Monsters

by Katie May

  A flash of golden hair makes my breath catch; it appears to glisten in the darkness. Even pulled back in a low ponytail, I know without a doubt that hair—like sunlight and moonlight woven together—belongs to Violet.

  I grab Mason’s collar once more and drag him behind me, towards Violet.

  “Violet, it’s us,” I say, ducking beneath a skeletal branch. When she doesn’t slow down, worry bleeds through. “Violet?”

  “Pinkie! Get your cute ass over here so I can spank it!” Mason slurs.

  She moves behind another tree, disappearing from view. Hux’s voice encourages me to run even faster, to keep pace with her. He might not be able to kill me, but he’ll damn sure try if we lose her.

  Finally, we spill out into a clearing. Moonlight illuminates the towering trees circling it and the frozen girl standing directly in the center.

  Something’s not right.

  Mason, oblivious to the unease migrating down my spine, releases an energetic whoop and races towards Violet. The second he’s a foot away from her, he’s abruptly yanked upwards, a rope tied around his feet. Upside down, he swings like a pendulum—the shock of his capture momentarily breaking him out of the drug-induced haze.

  Hux roars in my head just as Violet turns around.

  It’s Violet...but it’s not. She looks exactly like Dracula’s daughter, down to the hideous costume and golden hair. But her expression is listless, her eyes blank. The warmth I always feel in my chest in her presence is noticeably absent.

  Before I can stop Hux, he grasps my consciousness with both hands and yanks me out of the driver’s seat. I stumble through the dark abyss of my mind, landing on my knees in the passenger side. I can still see through the windshield, still converse with the driver, but it's impossible for me to steer.

  Hux, with all the rage and fury the monster possesses, stalks forward. He intends to confront this Violet fraud, demand where his precious treasure is. It doesn’t bother him that he’ll be potentially torturing a woman who looks exactly like his beloved. He knows innately that it’s not his Violet.

  Before he can get farther than a step, a rope tightens around his ankle and pulls him—us—up into a tree until we’re dangling upside down.

  “Fuck!” Hux roars.

  And then Mason: “Why is the Violet clone getting on her hands and knees and spreading her legs?”

  Chapter 38

  Violet

  Something drips on my face, startling me out of my deep slumber. I groan, desperate to wipe the offending liquid away. My hands refuse to budge an inch.

  Huh. Did I fall asleep sitting up?

  I peel open my crusted eyelids, shocked to see rough, cavern walls hewn from stone. The only light is a flickering candle mounted to the wall.

  What.

  The.

  Hell?

  I’ve fallen asleep in pretty weird places in my years, but this takes the jackpot.

  How did I get here?

  And, more importantly, where am I?

  My head is fuzzy, cloudy, as if it has been dunked in a cauldron of glittering silver. Numerous aches pulsate down my body. I swear my brain is seconds from exploding.

  I vaguely recollect images of the party. Vin and Cheryl. My sex clone. And then…

  Fuck, I was kidnapped, wasn’t I?

  I struggle against the ropes digging into my wrists, staring around the barren room. It appears to be a cave of some sort, complete with stone walls, a few unlit torches, and a large torture table in the center.

  Now, I’ve had my fair share of happy dreams concerning a torture table that looked pretty similar to this one. But in said dreams, I was usually with one of the guys and naked, not in my trench coat with blood matting my hair to my scalp.

  Girls, you’ll be lying if you say you never had a torture sex dream. Thirsty bitches, the whole lot of you.

  And yes, I’m calling you out soccer mom Shannon.

  I futilely attempt to pull at my restraints. They feel to be just rope, so I don’t understand why I’m not able to escape. Unless…

  Unless it’s rope blessed by the gods.

  There’s very few things that can contain a vampire, especially one as powerful as me. Oak, for one, doused in holy water. And god-blessed objects.

  Whoever kidnapped me has connections.

  My eyes desperately scan the small room, searching for a way out. I’m really not in the mood to die down here. My gaze catches on a diminutive critter scuttling from one side of the room to the other. Small gray body, thin whiskers, and abnormally long tail. As I watch the mouse scamper away, an idea occurs to me.

