#vampirejackets chapter

She adjusted the strap of her duffel, already regretting ditching the Guild group to “do her own thing.” Shauna would be fuming right now, probably plotting a whole flowchart of disciplinary lectures. Misty would be scribbling notes about Natalie’s “infractions” with the satisfaction of someone preparing a dissertation titled Why Everyone Else Is Wrong. Gen would roll her eyes and keep quiet until the perfect moment to verbally eviscerate her. Van would be—well, Van, probably cracking jokes about how Natalie had already defected to the student side.

Natalie smirked at the thought and kept walking. If they thought she was going to waste her one shot at pretending to be a normal student just to follow protocol, they could choke on their clipboards.

The hallway leading to her room was narrower than she expected. She had to tilt her shoulders to dodge half-open doors spilling out with people and boxes. Music bled from every direction—pop-punk from one room, tinny EDM from another, someone’s deep-voiced dad lecturing them on speakerphone. A boy with purple hair staggered past carrying a full beanbag chair. Someone else bumped her duffel with a crate of potted succulents, muttering apologies.

Natalie slowed, scanning the clutter of flyers pinned to the corkboard nailed crookedly to the wall. She didn’t know why she bothered—half of them were half-torn, curling at the corners. Join Ultimate Frisbee! Student Radio Open Auditions! Campus Cryptid-Watching Society (Not A Joke, Unless You Want It To Be).

That last one stopped her. Big black letters, underlined with an amateur doodle of something with too many eyes. And a tagline: See Something Unnatural, Say Something.

Natalie barked a laugh under her breath. “Cute,” she muttered. If only they knew half the truth.

Her room was midway down the corridor. The door had been propped open with a half-crushed box of Nature Valley granola bars, and inside she heard the unmistakable metallic screech of something heavy being dragged across the tile.

Natalie braced herself before stepping in.

The first thing she saw was the fridge. Not a modest cube, not the clunky white rectangles most kids lugged in from their parents’ basements, but a hulking slab of stainless steel. It looked like it belonged in a hospital or a morgue, and it was wedged awkwardly in the middle of the floor as if daring anyone to question why it was there.

The second thing she saw was the girl wrestling it.

Her new roommate—Lottie—was dark skinned, narrow-shouldered, with strands of dark hair plastered to her damp forehead. She clutched the fridge like she thought she could deadlift it into submission, bare arms trembling with the effort. Each scrape across the tile echoed sharp and painful in the small room, setting Natalie’s teeth on edge.

The fridge groaned like something alive inside it was begging to be freed.

Natalie hovered at the threshold, duffel sliding down her shoulder. She catalogued everything in a single sweep—instinct, Guild training. Two twin beds, one neatly made with thrift-store sheets, the other stripped bare. A pile of spiral notebooks stacked haphazardly on the desk. A half-unpacked backpack spilling pens and a single battered hairbrush onto the floor. And underneath it all, beneath the chemical tang of new plastic and industrial cleaner, a faint metallic scent.

Her nose wrinkled. It wasn’t overpowering—just a whisper—but it was there. Like copper coins left too long in your palm.

She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “You planning to open a diner out of here?”

Lottie startled so hard she nearly lost her grip on the fridge. The corner thunked against the wall, rattling the cheap drywall. She turned, wide-eyed, breathing too quickly. Her laugh was high, nervous, like it didn’t belong to her throat. “Oh! Uh—it’s, um… for supplies. For… club stuff.”

Natalie arched an eyebrow, then crossed the room and dropped her duffel on the unclaimed bed with a heavy thump. The mattress springs complained like they hadn’t been touched since the eighties. She flopped onto it, staring up at the ceiling where the paint had bubbled in odd, yellowish patches.

“What kind of club needs a fridge that size?” she asked, voice dry. “What is this, Frozen Pancake Enthusiasts Anonymous?”

Lottie’s eyes darted—first to the fridge, then to the window, then to the floor, like she was searching for a script that had been misplaced. “Taxidermy,” she blurted. Too fast. Too sharp.

Silence stretched between them.

Natalie turned her head, blinking slowly at her new roommate. The fridge hummed louder, filling the pause with a mechanical growl. Then she barked out a laugh, sharp and incredulous. “Taxidermy? That’s… niche.”

Lottie forced what was meant to be a smile, lips twitching at the corners. It looked more like a grimace. “Yeah. Super exclusive. Invitation-only. We, um, meet in the basement of the bio building.”

“Right,” Natalie muttered, sitting up to tug her boots off. They thumped onto the tile. “Because nothing says college experience like sewing up dead squirrels under fluorescent lights.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Lottie flinch. Just barely.

Natalie leaned back on her elbows, smirk curling at the edges of her mouth. She’d learned in Guild life not to press every suspicious tick. People cracked if you gave them enough silence to stew in. Besides, she had bigger concerns—missions, guild drama, Shauna’s ridiculous ego. If this girl wanted to sew up raccoons in her free time, fine. At least she wasn’t Shauna with her obsessive planning, or Misty with her obsessive everything.

Compared to that circus, a roommate with an “exclusive taxidermy club” was almost normal. Almost.

Natalie dragged her duffel onto the bed and unzipped it. Her unpacking style was chaos: black shirts shoved into the dresser, battered jeans piled on top, her stash of coffee grounds stowed like contraband in the nightstand drawer. She was halfway through stuffing socks under her pillow when she caught motion from the corner of her eye.

Something slipped out of Lottie’s half-zipped backpack. Small, pale, plastic. It tumbled under the bed with a faint thwack.

Natalie blinked. “You drop something?”

Lottie had already crouched, shoving the entire bag under the bed with a little too much force. Her laugh was strangled, jittery. “Nope. Just—uh—pen fell. Got it.”

Natalie shrugged and let it go. She’d dig through later, maybe, when Lottie wasn’t watching. Curiosity was a survival skill. But right now, she was too tired, too annoyed, and too desperate to pretend this was some kind of normal college life.

She stretched out on her bed, arms behind her head, and let out a groan. “Well, taxidermy girl, hope you don’t mind the smell of cheap coffee and late-night essay meltdowns. ‘Cause that’s what you signed up for.”

Lottie’s reply was too quick, too tight. “Better than the alternative.”

The words were barely audible over the fridge’s low purr.

Natalie didn’t catch them. She was too busy counting the ceiling stains, cataloguing the tacky motivational poster taped to the wall (“Shoot for the Moon Even If You Miss You’ll Land Among Stars”), telling herself this was just another mission.

Blend in. Do recon. Stake a vampire if she found one.

And maybe—just maybe—for the first time in her life, pretend she was just another student.

The fridge hummed, and the faint coppery tang in the air seemed to thicken.

Natalie shut her eyes and ignored it.

The fridge had become the third presence in the room, louder now that neither of them was speaking. Its hum was steady, mechanical, a vibration that seemed to crawl up through the tile into Natalie’s bones. She couldn’t help staring at it again. It looked too industrial, too heavy-duty for a dorm. A hand-me-down from someone’s uncle’s garage maybe, but still—why would Lottie drag it here herself, sweating buckets, straining like her life depended on it?

Natalie rolled her head against the mattress, eyes half-lidded, watching her new roommate out of the corner of her eye. Lottie perched on the edge of her own bed, backpack clutched against her chest like a shield. Her fingers tapped against the nylon straps in uneven patterns—tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap.

Natalie let the silence drag just long enough to watch Lottie squirm. Then she repeated herself, slower this time. “Seriously, though. What’s in there? Corpses?”

The word corpses hung in the air, too loud in the small room.

Lottie flinched again, shoulders jerking like the word had teeth. “Specimens!” she said quickly, too quickly, like a reflex. “You know. For the taxidermy club.”

That was the second time she’d leaned on it in less than five minutes.

Natalie sat up, folding her arms around her knees, narrowing her eyes. “Right. Taxidermy.” She let her tone sharpen just slightly. “Because every liberal arts college definitely has a thriving after-hours taxidermy scene.”

“I—it’s… niche!” Lottie squeaked, voice climbing an octave. “Very exclusive. Invitation-only. We meet in the, um, basement of the bio building.”

Natalie blinked at her. The bio building didn’t have a basement. Or maybe it did—hell if she knew, she hadn’t even walked the whole campus yet—but the way Lottie said it, grasping for the words like she was pulling random scraps out of a hat, made the lie creak like an old hinge. (She had seen an underground structure on the maps, but the maps said it was shut down, abandoned from student use.)

She could press it. She could say, “What’s your advisor’s name?” or “Show me your club flyer.” Her Guild instincts hummed at the back of her skull, whispering that pressure revealed truth, and truth revealed monsters.

Instead, Natalie let out a short laugh through her nose, shook her head, and flopped back on her mattress. This is college, Nat, she thought, fixing her gaze on the water stain above her. Half the kids here are lying about something. Fake majors, fake IDs, fake personalities. Weird hobbies are probably the least of it.

She closed her eyes, though not fully, letting them slit open just enough to keep Lottie in her peripheral vision.

That’s when it happened—the clatter, the thud, the soft plastic skidding against tile.

Both of them jolted. Natalie sat up on her elbows, brows drawn together.

