by Katie May
We’re all monsters, admittedly, but there are some who are so bad, so deadly, that they’re secluded in an upper level of the Academy. Their meals are the troubled students.
Which monsters did they send after Violet?
I can still feel her presence in my chest—flickering embers. Once we cement our mating bond, it will roar like a bonfire, according to my research.
For now, I know she’s alive. That’s all that matters.
And if something happens to her…
I will burn down this entire fucking school.
I silently hand Mason my extra dagger as he wrenches open the door.
The hallway is dark and silent, the monotony of darkness broken apart by the intermittent flash of a hanging bulb. Cobwebs adorn each corner of the hall.
There’s a chill in the air—a chill that shouldn’t be present in a hallway devoid of any windows or doors leading to the outside. I’m suddenly grateful I’m wearing a long-sleeved jacket.
“Violet?” Mason calls, charging forward. I grab his arm to pull him back behind me.
Whose great idea was it to bring along the guy high off his ass? Certainly not mine. If Jack wasn’t needed to turn off the cameras and unlock the door from his computer, then I would’ve brought him along instead. Or Hux. Either would suffice.
Even Frankie would’ve been a better choice, but he was stuck answering questions from the headmaster. I can tell he wasn’t pleased by that decision—the aloof Frankie wanted to run into battle.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it either.
“Vi?” Mason’s voice is softer now, cautious. His eyes scan each opened classroom door. “VIOLET!”
Before I can stop him, he’s racing towards a fallen body.
A dead body.
My heart is hammering in my chest as fear consumes me. I’m drowning in it, tumbling through a never-ending whirlpool.
It can’t be her.
It just can’t be.
I don’t know how she expects me to live if she’s no longer alive. She’s my mate—I may have only just found her, I may not have been expecting her, but she has dominated my life in the short span I’ve known her.
I can’t exist without her.
That may seem like morbid thinking, especially since I barely know her, but it’s the monster way. When we find our mates, it’s only ever them. It can only be them. Losing your mate is losing your heart and soul.
My steps are more hesitant, more tentative, as I step up to Mason and the small body. Every muscle within me relaxes when I realize it’s not my Violet, but some other girl.
“Is it fucked up that I’m relieved it’s not Violet?” Mason whispers, still staring down at the dead body with an unreadable expression.
“I feel the same way, brother,” I reply, gripping the sword in an iron vise.
“She didn’t get stabbed or eaten or anything like that,” Mason says, stepping back towards me. His hand is clutching the dagger so tightly his knuckles are white, blue veins protruding. “She looks drained. A succubus, perhaps? Incubus?”
Only one incubus is deadly enough to warrant such treatment from the staff.
Cupid.
If he’s here…
If he’s roaming these halls, hungry...
Fear thrums through my veins as I throw out my own cautionary warnings. I need to find her...and fast.
“Violet!” I scream, cupping my mouth to amplify my voice. “Violet!”
“Vin?” a sweet, beautiful voice calls. The world around me stills, suspended in time, as I gravitate towards my heaven.
Mason’s hand on my shoulder is the only thing that stops me.
“What if it’s a trap?” he whispers. He looks pained, and the hand holding the dagger shakes. I can tell he wants nothing more than to run to her, but for once, he’s being the cautious one instead of the reckless idiot. “What if it’s a mimicry or a shapeshifter?”
I know he’s right. Mimicries and shapeshifters are both common monsters, having the capacity to steal characteristics of their prey, such as their voice, or shapeshift into them entirely.
But the voice sounds exactly like my mate’s…
I nod to show him I understand and cautiously inch forward. The sword is raised above my head, seconds from striking.
You better be okay, babygirl, or else this whole school will pay.
The voice came from what appears to be an abandoned teacher’s lounge—no surprise, the top three floors have been deserted for centuries. Two figures are leaning against the large oak table, while another is swinging her legs on the countertop.
Violet.
The ache in my chest intensifies once before alleviating; the draw to her is undeniable.