  My compulsion works by maintaining eye contact and infusing my powers into my words. I can compel both monsters and humans—who says it can’t work on animals as well?

  Narrowing my eyes at the little creature, I wait until his own beady ones turn in my direction.

  I’m not gonna lie. I fully envision a Disney princess moment. The gallant mouse will hurry towards me, tiny teeth gnawing on my rope until I’m able to escape. I’ll name him Gus, and he’ll be the Prince of Mouseton for the rest of his little life.

  I even go as far as to sing, my words dripping with power as I reach a crescendo.

  I could totally be Cinderella.

  And then…

  My mouse explodes.

  Motherfucker.

  Alone with only my thoughts, I sift through who could be my kidnapper.

  All the vampire fanatics, for one. And the murderer. And the people who bought my sex doll. And the people who hate Dracula. And the people obsessed with Dracula.

  I’m fucked.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, metaphorically twiddling my thumbs, when footsteps echo from around the corner. I sit up straighter, fully prepared to use my compulsion on this asshole.

  Until I remember that the god-blessed rope hinders my powers.

  Huh. So the mouse didn’t die because of an onslaught of power assaulting his tiny brain. He died because of my singing.

  Overdramatic bitch.

  When the person steps around the corner, candlelight highlighting the orange and gold in his mane of hair, I feel my lips curve into a frown.

  Headmaster.

  It’s always the fucking headmaster. Seriously, read a book. Do they ever make any of the school officials good?

  He is as impeccably dressed as always in his trimmed gray suit and darker cufflinks. His trademark wild beard has been trimmed slightly, showcasing his rosy cheeks and dimples.

  Wolfman in the flesh.

  “So it was you,” I whisper harshly, watching his back flex as he turns to stare down the cave entrance. I don’t know what the fuck he’s looking at, but whatever it is ensnares his entire attention. With his hands clasped behind his back, I can almost believe he is in the middle of giving a lecture, not seconds from murdering me.

  I fully prepare myself for his evil villain monologue. Maybe a malevolent belly laugh that elicits goosebumps up and down my arms.

  Instead, he remains silent, seemingly lost in thought.

  “So it was you,” I try again, hoping he’ll get the hint and fucking talk. Reveal all his evil plans.

  Silence.

  With a shuddering breath, he turns towards me. Since the last time I’ve seen him, at the party, he has aged years. Centuries. There’s heavy lines on his forehead and cheeks, crow’s feet wrinkling the skin around each eye.

  “There’s been another murder,” he confesses at last. He looks surprisingly distraught with that proclamation. Tired. “She was found with vampire bites in her neck.”

  I watch his face carefully, gauging his reaction.

  Before I can speak, he continues, “Your venom was tested and found to be on all of the bodies.”

  Well if that isn’t a sledgehammer to my nonexistent ballsack.

  It’s what I suspected, after all. I knew innately that whoever was behind these murders, whoever killed those students, had a vendetta against me. It’s why we destroyed the bo
dy that day in the woods.

  I’m being framed.

  I stare long and hard at Headmaster’s weary face. There’s something glinting in his eyes that gives me pause. Something in contrast to the somber curl of his lips.

  A new theory takes root in my brain, painstakingly tended to until it grows and grows. It’s all I can focus on as I stare at the man in charge of running this school.

  I could be mistaken, but he almost looks...excited.

  “Students are scared, so that means parents are scared. We can’t have that, now can we?” he continues, stalking forward. His pressed suit is at odds with the dirty stone floor and walls. “With all the new evidence, everyone is going to think you did it.”

  “But you know I didn’t,” I insist, struggling feebly against the restraints. The rope digs into my wrists tightly, irritating the skin.

  A tentative smile flickers across his face. There and gone in less than a second. I half wonder if I imagined it.

  “The parents and students need to know that the murderer is taken care of,” he continues, ignoring my outburst. “So I’ll give them what they want.”

