the new kid?” Billy inquired. “You think you can simply not let them know who you really are or something? We’ll just tell him.”

Ironically, Spelldon was not allowed a voice in this debate. All he was permitted was a meek, warm finger on Kieran’s hand.

“And why are you trying to date a boy?” Scarah piped up. “Weren’t all those girls’ hearts enough for you?”

“Don’t be silly.” Draculaura hissed. “This is his third time back here, it’s never enough. Why not just go straight for the kill and date me, Val? We all know that’s what you really want, isn’t it?”

His throat seized in the terror, save for three words that he only knew and saw to be the truth.

“I-I love him.”

Draculaura retaliated almost instantly with her own truth, securing the past’s dominance of his mental state.

“Like you loved me?”

Off the students went, leaving Kieran again alone and defeated. He didn’t move a muscle from where they’d been. While his body stood static, his mind raced to innumerable conclusions and recalls, each more damning than the last. That small patch of warmth on his finger and who it belonged to all that distanced him from a complete breakdown. His now glossed eyes threatening to precipitate, break their meagre fire.

“Are you okay, Val?” Spelldon asked. “Shall we go back to mine?”

The night rolled on while a dismal highlight reel of Kieran’s deeds resurfaced. All pointing towards the facts of what he did, the toes he’d stepped on for power. Fickle, brief, brutal power. Maybe his ex had a point when she doubted if he deserved happiness, after his relentless attempts.

“Let’s go to Clair’s.”

Not once through their walk into town did he let go of Spelldon’s hand. He was almost frightened of what may happen otherwise. The roads he treaded late at night, silence ruling as he swum in an ever-thicker treacle of thoughts which weighed his gut down, making movement among all else lethargic and a chore. The injustice Draculaura felt began to infect his own mind a little. He couldn’t deny; she had a point. His sadistic, supercilious practices of old far outweighed everything else that seeped beyond the mental cloud. When he considered that, the hand amongst his felt more alien, more wrong despite the two making each other feel right in love almost constantly and ever since they had met.

A heart that got away. No, it’s worse. The heart that got away, found new love, roused other girls to his scheme. Showed who he really was. For all his knowledge in how it should work, his track record of eviscerating girls’ hearts. A hole where emotion used to be. No matter how much he denied, he felt that hole a little in his own chest cumulatively.

Spelldon grunted. “What’re you squeezing my finger for?”

“Huh? Oh!” Kieran sharply withdrew his hand. “S-sorry, I-I…”

Finally breaking gaze with the empty road, that depressive fug seemed to be held back (if only for the time being). Instead, a cartoonish grin whirled across his face when he dedicated even one moment to that green boy. Before, waiting for time with a girl to run out was to him merely a cost of relationships. One to be ignored-the endgame’s pomp made up for it. At least, that’s what he had to impulsively think while preparing for the next. No room for individuality. Nor any identity not prescribed. Relationships were battles on the path to glory. Snacks of power to feed the dream of one ultimate banquet, served with a side of reputation. Born for that one dream.

A more fitting term would’ve been fantasy.

For what good is a banquet if you desire none of the food? The more he looked at Spelldon, the more he felt that vacuum he’d laboured under for as long as he could remember cathartically fill. Not even all the girls launching themselves at his enchanted product of a ‘personality’, none of their emotions, nothing he’d ripped right from their very hearts ever made him truly happy. He controlled unfeasible things; yet that was just another string attached to the puppet.

Before he’d met this boy, it would’ve been out of the question to face the truth. But now, with Spelldon, he could face it and take it as solace rather than punishment. A symptom of his heinous acts, not their conclusion. With Spelldon, the mysteries made sense. He didn’t love his victims not because any of his own, unregulated emotion was forbidden.

He didn’t love those girls because he was gay.

“Kieran, are you good?”

“Uh-am now.”

Spelldon smiled, the two interlocking hands again. Ely stood to their right, smiling himself briefly. No one saw the storm in his eyes, but he’d face that another night.

“Clair’s is only, like, a block from here, I swear.” Ely said.

Kieran nodded. “Vicars Road. What’re we gonna do there?”

“You’re the one who suggested we go there.” Spelldon giggled.

“Uhhhh, maybe Drag Race is on.” Kieran hurriedly proposed.

“At 10pm?” Ely said. “You sure?”

“Well…maybe we could-eat dinner? No, fuck! What am I doing? I already ate before meeting you.”

“I mean, we could always have breakfast there.” Spelldon joked.

“10pm is a bit late for breakfast, don’t you think?” Ely countered.

“We won’t be late. Just really early for tomorrow.” Spelldon said reasonably. “Got any more ideas, Kieran? Mavis hasn’t told me much about what you vampires do in your free time.”

“You haven’t told me much about what you witches do in your free time.” Kieran said.

“Eh, I don’t really know. We don’t have it that often. Mama spends all her time by the cauldron, it’s best not to disturb her mid-incantation.”

“What if you have something you wanna add to the spell?” Kieran said. “Or maybe your mom forgot an ingredient?”

“Mama doesn’t simply ‘forget ingredients’. That’s something I’d do, if I was allowed to make my own spells.”

“You sure she’s not forgotten, like, some chilli powder at least once?”

“Chilli powder?” Spelldon raised his eyebrow. “Why would you put chilli powder in a potion?”

“Maybe some clients want their potions spicy.”

“We’ve been over this.” Spelldon laughed. “Adding anything to a potion outside the prescribed ingredient list has literal infinite, unknown consequences. That one thing I have been allowed to know.”

“Well, yknow-I think the consequences of adding chilli powder would be that…it becomes spicy.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.” Spelldon said, unable to resist a smile.

“I mean-have you ever tried?” Kieran suggested clumsily.

“No, because Mama keeps potions to herself and Casta even when I’m not thinking of-fucking yeeting chilli powder into their shit!”

“If we find some chilli powder in Clair’s, I’ll bring it round to yours and we can try when your mom’s not around.”

They laughed once more, magnetised to each other’s chests. Kieran found himself in another stare, yet this was gentler, no shame attached. Future in place of the past. The warmth in Spelldon’s hands nested in his hair too, the orange streak like a leaping, smoking campfire to heal weary travellers against the hostile night and nature. The heart that got away re-entered his consciousness, yet this time it was more to uplift as he realised the journey that ended in the rollercoaster of emotional freedom that he could call his boyfriend.

“Well,” said Ely while pointing ahead, “you may get to start your search soon.”

Standing before the trio was a gaunt, white house with some shining, yellowed windows pockmarked across the neighbourhood. Common, square windows jutting out beyond small remnants of history in clinical, zebra-striped triangles. An austere row of them, no colour of their own save for some doors coloured a pompous red or regal blue. Making the entry of goth girl Clair all the more rebellious. She wore black and some indigo in her hair, nevertheless the houses’ formal presence and her disagreed from then on.

“Valentine!” she said, rubbing her eyes while her shadowed mouth curled up. “What brings your friends here?”

“Just thought we’d chill here.” Kieran responded.

“The hell’re you getting cold outside for? Come in!”

If possible, the inside of Clair’s house fought her aesthetic even more with a gentlemanly corridor, gilded in light and unknowable art from this European painter or that photographer who’d crouched for God-knows-how-long in Hanoi for one still frame.

“Heard you guys came from Crazy Dave’s round the southside.” Clair continued to Spelldon and Ely. “Are you okay?”

“We’re fine. Why?” Ely asked.

“Someone got arrested a few doors down from there.”

“Wait, what?” Spelldon said. Part of him questioned who and why. A smaller part already had his answer.

Clair opened her phone, thrusting it in their faces like prosecution evidence in a court case. “See?”

“Oh, no.”

No escape. As soon as the emotional rollercoaster had reached its peak, down it plummeted again. Before their eyes stood a woman’s face very similar to Clair’s. The difference could not be larger. An ugly scowl. Two equal fangs daring to bare. The motherly, guarding flair about her eyes warped. Warped into near rabid hatred.

“-Mavis Loughran arrested on charges of assault and battery towards a minor and property damage.” Ely read.

“Oh, fuck.” Kieran said. “Oh fuck, fuck. This is bad.”

“You know this person?” Clair asked.

Kieran nodded, the weight in his chest reviving as if his chin were a vessel for some liquid of monstrous blue funk. Mavis would lose her job. Her bike would still be stolen. As for him, without even really thinking about it his feet were already propelling him upstairs.

A text came in. From Unknown. His mind racing far too fast to conceive who. One message.

“What is your wish?”

One answer. Upstairs.
Right, then a left then another right. Barge into the door. No need to ask if anyone’s inside. Doesn’t matter, most of the time he knew Clair’s dad was on call. Hand rifling through boxes which all looked the same from an outside angle, then it became precise-a procedure to practice, perfect. Unfurl bubble wrap, place carefully on the side. Always handle with care. Attract the metal to more metal, never once could his grip falter. Introduce it to false scenery which it, and he, would traverse countless times. Roll more materials into the deal, hook them together slowly. Flick the switch and off the model train went, round and round forever as long as he willed it. No end-only his possession. And it satisfied him for a fleeting while. Round it went for as long as he liked, stopping only for non-existent passengers and resuming its mindless oval when he saw fit. No emotion from either. Complete silence bar a small whirr from the locomotive. Round and round. When the high dissipated, all he did was select another train. Drawn to its smart, maroon livery. That one went a few times with no appraisal or knowledge of anything different. Next one, and another after that. On it went all through the night, pangs of hunger ignored as he bound himself to but one action. Unknown’s text stagnant on his phone, this frantic ritual his meagre answer.

How little at his core had changed, despite the outside. He may be hugging the boy he loved now. He may shower himself in a pretence of progress. But strip him down to his core, how much has he really changed?

A question deliberated by many. Yet answered by none.

Miles away, in the dead of night, a hulking stone brute sharpened his axe. It was too clean for his liking. Too fresh. No matter, that would change before the night retreated. He looked behind at the motorcycle ensnared in the trees. At the milky, pale snake of cloud meandering through the trunks, a pitiful moonlight dappled through the broad, spiked leaves above. His dual diorite horns almost stabbing the sky. The shadow of the axe’s blades became distorted underneath. Blades untidied with victories. Banishment of mercy. Ah yes, that’s better.
A platoon of cops traipsing in. No doubt on a rescue mission. All human, their macho little firearms in hand. His iridescent blue mouth soured with its own craggy, rough edges as he examined the foremost one. Gangly, a head of drooping dark hair. Some narrowly past his left eye in a boyish fringe. Both the brute and his son may have jumped at it, but for very different reasons. His son did not have the nature, no-the spine to relish the likeness of a common enemy, donate another reason to wrench his entrails from his miserable little pipsqueak self. After they’d chucked his friend behind bars, and his blood rival had got away with some friend of Ely’s, this was an insult.

One last glance at the blades, the moon now a fine sheen over it and some of his colossal stone fist; more of that bright blue in minute gashes where veins would be. Tremors whimpered across the forest as his feet hit.

Time to colour his axe. Gangly’s blood would do nicely.

“Okay, boys,” a female cop ordered. “Fan out and search the area.”

Who’d make the first move? All anyone could do with an iota of assurance was point their guns out beyond the mist. It seemed one hadn’t thought to release safety until now. Murphy hoped that was just a twig’s sharp snap. Triggered by some fox. For all their sakes.

Another snap.

“Are all your guns loaded?” Murphy asked, trying to conceal the shudder creeping its way past her body into her voice. Why is it, that whenever Simmonds’ lazy ass posted another op on the group chat, that she was always the one to pick up his mess?

“Yes, Officer,” three whispers replied.

“Okay, remember the brief. A black Harley-Davidson 883 reported stolen last night, seen here by a dog walker.”

No further noises. Wait, no. The same snap. Only stronger from behind her scrawny lieutenant.

“Gee, I w-wonder w-w-who’s gonna win at Hillsboro tomorrow.” he mumbled.

“Money’s on the Bengals, personally.” another cop said under his breath.

The fourth cop tutted. “Really, Bruce? Out here for five years and you’re still a Bengals boy?”

“Can take the kid outta Cincinnati, but ya can’t take Cincinnati out the kid.” Bruce murmured smugly.

Another snap commanded silence. To Bruce’s left. Somewhere beyond the mist. Eyes in all directions for that motorcycle. The lieutenant preened his loping black fringe out of vision. Murphy’s shudder must be contagious. Piercing their riot armour without strain. All of them enslaved to it. And not just because of the cold.

Snap.

“Tell you what,” the fourth cop whispered, “if the Bengals win Hillsboro tomorrow I’ll buy you a beer. A proper one, none of that watery piss they serve down at the Forge.”

Bruce scoffed. “You’re on. If the Ducks somehow win you get a tenner.”

“Pre-game Pawtucket Pat sound good to you?”

“Hell yeah. You gotcha self a deal, Marv.”

Snap. Near Marv’s flank. Come on Murphy, look. Bike’s gotta be round here somewhere. Snap on her left. The pall-like mist didn’t help. An ugly damp drenched the hair underneath her helmet. Snap to the other flank.

“Who’s there?”

Total silence. Creatures nearby and humans close suffocated by it. Almost in wait. Even the snapping twigs had subsided. Wait-had Murphy seen a flash of something? No, no. Just the mist curling up. But hadn’t that flash looked a little brighter? It was as if the silence forced her lips together.

“I see the motorcycle!” the lieutenant shouted. “Moving in to retrieve.”

He barely took three steps before a second, definite flash arced round. Slicing his body clean in two. The lieutenant’s hair flailed in the wind, its jet black colour now streaked with a subtle crimson. In his place lay an axe easily taller than Murphy. A dark stone hand the size of a catcher’s mitt clasped around the handle. Veined in what appeared to be bolts of lightning in stasis. The downward blade now muddied with blood. As its owner liked it.

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” Bruce yelled, wasting no time dispersing the silence in rapid cracks of his pistol. A grunt of pain reverberated around them, bats spurred to take off. No sooner had Murphy caught sight of the axe again than it glistened against the moon. Runes scattering the lieutenant’s blood, which winked from the blade’s edge before it slammed down. Back into the earth with a yelp. And a morbid, grinding crunch.

“Bruce! Bruce!” Murphy dashed across, her finger not daring to leave the trigger. A small mound on the forest floor, that same wet crimson oozing out. Marv shook it rigorously for any hope that there would still be a bet for who bought who a beer. All that did was bring the blood and leaves out faster. Straight through Bruce’s uniform. His wire, his vest.

His bone.

Chest cleaved right in two.

“This is Officer Bryony Murphy requesting immediate backup near Silver Falls State Park. I have two officers dead, murderer on the loose. I repeat: two officers dead, murderer on the loose.”

“Copy that, Murphy,” her walkie-talkie barked. “We’ll see if there’s a car nearby. What type of murderer we dealin’ with?”

Murphy’s breath was en route to answer before the flat of one axe blade knocked it clean out of her body. Her turn to grunt as the tarmac slapped her back (not dissimilar to how Simmonds once did in the office). At direct face level with her were two bright car headlights? Wow, that was quick. No, eyes. Two yellow eyes. An arm beside her, weathered rock biceps like tombstones mere inches away from crushing her neck. Flecks of anger weaved into loud huffs of breath, drying some sweat off her head seconds before more drooled down. It emanated from a mouth pockmarked with jagged, mismatched edges she could only assume were this creature’s teeth. The throat almost entirely a bright cyan. The nose its own contour, a skew to the left indicating breakage past. Eyebrows and cheekbones illuminated in the same blue fashion, like…lightning from a storm cloud.

“W-where’s Marv?” she gasped.

The creature growled. “You mean one of your officers? No need to worry about him.” He spoke in a voice like crackling thunder, its deep boom resonated to unsettle Murphy’s very soul. Fingers sharper than daggers picked their way onto her chest, now uncontrollable shuddering offset by a jerk to the left. Wait-where did her walkie-talkie go?

Slight flex of the bicep. Newly littered plastic shards gave her an answer.

To the right, Marv’s body gave her another; his bearded head lolling clumsily about his neck. Making his own kind contribution to the crimson pool festering in the forest.

“Now it is my turn to ask you a question,” he boomed. Leering in closer, his soulless eyes boring into hers. All an attempt to move did was position one colossal, curved horn either side. Her shudder had now mutated into a full-on spasm. The sweat a winter fjord which cascaded down her temple.

“I’m going to count to three. I will not continue to four. So tell me, cop: Where is Kieran Valentine?”

“What the…I-I’ve never heard that name in my life.” Murphy babbled.

The creature’s mouth drooped down, his face now a deathly mask of pure hatred. His body reared up against the night sky. One gargantuan stone pillar of muscle eclipsed the moon, the darkness and shudder now in full conquest over Murphy like the curtain after a play’s final act. Axe rising once more. One day, the creature thought, it would decapitate the house Valentine once and for all-then he could be free. Tonight, human cops would have to do. Down the axe went, a shower of red embracing the blades. The cheap catharsis teased his nature as he imagined that pitiful boy’s face instead of the woman’s. One day soon, Kulvar the Vengeful. One day soon.

A small buzz on his phone. Fished it out. One message. From “Unknown”.

“Kulvar the Vengeful?”

New profile picture. He didn’t reckon he’d ever seen some orange werecat lady before. Not at the Forge. And even if his clan weren’t fragmented, they hadn’t used external spies since he was Ely’s age. Closest he’d seen was a petite vampire girl who had the same bob haircut over glasses, dumping that bike behind the restaurant with instructions to guard it. The text reopened those past scars, reminding him what really bore his name. Vengeful. His identity chained to that word for as long as Valentine lived. The guise of the family’s restaurant couldn’t stop that, supposedly.

“What is it?”

“I have a mission for you.”

If the guild had reassembled, this was his first knowledge of it. Clients for the restaurant, if they did text, normally wasted no time against business. A police car’s wail sounded across the forest like a predator’s call of triumph over prey. Time to move.

“What kind of mission?”

“One that concerns Kieran Valentine.”

Kulvar took one last look at Gangly’s head, attracting a crowd of flies while it lay on a bed of rusted leaves. It bored him now. A chance at the real deal teased. Axe back up against the sky-there’d be more blood to colour its blades yet.

“I’m listening.”

Chapter Text

Ely sat in the amphitheatre-like Home Ick classroom, silence echoing through to half-rings of students like a sounded gong. Each row wider than its counterparts below, cleaved in half so Miss Van der Wail could float through.

On his row were four chairs. One other student. An elegant, gilded girl with hazel skin. Almost drowning in rich, silky mummy wraps themselves wrapped behind jewels of all kinds, most radiant diamond. She emanated royalty. Shimmering prowess. No need to ask why she was tapping to slice fruit on a coffin-shaped screen rather than listen. Maybe no one dared.

A rocky hand daring her eyes to flit away-Ely was new. Evidently, talking to Deuce hadn’t yet crossed his mind.

“What do you want?”

Cleo de Nile turned to her left, face twisted under a mask of near indignation that someone dared cross an unspoken threshold. Her headband danced under a crude floodlight above their table, enthralling in a way Spelldon would envy, Ely thought. Scrabbling fingers shunted her phone back out of sight, flawlessly into a pouch on her right leg. Not her first time. Eyes darting through the room, fixated only when she’d found Miss Van der Wail. The teacher hovered over desks for a while longer now, leaving a small rectangular package on each. Cleo’s gaze honed, her body extending to the table’s rim, Ely not part of the equation. As usual, maybe.

“Look very closely at the bag of flour in front of you,” Miss ordered.

Almost on telepathic command, at an unspoken imbalance of status, Ely precariously scooped up the bag. Royalty wouldn’t dare. Cleo felt an undeniable vacuum shaped rather like Deuce the more Ely tried to fill it with his own character. This, too, done without a single word, but holding firmer than their relationship. Rock solid, even. Once again, attention snatched itself away from him. Would there ever be a point in his life when it could be his, and surely his?

“This is your baby for the next forty-eight hours.” Miss continued. “You will work in pairs of one boy and one girl each.”

One boy and one girl? Two boys wasn’t an option? How myopic. To be expected, and certainly to be admitted, his brain reasoned in fast-track.

Cleo scoffed. “Taking care of an object and pretending it’s your baby? How original.”

The one thing both did in equal measure was look behind them, at the concentric semi-circles of students. He observed them as if they were another species to him, totally dissimilar. You could say that for most. One such case would be a boy with a head of pure fire and yellow skin, the bag regarded in eyes alight over caution. A sense of pride welled in Ely’s gut as he inspected Heath. He may have austere Abbey by his side, but he did not have a hope in hell of getting past Mr Forster’s test next week, or the finals. He could not measure up to Ely’s skill at Hiss-tory, and that gave him an undeniable sense of comfort.

A girl transparent like Miss, though more slender. Skin an eerie shade of white under the bright violet of her hair. Her leg seemed to phase up and down from the table like the head of a sewing machine, going up and down and up and down for solid minutes while she looked in several directions-all except out front to the teacher. Almost unaware of the leg.
Then the reminders. A reason for why he was still alone mostly. His tenure at Monster High approached two terms, but facts were facts. Even if some didn’t consider all of those. Facts were little nuggets of the past, and not the ones that tasted nice. Their slightest appearance could warp anything into a vivid storm which quickened breath, pump tears and emotion out, make feeling trick you into believing your feet and the nonchalant ground below were one merging, sinking mass. Perhaps the girl above Ely-and the cause -knew that better than anyone.

Draculaura.

On a row with Scarah, Billy, even her boyfriend. One whole row of the past. Silently, their mere beings too communicated vitriol. Whether it was for Ely wasn’t part of the question. Here, mere indifference at the new kid’s boyfriend is enough to isolate in seconds. He’d find that beyond these walls, beyond this crude structure of flour bags powered on rudimentary forces such as “imagination”. Kieran could beg, plea, hug, love all he wanted. It accelerated his ruin the first time. It did so years on. They divided seamlessly into two, heterosexual groups of Scarah and Billy on the left, Draculaura and Clawd on the right. The latter enveloped into their own tight hug, as if to defend from Valentine’s memory of pain and mercilessness no present or change could supposedly cull.
This change of sexuality was nothing more than his latest diabolical trick. It wouldn’t work. All he’d appeared to do was swap one façade for another. He still told his targets what they wanted to hear, be that showers of love or, as Cleo put it once, an ideal of regret cheaper than Toralei’s earrings. Both were lies. It was in Kieran’s nature to lie. Perhaps he’d do it to Spelldon too at some point. And speaking of Cleo…

“You will be paired up with the nearest boy to you for convenience,” Miss announced, her pointing finger not made any less resolute and shocking by lack of flesh. “So, for example, Cleo and Ely will be one pair.”

Their eyes met. Another command. No words needed to trail behind. Could he see some annoyance in Cleo’s? Or was that simply her makeup?

“For extra credit,” Miss continued, “you can send proof of good parenting skills to me by next lesson. Preferably a short video clip.” Her turn to meet Cleo’s eyes, goading them to develop a watery sheen.

No more annoyance when she refocused to Ely.

Terror would be more suitable.

Half an hour later, Ely found himself swept into a storm among the corridors. (Not a literal storm, those were reserved for stairs down to the catacombs and only on Thursdays). Instead, a storm of students all bound to their own goals and classes swept past before anybody could stop them. So many more students, a writhing sea of disjointed and muddied words roaring everywhere he went. Yet not one went to him. The literal son of the Invisible Man enjoyed a stream of high fives and a girlfriend to boot. Ely got a dirty look from someone he’d never once talked to. How had he earned this?
His and Cleo’s eyes met again. Not out of any love, indeed neither could deny an implicit charge of the opposite resonate. Slipping further out of his unknown, odd grasp into what she knew. Were it not for his skin, she’d pull down her boyfriend’s shades above. Continuing his appearance to her as a mute, impartial stranger. She only knew one thing about him, that’s all she needed to know.

“Cleo!” he called. “Cleo De Nile!”

Her grip on the bag tightened. Equally, past conscience, his own hand began to expand and contract at a steady pace, no cause or end. No attention to the grunts of other students as he crossed. Eyes narrowed on the goal, even for a second. For a second, he could’ve sworn one of the snakes on his head kissed the nearest diamond on her headband. He felt his core sour, not worthy of note yet. Perhaps the core represented the whole in monsters and people. That Deuce could have Monster High’s social royalty all to himself on a silver plate, and the hard-working like him got nothing.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m fine, fine.” she mumbled. Deuce’s arms buried her closer in his chest like a snake guarding its eggs. Close enough for his lips to embrace the topmost diamond on her hairband, for her to tickle his chin gently. For a second, it seemed as if they’d generated a shield of their love to bar Ely, his background. How would it imprint on their “baby”?

“Are you sure? You seemed really rattled back there.”

“It was nothing.” Cleo replied in one swift breath.

“If you say so. Are we going to do that video Miss asked for?” He hoped she’d stay for a little longer than that video.

Out came her phone, Cleo contracting into herself. Eyes flitting between that same glazed expression and one of known stoicism. Almost a different monster to Ely between the two, he could only call the second Cleo confidently. That’s the Cleo he saw in the corridors. Deuce began to slip his glasses below green, snakelike eyes.

“No.” Cleo shoved them back up his nose. “She’d know.”

“But you can’t fail this class,” Deuce objected.

“Exactly. We need to do this her way. Take no risks.” Her jewelled hand arose, return it to her side grasping her coping mechanism. Juul to her mouth, breathe in, breathe out. Coloured clouds both inside Ely’s conscience and out. His core warping a little more, One final glimpse at Ely, his pose neutral. “And as for you…”

“What about me?”

Her face contorted into a mask of scrutiny. No need for innocent until proven guilty. Valentine confirmed his own truth. Perhaps the only good thing he’d ever done. Surely the only altruistic thing. Deuce cuddled on.

“Deuce and I will handle this. You stay out of our way.”

“But we’re in a gro-”

Cleo’s hand flew straight to his lip. “Adults are talking.”

Ely wrenched it down, his own critical face forming. “No, I’m part of your group. I deserve a say in this.”

What he said next rushed out of his mouth completely past thought.

“I deserve you!”

“What?”

Deuce excavated a slip of paper from his bag, shrouding the bag in it. Suddenly, the care guiding Ely’s mind and speech died. Its replacement viral, empowering him while the mere ability to feel other emotions became a weakness, a violation of his power. His fist clenched. If only he’d worked harder in Phys Dead, then he’d be able to really make Deuce pay. His bag, his child, wrapped in a reminder of why he’d always be lesser. A roar oozed through his bright blue mouth, one reminiscent of crackling, malevolent thunder.

“Both sides,” he growled. “Both sides!”

A sheet of paper over the bag. Titled “20th Century Politics benchmark.” And a glowering, red A Star barring him from another area of life. Proving Deuce’s superiority, chasing him up the corridor. That’s why he’d never be appreciated. He was always just as bad as his friends. And just as unwelcome. Six months here, still unwelcome.

“Both sides!” he hissed under his breath. Alone again. Maybe how it’s always meant to be.

Clawdeen Wolf sat in the Gore-Graphy classroom, ready for next lesson. Green book out front, pencil case to the side, mute and attentive. Her sketchbook lay dormant for now. She couldn’t bring her hand to paper today. Not after what Draculaura had said. Ah, Draculaura. She remembered her most recent distraction. What it had resurrected. Remembered like it was yesterday. Mostly because it was yesterday.

She’d been fresh off Dead Languages, upstaged by the undead more times than she cared to count. Math wasn’t her forte either, but it must have been a number too large for even Ghoulia to quantify by this point. Anyway, Draculaura had bolted up before she’d even left the classroom.

“Your makeup’s fine, Draculaura,” she’d prescribed.

How her short vampire friend had sobbed then- “It’s not that.”

“I told you, Clawd is away for the Varsity Boos. He won’t be back till Sunday evening at the earliest.” She couldn’t help but feel the slightest tinge of something negative when saying that. Like she’d wished for it to be different. For eyes to be opened. How much longer could she keep these feelings in the dark? Making ignorance bliss for her best friend and brother at her expense, leaving her unfulfilled?

“Not that either!”

“Is it cause I’m quitting Fearleading?” A sliver of her had longed for that to be the case. No such luck.

Draculaura had huffed. “It’s…Valentine!”

“Whadda bout him?”

“He’s-he’s back in New Salem!”

“Again?”

Draculaura had nodded, her eyes wide and watery. “You know that new kid, Spelldon?”

“The one in your Drama class?”

“What about me?” sounded a voice behind.

A bark of surprise, whirling round to see a small green boy.

“Oh, my bad. What’s your name again?”

“Spelldon.”

“Spelldon, that’s it. Can I do anything for you?”

“I just heard you call my name.”

She was saying that conversation out loud? Toralei now put on the same Brooklyn drawl as her. Fuck. And now this boy which, supposedly, was Valentine’s latest victim. He seemed oddly perky for a teenager in this dump; she wondered how long that would last. With Valentine, and them having Mr Hack tomorrow, she’d give it a week tops.

“There’s also…something else I’ve been meaning to ask you-”

Clawdeen dragged out a long, growling sigh. “I’m gonna be busy next weekend seeing my grandma in Tucson, and I’m not, like, super duper interested in going out with a boy right now.”

“Oh it’s not that.” Spelldon chuckled. “I have a boyfriend already. No, I was actually gonna ask if I could see your sketchbook.”

“Why do you wanna see my sketchbook?” Clawdeen asked slowly.

“You have a really good fashion sense, I think. That skirt you wore yesterday was slaying so hard, but, like, I didn’t see it in like Ghostier or Di-urrgh. You make it yourself?”

“With a little thrifting.”

“Holy rabies! Really? Can you teach me how?”

Silence. Think very carefully. Meet alone, and who knows what speculation would follow. Meet with friends, then Spelldon would probably bring his boyfriend. She couldn’t let Valentine get a clear shot at any more victims. This was desperation on his part, plain and simple. No more could be hurt. But equally, an undeniable curiosity whispered in her ear to try. Confirm her suspicion about the heart-stealing monster who’d tried to outdo her brother with his lies. Or find something new about him.

“Aren’t there videos on FrightTube?”

“Eh, I find those kinda hard to follow. Most of them use text on the screen to demonstrate. They never think of dyslexic monsters in those videos for some reason. Your sketchbook could maybe help give me some inspo.”

“Fine.” She fished around her bag, not daring her eyes to leave this boy. Whoever he was. Valentine would never come back to New Salem without a plot. She could only imagine how he must still be craving for Draculaura’s heart, scrabbling at any morsel of love unfortunate enough to cross him, his wishes forever unmet. Settling for boys now, Spelldon’s cheer of life seconds away from being snatched. Ignorance really is bliss.

Yet she could feel something in her soul, something else. Out of place. To an extent, and perhaps a horrible one which she certainly couldn’t reveal, she understood.

She took another look at Toralei, flanked by her identical Siamese goons while she talked to a tall boy with rocky skin and yellow eyes. Back at the boy, flicking through her textbook in awe.

“These designs slay so fucking hard.”

She knew what she had to ask. Unsure if it would confirm anything beyond the rumours. All she had was a haphazard theory.

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

“A vampire. His name’s Kieran. We’ve been dating for-” Spelldon counted on his fingers. “Like, a month and a bit.”

“What’s he like?” Clawdeen feared she knew the answer. Were it not for her own foolish curiosity, and the fact she barely knew this kid, she’d be in his grill like a hamburger. As she’d been against Clawd when he’d started with…her best friend.

“He. Is. The. Best. He’s so kind to me, last week I broke my dance sneakers-so he gets me a brand new pair the next day! He writes poetry of us, our future, for my Mama’s birthday he got her a bouquet of roses.”

So, the rumours were true. And Draculaura had been plunged near danger once more. “You sure he, like, actually loves you?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t he?”

Okay, how was she gonna put this? Telling someone their boyfriend doesn’t care is a hard pill to swallow for the best of people. She should know. It was always Valentine as well. Valentine. The fog of mystery surrounding this road cleared, to reveal a curve so drastic, so void of progress.

“Spelldon, I’m gonna tell you something you may not like about your boyfriend. I’m not sure he has your best interests at heart. Based off what I’ve seen of him, he probably thinks of you as just another pawn in his game. He tried to do the same to Draculaura a few years back, but we stopped him in time and he lost all his power. He came back for the Fraidy Hawkins dance earlier this year, trying to get back in our good books. We can’t trust him, Spelldon. You can’t trust him.”

“Wait, is this about him filling girls’ hearts up with love to break them?”

Clawdeen nodded.

“He told me about that already. He talks with me about his past sometimes.”

“Wait, what? Does he?”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s gotta lotta regrets about what he did before he met me. He feels like he can open up around me, tell the truth, be himself. Neither of us have really had that in a past relationship before. Guess it took him a century and a half of chasing girls to find out he likes boys.”

