Monsters

by Katie May

  Instead of two-hundred, I charged him one-hundred.

  Pushing my glasses up with the pad of my thumb, I step out into the courtyard.

  I’m always in awe of the academy grounds. They’re surprisingly cheerful for such a melancholic place. Manicured grass spreads out in all directions and is adorned with rose bushes and the occasional tree. A marble fountain sits in the center of the paved walkway, the statue currently spouting water depicting Dracula himself. Horrid creature. Honestly, I hate vampires.

  Blood-sucking pests.

  In the back of the school, the cemetery rests, headstones crumbling with age. It’s designed to keep the ghosts at the school until they’re permitted to roam freely.

  It’s then that I see her.

  She steps out of a taxi, an older man—her father more than likely—walking beside her. My tongue turns to cotton in my mouth, and my hands shake.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  Her blonde curls fall to mid back, and I have the strangest, irresistible urge to brush them behind her ear. She wears a hot pink skirt darkened with bats and a black leather jacket.

  The blood drains from my face and rushes straight to my cock.

  And fuck, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had this reaction before. To anyone.

  In my line of work, I see a lot of naked bodies, both male and female. Sure, I can admire a good cock or a set of tits, but I never became hard before. I was afraid there was something broken in me, something Frankenstein failed to create.

  But seeing her…

  Sensations I never knew existed course through me. White hot pleasure. It encases me completely.

  Her brilliant blue eyes, the color of the sky during dusk, flicker to where I’m standing…

  ...awkwardly groping my cock through my jeans.

  Fuck.

  Cheeks blazing, I race back inside, practically plowing over students in my haste. I hurry inside the unisex bathroom and lock the door. Breathing belabored, I press my back to the door and attempt to get myself under control.

  I’ve never had this reaction before. To anyone. Sure, she’s beautiful, but I’ve met a lot of beautiful people in my life.

  My hand snakes to the zipper of my pants, grabbing my rock hard cock in my fist. Stroking, I envision the blonde-haired beauty once more. She was ethereal—plucked straight from a stained-glass window. She could be an angel sent from Heaven itself.

  My hand strokes faster and faster as I suddenly imagine her lips around my cock, plush and full. I can feel myself reaching the precipice, the need to crest over that edge overwhelming.

  Fuck.

  I explode, my cum landing my stomach. For a moment, I remain there, panting.

  What is happening to me?

  My mind reels, trying its damnedest to catch up. My heart seems to be growing in a rapidly shrinking vise.

  Cursing, I move to the bathroom sink and grab a handful of paper towels, dabbing at my cum.

  I wonder what her name is.

  Unbidden, my eyes flicker to my reflection in the mirror, and horror swamps me. There is no way in fuck I’ll ever capture her attention. I’m not...I mean...I’m not...I’m just me.

  I don’t have a six-pack or even a one-pack. I’m not fat by any means, but I’m a good handful. My hair is curly and disheveled. No matter what I do, it can’t be tamed. And I wear glasses. What monster wears glasses?

  Self-pity and something akin to loathing cascades through me until I’m nearly drowning in it. My breathing is embarrassingly heavy.

  Those thoughts are immediately cast away, washed away, in a tidal wave of anger.

  When have I ever felt this way before about a female? About anyone?

  No, my visceral reaction to her is unnatural.

  She must be a witch.

  Hmmm.

  I tap my chin with the tip of my finger.

  Maybe it’s time for our school to go on a witch hunt.

  Chapter 4

  Violet

  I grumble as the taxi pulls up in front of Prodigium.

  To the humans, including our taxi driver, they believe Prodigium is a boarding school for rich kids. They’re not entirely wrong.

  Half the students who arrive at Prodigium are rich as fuck, my family included.

  “Do you need any help with your bags, Miss?” our driver asks, swiveling in the driver’s seat.

  After a bumpy, turbulent flight to the United States and a two hour car ride to the academy, I’m exhausted. I’m about to take him up on that offer when Dad gives me a pointed look.