The blood bag glistened faintly in the fluorescent light as it rolled halfway under the bed, stopping with its crimped edge sticking out like a tongue.

It took her a second too long to parse what she was seeing. Thick liquid, dark as motor oil, sloshing inside a sealed pouch.

Lottie moved like she’d been shot. She dove off her bed, landing on her knees with a graceless thump, arms plunging under the frame to snatch it up. Her hair swung forward, tangling into a curtain, hiding the panicked flush rising on her face.

“Just—ah, animal blood!” she blurted, not even giving Natalie the chance to form a question. Her voice wavered high and thin. “For practice! Preservation practice. Totally normal.”

The pouch made a faint squelch as she shoved it back into her bag. The zipper rattled all the way shut, her hand gripping it until her knuckles went white.

Natalie stared, trying to decide if she’d just witnessed something alarming or merely… bizarre. The Guild training voice inside her whispered: Blood bags don’t belong in dorm rooms.

Her inner cynic drowned it out: Yeah, well, neither do bong collections, cursed clown paintings, or ferret colonies. College dorms are basically museums of bad decisions.

“Right,” Natalie said slowly, flopping backward again, one arm thrown over her eyes. Her voice was dry, even. “Taxidermy blood.”

“Exactly!” Lottie said too fast, sitting bolt upright, hugging her backpack like it contained state secrets. “For—uh—internal preservation. Keeps things, you know, realistic.”

“Realistic squirrels.”

“Yes!”

Silence.

The fridge hummed louder, filling the gap.

Natalie’s lips quirked into a smirk against her forearm. She wanted to push again, wanted to see how far she could stretch this girl’s nerves before something cracked. But at the same time, there was something… almost pitiful about Lottie’s desperation. She was so bad at lying it looped back around to funny.

“Look,” Natalie finally muttered, peeling her arm off her face and tilting her head toward her roommate, “you don’t have to explain your whole life story to me on day one. If you’re, like, running a freaky squirrel museum in the basement, fine. I’m not judging.”

Lottie gave a brittle little laugh. “Thanks.”

Natalie smirked. “Just… don’t leave any tails on my desk.”

Another laugh, shakier this time.

The fridge thrummed on, cold and secretive, as though it were keeping its own counsel.

The air in the dorm still smelled faintly of fresh paint and old dust, that strange combination of sterile and stale that marked every institutional building Natalie had ever stepped foot in. Her duffel slumped open on the mattress, spilling clothes that smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap detergent, and she crouched to fish out a balled-up hoodie.

Across the room, Lottie was sitting stiffly on her bed, arms folded too tightly across her stomach, her backpack now zipped up and shoved behind her pillow as though distance alone could erase what had just almost happened. The fridge’s low hum carried through the silence like a reminder neither of them wanted.

Natalie tugged at the window latch, muttering, “Gonna need some air in here before I suffocate.”

The window gave with a squeal, hinges catching, then sunlight spilled in across the floorboards in a broad, warm stripe. Dust motes rose in lazy swirls, catching golden in the light.

Lottie hissed under her breath before she could stop herself, jerking back like the beam was a physical threat. The sunlight touched her bare forearm for less than a second before she yanked it out of range, clutching her skin with her other hand.

Natalie, halfway bent over her duffel, didn’t miss the flinch. “What’s up with you?” she asked, turning just in time to catch the guilty look flickering over Lottie’s face.

“I—” Lottie’s voice cracked, her throat dry. She scrambled for an explanation, words falling out too fast. “Dust. I’m… allergic to dust motes. They make me break out. Sometimes.”

Natalie squinted at her, then at the air in front of the window where the motes danced like faint glitter. She snorted, shaking her head as she pulled out a tangle of shirts. “Weirdest allergy I’ve ever heard of, but sure. At least you’re not hoarding ceramic clowns. I had a cousin with a roommate like that—nightmare fuel.”

Lottie forced a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes, her hands gripping the bedspread so tightly her knuckles went pale. Inside, her pulse thrummed fast, matching the fridge’s hum. She hated how easy it was for lies to come out when she panicked, hated how clumsy they sounded, how see-through they probably were. She wished she could rewind, say nothing, just keep her head down. But Natalie didn’t look suspicious—just mildly entertained.

Trying to shift the focus, Lottie said, “So… what’s your name?”

Natalie glanced over, brow arched, a crooked grin tugging at her mouth. “Wow, guess we skipped that part. Classic roommate bonding.” She shoved a bundle of shirts back into the duffel and offered her hand, ink-smudged from a leaky pen somewhere in her bag. “Natalie.”

Lottie hesitated before taking it, her palm cold, grip too soft. “Lottie. Um, short for Charlotte. But no one calls me that.”

“Lottie,” Natalie repeated, testing the sound. “Alright. Guess I can live with that. You don’t seem like a Charlotte anyway. Too stiff.”

Lottie smiled faintly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to relax. She wanted to ask what do I seem like then?, but her throat closed around the question.

Natalie flopped back against the wall, picking at a loose thread on her jeans. “So we’ve got Natalie and Lottie. Room 312. Plus a fridge that sounds like it’s hiding a raccoon.”

Her gaze flicked to the corner, the machine’s low rumble vibrating faintly in the floorboards.

Lottie swallowed hard. “It’s… louder than I thought it would be.”

Natalie smirked. “If it starts scratching from the inside, I’m moving out.”

The joke hung between them, easy on Natalie’s tongue, heavy in Lottie’s chest. Because she knew what was actually inside: her lifeline, stacked in neat rows of sealed bags, humming under artificial cold.

And with the sunlight crawling across the floor toward her feet, the air thick with dust and secrets, Lottie couldn’t shake the feeling that the room itself was already pressing down on her, daring her to slip again.

Natalie dug deeper into her duffel, pulling out a battered spiral notebook with the words GET OUT OF HELL FREE CARD scrawled across the cover in Sharpie. She tossed it onto the desk and smirked at how much dust puffed up from the wood.

“Wow,” she muttered. “State-of-the-art cleaning. If I die from black mold before midterms, tell the Guild it was murder.”

Lottie laughed a little too hard, her voice thin around the edges. She sat cross-legged on her bed now, hands fidgeting with the seam of her jeans, eyes following Natalie like she was waiting for a spotlight to swing back onto her. “At least… at least the rooms are bigger than I thought,” she said, and then, like the words slipped out before she could stop them, “I’ll have space for… you know. My taxidermy work.”

Natalie shot her a look, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah, yeah. Your little secret club. You don’t have to keep reminding me.” She smirked and went back to tugging a half-empty pack of cigarettes from between folded socks. “If you start filling the mini-fridge with squirrel heads, though, we’re gonna have issues.”

Lottie’s stomach twisted, but she managed to keep her smile. “It’s not… like that.” Her voice came soft, almost guilty. “We’re really organized. Lots of, um, preservation techniques. And labeling. Very official.”

Natalie plucked one cigarette free, tapped it against the desk like she was teasing the air. “Mm. Nerd taxidermists. Got it. Bet you all have, like, club jackets or something.” She shoved the pack back into her drawer and added, more to herself than to Lottie, “God, college is so weird already.”

The window was still open, warm air drifting in, carrying with it the faint smell of cut grass and asphalt baking in the late afternoon sun. Natalie stretched, flinging her hoodie onto the back of the chair, her movements loose and unbothered.

Lottie envied that ease. Every gesture she made felt rehearsed, too careful. She reached for her own pillow and fussed with the corners, then realized her hands were shaking and sat on them instead. The fridge hummed louder for a moment, like a mosquito in her ear.

“You from around here?” Natalie asked suddenly, leaning back on her elbows.

“No,” Lottie said quickly, then too slowly added, “I mean, not really. Moved a lot.” Her teeth worried at her lip, trying to find a middle ground between truth and lie. “You?”

“Jersey,” Natalie said with a sigh. “Not the glamorous part. Lots of strip malls, not enough reasons to stay. This is pretty much the closest thing I’ve got to escaping.”

Lottie tilted her head, curious despite herself. “Escaping what?”

Natalie waved the question off like it was smoke she didn’t want to breathe in. “Boring suburb stuff. Doesn’t matter. Point is—college is supposed to be a fresh start, right? Freedom, dorm food, bad decisions, yada yada.”

“Right,” Lottie echoed, though freedom was the last thing she felt. The fridge clicked as the motor shifted gears, and she imagined Natalie walking over, swinging the door open, seeing the plastic bags stacked inside like crimson water balloons. Her stomach lurched.

To distract herself, she said brightly, “Oh, and my taxidermy club meets on Tuesdays. You probably won’t hear me leaving.”

Natalie groaned and pressed her palms to her eyes. “Christ, you’re serious about this. Fine. Taxidermy Tuesdays. Guess I’ll just stay out of your way.”

Lottie laughed again, but this time it almost sounded natural. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Natalie leaned back further, balancing her chair on two legs, staring at the ceiling. “At least you’re not the kind of roommate who collects ceramic clowns. I could live with your weird hobby.”