Clawdeen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. And yet-a part of her found it at least feasible. When Draculaura had last slaved under his tricks, her unnatural devotion to the lies he’d sold hadn’t been enough to hide a fear in his eyes, like a trapped animal. And Toralei had been involved too. Her memory of that video Spectra had sent of them talking was rusty to say the least, but she was pretty sure that Kieran had complained of how slow things went. A grimace of unease darkening his face when Toralei had claimed their exploits were fun.

“Is there, like, a time I can meet you and Kieran?”

If possible, Spelldon grew even more bubbly. “Sure, sure! We can be beast friends!”

“May have to do it next week, though. My brother’s got a casketball game, and-yknow-Miss looooves to set homework.”

“True. Shall we meet you at the game or-”

“Don’t. Don’t. I doubt Kieran would like that. Coffin Bean after school next Tuesday?”

“Sounds great! I’ll see if Kieran can come.”

“Oh,” Clawdeen added, “I’ll bring some material and kit so we can make you some skirts.”

Spelldon beamed. “Thanks!”

And off he skipped. Only one thing on Clawdeen’s mind-she had to investigate. She could not tell anyone. Spectra may have shut down the Ghostly Gossip, but that wouldn’t be nearly enough to stop an avalanche of rumours if she was found with Valentine. Keep drama to the theatre, as Mr Where once said.

But was it possible that Valentine was genuinely making amends?

A cold breath sucked itself through her fangs.

“Only one way to find out.”

On the other side of the classroom, Toralei attracted Ely, as if her beckoning finger had an invisible rope tethered round it. Winding the boy further, further, further into full focus on her. Careful to hide a small, gold lantern under her arm. And not to rub it. The time to rub would come, but she only had three wishes.

If she was to pull this off, she’d need to leave nothing out of consideration.

That went double for the new fact. Valentine.

“Two birds with one stone.” she said under her breath, unable to resist an oily meow of triumph at the end.

Ely’s mind everywhere but here. Heel thwacking the lower bar on his chair at the same force every time, his own little pendulum requiring no conscience. Ms McShmiddlebopper’s term for it was “stimming”. Hand on autopilot when the Gore-graphy class kicked into being, scribbling down notes while the teacher barked orders and explanations. Like always. Part of his NPC lifestyle, a Groundhog Day he’d come to begrudgingly welcome. A mirage of Cleo and Deuce’s lips summiting, unable to leave his eye of thought. They could have it both ways. Revel in the top grades, as he did. Fair enough, in most cases. Some worked hard. Some knew how to revise, and surely they would go headlong into a sprawling international society of tasks to be done and rewards to be collected as he would. Gain the pride of their parents. Rise above myth and ancient perceptions. The same dream he always had, spurring him on through thick and thin, through every class and every damn slip of paper he wore down with a pen strangled in his fist, bleeding its futile noir ink into lines it had no control over.

The dream was always tinged with anger. He could thank the other side for that.

Irrefutable proof of Cleo and Deuce’s superiority, why for all his A stars and achievements he’d forever play second fiddle to everyone. Even now it paraded itself through the classroom, next to him the three werecats in a deep discussion. Smiles, enjoyment. A life he was barred from. Take, for example, a girl called Draculaura on the other side of Mr Forster’s classroom. He found it hard to think she couldn’t weather the Hiss-tory test, which in itself didn’t offend. And unlike most others, his jealousy couldn’t be traced back to her boyfriend either. Quite the contrary, he even felt a lascivious tug when Clawd came to mind. The principle, however, flouted itself in front of him every day to the point where he became like his father. Craving ruin, destruction. That outside of this room were an adoring legion of those close to her, their trust and love for each other undying. And to have that as well as Ely’s academic skill? That warranted jealousy at least, he thought. Both sides of the equation fell into her lap with minimal effort. He was stuck with one. His presence not causing any notable ripple wherever he went. Was he part of the characters when near Spelldon and Kieran? Or was he just another monster in the background? Another disposable waste to be forgotten?

Maybe so. That didn’t make it any easier.

Breaking free, it seemed, was forbidden by external powers, able to control the bliss allowed in his life like a puppet on a string. If it’s seen as a good thing to tell the truth to someone, why did Draculaura get annoyed when he told her she was short? Surely, by the law of comparison, five foot is not tall. ‘Think before you speak’? In the time it would take him to fully deliberate a sentence, weigh up both sides like a source excavated from times past for analysis, the conversation would move on and, once more, he’d be left alone.

Don’t even get him started on dating.

“Hey, you.” A small, furry prod in his shoulder. Poorly disguised giggles echoing behind. Another attempt to make him a laughingstock, eh? Did he really need outside help for that? Let’s get this over with. It’s who he’s meant to be, after all. Second fiddle.

“What do you want?” Ely responded dully.

“Oh, heard you were pretty smart is all.” Toralei purred. “Thought you could help me with a lil’ something.”

In one mere sentence, Ely found his attention slave to her again. “Go on.”

She pulled the lantern from under the table, sun sneaking through the window and students onto its six faces, repainting static etched tales. Gold spilling from the faces through to the plain table like honey fresh from the pot, the corner of Ely’s page dappled in a winding golden snakelike wisp of smoke.

“See this? I found it in the school library.” She’d wised up to methods of detection after others had wised up to her. Only if Ely had looked beyond himself, beyond the moment-thought-would he have seen her chin dip slightly lower. Dying remnants of shame and honour. Forgotten by them both.

“It appears you’ve found a djinni lantern, hailing from the Shayad’hin Dune in Afghanistan.” Ely whispered, one eye tracking the teacher. Both students had been trained in their own deceptions. Both for their own use. “They’re supposed to be exceedingly rare-how did you find it?”

“Guess the genie wanted me to be its finder.” she lied. “You know what happens with genies, though I’m not sure what my first wish should be.”

“Well, what do you want to be better in your life?” Pathos took over. Roots of sympathy festered for this werecat girl, a hope she found what she was looking for. Miss McShmiddlebopper also claimed that the neurodivergent mind is excellent at existing purely in the moment. A downside being that he didn’t think of consequences.

Toralei smirked, her striped paw curling round the foot of the lantern. “You know Cleo De Nile?”

“Yeah? My partner for Home Ick?”

“What’s your opinion on her?” Her emerald eyes remained towards the werecat twins behind, that sly smirk infecting all three of their faces and growing ever wider.

Ely sighed. “I don’t think she likes me that much. Guess it’s normal these days for people to think little of me. To think I’m too academic, boring.”

“She doesn’t think of you correctly.” Toralei confirmed. “Too stuck up with Fearleading and her boyfriend. So stuck up, in fact, that she boots me and Gory off the squad this scaremester for no reason other than to make way for Ghoulia. A zombie, of all-all things!”

“Yes, her boyfriend.” Ely growled. His mind starting to become a blank area for rage to populate, but not quite yet. “Why did she kick you and Gory off the team? Maybe Ghoulia’s better.”

Toralei huffed. “No chance. Ghoulia has two left feet and the cheapest headband you could possibly find at the maul. Knowing where she comes from, my bet is she got it from the trash. My point is, we have a common enemy, don’t we?”

“We do?”

“You despise Deuce for what he has. He’s able to have Cleo all to himself, even when she needs you to pass Home Ick. Once you’ve done that, who’s to say she won’t go straight back to lovey-dovey bullshit with Deuce?”

“She’ll forget I was ever there.” The realisation lilted under Ely’s breath, not daring to take on such a full body of speech. Nevertheless, being fact.

“But we have something they never will.” Toralei reassured. “For all Cleo’s amulets, all her jewels and designer clothes, her boyfriend…”

“We have the lantern. We can make three wishes for whatever we want.”

“Eeeee-xactly! One to get me back into Fearleading, one to get Deuce out of the picture.”

“What about the third wish?” In the rare break from Toralei’s plotting, Ely stared at a map on the board one final time. A country shaped rather like a stereotypical love heart, latched dependently onto a larger continent. Passage over centuries permitted a jagged chasm to root, sever the heart in two while the continent remained unharmed, unfazed. A concluding scribble onto his book at teacher’s instructions, one could almost hear his pen strain under an ever-tighter clench. He was a Lightning Demon, after all.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Toralei’s hand gravitated towards one of the lantern’s faces, for once it was the cat doing the stroking. Typical shrill call of the bell atop school walls, ushering in another new beginning. No end to these new beginnings dished up by Toralei. And as rumour had it, no end to the jealousy ruling Valentine and making him stalk New Salem, robbed of his Draculaura by real love in spite of his maleficent power. Stalking…like a monster. One of the six faces would surely be rubbed for that. Ely would know in good time.

First things first.

“I summon you,” Toralei commanded, “for my first wish.”

“And what would that be?” a shaky woman’s voice responded, some supernatural husk behind it embodying shadow itself. Her hushed tone making her words drift like smoke on an evening breeze. It only wobbled more upon hearing Toralei’s demand. Yet she must stand firm for a finder. Hands together. “As you choose.”

Ely returned to the sea of students between lessons, to frantically scouring for any sign of Cleo, to his concern about her. If nothing else, they’d need to film soon. But if Deuce was there canoodling her, perhaps they deserved what was coming. Mere thought of them together, cherishing each other’s company was enough to block all other emotion, a storm of unfulfilled rage beckoning him to perhaps a duty he should never have ignored. Something primal, appealing to his instinct. Strengthening his bones, his eyes focused like a hunter in the forest of students. Hand closing in on a weapon-if he had one. Even more hauntingly, a cold breeze blew near his shoulder with some absence. Reminding him of how Spelldon could talk to Clawdeen, and Kieran, and Mavis, and they could all share happiness freely when he had to fight tooth and nail for futile hope of such a thing. Love? A luxury certainly not enjoyed by him. He must remember that he’s a Lightning Demon, a species born to serve. They always had served, built places like this. No warmth of a shoulder beside them while they did it. None behind him. Only the sickening, yet known, chasm of loneliness.

No. Fuck Cleo and Deuce. Do what you need to without complaint, but the usual complacency which Ely drank to poison himself would end there. He could live for himself a little more by doing nothing.

Toralei could make his wishes come true.

Chapter Text

“Oh. My. Ra!”

There. One wish true and they hadn’t even had the lantern for an hour.

A shrill cry from several floors down, thundering through the building. Some windows spitting shrapnel glass in surprise. Students closer together not to insult Ely for once, but to shiver as one, either to acknowledge what was coming or what was already here. Not to mean he wasn’t still alone in some aspect, though. His mind could always find proof to single him out, find it at a sickening pace before any other relief came close. It’s part of his nature to be a monster. It ran in his blood and was one of the things permitting him to draw breath after cursed, demonic breath.

A flash of gold at the foot of the stairs. Phones out, some cameras messily catching other camera lenses in their shots. Some blurred, some blocked by an unavoidable shoulder. All targeted at the same thing. You’d think Cleo would be happy to have this kind of treatment, be showered in shutters all documenting the event, documenting her and how extraordinary her life was.

Yet she still wore a scowl.

That, and a tattered Fearleading uniform.

Some scraps of fabric wilted on the floor, illuminated by some phones’ flashing lights appearing in patches closing quicker than they opened. Ancient wraps crisscrossed across her walnut skin exposed for the masses, for the school’s makeshift media. Deuce not on the scene yet, but Cleo’s jabs at her phone screen ensured that would change. Her face looked wilder, a hint of deliberation streaking across her eyes had now extrapolated to pale her evidence of anxiety. Something she could never allow.

“Who did this?” asked a small cyclops near Ely.

“I don’t know,” Cleo hissed. “But mark my words, somebody’s gonna pay for this!”

Then, looking at the noble queen turned dishevelled, Ely’s conflict reared its head, freezing him in shock. Silently to others. Like everything else so significant to him. An unknown rupture of his very ideas, his being in two. The scene’s about him on the inside and no one else. About everyone else but him on the outside. His wish had come true, it was writhing and wailing in the courtyard in front of him right now. Game, set and match. No chance of escape for Cleo. The lantern had succeeded in astonishing time. There’d even been time for Toralei to get her own back on Fearleading as well. A resounding success. Success! Success for him to equalise-no. Go beyond Deuce’s dreadful attack on his pride in that Politics test. His own innocent interest, no less. He and Toralei were on top once again as it should be thanks to the lantern. On paper, their wishes had come true and then some.

But how had he got there?
He didn’t want to recall the massive answer. Try to ignore it looming over, his eyes darting from corner to corner. A monster, an extension of the consequences. One action having such black, sinking
consequences.

At least he had Hiss-tory today. Filter those thoughts about Mr Forster and what today’s class may have in store through. Suffocate anything else. He had to. He fished a slip of paper out of his trouser pocket, studying what lessons plagued him today. Fresh off Home Ick and break was drawing to a close, which meant he’d have Hiss-tory next and then Maths. After lunch, he’d go to the creepateria with…whoever he could and go straight to Creative Frighting. Lesson would begin at 13:30 sharp three floors up, so he’d have to leave by 13:15. Then Physics, then Dead Languages, and then…

Best to hold off Cleo for now. Walk away. Return to the unknown shadows. Where he belonged.

The Hiss-tory classroom didn’t feel as chilly today. Shame. Complete silence even when Mr Forster didn’t freeze the room in his wintry presence. Normally he’d like that. But the room had been tainted, warped into another place of his insignificance. A stronghold captured by the enemy in a savage betrayal of one battalion, the seemingly impenetrable and permanent proving brittle at the mere drop of a hat. How much damage could one second cause? He looked down at the desk. DxV etched onto the corner, the same crude sketch of a penis on this desk like every other. A slight tang of mint still caught his nose from the disgusting, dank mass of gum wedged on the underside. The main, and newest, attraction was a sheet of paper with today’s unchangeable, yet fascinating tragedy emblazoned on in black and white. That gave a more concrete, quantitative answer.

Fifteen thousand, four hundred and twenty-six. Struck stone dead by one bomb.

Stare at the questions. Get his mind into gear. Ah, here we go. Memorised facts and figures materialising from their hiding places like old friends at a surprise party, conjoining into an unstoppable stream of thoughts leaking onto the page in massive paragraphs of facts and analysis. Ely returned to his homeland in this stream without ever leaving his seat. He was able to tune out all talk of anything else as his consciousness streamed into one track, one story of the past’s treasure trove so intensely he would’ve debated if any other students were there in the first place. He could have his own success here. On a paper bludgeoned with facts clinically followed by thorough analysis, final evaluative comments rounding off colossal paragraphs nearly entire pages long each. A brief section void of writing choked by another paragraph, new topics not spared attention and the same technique which Mr Forster had influenced best on the writer, promoting his only individuality in this strange land.
He gasped in catharsis when the essay was done. A few heads turned. They always did. For now, he could afford to be consumed by a drug-like rush of euphoria at his own creation. His own pathway to success, being unique. And he did it through being himself. Suck on that, Deuce. An undertone of him wishing he took the thought back in principle. He tried his best to ignore it for now.

Maths next. Great.

Only one on the front row bar Ghoulia on the other side. Mr Forster’s chill which kept his worries aside died, replaced by a stuffy warmth exposing the empty, invisible hole of a partner beside him. He tried to ignore that too, but it never seemed to go away. Why was it that, after sixteen years, he could not simply lay down and accept that loneliness would always be a part of his life, a part of his nature? He peered over his shoulder at the clock, annoyed it hadn’t moved further round.

Though she wasn’t in this class, he could never pry a fraction of his mind from the thought of Cleo.

Hours later, he found himself at the entrance to Monster High, patiently waiting. Waiting to film this damn thing. Maybe prove himself somehow. The sky was a steely grey a mere shade lighter than his own skin, the hiss of rain slapping the tarmac in colourless drops only eye-catching for a second before vanishing into invisible molecules and miniature crevasses in the road. If there were no trees in the background or multicoloured students crossing every which way, it may be difficult to even find out it was raining.

“My ancestors would relish storms like this.”

His mind turned away from himself to the race that called themselves Lightning Demons. A race he beheld. Warriors whose violence transcended time and history. Years of evolution, years of battles. All those deaths and victories and lands conquered either for their own faction or someone else’s (mostly the latter wherever that could seep through). Dad still kept his old battle-axe hung above the bar at the Forge for all to marvel at, its blades slightly rusted from blood which had leapt onto them from all sorts of enemies over the centuries. Like it was some sort of great attraction for humans and monsters alike. Not even culturally significant enough for the British Museum to nick overnight. So there it hung every day, a bellicose reminder of his father’s life and ways. A reminder of how hard it can be for some to move on-at least that’s what Mavis had told him once. Before she’d been locked up.

“Hi, Toralei!” he shouted across the green. She was a few metres away at most and didn’t have headphones in, but he had to do it a few times before her stripy head reared in his direction. That same quiet smirk flashing into her face.

“Ely.” He could nearly smell her breath and feel her clothes on his so soon. Retreat into the brick pillar. Orange fur compounded weird sensation he felt when their skin touched. No thanks.

“Sorry, it’s just-I don’t like people getting super close to me.” A chuckle gagged out after.

“You like what we did to Cleo, though?” Toralei grinned. “Our wish came true.”

“Yes…I suppose.”

“Your wish will come soon, don’t you worry. Now the score’s settled with Cleo.”

“It is? What happened?”

“Oh, nothing. Just made her unable to captain the Fearleading Team for Gloom Beach this year. It’s only a matter of time before they find a replacement and when they do, I will be the cat that gets the cream.”

“Good for you, I guess.” Ely mumbled.

“Even did a favour for Gory’s friends back at Belfry in the process. Little Miss Gold-Bandage-Bitch won’t get in the way of Monster Mashionals a second time. But still…”

“Still what?”

“We should address the elephant in the room. Or, rather, the snake.”

“Deuce?” His face soured, memory of his face meshed with Cleo’s. “I take it he’s still with her.”

“Yeah. You know what happened in Boo York?”

“Boo York?”

“Ohhh, you weren’t invited.” she simpered, a massive space between each word. “Basically, he fucked up my plans down there at the last second and we tried to make Cleo-how do I put it-punch a little more to her weight per se. But ya know Deuce, he loves being a rebel and he loves Cleo. So he fucked it at the last second. Which do you think got fucked harder by him-my plans or Cleo in bed?”
Ely growled at the mere thought, his pathetic hands balling into fists with only the hope of violence powering them. Absence recognised once again. So many areas of his life drenched in emptiness.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter cause we’re gonna make sure they break up pronto! I have just the thing to make sure Cleo regrets letting his raggedy ass into her pyramid for the rest of her worthless un-life.”

“The lantern?”

“Nah, something better. I got the perfect person back in New Salem just for the job. Someone experienced in this kinda thing. His name’s Valentine.”

“Valentine?” Was Toralei talking about who he thought she was? If so, then someone was bound to be very disappointed. He couldn’t entirely be sure that would be Cleo, he realised with a sickening twist of panic peeping through a violet cloud of jealousy.

“Yeah. He specialises in love. Most notably breaking it. If you’ve been around Draculaura you’ve probably heard of her Sweet 160th. He tried to break her heart but Clawd swooped in just in time.”

“Oh, oh yes. He told us about that.”

“Yeah, well he’s back in New Salem for some reason. Maybe to give Draculaura another shot. Maybe the love she has to give is simply too big for him to pass up.” Her voice grew oilier. Her eyes shortened into predatory slips. Like a tiger stalking prey. “He says he’s ‘gay’ now, that he’s found his place with a boy. But I know Valentine, and I know that he’s lying as usual. Who knows-maybe boys’ hearts have a lot of love and power to give him too. I wouldn’t know. In any case, all I gotta do is give him Cleo and off he’ll go. Her and Deuce will be done-zo within a week! I’ll even be spared a wish while doing it. Good idea, hmm?”

Apparently for her, Ely sprinting away was confirmation of the good idea. Did it matter in the first place? Either way, on with the plan. In her contacts lay the infamous heart-stealer’s phone number after all these years, as if waiting patiently to return for fresh victims. As if nothing else was his purpose. As if it was always meant to be this way. A change in sexuality was just an aberration. Certainly nothing that’d get in the way of true purpose. All it’d take for him to kick back off again was one phone call from his mistress. And when he did, Cleo and Deuce were as good as history. That was when her plan would really surge forward. All thanks to Valentine’s actual purpose and return.

Meanwhile, previous unanimity in Ely’s mind left. Replaced by a violent, racing flood of so many thoughts at once it became hard to hear the cars go by. A flashing reminder of homework to do, then this plan, then Kieran, then Cleo and Deuce, then the plan again, then comfort, then discomfort all only giving each other seconds before removal by another anxiety. A vicious cycle spinning ever-faster, Ely running ever faster. To where he didn’t fully know. No headspace to plan that out. Even his unfathomable sea of anger had dried up. Replaced by emotions he knew better. Such as sympathy. Compassion.

His father would call them weaknesses. Was that true? Once again, no space for an answer if he had one.

Yet barely a hundred metres before memory reeled him back.

He would have to confront that video with Cleo. She needed to pass.

“It’d be the right thing to do.” Even lacking Toralei’s presence failed to raise Ely’s voice beyond a short whisper. Barely noticeable, like its owner’s perceived status. Did Toralei say something about Fearleading? That’d be in the gym. White soles slapped the polished linoleum floor in smaller and smaller gaps, barely confining to corners in his mad dash. The air seemed to get a little colder, but maybe that’s just the wind past his face. A streamlined face. Or at least that’s what the Physics teacher said would enable top speed. Was his nose streamlined? It had a slight downward slope. Would that be enough for invisible air to shoot over, enabling some increase of speed through these dark corridors? He hoped so. For Cleo’s sake, and his own stupid curiosity.

“And where exactly do you think you’re going?” a chilling voice boomed behind.

Ely froze instantly, his head prevented from turning faster by that same icy paralysis commonly known as fear. One presence he’d once relished for its unforgiving nature, for the common ground, now stood uncommon and pressing forward in a narrow hallway. It seemed as if lockers themselves seemed to freeze at attention. For no one would dare step out of line. Not in front of Mr Forster.

“Ely Hutning, I asked you a question,” he repeated. “Where, young man, young noble Lightning Demon, do you think you are going?”

He stammered hopelessly. The words were right there. Dancing in front of him. Teasing him to take one. But just out of reach. If only by a millimetre on the end of his tongue. Still out of reach. Rather than be too close to retract when he’d snatch them only to say something wrong. But one thing was not out of reach. One thing was very tangible. In front. Awaiting response. Order could be given to him without a second thought. Indeed, that was expected.

“I-uh…don’t know, sir. Looking for-for a friend.”

“I see. And that required you running through the halls after school like a madman, did it?”

“No sir, but-you see-she’s in danger. I have to help her.”

“In danger? Come to my office so we can write this down.”

“What? No sir!” One foot advanced after the other, the atmosphere too thick to run on. It had almost been too brittle a mere minute ago. The hallway became bigger. Or did he become smaller?

“I insist you come to my office, Ely. Whatever danger this ghoul is in can be solved if you write it down and leave it to me. Don’t you trust me? I remember how much you adore my lessons. Far more than the other pitiful excuses warming my seats.”

“I…Sir-”

If possible, the temperature around him dropped further. Time savoured every moment of horror striking around Ely’s mind. Thoughts of different kinds gathering round into one white noise. So this is how the rest of his Hiss-tory class felt. Horribly visible against his navy sweater was a clammy, clawed, ice-blue hand pressing its tendrils into his shoulder. Belonging to a confidante. A teacher. Someone who always knew best.

“Come with me, Ely.” Mr Forster pressed his advantage, a twinge of dark focus in plain expression never slipping from his face. “Come with me. Help this girl be all right.”

No room to talk back. Weren’t you supposed to express personal opinion on historical matters? He felt like a kid ushered through the halls by prospective parents and teachers again. A product ready to be sold. No room for anything other than non-negotiable promises.

Ely sighed. “Okay, sir. Let’s go to your office.”

“Good job.” Despite his stone skin, Ely almost felt needle-sharp nails pierce through to something softer. Driving him away from Cleo. Into a chilling domain. It was a strange, alienating sensation, being the teacher’s favourite. Being the one to strike a smile across a frosted face, either prompted by the highest grade or a quick-witted comment to a dumbing question. Like there was a silent knowledge that it was always meant to be just Mr Forster and his alone apprentice who understood the subject. Who took the bare template of a teacher and stabbed it full of life, of a personality. For some it was easier than others. Many would think Ely’s task of doing it to Hiss-tory impossible. Him? Trusting and impartial to the point of naivety. But he could answer anything Mr Forster threw at him.

“That’s merit enough, I guess.”

The chill round his shoulders didn’t leave him when he entered his Hiss-tory teacher’s minimalist cube. And this could be one thing Ely shared with his counterparts. A surprise that teachers existed beyond their subject. Living things ploughing on with various tasks beyond lessons, marking work, giving it back, drilling comments and theories into ears. Sure, those tasks could be fulfilled by the standard black desktop patiently waiting instruction in a thin coat of dust. And a pile of striking white sheets to its side. Those had been staples of Ms McShmiddlebopper’s office too, last he checked.

The colours and life blooming in there did not carry over.

Indeed, the only colour in the entire small space emanated from a large, ancient portrait. An icy mountain with steely clouds looming over, clean white sheets of snow and pale blue spikes of ice populating the cliff. But some were stained. Stained with bright crimson droplets of blood. The warrior’s metal blade reflected both snow and blood, another droplet still clinging on like a baby to its mother. He tried not to look at the face. No need to feel more helpless. The past often did that to him. Anyone well-known in his life felt the taunting presence of the past leering over their shoulder, for that matter. And some, he thought with a shudder of horror as he remembered Spelldon’s first kiss with his first true love, would feel it strike them again. Damn Toralei.

“I need to sort something out in there. Wait here. And do not move until I return.” Mr Forster commanded. A sharp click. Ely alone one final time.

Thankfully, this time not for long.

“Where have you been?” Cleo asked, sprinting down the corridor.

“You…came looking for me?” His eyes honed on the small bundle in her hands. That red A star gloating at his very core even from such a distance.

“You shouldn’t keep royalty waiting,” she huffed. “Especially when grades are on the line.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“I heard you talking to Mr Forster outside. I don’t know how you put up with that son of a bitch.” Another sharp pull on his shoulder, this time dragged the opposite way.

“Hey! Where are we going? He told me to wait here.”

Cleo sighed, the gold streaks in her hair shimmering as they soared from side to side. “There’s more to Mr Forster than just being strict, Ely.”

“I trust him with my grades. Isn’t that all you need for a teacher?”

“Look, we can talk all about this Hiss-tory teacher when we’re done filming this stupid fucking video for Miss Van der Wail. For now, we need to get going!”

Soon, the atmosphere greeted them with a cool blast of night air and a light shushing. Momentarily, he could trace shadows of the clouds above as a bright white flash struck across, followed by a deep rumble he could almost feel as an earthquake penetrating his soul. Sometimes a jagged bright spear would arc through the sky and illuminate both their faces, sodden from sweat and rain, Cleo’s cheeks home to a pink hue. All the while the road shushed on. The wind buffeted wildly in his ears, some trees warped down as if they were arrows pointing to an unknowable end.

“Why do we have to run to your place?” Ely shouted.

“What?” Cleo called back, their voices battling desperately with the elements.

“I said, why do we have to run to your place? Couldn’t we get an Uber or something?”

“My father despises it when he sees an Uber outside the pyramid. He says they’re “for commoners”. If he saw me in anything other than our royal carriage he’d ban me from the maul for a week. Can you imagine such a travesty?”

“I…well-no. The idea of being so affected by the inability to go shopping at the maul for a week is lost on me.”

Another rocket of lightning streaked by their eyes, hypnotic to both.

“At least it’s raining tonight.” Cleo said softly. “I love rain.”

“What’s so enticing about rain to you?”

“There’s something about the heavens just opening and spraying trillions of their parts all over the place after so long and so much pressure that I can really…feel, you know? So many other parts of the world form these clouds only to put them under so much pressure, and there’s only so much they can take. There comes a point when they can, or are forced, to say “Fuck you, I can’t take this anymore!” and the result is simply mesmerising. It really strikes a chord, helps me feel okay. Like it’s all gonna be okay. That I’m not alone in this wide, unforgiving, monstrous world. That despite all the pressure, it’s okay to let it all out once in a while. Be you, unashamedly you. That’s pretty motherfucking awesome, in my eyes. Sometimes, when Daddy comes home and Nefera’s being a bitch, which is often now I’m moving towards senior year and they’re all riled up about Boo York, I go and stand in the rain for a few hours and do nothing else but stand there, letting the drops wash over me like one big massage from Mother Nature. A mother I never really had or knew. The bandages get wet and sink into my skin, and it’s tarnished a few of my Di-urrghh and Ghostier shoes, but you know what? That’s okay. The rain makes it okay. I don’t have to worry about fashion for a bit. Only the rain down on my skin as it reminds me of what’s good, what’s important, what’s there, you know? I once slept a whole night outside in the drive with nothing but the rain for company. A thunderstorm. Ah, that was pretty damn nice. It was just after Boo York, and Nefera was furious at me for choosing Deuce over a boy I could never care about, being myself. I think she smashed a vase at me in anger, thunder shouting so loud almost like a reprimand to both of us for different things. That’s when I knew nothing else but to go outside to safety. We’d both been so angry, so sad, consumed by emotion. But the rain was there for me. I don’t know how long I was there for-it must’ve been several hours. I was almost late to school the next day, and that was with me going straight there, not stopping for breakfast or anything like that which would put me in front of my sister. But I woke feeling brilliant, freaky fabulous, refreshed, at ease. So…yeah. That’s why rain is, and always will be, so perfect to me. Perfectly imperfect, just like me. I rambled on a bit there, sorry. What do you think?”

Ely’s mouth hung in stasis, water seeping in from his trainers which still bounced helplessly along the pavement as they moved ever forward.

“Cleo-I mean…are you okay?”

She sighed. “Better now, thanks to the rain. Let’s get this dumb video over with, then I might be able to think a little clearer. Hope it’s still here when we’re done, then I’m gonna need a good long while in it. What do you think of the rain?”

He glanced up at the sky, slow to answer royalty’s request. Maybe deliberately. “Back in, like, my grandfather’s time, my race would worship thunderstorms. They were a good omen. A sign of prosperity to come, of power. Pfft. For them, prosperity usually meant insane amounts of bloodshed. For some-it still does. I remember my father telling me stories of what my grandfather, Lord Thundrar, did around thunderstorms. Take, for example, Storm Hjalmar. Legend says he was merely a boy back then. My age at most. Long story short, he challenged the current Lightning Demon ruler to a battle in the heat of the storm in front of everyone. When she was in full armour. In our lore, it’s supposedly wrong to have a woman in charge, it messes up the natural order and veers the whole clan off course. The legend says Thundrar reminded them of that truth as he grabbed her sword by the blade and bent it with his bare hands, stripping the “liberty of battle from her pitiful hands and back to its rightful owner.” Then, he raised his hand from the air and received a bright blade in one flash, as if the storm itself had blessed him to enact righteousness. He spared no mercy for her, gouging her eyes out while slicing a million cuts on her bosom. The entire clan knew, from that moment, and many other supposed moments to come, that their saviour and eternal leader had made himself known. He’d made himself known from killing a woman. To this day, he’s like a patron saint for my kind. He lives on in the thunderstorms as a sign of bellicose triumph and misogyny for people like my dad. But for me, I don’t know. I like to think he lives on in the thunderstorms for my rooftop garden. When it rains like this, my vegetables can grow and we can use them for the restaurant. It often rains near Christmas and Valentine’s Day as well, when we’d have more custom. So, in a way, the storm brings us both prosperity. For my father, it tethers him to tradition and gives him hope that soon he’ll have his revenge, even if it’s on my friends. And for me, it's nature’s way of saying that we’ll hold on financially, a little present to keep us in business for when we need it. If nothing else, me and my father have a love of storms in common, and that is something I believe I should cherish.”

“So you have an annoying conservative father as well?” Cleo realised. “Glad I’m not the only one at this place. Or anywhere. There was Elissabat, but she doesn’t really count since it was her uncle that was annoying.”

“Huh? Elissabat?”

“Oh, the Vampire Queen. It’s a long story. And once we get to my house, I’m not sure we’ll have a lot of time.”

“What does your house look like, out of curiosity?”

“Well, I wouldn’t really call it a house.” Cleo admitted. “More of a pyramid. It’s got a little fountain outside with some crocs-ooh, don’t forget to feed them when we get there-and a large drive for my father’s cronies to park their cars and for our carriage. Richesse Close. Very hard to miss.”