  “A scapegoat?”

  “Dracula’s daughter,” he corrects. “They’ll feel safer knowing the menace has been dealt with. And it would bring good publicity to the school.”

  I don’t know whether to be offended or not at being referred to as “the menace.”

  Not. Definitely not.

  Because this “menace” is about to be murdered.

  It adds fertilizer to the theory growing in my brain. What if Headmaster murdered those students as a way to blame me? Blame the vampires? It’s no secret that we’re considered scum by other monsters in the community. And, by having me framed for the murders, Dracula would not be able to retaliate without severe repercussions. Headmaster could just say he was defending himself, defending his school, and he’ll go down a martyr.

  And I’ll be fucked sideways, frontwards, and everywhere in between. And to add onto that fuck fest? I have to pee again.

  “I didn’t murder those students,” I repeat. “The real murderer is still going to be out there if you kill me. Unless...unless you were the one who murdered them?”

  At my confrontation, he doesn’t even blink. I’m pretty sure he has zoned out, eyes slightly glazed as he stares at the spot of blood from Gus the Mouse.

  He’s a horrible villain.

  “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Violet. I truly am. But this school is my legacy, and I can’t have one vampire ruining it.” The asshole sounds almost sincere which only infuriates me further. I half expect him to whisper, “You’re expelled,” while petting my hair and licking the tears from my face.

  Alas, he chose not to use that amazing catchphrase. Shame. It’s not like he’s going to have another opportunity.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Besides, I have proof that you’re behind these murders,” he continues, ignoring my half-hearted plea. A moment later, he procures numerous pictures from his pocket. My mind stalls as I attempt to take it all in, understand what I’m seeing.

  The first picture is grainy, obviously the work of an out-of-use school camera. It shows the interior of the cafeteria, and a long, abandoned hall that leads to the kitchen. A girl I recognize as Blowy lies on the ground, blood flooding the tiles around her. Standing above her, dead eyes and lips set into a grim line, is me.

  Well, fuck.

  The next picture is just as grotesque. The front steps of the school, early morning sunlight highlighting the macabre scene. And there, on the stone steps, is Mikey. And little old moi.

  “That’s not me!” I insist, quite stupidly, if I’m being honest. The pictures clearly shows that it is me.

  Or my sex clone.

  What the hell has Violet 2.0 been up to?

  “I can explain!” I stutter quickly. “This story involves a realistic sex doll and an innocent vampire.”

  But I know innately that my words will fall on deaf ears. He’ll never believe me—not that I blame him, with all the evidence he had gathered. Not only that, but I have the distinct feeling that he’s the one who framed me in the first place. Call it a hunch. Headmaster wants nothing more than to gain publicity for his school. What’s a better way than a serial killer who’s revealed to be Dracula’s daughter? A serial killer that he eliminates, proving he’s capable of keeping the school safe?

  He turns towards the cave entrance where a shadowed figure stands.

  “Come here, boy,” Headmaster calls, and the figure emerges like a besotted puppy.

  I feel my breath leave me in a swooping exhale. My heart, which has been surprisingly steady throughout all of this, picks up speed until it’s thundering in my ears. Everything hurts. I’d rather be tortured than see his face, see his smile, see the dead glint in his eyes as he regards me like yesterday’s trash.

  “Violet, I believe you know my personal assistant. He’s going to be helping me today,” Headmaster says, waving dismissively at the man beside him.

  Frankie smiles.

  Chapter 39

  Violet

  He pierces me with a look that reminds me of a sword coated in ice. All of the warmth in my body drains, leaving me shivering. It shrivels my lungs that are already rapidly losing air. His betrayal is like a repeated kick to my gut, a knife to the chest. He’s twisting the dagger until my blood flows freely down his stained hands. Fuck, he’s killing me. The pain is unbearable, wreaking havoc on my insides.

  He’s still dressed as Fred from the Halloween party, but this time, there is no smile playing on his sensual lips. They’re pressed into a grim line instead.