The room had settled into a sort of uneven rhythm, like a heartbeat after running a marathon—sporadic, half-predictable, yet laced with the lingering energy of the day. The string lights cast a soft, warm glow over the mismatched posters, creating tiny halos of color that wavered across the walls with every subtle flicker. The faint smell of dust, mixed with old carpet and a trace of cedar from the mini-fridge, made the air feel dense yet oddly comforting. Every creak from the floorboards, every quiet hum from the dorm’s ancient heating system, seemed louder here, in the stillness after the bustle of moving-in chaos.

Natalie perched on the edge of her new bed, kicking at the stray shoelaces and half-unpacked notebooks sprawled across the floor. Her duffel bag leaned against the wall, open like an invitation to disorder, papers spilling out in soft, haphazard piles. She took in the details of the room slowly—the way the sunlight slanted in through the partially opened window, catching the edges of the fraying rug, the way the air smelled faintly of something sweet and synthetic from the small candle Lottie had lit earlier, and the faint metallic tang from the mini-fridge’s hum that made Natalie wrinkle her nose slightly. It was strange and intimate in a way that the sterile Guild halls never could be.

Lottie perched cross-legged on the edge of her bed, holding her knees close like a protective shell, twisting a strand of hair around her finger with an absent-minded intensity. The nervous energy radiating off her was almost tangible, like static in the air before a storm. She stole glances at Natalie, half expecting her to roll her eyes or accuse her of being “too weird,” but Natalie’s face was open and relaxed, even if a little sardonic. That gave her a small spark of courage, enough to finally speak without immediately panicking.

The hum of the mini-fridge seemed louder now, as if it had been holding its breath for this interaction. Natalie’s eyes flicked toward it, the corners of the fridge door barely ajar, and for the briefest instant, a shadow moved in the darkness beneath it. Her mind, trained to detect oddities in the Guild, barely noticed; she assumed it was the reflection of a stray cord or the angle of the light. Lottie, meanwhile, shifted on her bed and hugged her knees closer, her heartbeat quickening as the same shadow reminded her of the precious little packs tucked safely beneath the furniture.

“So,” Natalie said, tilting her head to study Lottie, “this taxidermy club of yours… how exclusive is it, really? You get a secret handshake or just… carry around dead squirrels?” She raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement.

Lottie’s hands twitched nervously at her knees. “Uh… very exclusive. Invitation-only. Super secret. Very serious,” she said, her voice wobbling slightly, but there was a playful lilt under the panic. She avoided looking directly at Natalie, focusing instead on the pattern of the carpet. “Mostly… careful handling and… precise arrangements. You know, details matter.”

Natalie rolled her eyes slightly, a smirk playing on her face. “Right. Details. I’ll keep that in mind.” She leaned back against the headboard, letting the string lights paint her face in warm, flickering patches. “At least it’s not… I don’t know, ceramic clowns or glow-in-the-dark skulls. Could be worse.”

Lottie laughed softly, a short, breathy sound, and a little color crept up her cheeks. “Yeah… I’ve seen those. Terrifying.” She paused, then tilted her head, studying Natalie cautiously. “You… you don’t think I’m… weird, right? Because…” Her voice faltered, and she glanced toward the mini-fridge as though it might answer for her.

Natalie shook her head, a small, tired smile forming. “Not weird. Just… intense in a quiet way. Better than being obsessed with rules or trying to prove a point at every turn.” She gestured vaguely at the piles of her unpacked things. “Besides, you seem… harmless. In a caffeinated, slightly panicked sort of way.”

The corners of Lottie’s lips lifted, the tension in her shoulders easing fractionally. “Harmless… I’ll take that as a compliment,” she whispered, curling her fingers around the blanket with more confidence.

Natalie glanced back at the mini-fridge again, this time really noticing the faint, metallic scent of the blood packs beneath the hum. She tilted her head, curious for a second, but her instincts told her it was nothing—just another one of Lottie’s eccentricities. She let her attention drift back to the conversation, to the nervous, almost tangible energy between them.

“Okay,” Natalie said finally, stretching her arms over her head, “I think we can work this out. Roommates. Weird little alliance. Just… don’t eat my leftovers, and maybe keep the club stuff… contained, yeah?” She let out a small laugh, the kind that comes from genuine amusement rather than sarcasm.

Lottie’s laughter followed, soft and uncertain at first, then more natural as she realized Natalie wasn’t mocking her. “Deal,” she said quietly, but there was a note of seriousness beneath it, as if she understood the weight of the promise she had just made.

For a while, the room fell into quiet companionship. Natalie unpacked her clothes and notebooks, muttering occasional comments about the dorm’s paint color or the crooked posters. Lottie sat on her bed, gently rearranging the corner of her blanket, humming softly to herself, trying to appear productive but secretly glancing at Natalie from the corner of her eye.

The soft, omnipresent hum of the mini-fridge filled the pauses between conversation, a constant reminder of the small, hidden life it held beneath its metallic surface. Shadows shifted along the walls as the sunlight waned, creating shapes that made the room feel alive, as if it were breathing with them. Natalie caught a glimpse of the shadow beneath the bed—the blood bag tucked neatly out of sight—but she didn’t see it as a threat. Not yet.

In that shared silence, in the small, cozy chaos of their dorm room, a sense of fragile trust began to form. The room smelled faintly of dust, fabric, and something earthy that Natalie couldn’t quite identify, and it was comforting. It was real. It was alive in a way the Guild halls never could be.

Natalie allowed herself a small, private thought, one she knew she wouldn’t admit aloud: Lottie’s nervous energy, the way she fumbled and laughed at herself, the clumsy earnestness—it was refreshing. Better than another night of solitary planning, better than endless bureaucratic lectures from Misty, better than Shauna’s perfectionist glare. It was life, messy and uncertain, but life nonetheless.

And beneath the bed, hidden in the shadow where neither of them looked, the tiny blood bag rested silently. A secret waiting. A danger lying dormant. Natalie didn’t notice, couldn’t notice, and that ignorance made the room feel safer than it truly was. Lottie’s heartbeat, her careful, measured breaths, were the only clues to what the fridge really held. A subtle promise, unspoken and unseen, that the life Natalie thought she understood was already shadowed by the thing she had been sent to hunt.

The dorm room, with its flickering lights, faint odors, and gentle hums, had become a temporary sanctuary, a small world apart from the chaos of the Guild, the mission, and the looming threat of Wisayok College. In that moment, for Natalie, it was enough. For Lottie, it was a quiet war between hiding and hoping, between revealing too much and trusting just enough.

Outside, the campus hummed with distant noises—cars, voices, and the faint scrape of a janitor’s broom—but inside, in the small cocoon of the room, two very different girls had found, however precariously, a sliver of peace.

Jackie ignored her completely, per usual. She perched at the edge of the bed, perfectly poised in a cream silk blouse that caught the light like it had been ironed by angels. Her hair was sleek, glossy, golden-brown and bouncing as she leaned in close. Gold hoops glimmered when she tilted her head, and Shauna thought briefly, unkindly, that Jackie looked like an ad for a lifestyle she’d never afford.

“Now, now,” Jackie said, patting Shauna’s cheek. “None of that gloom-and-doom face. It’s our first official weekend as college students! You’re not spending it in bed writing… what is this?” She reached toward one of the notebooks, brow furrowed. “A murder manifesto?”

Shauna jolted upright, snatching it away. “Notes. For -- uh. My forest club.”

Jackie’s lips curved into a grin. “Right. The forest club. How could I forget?”

Shauna wasn’t sure if Jackie believed her, or if she was too polite to call her out on how weird it sounded. Probably the latter. Jackie had mastered the art of selective ignorance -- it kept her cheerful.

Then Jackie leaned in, pressing a kiss to Shauna’s forehead. Another to her cheek. And, despite Shauna’s halfhearted groan of protest, a quick one to her lips. When she pulled back, her lipstick left a faint smear of crimson.

“There!” Jackie said triumphantly. “Now you look alive! Sort of.”

“Alive enough,” Shauna muttered, rubbing at the mark. “You ever heard of vampires? Because I’m starting to think -- ”

Jackie gasped dramatically. “Don’t you dare. It’s way too early for your creepy cryptid talk.”

“It’s never too early for cryptids,” Shauna said under her breath, though she couldn’t help smiling a little. Jackie’s energy was infectious in the worst way -- like trying to resist sunshine with a hangover.

Jackie was already moving, heels tapping against the floor as she rummaged through Shauna’s drawers like a raccoon in designer jewelry. “You have got to start dressing for daylight hours, babe. These hoodies are an act of war. You’re coming to brunch, so pick something that says I’m approachable but interesting.”

Shauna groaned louder. “I’m not going to brunch.”

Jackie froze dramatically, one manicured hand to her chest. “You wound me.”

“I’m serious,” Shauna said, though she was already fighting a losing battle. “I’ve got work to do.”

“You mean staring at maps of the woods while drinking energy drinks until your eye twitches?” Jackie plucked a shirt from the drawer -- one of Shauna’s few semi-clean options, a faded concert tee -- and tossed it at her. “You can map later. You can twitch later. Right now, you’re going to eat a croissant with me and meet some actual people.”

Shauna tugged the shirt over her head, muttering into the fabric. “What if I hate people?”