  Don’t let humans know of our existence, blah blah blah.

  Forcing a smile, I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

  At that, Dad looks positively aghast. As a general rule, monsters don’t say “thank you” to humans. Hell, it’s more than a general rule. It’s simply unheard of.

  Emerging from the car, I grab my one suitcase from the trunk before finally taking Prodigium in.

  The brochure failed to encapsulate how beautiful the campus actually is, how large. The main academic building is three stories of brick and ivy, the entrance a set of white, narrow stairs and two rails twined with flowers. A pebbled pathway weaves off to the side, into a small forest. A large dormitory crests the top of tree boughs.

  “What do you think?” Dad asks as the taxi drives out of the immense silver gates.

  There goes my only escape.

  “Cute,” I say dismissively. “Wait...what are you still doing here?”

  Please don’t tell me my dad is staying. I might die a slow and painful death.

  “I have someone I need to meet,” he answers evasively.

  “Someone you need to meet,” I parrot, my eyes still traveling around the campus. My wandering gaze pauses at the sight of a man standing on the front steps of the academic building. He has light brown hair, unruly and cascading to his shoulders, and his hand...well...his hand is groping his cock.

  That sight shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does, but my face burns hotly.

  Even from this distance, I can see his eyes widening in horror seconds before he scurries away.

  “Violet!” my dad snaps, tugging on a strand of my hair. I immediately wrench my gaze away from Cocker (his new nickname) and follow my father up the curving trail bogged down with weeds.

  We arrive at the dormitory just as someone is coming out.

  A headless someone.

  “How’s your father doing?” Dad asks the young man. Obviously, my father recognizes the headless…

  The Headless Horseman. Well, his son anyway.

  How the man can hear remains a mystery, but he does a weird half bow thing. When Dad nods and continues walking into the dorm, I realize that must mean his dad is doing good. Noted.

  I officially can speak Headlessness.

  We enter what appears to be a lobby, complete with an assortment of couches around a flatscreen, a pool table, and a small kitchen. A desk is adjacent to the kitchen, and a translucent female sits behind it.

  It’s there Dad strides to, ignoring the stares and hushed murmurs he’s receiving.

  You see...Dracula? He’s sort of a big deal in the monster world. You can’t have hundreds of movies dedicated to you and not be.

  As if he relishes in the attention, Dad straightens his shoulders imperceptibly. He seems even taller, even larger, like a plant that has grown after being exposed to sunlight. I trail behind him warily, kind of wishing the Shadow Monster would eat me alive.

  The ghost's eyes widen fearfully when she catches sight of my domineering father. Unlike me, she’s capable of disappearing into the floorboards and never returning. Lucky bitch.

  “We’re here to pick up the housing information for my daughter, Violet Dracula. The greatest monster that ever lived.” He sounds so fucking proud of me, his smile abnormally large, and I feel heat rush to my cheeks.

  “Dad…”

  Parents always embarrass their kids. It’s a given.


  But for the most fearsome monster in the history of monsters to brag about me—a fuck up—in a room full of actually fearsome monsters?

  I kind of want to die.

  “Yes, of course.” Ghost Girl moves her fingers over the keyboard, but she never actually types anything. Probably because she’s dead and incorporeal and all. After a minute of watching her ineffectually pass her fingers over the keyboard, she turns to us with a soft smile. “Second floor. Room 276.”

  Without bothering to say thanks, Dad stalks towards the staircase. I wave awkwardly goodbye to the girl before following behind, my suitcase banging against each step.

  I have to give myself credit: I tripped only once going up the stairs.

  By the time I reach the second floor—not even the fifth floor or anything but the goddamn second floor—I’m panting and out of breath. Dad, of course, is standing against the wall pinching the bridge of his nose to fight off the impending headache.

  “The carpeting was loose,” I defend, scrubbing at my blonde tangles with my free hand. He mutters something indistinguishable beneath his breath before hurrying down the hall.

  So maybe not hurrying, per se. Hurrying implies that he’s doing anything except walking.