“You mean that Richesse Close up there?”

The place Ely pointed to was almost within a stone’s throw. Standing out almost god-like amongst the gloomy sheet of cloud and night was a bright, gilded pyramid. Two impeccable white towers stood firm against the storm, massive over the meek neighbourhoods and houses daring to be anywhere near its presence. Palm trees thrashed violently across the compound, dappling some of the lightning striking behind to make it seem even more jagged and uncontrollable. One obsidian statue stood against each tower, their jewelled eyes glistening evilly in the moonlight. The weather’s shushing only grew louder as they got closer, some raindrops spitting on impact with the fountain. Believing that Ely and Cleo needed to be doused further.

“Why are we going round the border? Can’t we just walk straight there?” Ely asked.

One wrapped, ominous finger pointed to the fountain. As if on cue, a surge of water shot up to meet fresh crackles of thunder. The columns of spray soon retreated, revealing three thrashing malachite alligators enacting their frustration on every direction.

“The crocs. When we installed them, the seller on eBay said they “wouldn’t hurt a fly” and are “perfect house pets”. Now that I think about it, they said the same thing about their pitbull for sale.” She chuckled.

“How is that funny? These alligators are dangerous and the seller very probably knew about it. Didn’t you try and sue them? Or at least get your money back?”

“What would be the point in that? If one gets killed by the others, Nefera can save money on a new handbag, and that saves us yet more whining.”

“But aren’t these alligators at least a little concerning to you, Cleo?”

“Two things. One: We’re undead, so even if they wanted to kill us they couldn’t. Two: We figured them out pretty soon. Just throw them a piece of meat, like-I dunno, Deuce’s roast duck-and they’re happy. Gonna be honest, that’s one of the few things I’d never eat anyway.”
Ely’s face darkened a little. He tried to make it stay light as long as he could. “Whatever you say, I guess. But what about this video you seemed so urgent to make?”
“Oh shit, yeah. Good point.” Cleo’s hands finally released her ‘baby’, the bag of flour landing with a light ‘paf’ no heavier than one of the many raindrops. A sound lighter still came from the pressure exerted on its sodden exterior finally being too much. The drive’s black sheen was duly veined with a fine, powdery, yet defeating and dull white.
“Double shit.” Cleo pronounced.
“If you need to go to the toilet, why are we still standing out here?” Ely responded.
She gave him a slightly dirty look. “Must you always take things so literally?”

“Sorry. What’re we gonna do for this video now, though?”

“Umm…” The storm almost nudged Cleo to the ground. She closed her eyes for a second, her breathing slowly in tune with the falling rain, forks of lightning and bellows of thunder unable to make a dent in her serene focus. Just her sitting there for a timeless age. Her breathing the only sound she was even alive. A sudden ability to take worries, take day-to-day distractions and simply silence them effortlessly. More tiles on the drive had separated under a new light grey river, all Ely could do was stand and let his sweater sink. Stare at Deuce’s A star melt beneath his feet, into the road and into darker shades beyond sight. It’d been of such significance not so long ago, had dominated his consciousness rapidly and subjected him to such terror. And now, not even a day later. Nothing. Was it ever even there?
“
I got it. There should be some more flour inside. We go get it, scribble some shit on the bag so it looks like the same thing, say what amazing parents we are, yadda yadda yadda, then it’s a wrap.”

“I thought you liked staying in the storm.”

“Actually…now you mention it, chances are Nefera’s home by now. You go in and get it.”

“But are we gonna film inside or outside? If inside, wouldn’t it be more sensible for us to both go?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Huh? Isn’t the nearest bridge from Monster High like…5 miles away? That’s a long way out of our way.”

She sighed. “It’s a figurative bridge, Ely. Why must you always take things so literally? Just-go. Quickly. We can think about where we’re gonna film when we’ve got this stupid bag of flour.”

Chapter Text

From the first step he took into the pyramid, it was clear that most of the money spent building the compound had not gone to the exterior. He had seen halls of Ancient Egyptian royalty before, indeed several times for the exam to enter Monster High. But textbooks could only portray so much. The past had taken its share of the splendour, too. Here the De Niles paid neither of those taxes (something told him they didn’t pay many other taxes either). Murals cracked in the textbook pictures held full obsidian figures here, majestically hunting prey be it animals or enemy. In a fair few cases, enemies with the heads of animals. No chipped or missing hieroglyphs to torment the historian-he as a young one was treated with entire walls lacquered in the stuff.

Even another teenage mummy to greet him. Although, her expression was oddly stern for doing so.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked. A rich, smooth tint in Cleo’s voice was extrapolated in hers, making for almost a snobbish wheedle under every syllable she uttered.

“Oh, uh, hello. I am Ely Hutning. Friend-no, classmate-of Cleo de Nile’s. I have come to get a bag of flour for us to use in Home Ickonomics.”

“What the? First Deuce, who says “dude” at every other word, and now this? The fuck are you speaking so autistic-like for?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I am diagnosed with autism. Miss McShmiddleBopper says it’s something to be proud of.”

“Whatever. You like Cleo? Is she, yknow, less of a bitch at school?”

“I would say so. It appears that, once a rainstorm comes, she is actually very friendly and open.”

“Course she is.” The girl harrumphed.

“Do you have any bags of flour?”

“Uhhh, I dunno. Depends.”

“Depends? On what?”

“On how badly you want ‘em.”

“Huh?”

“This is to save Cleo’s Home Ick grade, right? A little bat told me that if she fails Home Ick, Daddy will ground her for a week. Think of that! A whole week without her seeing Deuce. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

“Uhhhhh…”

“She’d have it coming, to be honest. Of course she can have it all at Monster High. A friend group, a happy relationship, being the social queen of the scene. And apparently that’s my fault! My fault she gets everything, and I get nothing. I try to get something for myself at Boo York, try to make us all happy. But noooo. Deuce just HAD to swoop in and thwart that too. So I think she can get by without Home Ick. She can get by without seeing her beloved gorgon junkie for a week. I got by without seeing Toralei for years-how does she think I feel? Does she think about how I feel?”

“Are-are you okay?”

The girl flicked her hand and gazed down on Ely. “Go, go. Get your stupid fucking flour. But tell me something first.”

“What?”

“You know Toralei, right?”

“Yes…I do.”

“She said she was gonna get back at Cleo for me. You know how that’s gone?”

His eyes retreated into the floor. All he found there was an equally spotless, gilded floor, his own two lamp-like eyes staring back up at him to illuminate shame. Some of the floor had been dented a little by feet past, leaving miniscule imperfections desperately trying to hide themselves in shiny perfection. Had this girl not been there, they wouldn’t have given themselves up. Yet their presence was there all the same. Undeniable, existing presence.

“I saw Cleo…with her Fearleading dress torn in the middle of the school. She seemed-really distressed. Really distressed. I helped Toralei get back on her for something and now…it seems unlikely she’ll be able to lead her team at Gloom Beach this year, which I think is something she wanted to do.” His head shrank further into his shoulders with each word he uttered. The image replayed in his mind’s eye, a disembodied screech ringing in his ears alone as more thunder growled beyond them. He wished this house was haunted (and it probably was) but he knew the creator of that screech was alive. Alive, and outside. Energy transferred from his sorry posture into the girl, welling her up with pride and a long amiss, sense of retribution soaring over her like a drug high.

“Oh, fuck yeah!”

Face still magnetised to the glossy floor, one foot gave him a duller view below for a second. Tentatively, another foot followed suit. Each foot in pursuit of the other, in no rush but also holding no reason to drag behind lest the other foot, or his thoughts, get away for a second more. His hands rapidly opened only to close down again a second later, craving something to hold. Less in control of these instant, intense cravings than the girl was. Than Nefera De Nile. Unlike his position in the house, her face rested perfectly still. Like her sister, unfazed by the lightning thrashing Ely with a bolt of white for each mistake he made in direction or otherwise. And yet so unlike her in ways none were able to face. Memories told both sisters and even this stony outsider that, for all their similarities in hoping to best the other, and any common ground they may face even in shopping for shoes, one thing remained between them. The past could never make them alike. A past in real royalty. Nor in school royalty.

Another bellow of thunder as he found his bag of flour. She would go up to stop him, or send one of the werecats to do it. But a certain heaviness in her soul made even the search for an amulet in her handbag too much. What’s the point? Cleo would find some way to circumvent even the most watertight of plots she made. Not to mention her love for that…that IDIOT Deuce. At least want to date someone with style, or a decent haircut. All the joie de vivre that usually buzzed within her plotting had been sapped. Because she knew what would come at the end. And, though he may try to hide it, she had a sneaking suspicion her father did too. Rather than dig an amulet out, it was easier to retrieve her cyan vape and press it to her lower lip, eyes rolling back as the nicotine swum in her brain like a soothing morning breeze telling her it’d all be okay. Another. There we go. Yet not even drugs could remove that niggling sense of something she’d felt in Cleo since her sister’s first day of school. Touch the black nib to her shiny teal lip one more time, filling her entire lungs with the sweet substance until she thought she could smell and feel nothing else. Then shroud herself in thick pale smoke. Almost too thick to see her failures through. But even a simple vape stick, even merely gazing at it would remind her of something like the Statue of Liberty standing tall above an area like Boo York. It could force the reminder into her pitiful brain that that torch was once hers.

“Why wasn’t it now?”

Same answer as every other one of her problems inside this house and out. None of them solvable. Cleo had shown that to her. Shown it to be not just a possibility. But inevitable, crushing fact. Ely could blow past her just as refreshing, vanilla vape smoke did for all she cared. Not like there was anything she could do about it. School may have taught her several lessons in several insignificant fields. But she could see now that the most efficient, relentless, impactful teacher for her miserable life was the past. Her sister a close second. And when they frequently crossed over…that was when lessons she would never forget and truths she could not subvert came into horrendous being. Go on, weird autistic little boy. Help Cleo get another of her victories alongside an already perfect life. Don’t worry about who has to suffer. The past will never compel you to.

“Cleo, I have the bag!”

The nipping, dank air soon stung Ely’s face. The road hissed a little less, while a pleasant royal blue that had painted the sky before now gave way to deepest black sometimes veined by lightning. From his pocket emerged a smart, black phone. Once again, no notifications on it. And that did give him a pang of annoyance. Yet when he strode forward, ready to do this assignment and help Cleo, it didn’t seem to matter as much.

The storm whisked them both into the moment.

“Nice going. Let’s do this thing.”

Cleo stood up, her hands clapping together, light and pleasant as the smile on her face. At once, Ely felt compelled to circle around her sodden body. Phone camera poised.

One thing left to answer, though.

“The bag.” Cleo instructed. Back in her usual stride. Nearly forgot to add a brief “thank you” when it landed in her palm, quickly rushed to her side away from the rain’s harm.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand about you, Cleo.”

She faced him, her expression trying to be neutral. Eyes apprehensive and accusing, lips pursed tightly. Subconsciously, her grip round the bag tightened, moving further back to her right.

“What would that be?”

He almost had to force the words out of his mouth. An image of the future, of the subject hunting him down and punishing him for such accusations he was about to make threatened to claw the words back down his throat. Indeed, he’d fallen foul of such people before. One of them had been tripped up by his actions a few mere hours ago. That scream again rang in his ears. A ghastly substitute for thunder. Its image like the lightning a few seconds out of tune, flashing before him as some final warning. Maybe both their memories would inhibit them to ever truly be friends. And their personal cliques would gladly give them a helping hand.

“You know how you and Deuce are-like…together.”

She curtly nodded, eyes screwing up further.

“You two are so…I dunno-different. I guess…I don’t really understand-your relationship. Like, I don’t really see how you two, of all people, are together. To be honest, it was probably that lack of understanding which made me do what I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how your Fearleading thing got fucked earlier today?”

“Yes…”

“I may have-no. I did help Toralei ruin your chances of captaining the Fearleading team for Gloom Beach because I guess I was-like-jealous. Yeah, jealous of what you and Deuce had together.”

“Jealous?” Cleo chuckled.

“Yeah. You know me in Hiss-tory, right? I’m good at it. The best, even. My interest in politics serves me well. But outside of the class, I’m not sure if I’m valued for anything else. Like I exist only in that cold classroom for Mr Forster’s appraisal, and disappear after as if I was never there.”

“Aren’t you friends with that Spelldon kid?”

“Yeah, but since he’s got a boyfriend now sometimes I feel a little left out. Not contributing much. Because of my autism, I find it harder to make friends than Spelldon and his boyfriend Kieran who can do it so easily. Casta’s only a few years older than me and she’s got thousands of friends coming to her concerts, for fuck’s sake. So when I see that Deuce got an A star in Mr Forster’s latest test when I only come out with an A, I dunno how to feel about that. Life’s like an equation, you know, with school on one side and social stuff on the other. I only have one side, I thought you had the social side. When I saw you had both…it felt like I didn’t really matter that much.”

Cleo couldn’t hold her hand in front of her mouth any longer. Now, the thunder’s substitute found itself in something lighter, more lilting. She didn’t care if Nefera peered through a window. She’d already stood for hours in the rain and brought another boy home. And so, her laughter transformed into a loud bark that rang around the compound, the crocodiles’ teeth snapping alongside the waves they kicked up. “Me and Deuce are just together because we help each other feel better about ourselves. He helps me stay down to earth when shit hits the fan, I help him put more faith in himself. A lot of people are surprised by it, but who really cares at the end of the day? We’re out here being ourselves and loving it. If that means we’re unique, then so be it. We’re together cos we love each other and help each other feel better.”

“But-the paper…”

Cleo giggled. “That paper wasn’t even his! It was mine. And to be honest, I only really got that A star through cramming after a night out in the rain just like this one. After Home Ick, I dug it out of my locker in a panic in case I like, dropped the bag or something. You know, I don’t think this whole ‘equation’ theory really helps you a lot.”

“I will admit, it does make me worry. But how else do I address that I don’t think I have many friends? Toralei helped me alleviate that.”

“Ely, Toralei does not want to be your friend. She has a friend group already, it doesn't involve you. She has some kinda beef with me for reasons I don’t know. Chances are she manipulated you into helping her get back on me. Also, you still spend time with Spelldon. He wouldn’t do that if he wasn’t a friend. Do you get on with his boyfriend?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. His name’s Kieran Valentine, and he’s properly sweet.”

“Oh-good. Good.” Cleo’s nose wrinkled a little, eyes flitting as she battled between advice and another conflict. “I suppose, in that case, you have nothing to worry about from the friendship side of things. Spelldon and…his boyfriend seem to be happy together, so just be happy alongside them. They kept you in their inner circle, so that’s gotta count for something. I mean, I thought your life was alright socially.”

“I could say the same about yours.”

“Yeah, life always looks easier from the outside. I wouldn’t really worry about it right now. We’ve got a video to do.”

That same hiss on the pavement went further into diminuendo. The stage was set. They were ready.

Without warning, Cleo’s posture dropped into the bag, every second of her newfound maternal instinct captured on his phone as they moved round the obelisk. The thought of Deuce and Cleo’s lips touching did haunt Ely’s mind as they continued. It was just an image. Irrelevant. They were happy. He could help them with that. Doing so right now. Within five minutes, they had wrapped filming.

His stone palm slapping with her smooth one up high. And on cue the hiss died down completely.

For the first time in a very long while, Ely didn’t consider friendship much of a problem. For he’d just made another one. And where he was, their pasts couldn’t catch them from their best.

Chapter Text

I don’t care what the dumb fucking ‘lawmaker’ says, that werecat girl had it coming. All the same, I do miss my leather jacket.

It seemed that Mavis’ eyes were glued to that claim. Scrawled on a piece of paper whiter than her hand. The only white amidst a sea of blacks and muddy greys. And orange. The ugliest orange she’d ever seen. Even uglier than that werecat girl. Uglier than before Mavis had showered that striped face in its own blood. That had helped knock back the colours a little. Now she had to wear the orange. Sticking out against the dark cell, all over her body. Not even a chunky pair of Docs to offset it. Bright orange. Only bright orange for Number 12474.

She hauled herself back onto the bed, welcomed by a light creak below. Treated to a full view of her surroundings as if, somehow, they’d changed just for her. Still a far cry from the hotel she’d been in not too long ago. Hell, it had been what? Two, three years? Fucking hell.

Another reason why the orange was so terrible. She could only thank that this wasn’t a cell in Cali, for now. Trying to block that smooth, slack laugh from her ears lest memories catch its loose drift and waft into her mind. Fanning their own black flames of distress.

The only sign someone even lived here sat below the bed. A well-thumbed copy of The Body Keeps the Score. Going to prison was one thing, but letting go of her new living as well was quite another. The bed was a white rectangle ebbing into yellow. A spindly, curling iron bedframe all that separated it from a sea of linoleum. She would appreciate such an aesthetic were it not part of her living tomb, courtesy of the NSPD. The dust made its own sheet of her annoying companion, who never spoke nor showed themselves. Yet always showed themselves. Just in case she needed a reminder of life at the hotel, a fresh wonder of who’d fallen further. God’s right-hand angel-or Dracula’s second daughter? Rods of light sifted into the grey cube, the stage set for another day so like so many recent others. The lit area below the window like a showroom advertising a car. Or a motorcycle. If one was there, she would definitely not wear something so garish to ride her beloved Howley-Davidson. No heavy jacket to drape over her shoulder. No boots to give her that extra blissful inch, that kick of power compelling her ride into action. No helmet to shield her from those disgusting builders off Cranmer Street. Their whistles didn’t go with the guttural growl she was more attuned to. At least with the latter, she had choice over its being. Men couldn’t stop her riding.

But they could.

One had. With the help of that werecat girl.

Could be riding right now. Instead of the stagnant air that hung about the cell, how about a fresh coastal breeze whipping past her face? A hill and speedometer to ascend rather than flat floors? Ariana Grande thumping in her ears, rather than the shoes of officers only there to break up winding carriages of silence? A V-Twin engine thundering beneath her legs, instead of rusted bedsprings?
Her fists closed on air instinctively where two handlebars would be, manoeuvring herself at high speeds only in her head. A light hum emanating from her midnight lips, and for a brief moment she was on her bike once again. Flick of the wrist, and the engine surged forward in one impressive bellow. Allowing herself a little giggle, unaware of its presence outside her childish imagination. Her bed made a good turn as she swerved up the hill, her fists never once letting go of those invisible handlebars. In this realm, there was no orange jumpsuit tainting her back. No. Instead blessed with a black, ribbed biker jacket bearing down on her shoulders. Her shoes willed into feeling heavier here, blessed with a stark heel and silver buckles forcing the lower part of her bike into place. The number 666 on her chest so she could belong to something out of her own volition. Her own identity prevailing too, as the knee of her jeans came into view when she opened the throttle round the corner. Bound only on her neck by a slightly invasive choker. Jet-black hair flailing below her helmet like a celebratory ribbon. The imaginary realm had a destination, and that too proved cause for comfort. Friends behind her and in front of her, fleshing out this life that had once been so accessible. Waving a miraculous mirage for her to embrace. Cause for her own identity. Escape from the hotel. Or what was the hotel. Why worry about it? When she could yank one wheel up into the air, the engine humming its blissful tune for her ears only in the background. More than just some woman. More than just Dracula’s unimpressive, weak daughter. She rode to her office her own free vampire. Her own free lady…like a bat out of hell.

All taken away in one fleeting moment. Bound to another moment in the past that could very easily ruin her un-life.

She suspected it had already begun.

New light in the room. She swore into the pillow when she heard its familiar wail, its samey red tortuous sheets. Her imaginary realm, and its wonderful motorcycle with its dreadful symphony, were gone with no trace for her to claw at. Normally, it was a therapist’s job to await socialising. But she preferred to do it without those blue-uniformed bastards on her ass. And the beckoning of her motorcycle through the street view and her leathered shoulders. And some decent food. She arched her back against the knobbly cement wall, a chain reaction of cracks sounding through in place of feet. Wrangle her own into bland shoes; a monotone black almost as compensation for the abomination she had to wear above. Her surroundings returned to their painful stasis. If she was going to have repetition, and would have to compromise as it appeared she always had to wherever she went, she preferred to do it at least somewhat on her own terms. And her own terms involved a bike. That was that.
“I swear, if I see that werecat girl again I don’t care if it sets monsters back hundreds of years.”
A line of other women presented themselves. Identity robbed from the neck down. Standing in the face of a trial yet to come. Maybe skewed by factors they could never help. Held there. By that damn orange jumpsuit. Why orange of all colours? Most were monsters, a pop of individuality in shimmering scales, horns and fur before being suffocated by the prison bearing down upon them all. Equal, yet equal in subservience. Shunted into lines by that lawmaker’s minions. His grinning, punchable face and wicked moustache nearly tangible as they shuffled to breakfast. One line of women all with their own falls from grace. Falls from a society that maybe was never meant for them in the first place. A glazed look in each eye that communicated nothing. Gave away nothing. The grinding squeaks of their shoes on the floor did the talking.

A few prisoners up was a woman like Mavis. Hair and lips the same black sheen, tied back in two tight buns. The divide between them on the back of her scalp like a jagged bolt of lightning striking terror down. Rose gold necklace bearing her gaze into the floor. Mavis could just spot the edge of a Christian cross-the culprit. A light, swaying jingle all that stood against the atmosphere. She found herself scoffing at that cross faster than any other thoughts. Christianity? Why bother in a place like this? In a world like this. They were both adult women. Surely they knew that they’d need more than a god (if such a thing even existed) to get by.

A voice snuck its way into her head. Maybe it had always been there.

“When did you become like this?”

Accompanied by only a millisecond of thought, she gagged. Gagged in a painfully memorable way. The same way she’d gagged on that voice’s dick ages ago. Thrusted it down her throat, no time to think that the memory would spread upwards. Swallowed the sperm streaking outwards from it, no clue of the black future seeping under its alabaster white. Blissfully ignorant back then. She could still afford to open herself up, not have to glance over her shoulder. It was that voice, that oh so smooth voice dripped in callous carefreeness, which had robbed them both. Taken an entire livelihood, a sanctuary which had taken centuries to build. And the humans had sent it tumbling down. Just as they did to her mother. Didn’t help that the prisoner behind her was ginger.
And this was meant to be the woman helping people in the town centre. Last week they held a meeting about that. Most of it had been exterminated from her brain already. Wonder why she couldn’t do that to the werecat girl, or the hotel?

“You used to be so different”, that smooth fucking voice went again.

“I’ve grown up now.” Mavis hissed. A few heads turned. They always did wherever she seemed to go. Wherever she rode. Her father, and the grand façade he constructed to shield her, had crumbled. Not her fault. Simply the real world making its entrance. It did so through tech and two wheels screeching in, dousing her in leather to revise what she knew. For better or worse. Then to send her off on some mission. To protect others from the same fate. The vroom of her bike underneath to underline her credibility.

When her and Johnny kissed to an eruption of cheers, when they had a kid, when they moved to California…when did this come on the cards? She already knew. There were a lot of things she wanted to know in un-life, but also a few things she didn’t want to know. They always seemed to be mired in the past, beckoning her attention back until some dumb lesson was learned. No such lesson learned yet. She didn’t intend them to be.

A new smell may mean she didn’t live long enough.

A dour smell, winding its way through everyone’s consciousness as they continued that line. Unable to move their own way, even for a second. Only a slight greenish tint to hint it was even there, but their noses knew better. How much longer would they know anything, though? Not long. Not if the smell seeped in more. Already the walls of her throat started to contract, breathing forced out in short puffs. She didn’t feel like dying just yet. Good remained to be done to her clients. Even if she meant jack shit outside. The smell seeped its way fully to the front, another memory never far behind.
Of another man. Another who claimed he’d always be there, yet where was he at the end? Right there to destroy Mavis and Johnny. Linger on that phrase for a second while her feet lose control, the tips of her shoes only just pointing to that same dull breakfast counter for another repeat. The religious woman next to her, some metallic circular shine protruding from her eyebrow.

“Mavis and Johnny.”

The two of them, together. His bark of laughter warming her face. And something inside as well. On that fateful boat, she had put her hands out to each wing of the horizon on the very front. And he had kept her steady underneath. For a moment, a blissful moment she thought she would cherish forever, it felt as if they were flying. Ironic they called it the Legacy. What was the expression they had used again? A bat out of something. Out of the sea? No. Foolish to try forgetting.

Too much had been burned into her mind, burned as a caution to remind her of her place. Of a sprawling world a sudden blip in time had catapulted everyone into. Or everyone who made it. Because some were left behind.

“Like a bat outta hell,” she mumbled. She cursed under her breath. Cursed that, for all that had transpired, an undeniable part of her still wondered. Hoped even. Hoped that Johnny and Dennis were okay.

“Oh, so you read the news about our Morbida as well, did you?” the girl asked. Had Mavis not refreshed herself of far worse, her voice would’ve been enough to turn her spine into solid blocks of ice. She drew a little cackle at the end, her mouth curling into one jagged crescent. Like the storm Dennis had clung to her against, his little jack o’lantern imprisoned in a motherly hand. Mourning over that being the last time they celebrated together would have to wait. Probably not long, but it would have to wait all the same.

“Morbida?”

The girl tutted, preferring to scold Mavis with her full face. Asian, her lips a black pursed circle. The ring circling out like an axe blade from her nostril, not her lip. A look of sheer judgement she’d only seen on humans before. It took years to perfect. And she hadn’t seen her at the hotel, so she must have gotten the monumental volume of subjects to practice on elsewhere. A spindly hair dangled down her face from each side, forcing attention to the eyes. Eyes. For the most part, they were an unimpressive grey. But Mavis could’ve sworn she saw the silhouette of the letter X somewhere among their backgrounds.

“One of my partners in crime. Or, as someone like you may call her, Patricia Di Iorio. That’s what the government called her anyway.” She spat the word ‘government’ out, the sole of her shoe rubbing over where it fell. Once again result of rigorous practice. “Anyway, she goes to secure us ladies some AKs from a warehouse they don’t even use anymore. The usual. We were running low since the International Men's Day offensive, but anyway.”

“International Men’s Day offensive?”

“Pfft. The men, amongst all their other privileges, think they get a day to one-up us women, a day when they can mansplain and be all high and mighty. So we always organise a little something on International Men’s Day so men can remember that women do more. Far more. We struggle day in, day out with just making ourselves heard-and they have the audacity to say that they deserve a day to equalise us, to humble us?” She scoffed. “They deserve to get shot. So we sent Morbida round to replenish our stocks. But of course, you know how those blue bastards are around here. They have a status quo to upkeep. Morbida gets on her Howley and tries to escape like a bat out of hell. You know she shot an entire carbine into one of their cars? Killed the inspector stone dead. Only way he’d ever have served and protected, if you ask me.”

“Your friend rides a Howley? What model?”

“883 Sporty.”

“Holy rabies, same!”

“Us goths have good taste,” the girl simpered. “What can I say? We prefer to make our mark in style. Anyway, away Morbida rides with the AKs. But men got the upper hand somehow. I don’t know if it was the blue bastards who coordinated it. But something came out of the forest near the road, and in seconds she…she had been killed. The news-if you want to believe state propaganda-say that all the officers saw was a flash of silver whipping through the night like a comet. Then two showers. A shower of sparks on the bottom. A crimson shower of comrade Morbida’s blood on the top. Both her body and the bike had been split clean in two. Worst part is, whoever did this left those AKs perfectly pristine.”

The girl could see her entire face in each of Mavis’ reactionary eyes. Stutters of movement daring to show themselves. Nearly too small to notice. Did Howley riders outside of Morbida always look this gormless in the face of death? Without any assertion? And did they always have to become so pathetic so quickly?

“W-we should sit down somewhere.” she whispered, steering the girl to a table. “Are you okay?”

A slight finger overriding her control to one at the back, filled with other inmates. “Go over there. I’ve been meaning to ask Belladonna how her trial went. And, I know this may be difficult for someone like you in those shoes, but don’t drag your feet. The Bleeding Edge Syndicate can’t afford to give men more seconds to assert their dastardly power.”

“Bleeding Edge Syndicate?”

“That’s what we like to call ourselves. All ghouls on the bleeding edge of nihilism because of a capitalist patriarchy designed to work us individually to our graves who’ve had enough. Who want to, as some may put it, stick it to the man. Ironic that phrase was made by the very vermin we struggle against. And your name is?”

“Mavis…Loughran. Yeah. Mavis Loughran.” Mavis mumbled.

“You can call me Evening Storm. That’s what everyone at Bleeding Edge calls me.”

“Do you have a real name? A parental name?”

“Does it matter?” Evening spat. “My parents despised me from the moment I listened to Bauhaus. They probably harboured that hate from before then.”

“Your parents hated you?” A familiar tug at Mavis’ centre pulled her closer to Evening. Both for the current and past. “Could you give me a few examples of how they hated you?”

“I had it rough as a child.” Evening huffed. “Straight to St Dunstan’s College the second I could walk, life in the centre of Dulwich Village, kept afloat by my father being the CEO of a thriving graduate scheme for those who wanted to go into medicine-patch up any poor sap who came their way so they could serve a society that doesn’t care for as long as they can. The bus would come close to our house every morning, when I entered the sixth form a coffee and pesto panini cost three pounds. Always Mr Healy for English, and always he’d drone on and on about the aptitude he thought I had for English at university. That jacked-up Mr Ford always in my face, goading me on to any university course he could ram down my throat. Assemblies every Thursday on some other grand issue, followed suit by a lecture to ensure you slept at least some point during the school day. At home my parents would appreciate the mere presence of each other without fail. A kiss would follow suit, and before long I would be coerced into hugs and other charades of their pointless, spinelessly optimistic rationalisations on how life could be so wonderful for them. Useless, annoying wastes of time like that never waste an opportunity to make my life a living hell.”

Mavis’ eyes threatened to burst from her sockets. What part of Evening’s story was rough, exactly? St Dunstan’s College, wherever that was, didn’t exactly sound like a school where she couldn’t have thrived. The odour of garlic dissipated, as did her defence mechanisms. Care rolling in like an infection. Evening’s long black braids had turned into a ginger mess, shrunk several feet. Her sallow cheeks puffed outward, the skin smooth. No X in her eyes now. Instead they were little white puddles with a grey centre, the orange acceptable by the sides of a yellow football shirt. The number 4 emblazoned on. He was so like his father in so many ways. Both were adorable. Both played to her mind daily.

Both nothing more than a memory.

A small wet path carving into her cheek. No such path had been traced across in a long time. One followed by another. And heaving breaths, like a hurricane bringing an entourage of rain. Evening’s eye colour had transcended from reality, but its meaning had been lost. Like everything else. Lost in the past of a few seconds ago. Something else had been lost for how long? A year or two now. Its phantom uncompromisingly lodged there, taking form only in a motherly coo that had perhaps been waiting to escape for far too long. Haunting her every day. Evening’s past had become Dennis’, her years of torture his past day of fun with friends. She scooped the ginger bundle of joy up in her arms. He'd grown a little since they last saw each other. Put on some weight. That’s okay. Pasts had opened their arms once more like an old friend. She ran into them far too easily. Locked the son in hers. Never wanting to leave.

“Shall we go and see Daddy?” she asked into the ether. A chubby hand in her palm saying yes. And there he stood a few feet down. Now it was the past’s turn to embrace her fully, catching her on the lips too. A kiss she knew to return someday. As always when she met with her husband. Fierier than his son, ginger spikes atop his head to prove it. That fiery spirit which had led her to places she never knew existed.

“How’ve you been, Johnny-stein?”

She knew already. No sooner had the words sprung joyfully from her mouth than they’d been curled. Twisted by the real world. And the mirage was gone in one wintry breeze kissing her neck. The lack of any physicality, or human culprit, wrenched her very soul back where it belonged. Evening remade contact with the floor, scoffing and turning her back on the new fool. As everyone else had turned their back. All that remained was a cold air biting her back, and stoic stone walls. She found Evening at one of the corners, hunched into conversation with what she assumed to be more Syndicate members. More women. The appreciative gender. They turned their backs too. Clearly the past had left another of its little reminders. Her hand tensed round where her jacket pocket would be, craving the hard cylinder of a cigarette for her lips or handlebars for her soul.

Instead she got more of that damn orange.

At least she got the constant of sitting down today. One of two things normal life had forgotten to shrug off when forsaking her. Someone had actually bothered to check how she was doing? There must be a glitch with the system. Her case wasn’t for another month at least. She hadn’t made contact with Johnny, Dennis, Ericka or anyone else who had ever been at the hotel since 2012 when it had been raided and her father, the invincible and great Count Dracula, had his chest burst open with fifty-nine bullets.