Jackie smirked. “Then you’ll love brunch. It’s full of people pretending they’re not.”

Shauna cracked one reluctant eye open. Jackie was radiant and terrifyingly put-together for someone who’d probably been awake since dawn. Her perfume filled the room like a personality -- loud, lingering, and expensive. When she smiled, it softened everything: the mess, the exhaustion, even Shauna’s irritation.

She’d meant to say no. She always meant to say no. But then Jackie turned, hands on hips, hair falling over one shoulder, that impossible smile lighting up the dim little dorm room, and the word evaporated.

Shauna sighed, defeated. “Fine. But if this brunch turns into one of your social experiments again, I’m leaving.”

Jackie beamed, victory clear in her posture. “Please, it’s just brunch. You make it sound like a cult initiation.”

Shauna snorted, gathering her notes into a messy pile. “Says the girl who color-coded her social calendar.”

Jackie leaned over to kiss her again, softer this time, lingering. “I know you have that weird forest club thing,” she whispered, “but I already scheduled our first week at college, so cancel plans. Girlfriend time.”

Shauna’s laugh was low, half-buried in her chest. “If I ever die on a mission, it’ll be because you double-booked me with brunch.”

Jackie only smiled, brushing invisible lint from Shauna’s shoulder. “Then at least you’ll die fabulous.”

The line hung between them, bright and ridiculous.

Shauna glanced toward her desk -- papers, maps, knives hidden in drawers, all reminders of what her real purpose was -- but Jackie was already tugging her toward the door, sunlight spilling in behind her like a spotlight.

For a moment, Shauna let herself be pulled along, half-dazed by perfume, morning light, and that strange, dangerous comfort that came from pretending her world wasn’t full of monsters.

Outside, campus was stirring awake -- voices, footsteps, the faint scent of cut grass mixing with coffee and car exhaust. Shauna squinted against the brightness and followed Jackie into the day, the echo of her own words -- double-booked with brunch -- circling like a joke she was afraid might one day come true.

The café was one of those aggressively “hip” places that tried to look spontaneous but had clearly been curated by someone who’d spent too much time in an anthropology store. Glass windows fogged over from the humidity of too many lattes, mismatched wooden chairs that creaked in protest under the weight of twenty-somethings in ironic scarves, and that faint smell of espresso beans mingling with butter and maple syrup. Someone behind the counter was playing an acoustic cover of Mr. Brightside -- a little too earnestly -- and every so often, the milk steamer shrieked like a banshee, punctuating the morning chatter.

It was, in short, Shauna’s personal hell.

Jackie, of course, looked like she belonged there. She pushed through the door with one arm elegantly flung behind her to let Shauna in, her other hand linked tightly with her girlfriend’s. She was radiant even under the café’s dim amber lighting -- lip gloss gleaming, gold jewelry catching light like the sun had specifically chosen her. A pair of early risers near the front table glanced up as she passed, one whispering something that made the other snicker softly. Jackie smiled at them anyway, the kind of confident smile that said yes, I know I’m that fabulous before 9 a.m.

Shauna followed, wearing dark sunglasses and an expression that could curdle cream. The shades were less about fashion and more about survival; the morning light filtering through the fogged windows was too bright, too unforgiving. She was running on maybe four hours of sleep, caffeine withdrawal, and the residual tension of knowing her next mission could literally end in bloodshed.

“Shauna, you’re going to die,” Jackie began, dragging her toward an open table with the grace of a woman hosting a gala instead of brunch. “I met the most amazing girl last night.”

Shauna groaned, the sound lost under the clatter of dishes and the low hum of conversation. “You said that about the girl at the bookstore. The one who tried to talk you into her pyramid scheme.”

Jackie waved a manicured hand dismissively. “Different vibe. This one’s actually interesting. She’s in my PoliSci seminar! You’ll love her. She’s got that whole mysterious European thing going on -- pale, elegant, kind of cold in a fun way.”

Shauna paused mid-step. There it was -- that little chill crawling up her spine. She didn’t need to hear the word pale to know where this was going. Jackie had a type, and that type tended to come with hemoglobin issues.

Her stomach sank. Please not another one.

She adjusted her sunglasses, scanning the café automatically, that internal radar she couldn’t shut off flickering to life. There were the usual brunch-goers -- groups of friends hunched over pancakes, a couple in the corner doing the awkward early-dating dance of trying not to look like a couple, a guy at the counter pretending to read a newspaper but clearly people-watching. And then -- 

Stillness.

It was subtle, the kind of unnatural calm that made her instincts buzz. While everyone else moved in the lazy rhythm of caffeine and conversation, one figure sat perfectly poised, motionless except for the faint tilt of their head. Pale skin, hands clasped lightly around a coffee cup that didn’t steam anymore. The person’s eyes -- icy and deliberate -- tracked Jackie with the faintest smile, like they already knew her.

Jackie didn’t notice the tension. She was too busy guiding Shauna to a table near the center of the room, her enthusiasm radiating like a solar flare. The table she chose was sticky from someone’s abandoned syrup spill; the edges glittered faintly with sugar crystals under the light. Shauna wordlessly grabbed a napkin and started wiping, half to avoid looking around, half because the mess gave her something to do other than panic.

“You’ll adore her,” Jackie said, brushing a crumb off the seat before sitting. “She’s got that kind of energy that makes you feel like you’re in a movie. You know? Like -- haunted, but hot.”

Shauna set down the napkin, folded her hands, and stared at her. “That’s not a good thing, Jackie.”

“Oh, stop it. You’re always so dramatic about my friends.”

“They keep trying to eat you.”

Jackie tilted her head, mock-offended. “That’s slander. Only one of them tried that, and she was experimental.”

Shauna pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, “You mean predatory.”

But it was too late. Jackie had already spotted her brunch guest.

“There she is!” Jackie chirped, waving one hand high like a lighthouse. “Over here!”

Shauna followed her gaze, and her suspicion was confirmed. The girl in the corner booth -- beautiful in that fragile, calculated way that made people forget how dangerous fragility could be -- was already standing. She had an air of deliberate composure, her movements smooth and silent. Her outfit was effortlessly stylish: dark jeans, a high-collared blouse, hair perfectly sleek. She looked like she’d been painted rather than born. And when she smiled, her teeth caught the light just a little too sharply.

Shauna’s pulse ticked up.

“Jackie,” she said carefully, lowering her voice. “We need to -- ”

But Jackie was already tugging her toward the booth, oblivious to everything except her own excitement.

As they crossed the room, Shauna’s senses tuned in automatically: the faint metallic tang beneath the scent of espresso, the way the girl’s shadow didn’t quite align with the angle of the morning light through the window, the way her eyes lingered too long on Jackie’s throat before sliding politely to meet Shauna’s.

A flicker of awareness passed between them -- silent recognition. Shauna didn’t know this vampire’s name, but she knew the look: curiosity, calculation, the restrained thrill of being seen by someone who could see you.

And all Jackie could do was beam, her voice bright and oblivious as she said, “Shauna, this is my new friend! Isn’t she so chic?”

Shauna forced a smile, every muscle in her jaw tight. “Yeah,” she said flatly. “Chic. Definitely the word I’d use.”

Her fingers twitched beneath the table as they sat. She resisted the urge to reach for the knife tucked discreetly in her boot.

Jackie chattered on, oblivious, flipping the menu open. The vampire smiled politely, watching them both. The air smelled like cinnamon and danger.

Shauna took a long sip of water, the condensation sliding down her fingers, and thought: If she orders anything with rare meat, I’m leaving.

The air around the booth thickened the moment “Anya” leaned forward to greet them. It wasn’t anything obvious -- no cinematic chill, no flash of red in her eyes -- but the atmosphere itself seemed to tighten, as if even the café could sense the wrongness.

She was beautiful in the way expensive glassware is beautiful: delicate, precise, and one careless motion away from something sharp. Her skin was pale to the point of luminescence, not the kind of pallor that came from too much studying or bad fluorescent dorm lighting -- no, this was something refined, intentional, and utterly inhuman.

Her hair was black in that blue-tinted way that came from centuries of care, her posture elegant but eerily still. Her lips, painted the faintest shade of plum, curved into a smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. And those nails -- polished crimson but with faint dark stains underneath, the color just slightly too deep to be drugstore varnish.

Jackie, of course, saw none of it. She was too busy gesturing like she’d just discovered fire. “This is Anya!” she announced, beaming, clearly pleased with herself. “She’s so chic, Shauna. Like -- old-money chic. I think she might be from, like, Prague or something.”

(Or Transylvania, Jackie. They have old money there too, Shauna thought grimly.)

She forced herself to smile as she slid into the booth opposite Anya, every hunter instinct in her body coiled tight beneath the table. It was the kind of encounter the Guild had trained her for -- reading the tells, recognizing the unnatural -- but here, in the middle of a café, with pancakes and polite laughter, the whole situation felt wrong. She wasn’t supposed to face a vampire under soft jazz and brunch specials.

Anya’s gaze flicked between them with calculated calm. “It’s lovely to meet you, Shauna,” she said, her voice smooth and low, the vowels drawn out ever so slightly, like silk pulled between fingers.