My mate.
My Violet.
“Oh thank Zeus,” Mason calls when he catches sight of her. Before I can warn him to stay on guard, to be mindful of the two figures watching us curiously, he runs forward and takes her in his arms. “Pinkie,” he moans, burying his face in her hair. He practically lifts her completely off the counter, swaying back and forth with her in his arms.
Only when he puts her down, stepping back, do I venture a step forward and check her for injuries.
Her hair is ruffled, but I imagine that’s from Mason more than anything else. Her beautiful, luscious lips are curled into a small smile.
“Hi, Mason. Hi, Vin,” she whispers, and my name on her tongue causes my body to tense and my cock to harden. I just barely resist the urge to run to her and hold her as Mason did. Instead, I stay back, watching her warily. I’m not sure if my affection would be appreciated.
“That’s the asshole who mocked you in front of the cafeteria?” one of the unfamiliar men asks, giving me an appraising look. He has green hair and dark, onyx skin. “Do you want me to kill him?”
As per my Van Helsing gift, I immediately catalogue what monster he is, and icy horror slithers down my spine like a snake.
The Boogeyman.
“Violet, step away,” I warn her, moving to stand in front of her. The Boogeyman rolls his eyes at me as if my antics amuse him.
“Do you want me to pull out my sword and compare which one is bigger?” he asks scathingly. Cupid—red wings and all—elbows his stomach.
“You know it’ll be yours,” he assures him placatingly.
“Vin, Mason. Meet Barret and Cal.” Violet points towards the Boogeyman and Cupid respectively. “We’re having ice cream.”
She nods towards a half eaten bowl of ice cream sitting discarded on the counter. Mason eyes the chocolate for a long moment before snaking a hand out and dipping his finger in. He sucks on his finger for a long moment, eyes closing in bliss. Violet’s throat works as she watches him.
“That’s good stuff,” he says seriously, noting my incredulous expression.
“Why the hell are you hanging out with Cupid and the Boogeyman?” I ask Violet, still keeping my eyes trained on the monsters in question. They both eat their own ice cream with innocent smiles on their faces. “Do you realize they killed the other girl in detention?”
“It’s Cal and Barret. I told you that. They don’t like those other names—says it gives them a bad rep. And about the girl...well...we’ve all killed someone before, haven’t we? We’re monsters. You can’t blame them for lashing out when they’re locked in here like prisoners just because they’re different. Cal was starving,” she defends, and the red-haired Cupid gives my mate a look I really don’t like.
“We haven’t had a girl in months,” he says. “I can’t always feed off Barret.”
Once more, his eyes fixate on Violet with unnerving intensity.
“My mate goes into detention to be sacrificially slaughtered and leaves as the best friend of the monsters who were supposed to kill her,” Mason mutters, too low for anyone but me to hear. “Just fucking great.”
Great. That’s the beginning to a twisted joke. A vampire, the Boogeyman, and Cupid walk into detention together�
�
The Breakfast Club: Monster Edition.
Chapter 23
Violet
The next couple weeks are relatively uneventful.
I’m swamped down with homework and exams, all of my professors adamant that I make up what I missed before I arrived. Who knew there were so many ways to dispose of a body?
And…
Now I’m thinking about Ali’s body. Dead. In the woods. With perfectly placed wounds on her neck. Honestly, that’s a dead giveaway that she wasn’t actually killed by a vampire. No vampire is that clean when we eat. Heaven only knows how many shirts I stained.
Three words: Ripping. Open. An. Artery.
Well...four words, but you get the idea.
It isn’t a clean job. Blood goes everywhere.
My week consists of lessons, extra tutoring in the library with Frankie and sometimes Jack, training for the Roaring, and a whole shit ton of men. Vin has taken it upon himself to feed me in one of the private rooms.
At first, I had vehemently refused. The last thing I needed was another embarrassing showdown. I know now—or, at least, suspect—that Vin’s behavior was some twisted plan to protect me. He groveled, I forgave him, so we should be good. I told him I could easily feed from a donor, but what did the asshole do?