This “student” shepherding her over to the west wing would be the first. A pale presence stood on the other side of that window, her blank stare asking questions she did not want to answer. Memories of then and more recently. Their blue eyes in combat, freezing all words before they escaped. Now that she thought about it, she’d been lethargic out of prison too. Every morning, an invisible wall seemed to stand between her bed and wardrobe. It took many forms. Often that same grinning, despicable ginger face.

“The fuck’re you doing here, Spectra?”

“I came by your office, but you weren’t there. It turns out you were here.” The spirit’s voice wafted across the air.

Mavis sighed. “What did I tell you about snooping around?”

“You’re right. But I wanted to see you. I have something on my mind that I think you can help with.”

“Okay then…hit me.”

“I was thinking about when I was a human. Before-I…”

“Before you died?”

“Yes.” Spectra’s voice and head shrunk as one. Mavis had to blink twice to check if she wasn’t just looking at her reflection anymore. She sucked her teeth. Try not to be so dismissive. It was an odd balance, being a therapist. Even if life was normal (whatever that meant), you had to chain your emotions down every waking moment, but not too much. Thirty patients a week, all with their own little worlds they came with in their hands. Tempting you to delve in. But then, of course, you’d have to come back out in under an hour. She always had to come back out. And lately, maybe she’d been delving in too deep. She must learn again to care less. Plan ahead. But not go with the flow. That had already hurt her once. Never again.

Her turn to whisper. “Who woulda thought humans could hurt so much so far away?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s nothing.” Mavis declared in one breath.

“I agree, though. It’s been eighty years and yet…I remember that night like it was yesterday. The night of broken glass. The brown shirts. What they did to my entire neighbourhood. Those trains rushing through the forest, rushing to deliver my entire family like cattle to their deaths!”

“Okay, calm down. Calm down. Take some breaths with me, okay? Breathe in.”

Spectra obliged, hauling breath in for tangible seconds. Silence ruled for more, both counting to seven in their heads.

“And out.”

A long whistle of breath sounded, fogging the window so Spectra could almost vanish once more. Her purple hair and rapidly bouncing leg the only things binding her to the realm of vision.

“Your death was years ago, and there’s nothing you could have done. How Hitler came to power was far beyond your control.”

“But…I don’t know if he was always going to kill my family. If he was always going to come for us. For me.”

“Remember, Hitler had secret police. Chances are they already knew who you were, where you lived.”

“I made it easier.” she mumbled. “They died because of me. I may have died earlier, but because of me my parents died in gas chambers and horror.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Let’s slow down a second. You’re doing another thing we’ve already talked about. You’re jumping to conclusions again. Tell me again what happened, every detail.”

That silence pressured their lips shut again once more. Spectra shut her eyes, cheeks turning slightly glossy. Not the first time for her. Not by a long shot. The guard tapped their wrist, a stern mask on their face. Funny how Mavis could shut her eyes for a second, and be blasted with hotter air and a fine wooden room. No window separating her from her duty.

“Where do you want me to go from?”

“Go from when you got home from school. When you got home from school on the first day back of scaremester. Your family ran a newsagent’s, didn’t they?”

“Yes, yes they did. Okay. I went home after school straight to our shop. I only saw one paper from the shelf, saying something about a diplomat who’d been killed in the city centre. Father told me it happened all the time over dinner, so I didn’t worry about it. A lot of death was in the newspapers since I was about twelve, they’d always tell me not to worry. And not to look them in the eye, and to never talk to them about it. So I did none of those things. If we were to report the truth, then…we must acknowledge death as a part of that truth. I go upstairs and sit on my bed, threading the belt of my briefcase through its metal loop and back out again. And I don’t think much while doing it, except of its colour. Brown. My friend Porter’s summer camp shirt was brown. He said he went away on a farm and built tents with his friends all summer, and played football and hunted for their food. Us girls over summer had to sit and sew, and take care of little dolls they gave us wrapped in cotton. Those dolls were nice, though. I gave them voices, a personality. They were nosy just like me.”

“Heh, did you make any of them ride motorcycles?” Mavis joked.

“No, no. Although now you mention it, that might have been pretty fun to do.” Spectra’s airiness continued into her giggles. No attention for that wrist tapped again. “I remember when two of my dolls got married. One had a star on his jacket, just like my father. I thought nothing of those stars at the time. They said “Jude” but Father’s name was Jude, and he was insistent that I shouldn’t think much about the stars and focus on my studies. Not speak up and ask questions, and he thought that I would be fine. Not wonder why he was the only one to wear the star in our household. Maybe…he was right.” Her voice, and her, almost vanished completely. “Maybe I should never have asked those questions. There’s a weird pattern on these walls. One of small blue speckles. But they’re so uneven. There’s five speckles in a row near the window, but then as you move outward I can see four, six, there’s eight in a random cluster.”

Her eyes wandered from Mavis, as they often did. But it was unusual for her to look up. A lot had been unusual. About this day, about this week. Hell, her entire life was one massive mess of the unusual. This girl, unusual. The system preferred to call her autistic.

“You were talking about how your father didn’t want you to ask questions?”

“Oh…yes I was. But throughout that evening, I thought about my father and how he didn’t want me to ask any questions. It was strange. I was sixteen and I would have to marry someone soon, surely it’d be best if I knew what was going on around me so I didn’t mess up when I was a wife, or when I couldn’t get answers from school or the League of German Maidens. But I did know one thing without any questions, and that was to-to…to tell a teacher one of the ladies running the League if…if you saw someone acting suspiciously. So the first chance I got the next day, I did something which I shall never ask questions about. Something from the past which will never leave me, no matter how hard I try. For when I told my teacher that my father had that star on his coat and told me not to ask questions…I killed us all.”

“What happened next?” Both knew the answer. Neither eager to re-tread it. Times like these where when Mavis’ job threatened to leer into something far more sinister. But that was when recent events, in spite of all they’d done, came to protect her. Anyone who rode a motorcycle had to have some element that didn’t care-perhaps not even about themselves. Maybe it was that which moved them forward.
A past version would’ve held her back, she thought.

“The teacher made me report it to two men in brown shirts in the centre of town, which I did. I’d asked them on how I could learn more about what he was doing, and how I could help, and why he didn’t want me to ask questions. The men in the brown shirts told me what everybody else had. Something that, despite all the times I heard it, was never sure to tune out or in. That my father, or indeed anyone who wore the star, was a-a traitor. To the country. To people like my mother. People with blond hair and blue eyes, working hard for the good of Germany only to have those people with the stars on their coats yank it all away into their massive businesses. It was one day and one night before anything happened. I contracted a cough-but that didn’t really hurt yet. And then…then…we all paid the price for my questions.”

“What happened, Spectra?” Mavis asked slowly, fighting back the will to share a gloss in Spectra’s eyes. Fighting back a growing pang in her chest for this poor girl. But she had to. It was her job to unsheathe the past.

“Men in brown shirts were up and down our entire neighbourhood, littering the street in broken glass. More people with the stars on their shirts and coats than I had ever seen were removed, shunted away. Then-one noticed us. A man in a brown shirt with a gun in his hand shouted over to other men in brown shirts, and before we knew it they were all outside our house. They raised the guns right at my father’s star. He went over to them, head lower down than I’d ever seen it. But then…I made it all worse. I should’ve known, but I didn’t! I was too blind, too stupid to see what they meant! So I ran over to the men, tried to get them to go away and not hurt my father. I didn’t want to hear what they had to say! They were going to do something really bad to him, and that’s not what I meant to happen! The plan was to follow the orders I’d been given, I don’t know after that. But-” Her breathing rapidly became shallow, her voice impossible to ignore. Water flew freely from the azure eyes, forming sizeable puddles below.

“So close,” Mavis whispered, wanting to disappear herself. "What next?"

“I coughed, and then-then that’s when they knew. The guns left my father’s star for the moment, and…all I heard was a few loud cracks. A few loud cracks before I could feel myself-almost, floating as I do now. I screamed at them more. Screamed at the men. Screamed to leave my father be. But there was no physicality behind my words. No substance. I could only look down upon my father being led away… from a small corpse one of the men-trampled. Into the ground. As if to confirm that, thanks to my questions, my father was doomed. And one of his biggest loves in life…was dead.”

Chapter Text

Perhaps it was to be expected, but Spectra’s impromptu session was as exciting as it got for Mavis for some time. Hours in that grey block stretched into days, days into weeks. She stopped counting after that. You learned not to count such things. Never look back. Her past fed from attention, and she would be wise to not feed it after midnight. Instead delve back into her book, as she may have done in her office between clients. She didn’t need leathers on for that at least. She curled back into her bed, forgetting the orange for a moment. The nipping wind of punishment slowed for a second, Kahneman’s words taking her back to a simpler, well-worn time. But even that she owed to a version of herself no longer around.

“Get up, Loughran,” a disgustingly smooth voice oozed from the entrance. “Time to pay your dues to society. You filthy monster.”

It was impossible to bypass the smirk on the speaker’s face, from the bed or two feet. Straw blond hair on the sides darkening up to a chestnut fringe. Wiry eyebrows slanted in a despicable victory slope. And that unmistakeable moustache. Twisted up as she might have seen in Dennis’ cartoon villains. Only where was the hero now? No point in pretending there would be a climactic final battle, with this villain deposed of everything and a noble defender glorious as they should be. It had taken a century and a quarter of her father’s foolish coddling to keep that lie in power. But it found its way soon enough. Her hands gravitated to the back of her head. A reminder that any resistance was pointless. It always had been. This was merely a transfer of power to some other far-off figure. Whether that came about from who she was biologically or mentally, she had no idea. The former looked far more convincing.

A hard prod in her back, one outer ring further in than the rest. Metallic. “Move to the exit.”

A dark whisper of laughter under his breath, forcing Mavis forward. He didn’t know he was controlling the daughter of Count Dracula himself. He didn’t need to. Those students of Monster High would pay one day for robbing him of his justice. His Trick or Treatment. A local monster would be the next best thing. And they fell right for him on their own. So powerful, he could even usher in total silence.

“Mavis Loughran. Awaiting trial for one charge of assault on a minor. But I’m sure we can make that GBH, or maybe even attempted murder if we’re lucky. Can’t we?”

Only a grind of teeth responded.

“If it’s any comfort to you, I can get your trial to happen sooner with new charges. It’s only really gonna be a formality, though. Far as I care, you’re guilty.”

“Sss-she stole my motorcycle.”

The cop swooned. “Oh heavens to Betsy! We’d better not trial you then! Quickly, we need to find who stole your bike and they should be the ones on trial.”

Her face lit up for a second. Daring to believe someone was on her side. “Yeah. Thanks, officer.”

“Just kiddin’. Even if I did still have Murphy, I wouldn’t bother. New Salem is long overdue to see the powers of respectable, human law be enforced. That duty falls to me. We can’t have such a lack of order with monsters like you running around, can we? I mean, already with the Bleeding Edge syndicate some humans in this town are getting ideas. Bad ideas. Stealing firearms from a warehouse, mingling with monsters and DJ’ing for their silly parties, tricking my officers on Halloween, the most dangerous night of the year. Already, we have you and the human Di Iorio together on motorcycles. If someone doesn’t crack down hard soon, we’ll have a criminal monster-human biker gang on our hands before long.”

“Wait, who said anything about me being in a biker ga-”

“Don’t lie to me. I’m the one adding charges here. Not you.” Another prod in her back, a slight click behind it. Her mouth glued shut. Not wanting to know if it was loaded.

“As I was saying, New Salem needs a respectable, undisputed force of law to stop these monsters through any means necessary. You see that wall over there?” He pointed right, the exit almost in view now. It was a sunny day with a breeze light as a jovial child skipping through a meadow. But that didn’t matter.

“Yeah.”

“As a human, every single living monster beyond that wall wants to kill you and eat your eyes for Jujubes.”

“What? No! That’s not true. I’ve…” Could she put her hand on her heart and defend humans anymore? After what they did? They were the reason she was even here, with this human just as bad as the rest of them. She’d loved one of them with all she had to give, and what had she got in return?

“You’ve what? How could you know anything about humans? You’re a monster, whereas I’ve lived as a human. I’ve come face to face with hundreds of monsters. They’re part of the reason I serve and protect in this place. They want nothing more than to cause disruption and push their agendas down the throats of innocent humans. There’s a rumour going round already of this “gay vampire”, some idiot called Kieran Valentine.”

“Kieran Valentine?” Mavis felt a cold thrill exact on her spine. Fighting her eyes to keep still, not show any widening whatsoever. If she’d learned one thing from her therapy, her new life or even possibly before that, it was to never show when you were scared. Lest anyone use it against you. Threat didn’t just end at the people you opposed. She wouldn’t let them distract her from what could be the real horror. Not again. Humans had done that once to her already. Brown had never struck more terror to her. Even when she’d looked at similar shades directly.

If she thought she’d outgrown fear, she was proven wrong twice in a row. For something seeped under her nose. Something unmistakeable. A metallic tinge under liquid. Giving strength to her limbs. An ancestral power to the brain, overriding consciousness like a drug. Her fingers twitching, chest rising and falling. Louder. Faster. She could never just have one taste of that smell. No matter how many times her or any ancestors had felt it. Tracing a path back from her nose. To where the tinge started. Overtaking all other thought. One word circling across the brain countless times, faster and faster.

Then came another sound. Never far from the smell.

Screams.

And a figure sprinting into view. Long pigtails trailing behind her.

“Evening? What’s going on?” Mavis asked, before a hard web of pain thwacked across her cheek.

“Shut it!”

Only a resentful look to fire back at authority. All it ever allowed. Inside the prison or out.

“Get back to your cells while I sort this out, both of you. You go out there at your own risk. Just don’t expect flowers or a public burial if things go south. That’d save me some paperwork at least.” The cop patted his shirt and belt, one finger curling instinctively as his gaze never left Mavis.

“Huh. Damn it, forgot my keys again. Stay here while I go get them, and maybe, Mavis, you’ll go to the court with only GBH. But don’t move.”

It seemed the girls weren’t the only critics of the cop’s suggestion. In a static hiss, light rocketed through the corridor in a jagged bolt. Leaving darkness to swallow monsters and humans whole. Only the klop-klop of shoes against an invisible floor left. Mavis only saw Evening basked in a dim red glow. Atmosphere still like a calm before a storm.

“I dunno about you, but I’m not sitting tight for that man to come back here. The Syndicate needs me back as soon as possible. It’ll be International Women's Day before long, and that’s when we really need to put men in their place. Would you rather stay here where people like that cop are free to ruin lives? Or do you wanna follow me?”

“I think the exit’s over through that corridor,” Mavis said, pointing right. Silence ringing round them. Engulfed by the unknown. One other scream like a warning once the origin faded out. Only a void of cells.

“The Syndicate could always use another girl. Especially a biker girl like you. Join us, so we never have to deal with people like that cop again. Tell me, what do you want to see in the world?”
“Why do you want to know?” Mavis mumbled.

“It won’t hurt to make another man pay their debt to society. Was it a love who hurt you, or a catcaller who didn’t get the message?”

She sighed. “A love. I never noticed…til it was too late.”

“Join us then. We’ll get him back. Just imagine it. Don’t you want to get your own back on him? To watch him burn as he burnt you. And all men who stand in our way. How about that? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

She stared at the speckled floor. A pen mark near one of the cells. So many words to say. All jostling for space. The daughter of Dracula. What that meant. All the same, she wanted nothing more than for the halls to close in on her. Make her vanish.

“I…don’t know.” Part of her agreed with Evening. Maybe Johnny deserved it. For what he did. What he brought. And the hunters who’d struck the killing blow. But apart from anything else, her son would be near. And he didn’t deserve whatever Evening was suggesting. No ten-year-old did. He’d suffered enough. Everyone shared the blame in that. Male. Female. Human. Monster. Human. Unicorn.

“Maybe not. I-I’m sorry. Can’t do it.”

Evening scoffed. “I was wrong to trust you. Spineless. Make it out of here on your own, why don’t you?”

And with that, she snuck into the darkness. But Mavis still heard breathing. At the end of the corridor. One lamp flickered at a time. Veins of light crossing the roof. For a second, she could see a muscular rock arm break up the light. Or a flat shoulder blade. Studded like one of her jackets. A horn sharp as a meathook. A few steps more…scrape, scrape, scrape. Stinging her ears. One more flicker revealed a smooth white surface. Another two voids below. Back and forth. Across one arc. Plunged back into darkness. One spark remained from the light. And a thin, silver crescent.

“Wait, is that a skull?” Mavis asked.

A deep growl boomed through the corridor, threatening the very ground beneath her feet. Like the crackle of thunder, the drumbeat resonating in her soul. Echoes through faster breaths. Beckoning her forward. Left foot-air sucked from the corridor. Right foot-a rumbling blast of it back out.

“Would you rather it were yours?” a voice grumbled. Recent life would make her wise not to assume, but her guess was the voice didn’t belong to a prisoner. And she seriously doubted a guard would have a voice that deep.

“Wh-who are you?” she whispered.

“Doesn’t matter.” the voice boomed back. “What matters is the boy Valentine.”

“Who?” she asked slowly.

“I ask the questions, vampire.” the voice spat. “I have a score to settle with the house Valentine. Rumour has it one of them is right here, in this town.” He punctuated his claim with a screech of the skull on his blade. “One of my scouts saw him…about a month ago, I think it was. Talking to someone outside the New Salem therapy practice. He goes there regularly. Or at least-” a new light showed a dastardly grin-”used to.”

Mavis scowled. “How do you know he didn’t stop cause he got better?”

“The other person he was talking to was a biker. Around five foot eight, rode a black Howley-Davidson 883. About a week ago, a bike of the same make, colour and model was entrusted to me by a stranger.”

“So? I’m not the only biker in town. I’m not even the only biker with that specific bike.”

“But you are the only biker with that specific bike who got arrested roughly a week ago. Also, the bike had a bat decal on the fuel tank.”

She sighed, shoulders not dropping as she advanced. “Where is it?” she hissed.

Some rock started to shift, colliding with more. “Choose your next move very carefully. Remember, only one of us has an axe.”

Mavis bared her fangs, her roar ricocheting through the corridor. Warping the flickers back into crimson.

The voice chuckled. “I’d expect a therapist to be a little more gracious than that.”

“Stay back.”

A full blown laugh huffed through now. “You really have no clue who I am, do you? It’s very simple. Tell me where Kieran Valentine is and you don’t have to know.”

“I said before, I don’t know where he is.”

The laugh dived an octave, a drumming growl its replacement. Underneath, a slow grinding and the tremoring thump of two feet. “This is getting boring. Allow me to introduce myself, that might convince you to cooperate. I am Kulvar Hutning the Vengeful, Lightning Demon and firstborn of the legendary Lord Thundrar. Sworn enemy of the hellish house Valentine. And I assure you, vampire, not someone to be trifled with. Let me know where he is, and I will spare your life.”

“All I know is that he isn’t here. It’s a woman-only prison.”

“How do we know one of his latest victims isn’t in one of these cells? If I know him, a few iron bars won’t stop him from finishing the job.” Another grunt and quake. Two dim yellow spheres ebbed into view. “Won’t stop me, either.”

“Stop you from doing what? And believe me, you’re looking in the wrong place. Kieran’s gay.”

“So I’ve heard tell. My son talks of him a lot these days. But I know Valentines. Famed for their deception and doing whatever they will to achieve their own ends. As they did to us. He may have fooled you, but not me.”

One final light flashed over her head. As did an idea. She had to try. If she’d said just one word previously, then maybe things could’ve been very different. Without the ghastly orange. Or other ghastly things. “Why do you even want Valentine?”

“He is the key to everything. What I shall do to him will merely be payback for what he has done to us. To my people. To Lord Thundrar himself. He may have twisted you with his lies. But I have grown wise to them. This is how I ensure he never spreads the lies again.” A dismal grind slithered closer…closer to her feet. Dying in a flat note. She could be next.

“His head will avenge all who have been lost. All my people who his house tricked.”

“What the-? Do you even know Kieran?”

“Do you?”

“I’m his fucking therapist. Of course I do! I help him, you know, learn to make his own kind of music for once. Sing his own special song rather than someone else’s, which is what made him steal those girls’ hearts with his family spells. He didn’t want to do it, I teach him that he doesn’t have to and there’s another, better way. No magic. Just healthy discussion about feelings. That’s how I know Kieran. And thanks to me, his witching hour of betraying innocent girls for their love is over. He’s openly gay and happy now, thanks to me.”

“What is your name?”

She hesitated, meekly answering “Mavis.”

Kulvar grinned. “Thank you then, Mavis. I understand now.”

“Hey, no problem dude. It’s-”

“Thank you,” he boomed, “for telling me exactly where to find him.”

“Wait, what?! I didn’t tell you that!”

“No, you gave me the perfect information. Your choice of words led me right to the one thing I’ve been searching for ever since I could hold this very axe. “Music”, “spells”, “magic”, sealing his despicable tomb with “witching hour”. He is at the Casta Fierce concert on Thursday night in the town centre.”

Her eyes widened. Breath picking up like a galloping horse. Sometimes she just did it to herself, didn’t she? “-oh no.”

“As a show of my gratitude, I will spare your life.” Claws of light thrust themselves into the corridor with a deafening rumble. Mavis shrieked, leaping backwards. Not like this. Despite how shit everything was, a certain unalienable part of her was desperate to cling on for some reason. To see something happen. See other people do something. See herself do something to contribute. Get her own back on life.

A wail in the distance. And shouts snapping them both back to the real world. One final growl from Kulvar.

“The childish humans running this place, however, will not be so lucky.” A roar shook the earth beneath them as it barrelled past, roughly teasing at Mavis’ ears. Blinded again. By one arc of silver swirling round.

And jets of that same metallic smell in its wake.

Everything spiked. All she knew was she had to run. But where? Into the battle. Revenge at hand. Or to safety. To freedom. Cracks condemned her either way. Spurts of that magical liquid whizzed in all directions. Wanting to touch her. Convert. Remind. Ensue instinct. But that same feeling held her back. Kept her mouth shut. As it did to others. Welling in chests. Rising through the body.

One thing humans and monsters understood.

Maybe not the ones she’d hoped for. But there must be at least one human who did. Her fingers raked shadows across the white hole, touching some invisible border. Wanting to relish that taste. It belonged to her nature. Her identity. But too weak. Too weak. Too weak for fucking everything.

Except run.

Screams and that smell at her back.

Just like last time.

Run away.

Run away from the humans.

Feel the sun on her skin like a pack of hyenas. Only able to sprint at its mercy. The privilege of a soft wind under her wings had long since been taken from her. She’d allowed it all to be taken. It was her least attractive feature. Even worse than her nose. Screams ringing in her head like hell’s bells long after the prison’s looming shadow had died.

Get to the practice. That’s all she had to do. Make up for lost time. The road she sprinted down began to meander. Thuds of those cursed shoes on the tarmac became pads shooting up water from the grass she pummelled. A sign beckoned her to the town. Those roofs forming a hand from below, scooping the sky as if to crush it. She wondered whether it was humans or monsters intending that design. Had humans then built it? Or was that another foul dealing from her undead brethren? Her heart felt like a lead weight pulling her chest down, and thumped like it. She hadn’t had to run like this in years. No need to explain where that thought led to. They all went there in the end. An itch her brain always had to scratch until the skin reddened. Weak enough to give way and need a scab or plaster. That scab could never form. For it would show from the outside. And then what?

Buildings started to close in on her. A maze of marketing billboards and places to toss her money and things she needed and things she didn’t-all bearing down fast. Was that bar with the motorcycles out there last time? She didn’t remember it. And if she wanted to make up for lost time, make up generally for all her shortcomings, she’d have to delve deeper into the concrete labyrinth. But a sound inside magnetised her. And wouldn’t let go. She wouldn’t let go. The sound was disorganised, of no particular shape, yet nobody questioned its dominance. Only fed it. Occasionally it would ebb into something bigger. Most unified as laughter. Yet all the same it stayed pleasant against a steely sky. And her alone on the road. Forgotten and forsaken by damn near all of the monster world. When she used to be heir to it.

The sound of friendship. Conversation.

And she’d long since missed it.

“The Eglostir.” Weird name for a bar. But there were a few seats left. Why not?

Just one thing she needed to check.

Most of the bikes were uncompromisingly slanted, shoving their driver down amongst garish colours. Not in a million years. Or meek little mopeds. No need to make a laughingstock of herself further. Life did that already. She preferred a bike with a more guttural noise to it anyway.

Those would be the Howleys at the end of the row. Now there was a solid bike.

“Solid enough to be stolen.”

Stockiest of them all. Another shriek of laughter sounded at her back, as if to remind her why she was staring at random motorcycles in the street. For that she could offer several excuses. Not the left one. Handlebars were way too high. The two next to it were identical. An 883 like hers, but just an 883. No defining wings near the fuel intake to make it hers. She could’ve just hopped on one, turned the ignition and nobody would’ve been able to tell the difference. Yet again one cursed side of her brain interfering. It had sparked up with Evening, with the officer, with Kulvar. With everyone who didn’t care. About her, or what she had to say. Even before she’d fucked up.

Two beefy bobbers next. Wrong brand, but evidently they belonged to proper bikers like her. Nice. The left one had a wad of gum on the fuel tank, graffiti saying “C+D 4eva” in a love-heart traced by snakes behind. Must’ve been nice for them to rub it in her face.

One bike left.

Another 883. Handlebars a little slanted. Last she’d checked, hers had been straight. And one seemed a little wrought in. The tank was a midnight black, only the slightest violet hue when she peered closer. Two exhausts on either side, one stacked on top with gaping holes to emit deafening noise at one flick of the wrist. Engines shaped in a V underneath the rider’s legs, “883” emblazoned between them. Wait-something else. On each side, little silver wings carved in.

“Like a bat.”

Quick to check above. Same on top. The numberplate?

“B4D B1TCH.” Casta had blood on her hands for picking that. Unable to resist a blast of laughter. But no doubt about it. The bike was hers. So whoever took it must be inside. Cracks sounded from her knuckles. Just march in, punch the thief senseless, vroom vroom vroom, no questions asked.

Then the floor became like treacle.

Again? Seriously? But wait. That’d happened last time. And where had it got her? In a horrific colour. Alien in her own town. Only out thanks to…whatever that Kulvar thing was. Thanks to it stopping by on the way to massacre Kieran Valentine.

Kieran.

The poor kid hadn’t had a therapy session in weeks. Months. And there’s only so much a kid like Spelldon could do in the interim. Everything so new for him, so revolutionary he needed a guide to not just topple where he stood. Same went for Ghoulia, and Jackson. And Lily, that sweet little seven-year-old who’d walked in on her mother downing an entire bottle of Smirnoff before lashing the man she married one, two, three times, evoking bruises right for the product of their love to watch in horror. What about Joe, with his dementia and love of Moancraft and no one else who’d listen to his story over a game. Or Jacob, freshly non-binary and without her, fresh meat for bullies-rumour had it that one had a KKK hood in their shed, retrieving it for Jacob to see and kneel before. She could go in the Eglostir and wreak justice. Go in.

Leave all of that behind.

Or she could help.

Wouldn’t be easy. But certainly a lot better than getting back into prison. Kulvar wasn’t likely to be a repeat visitor. Only herself to thank for that.

She did still need to go in for one more thing, though. Mask her tracks a little.

There. Woman in a jester hat leaving for the toilet. And on her seat-the mask. Block ethics out for a little longer. Maybe when she got back on her feet, she’d track down this jester hat woman and return the goods. For now, just haul it over your back. Having that weight back on her shoulders gave her a familiar refreshment. A sense she’d missed.

Don’t take chances. Quite enough of those recently. The helmet next to it was purple with more of those jester ears. It would have to do. Familiarity bearing down on her head as well as her shoulders. Did her shoes have a heel? A small one. Whatever.

Back behind bars after an hour at most. That’s okay. It’s her choice. Now she was free. Free to lift up the kickstand, press her thumb to the handlebar’s reader. And that roar. That sweet, satisfying roar. How she’d missed it! A few twists of the handlebar, more erupted behind her. It was music, and it took all her willpower not to get off and dance like mad.

“Let’s get outta this shithole.”

Pressing the balls of her feet into the tarmac. Edging round and forward. A few more grumbles from the exhaust on the way out. A shameless giggle underneath.

For the first time in a very long while, Mavis Dracula felt unbreakably happy with her life.

Two sharp revs, and she pulled away. Wind toying and plucking at her jet-black hair. A thrumming engine back between her legs. Open road, full tank-what more did she need? Tighter on the right bar. Fields and houses rocketing by faster. Engine roaring louder. It had been far too long since she’d felt like a kid. Taking flight outside the hotel for the first time, going as high as she possibly could in the night. Being one of the big adults she eavesdropped on from above the lobby. Like her great father, who’d devoted his life to protecting her. And all monsters.

Okay, maybe not him.

Still felt amazing, though.

Shit, red light!

A screech behind as she almost lurched over the handlebars. Staring at a road just waiting. All she could do was twist the left handlebar repeatedly. Keep her adrenaline and the engine pumping. Her lips moving to the sound by instinct.

“Vroom, vroom vroom…” Like a little kid. Like Lily in their first session. Bless her.

She’d also love the lurch forward a few seconds later. The leathery back she could grasp onto like a baby koala. A friendly face. You didn’t get many of those in prison. Or a broken home. Experience you could only get from living, breathing there. That’s what made her so good. The reason she held this job. Came in on a Howley every single day for these people. They needed her. No one should have to make the mistakes she did.

She couldn’t.

Maybe only return to the practice today. But she had to think over it. Never able to wholly agree on something. Some things never change. That naysaying sector of her brain wouldn’t let her go, wouldn’t let her be free to ride. Not till she promised herself one thing.

Get her own back. Find the human who did this. Who destroyed her life.

Find Overtron.

A gothic building to her left, large enough to last a fair few seconds against the speeding bullet of bliss she rode. Felt good to smile at the students playing games in the fields for once. Smile at their gift of being together. Because she was happy. And they were happy. No need to feel any inequality or that someone had a better deal than others. Because for once everyone could thrive. Even for those ten seconds as the motorbike sped on, and the wind fiddled more with her hair. Nothing could rob them of that silently shared feeling.

Not even those brutish lilac clouds she saw, gathering near the top. Sparking with something else she knew all too well. Something else which could only bring trouble.

Magic.

Chapter Text

November 13th

Been a while since I wrote in this old thing, huh?

Even turning these pages, it all feels so fresh. The moist back of my jacket, the hunger and despair in my soul. So much has changed. It’s kinda crazy to flick through these pages and find me staring back at…well, me. I wonder what I might have said about dating a boy a few years back, when I first started writing in here. When I’d failed. Although, now I think about it, I’m happy that Draculaura’s Sweet 160th didn’t work out. Well, it did. But it didn’t. Not for me then. But then it did. One sentence I wrote in there in particular keeps coming back to me like an old friend that asks if I’m okay, the warmth of their wonder echoed in a refreshing cup of tea we have to stave off winter.

“It allowed me to do some serious thinking, and realise I wasn’t being true to myself.”

Sounds a bit like one of those cat posters, doesn’t it? I don’t mind though. I love cats. Maybe I should get one later down the line. That reminds me, I should probably check again on Indead to see if the Coffin Bean is hiring. Can’t get a cat without some money in my pocket. It’ll be the first time, having money for me to spend however I like. Isn’t that something? My mom did give me cash, but it was always for what she thought I should get. And it was never for us. Well, we never left those kinds of situations empty-handed. What I’m trying to say is…she didn’t allow me to use the cash for whatever I wanted. But she was insistent that I use it for what she wanted. Little treats for girls to fill their hearts up with love. Take them to places they never thought possible so I could wow them. Make them feel special. But for us, nothing could be further from the truth. It was all to steal their hearts. We got more powerful. They got to never feel love again. I remember when I took Alicia on that one date downtown to Jericho. Watching the humans for hours from that graveyard. Giving her the entire fucking bookstore over Garrett Gates’ grave. Giving her “love” there. How ironic could that be? Jeez. The old Kieran Valentine really needed to get with the program. His own program.

Wonder if that pretty corset they had in the ladies’ shop is still there. The one with the really cute tailor inside, with his lovely blond beard and all. A part of me-well, if you can call that hot steaming mess me-wanted to just run in, blow the entire stack of notes on that thing and dash to who knows where looking pretty. Of course, I didn’t dare. I was running late to get her heart as it was. Besides, back then I thought boys don’t wear stuff like corsets and skirts and dresses. And they certainly don’t love each other.