Shauna extended her hand because what else could she do? You couldn’t draw a blade over waffles. You couldn’t stake someone between the specials board and the sugar caddy. The handshake was light, polite -- and wrong. The temperature of it made her skin prickle. Not cold, exactly. Cool, like glass sitting too long in the shade. A mimicry of warmth rather than the thing itself.

Jackie was oblivious, chattering on as she flagged down a server. “You’re going to die when you try the French toast here, Anya. They caramelize the edges -- oh my god, Shauna, remember that time I tried to make French toast in the dorm and set off the smoke alarm?”

“Every time you use the word ‘die’ around strangers, an angel loses its wings,” Shauna muttered, but Jackie was already telling the story, complete with hand gestures.

The café light caught on a glass of orange juice at the edge of the table. Condensation trickled down its side -- thick, slow, glinting faintly amber before pooling onto the wood. Shauna’s eyes tracked the droplet absently, the way one might track a falling bead of blood.

Her attention flicked back to Anya. The vampire wasn’t eating. She’d accepted a cup of coffee but hadn’t drunk from it, only lifted it occasionally, pressing it to her lips before setting it down again. When the server came by to ask if she wanted to order, she declined with a soft laugh, one hand raised delicately.

“I ate before coming,” she said.

The words were casual, but the pause that followed them wasn’t.

Jackie nodded, unfazed. “Ugh, same. I had a granola bar before class and now I’m pretending I’m not starving, but we’re doing bottomless mimosas, so it’s fine.”

Shauna’s fingers tightened around her fork. She scanned for tells the way another person might study facial expressions. The rhythm of breath -- none. The pulse at her throat -- there, but faint, rhythmic in a way that didn’t match the ambient noise of living bodies around them. The reflection in the window -- slightly off, just enough to make her stomach dip.

Anya smiled again, the corners of her mouth pulling tight in a performance of warmth. “You two make a charming pair,” she said. “So much energy between you. It’s… intoxicating.”

Jackie flushed, delighted. “Oh my god, thank you! We’ve been together for, like, forever.”

Shauna’s lips curved upward, but her eyes didn’t soften. “Forever feels shorter every time you say that.”

Anya tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting. “Time can be a flexible thing.”

That earned a soft laugh from Jackie, who immediately launched into another story about moving into the dorms. Shauna barely heard it. Her focus was on the way Anya’s eyes flicked briefly to the pulse at Jackie’s throat as she laughed -- the tiniest moment, so small most people would miss it.

The café hummed around them. Coffee machines hissed. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone at the next table poured syrup, and the smell of it was thick and sweet, cloying. Beneath it all, Shauna could smell the faint trace of something metallic.

She shifted in her seat, forcing her shoulders to relax, trying to appear calm while every nerve in her body screamed. Her instincts wanted her to reach for the knife hidden in her boot, to end this before it became another incident for the Guild’s post-mission paperwork.

But Jackie was smiling, radiant, happy. And Shauna couldn’t ruin that -- not yet.

Instead, she leaned forward, her tone casual but her eyes hard. “So, Anya,” she said, resting her chin on her hand, “what brings you to Wisayok?”

Anya’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh,” she said softly, “just… curiosity. I find the people here fascinating.”

Her gaze slid over Jackie again, then returned to Shauna, deliberate and knowing. “Don’t you?”

Shauna forced herself to meet that look head-on. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Sometimes a little too fascinating.”

Jackie, blissfully unaware of the undercurrent, waved down the waiter for more mimosas. “This is so fun! I told you, Shauna -- you just have to meet people! You always think everyone’s secretly dangerous or cursed or something.”

Shauna exhaled slowly through her nose, eyes still on Anya. “You have no idea.”

The vampire smiled wider, just enough to show the faintest hint of a canine. It might have been a trick of the light. It might not have been.

Outside, the morning sun broke through the clouds, flooding the window with light. Anya didn’t flinch -- but she shifted, ever so slightly, into the shade.

The café bell jingled like a warning. Shauna didn’t even need to turn her head -- she felt it before she saw it, that subtle shift in the room’s pressure, the way the low hum of brunch chatter seemed to falter for half a heartbeat. Then Melissa’s voice -- warm, teasing, unmistakably self-assured -- cut through the clatter of plates.

“Oh, there you are.”

She said it like she was arriving fashionably late to a party she’d been invited to. Like she belonged.

Shauna’s spine went rigid. She turned just in time to see Melissa weaving through the tables with the ease of someone who always gets noticed. Heads turned as she passed -- not because of any supernatural glamour, but because she radiated something magnetic, all confidence and slow smiles.

“Room for one more?”

Shauna’s jaw clenched. “Not really.”

Melissa’s grin widened. “Perfect.” She slid into the booth beside Shauna before anyone could object, her thigh brushing against Shauna’s beneath the table.

The scent hit next -- warm amber, clove, and something darker underneath, like smoke caught in silk. It was too much for morning, too intimate for public. Shauna tensed, trying not to breathe it in, which only made her hyper-aware of how close Melissa was sitting.

Jackie, ever the social butterfly, was delighted. “Oh my god, hi! You must be one of Shauna’s… uh, forest club people, right?”

“Something like that,” Melissa said smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Shauna.

Anya’s gaze flicked toward her, polite but sharp. The vampire’s posture adjusted ever so slightly, as though she’d scented competition -- or threat. For a fraction of a second, Shauna swore she saw Anya’s pupils narrow.

The energy at the table shifted like a storm front. Jackie didn’t notice; she was too busy flagging down the waiter for another round of mimosas, chattering about how “the Guild club” was full of mysterious girls with knives and secrets.

Melissa leaned back, draping one arm casually along the top of the booth. “So this is brunch?” she murmured, tone teasing. “I was expecting more blood sausage.”

Shauna shot her a warning look. “Not the time.”

“Relax,” Melissa whispered, just for her. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

Jackie was laughing again, eyes bright. “I love this vibe! It’s like a girls’ brunch in a vampire movie.”

Anya smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

The table fell into a rhythm that felt, to everyone but Shauna, almost normal. Jackie’s mimosa glass wobbled dangerously close to the edge each time she gestured, Melissa’s fingers tapped idly against the table like she was keeping tempo, and Anya stirred her untouched coffee, spoon clinking against porcelain in perfect, mechanical precision.

Shauna tried to breathe through it. Her mind flicked between tactical calculations -- exit points, distance to her blade, how many witnesses were close enough to scream if things went wrong. It was ridiculous, this dance she was doing: pretending to be someone’s girlfriend at brunch while mentally plotting escape routes in case the vampire across from her decided to lunge.

Jackie’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. “So, Melissa, what do you do? Are you in one of Shauna’s weird classes?”

Melissa smiled lazily, resting her chin on her hand. “You could say we have… extracurriculars in common.”

Shauna nearly groaned. “Don’t start.”

Anya tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking between the two of them. “Oh? You’re… close?”

Melissa’s smile deepened, feline and deliberate. “Close enough.”

The air tightened again. Shauna could feel both their gazes on her -- Anya’s cold curiosity, Melissa’s warm amusement. It was like standing between fire and ice, both dangerous in different ways.

Jackie, oblivious, sipped her drink. “You all have such strong personalities. I love that.”

Then, inevitably: “So chic! An iron deficiency is so relatable, right? I forget to take my supplements all the time.”

Shauna froze mid-sip.

Melissa smirked. “Oh, I take mine daily.”

Shauna nearly choked on her coffee.

Anya’s lips curved in that deliberate, eerie smile. “I prefer to get mine… naturally.”

Jackie, bless her, nodded enthusiastically. “Protein-forward diets are so in right now.”

Shauna, internally: I am in hell. Literal, mimosa-soaked hell.

For a few long moments, the table became a tableau of chaos disguised as calm. Jackie talked animatedly about campus parties; Melissa watched Shauna with that amused, knowing smirk; and Anya’s fingers toyed absently with her spoon, the metal glinting faintly as though waiting for something to happen.

Outside, a gust of wind rattled the café door. The sound made Shauna flinch -- it shouldn’t have, but her nerves were strung tight enough to sing.

Melissa leaned close, her voice low, teasing but edged with something serious. “You can’t babysit her forever, you know.”

Shauna didn’t look at her. “Watch me.”

Across the table, Anya’s smile sharpened. “Protective. How sweet.”

Jackie just raised her glass, unaware she was sitting between a vampire and a hunter pretending not to draw weapons in a brunch café. “To new friends!” she said brightly.

Melissa clinked her glass against Shauna’s. “To interesting mornings.”

Anya’s voice was a whisper, smooth and dangerous. “And long nights.”

Shauna’s coffee went cold between her hands.

The brunch dissolves into a kind of slow-motion chaos -- the kind that only happens when too many personalities collide under bad lighting and shared denial.

Jackie, glowing with mimosa confidence, decides that the table needs memories. “Selfie time!” she announces, pulling out her pink flip phone with rhinestones crusted around the edges. “Come on, everybody, it’s our first brunch of the semester! Shauna, don’t hide, you look hot when you’re cranky.”