He growled at me. Fucking growled.
I call him my blood bitch now.
I haven’t seen Cal or Barret since detention, and I miss the bastards. They’re probably getting all murdery without me.
Cue: an exasperated sigh in French.
Why French? No reason. I just think it’s a sexy accent, and I love the way it flows from a man’s lips.
Currently, I’m sitting on the bed in my dorm attempting to struggle through my practical theory homework in Mr. Pumpkin’s advanced theology class.
“Are you almost done?” Cynthia grouses from the bed beside mine. She has already removed her eyes, ears, and limbs for the night, her head buried beneath a mound of blankets.
The window is open, providing a light breeze that ruffles my blonde locks. Moonlight slices through as well, mixing with the artificial glow of my bedside lamp.
“Move your eyes and ears to the closet,” I rebuke, flipping a page in my textbook and copying the answers down. “Then you won’t hear or see me.”
“You’re fucking annoying, you know that?” she rumbles, shifting in bed so her back is to me.
“You’re the one in bed before nine every night.” The chapter I’m currently on depicts the origins of Halloween...otherwise known as Devil’s Night. It’s the one time of year that all monsters get set loose on the world and make it their playground. Our playground.
One month until Devil’s Night.
Two months until the Roaring.
And a billion years until graduation—at least, it feels that way.
“Why can’t you just move in with your boy toys?” Cynthia continues, interrupting my reading of a riveting passage about a human who claimed to know about the existence of monsters and murdered dozens of people on our behalf. Like, fuck, John, we may be monsters, but we don’t just murder random people without just cause. The details are both gruesome and enthralling.
I lift my head from the book and blink at Cynthia.
“Boy toys?”
“They all live in that big fucking house together. I’m sure they won’t mind a fifth roommate.” She pauses, shifting restlessly on the bed. “Shit, if you don’t move in, I will. I will bang all of them with or without my retractable vagina. Except for maybe Frankenstein’s son. I don’t fuck fat kids. And I especially don’t fuck failed science experiments...which is what he is.”
I’m out of my bed and on top of her before I even realize I’m doing it. Possessive indignation roars through me, silencing even the rapid beating of my heart. The thought of Cynthia touching any one of those men makes me see red. And to hear her cruel words about Frankie? A beautiful man with a beautiful, albeit scarred, heart?
I want to rip the rest of her hair from her body. Remove her legs and arms. Pull her apart like a fucked up Mr. Potato Head and reassemble her with an ass for a face.
I want to—
A knock on my door interrupts my savage thoughts, and I stare down at Cynthia’s blank face. My knees and arms are resting on either side of her, not touching any skin, and her face is once more an empty canvas complete with dark eye-sockets, a gaping hole where her mouth should be, and a missing nose.
Her mouth still talks from where it’s seated on the nightstand beside her eyes, nose, hands, and feet, oblivious to my presence over her body.
“Who the fuck is that?” she says about the door.
Slowly, carefully, I remove myself from above her—being extra careful not to unintentionally touch any part of her body.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I was going to rip her apart...and laugh.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe even monsters have no redeemable qualities.
Shaking my head rapidly, I move to the door.
“I’ll see who it is.”
“Wait!” Cynthia exclaims. “Use my eye.”
“Your eye?”
With her stubbed arm, she pretends to go bowling, cheering victoriously when she knocks down invisible bowling pins.
Understanding, I grab her eyeball—the grossest thing I’ve ever touched in my life (and I accidentally touched a hairy werewolf penis)—and roll it under the door. I swear there’s slime remaining on my fingers.
“Make sure it doesn’t go too far,” she hisses. “I don't want it to get stepped on.”
Muttering a curse beneath my breath, I crawl to my hands and knees and hold the eyeball just under the door, facing it upwards.
Cynthia lets out a squeak, and I’m instantly on my feet, alert.