But that turned on its head real fast when I met a little someone. And this is why I say that I couldn’t be happier Draculaura’s Sweet 160th was a balls-up.

Because that little someone made me feel something I didn’t think I could ever feel. Discover, even enjoy, a part of myself I tried not to believe existed. For when Spelldon bumped into me that morning with his little black skirt and goatee, I could feel a new emotion rocketing through my body. Like someone had plugged Elton John (Spelldon introduced me to his music recently, such a bop) or Ariana Grande (that was Mavis when she gave me a motorcycle ride to therapy) into my ears and turned the volume waaaay up. Right up where I could feel its bass thumping along my heart, their voice lifting me above. We like to call it love. And I have to say, I can see why it was so wrong to rob girls of this emotion. Shit’s clawsome. Oh yeah, forgot to mention Spelldon’s been teaching me some of the little quirks students back at Monster High say. They slip out when we dance across his room. He says I’ve got two left feet. But in my defence, it’s hard to twirl across a floor filled with laundry he never gets the time to clear up. But it’s okay. I think we just like each other’s company. He certainly thinks I’m a good kisser at least, and he’s just all-round fangtastic to be around. See, I used another of those little quirks! Won’t be long before I can talk exactly like everyone else and talk how I want to, instead of using that phony Southern drawl.

Okay, okay. You’re supposed to use diaries to, like, write what happened in your day and stuff. Ely insists they’re called journals, not diaries, but it’s whatever. You write the same shit. Just don’t expect me to stop talking about my new boyfriend. Now that I’ve got love at last, I’m gonna enjoy it like a slice of devil’s food cake. But don’t expect me to be all “Dear Diary” this and “Dear Diary” that either.
Guess I’ll start at the start of yesterday, since that’s when I last saw Spelldon. Someone else had come along too. A part of me wished that person’s face wasn’t familiar, but I guess I have only myself to blame on that front. I have to say, I’m surprised she agreed to come at all. When you’ve tried to break the heart of someone’s best friend and your brother’s girlfriend, the last thing I’d have done in her position is offer to buy them a Deadluxe Latte and teach me how to make my own leather skirt. All the same, it felt good to look a werewolf in the eyes and tell them the truth for once. To look a Monster High student (other than Spelldon and Ely of course) in the eyes and feel something other than a harsh glaze of judgement stare you back. Even after all the hearts I’ve broken, and having to face those facts head-on for years now, it still gives my own heart an uncomfortable tug. I see the face of Draculaura in my dreams sometimes, my own smile an inch away from her. I always wake up from them in a cold sweat, her cries echoing into consciousness. Those thoughts I had too, pushing myself further towards her for what? We nearly both lost the ability to ever feel satisfied because of my arrogance.

Dammit, I’m going off track again!

Okay, so yesterday started out pretty normal. Wake up, have breakfast with Clair’s family, go over her flashcards and wish her a good day at school, usual spiel. Does get me thinking, though. It’s been a hell of a long while since I last went to school. And if I’m gonna become a vet, then gunning for a degree might be a smart idea. That being said, vet work kinda requires a lot of squeamish stuff. Like digging round in hearts. Real ones this time. And there isn’t a single book on the shelf I haven’t read at least twice. So I concluded that maybe I shouldn’t rule a Literature degree out just yet. I even had the idea that maybe, one day, I could teach English at Monster High! How crazy would that be? I had to keep reminding myself that a) I’d need a degree to do that, and b) I’ve got a long way to go before Draculaura or her friends forgive me, if they ever do. They still think I’m there for their love, and as much as it stings to say this I can’t say that claim is unreasonable. Not because I want anything to do with stealing hearts nowadays, but you know what they say. Actions speak louder than words. And it’s those diabolical actions I made my first impression with, using only words to renege on them. Jeez, sounded like Ely there for a second.

Anyways, all I did for the next few hours was read The Bloody Chamber again for the umpteenth time. Need something to take my eyes off the sun. But the day really kicked in as the sun went down. Often does for us vampires. Spelldon found someone who could teach him how to make his own skirts instead of constantly stealing from Mavis’ wardrobe. Though she may find that a few of her leather jackets go missing from now on. Her spiked one especially has a gore-geous slim fit, I love it! I look kinda like an emo hedgehog. She even had her own corset in there, which I would’ve taken had a certain other cute boy not beaten me to it. Eh, it’s not like she’s gonna use them for a while. Poor Mavis. Good news is, Clawdeen seemed to appreciate our style. That’s her name, by the way. Clawdeen Wolf…brother of Clawd. I wish that name was new to me. And I wish I could make that wish. Sadly, I can do neither of those things yet. She wore purple flare jeans, a tank top and a hoodie about a size too big for her. Apparently her sister got it a few years back from the Londoom Olympic Games. We sat down and got to talking pretty quick. She remembered my name, and whenever I spoke she seemed to lean in, concentrate. Which was a little unnerving and made me stumble over my words a few times, and I could see some judgement in those eyes. But all the same, it was nice of her to get me a coffee. It took a while for her to say anything after sitting down, she mostly just let us talk with that squinting expression. Analysing. But when she did speak, it all just got better from there. Talking with Spelldon is nice already, but doing stuff with him is even better. Even more so with a Fangtastic Froth Hot Chocolate. And being able to talk to someone from Monster High and not be afraid of them jumping down my throat, well…holy rabies! When I thought about my future previously, when I was still stealing hearts, I always imagined that I’d have more power two years down the line but never once did I think I’d have a permanent partner. Hell, if I went back in time and told old me that he’d be making skirts in a few years’ time, all I’d get out of it would be a bewildered look and a few slurs on top. I just didn’t see myself as compatible with that theory of being loved. I convinced myself that chances were I’d go out, fill another girl’s heart up with love, break it, come back home and lock it in my trophy case. Maybe my mother would give me a little smirk of pride one day. That was wishful thinking, huh? But hey, just goes to show that life can really change on you so fast and so dramatically. And maybe that’s a good thing. I certainly like to think so.

At least this way, with these people and my boyfriend, I can feel something I never once thought in my old life would ever stoop so low to me. I don’t necessarily mean love. I thought I was the master of that-it was never allowed to leave my grasp. No. This is more of a tingling feeling that starts in your core, and can then consume your entire body in one lovely leap. It makes me look like an idiot, pushes my weird fangs right to the front but you know what? None of it matters. Because now, finally, I can feel happy.

I was smiling from ear to ear for that entire evening. And it’s not exactly like I was short of reasons to. For Clawdeen had brought some material for each of us, so I could learn to make my own skirt and wear it just like Spelldon! Matchy-matchy, huh? Sometimes my mind wanders to think about Draculaura for hours on end, wondering where her and Clawd are right now. In the last session we had, about three weeks ago just before Mavis…got arrested, she told me it’s because I’m spending too much time with my mind idle. If I’m distracted, focusing on other things, then I don’t think about her. I asked “Why did I think about her so much in the past then, when I was stealing other girls’ hearts?” It took a while for her to come up with an answer, but she thinks it’s because I was focusing on something that I hoped would get Draculaura’s heart back to me. I didn’t, like, fully hope for that inside. Something whenever I took someone’s heart was always shrieking inside of me, like a mother with children staring at a sword’s point. Screaming at me to stop, have mercy. That I didn’t want to do it. But I did it anyway. And I paid the price alongside those girls at some point, losing all my power in front of everyone.
But at least now, this evening, I didn’t have to focus on that. Only my drink, and what Clawdeen told me to do with my little maroon patch of cloth. Fold it over, weave through, I can’t take my eyes off the thread for a second. I did fuck up on one frill though, my hand went too far and the whole thing closed up. But that’s alright. Mistakes are only something to worry about if you let them get to your head. I see that. It’s okay. I’m not used to making skirts. Neither is Spelldon. We can learn together. And in time, who knows? Maybe, after a few sessions in the Coffin Bean, we’ll walk away with skirts that slay and aren’t stitched up a little funky.

November 17th

Making skirts with my boyfriend and sister of one of my worst enemies, take two. Getting a little better at it, and I seem to have found a nice maroon material which could go really well with one of Mavis’ fishnets. If they fit me. It’s kinda nice to just weave one thread through another, over and over. Like a little bat flying through the sky. Mavis once said that to her, riding a motorcycle pushed all other thoughts out of her mind so she could only focus on the road ahead, and the growl of the engine beneath her Docs. Similar vibes over here. At least, that’s what Casta would say. Her catchphrase for the few times I actually see her. Mostly she’s upstairs preparing some more songs, or rehearsing with the Spells. I will say, though I don’t see Casta or the Spells much I sure do smell them. Some of her hexes pack a real powerful smell. Won’t stop me from turning up to every single one of her shows, though. It took a little convincing, but Spelldon gave me a few of Casta’s songs to listen to in these weird, newfangled thingies called “headphones.” Some kinda witchcraft inside them is able to block all other sound, like you’re in a bubble or something with your music. So say, for example, I’m listening to a MCR song, which is pretty often (I can thank Clair for that). I used to just listen to it, which could lead to a slightly awkward conversation with her dad where I have to fight myself several times not to call him Ned Flanders. But now, headphones in, the witchcraft kicks in. Nobody hears the music, I hear nobody. Just me and My Chemical Romance.

The music kind of course. Not the…not the other kind. Never.

I can do the same with these Casta songs. Helps the time go by as I bum around in Clair’s old attic for the entire day. Or when I’m reading something, like a Rankin, sometimes the lyrics of a song such as Witching Hour or the funky beat of Weekend Whip help take the edge off when a character dies. Spoiler alert for anyone reading this (which should be no one since this is kinda private, even for Spelldon. Seriously, unless you want to steal my heart shut this right now and go find some other gay guy to spy on-just not me!), a lot of people die. It just makes things easier. People dying is kinda a touchy subject to me. Maybe, as an immortal guy, it’s a new concept.

Dying isn’t really something we have to worry about as vampires. That was a century and a bit ago, when motherfuckers like Luc Van Helsing and the Howling Master were still knocking around. So the idea that one day, someone’s life just ends is a bit weird. That some otherworldly force, maybe the same force who made me gay and made me realise and come to terms with that, can come knocking one day and simply say “Yep, that’s it. You’re done.” And off you go. Never to be seen again. Never to love, listen to music, read or discover anything about yourself ever again.

That’s horrifying enough without someone thinking they can do that to you early. Before you’re even finished. Before people who did nothing wrong even have a chance to say goodbye. Make peace with themselves. Make peace with their loved ones. It’s worst when…when characters have animals. They leave those poor things all alone after all they did was give love. And it’s not their fault because they were taken early. With no closure.

Makes me feel mighty lucky.

November 18th

Today was meant to be a Mavis day. But she’s in a cell god-knows-where, so no session for me. I miss her a little, won’t lie. I think she’s the first vampire girl I’ve talked to, if not the first girl, where the end goal hasn’t been taking an emotion right out of her heart for herself. Apart from one, but I don’t count her. I guess our end goal is for me to be happier. Think better of myself. I don’t really know beyond that. For now, all I have to do is look the woman curled up on a sofa opposite me into her eyes and talk. Talk about breaking all those girls’ hearts or how I used to act or Draculaura or Spelldon until my throat runs dry and I have to gasp the words out. Punctuating my final sentences with “canIhaveaglassofwaterplease?” before flopping into my own sofa. And she’ll sip her coffee and fiddle with the straps on her jacket for a bit before offering a solution, or some personal experience. Always in a way that builds me up. Not breaking me down. Like a mother.

My actual mother could learn a thing or two from this crazy biker lady. Like she’d be willing to learn.

I didn’t really think about it like this since I’d worked with…Mrs Goblin-for about a year. But with every heart I stole, after the senseless high, there’d always be like a feeling that kicked in round a day after. Could never shake it, no matter how hard I tried. Like I was gonna throw up, or at least my stomach threatened to. And the scene of the love actually coming to me, me forcing it-I could never get that image from my mind. Day or night. It forbade me from my schoolwork, made lunches with Thad more disconnecting than already. Often it entered my dreams. Those five seconds. I’d walk into school all confident with a smirk on my face and shit. I didn’t let anyone know that deep down, all I wanted was to throw on that corset, prance around like a damn fool, say “screw you” to my mom and take it all back to every girl.

If I could.

There goes that idea.

Crap. Stained the page a little. One tear’s all it takes to mess up a quarter of a page, huh?

Suppose that’s what you get when you miss Mavis day.

November 20th

Got a weird text today. Apart from talking to Spelldon about how school is (and him still keeping me updated on the groanings on-apparently there’s loads of smoke in the buildings cause Cleo and Toralei are locked in some kinda war which involves amulets and shit) my phone is pretty dry. And now it’s just Spelldon and I against a dry sea without notifications to populate it like little red cichlids. Mavis used to be a second one, when she wanted to see if I was free for another session or send a selfie from her bike. Hard to believe she’s sisters with the very heart I tried to steal. She never out-and-out told me, but it’s pretty hard not to notice. Their eyes are a similar shade. I was just thinking about that when my phone buzzed. One sentence. From “Unknown.” Pretty weird name for someone’s number, but to each their own I guess. It only said one thing.

“What is your wish?”

Apart from Mavis to come back home, not much. But it did get me thinking. It didn’t take long at all for another wish to come right up. I wish that I could just go down to the store, and get one of those big fat erasers. The one that says “For really big mistakes” on them, you know? And then just take that eraser, turn to the first, like, one hundred and sixty years of my life, and go ham. Rub it all away, and start again. I feel like that could open up some new doors for me, and now that I’ve discovered who I really am I often feel at odds with who I used to be. I can’t go a single day without remembering the halls I used to stroll with an arrogant swagger, or a similar phrase haunting my brain.

“Valentine, how may I romance you?”

When I’m already thinking about Draculaura and her friends, I sometimes think of the time when my lies came to their peak. It always had to be just us, where no one else could hear. Love reigned. And at the same time, it wasn’t even there. The girl in a corner, trapped like an animal. Shadows thrown across the wall, trapping her in a black cage. My overly white teeth shining out in the darkness through one diabolical grin. There’d be nothing for a second. Just our eyes staying at each other. Hers asking questions. I kept mine waaay at the back. Then it all came at once. Some quicker than others. Round the time I first saw Draculaura, it didn’t really matter. It usually took me a minute, and their fear only came in the last seconds since I had kinda…I had gotten better at making everything more believable so they’d never notice. All the same, the love would always burst out from the chest, their eyes glowing one last time. The cage became clearer in the gilded light, assuming her new position. And as soon as the light came-it left. It left her forever. I felt amazing in those moments. Nothing could stop me. Certainly not my victim, who really thought they’d found a forever.

Their forever I cut short after no more than two months.

And they’d never be able to feel love again. Never able to give it. Didn’t realise how important that second part was. To me, love was merely a stock to trade in. Guess it took a crazy old goblin woman, a daughter of Dracula, a werewolf, the son of my blood enemy, a scary biker lady who’s the other daughter of Dracula, and a cute witch boy wearing a skirt to make me see otherwise.
I’m going out tonight. Perks of dating the brother of Casta Fierce is free front-row tickets to a beachside concert. He always gives me a slightly dirty look when I mention his sister, so I keep that one to myself. All the same, going to a public show of something other than my mom’s stuffy classical ish will be nice. Guess I’ll get some takeout with Spelldon before, then eat it during the show. Now that I think about it, I’m hungry. A pizza would be nice. Haven’t had that since before me and Spelldon officially started dating after that night watching Drag Race. I’d wish for one with…maybe jalapenos and loads of cheese. Which reminds me of something. Someone.

Wait, how could I have been so blind?

Every contact in my iCoffin has a little circle above their name. You can put a photo there. Something that encompasses you. Like, Spelldon has a paragraph about dyslexia where all the letters in words are jumbled except for the first and last letters. Ely has a picture of…the Bayou Tapestry? Biro Tapestry? I forgot what it actually is, but it’s a photo of a knight from that. For Casta, it’s her holding the Grimmy she got for Witching Hour. Mavis has a pic of her on a gravestone, flanked in the dead of night by her Howley as the moon bounces off the spikes in her jacket. The “Unknown” has a picture of a mirror. Very ornate border, but the mirror itself shows no reflection. I only know one other person with such an icon. But I haven’t seen them in a while. Not that I’m not glad to see them. But something’s up. I thought I was done with them. So it doesn’t make sense. Especially with what they had to do. Them coming back to me at all, let alone so soon-it doesn’t add up. I do kinda miss them. But all the same, it makes no sense. They should be gone.

I thought I’d never see her again. I expected it. I did all I had to do with her.

I used all my wishes.

So why did Whisp text me that?

Was it Whisp at all?

Chapter Text

“Are you ready, Spells?” that same bold voice thundered through the night.

“We’re ready, Casta.” was the response, on stage and beyond for what seemed like miles.

“Here. We. Gooooooooo!”

Back to the grind. Thumping bass formed a ground beneath their feet. Lyrics warping past. If fans wanted their true bodies. Fire dancing manically, majestically like their brother. Whisps of purple smoke thrashing guitars and pounding drums. Open defiance of a stagnant night.

Moments like these reminded Casta why she chose singing.

When an audience came alive, they resurrected her too. Lights forcing her back from the dark. Careful not to let that thought go too far. Careful to keep it away from the rapid-fire words.
Somehow, for this sea of people it was always the witching hour for them. They never got bored. How soothing it would be to be so infallible. Time for her voice to soar. Some members in the back drawing spliffs and vapes to follow its lead. Back to the rhyme. The magic.

Next word imagine.

That’s better. Close one. Better than the alternative offered by that crowd.

But further forward she could afford to give a wave. It’d be rude not to wave to the entire reason she was here, raking in millions from her voice’s bubbling cauldron of spells lapped up by an enchanted audience. Thanks to that someone, she wouldn’t have to lift a finger until well into the Boo Year. And she’d be sure to thank him. Thank him with one of the best dance studios money could buy right underneath Mama’s shop.

If he didn’t say that slayed hard on Christmas morning…

Give him another wave. Careful not to miss out the newest addition to the Cauldronello family. Apparently one vampire wasn’t enough. Spelldon had to go and fall in love with his own. That way they were at least equal in some regard. Or he was up on one level; him and Kieran were actually dating. Last time she’d got close, the growl of her beloved’s bike pushed all the air in her lungs to a laugh-scream.

A finger of pink light cascaded below. Its hiss acknowledgement of her failure. At its foot, nothing more than a lanky black cat, beanie askew over one ear. On with the show.

“These concerts are incredible!” Kieran shouted, battling the noise beating into his soul.

“They really are something.” Spelldon mumbled.

“What? I couldn’t hear you!”

“I said they really are something!” Spelldon replied, the tiniest hint of force behind that repeat. Trying to hide a dutiful gloss in his eyes.

“You never said the music was this good. Your sister is really talented!”

“Yeah!” He tried to smile. But there’s only so much he could force. Best he could do was a meek nod. Kieran’s presence made it a bit less of a chore. Against the roar of thousands. Humans. Monsters. Probably a few unicorns in the mix. “Glad you’re having fun!”

A whoop sounded to his left. At least Kieran didn’t get any less cute. But that memory stained it all. And it wouldn’t go away. Some things start and just never end. Because they’re not meant to. England would always have Queen Elizabeth, or he would always be dyslexic, or Mr Forster would always be a dickhead.

Casta’s concerts would always be bittersweet.

Be happy for your boyfriend! For fuck’s sake, he’s having the time of his life. It’s not often he gets to see Casta, either. And they really hit it off. Why did he have to rain all over their parade?

“Memories.”

The bass slowed to a womp-womp. That morphed into a sound not here. But very much here. Lyrics became screams. Dashes of jubilation of his new friends one moment. Masks of horror painted on his family’s faces the next.

Sparks of light-to specks of blood.

Dark Spells. He didn’t know much about them. Other than Casta providing.

She’d done that to the killers. Evokers of this memory.

Robots.

Rifles in hand. At just thirteen years old, he’d watch them pump lead round after lead round straight through his father’s chest.

Because of Casta.

Casta knew who to thank for that ability to draw fate in.

And the hunter. Leading. She led on stage. She led him in. He could never forget that face. A tall black man. Suit and gold tie. White earpiece. Hair straight up, faded on the sides. A decade older than him tops.

Those eyes.

Circular. Drawn out. Milky. Shivering. Like helpless prey. Trying to hide it.

He had no choice but to mirror. Even after all this change. He could move tens of thousands of miles. Find a new school. Get therapy. Meet the cutest boy on the planet. Be openly, defiantly, lovingly gay. Make him find his own spark. Try to make new friends in a new place.

Still it haunted him.

Often when he scrolled Instagrim, an unwelcome post would seep in. Belched out from the popular algorithm. Nothing interesting from the main event. Often saddening. Blind. Inconsiderate. He’d be pulled into the comments. He didn’t think of himself as apathetic but you did learn to shrug the bulk of it off. He kinda had no choice. But that one word. It stuck out. Lingered.

“Fatherless.”

On Instagrim. TikSpook. In school. Every day, swimming round in his head. Gnawing. Thousands, if not millions, offered all they could scrounge from their pockets and paychecks just to be here. To see his sister thrive. To see his actions benefit them. He could get that privilege, and far beyond it, for absolutely nothing. Yet every time he saw his sister on that stage, happiness buzzing around him, he wanted nothing more than for it all to vanish. For his sister to not know fame. Not know success. To be in his room and dance and love Kieran and his family.

Without a venomous strike of guilt under every “I love you”.

“Tea?” a soft voice behind asked.

“Huh?”

A small girl wafted a teacup under his nose, eyes sparkling with an almost mad joy. “You looked a little dejected. Nothing tea can’t fix. Tea can fix everything.” She giggled.

“Okay then.” A new warmth in his stomach removed tears from his eyes. Seeing Kieran gave that flutter in his chest again. Made his heart pump more than a Phys Dead session ever could.

“I’m sorry, who are you? And why did you randomly offer me tea?”

“Oh dearie me, where are my manners?” the girl chuckled. “The name’s Hatter. Madeleine Xylophone Alexandria de Luminarie Josephine Rowena Bob Hatter.”

Spelldon’s eyes widened. “I-think I’ll just call you Maddie if that’s okay.”

“No, no, that’s splendid. More tea?”

He thought for a moment. Drawn back up to that stage like some are transfixed by gruesome injuries. Only objection could be a sniff, and a single tear down his eye.

“Sure, sure. Lemme go get someone real quick.”

A few feet away, Kieran felt the bass pound his soul, lifting him off the ground in jumps. Forcing air out in whoops and a goofy smile. Every time he let his arm rest, a swathe of black hair would whip his face and blind him for not being more cautious.

And one sharp tug on his arm. The soles of his boots caked in mud rising up against his new direction.

“Hey! What’re you doing?” He looked to the arm’s source. “Spelldon? You okay?”

“Yes Kieran,” he mumbled. “I’m fine. Found some friends is all. Might be good for you to meet them.”

“Okay then. Could you let go of my arm, please? Kinda hurts, you know darlin’?”

Spelldon turned, lip quaking. Part of him tried to resist. Forced him to resist.

He couldn’t.

His turn to give off a warm smile. Kieran mirroring him, one fang longer than the other. His face gave off a certain warmness. The whumps of the music slowed to one a second. One every two seconds. Softer. Until you could barely hear them. Just them two. Magnetised to each other’s eyes. He lifted his hand into air. What could Spelldon do but lift his in turn? The other slithering from Kieran’s arm. Hands snaking round the back of each other like vines. Resting on collarbones.

He could never stay mad around Kieran. Others could get mad at them. The one thing they could never do was get mad at each other.

“Let’s go over there.” Spelldon repeated.

“Who are those people?” Kieran asked, shuffling around the picnic blanket Spelldon based himself upon.

“This is Maddie.” Spelldon pointed to her pouring a new cup of tea. “And this is…”

“I’m Raven.” the girl next to her piped up. “Raven Queen. This is Melody Piper.”

“Who might you be?” Maddie asked.

“I’m Kieran.” Kieran replied. The next part of this was always the toughest. Just roll with it. Hopefully it didn’t mean anything to them. Hopefully they didn’t go to Monster High.

“Tea?”

“It’s actually really good.” Spelldon confirmed, clutching another cup in his hands.

“How do I know you haven’t, like, bewitched it with your Brew Bewitching spell to make it taste better?”

“Brew Bewitching? That doesn’t even exist!”

“That’s what a Brew Bewitcher would say.” Raven chuckled.

“May the dragon talk of breathing fire, when they are born and powered by the glacier’s shire?”

“Huh?” Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Since when do dragons come into this? I’m just talking about how Spelldon over here sprinkles powder into tea when I’m not looking.”

“I do not! How can I sprinkle the correct powder into teas when I can’t even read the fucking labels?”

“Well, sugar is a powder which could make it taste better. And there’s a fat jar in your mom’s cupboard with one word in big bold letters: SUGAR. I’ve seen you read that.”

“Ooh!” Raven grinned. “He’s gotcha there, dude.”

“Yeah, and I’d totally have the space in my pockets to haul that over to a concert. Oh wait, I’m wearing a skirt and corset. I don’t have pockets!”

“What if you levitated it over my head the entire way?”

“Mama wouldn’t let me learn the levitation spell, cause the only way you can learn it is through an intensive grimoire session, in a house full of objects, alone. She would rather let you make her skirts.”

“Okay, there’s no need for that. I’ll have you know that now I can sew skirts without the hem getting all stitched up, so there.” Kieran opened his hand on the blanket, mimicking a bomb explosion with his mouth.

Spelldon patted the palm of his hand with two fingers, barely making a noise. “Okay, well how about this? I fucked your mom last night.”

“Woah!” Raven shouted, pushing the two apart. “No need to bring out the nuclear.”

“Bitch please, we both know you’re gay.” Kieran replied. “We’re literally dating.”

“I took a cheat day honey. You were taking too long to get into bed, so I got Mavis to motorcycle me all the way to Jericho and I had a threesome with her and your mom.”

“Mavis is in jail. Besides, a cheat day? That’s not how sexuality works.”

“How would you know? You’ve only been gay a month. I’ve been doing it for years, I unlocked gay premium.” Spelldon bit his lip, eyes almost watering so he didn’t laugh.

“Gay premium?”

“Yeah, you’re entitled to one cheat day a month. How d’you like them apples?”

“I mean, you can fuck my mom if you want. But she sent me one last text this morning and it said four words: Spelldon’s. Dick game. Sucks.”

“Will you two please stop being so horrible to each other!” Maddie shouted. “I don’t see how this can be a very healthy relationship if you two go at each other like this all the time. Just drink your tea. Kieran, for your information I did not see Spelldon bewitch anything.”

Spelldon shrugged. “Told you so, babe.”

“And as for the dragons, I was speaking Riddlish to let you know that you can’t talk of magic. You haven’t used it like he has. You are merely a vampire, he is a witch boy.”

“Yes,” Kieran sighed, staring wistfully to the skies. “Only a vampire. Haven’t used magic. Not even once.”

“Now, here’s a cup.” Maddie thrust the warm cup into his hands. “Please just drink the tea. Don’t argue. It’s far too loud and obnoxious.”

“Uh, Maddie.” Raven gently clutched her shoulder, looking into her eyes. “I think they were bantering. Remember what we talked about? People joking with each other.”

“Oh, so they weren’t being serious?”

“No, I don’t think so. Were you guys being serious.”

Spelldon snorted, some of his tea rocketing out the nose. “Pfft, no. We were joking.”

“Oh yes, then it must have been a joke. Ha, ha. Do you at least like the tea?”

Kieran swallowed. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Did you put anything magic in this?”

“No, it’s regular Earl Gray. Made from countryside Bath water.”

“You made this from bathwater?” He stared into the cup. “Wow. That’s both disgusting and fascinating.”

Maddie rolled on the blanket with laughter. “No, silly. Not bathwater. Bath. Water. The town of Bath, England-which is where me, Raven and Melody live by the way-is situated near a hot water spring. It’s the reason the Romans built public baths there. Hence the name. Countryside water is also far cleaner than water in say, London, making for a nicer taste and better tea. All for less effort on my part. It’s the reason I can have so many tea parties a day. The water allows me to make more teacups, and has done ever since I tasted my mother’s teacup as a baby. Ergo, more tea that tastes nicer. I’m no chronic pub-goer like my father was, but in his words, there’s something I can say cheers to.”

Wait, did Kieran hear that last part correctly? His eyes widened, ripples cascading round the cup before he could stop himself.

“Maddie…not sure telling strangers about your father is the best idea. Sorry you guys had to hear that.”

“It’s fine.” Kieran replied. His insides still churned a little, forcing his head down when he said things like that. “Although, Spelldon, there is something which is a bit of a problem.”

“What would that be?”

“Ely. He said he’d come like half an hour ago.”

“Yeah…in fact I’ve been seeing less and less of him lately. Ever since he got paired for that Home Ick class with Cleo he’s been a little bit more-I dunno…”

“Withdrawn?” Maddie suggested.

Spelldon clicked his finger. “Yes. Withdrawn. Hope he’s okay. He’s been very quiet whenever we see him nowadays.”

Kieran nodded. “Especially round you and your family. You ever seen him look down and shuffle to a corner when your mom greets you?”

“You mean when I get home from school?”

“Yeah. Though usually I’m there first, and your mom ends up hugging me.”

“Now that I think of it, it’s always you and my mom who hug me when I get home. And…” Spelldon looked over his shoulder wistfully- “sometimes Casta. Most of the time I see Ely is in Mr Forster’s lessons when he’s trying to convince me that bald fucker isn’t actually bad.”

Kieran nodded. “He’s always off to the side. Like your friend Melody over there.”

Melody smirked. “If he’s anything like me, I don’t think he’ll be gone for very long. Although, I’m not sure if the music’s helping that.”

“Huh? Whaddya mean? Casta Fierce is amazing!”

She screwed her face up. “She’s okay. I dunno about the tempo. Not sure it fits with the lyrics. Will say, though, the dances are hexcellent!”

“You’re looking at the choreographer,” Spelldon interjected, raising his hands. “Just sayin’.”

Melody giggled. “Awesome. Hey Raven, you wanna do the old one-two on those dancers?”

Raven’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“So that’s why your bag had that weird bulge in it.” Maddie said.

“Eh, I dunno. Thought it would be fun to bring it. Can’t have Casta stealing all my thunder now, can we?”

Spelldon felt his mouth dry, not daring to open it. It should be easy by this point. When someone gushes about your sister, less is more. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk unless someone talks to you. Smile and laugh if you have to, but beyond that reveal nothing. And hope it passes by in a few minutes.

From her satchel, Melody extended her arm, producing her keyboard like a sword from its mythical stone. Bass whumping faster. Eyes screwed up as her mouth curved, forming crescents on her face.

“Alright Casta,” she grinned through gritted teeth, “you want a witching hour? I’ll give you a witching hour. Raven?”

“Right behind you.” A sound hissed from Raven’s body, rattling down Kieran’s spine like a pinball down its machine. Purple flames leapt from her fingers, snaking round the wrists as her shadow seemed to grow a foot at least. Eye sockets flickering in the same light. Voice sinking an octave. His body did the thinking for him. One foot streaking back after the other, a complementary yelp on top.

Maddie in front clapping her hands.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kieran shrieked.

“Yeah, why are you clapping?” Spelldon screamed, clutching frantically for Kieran’s chest and not letting it go when he found it. “She’s about to use dark magic.”

“Would you happen to be a relative of Casta Fierce?” Maddie asked calmly.

“Yeah…” Spelldon raised an eyebrow. His turn to take a step back.

“Ah, another descendant of Circe. That makes sense. You see, there is no such thing as dark magic. Your mum may not have told you that because magic brought about her downfall, as in her mythological downfall through the troubles magic gave her. No, there is no good or bad magic. There is just magic, as there are just thoughts. What matters, what gives them their good or bad tinge, is what we decide to do with them. How we act on them. Then it is consigned to history as “good” or “bad” magic, and we are none the wiser. Well, most of us anyway.”

“Yeah,” Kieran interjected, “but your friend Raven’s hands are still glowing purple. That seems pretty bad to me.” He paused. A gulp slithering down as a second shade revealed itself on her hands. One he knew all too well. Pink.

A siren of screams flashed through the brain.

“That’s another annoying thing about magic.” Maddie continued. "Though it only becomes “light” or “dark” when coupled with an intent, it looks beyond the wielder. Their past. Heritage. Can it keep them from improving? Being the daughter of the Evil Queen of Cwmbran, Raven’s always faced a certain…dislike from her past.”

Kieran scoffed. “Know what that feels like.”