Shauna groans, but it’s already too late. Jackie tugs her out of the booth and toward the wide windows spilling sunlight across the floor. The light cuts sharp through the café, refracting through condensation on the glass, pooling gold on the tile. Shauna squints, muttering something about retinal damage.

Anya stays seated. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll sit this one out,” she says, tone smooth as satin. “Sensitive skin.”

Jackie pouts, already angling the phone. “Babe, SPF exists for a reason.”

Melissa rises gracefully, stretching with feline languor. “I’ll take the picture,” she offers. Her voice slides through the air like honey -- slow, warm, disarming. She moves around the table, her shadow brushing across Shauna’s legs, and something about the way she looks at Anya makes Shauna’s stomach twist.

For a split second, something invisible tightens in the air. Anya’s fingers still against her untouched plate, her expression perfectly blank -- but her pupils dilate in the faint light. Shauna can almost feel the tension, a kind of static charge that hums under the din of the café. Melissa, camera poised, smiles wider. “Say brunch.”

Jackie beams. Shauna manages a tight grimace. The shutter clicks.

Melissa lingers by the table, leaning a hand on the back of Anya’s seat. “You’re awfully quiet,” she says lightly, eyes bright but calculating.

Anya’s gaze slides toward her, measured and cold. “Some of us prefer to listen.”

Melissa tilts her head. “Of course. Listening’s important. Helps you… get a read on people.”

There’s an edge there -- one that Shauna feels in her bones. She catches Melissa’s expression, that too-gentle smile masking something sharper. This isn’t casual flirtation anymore; it’s reconnaissance disguised as charm. Two predators circling each other in public, and she’s sitting right between them.

Jackie’s voice cuts through again, blissfully unaware. “Okay, now serious question -- how do we all feel about matching manicure colors for rush week?”

Shauna exhales through her nose, resisting the urge to laugh or scream. Her hand tightens around her coffee cup until the ceramic creaks. “I feel like I’m in a fever dream.”

“Aw, babe, you just need food,” Jackie says, waving her fork like a wand. “You get weird when you’re hungry.”

Melissa smirks into her glass of water. Anya folds her napkin with methodical care, each crease perfect. “I’m not very hungry,” she murmurs.

Shauna catches the faintest flicker of red beneath Anya’s nail as she moves her hand. Her heart kicks into overdrive. She forces herself to breathe, slow and even. Not here. Not now.

The café feels too bright suddenly. Too small. The chatter around them blurs into a distant hum. Somewhere behind the counter, a blender roars to life, startling her enough that her knife clinks against the plate.

Melissa notices. Of course she does. “You’re tense,” she says quietly, almost kind. “You should try relaxing once in a while. You might even enjoy it.”

Shauna shoots her a glare. “I’ll relax when I’m dead.”

Melissa leans in, smiling faintly. “Let’s hope not too soon.”

Jackie doesn’t hear the undercurrent, only the banter. “God, I love when you two get all snarky. It’s like a sitcom.”

Shauna rubs her temple. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

She tries to focus on the sound of cutlery, on the scrape of toast and the hiss of milk steaming. Normal things. Human things. But her mind keeps slipping back into Guild instincts: she clocks the distance to the nearest door (eight feet), the visibility of the staff (limited), and the potential for collateral damage (too high). She imagines sunlight breaking through the window like a weapon -- what it might do if she shattered the glass.

Melissa watches her, expression unreadable but soft at the edges. Beneath the flirtation, there’s understanding. Recognition. The kind that comes from seeing someone teetering on the edge of fight or flight.

Meanwhile, Jackie scrolls through her phone, showing Anya the selfie. “See? You look amazing! The lighting totally hides your… uh, paleness.”

Anya hums, amused. “How generous of it.”

Melissa chuckles under her breath. “Maybe next time we try candlelight.”

Shauna’s eyes flick between them, pulse hammering. “Enough,” she says, low but firm. “Jackie, we should go.”

Jackie looks up, frowning. “Go? But we haven’t even had dessert. Babe, relax, it’s brunch, not battle prep.”

Anya smiles, eyes glinting. “She seems to confuse the two.”

Melissa’s tone cools, just barely. “You’d be surprised what she’s capable of when she’s pushed.”

The table goes still again. The air feels too thick to breathe. Shauna can almost hear the blood in her own ears, the faint whine of tension vibrating between the three of them. Jackie, oblivious as ever, just waves for the check.

“Next time, I’m picking the place,” she declares cheerfully. “Somewhere less… dramatic.”

Melissa looks at Shauna, her expression equal parts fond and dangerous. “Somehow, I doubt that’s possible.”

Shauna exhales, her coffee long gone cold, her nerves fraying. She catches her reflection faintly in the café window -- dark eyes, lipstick smudge still ghosting her cheek, sunlight too sharp around her edges.

The hunter, the vampire, and the human sit in uneasy harmony, framed by the hum of ordinary life. Three different worlds sharing one table, one joke away from collapse.

Outside, a breeze rattles the door again. Shauna’s muscles stay coiled. Whatever this brunch was meant to be, it’s become something else entirely -- something that feels like the start of trouble she won’t be able to laugh off later.

The café has thinned out by the time they stand to leave. The midmorning rush has faded into that strange, liminal quiet between breakfast and lunch  --  just the clatter of dishes from the back, the faint hiss of the espresso machine, and the low hum of an old indie song about heartbreak on repeat. The sunlight has shifted, slanting lower through the fogged windows, catching in the film of steam that still hangs in the air.

Anya excuses herself first. She does it with that same eerie composure she’s worn since she sat down, a perfect blend of grace and detachment. “I really must be going,” she says, her voice pitched soft enough that only Shauna and Melissa can fully hear. “My night shift won’t wait.”

Jackie laughs like it’s a punchline. “Oh my god, relatable. I could never work at night. I’m such a morning person. Like, brunch is my personality.”

Anya’s mouth curves in a small, knowing smile  --  too knowing  --  as she slides out of the booth. “Yes,” she murmurs, eyes flicking toward Shauna. “You seem… alive in the mornings.”

Shauna’s jaw tenses, a tiny tick of muscle that Melissa catches but Jackie does not. She watches Anya go, eyes tracing the vampire’s slow, deliberate glide through the café  --  no shadow hesitation, no lingering glance back. Just a soft jingle of the doorbell and the cool draft that follows her departure.

For the first time since sitting down, Shauna’s lungs remember how to fill. She leans back against the booth, exhales through her nose. The smell of syrup and roasted beans returns like a wave. Ordinary. Harmless. She hates that she can’t quite believe it.

Jackie’s already stretching, scrolling through her phone. “Okay, next weekend, we’re doing the farmer’s market. Or maybe that new organic place with the smoothies? You’ll love it, Shauna, they do those little acai bowls that look like art.”

Shauna nods absently, still watching the door, still listening to the faint echo of Anya’s voice in her head. Night shift. The euphemism gnaws at her.

Melissa, meanwhile, hasn’t moved. She’s still in her seat, elbow propped against the table, chin balanced on her hand. Her expression is a perfect study in amusement. “Interesting morning,” she says, voice low, almost purring. She flicks her wrist, brushing an invisible crumb from the table like it offended her.

Shauna finally looks at her, eyes narrowing. “You think so?”

Melissa’s smile deepens  --  small, precise, knowing. “You handled that well.”

Shauna crosses her arms, instinctively defensive. “Handled what?”

The question hangs between them like smoke. Melissa doesn’t answer immediately. She tilts her head instead, gaze soft but razor-sharp beneath it. “Oh, nothing,” she says at last, tone light as spun sugar. “I just like people who pay attention.”

The words slide under Shauna’s skin, half-compliment, half-warning. It’s not what she says  --  it’s how she says it, that deliberate weight she places on pay attention. Shauna feels her heartbeat pick up again, the muscles in her jaw tightening.

Jackie, oblivious, is at the counter paying the bill. She’s chatting with the barista about how good the lighting is for selfies here, oblivious to the quiet duel still unfolding behind her.

Melissa leans in just slightly, enough that her perfume  --  amber, clove, and something faintly sweet  --  edges into Shauna’s breathing space. “You should relax,” she murmurs. “You’re too coiled. Someone might think you’re hiding something.”

Shauna stares back, voice cool. “Maybe I am.”

Melissa’s smile flickers wider, almost tender now. “Good. Secrets make people interesting.”

There’s something disarming in the softness of it  --  something that makes Shauna’s pulse skip before she catches herself. She straightens, scoffing lightly, trying to pull the mask of composure back into place. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Never,” Melissa says easily, standing now. She smooths her coat sleeves, adjusts her collar. “But you’ll get used to that.”

Jackie returns with change in one hand and a to-go cup in the other, her grin as bright as ever. “Okay, crisis averted  --  I tipped extra because the barista was cute. Who’s ready to face syllabus week?”

Shauna blinks, dragged back into the normal rhythm of daylight and noise. She mutters something about caffeine dependency, grabbing her jacket. Jackie loops an arm around her waist without hesitation, oblivious to the storm that just passed three feet away.

Melissa lingers a second longer, eyes catching the light. “See you around, Shauna,” she says softly, tone just shy of intimate.