“What?”
“Help me get presentable, dammit!” Cynthia staggers to her feet...before remembering she removed them and falling on her ass. “Where are my boobs? Grab me my fucking boobs!”
If that isn’t something I hear everyday.
Ignoring her, I wrench open the door, realizing it must be one of the guys because—like a normal woman with bras—Cynthia only requests her boobs when they’re around.
It’s a guy alright, but it’s not one of mine.
Not mine, I remind myself stoutly, staring into the face of my professor.
Dimitri Gray looks as impeccable as always with his hair slicked into a low ponytail and a suit on. On closer inspection, I see a splotch of blood on his white collar.
The guys’ warning about him being an assassin comes back to me. Or maybe I heard it from students gossiping.
“Ms. Dracula.” He bobs his head, apparently unconcerned that it’s the middle of the fucking night and he arrived at my door with blood on his shirt. One inhale confirms that the blood belongs to a female—but that’s all I can gather from the penny-sized drop.
“Mr. Gray.” I attempt to mimic his formal tone and nonchalant-head-nod-thingy.
Behind me, I hear Cynthia mutter, “Where the fuck are my E-cups? I swear to Hades that if you used them I’ll destroy you.”
Yes, Cynthia, because I would really use your boobs for my own enjoyment. I think that’s as taboo as sharing underwear—but don’t quote me. This is new territory for all of us.
“You left this in my classroom during class today,” Dimitri says stiffly, holding out the black, faded textbook. I eye it with bemusement.
“That’s not mine,” I say shortly. “I have mine in my backpack.”
“I would recommend checking, Ms. Dracula, for you have a quiz tomorrow on chapter seventeen.”
I frown at this new development, but obediently step back inside my room and to my backpack resting against the wall. Dimitri follows me inside, lips twisting in distaste as he surveys the small, sparsely-furnished—but surprisingly claustrophobic—room.
His eyes stop briefly on Cynthia—currently on her hands (arms?) and knees, rummaging under the bed for her boobs�
��before turning to me with a disgruntled huff. For a moment, we exchange a look I would almost describe as mutual amusement, the type of look friends would give each other if they found something funny. Just as quickly, his expression smooths over, and he scowls at me.
I remember then that I hate him and want a bunch of bees to sting him and a leprechaun to put his ass at the end of a fucking rainbow. Nasty little critters.
I make a noise of disbelief when my search for my book proves to be futile.
“I could’ve sworn I put it in here,” I murmur.
“Found it!” Cynthia calls gleefully, holding a pair of boobs in her teeth. She spits it out suddenly. “Dammit, that’s the b-cup set.”
Ignoring her, Dimitri places the book in my hands and levels me with a stern glare. “Take better care of your property, Ms. Dracula. It would be a shame if something happened.”
With that ominous...errr...threat? Warning?
With that ominous statement, he stalks out of the room. I watch him go with more confusion than I care to admit.
What the hell just happened?
“Next time I’m woken up by a hot assassin in the middle of the fucking night,” Cynthia begins, her voice coming from the opposite corner of her body. “You need to be a good friend and help me find my fucking tits.”
Chapter 24
Violet
Jack is waiting for me at the entrance to the dorms, body hunched over the book he’s reading. I take an unobstructed moment to appreciate him. Even with his too large glasses and long hair, the man is beautiful. Unlike the others, he doesn’t exude an alpha dominance or a cold power that makes my skin bristle.
Some monsters look at kindness—compassion—as a grave sin. A weakness. I see it for what it really is: a chance to save this fucked-up world.
Sure, brute strength and a commanding tone is nice and all, but have you ever sat in front of a fire, content in a gentle man’s arms? Having him rub your hair and whisper how beautiful you are?
Jack is the type of man I could dominate in bed. Control. Milk his cock for all it’s worth—
What the fuck, Vi? I scold myself. How did you go from thinking about his shy, sweet demeanor to imagining dominating him in the bedroom?