  “My assistant, Frankie, provided the drug we used on you,” Headmaster admits conversationally, unaware that he had just ripped my heart straight from my chest. Tears burn my eyes, and I try to make my anguish evident as I turn my gaze onto Frankenstein’s stoic son.

  There’s no warmth in his eyes, now. They’re hard chips of stone.

  “What drug?” I ask, wrenching my eyes away from him. It takes considerable effort—every molecule in my body is attuned to his.

  Headmaster seems tired of my incessant questioning, but he indulges me anyway. “At the party. It was designed to shrink your bladder. Originally, the plan was to kidnap you during one of your many trips to the bathroom, but you made it easy for me, dear, by leaving the party by yourself.” His smile is all male smug satisfaction.

  I’m livid.

  “Why the fuck would you do that? Out of all the heartless things! Do you know how badly I have to pee, you motherfucker? Do you? Do you understand the burning in my vagina?” I’m babbling, I know it, but my tumultuous emotions are incapable of being turned off.

  I remember reading in one of my textbooks that the best way to survive a serial killer is to open yourself to him (and not literally—I’m pretty sure opening up my chest cavity would only excite the sick bastard). Allow them to see you as a human.

  Alternating between Frankie and Headmaster, I begin to plead. “Did I ever tell you about my cat?” I babble, watching Frankie’s slashing eyebrows lower over his eyes. Headmaster just appears bored. “It’s a funny story, truly. So there was this cat I found in my backyard. A sweet, little kitten who had probably been abandoned by her mother. Matted fur. A chunk taken out of her ear. Tiny little paws. I took her in and fed her. Made her my own. Well, this little cat kept trying to escape the house.”

  “Why the fuck is she still talking?” Headmaster drolls, giving me a bland look.

  That only encourages my damn mouth to talk even faster, the words running together until they’re practically inarticulate. “I never had an outdoor cat before, so I was terrified of letting her go. What if she ran away? What if she got hit by a car? Finally, I conceded and allowed Kitten to play outside. That was what I named her, by the way. Anyway, so Kitten would always come back to my house for meals and cuddles, but she would spend the rest of her time outside. Okay, so flashforward a year later.”
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  “Apply the injection,” Headmaster instructs Frankie, and I have no doubt the word “lethal” is implied.

  I’m spewing nonsense at this point, a verbal freight train seconds from crashing into a brick wall.

  “So it’s a year later, and Kitten doesn’t make it home in time for her nightly meal. I’m freaking out, thinking the worst had happened. Dad is laughing at me for getting so attached to a cat.” Frankie advances on me, a dripping needle held reverently in his hand. “I begin going from door to door, searching for my damn cat. Finally, I cross the forest to the house on the other side. I’ve never been there, mind you, but the door opens and an older gentleman stands in the doorway. Behind him, eating from a food bowl, is my cat. I’m immediately relieved that this man has taken care of my cat, and I tell him so. The man’s face scrunches up in confusion as he stares between me and Kitten. My cat, obviously hearing my voice, comes to weave between our legs with a contented purr. I show the man the picture of me and Kitten, explaining I had taken her in a year ago and how she’s an outdoor cat through and through. The man then shows me a picture of him and the cat, telling me that he found her a year ago as well and had made her his own.”

  Frankie is now in front of me, the needle glinting in the flickering candlelight.

  “And that,” I finish the story with a ragged breath, “is how I discovered my cat was two-timing me.” My eyes desperately search Frankie’s face, looking for any sign of the man I care for. When his expression remains impassive, I whisper, “Why?”

  That one word, one question, will haunt me.

  “Because,” Headmaster answers staunchly from behind. “He’s an experiment, Violet. A creation. He doesn’t even have a heart, let alone a soul.”

  But I don’t believe that. Not my Frankie. Not the man who comforted me, cared for me, laughed with me. Not the man who patiently worked with me in his lab.

  The needle lowers until it’s centimeters from my skin, and my body begins to shake. What is it going to do to me? Eat away my insides? Make me grow hair that eats away my insides? Create bugs that eat away my insides?