Then she’s gone too  --  a flash of dark hair, a glint of gold jewelry, and the faint scent of clove trailing in her wake.

Shauna stands there a moment longer, coat half-zipped, the air too still. Jackie’s still talking about smoothie bowls, but Shauna’s mind is elsewhere  --  on the shimmer of red beneath Anya’s nails, the amusement in Melissa’s eyes, and the quiet, terrible knowledge that she’s running out of places to hide.

Outside, the morning sun is already too bright, burning away the last traces of fog. Inside, the table they’d left behind gleams faintly in the light  --  a few drops of orange juice catching it like blood.

The sunlight outside hits like a slap after the dim warmth of the café. The air smells faintly of wet pavement and cinnamon from a bakery down the street, sharp with that late-morning crispness that promises the rest of the day will be too hot. Shauna squints against the glare, tugging her jacket tighter even though it’s barely chilly. Beside her, Jackie walks like she’s in a music video -- heels clicking, hair catching the light, hands gesturing animatedly as she talks about everything from upcoming club fairs to her plan to start a “girls who brunch” society on campus.

Shauna half-listens, the words drifting past like radio static. Her mind is still inside that café -- stuck in the details that won’t let her go. The vampire’s voice, smooth and cool as honey over ice. The way Melissa had leaned in too close, her perfume thick enough to drown in. The flicker of recognition that had passed between them like static before the storm.

Jackie tugs her hand as they cross the street. “Earth to Shauna! You’re doing that scary, thousand-yard stare thing again.”

Shauna blinks, caught. “Just tired,” she lies, offering the faintest smile. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Jackie laughs, bright and guileless. “Then brunch was the right call! You need sunlight and mimosas. You brood too much -- it’s bad for your skin.”

She reaches up and smudges her thumb over Shauna’s cheek, leaving behind a faint streak of red where her lipstick had already marked her earlier. “There. Perfect. You look alive again.”

Alive. The word sticks. Shauna feels it catch somewhere deep in her chest, the irony like a splinter. She glances over her shoulder, just once -- out of instinct more than suspicion -- but there’s no one there. Just the sweep of traffic, the soft shimmer of heat rising from the asphalt, the distant buzz of conversation. Still, she can’t shake the feeling that Melissa’s eyes are on her, unseen but present, like the faint hum you hear before thunder.

Jackie loops her arm through hers again, oblivious. “So! Tonight there’s a welcome party at Sigma Tau. They’ve got fairy lights, free drinks, and a chocolate fountain. I’m thinking we make an entrance -- matching outfits, obviously.”

Shauna hums noncommittally, letting Jackie’s chatter wash over her. She focuses on the physical: the heat of Jackie’s hand in hers, the rhythm of their steps, the mundane pulse of campus life as they turn the corner toward Wisayok’s ivy-covered dorms. Students spill out of buildings, laughing, carrying textbooks and iced coffees. It all looks normal. Safe.

Shauna knows better.

She squeezes Jackie’s hand a little tighter, grounding herself in that warmth, in that fragile, human ordinariness that’s so easy to lose sight of in the Guild’s world of silver blades and shadowed hunts. Jackie squeezes back, smiling at her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. She has no idea she’s just survived brunch with two predators.

If this is what college is like, Shauna thinks grimly, I might not make it to midterms.

They reach the dorm. Jackie peels off toward her room, already calling back over her shoulder about outfit options and glitter eyeliner. Shauna lingers outside for a moment, her reflection caught in the dorm’s glass door -- lipstick smeared faintly on her cheek, eyes dark and sleepless. She wipes the red away with the back of her hand, the stain faintly smearing before it disappears.

The sunlight is too bright. The air too still.

Back in the café, Melissa hasn’t left. She’s still seated in the same booth, posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Her fingers trace idle circles in the condensation left on the side of an abandoned glass, smearing it until it looks like a thin trail of blood. The corner of her mouth twitches upward in quiet amusement.

“You can glare all you want,” she murmurs to the empty seat across from her, the one where Shauna had sat. “But friendship isn’t optional.”

Her reflection stares back at her from the window -- pale, luminous, almost human. Almost.

Behind the counter, the café fridge hums faintly. The sound is soft and steady, a low metallic pulse under the quiet. If someone stood close enough, listened carefully enough, they might notice that it doesn’t sound quite like a fridge should. It sounds like something alive. Something waiting.

Outside, the morning sunlight burns brighter, and somewhere between the warmth of day and the edges of shadow, a new thread of tension begins to pull tight.

The corkboard in the humanities hallway looked like it had survived both a flood and an exorcism. Layers of half-torn posters overlapped in chaotic strata - study-abroad ads yellowed with age, faded theater flyers, a “missing ferret” notice that had somehow become a local landmark. But right at the center, freshly taped and aggressively cheerful, was a piece of neon yellow paper that stopped Misty Quigley mid-stride.

She stood there for a solid thirty seconds, blinking behind her round glasses, mouth slightly open like a computer stuck mid-reboot. “The First Annual Nocturnal Fellowship Bake Mixer! All welcome - human and otherwise. Come share food, faith, and community.

"(No biting allowed!)”

Misty read it again, as if repetition would make the absurdity fade. It didn’t.

The font was Comic Sans. The border was clip-art doves and cookies. Someone had drawn a tiny halo above one of the “o”s in Nocturnal.

It was blasphemy by way of Canva.

She adjusted her Guild badge on her blazer, lips pressed thin. She had been trained to recognize threats - blood sigils, cursed runes, vampire graffiti written in ash and plasma - but this was new. This was cute.

And that made it dangerous.

A few feet away, pretending to read an unrelated flyer about “Philosophy of Death: Open Elective,” Lottie Matthews bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She could feel the tension radiating off Misty like static electricity - every muscle in the Guild’s resident compliance officer straining against the urge to confiscate the poster on sight. Lottie had seen that flyer go up an hour ago. Laura Lee had printed them in the library, humming hymns under her breath, and personally blessed each sheet before posting them. She’d said it was important that “the ink be consecrated.” Now, watching Misty’s horror dawn was… honestly kind of delightful. Oh, she’s going to explode, Lottie thought, half-horrified, half-amused. Right here between Sociology and Intro to Folklore.

Misty leaned closer to the board, scanning the bottom of the flyer for incriminating details. “Commons Hall, 7:00 p.m.,” she murmured. “Nocturnal Fellowship? What is that?” Her pen was already out. Potential violations: – Unauthorized mixed-species gathering – Suspicious religious language – Food safety risk (nonhuman consumption protocols unclear) She paused, then wrote in parentheses: (Possible cult?) When she straightened up, she nearly collided with Lottie, who had materialized at her shoulder like a well-dressed ghost.

Lottie: “Oh hey, cute poster, right?” Misty: “Cute isn’t the word I’d use.” Lottie: “Well, it’s inclusive. Everyone likes cookies.” Misty: “That depends on who’s baking them.”

There was an edge in her voice, that bureaucratic suspicion sharpened by caffeine and paranoia. Misty Quigley didn’t believe in coincidences - especially not ones involving baked goods and open invitations to the undead. Lottie smiled tightly, hiding her fangs behind politeness. “Laura Lee’s organizing it,” she offered, too quickly. “She’s nice. Like… church nice.”

Misty’s eyebrows shot up. “Church?”

“Yeah, uh, fellowship stuff. Probably just Bible study with snacks.” Misty’s mind was already sprinting through Guild files. Laura Lee, freshman theology major, transfer student, limited Guild record. Always volunteering, always calm, suspiciously composed for a nineteen-year-old living on a haunted campus.

She’d never tripped an alarm, never failed a curfew check - but Misty remembered one odd notation from the intake form: “Subject exhibits unusual restraint.”

Restraint meant hiding something.

At that very moment, Laura Lee herself stood at the end of the hallway, adjusting another copy of her flyer. Her yellow cardigan caught the fluorescent light like sunrise. She pinned the paper neatly, smiled at it, and whispered a tiny prayer that no one else could hear. “May this reach the hearts that need it most,” she murmured. She didn’t notice Misty watching her. She didn’t need to. Laura Lee carried an aura - something both radiant and unsettling, like light refracted through stained glass.

When she turned, her expression was beatific. “Good afternoon, Misty,” she said warmly, as if greeting a parishioner rather than an auditor. “Have you seen the flyer? We’d love to have you join us.” Misty blinked. “Join you?”

“Yes! The Fellowship. It’s open to everyone - hunters, students, anyone who feels a little… lost.”

There was nothing explicitly supernatural in her words. But Misty felt the hairs rise on her arms anyway. Lost was code. Fellowship was code. Cookies might even be code.

Her brain ran the pattern recognition protocol automatically: Step 1: Identify potential heresy. Step 2: Observe subject for telltale anomalies - skin temperature, pulse, reflection. Step 3: File report discreetly. Only… when she looked at Laura Lee, she couldn’t find the anomalies. The girl’s reflection was there. Her heartbeat - slow, but steady. Her eyes shone, but not the wrong way. Misty hated when the evidence refused to cooperate.