“Don’t worry, though. She’s only ever used her magic to help her friends. Or to get everyone at school to shut up or all do the same thing for once.”

A chittering in Maddie’s hair coincided with it bumping. Kieran could’ve sworn he saw a scrawny foot or two poke out. Barely audible over a rushing wind that chided and stung his ears. Swooping into Raven. Flames growing every second.

A new type of bass growing. A technological twist winding up from synth. Spelldon’s face becoming a fight between wanting to cheer his sister on and wanting to slink further into Kieran’s chest. Not be seen by anyone. Always let her have all the glory.

For this change could only mean one thing.

“Alright, one final lap. Are you ready, Spells?” Casta’s voice nearly drowned in a rumble, thundering from the audience like an earthquake.

“Oh believe me,” Melody smirked, turning her final knob on the keyboard, “we’re ready. Raven, let’s rock!”

“Here. We. Gooooo!”

“Now!”

With the force of a bullet, Raven’s flames swallowed Melody, and all Kieran saw, whole. Bass thumps shoved further apart. Individual cheers dwelling longer. All he could feel was that same feeling. Warm, like a campfire. But wet. In the shape of two lips. Blossoming on his cheek. And that same urge. To turn. Spread his arms. Enclose them round hips they’d travelled several times now. Old and known, despite being brand new a month ago. Or was it two? Did it matter?

No distraction of Casta’s for them.

Go in for a motion they both rehearsed.

Why they were magnetised to each other.

He ran his spindly fingers through his hair. Tracing the same meandering direction they leapt up. No chance avoiding those eyes. A pull in his core. Nowhere, no place else he could feel that pull. Hard to believe it had taken this long. But when it came, it came in a flood. They collided in a magnificent opera of light and warmth. Hand almost wobbling through those cheeks. Scared to do it too quickly. Scared of everything. With every right to be scared.

Only with Spelldon could he afford to forget that.

Forget the music warping. A civil war of beats and lyrics shuffling wildly.

Spelldon giggled. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. What about your sister?”

Spelldon sucked his teeth, gaze leaving Kieran for only a second. “Don’t worry about her. Raven seems to be keeping her busy. Whoever those people are.”

“Can’t say I know them.”

“They seem nice enough.”

“Unh!” Kieran feinted, one foot lopsidedly backing after the other. “My stomach. Doesn’t feel good. He wheezed. “Must’ve been that tea.”

Spelldon rolled his eyes. “Respectfully, how did you get those girls to fall for your stuff? You’re the worst actor ever. Especially when it comes to magic.”

“I thought I did a pretty good job,” Kieran retorted, caving his chest further. “I’m no Veronica Von Vamp, but still.”

“Get up. If that Maddie girl had poisoned the tea, it would’ve most likely been done through a Devil’s Dandruff alloy.”

Kieran snorted. “Devil’s Dandruff?”

“Maybe it’s called Devil’s Dealings? I dunno. Dyslexic out here. Anyway, Casta secretly told me that whenever someone does that to your drink you always hear a little cackle after you’ve swallowed it. I heard no such thing.”

“Maybe that’s what you want me to think.” Kieran shuffled up with a sharp crack, sneaking his lips onto Spelldon’s cheek in the process.

“I saw that.”

“Sorry.”

“Do it again. Only this time, go a little harder and a little longer. Need something to supplement me through this concert.”

Kieran thrust his lips on the same spot, pressing to the bone. His skirt brushing against Spelldon’s. Mavis’ leather jacket to his baggy sweater. His darks sneaking under the light, only for flashes of red to give the game away. A pride badge hastily pinned onto the lapel-double checking in his brain and Ely before he did that Mavis wouldn’t mind. Tights that ripped a little after pinching them from Casta’s cupboard. His loveheart boots that enclosed his feet during old work swapped for Docs. Glad to leave it all behind.

Spelldon went further on the pride pins, some a little faded. Skirt a hand-me down, but Kieran only knew from a conversation during sewing his own. Same Docs. Tights shown by their threads, not the sea of tears in between. Sweater striped with all the colours of the rainbow.

The fact they were two boys doing this never once crossed either of their minds.

Skirts were natural to both.

For they were happy. And that’s what mattered.

Both learned that came first over several years. One teaching the other. Just one of those happy chances sparked it all. Spelldon had dropped his book. He would’ve been late for class, again. Despite all his efforts to do better. Made a dull day watching everyone else with their friend groups even worse. Kieran had been stalking the halls, a chance to reconcile for his evils in grasp. Praying he could slink away unnoticed. Having to accept all the couples and friends without him as natural. Expected. Desired, even. Not knowing rejection again lay round the corner.

Both would’ve faced a total loss had they not helped each other.

Time slowing to a zing. Paving the way for something far, far greater.

As the world, its conflict, even as it thundered simply on a stage, raged on, they had the opportunity to step away. Almost refract time. Make it irrelevant. No need to address the dirty looks. That everyone cheered for Spelldon’s sister.

All that mattered was that tug in their hearts towards each other.

Spelldon struck first. One peck to Kieran’s right cheek. A small grin its only trace. Quickly concealed as their blazing surroundings proved too much. At least their hands found a way to snake together.
One look into the eyes-and off they went.

“Tell me something, Kieran.” Spelldon whispered.

“Okay.”

“You know when you were, like, all muddy and had just lost your power?”

He grimaced. “Yeah…”

“Could you have ever predicted you’d be here a year and a half later?”

“I mean, not in this exact field, no.”

Spelldon snorted. “No, genius. I mean, like, here. With a boyfriend. With me. Watching some random girl we’ve never seen before in our lives turn my sister’s show into a D&B rave with her weird fiery magic.”

“Um, probably not. Certainly not the boyfriend part.”

“What about back when you were stealing hearts?”

Kieran’s turn to giggle. “Not a chance. It was always “aw, sugar” this and “have these chocolates and flowers” that. I walked like an a-hole, too.” A smirk after he cleared his throat. “Just don’t notice that I’m shittin’ myself darlin’, and I’ll give you a heartstopping experience you’ll never forget!” Gaze whipped away from Spelldon, wincing.

A green hand flew to his shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re yourself now. You don’t have to be afraid of who you are or the fact that you’re gay anymore. Tonight we’re gonna leave all those fears behind. And every other night, we’ll choose to let our spirits fly instead.”

Kieran sighed, head loping to the grass ensnaring his boots. “Wonder what the old me, or my mom would think now. Or the clouds. They’re still out there. They’d probably see it all as one big nightmare.”
“If that’s the case, then we can consider it your best nightmare.”

“Yeah! Better than my old life by a long shot. Boy, I never thought everything would change by bumping into a guy and picking up his books one Friday morning.”

“But here we are.”

“Mhmm. Here we are. Free from the past!”

A tiny squeaking at their feet. Running his fingers through the grass, following softish fur. A spine jutting up top. Hard tridents poking his palm. A circle frantically drawn.

“A mouse?” Spelldon raised an eyebrow. “What’s got it so worked up?”

The mouse sniffed between Kieran’s palm and index finger. One shriek jolting their whole body. Driving it in circles faster and faster.

An equally delicate voice exclaimed, snatching the mouse. His hand yanked down. Bewilderment only increased as he saw the culprit.

“You again?”

Maddie cupped her hand, raising it above her ear for a second. A sliver of light as something slunk into her wild teal curls.

“Sir Barnaby Brie III senses danger.” she informed darkly.

“Sir Barnaby B-”

“One of my mice. Sorry about that, they shouldn’t be scampering outside of my hair and away from their tea like that but all the same he senses danger.” she said in one breath.

Kieran tucked Spelldon’s arm behind his back, strolling away. “What kind of danger?”

“If the bug avoids a bird by ducking under acacia, then forsake modern life and gaze towards nature.” she declared, sipping her tea one final time before a mechanical wave. Rushing back to the crowd. Right into the source of purple flame.

“What the hell? How are we supposed to get around this danger with some stupid riddle?” Kieran’s feet retreated faster. Grip on Spelldon’s wrist tensing. Forehead growing salty and dank. Music devolving to one beat set after another. Set in stone. Lyrics warping to a chant. Audience forming their own circle. Some setting up points awkwardly. He counted five on an ever-decreasing horizon.

A loud thrum behind them. Roaring louder. Was that a slight tremor below?

“Wait, Kieran. Look!” Spelldon pointed. His face engulfed in white light. Thrum turning to a bellow. One peek right. Enough to force a yelp. Blinded by one lamp. Deafened by that thrum. Both dying quick as they came in a screech. Two stepping down. Marching forward.

“Mavis? Is that you?”

“Can I have my jacket back, please?”

Kieran wriggled his shoulders on command. A taller figure emerged. Scruffier hair. Slight horns. But no mistaking his expression as he sprinted.

“Ely? Is everything okay?”

“Kieran! Spelldon! You’ve got to get out of here. Now!”

“Huh?” Spelldon only raised his eyebrow further. Docs uncompromisingly bouncing the pavement by heel.

“No time to explain. Kieran, you get on Mavis’ bike or turn into a bat or something. Just get the hell out of here!”

Tremors turned to shudders. As if the earth itself buckled under some weight. Mini ruptures seething in tarmac. One thing that widened all their eyes. But Ely and Kieran could know for sure what it was. Fear bound them to doom.

A growl. Underneath, a crackle of lightning.

“Kieran, let’s go!” Mavis pawed at his arm. Metal of a bike fender nearly grazing his thigh.

But shadows got there first.

One hulking shadow. All others deserting.

Engulfing body. Chance to move. Chance to be free.

A dull, echoing thud took his brain. Gifted it to shadow. Legs lost it all. Barely even a sting from the asphalt. Barely a thump down.

Only a world fading to black.

And laughter.

Laughter chanting in the shadow.

Chapter Text

Kieran felt a metallic twinge spike in his nose hours later. Gaze ebbing into blurred view. Thoughts roaring and swirling. He had to note every breath lest the thought of it fly away. And it did. Joining an internal sea unless he kept it there. Chained it down like a ship anchored to the seabed. Something hot, wet slithered down his cheeks. No feet connecting to the floor. His arms strained, threatening to rip his chest apart unless he pulled them back down. Relieved them from their misery.

He tried to contract. Pull it all in.

Rewarded with only a clink.

As the seconds crawled on, one thing ebbed forward to cover all his body. As he woke, seeping to more and more places. Setting his legs on fire. Forcing his hands to fail. Hunger in his stomach creeping to his chest, ready to swallow it whole. Every breath a struggle against the elements themselves. Worst of all, lashing his face over and over again, his cheeks burning away on either side. He wanted to scream. He had to scream. Open your mouth. Open it wide. Shove all the air you can out. It’s your only hope.

Only a whimper in the darkness.

“It’s no use, Kieran.” a voice sounded.

Didn’t he know that voice? It certainly didn’t feel new. He’d heard it before. Recently, even. Female. Echoing a little. Shadowy. Now colours ebbed in. Still mostly a midnight blue abyss. But veined with golds and reds and purples. One shaft of daylight left to starve below it all. Breath rattling into nothing. That heat pressing into his nose. Hunger weaving. Still a dampness. A thought to open his mouth dissipating before lips got close to parting.

“Unhhhh…”

“It does break my heart to see you like this.” the voice continued. “I tried to warn you. But I couldn’t. I never can. All I can ever do is sit back and watch.”

“Wh-” Kieran croaked. “Wh-wha-”

“Don’t you remember who I am, Kieran? Don’t you?”

Even if he knew, his brain wouldn’t move fast enough to say so. Heat encaged it. Drawing all strength from his arms to imprison all thought. Nothing but breaths spat out. Hissing for a second. Then dying in a place his vision of fuzzy circles could never hope to make out. Let it all become black. Push your eyelids together. Then let it all fade back away. Not much there anyway.

A sharp bang silenced them both.

Another circle. Coming closer. Far bigger. Two yellow circles at its top. Or was that four shared in two large circles? Thud. Thud. Thud. No thought to be scared. One brief spasm was all he got. That, like everything else, snuffed out as soon as it birthed. Only the heat thrived here, devouring his eye sockets till they burned.

All Kieran could do was hang there. Breath sliding from a rattle to faint gulps.

Heat spiking as something cold tapped his arm. At odds with his face, making both stronger. Cold, and pointed. The chill running through the entire arm. A little left to flash down his spine. That didn’t feel new either. He’d felt it somewhere else. Finding where left him sooner than it came.

A growl shaking the earth itself drumming into his ears. Ringing them even more than already.

“My old enemy.” another voice sounded. A crackle like lightning thrashing the ground behind. “My old enemy, Valentine. We meet again.”

“Hhhhh-uh?” A moment before his lips could part to answer. Brain sluggishly trying to keep up.

“It feels good for you to be losing for a change. All your life you’ve been able to do as you want. Making my life, my brethren’s lives, hell. It can all end after today. Must be weird. On a normal day, you’re the most special and loved person in the universe. But I don’t see anyone here to love you now.” The top circle vanished upwards from view as a deep laugh boomed. Kieran’s ears ready to shatter.

“Kuuul…vaa…”

“Oh, good. You haven’t forgotten. Neither have I. It’s your despicable nature which makes you so painfully hard to forget. Well, don’t worry.” The cold left his arm. Hunger an afterthought as his chest turned to ice. Forehead drying and burning a second later with everything else.

“Today, Kieran Valentine, it’ll all be over fast. A century and a half of pain can be over in under a minute. But not yet. That werecat girl still wants one more thing before I can be free.”

“W-wha-Toraa-”

“Ooh, very good with names, aren’t you?” Another growl. Voice crackling for several seconds after it finished. Growing deeper. “It’s not the only thing you were good at, isn’t it? Well, that can all be over. You won’t hurt anyone else.”

Anyone else. Anyone else. All that reverberated round Kieran’s mind. Hair tensing, dampening as he flopped down.

Swallowed by an eternal blackness again.
#
No more than ten miles away, Spelldon paced the same metre of his mother’s kitchen for hours on end. Ducking his head in the same spot. Never once looking up for two reasons. One littering the floors and tables-there’d be hell to pay if he ignored that. The other, something not there but roaring in his soul. Bearing down relentlessly.

“Spelldon, I know you’re upset.” Ely said. “But it’d be best if you got ready for school. Or perhaps even some sleep.”

“You don’t understand, Ely.”

“I saw it just as well as you did. Believe me, I’m worried too. But doing this will not help. You’re running late. I’m running late.”

“Look, it may not seem like it to you. But there are things in life more important than Mr Forster’s stupid Hiss-tory classes.”

“I mean, that’s debatable. Good grades are instrumental to get into a better college. From there there’s fast streams into law firms, the government, if nothing else the college can hire you as a lecturer or researcher and the salaries from that can be as high as eighty-two thousand dollars!”

Spelldon stopped, leaning onto the one sliver of table not occupied by vials and bowls of different powders. If only to bury his head into his sand-green hands.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Ely. Don’t you get it? My boyfriend is in danger! Hell, he could even…even-be dead.” His lip trembled as he whispered: “He could be dead by now.”

“It seems to me like our best course of action, then, is to call the police and let them sort it out. They are far more experienced at rescuing people in mortal danger than we could ever hope to be.”

“Correction: Rescuing humans in danger. They wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about some monster. You know as well as I do that cops never cared about us and never will care about us.”

“At the very least go to Headmistress Bloodgood or a teacher and tell them what’s going on. It’s their job to help you.”

Spelldon stared his friend dead in the eye. His own gaze bewildered, struck red and sodden. Mouth hanging open. “You don’t get it, do you? The cops are not going to help! If you don’t believe me, Mavis is right next door. Ask her.”

“Spelldon, I would know my own father. I know just as well as you do that trying to play the hero against him will only get us killed. He may think for five seconds, if that, before his axe falls on my neck. He will not be so generous with you, or Mavis, or anyone else. I’m sorry, but-I see no better way to rescue Kieran.”

“Yeah, well maybe that’s easy for you to say, Ely. He’s not made you feel truly special and wanted nearly as much as me. He’s not made you feel like, for the first time in years, life is going your way. He’s not made you feel like you belong in a place you’re only in because your dad’s gone. He’s not made you stop wondering how small your funeral would be if you killed yourself. And I don’t blame you for that, because he didn’t fall in love with you for whatever reason. You weren’t there that morning when he helped me pick up all my books, and he was only a stranger.”

“If I recall correctly, there was a Math test that afternoon and I was revising for it.”

“Yeah, like I said, I don’t blame you. Those things didn’t happen to you. It’s probably not your fault that they didn’t happen, but they didn’t. But they did happen to me.”

“Probably?”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish, for fuck’s sake!” Spelldon’s breaths quickened. Voice shuddering. Each shallower than the last. Synapses between smaller and smaller. Bent over that table, head wilting low. Limbs getting lighter. His own cheeks damp. But with solitary tears. “They happened to me. Kieran made me feel better about them. He had his own shit, I helped him out there. But now, he’s about to die-or already dead, I don’t fucking know- wherever at the hands of your father, and there’s nothing we can do about it!”

“I’ll go get Mavis.” Ely strolled from the doorway, hands locked together behind his back. Trying to show nothing in his gaze. Only one last look at his crying friend. And a wish he could do more.
A minute later, Spelldon felt a leather sleeve rub his back. Head pushed up by one finger. A small tingle fluttered around him as the second familiar face came into view. Lightness in his limbs against a soothing presence.

“Hey, hey.” Mavis whispered, devastating his risen hair with her fingers. That didn’t matter. The noise of things that could happen and had happened swirling drowned it out.

“I-I’m scared. Mavis, Kieran could be dead by now! Ely’s father’s taken him somewhere and we all saw it but there’s nothing we can do about it because the cops don’t care and I have to go to school and we’re too weak and-”

A gentle shushing from her black lips.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“But it’s not okay. Kieran’s not here. Chances are he never will be again!”

She extended her arm, drawing it down. All his eyes could do was follow. “Slow down. Slow right down for me, okay? Look me in the eyes. Can you look at me, Spelldon?”

“I’m looking. But how does this help Kieran?”

“Spelldon, I need you to listen to me. Okay, let’s try something I like to call Five to One, okay? Nice and easy. What are five things on that table there?”

“Um, there’s a vial of Mama’s Rememberlixir. A bowl of Powderpression. Some ice cream with anchovies. A flask of Nightmare Salt. And that shattered Angerlixir ingredient-oh hell. Oh hell-”

Shushing instantly wafted from her lips, keeping his breathing at that same pace. Slightly more moderate. “Alright, good. You have a great knowledge of your mom’s potions! Now, look at me again. Look me in the eyes.”

“I’m looking.”

“I know you are. Now just focus on me for a little bit, alright? Name four things I’m wearing.”

“Uhhh…your studded leather jacket.”

“Yeah. Three more?”

“You’ve got your batwing choker on. Are those your high-rise black jeans?”

“They are. You’re doing great! One more.”

“You’re also wearing a Jaundice Brothers t shirt underneath your jacket.” His breaths began to slow. No fresh, jagged damp channels on his cheeks.

“Awesome! Now, let’s try three things I might do when I wake up in the morning.”

“How am I supposed to know what you do in the morning?”

“Just have a guess for me.” she replied. His mouth gaping without a new breath for other worries.

“Um, well when you wake up I guess you have some breakfast.”

Mavis chuckled. “Yeah, that is one thing I do. I’d be very hungry at work otherwise, wouldn’t I?”

Spelldon couldn’t stop himself smirking a little. Breaths nearly normal.

“Alright, two other things I do in the morning?”

“Well, I don’t see your motorcycle in the morning. But I definitely hear it. So in the morning you rev your motorcycle.”

Her chuckle burst into a full-on, twangy laugh. “I ride a very noisy bike, don’t I? Maybe I wake up a few people as I get ready for work. But I don’t really give a shit. My Howley’s noisy, but it’s mine and I love it. Cmon, you’re doing amazing! One more thing I might do in the morning.”

“Well, I don’t see you much in the morning. But I always see you hogging our coffee machine when I’m tryna have a hot chocolate. But doesn’t that count as your breakfast?”

“Hey, if me hogging your coffee machine counts as something I do in the morning to you, then it does for me. Great work!”

“Yeah, can you please let me have my hot chocolate in the morning without having to hear a bike exhaust?”

“Where I come from, the hotel breakfast managers always said one thing to me: you snooze, you lose.” She grinned, bouncing on her heel before rapidly pulling out her hand in Spelldon’s face. Only for a second. But enough to make him swear he’d seen her pull the middle finger on him.

“I’m kidding. I’ll make your hot chocolate before my coffee next morning, okay? Okay, now name me two things I might do to get ready for a motorcycle ride. Don’t overthink it, just have a guess.”

“First one’s easy. Rev it up super fucking loud. Why do you do that, anyway?”

“It’s to warm up the engine. Warm engine, faster bike, smoother ride. Also, it helps get the adrenaline pumpin’ a little. Now cmon, one more! And don’t say hog the coffee machine. I get it.”

“Um, well, you put on a helmet, don’t you? I’ve never seen you ride without one. Even though you always complain about it when you get home.”

“Wow. That didn’t take you long at all, did it? Yeah, unfortunately the government has roped all us bikers into their scam of spending more money by forcing us to wear helmets. It kinda cramps your style too if you don’t get the colours right. Thank fuck black is my main colour, and literally everyone makes helmets in black.”

“Erm,” Ely interjected, “black isn’t actually a colour. It’s a shade.”

“Shut up, Ely!” Mavis and Spelldon shouted in unison.

“Right,” Mavis continued, “just one more thing left. What is one thing you are thankful for?”

“Anything I’m thankful for?”

“Anything.”
#
“Well-” he sighed, forcing his breathing rate down, “I would say I’m thankful to Kieran, but I don’t know where he is. We don’t know if-”

“We’ll talk about Kieran later, don’t worry. If I know Kieran, then I know he’s a smart kid who’s fine. Literally anything you’re thankful for in life, c’mon!”

“I guess…being safe? This time last year we were struggling to find a home after having to…having to, yknow, leave Singapore. But now me and my family are in a safe house and, though it’s not always easy, we can pay our bills and put some food on the table and there’s a little money left over. I know you help us with that, so I’m hugely thankful for you too I guess.”

“Aw, thanks. Well, great, great job! You feel a little better now?”

“Guess my breathing isn’t so fast anymore.”

“That’s always a good sign, isn’t it? Now, do you wanna come with me to the living room?”

“I gotta go to school. I’m already late.”

“That’s incorrect.” Ely said, small smile on his face. “I called ahead and said we were sick. Down with demon-fleas. They haven’t existed since 1785 and that was in Portugal, but they don’t need to know that. We have better things in mind than school.”

“What d’you mean? I thought you said there was nothing better than going to school?”

Mavis lightly grabbed his arm. Hauling him to the door. “Someone’s here to see you. Someone who’s gonna help us get Kieran back.”

Kieran didn’t come to again until the door slammed open a second time. The cold gust snaked inside, jerking his head up. Eyelids prised from each other like lovers against reality. Heat rocketing across his cheeks again. Slightly less hellish this time, but that wasn’t saying much. The biggest pain now lay in his arms. He tried to ball one hand into a fist. Move it back over to the chest. Hopeless. He could make out a few angles in this array of circles at least. Two atop one orange pile of circles. Getting bigger with a series of calculated clacks on the floor.

And an oily meow after the clacks stopped.

Ringing in his ears to torture them more.

His head still felt like it’d been cleaved in two. Legs weightless without ground to rest on. Cheeks more hard than wet. Though the heat sunk them. Wishing to drag him down too. Think, Kieran. Think. A moment before his brain plodded into gear. In front of him had to be Toralei. Perfect. No hope of getting back on good terms with her. Like he’d want to anyway. The last time he’d seen her was when she’d flipped him off after he’d used her as a human-well, werecat-shield against mud flicked up by Draculaura’s car.

Draculaura.

Clearly she was here for something. A feeling that made his intestines knot guessed that something probably included him. His power. That, or revenge. No, don’t bring back the memories! Flower bouquets he’d given to the unsuspecting. Boxes of chocolates he could materialise out of nothing. A doctored smile. An accent that knotted his insides further now. Orders from his mother to do more, be more, take more. Her voice thundering across his head. The endgame of brief bliss and then-

Then that name again. Draculaura. What it had meant then. What it meant on a special occasion he’d been drafted into. Like a soldier who can throw grenades and kill people but hates the sight of blood spurting from foreigners. Who does it only because the recruiter caught him before the college people did. No was never an answer. Until he was given it for an answer. That led him on the best part of his life. To a new kind of love where he could feel it too.

But Toralei didn’t know that.

Not like she’d care anyway.

He opened his mouth wide again. Diaphragm desperately contracting. He had no other way. Toralei’s cackle of a response was louder.

“I gotta say Kulvar, I’m impressed.” Her voice slick and wiry. Eyeing her prize. “But you can’t kill him. Not yet.”

“He’s dangerous!” that crackling voice boomed again. “Besides, he only ever serves himself. You’re safer with his head at your feet, believe me.”

“Oh, you don’t have to convince me.” He could just about make out her grin warping to a grimace. Leering even closer where his hanging, matted lock and her striped fur were almost touching. Touching in a perverse, loveless kiss. One at odds with his gender certainly. Maybe hers too. But it went back way, way further than that. “I know he only cares about himself. But that’s exactly why he’s gonna be my little puppet. All he needs to do is jump when I pull the strings. If he doesn’t, then you’re free to do whatever you want with him.”
Kulvar’s turn to laugh, each one tremoring into the ground and Kieran’s ears. Even though it was still too blurry to know exactly, he could’ve sworn he heard the grind of a blade in his stony hand.

Finally, enough air to force a scream out, if only for two seconds.

Another laugh, crossbred with that same drawn-out meow. “Oh don’t worry, Valentine. You’ve followed my orders before, remember? And besides, it’s stealing love from your favourite. This should be child’s play for you.”

“Th-tha…that w-was befooore. I…I’ve cha-an-ged.”

“So I’ve heard.” She strutted closer. No amount of blurriness could avoid that malicious face now. Green eyes split in half by a black pupil, pointed like a knife edge. Orange, furred skin marked with black stripes. A cat-like muzzle closest, mocking him in a fanged grin.

“You can lie to as many people as you want, Valentine, but I’m not one of them. After all, lying and pretending you’re the good guy is your specialty.”

“You…w-want me-to steal hea-arts? Not g-go-gonna happen. I’m…gay.”

“Gay?” Kulvar thundered. “What is that? My son says he is the same thing. It must be some sort of teenage slang word.”

Toralei pouted. “It means he’s a boy who likes other boys, stupid. Or so he claims. But he’s not fooling anybody.” She whipped round to him, smirk broadening. “You thought you were real slick by going for a boy who has a sister, huh? A world-famous sister with lots of money, no less. Fucking hell Kieran, you may as well have gone for Clawd and hoped no one noticed you dropping game on Clawdeen.” She whispered something to the side. Kieran only able to distinguish “not” and “blame” from the throbbing heat, and that same hunger writhing in his entire torso.

“Alright To-Tora-lei, what’s the plan?”

She rolled her eyes. “Really? You really think I’m one of those Saturday morning villains who’d tell you my plan just like that? It doesn’t work like that. Unlike your gender, this has some nuance to it. But like your gender, what you have to do is simple. There’s an upcoming Gloom and Bloom dance, and we’re one heartthrob short.”

Kieran’s heart slithered down his body. He could almost hear it plop below. Surely she wasn’t thinking this. Why did no one believe him?

“You c-can’t be serious,” he uttered.

“What, Valentine? It’s what you know. What you do. What you’ve lived and breathed all your life. You can tell people different all you want, but we all know the truth. Wasn’t Fraidy Hawkins proof enough of that?”

“I tried to he-elp everyone ou-ut. Frankie told the-em tha-a-at. They let me stay.”

“Oh puh-lease. You don’t seriously think we listen to a retard like Frankie? She’s made of different parts of strippers, for fuck’s sake. Her opinion’s about as useful as your word.”

“How will they listen to yours? You…started a plot with me-to break Draculaura’s heart.”

“I think they’ll listen when they see how good of a person I am at the Gloom and Bloom dance. How I saved so many couples from ruin at the hands of Draculaura’s shamelessly clingy ex, no less.”

Circles became pointed in a few blinks. Still too fuzzy to make it all out. A few more veins streaking through the abyss. Heat reigning supreme. Every other thought lamenting its throbbing power. Breaths spat out. A rattling wind in. Exhale never savoured.

“But like I said, I’m not gonna tell you my plan. That would ruin the fun. All you need to know is that a Monster Exchange program is going down. Lagoona’s in Madrid and Draculaura’s in Shibooya. Why else would you be in town if not to organise it, hmm? It makes perfect sense. With ghouls like them out of the way, you can take Cleo out of the running for Fearleading captain as the first act of your revenge on Draculaura’s friends. Between you and me, though, thanks. Means I can take what’s rightfully mine in that team. Anyways, you know Lagoona’s boyfriend Gil. His parents couldn’t quite convince him that a sea monster was never right for him, so they called a special someone in for the final hurdle. And of course, after failing at Monster High twice in a row you can’t possibly make it three for three. So you scale back, and that works for you. Now Gil dates river monster Lorna, someone a bit more worth her salt if you know what I mean. All the while, you spread the lie that you like Spelldon, so you can get a little money from wooing his sister on the side and no one suspects you. It doesn’t matter if it’s all a steaming pile of bullshit, it buys you some more time. But also, you can’t just sneak round the shadows forever. The heart has to do its big break eventually so your grand trophy case doesn’t go hungry. So it all comes together at the Gloom and Bloom dance, where you reveal yourself once again and, newly powered, possess Draculaura before anyone can fight it. There’s even a genie right here, waiting for you to say those two magic words and have her as yours-forever!”
Had he heard her correctly? Is this what people really thought of him? Is this what he got for being himself? Hunger could now share his stomach with another snaking, sickening feeling. Part of him dared to admit, even as a side remark, that maybe the clouds had been right. His mouth hung, a hot river cascading. Some stuck on his chin. Forming that same hard crust which laboured his cheeks like drying lava. Try to direct all thoughts to one place. Don’t let vomit join that river. No matter how tempting. He spluttered, throat turning loose. Instinct still cried out for his mother. No point. His chest longing for a hug. To feel safe in his own skin.

Two factions adding to the mental tornado.

Past vs present.

Spelldon? Mavis? Anyone? Even before he knew the wrongs he did, being alone with this girl uneased. Maybe it’d be better if his sight stayed in its limbo. Squares and points remaining its limit. Seeing it all would only make it worse. Ignorance is bliss. Any girl gone by him could tell him that.

Both too late.

Of course, he knew what it felt like to lose by now. He had. Twice. Lost all his power. Dragged through the mud for everyone to see. All to laugh at. Been all alone. Had to claw back himself. Seen as the bad guy again. What was that line from Atonement again? He’d read it a few weeks back. One line embedding in his soul. Fraidy Hawkins taught it to be true. Draculaura and her friends taught it to be true. If only for him to forget briefly as Spelldon’s painted lips slapped his cheek. He could make skirts all he wanted. Talk of change. But at Monster High, for him one thing rang true. One thing summed up in a line of Atonement:

Praise was unheard of. The best one could hope for was indifference.

“I did none of those things,” he gasped. “in fact I’ve never been around Monster High since Fraidy Hawkins.”

“You’ve been in New Salem.”

“That’s because Spelldon lives there. I have nowhere else to go. It’s like-” he drew another shuddering breath, letting one last tear trickle down. “It’s the only place that…accepts me for who I am. I don’t feel welcome anywhere else. I’m not welcome anywhere else. Certainly not in this place. As much as I wish that could change.”

A whimper. Who did it come from? He didn’t feel his lip tremble more than already. Not much more than throbs. Same throbs. Nothing known. Save for one thing.

It hurt.

It all hurt like hell. Body. Mind. Memories. Admittance. Grief. Loneliness. False meaning. Being an idiot.

A furry brush on his cheek.

“Aw, sugar. That sweet, buttery tongue I only miss more, you know? When will you stop pretending? Either you get this love, get that girl. Or you drift without love forever. There is no going off-piste and pretending you love boys instead here. It’s all gone wrong for you, hasn’t it? One little hiccup and you cry like a baby. Pretend it’s time to change completely. You tried your oh-so very hardest. But we know better, don’t we? You know better. Who you are is who I know you are. I’ve made a plan to accommodate that. The least you could do is help me out.”

“It’s not gonna work.” he whimpered.

“And this other ‘option’-” she clawed two of her fingers- “will? You’ve failed twice with it now. And what do you have to show for it? Nothing. Where’s your precious boyfriend now, Val? Who’s coming to save you? No one. You have lost.”