  But man, can my dad fast walk with the best of them.

  Room 276 is adorned with two golden nameplates above the number. The first reads Cynthia Clit. The second one is blank.

  Cynthia Clit.

  I snort.

  What type of name is that?

  I wasn’t given a key, so I instead try the handle. It opens easily, and I step into a stereotypical dorm room complete with two twin beds, two desks, and two wardrobes.

  Ms. Clit is sitting on the far bed against the wall, gaze on a textbook in her lap. When we enter, her head snaps up, long, dark hair cascading in front of her face like a shield. I lift my hand to wave when she releases an ear-splitting scream.

  An ear-splitting, blood-fills-your-ears-and-mouth scream.

  As I slam into the wall, my head snapping painfully, two things become clear.

  One, my roommate is a banshee. And not just any banshee, but the Woman in White.

  And second, she just fucking killed me.

  How’s that for a first day?

  So yeah. Here’s the thing about dying: it sort of sucks.

  Not that I actually die die—at least, I don’t believe I do. It’s like falling asleep. You close your eyes, and unconsciousness washes over you like a wave. When they reopen, sunlight is filtering through the blinds in your room and birds are chirping.

  But, like, in my case, my snapped neck slowly rolls back into place. It’s a lot of grotesque, creaking noises and pained grunts. A few curse words here and there.

  When I orient myself, I realize I’m sitting on the bare mattress in my dorm room. Dad is leaning against the wall talking to an unfamiliar man with a cascade of dark brown hair. Both of them either are oblivious to my...awakening or choosing to ignore it.

  Ms. Clit sits on the bed opposite me, eyes intent on my sleeping—previously dead—form.

  On closer inspection, I see that she wears a long white gown embedded with jewels. It dips low to reveal a generous amount of cleavage. Her thick black hair hangs in clumps in front of her abnormally pale face. When she notices me staring, she winces.

  “Sorry about that. I’m not usually...well...I haven’t really committed murder. I mean, not in a couple weeks. Honestly, I thought I was past that phase.” She rolls her dark eyes. “So yeah. What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry for accidentally murdering you. I hope this doesn’t make things awkward between us.” She twists her fingers anxiously, uneasily, in her lap. Yellow teeth chew on her bottom lip.

  “Err...yeah. Don’t worry about it. Accidental murder happens all the time,” I reply.

  Because, really, what can I say?

  “You’re much nicer than my last roommate,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin in consideration. I can’t help but notice the yellow pallor to her skin, almost as it she’s sick. It must be a trait of all banshees.

  “Who was your last roommate?” I ask, flicking my gaze to my father and his companion. Both haven’t turned to me yet, but I know they’re aware I’m awake. It’s not like I’m being exactly subtle about it.

  “Big Foot’s daughter,” Ms. Clit answers. “Amelia.”

  I don’t know a lot about Big Foot, but from what little I garnered, he’s an immense beast who lurks in Canada. Why anyone would want to harm Canadians remains a mystery to me.

  “Was she…?” I don’t even know what I’m asking. Is it socially acceptable to ask if some strange girl was hairy and monstrous?

  “She looked normal,” Ms. Clit—Cynthia—says with a thoughtful expression. “I mean, sort of normal. Her body was normal, but her feet...well...she wasn’t Big Foot’s daughter for nothing.” Leaning closer, she adds conspiratorially, “One foot was the size of the twin bed you’re sitting on. After only a day as my roommate, they realized they needed to move her to a bigger location.”

  “No way!” I screech, bouncing to my feet and eyeing the bed distastefully. I try to picture myself with feet that big, and the image constantly eludes me.

  As Cynthia and I engage in “girl-talk,” any and all thoughts of my death by her hand—scream—diminishes.

  If all monsters became angry every time we killed one another, what type of world would we live in?

  “You should see her dad. Big Foot himself,” she continues, voice low. When I quirk a brow, urging her without words to continue, she adds, “You know the saying. Foot span correlates with other body parts.”

  I know my eyes are impossibly wide.