Some strength in the arms. Please. To liberate them from their deadlocked kiss with the wall. Another heat rocketing through. One he couldn’t remember feeling before. Not to this level. Transfixed on that striped face. Only grew uglier with each pixel of sight returning. Tense it all. Please let there be something. A new desire surging to his brain like a rabid infection. Heat not holding him back. But rising. To his head. A flush of strength.

All it gave was a grit of his teeth.

Couldn’t lay eyes off the tabby torturer.

“I can’t wait for everyone to see us tonight.” She may have whispered, but perhaps predictable defeat roared louder in Kieran’s ears than anything he could ever tolerate.

Distance between them shrunk by the second as Spelldon’s ears filled with another roar. One more familiar. Wind shoving his hair to and from each strand. A heavy beat of wings thumping above, whipping any strands which somehow escaped to and fro. A twin thrill shaking his heart, challenging his ribs, forcing his eyes to go wide. The familiar people in front, around, above, doing little to stop a circling of thoughts blending into one tornado. One corner, and his hand had to fly to his chest. Lest his heart slip out and plop on the road. Forgotten. Still thrashing.

Thrill taking a back seat to terror.

Palm growing damp against a leathery back. Who it belonged to made a minimal difference. For among the tornado lay only one certain thought. One face. Too many possibilities to count. Death facing less than a metre below? The least of his worries. Living in the shadow of his sister? Barely even a thought.

A pointed, wicked building drawing closer. Spearing the moon, bleeding white onto its killer. Possibility of further bleeding tortured all their consciences. None speaking. Only the blare of the bike exhaust. It only loomed more, one twist Spelldon saw through the creases surging him further.

“Just like riding a broomstick,” he blurted under his breath. Shutting his eyes. Burying his cheeks in leather. Moving a little when metal prodded into his chin. “Just like riding a broomstick. Riding a broomstick.”

More metal scraping his chin.

“You okay back there?” Mavis shouted.

“Uhh-I don’t really know.” A soup churned just below his writhing heart. Threatening to snatch it in liquid limbs. Drag it to the melting pot. Stir vigorously. Only instruction his mama would let him anywhere near. Maybe easier to look back.

Hard to watch the moon bleed. Be smothered in cloud. Reminded of another final breath. Inching closer. He inching closer. Would it be enough? Would he be enough? He knew Kieran asked that question.

But there lay an answer, tangible in seconds from his mouth and a hug. For him, only limbo.

Only the beat of wings above him, and the blare of a motorbike forwards.

But he couldn’t look back.

It hypnotised him.

Please be in there. Please hold out Kieran. Please don’t be dead. Don’t be dead…

The inferior child of Circe. A slightly mad biker vampire, coming from who knows where. The son of someone about to take his love’s head. Two people from another country, magic and quirks of their own. And a small werewolf in Ely’s arms.

The reason Mavis had just opened the throttle.

“Who did you say you were again?”

“I’m Howleen Wolf”, the girl shouted back. “Clawdeen’s younger sister. She told me about some new friends she was meeting up with, and you guys fit the description. Only a few humans and werewolves saw your boyfriend get knocked out. Since he was a vampire most wanted nothing to do with it. Clawdeen would go as well, but she has…other things-to take care of.”

Spelldon nodded, again wincing. He really needed to look where his chin went.

“You guys have quite an unusual friend group. Especially for New Salem.”

“We like it that way.” Ely said.

“Even though I’ve only been in this group for one day,” Maddie interjected, hovering in a purple capsule beside Ely, “I love it!”

Raven nodded, in a capsule of her own with her right hand in stasis. Her expression only drawn in the eyes. “You know, you should come to Bath sometime. Once we’ve rescued your friend. I think you and him would like it a lot down there.”

Spelldon nodded meekly. “Yeah. If we rescue him.”

“I think he’ll be okay, Spelldon.” Mavis reassured. But if she was trying to conceal her fingertips turning white on the handlebar, and the bike speeding forward, she failed. “We know he’s in there…we’ll find him. Besides, we both know how resilient he’s become. With any luck, we’ll stick to the plan.”

“Swoop in, sneak our way round to find him. Up top, was it?”

“Yeah, or at least that’s what the note Gory slipped me in Math said.”

“Wait, wait. Gory told you he was there?”

“Yeah, I was taken aback by that too. She doesn’t say this in the open, and only when I cornered her in the bathroom, after she checked nobody else was there, and after she made me swear on my entire family’s life not to tell anyone, did she say. But apparently your boyfriend Valentine’s story has given her real food for thought. Most people, including my sister’s friends, like Draculaura and shit, don’t buy it. Thing is, while reading Clawdeen’s diary on one of Toralei’s errands Gory began to think. If this was one of his elaborate lies, then Clawdeen, who’s like the least boy-crazy person in the year, being in on it, it doesn’t add up. So if this is true, and Kieran has realised he’s gay and embraced it, then it’s not fair he does that just for Toralei to use him for her plot. So she’s not letting that plan go ahead. She then made me swear once again not to tell anyone, looked very anxious, and backed into a stall.”

“That’s weird.”

“Sounds like a trap to me.” Raven countered. “If you need any giant axes stopped or people frozen, I gotcha. And Maddie will…”

“Give you lots of delicious tea to keep everyone going!” Maddie interjected cheerfully, downing yet another cup to a cacophony of mice chitters.

“Yeah. That.”

“As for the rest of the plan,” Mavis piped up, “we go up top, Ely and Raven distract Kulvar while the rest of us free Kieran.” The school towered over them now. Cast its shadow, like a challenger in a duel waiting for its hopeless opponent to attempt a strike. All Spelldon knew beneath his body swerved left in an almighty screech. The rumble dying as Mavis stepped off, black strands thrashing in the moonlight as her helmet descended. Cracks bursting from the road and a sizeable thump behind confirmed they were ready. No staring away from possibilities. No ability to.
#
“There is something you should know.” Howleen confessed, body curling in.

“Say it now.” Mavis commanded.

“Kieran isn’t the only person they’re holding in there. There is someone else. A friend of Kieran’s. Toralei’s been using her to do stuff like hold that pet competition ring.”

“You mean the one where she stole my bike?”

“Think so.”

“Wait, I remember Toralei telling me about this.” Ely added. “She said she had an Afghani djinni lantern which she could use to draw Valentine back for some plot to get back on Cleo.”
“Yeah, it’s how she ruined Cleo’s Fearleading outfit as well. Through the lantern. And there’s a djinni inside. Her name’s Whisp. Both Kieran and I know her well. She used to be a shadow genie while her sister Gigi was the proper genie.” She sighed. “I should know. She manipulated me into using my wishes for stupid stuff. Fame. Following. Power. Forgetting who my real friends were. But we realised the error of our ways, and in my last wish I freed Gigi so Whisp could be the genie of the lantern. After a while it ended back in my locker, and Toralei took it before I even had a chance to stop her. And she’s used it ever since to wreak havoc.”

Mavis took a deep breath in, solemnly facing the gargantuan arch which let students in every morning. And kept outsiders in at night. If they didn’t keep themselves out with memories, theirs and others.
“That ends now.” Definitive thuds of her boots on stone. And the arch bled into her black hair and biker jacket, swallowing her whole.

Ely sighed. Resuming a familiar grim expression, little behind giant yellow eyes. “Chances are my dad won’t wait much longer. He’s wanted Kieran for years. If we want to rescue him, every second matters.” Another shadow swooped down under rock wings. The arch taking another friend in one deafening huff.

“Wait for us!” Raven shouted, her and Maddie clutching each other’s hands. A burst of purple flame, a sip heard among the crackle, and they too vanished. Only a lilac flicker illuminating the arch in their way.

“Spelldon,” Maddie called back. “Can chitters of a home emerge from the mouth of a mole, if the mere thing to stop them dead is the unknown in a hole?” One last giggle echoed behind, as the small teal girl vanished as well.

“Let’s go, Spelldon.” Howleen whispered. “We don’t have long before the Gloom and Bloom dance begins to pick up pace. Besides, Draculaura’s due back and you know what she’ll be like if she sees your boyfriend.” Her turn to inch forward. Head only slightly up.

Not long for Spelldon to be left alone once more.

You’d think that once he’d seen this building every morning for this long, fear of the unknown about it would have left. But night reinvigorated that fear. Spawned it in beads of sweat on his neck, beneath his fishnets, on his forehead. A wind out of season tapping his spine, smothering the bones in jagged blocks of ice. In the dark, anything could happen. Anything could change. Anyone could’ve met him, loved him, for the last time. If he listened closely, a terrible sound almost materialised in the wind. A grinding of bones. A dripping of crimson oozing over a cold corpse. Images he’d already known reinventing themselves for a new purpose. Fresh in the brain.

Fresh as a potential kill.

Not so soon!

All at once. Docs rapidly striking the ground as that blurred. The arch’s pull becoming compulsive, compelling. The unknown had him by the nape in a second, not once letting go. It had to be the love. No other relationship could keep him like this. Make him run so fast for something so fickle before. Several would look at him and laugh given the context. Exactly why he had to be quick. Into the dark once more. Clenching its grasp on him, the change in air threatening to shut his airways for a long, excruciating strangle.

Come on Kieran.

Please be in there.

Chapter Text

Each snaking grind between metal and cobbles threatened to snap Kieran’s eardrums more than the last. He could’ve sworn on his mother’s life that a molten liquid found its source deep inside his brain, oozing out onto the canals and turning his ears to rivers. Well, now he groggily thought about it-what did his mother actually mean to him now? In this time? Even her face became a fuzzy afterthought, full of features and demeanours and characteristics far too dusty for him to distinguish. Maybe that’s for the best. Even now, gasping his last breaths before a sea of ambiguity shoved all the air from his lungs, he knew that his mother was not coming back. He’d never come back. Any consequences she felt of that she deserved. Only fair.

But that still left this evening.

That thought coming a little quicker to him now. Still a good few seconds of wading through his legs being on fire, and the blood and tears caking his cheeks, and his arms begging for relent so they could slither to a grave. But faster. Maybe just one peek. See if the world had moved beyond fuzzy circles.

Eh, better than nothing.

One loud huff every second still rang through the room. For a second it became hard to know if it was a boy in there or a steam train. But at least he could breathe without his entire ribcage threatening to divide into splinters. And a few straight lines. But the fuzz still loomed over all. None bright orange right up against his face, thank fuck. More of unknowable greys and mysterious whites, a few golds and reds and purples dotted around with no order like pimples on a teenage face. And…a certain stasis slowly ebbing into his consciousness. No noises. Everything stuck in place for an interval of a few seconds. Things moved when permitted to. Nowhere else. If there was a breeze chilling the room, it too knew its place. Not daring to speak up about what may come. Simply continuing with its designated purpose. That stasis he could only hope to describe as one thing. Once, a while back now, there had been a girl. Well, there had been lots of girls. But this one’s horrors, while they could never hope to match the continuous curse Draculaura had made him place under himself, stood out in their own way.

The war, its symphony of bullets and forced goodbyes and weirdly canny optimism carried on the wings of jazz riffs, had finally ceased. His duty, however? No such chance. Vampires don’t bow to things such as bullets. No matter how much he’d wanted it in its depth. The play must go on. He was lucky to have backed out on age and conscientious objection. Guess he made convincing prayer hands in the thick of it. But casualties found a way to him nevertheless. A bald vampire girl. Arms no thicker or darker than a white wedding ribbon. No such thing to be found among these two, of course. She loved like she didn’t have long left. Like she wanted to live life with someone who understood her now. End on a flourish. Close the curtain with a bow. And who was he to not provide? Women on either side hungered for it far too much. An ending knocked on the door soon enough. Like an old friend hauling him out of the bar, only them appreciating he’d had too much to drink and the future held no acceptable things.

But it wasn’t just an ending for him.

He came early in the morning after the bunting and the trumpets and the cheers in the streets had finally, begrudgingly, slunk away. Reality turning the head of focus back to its own. Beating it all down with one commanding stare. And grief rose nobly back to the head of the hospital dorm. It’d never left. Just bode its time for a lucky few. Loosened its power here while it reigned supreme in the east. Now it stood patiently to the side while they stared at each other. Chatted about the future beyond war as if it lay right at both their fingerprints. But the lack of hair on her head told all. Told it, as Kieran could no longer shy away from, with the timing of his duty. He started as the final hours of blackness loosened their grip. No matter how many tears he shed, the clouds were there to remind him should he dare think about losing his way. The gauge was at one hundred per cent. Nothing either of them could do about that.

He stood just behind the door as the sun rose. Her face even paler than usual. Not even a snivel, or the slightest movement in her hospital bed. The high felt muted as his eyes stayed, horribly transfixed, to the scene of the crime. To the scene of fate futilely denied by them. And finally, to a cloud of dust whooshing from the pillow. Knowing nothing but apathy and pain in her final moments. Thanks to the very boy who gave her love-and then snatched it away for her to die.

How he’d wanted to scream. Bawl into the floor. Cast everything away. How he had to keep that all locked away inside. Never daring to let it out. He knew the danger he’d face if he did. Kept prisoner to the stasis in that hospital dorm. Everything silenced, paused by an invisible force. That same invisible force ringing in his ears, letting no one know that his legs burned and his arms ached and his face was very probably smothered in blood. But it did let everyone, Kieran included, know one thing for certain.

Death lay waiting in this room.

“Are you in much pain, Kieran?” that same unknowable voice sounded again.

What do you think, bitch, he wanted to scream. A whimper a moment behind all his mouth could rally. Besides, the voice had a way of disarming. Soothing. If the necessary cells or whatever still produced attraction hormones, then they weren’t activated here. Maybe…something to take courage from. And that same distant longing or knowledge that Spelldon can’t be far now. A murmuring call. A corner of deepest purple visible, in some sharp corners below a long arc of something almost indigo. Some darker blots flitting up only to cascade whence they came.

“I tried to warn you.” the dark mass uttered. “But I couldn’t. I never can help my friends when they need it the most.”

“Wa…who are you?” Kieran mumbled, words pathetically slithering off his tongue.

“I’m your friend.” the mass responded, a hint of hurt now stabbing into their speech. “You have to remember me! Right? Don’t you remember? Ah, what am I saying? You’re in no state to remember much at the moment.”

“How-how bad am I?”

“There’s blood all over your face and arms, most of it’s dried now including a small puddle on the floor.” No surprises there. That explained the heat.

“And you’re chained up. Like some kind of medieval prisoner. To see it in a movie or book is horrifying enough. But real life, to my first real friend? Horrid.” The top of the mass shook what appeared to be a head, its very top flying wilder than a helicopter rotor. Books? Kieran’s mind began to fire. How could he have forgotten? The mirror. The experience. The test. The gold. The care.

“Wait. Whisp? Is that you?”

The mass giggled. “Who else do you know is a purple, shadowy djinni who loves reading?”

Kieran scoffed. “What are…you talking about? I’ve known lots of girls like that.” A laboured laugh tailing off, almost forgetting to shove in a little “Darlin’”. That too blunted far beyond any normal semblance. Almost pathetic now.

“How’s that Spelldon boy you had a crush on?”

Kieran sighed. “I don’t really know up here.”

Once again the top swirled round, this time in a spiral to a grey ocean below. “I heard what they said. That werecat girl was one of the reasons my previous finder, Howleen, called on me to wish against her own interests. It’s like it’s her duty to make fellows young monsters questioning their place in the world feel horrible.”

“Yep. Fits my experience.”

“Don’t worry. It’s just like those spy or thriller novels when the spy gets captured in a lair, in cold stone rooms just like this, far away from home or any loved ones. Usually one of two things happen: someone comes to rescue them. Or the spy finds their own way out.”

“My own way out? Like this? You must be kidding.”

“Well, I would suggest you use one of your wishes to get us free-but that would be forbidden on so many levels. Not to mention you can’t have any more wishes…I have only myself to thank for that.”
Purple ebbing down to a fraction of the corner she lay in. Sinking more into that grey ocean.

“Hey, Whisp. It’s okay. You thought that was what you were supposed to do. We were both wrong, but it worked out for us. At least for a little bit. You feel happier than when you were only a shadow, don’t you?”

A small change in the top purple mass. Upwards, flitting. Guess that’s a nod.

“See, that’s what I mean. We’re happier now that we know what we were doing is wrong. That we want to make up for it. We can make up for it, and we will! Sure, we made plenty of mistakes in the past. To an extent everyone does. But that doesn't have to define you. The only time it ever does is if you let it define you. And even then, it’s not over and done. Any time you can realise your mistake and try again. Everyone has bad times in the past that they’d prefer to forget, but can’t quite doing it. But that regret’s called growing up. If you regret it, it’s a good thing because it shows that you’ve moved past that behaviour. That you wanna do better now. That you believe you can do better, and act towards it. I’m a vampire who’s been around magic pretty much since he shot out of his mom’s womb, but I can tell you now that’s one of the most powerful things I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I mean, a year or two ago did we have any idea that anything could change in our lives? Did we think that anything could get better? That life would be anything but the same repetitive darkness, day in day out? I certainly didn’t. But it did! We’ve grown better. We’re much better people. And that will to change, that will to make our lives better, makes us far stronger than our old selves ever were, even with their false magic. That certainly puts a smile on my face right now. So does our lives now. The chance to enjoy them with people who actually give a shit about you, one of which I kinda see in the corner. A group of friends who I’m sure are on their way as we speak. The chance to have love on your terms, where you can actually enjoy it. All of it somewhere you can actually enjoy yourself for who you are and what you do, because what you do is done in the hope that it makes you a better person so you can enjoy yourself more-and then that cycle begins again. Sure, you fall on hard times like this. But they don’t last, now that I think about it. The happiness you get from growing like this, though? That can last as long as you like. Don’t blame yourself for doing things in the past that you can’t go back and change. Be thankful that you moved past it, and look to the future with a will to be a better person. Stick to those two things, and more often than not the rest falls into place for you.”

One last breath out-and the world crashed into blackness once more.

Several floors below, that same stasis froze Spelldon’s breath as he traipsed the halls of Monster High. Ely’s half sheathed wings as his guide. Semi-regular thuds of Docs to an unknowable surface below, so near yet so far, shrouded in a great silky pall. Maybe some echo of purple light up ahead. Way beyond knowing now. All he could know and see for sure was the icy river tainting his forehead; and each cloud birthed by a falling chest snatched and strangled here not even a second later.

Look to where Mavis must be. There’s a start. Assume her figure somewhere in the black sea, calculated swaggers further and further. Each thunk of her chunky shoes below shooting confidence. Courage he only wished he could have in her every day. Maybe she kept it on that leather jacket of hers. For it seemed to literally be her as she thundered down here. Aggressive, but kind. Hardened, but compassionate.

“Guess we split here.” Her voice like a cup of cold water offered miles into a summer desert. The words…not so much. He could just about peer over. Two branches of the darkness offered by one lone torch. Lockers lining each one, offering no difference yet.

“Raven, gimme some more light. Ely, see if you can spark the other lights back up again.”

One charged screech ricocheting through. Response? A few flickers of yellow behind. Then all returned to dead. Ensuing purple glow not much better.

“It doesn’t seem as if the lights are all broken. Nor all working.” Ely reasoned.

“What makes you say that?”

“If they were all working, then my lightning wouldn’t have worked full stop. They’d only respond to the lights’ master switch. Ghoulia told me that once in Physics. But if they were all dead, then the connection to said switch would be severed.”

“And your lightning would’ve worked fine.” Raven finished.

“Yeah. What if there’s a pattern to how they’re broken? Like a puzzle that, should we complete it, reveals how to get to Kieran?”

“A puzzle?” Spelldon shrieked. “This isn’t Assassin’s Creed, Ely. This is tryna rescue my boyfriend. And-let’s just say we’re up against the clock.”

“Besides,” Howleen added, “we already know where he’s hidden. Up top. Think it was in the old attic where I found the lantern.”

One light thud somewhere near. Rang louder than any in their ears. Spelldon could’ve sworn he heard another breath. Not seemingly in their community. An outsider. Already welcomed into this place, a place so accommodating yet harsh when you cared to look under the rug.

“We didn’t make any turns after entering, did we?” Howleen inquired.

“Don’t think so. Far as I’m aware, we followed the first path straight in.”

“Ooh! Ooh! Then I think I might know where we are. Ever since Clawd started his first day here, us wolves have found, like, every single passageway in the school. All we need are our noses, really. If we took no turns, then…I think we’re at the branch from the Hiss-tory classrooms to Sciences and Dead Languages.”

“Okay. How do we get up top from there?”

“Umm-maybe go through Hiss-tory, then take the second left and then a right. Or was it go to Sciences, first right after Bite-ology, then stairs straight up? I can’t remember!”

Mavis sighed. “Fine. We split anyways. Spelldon, Ely, you got your iCoffins?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Cool. Same teams. Ely, Raven, take Hiss-tory. Maddie, Spelldon, Howleen, come with me to Sciences. If either of us come across a dead end, drop a text and retrace your steps back here. And, please, for the love of all that is unholy and Jesus Christ himself drunkenly pissing on my Howley. Do. Not. Get. Lost.”

“Point made.” Ely responded meekly. “Shall we, Raven?”
Raven chuckled. “Sure. I’m getting’ kinda cold here anyways.”

And so, the blue web Spelldon had used to stumble round this place ebbed out of view. Even that purple glow gradually stabbed by the scene, taking its final gasp no more than a minute later.

“Alrighty”, Mavis declared. All left sucking in one deep breath. “Does anyone have any doubts about what we’re boutta do?”

“Um, me.” Maddie piped up.

“What is it?”

“If we are to venture into the unknown fight, then why have you left us with no visual guide?”

“Huh?”

“It’s Riddlish for ‘Why have you separated the two people who could light our way from us?’”

“Oh shit, I did. God, I’m stupid. Well, I’ve kinda always been stupid otherwise-otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I know I shouldn’t say it to myself, but it’s true. It is true, isn’t it? It always has been. Even though I’ve tried to cover it up, tried to say to myself that I’m okay, that I can move forward. The fact I’m stupid stops me.”

Spelldon rushed forward. Reaching every which way until he felt leather and metal in his palm. Her neck not blocking his gentle squeeze there as much. Everything ground to a halt even more. If possible. He shut his eyes. Try to calm all the thoughts from all the different sides and all the different outcomes, if only for a few seconds. Remember what he’d been taught once as a kid. He knew where to look. He knew how to get it. He didn’t have to move a step. No need to remember what Mama wrote it like. He wouldn’t know anyway. Just the sound.

“Accio.”
A whoosh tickling his ear. One thump in his hand later forced a wince of pain. And a warm heat like a winter’s evening campfire tickled his cheek. Cautious to lift an eyelid. But he’d done it!

“Woah.” He laughed aloud, almost skipping in a circle round the unusually deflated Mavis. “Did I just use magic?”

“I don’t know what else that green flame would be.” Maddie affirmed.

“Slay the fuck out.” An eyebrow raised. Turn to the cavernous corridor ahead. Mavis behind his back instead. “Alright, let’s go rescue my boyfriend.”

Mavis nodded humbly. That slight madness which compelled her on her motorcycle here returned to her eyes. “Right behind you. Maddie?”

Maddie looked like a deer in headlights. A trickling sound dripping into an echo of nothingness. “I-thought we were going to have some tea first, but okay! Let’s go rescue your boyfriend!”

One floor up, still nobody dared penetrate the silence. Only a rocky thud every second to resonate through a corridor. Lit enough in purples to Ely’s left and a bright white to his right. Lockers. He knew some to be dented. By heads thrown there. Overspilt beef. Some glittered. Some plain. Some heavy. Some light. Some neglected. Not unlike people you may see every day on a street. Doors. Portals to teachers’ only worlds here and, some argued, anywhere else. Portals he sometimes felt like were accessible to him-to everyone. But only he realised it. But some things learned here he’d never realised. One foot in front of the other. Searching for someone else’s treasure. He’d never get to see anything like that. Wrenching thoughts back to a place he could control. To almost slap himself in the face. Instruction to be happy for Spelldon. And not dare reveal what roared beneath. Some days it was far, far harder than others. He could probably throw today onto that pile. Until the words would be bound to his tongue no longer.

“Raven.” he whispered. Speech barely existent under exhale.

“What’s up?”

He winced. Hands rolling in circles and out to try and make this not sound abominable, needy. “How do you-like…how do you get-a date, as it were? How do you get a partner?”

“You mean how d’you get a girl?”

“Not quite. The partner can be male or female. I’m not particularly inclined either way. I just haven’t the foggiest idea quite how to do it.”

“I mean, who does?” Raven laughed. “It’s complicated.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. But I don’t quite understand. How is it that people a tenth of my age, normie or monster, can do it with no apparent problem-but I flounder every time? We always talk of a Mr or Mrs Right that is just around the corner, but said corner never seems to be turned if you get what I’m saying.”

“Hmm. I mean, love is, like, unique to every person. Your witchy friend, Spelldon for example likes Kieran. But I don’t like him, as in I’m not in love with him. That’s kinda how it is. You might see a girl and think she’s the best thing since sliced bread. You may even tell her that and give it all you’ve got. But the ugly truth is it’s always quite possible that she sees you and, like, doesn’t feel the same way. And when she finds someone who she does think is amazing and perfect and lovely, especially if said person feels the same about her, you’ve got to remember that that’s not a slight against you. That’s not an insult. It’s not even unfair. It is just life. As for finding a girl when you’re sixteen, seventeen, or a few thousand years old, it’s almost complete luck. I can’t give you a step by step guide. No one can. It doesn't exist, and to be frank maybe it’s better that way. But the important thing to remember is that never, ever in the history of legends and real life-and I should know because most of my life has revolved around a super duper important book of legends-has love for another person before yourself ever worked. You can mask it all you want, but one day it comes to the top. It all goes downhill from there. The one rule I’d put on love is that before someone else, you have to love and respect yourself. Know who you are, what you stand for, what you think is right and wrong, and be proud of it. Very preferable if that’s based around empathy and respect for others, and fighting for something you know can make the majority of people comfortable.”
“But what do I do right here, right now? When I see others living their best lives with these people they’ve stumbled across out of pure luck-while I know I can’t have any of that?”
“Okay, first of all you don’t know you can’t have any of that.”

“It is likely,” he replied, clipping the end of Raven’s sentence. “Whenever I see a couple in the street, a whole host of reasons come to mind why I can never experience their happiness. I’m autistic. I’m six foot five. My stomach sticks out. I’m a nerd. I’m-”

She waved him down. “Woah, woah, woah, woah. Woah. You don’t know any of that stuff, dude. Like I said, it’s unique.” She preened a violet lock behind her ear, eyes bouncing between him and her heels. “Some girls I know really dig the booky nerds. To be honest, my advice would be to just forget about trying to please girls or go dating or any of that. More trouble than it’s worth. Instead, focus on who you are and get to being at peace with that. And this self-care thing isn’t one and done. It’s a continuous battle uphill every day of your life, but like most exercise it gets easier the more you practice. Maybe try and balance your school stuff with a little self-love and care every morning. Remember the only thing you need to do is get to the next stage.”

“Next stage like university?”

“Yeah. Uni, college, maybe even some kinda artsy place. Wherever you feel like you can study something you can care about. Getting there as a good person who cares for themselves and can support themselves when things get tough, cause believe me they will. That’s the main goal. To be honest, right now nobody knows what they’re doing. We’re all teenagers.”
“Puberty must be a part of it, right? What with all our bodies changing. But I must say, a lot of the students I see seem more than confident enough to carry themselves through. Even put each other down.”
“Ely.” Her fingers navigated the crag of his lower jaw, manipulating it towards a powerful stare. “No one who’s in a good place puts other people down. Yourself included. All you gotta focus on is getting to those good places. Not the whole love stuff. It’s not worth it as a teen when no one knows what they’re doing. Just work on being a good person who cares and inspires themselves and others, and getting to the place you wanna be after you’re done here. What is it you wanna do?”

“Law.” he replied sharply. “Everyone says law. I imagine it’d be best for everyone if I went to Oxford, over in England.”

“Ever thought of it for yourself?”

His face flitted. “I suppose so.” One tiny chuckle allowed. “I mean, I certainly think I wouldn’t be fit for anything like medicine. I hate the sight of blood!”

Raven smiled. “Good start. But have you ever, like, properly sat down and thought it all through? After you.”

By now the blessing of side by side walking had been taken away. Perhaps the cobbles freed from it used to build up. Up and up, it seemed, to challenge the heavens itself. Drag its gilded, lofty inhabitants to the realm of the living. The realms of the undead. He could’ve sworn the wind grew more teeth. Its once childish gnashes mutating to sizeable bites at his willpower.

“After you.” Ely resolved.

Raven rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks. Way to treat a lady.” That purple glow back as quick as it had fled. Strands of purple from the back threatening his face as revenge. He’d heard several times of the challenges that bore down on you when you walked up the stairs behind a girl. Sometimes in laughter. Sometimes in memes. He didn’t really feel it. Maybe that came from not looking for trouble. No matter its size. Look elsewhere and no offence is taken. Walls bearing into them both. Jeering in to scrape his biceps, pocket the grey with bright sparking blue. One brick’s reprive per walls that stretched onwards and upwards for distances neither cared to count. Nearly nothing to prove they weren’t walking in circles. Or the window wasn’t merely a painted illusion. Thankful Spelldon had chosen the other path. If love was as great as they say it is in the movies and the songs and the school halls, the suspense would kill him. If the walking didn’t get there first.

“I’m sorry, I never answered your question.” he called up. A movement of minimal degrees in his neck sending his voice rebounding everywhere, up and below. As if he could paint this spindly, mysterious place with his voice-at least to remove some of the greys. “About sitting down and thinking about where I want to go after this.”

Raven paused. Shadows rolling down her skirt as her eyes grew a new ferocity in the darkness. Betrayed by the same warm grin she seemed to wear permanently. Her hand still on fire.

“Oh, yeah? Well, for me the best I could do was sit down with Maddie and my friend Apple to have a look at my options.” #

“You didn’t do it with your parents.”

Her grin finally dislodged, she turned and kept walking. A near crown of shade circling near the river of silky violet atop her head. “I don’t talk much with my mum. For…well let’s just say her beliefs in what I should do really don’t match with mine.”

“As in you don’t want to go to university but she does, or…?”

She turned one last time. His face compelled to darken when his spine chilled at those eyes. For a second, it felt like only one would leave this tower. And he didn’t like how high up they were either.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Back turned once more. He may have seen a slight light some way before her. But never before in this tower had darkness felt so prevalent on his shoulders.

“Sorry. It’s the same with me. My father doesn’t really appreciate what I do either.”

Best to believe that the next stop Raven did was because of said light. One final stone step, its edge long since blunted. Even the step below bore a large dip, a stone divot you could place a golf ball into with no fear of it rolling out. The light more of a change in shade. Their way lit only by a pale, sickle moon glaring through three windows taller than him. A beacon for the sea of unknown treasures from countless ages spread-eagled before.

And two figures.

To the far right, nearly a lifeless blood slinking between some old coins and submerged artifacts cobbled together to form a girl. High ponytail. Long blue thobe reflecting the white. Gold threads shining dully. What he could see of her eyes showed a love for life long since bludgeoned out.

And on the left both could see why.

A stasis forced both their jaws down and locked them there. At the other person there, strung up like a rag doll. Head limp. No makeup needed to make his eyes indigo masses hiding all other pockmarks and asymmetries. Once smart, clothes now caked in blood and tattered like a ghost’s tail. A theme for all that lay on the left. The figure more dead than alive. But still no doubt.

“Kieran…” Ely gasped.

“It is way too quiet down here.” Spelldon declared a world below. The halls asleep. Forcing their treads to be feather light. Nobody dared land the soles hard. If he listened closely, he could almost her a rise and fall in tune with their steps. Life beyond their own circling. Threatening to choke theirs. Eyes not daring to leave a whole world before. Strangled in near tangible darkness. Shirt turning from airy cloth to damp-pressed against his chest. Any students filing through to retrieve stuff from lockers, dodge Manny ramming their head inside one, nearly tripping over themselves for lessons they knew they would hate; all existed in his head. And in a weird way, he missed them. Though none would really ever talk to him. And the only one who’d care how he felt at the end of each day was shunned through every corner of this place. And everything about him: what he loved, who he loved, what he did, what he believed in was the epitome of the word unusual. You did grow to become part of it in the strangest way. He didn’t dare think about what Kieran might be facing upstairs. That’d only make it worse. Lonelier. Now more than ever, he needed their lips plastered together. To move when they both wanted to flirt another way. And not a second sooner. Any thoughts he may have done that for the last time kept at bay only by Mavis. Mavis doing her job. Yet who would’ve thought so much was hiding underneath her surface? Maybe perhaps it hid under them all. No one had suspected, at least when he first sidled into Monster High, he’d be fleeing from literal death already torn into his dad’s chest. But he had. And maybe there were other dark sides to all the other students they preferred to keep pressed under, out of sight. Who knows? Maybe Manny had been bullied by someone even bigger than him, once in a place somewhere else where people bigger than him existed. Everyone had dark sides then. Perhaps Kieran was just more open about his.