  Good Lord.

  Now, I’m picturing a man with twin-size mattresses for feet and a similarly sized dick. How can someone even walk with a dick that large? I imagine it just sort of drags behind him, collecting grit and other unsavory substances from the floor. He can probably use it as a beanbag chair if the need arose...though, that might hurt. I can’t imagine sitting on your dick would be fun.

  And does he just not wear pants?

  “Violet!” my dad calls, dragging me out of my thoughts. My cheeks are on fire, but I revert my gaze quickly.

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “This is Headmaster Lupine, and a close friend of mine.” My dad levels me with a no-nonsense stare, and I bob my head once to show him I understand. No talk of Big Foot’s dick is allowed in this conversation. Duly noted. Extending a hand towards the new man, I flash him my best smile.

  “How do you do?”

  Because I’m super respectful and shit.

  He eyes my hand warily as if he thinks I’m capable of transmitting a disease through touch alone. After a moment of awkwardly holding my hand in front of me, I drop it to my side and perch back on the edge of my bed.

  He hasn’t told me to sit yet, but the expression on his face? Yeah. I made that bed my bitch with how fast I sat.

  “We have some rules at the academy,” he begins, interlocking his fingers behind his back. Like my dad, he’s dressed in an impeccably pressed suit, devoid of wrinkles, and a bright red tie. Unlike my dad, this guy has facial hair everywhere. A full-on unibrow, for one, and a beard/mustache combination that extends from his cheeks to his thin lips.

  He must be a werewolf of some sort, maybe even descended from the original Wolfman. Unlike vampires, werewolves don’t live forever. Their bodies grow and age just like a human’s does.

  “The first and only rule at the academy—no killing someone permanently.” His eyes flash yellow, his wolf materializing behind his impassive mask.

  “No killing,” I say, gulping. “Should be easy enough.”

  It’s hard to kill a lot of monsters. For the most part, we bounce right back as if it was any other Saturday night. But sometimes? Sometimes, the death is permanent. A stake to the heart. Decapitation.

  And that’s just two ways to kill a vampire, the most formidable of monsters.

  “T
he punishment for killing another student is immediate death. I made the Van Helsings on campus aware of that too,” he continues on, and my heart stutters once before flatlining. My breath leaves me in a shallow gasp.

  “Wait,” I say, cutting off whatever he’s going to add. “Van Helsings are here too?”

  Well.

  Fuck.

  Chapter 5

  Vin

  I spin the blade between my fingers, enjoying the licks of pain that erupt from each press of the knife to my skin.

  “I’m tired. Do we have to keep doing this?” Vanessa whines, dropping her own blade and putting her hands on her hips. She’s covered in sweat, and her normally sleek ponytail is beginning to loosen.

  Frankly, she looks like shit.

  Keeping my expression blank, I nod towards the target against the far wall. Dozens of knives are already embedded into the human-sized dummy.

  “Again,” I instruct.

  My twin huffs, rolling her eyes, before grabbing another throwing dagger. Maintaining eye contact, she tosses the dagger, and it hits the bullseye.

  “Again,” I say stiffly, folding my muscular arms over my chest. I’m attempting to intimidate her, but she meets my glare haughtily, never one to be cowed.

  “I said. I’m. Tired.” Each word is a bark, a slash of a whip. We partake in a stare-off, her golden green eyes—the same shade as my own—locked with mine. After a moment, her lips twist into a malicious smirk, and she breaks eye contact with me. My victory is short lived when she whispers, “Viper alert.”

  I stiffen, muscles locking together, as the clink of heels echoes behind me. Vanessa wiggles her fingers in a wave before striding out of the gym.

  “Vinny Poo!” an annoyingly chirpy voice sings. Immediately, thin arms wrap around my waist from behind and cold lips press to my neck. I shake in revulsion, quickly trying to detangle myself from the she-demon.

  Schooling my expression into something neutral, something that doesn’t hint at my intense loathing, I turn towards the newcomer with a forced smile.