And what did he become for it? An outcast.

Outcast left to suffer his past in silence. For all he’d done. All he’d overcome. Did it matter to these people? A school that draped itself in individuality, being yourself, changing for the better, always being welcome. Yet more proof of how cheap talk could be. Everyone who believed in him turned up at night. While those below saw him as nothing more than a bargaining chip. Used by Toralei. Used by himself. So he could use others. If what Howleen had said was true, and this genie really was there and could grant wishes, he’d only ask for one. For Monster High to see the truths in front of them, which they denied blithely every single goddamn day. Acid welled in his neck. Forced down only by a sheen of silence imprisoning them all.

And a breath out.

Low. Teasing earth’s foundations with each exhale. Creeping up in volume with each landing of his Docs on the treacherous cobbled surface. A calm sky to his left. That didn’t add up. For the breathing tainted it. Vowed to wrench the clouds from the skies and make them wild, punishing. An oddly familiar chill seeped behind the exhales towards the right wing. His heart plummeted to a bottomless pit. Head swivelling rapidly back every few seconds, for an unknown terror that his friends could disappear under his feet. Mavis a footnote in these new corridors. Maddie barely even a speck. Breathing now a low rumble, drumming to the core of his mint body. Compelling every cell to shudder. The moon hid behind another cloud, a near metallic grey one. For it knew the horrors waiting to pounce. Another of these arches taking every inch of colour, every iota of individuality, and drowning it all so deep where the bodies could never float back. Doors to worlds long since zombified in the same darkness locked in battle lines. Just these three and that rumbling. A secret suggestion of what it was. But that silence had its way of suffocating anyone under its presence so they would all be bound to silence. Raps of their shoes on a moonlit floor becoming the heartbeat to the breath. Slowly but surely pulsing out. One glass window yielding the last of the moonlight to guide their way. To see the light at the end of the tunnel. Of their lives no doubt, Spelldon’s mind forcibly reminded. #

Then he saw two things to ensure no warmth or breath hid in his chest.

A few feet before him, revealed by the moon as if an object to carry the pathway of his destiny, lay a bone. Easily as long as his arm. A tint of red smattered on the smooth edge. He could begin to make out the far end, mashed somewhat, most of the red lay there. There for him it seemed. And him only. Any diseases it possibly carried were nowhere near his biggest worries. Not even about this bone.
The second thing took first place.

Rumbling at its apex. Threatening to unseat the soles of his Docs completely. Toss him, tumbling, into unknown areas. Even his free-flowing skirt felt like wooden leggings nailed to him. His bust a miniature rainforest. His own breath ebbing into noise, a winded pant of pure horror. For in front of him lay long curved shadows nearly at the roof itself.

And a pair of massive yellow eyes.

Rumbling morphed into a voice, accentuated with the crackle of thunder itself.

“Scream, and everyone you love dies.”

“Where’s Kieran?” he implored. Intent backed up with absolutely none of the verbal bite. That shaking virus held his whole body prisoner. Even Mavis had terror cast into the pupils of her eyes. “Facing justice.” the voice grinned. A white mountain range, pointed and cragged, came on like a row of lights.

If possible, Spelldon’s stomach knotted more. Sidesteps towards Mavis thump-thumped, each lagging behind its predecessor. One long screech howling through as a silver arc whipped through his eyes. A desire desperate beyond all else to scream for help-but what good would it do? What did he have in his mouth beyond a desert climate? In the moonlight. Or eclipsing it. There could be no question. Another pole, taller than him. At the top, two axe blades stretching from the floor to the heavens as if to kill the angels hiding there. Crashing down. One crunch as white splinters flew. It was merely a warning shot, the ringing of death that ensued for the next moment.

His only chance was to pray Kieran still had some embers of life left inside. His own were rapidly about to be doused in his own blood.

That same crack ringing true to the tower. Ely only half-knowing what it might be. Never daring to guess. His own breath knocked from his body in one stroke.

“Raven, we need to free Kieran now!”

Raven nodded once. Hands incinerating in an instant. Eyes deadlocked on the bleeding prisoner that barely looked like Kieran in front. Genuine fear coursing through all three’s veins. Over him in seconds most. He knew what was down there. They’d done it wrong. Of course his dad was gonna be here. But if he’d listen to reason…he’d have to be the one to deal it. Breathing grew shallower with each exhale. A tingle born in his limbs, creeping into his body. Brain so crowded with each passing second its walls seemed to expand. Ready to burst. He shouldn’t look at Kieran. He knew he shouldn’t. That’d only make all this worse. But those injuries, those gashes staining every part of him crimson in their last moments, compelled his eyes beyond redemption. No way, no time to see if those ragged breaths were his or Kieran’s. Only sign of Raven’s existence a stern look on her face as she dragged him over their shoulders.

“What about me?” the shadows echoed behind. That same mass with the high ponytail. A gaze of pure defeat staining her eyes. “I’m just as much of a prisoner here.”

“Did Toralei put you in here too?”

“Ely, wait!” Raven jabbed him with her elbow. Inching closer to the shifting shadow. Any movement she would’ve done long since wilted. Gaze soft, yet firmly plastered to that plain corner with all its streaks of soot and little incisions inside the stone to commemorate the age of prison and charge. “What’s your name?”

“Does it matter?”

Raven’s face softened. Her gaze too focused and level. “It does to me.”

Without her eyes leaving the wall, an answer meekly forced itself out: “Whisp.”

“Howleen told me about you.”

Whisp’s eyes flitted with light for a second; only for it to be killed stone dead with an even bigger cancer of darkness once more. “She did? Bet she said about how bad I was. How much harm I caused her. It’s okay. I deserve it.”

That hand now blocking her mouth. Ely’s turn to use whatever muscles his father may have given him to set Kieran down.

“Howleen said it was more that she was asking for too much. To be popular.”

“Yes, but I egged her on to it. If I had just left her alone her thoughts would’ve been just that. Thoughts. Go. Free Kieran. You don’t have long anyway. I have millennia to reflect on what I’ve done.”
Ely turned. “What do you mean, we don’t have long?”

“What I mean is you have to get Kieran out of here. You have to, before-” Her mouth screwed up in a second, as if it never lay to curse her face and body in the first place. Those eyes holding a different spark. A colder one.

“Let’s go.” Raven said under her breath. Unable to tear her eyes off the bashful shadow. For all the riches that lay in seven seas round them, piled halfway to the roof, all she could look at was herself and her own shame-ridden reflection.

“Wait.” Ely countered. Heaving Kieran’s leg back onto his shoulder. The metallic red liquid still drip-drip-dripping onto his stone shoulder to remind him each passing second was precious. “How come you’re not in the lantern?”

The mouth puffed back into existence. Speech only allowed for five seconds. “It was a second wish. Now go. You can be of no use to your friend here. And whenever I have tried to be of any use it has always backfired. Leave me.”

Though it rested heavily on Ely’s conscience, a moment’s laboured steps later he closed the door behind him. The thoughts in his mind growing to rival the greys and near blacks which imposed further each passing second. A few jerks of movement above his head did little to abate them. Something, definitely. But in good faith he couldn’t shut that door and walk away. The memory of what it felt like was still too fresh. Of what it felt to have someone understanding on side as well. But you could not help someone who didn’t want to be helped. Either you understood that at first, or came to later. There was poison now dripping into his bloodstream, but he had to live with it. Whisp had to live with it. He eyeballed the corpse of his friend above. Its odours of life seeping away via his nostrils. Simply other priorities to take care of.

One more roll under the axe blades. A cracked divot no more than an inch from where Spelldon had fallen foul. Floor still warm. Grunts above growing louder, wilder. Thank fuck for dance being the only thing he had a chance at in school. Mavis bringing up the rear in slits of violet magic. Projectiles. Bats. Rapid shapeshifts. Go again as a bat. No eyes, no attack.

But she misjudged.

The towering beast clenched his fist. He wasn’t sure if the ensuing crack was of stone or bone. No eagerness to find out. Another flit shone against the moon. Down Mavis tumbled. One loud thunk at their feet. Then silence.

“Why are you fighting?” Kulvar boomed. Even one step forward from Maddie enough to shunt her in a locker. Door came away with a dent. Her energy sapped beneath him too. “You are fighting for someone who will give you up at the first opportunity.”

“You don’t know that!” Spelldon retorted through gritted teeth.

Kulvar scoffed. “Don’t know? Boy, I’ve been hunting that vermin for eight of your lifetimes. My father will not die in vain! I will fight on like him, and his father before him, and-”

“Lemme guess,” he interjected, another locker proving sturdy enough for a backflip arcing into the mirrored skies themselves, “his father before him? Probably another father in there somewhere.”

“Yes, there is that.” Kulvar swung again. A tidal wave of ancient bricks rocketing down like missile bombardment. “But what matters more is that after I’m gone, my son before me will keep hunting.”

Spelldon looked as if he'd seen death itself. “You don’t know jack fucking shit about your son, do you? You don’t care about him. Ely would never turn on Kieran like that! He’s our friend. One of our best friends.”

Kulvar grinned. Among the crags, one emotion shone more than any emotion could ever hope to. Axe in both hands as Mavis and Maddie staggered to their feet. One more blast from Mavis. Trivially ebbed to nothing on the blade. That pot of tea quivering so hard it gave a real threat to spill. All while that emotion grew. On Kulvar’s face, Spelldon could see only the pure evil fed by revenge.

“What, saving the innocent from a danger they pretend to ally with? I don’t call that betrayal at all. In fact,” once more his axe raised. Any light from the moon died on blade’s edge. “I call that justice. I am not here to quarrel, boy. I am here to deliver justice to Valentine and whoever may make the mistake of allyship. I am Kulvar Hutning the Vengeful. And you are all in my way.”

Down hurtled the blades one final time. Wind almost visible whipping past the handle as there could be no more doubt. Asymmetrical teeth in a grin now infectious from horn to horn. Eyes only on the target as he drove the handle down to a certain tomb. Only one lay in its path. No matter. No vampire ever took long to brush aside. No normal vampire anyway. Only one other sound bar the whoosh of imminent death.

“No!” Ely screamed with all his might. Relief conquered Spelldon’s body straight away when he saw that purple flame go up round the blade, halting it a hair’s breadth from doom at a sand green chest. But their return meant something else. He had to check. He heard it first.

“Unhhhhhh-”

Quick salute to Raven as he barrelled below those stone monoliths the beast called legs. He’d be granted a few seconds at best. Better than nothing. He’d take whatever he could get for what threatened to rip his heart irreparably.

But no sooner did he think that than he wished deeply he hadn’t.

More slashes across that body than he cared to count. All he had power for to grasp a limp, pale hand. Clutch it with all his might. And stare into those eyes which bore so many memories, so many new beliefs, so many challenges uncovered. The one place he could look into and feel truly, indisputably, they both were where they belonged. And would always belong. Grasp only grew tighter as every cell in his body screamed for the same desire. Not like this. Not now. They’d only just got started at their lives together. No chance of bearing with it.

One tear.

One tear carved a jagged path down his cheek. Its damp sensations the least of his worries. All that was left of a great life. The first one he’d made greater. Slumped insignificantly in a corner. An afterthought to the world. To the fight. One drop on a bloodstained cheek. Carved straight through senselessly like a roast chicken. That tear too meaning nothing. He should never have bothered. When their hands had landed on the same book his would’ve been wise to slip meekly away. It would’ve saved him from all…this. Mavis flitting between bat and reality just to dodge death. Ely having to talk his own father down. Raven and Maddie cowering away. Purple flames lighting and darkening at incredible speed. All only to stay alive. To protect a friend. Not even the cold gripping his heart could stop a small ember rising inside it, like a phoenix’s birth.

One tiny, frail exhale. Any other time, no chance Spelldon would hear it. Not if perhaps he had done the perceived right thing. But he hadn’t. For better or worse he’d taken his own path. And another. And another. A slow tap at the floor. A wince straight after. He whipped straight back. Not caring of the injuries’ possible aftermaths for a second, he enveloped Kieran straight in the biggest, tightest, most loving hug his energy would ever allow.

“I thought I’d lost you.” he whispered into his boyfriend’s ear, taking care to kiss it after.

Kieran chuckled slowly. “So did I. But you actually came!”

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

The expression on Kieran’s face soured as far as the cuts would allow. “For a second, I thought what Toralei said was true.”

“What was that, darlin?”

An attempt to laugh slid out more like a choke. “I thought what Toralei said was true. That I’d lied to myself thinking I could change. I dunno now.”

“Rule number one of Monster High: Never listen to what Toralei says. I’ve only been here like a few months and I know that.”

“But what of the other students? Their dance is boutta go balls up and they’re gonna think I’m responsible. And also Whisp.” A burst of energy sucked back in, as if his injuries were compelled to reverse. “We have to go back. What are we doing? Toralei still has one more wish to use on her. I can’t just let her be at the mercy of that bitch. She’s-she’s my friend.”

Spelldon shoved his hands out. “Okay. Okay. Slow down. Whisp is the genie you freed before Ely found you which got us back together, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Small increments in his chest grew to heaves. Shorter breaks in between. “She doesn’t deserve to do Toralei’s bidding. She’s like me. Tryna make herself better. It’s not right to leave her there. Spelldon, the dance has probably already started! You know how it is here, I have no other friends in this place. How’re they gonna think if we get outta here? Then there’s never gonna be a chance of making it better. It’s gonna be our word, and maybe Clawdeen’s, against theirs. Spelldon-”

One finger on his lips. That familiar, overpowering spark soaring in his heart as much as it soared in Kieran’s. The two powering each other up. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll text Clawdeen to see how it’s going. They’re likely to believe her. I’ll go back up with you to get Whisp. Then, we get outta here. Mavis!”

Another pop of silky smoke. Now on Kulvar’s head, wrenching this way and that. Only a glance back could be spared. “Little busy here, Spelldon. Wait. Kieran, you’re alive!”

“Yes, but we don’t have much time. We need to rescue Whisp otherwise she’ll be stuck here with Toralei.”

Spelldon nodded, already ushering Kieran through the door. “Get to the gate and get your bike running. The second I text you, Kieran needs the closest hospital you can find.”

“But-I don’t understand.” Kieran said weakly. “I’m a vampire, I can’t be killed like that.”

“Oh honey,” Spelldon simpered. “As much as I love you, going on future dates might be a challenge if you look like you’ve been hugged by a thorn bush for the rest of your un-life. That’s gonna be one hell of a makeover I don’t have the magic or paperwork for.”

Mavis leapt down. On the march again. Docs not nearly enough to slow her down. “Good luck, guys.”

Spelldon turned. Even the arm round Kieran’s neck as he limped forward was pleasantly warm, like a campfire on a weary traveller’s winter night. “It’s gonna be okay, Kieran. I promise.”

“Can you promise such a thing?”

“No, but there are people in this place who care about you. And you’ve done the right thing anyways so who cares about who doesn’t? Now, let’s go rescue one of those people. All we gotta worry about is Whisp. It was-uhhh-Hiss-tory, second left then right. Okay, let’s go.”

All Kieran could do was stare behind as his friends raged on against his titanic enemy. Running from the fight once more. Some day that had to end. Some day it would. Then again, he realised in a flush of heat from innumerable pores and slices, today would not be that day. There were priorities. And there was no chance he’d leave a friend-hell, any girl at all-alone to suffer Toralei nowadays. It didn’t sit right in the least. Everyone deserved a second chance. He’d come to realise that. Now he came to give. To give back. His mind may have been clouded over so darkly it felt his head itself were about to pop. But he could ascertain that for definite. When this was all over they could continue anew, away from Toralei. Maybe even away from Monster High. Whisp deserved that clean slat eevery inch as much as he’d strived for it. And so he thought it felt it, right down to his bones urging him up each step. No matter the wild pain biting at his legs. No matter the reflections. The dark memories of a land and time so distant yet so close. Right to the top of the world it seemed. Hadn’t been this high since fleeing, joyful and full of energy, away from the crumbly Valentine house. Barely even a house. Let alone a home. Barely in the confines of belief that he’d wanted to go back at the start of today, broken and battered. But, as it turned out, not defeated. He wasn’t about to let Whisp go the same way, a jolt of some instinct once used for battle concluded as it twisted inside. A new life had waited beyond the borders and the politics and the traditions as he flew. Ups and downs, no question. But the boy beside him, who invoked a sweetness and will to carry on unlike any other person had ever done before him, removed all doubt. Barely even having to wish for it, he’d got it. The Kieran at the end of that party, covered in mud and disgrace and shards of his own hubris, nothing more than a foreign entity at the bottom of a metaphorical hill. He was at least some way up to the summit. Enough where it wasn’t more than a tiny speck. Now, he resolved as the door to that lofty prison stood, was the time to take one of those who made it all possible up with him. Still a notable amount of give as a limp leg extended. Two Docs square in the door’s balls. Bad-ass, he thought with a lopsided smirk.

That quickly died as he saw the contents.

Yes, there Whisp lay. Head down. Mouth sullen. Living in her own shadow confined to that same corner. All the angles visible at last. But she wasn’t alone. Another figure glared oppressively down. Body an art form of curves and spindles and stripes. As if someone had taken Mavis, made her meaner. Made her, he acknowledged with a sizeable churn in his stomach, like a cat. Even her turn was calculated, sneering.

“Oh, you survived.” she drawled. “I thought Kulvar had done his job.”

Maybe it was a pity he was injured. Already Kieran’s mind began to race with possibilities. With justice. For a second his eyes aligned with Whisp’s. Pitiful. Tortured, even. Their perpetrator returning maliciously to the scene of the crime. Herself perfectly fine. Not an iota of remorse present in her eyes. None in theirs was her doing either.

“You’re lucky I’m injured.” he growled.

“Ooh, I’m so scared.” Every syllable dripping with mock emotion as always. “Well, let’s not waste time. The dance has already started. You’re missing out on all the fun. That’s not like you at all, Kieran. To miss out on a party. Especially one with dates involved.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Spelldon spat. “Kieran doesn’t play the manipulating game anymore. Why can’t you just let him-hell, let us-find our love in peace?”

She smiled archly and twitched her body. “You’re being lied to, Spelldon. You should see it, tagging along with a chronic manipulator. I’m only trying to stop any others being hurt. And get on good terms in the process. It’s a win-win.”

“That isn’t right.” Whisp murmured.

“Oh, yeah? And who are you to tell me what’s right and wrong? You’re the one who’s helped me get through this plan after all. You even helped Howleen before you.”

The door creaked open. A third girl edging in. Straight to Whisp. That same humble sadness written legibly across her entire face.

“Look at that.” Toralei grinned. “The chickens coming home to roost. Everyone’s sorry for everyone. How delicious. How fake.” A lunge into Kieran. Teeth baring with the clasp and another burst of liquid heat. Inside sleeve growing damp. “Now come on already. There’s no chance of you redeeming yourself. Just accept what you are and let’s go. Before anyone gets hurt.”

Another wince as he wrenched it back away. Limpness countered as best he could. “I’m not gonna be your tool anymore, Toralei. Neither is Whisp. From the second I set foot in this school, it wasn’t even me who wanted Draculaura’s heart the most. I admit, I wanted it loads just for my dumb fucking collection. But you wanted it all to get one over her. You sent me here. You told me what to do. You told me to get the heart. I was your puppet. You pulled the strings. I guess for me it was easier to jump back then. But no way am I gonna do that now.”

Toralei shook her head. That sickly smile still driving poison into his heart among all the other pains. “You forget one thing, Valentine. I wish…”

“Wait! Stop!” Spelldon barked. “Look up there.”

Head shot back through. “Up where?”

Immediately another Doc rammed into her stomach. One rapid, thick gust of wind expelled itself as she collapsed, hissing, onto the floor. No sooner had Spelldon sprinted to the corner, boyfriend still in tow.

“Whisp, come on!” Kieran urged. “You don’t have to do this.”

Another despairing gaze in response. “I cannot be free until Toralei uses her final wish, Kieran. As much as I want to. Even then, what I’ve done is too bad. I deserve it.”

“Whisp, no one deserves to be eternally ruined for a mistake they made. Least of all if they’ve accepted it and tried to move forward. That’s never fair.”

Toralei stirred. Kept under by heels alone.

“Your Lightning Demon friend already gave it a go, you know. He was sweet. But its no use. This is my role, I suppose. Always making the wrong choices. Serving the wrong people. Gave it a go trying to cut free. Just ended up in the same place. It’s a fool’s game. Besides, I have no idea what I’d do if I were free. Probably make the same mistake over and over again.”

“You don’t know that. But what you do know here is that you’re self-conscious. You know what you did is wrong, and you have a bad habit. That’s the first step which makes improvement possible.”

She nodded slowly. “You make a convincing argument. And it does sound nice, being free to read all the books I desire. Alas, once again, none of that is possible until a third wish has been made.”

Two clomps behind the three. Smile replaced with a fiery grimace. “Enough of this bullshit! I wish…”

An idea giggled its way to birth in Kieran’s brain. “Hey, look under there!”

“Are you as stupid as you look, Valenteeno? I’m not falling for that again. Besides, under where?”

Kieran cackled. “Made you say underwear.” Spelldon nodded approvingly, a sense of surprise under that dyed fringe.

“Ughhhh! I can see why Draculaura wants to be rid of you. I wish that Kieran…”

“Is an ugly motherfucker with mismatched fangs?” Spelldon interjected. “You don’t have to wish for that, sweetie.”

“Hey! My fangs aren’t that mismatched.”

Spelldon cocked his head. “Well, they aren’t exactly even, let’s put it that way.”

“I wish that Kieran followed…”

“Ah, I got it. You wish I followed Taylor Swift on Instagrim? Actually, I have been thinking about it for some time. She makes good music, but then again she is a normie soooo-”

“Oh my ghoul! I wish that Kieran followed my-”

“Fashion trends!” Spelldon exclaimed. Kieran nodded, high fiving. “I mean, he kinda does. But he steals from Mavis’ wardrobe in the process.”

“Yeah.” Kieran added. “Now you mention it, though Mavis does have a really cool wardrobe her jackets are always, like, suuuuper heavy.”

One deafening bang on the cobbles. Thundering from Toralei’s shoe. “Enough already! Fuck me, why can’t you just accept your goddamn destiny for once? I wish that-”

“Think carefully, Toralei.” Howleen gleefully cautioned. “It’s not so long ago I learned a little something.” She turned to Whisp. Their interlocking glance warmer, more hopeful. “I learned you gotta be careful what you wish for. I wouldn’t wish for anything when you’re this riled up. You may end up regretting it.”

“Good job, Howleen.” Whisp whispered. The gloss in her eyes now more alive than dead.

“Can all of you shut the fuck up?! Especially Howleen. I’m not taking advice from a girl whose only friends are fucking Twyla and Clawdeen. Hell, I wish all of you would just go away!” Oblivious to her actions for a synapse. A hand clamped down on her mouth. Eyes wide as if she’d just said a word beyond all redemption. Too late.

“As you choose.” Whisp grinned. At last she floated. Purple edges of smoke beyond her body fading into the bright white moonlight. One sign to Kieran. Hand as a phone next to her ear. The only memory of her as she faded, in a flash of light, once again. As if a hand had taken her entire being and zipped her away to nothing. Another new story, new finder, far far away.

Epilogue

Mr Forster stared, a darkness long since beaten into his face, out at rolling hills. At the kids with their same demonic routine. Playing. Chatting. Eating. Running. Some smoking, no doubt, in a corner he couldn’t see. And he would be wise to not think of what else. Their world, their world for free. A world tangible to him once. More than that. It was in a space nearly bang on the same as his own. Small. Square. Cramped to the brim with objects of all sorts of ages. All sorts of societies who once thought themselves invincible to things such as change. Every single one inevitably proven wrong. Except, of course, the blue framed shard on his desk. That hadn’t been there. He’d eked that out himself. For all the good it gave him. Another sigh. It seemed to be the only oxygen left for him to breathe in this place. For him it did the job. For the kids who found their godforsaken souls here, always offensively chilly. Chilly like the forces of winter and death creeped down their spines, eyeing up a potential next victim. There some sense of justice rooted. It would have to do for now. That same fact the one he resigned himself to after Durham had given him this. This as the best he could do.

There it stayed. At least, until it flew startled by the knock at his door. Deeply unusual.

“Come in.” he pronounced.

More unusual still when he saw who’d dared disturb the peace. A little scruffy, even for usual. But of all the things he’d expected in today’s despicable loop, this couldn’t be much further divorced from it. In front of him, dishevelled not least by the head’s advantage he had over most students, stood Toralei Stripe.

“Don’t you have business to be attending to with your ghouls, Miss Stripe?”

“Not today, sir.” Any semblance of spitting humbled out of her. That blue shard a permanent reminder of who she talked to and why. “I thought you might be able to help with something.”

“Ah, so you’ve finally seen sense and gotten round to doing my Weimar Republic homework. I’ll take this opportunity to remind you it was due a week ago. Come on, sit down. I’ll show a little leniency and not give you detention.”

“It’s not that sir.” Toralei admitted, squirming into a spare seat nonetheless. The place a sure motive for why she looked ready to vomit. Her phone steadily unsheathed. Expression even scared. Once again, she knew who she was dealing with. And what for. “I came to deliver you a message.”

“About what, child?” he snapped.

“You know Kieran Valentine?”

“I have heard of him once or twice.” he sneered, dismissing the very idea of another outside free guest as soon as his mouth closed.

“Well, my friend thinks you can help bring him, being the manipulative son of a-” she eyed the daggers waiting inside his own with a gulp, “being the manipulative vampire he is, w-who leads others on with his lies, to justice. And get you back to where you deserve to be in the process.”

“Miss Stripe, I have been teaching in this place for eight years. If I wanted to go to a better place, I’d have done so far more promptly.”

“Well, my friend here thinks she can help you get back to a place called Durrin? Dur-in? Darin? And she said something about a tribe there, and a cathedral, and Rotland. And to talk to you. Most definitely to talk to you.”

He nodded gradually. Eyes widening at the very thought. This Valentine alone the least of those thoughts. What he represented in his lies only the second least. “Put me through to this person.”
Toralei methodically tapped on the screen. Even one look at her Hiss-tory teacher like staring down her own defeat, her own humiliation, directly in the face. Perhaps the two became synonymous. Even less of a thought she wanted to address. There it came. A white, bony face. Female. Yet lively. Made so by frightfully frilly curls of pink atop her head. One twisted into a love heart. Lips populated only by a delicate, glittery strip right underneath the nose. That too shaped in a heart. More behind. Another forming the top of her corset and the shape of skeletal wings. Neither able to hide a little shock as it emerged.

“You are Marcus Forster, correct?” the figure questioned.

“That I am.” He responded with each syllable drawn out and a raised eyebrow. Perhaps rightly so. Even though he knew well, a hint of resentment behind this, that at Monster High the unexpected could always be expected right around the corner.

She smiled, a hint of anxiety in her teeth. “Oh, good. Sorry, it’s gonna take a little bit getting to all that formal stuff.”

“Who are you?” he cut across. “And why do you seek me?”

“I am CA Cupid, daughter of Eros, the god of love.”

“Ah, so there is a god of love.” he murmured. “Must not particularly cherish me.”

“What I call you for is that I have an opportunity for you. Durham is rising again. Mr Forster. The cathedral floor stirs as winter approaches. Rotland even more so. The seven dwarves have begun to flee their cities.”

“So did they at Falkirk, but they re-aligned soon enough.”

“It’s different this time. Last time, Valentine was only a boy doing his mom’s bidding. Now it’s all changed, as Toralei here will tell you. What I need is Valentine here. At Ever After High.”

“You mean Mr Grimm’s school for fairytale descendants in Bath? What service would the boy be on the other side of the country?”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter so much where he is as much. So long as we have control over him. Everyone here knows he’s up to something. Be it with his ‘boyfriend’ or other students here or whatever. He is dangerous. Especially with all the hearts he broke before. Maybe he has changed, but we can’t give him the benefit of the doubt. If you think the same as I do, know what’s coming, then we can’t let him roam free. He’ll be a danger that will play right into our enemy’s hands. Even now he’s too much of a loose variable. But if he’s within Ever After High, concealed in there, then at least we know where he is and we know how to make sure that end is secured. Which will be a start.” She sucked her teeth. That infection of never being able to look anyone in the eye spreading to her while the mouth turned uneasy. Love heart lips disconnecting from each other.

Mr Forster nodded. “And what of Durham? You see the blue shard on my desk.”

“I do, I do. I will ensure that you are reinstated there.” Each word spreading that unease almost through the phone. “Reinstated for what is to come.”

He grinned. Toralei could nearly see clouds of dust fleeing from those muscles. “And the ice shall spread, and spread on. And we shall cover those who try to halt the winter. For we are the winter. We are Naglfar.”

One more nod. Cupid’s face drawn as if she were about to be sick. Or cry. Too conflicted to now. Three beeps signalled the end of one path. The start of a new one. He stared cruelly down at Toralei’s pocket.

“Vapes are not allowed on school grounds, girl. Give it to me this instant.”

She may be able to talk her way out of it with Mr Rotter. Nevertheless, she knew the prices for crossing the Hiss-tory teacher. And she couldn’t pay. Especially at a time like this. When they finally had a common enemy. A bright orange vape planted in his outstretched, glistening white palm. No holding back the ensuing scream. With no hint of pain, blood or even a wince, thin shards of ice emerged from his hand. Closing in like spider’s legs upon prey. The anger in his eyes growing fiercer, colder. Memories themselves arced through his pupils as the shards came closer. Closer.
One deafening, clean snap like a cut through bone.

Ruins of her vape tossed in the bin.

Newfound fury stared her right down into the pits of her soul. “Tell anyone of this act, Miss Stripe, and you will wish you were never born.”

She nodded meekly.

“There is much work to be done. And-not much time at all. Do you know this Valentine personally?”

“No sir.” Her own chance to spit venom among words. “I don’t.”

“Good. Then you’re safe from whatever machinations he does.” An icy, pointed finger ran affectionately through her fringe. Each hair standing on end one by one as her eyes didn’t dare to move.
“The only outlier is that it is unknown whether he will go to Bath willingly. He doesn’t go here.”

“Um, actually…” Toralei squeaked. “He-may have come last night. To rescue someone. With friends from Ever After High.”

“Go on.”

“All I heard were rumours.” she confessed in one breath. “But I heard he knows two from that place. They get on quite well.”

“Hmm. For once you have proven knowledgeable. Who would have thought? Very well. I have heard the most about him from Mr Cauldronello. A vile pairing, those two.”

She nodded in haste. As much of a smile as she could fake crossing her mouth for the first time since last night.

“I shall organise a trip to the West Country at once. A great deal of Roman history there. Sow the idea in Mr Cauldronello’s miniscule mind. Cross it with Ever After High’s holiday, lure them all back. Simple enough. From there, it will be easy.”

“What do I do?”

“Long term, bide your time. No more schemes. Keep your distance. I shall take care of this.”

Toralei deflated. “And the short term?”

A sneer of disgust creeped across his face as he glared the pathetic werecat down. “In the short term, get out of my sight. But one thing, before you go.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you say ‘yeah’ in that ungracious way. Anyway, I was saying. The wheel of history is about to change direction, that much is clear. Valentine and his schemes will fall. Durham, and I daresay you, will rise. But the one thing with all revolutions, Miss Stripe, is that they take careful time and planning. Let Kieran enjoy himself for now. It’s always best to let your enemy get comfortable in their heat of victory. So that when defeat does come, it freezes them and their heart completely still, so they may never consider even living again.”

Only two things lingered on Toralei’s mind as she slammed the door behind her. The very idea her last scheme for the foreseeable future had gone up in smoke made her want to vomit. But there was another thing. Another feeling.

For what was about to come, a great part of her felt heart-wrenchingly sorry for those people who thwarted her last night.

Sorry, most of all, to Spelldon Cauldronello and Kieran Valentine.

THE END. FOR NOW…
Misadventures of Morbid Hearts Season 2: Journey to the Ever After.
Coming 2024…