Lottie hovered, trying to look casual while also subtly positioning herself between Misty and Laura Lee. “So,” she said brightly, “what’s the dress code? Like, formal church vibes or pajama party?”

Laura Lee chuckled softly. “Come as you are. The Lord doesn’t judge your fashion sense.”

Lottie grinned. “Good, because my laundry’s mostly tragedy right now.”

Misty didn’t laugh. She was staring at the cross pendant around Laura Lee’s neck - the silver too dull, the shape slightly asymmetrical. Not standard Guild issue. Maybe handmade. Maybe blessed. She took a step closer. “You’re aware that Guild regulations require pre-approval for any extracurricular gatherings involving… nocturnal themes?”

Laura Lee tilted her head, perfectly calm. “Oh, I wasn’t aware the Guild handled bake sales.”

That tone - mild, polite, almost pitying - disarmed Misty more than hostility would have. She opened her mouth to retort, then realized there was no infraction she could quote. Nothing illegal about cookies. Nothing illegal about faith. Not yet, she thought grimly.

From down the hall, Mari Ibarra poked her head around a vending machine, camera phone in hand.

“Is this a cult thing or a bake sale thing?” she whispered to Natalie beside her.

“Both, probably,” Natalie muttered, sipping Red Bull. Mari snapped a blurry photo of the poster anyway. “If I die of secondhand wholesomeness, tell Akilah she owes me her dorm bed.”

Back at the corkboard, Misty finally found her voice again. “Fine,” she said stiffly. “I’ll allow the flyer to remain until further investigation.”

Laura Lee smiled as if she’d just been blessed by an archangel. “How generous.”

Lottie coughed to hide a laugh.

Misty: “I’ll need to observe the event. For safety reasons.” Laura Lee: “Of course. Everyone’s welcome. Even skeptics.” Misty: “I’m not a skeptic.” Lottie: “She’s more of a hall monitor with pepper spray.” Misty shot her a glare sharp enough to sterilize lab glass.

The hallway cleared eventually, but the tension lingered like incense. Misty made one last note on her clipboard. Filed under: Potential cult disguised as interfaith event. Additional notes: Organizer’s composure unnatural. Possibly suppressing predatory instincts.

She hesitated, pen hovering. Then added: Observe subject under low-light conditions.

Meanwhile, Lottie watched Laura Lee walk away down the hall - radiant, composed, completely oblivious to the quiet storm she’d just invited into motion.

You have no idea what you’re starting, Lottie thought. And God, I hope it works.

Because even if Laura Lee’s bake mixer was doomed to collapse into chaos - and knowing this campus, it definitely would - her heart was in the right place. She wanted peace. She wanted to feed the hungry without spilling blood. She wanted to believe that monsters could learn to share a table.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to terrify the Guild more than any fanged threat ever could.

Misty lingered long after everyone else had gone. She adjusted her glasses, looked again at the flyer, and sighed through her nose. There was something undeniably… radiant about it. The handwriting was neat, the message absurdly optimistic. The words human and otherwise were circled in glitter pen, as if someone had meant them. That sincerity - it made her uneasy. Monsters weren’t supposed to be sincere.

She reached out, half-tempted to tear the poster down, half-tempted to attend. Her fingers brushed the corner, sticky with tape and something faintly sweet - like sugar glaze.

She sniffed. Vanilla.

It wasn’t just a flyer. It was scented.

“Unbelievable,” Misty muttered. “Weaponized hospitality.” She took out her phone and snapped a picture for her records. In the reflection of her screen, she caught her own face - pale, anxious, framed by institutional gray walls - and the bright yellow square behind her like a spotlight.

For one dizzy second, she imagined herself there: under warm lights, surrounded by laughter and cookies and people who didn’t flinch when she entered the room.

Then she blinked the thought away. Guild officers didn’t fantasize about bake sales. They maintained order. Still, she didn’t tear the flyer down.

Down the corridor, Lottie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her pulse was unsteady - not fear exactly, but that familiar adrenaline spike that came whenever someone got too close to the truth.

She turned toward the stairs, clutching her bag a little tighter. Inside, tucked between her textbooks, were two small vials of raccoon blood wrapped in napkins. She needed to refrigerate them soon. As she walked, she muttered to herself, “Okay, Lottie, step one: don’t accidentally hiss during the fellowship. Step two: don’t eat anyone. Step three: maybe pretend to pray.”

Her reflection in the window smiled back nervously. Behind her, the bright yellow flyer fluttered slightly in the air vent’s breeze, haloed by afternoon light - innocent, ridiculous, and somehow fated to change everything.

The Gospel According to Vampire Cookies had been posted. And Misty Quigley had just declared it evidence.

The dorm kitchen always smelled faintly of incense and floor cleaner, as if holiness and hygiene were locked in an eternal battle for dominance. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead - too bright, too sterile - and the air carried that particular brand of dormitory humidity that made everything feel faintly damp, even faith.

Laura Lee stood at the counter in her yellow cardigan, sleeves rolled up, her movements deliberate and reverent. A hymn hummed under her breath, soft and steady as a heartbeat. “For grace upon the grain, and mercy in the sugar,” she murmured, pouring flour through her fingers like sand. Every scoop was accompanied by quiet gratitude, a whispered prayer. She cracked eggs with gentle precision, never wasting a drop. Even the act of mixing looked devotional.

“Technically,” Misty Quigley said, clipboard tucked under one arm, “you’re supposed to measure dry ingredients with a knife-level surface. Otherwise your ratios will be off.”

Laura Lee smiled without looking up. “God made ratios flexible, Misty.”

“That’s not in the Guild handbook,” Misty replied automatically, fishing a scale out of her tote bag. “You should always measure.” Across the table, Lottie rolled balls of dough with eerie neatness, each one exactly the same size. Her pale fingers worked rhythmically, like she was performing a ritual of her own. “You two make baking sound like a moral debate,” she said lightly.

Misty pushed up her glasses. “Morality and accuracy often overlap.” Lottie grinned faintly, not looking up. “And sometimes they cancel each other out.”

That earned her a suspicious glance from Misty, who had long ago decided that Lottie Matthews was either terminally strange or quietly dangerous. Possibly both.

The bowl on the counter gleamed - a pale golden mixture of butter and sugar, thick and soft. Laura Lee stirred it clockwise only, murmuring a psalm about forgiveness. “Every act of creation should begin with gratitude,” she said, voice serene. “Even cookies.” Misty scribbled something on her clipboard - Subject exhibits excessive optimism; probable delusion of moral causality - then leaned closer to inspect the batter.

“You’re using real butter?” she asked, scandalized. “Of course.”

“You know the Guild recommends margarine for mass consumption. Fewer allergens.”

“This isn’t a Guild event,” Laura Lee said, still smiling. “It’s a community event.”

That word - community - made Misty’s jaw tighten. “Which includes vampires.”

Laura Lee’s whisk didn’t slow. “Which includes everyone.”

Misty’s hand hovered over her bag. She’d come prepared, of course. The Guild always encouraged “precautionary measures in potentially contaminated environments.” Her fingers brushed the familiar shape of a small glass vial, cool and heavy, stamped with the Guild’s seal: Aqua Benedicta – Grade II Purity.

To her, it wasn’t an act of malice. It was standard protocol. A little divine intervention in the wet ingredients would ensure that no vampire could weaponize the event. If anyone got sick, it would only be the guilty. It was, in her mind, perfect logic.

“Mind if I help with the liquids?” she asked sweetly.

Laura Lee hesitated. “Of course, but - please be gentle with the eggs. They’re the fragile part.”

“Noted.”

Misty measured milk into a cup - exactly three-quarters, no more, no less. Then, when Laura Lee turned to check the oven temperature, Misty uncorked the vial with a practiced flick. The holy water glimmered faintly under the harsh light, catching the room’s hum in its sheen. She tipped it into the bowl with surgical precision, murmuring her own kind of prayer:

“May it purify what it touches.”

The water hit the batter with a soft hiss. No one else seemed to hear it.

Except Lottie.

Lottie’s fingers froze mid-roll. The hum in her head - her constant, buzzing awareness of things unseen - pitched upward into discomfort. Something wrong had entered the room. She could feel it in her teeth, taste it in the air like static and rain.

She glanced at the bowl, at the faint shimmer where the liquid met the dough. The surface sparkled, almost beautiful - almost holy - and every instinct in her screamed to back away.

Her throat tightened. The sound wasn’t loud, but to her, it was deafening: that faint sizzle of consecration meeting corruption. It was like watching light eat shadow.

“Lottie?” Laura Lee’s voice was soft, kind. “You okay?”

She blinked, forcing herself to nod. “Yeah. Just… zoning out.”

Laura Lee smiled, content. Misty didn’t notice; she was too busy stirring the mixture until it gleamed smooth and uniform. Lottie swallowed hard, forcing her gaze away from the bowl. The scent of holy water was subtle but sharp - ozone and iron and something that felt like confession. Her hands trembled slightly as she shaped another cookie.

She wanted to speak, to warn Laura Lee, to say don’t eat that, but the words stuck. Laura Lee’s presence - her calm faith, her warmth - felt like it could neutralize anything. Maybe even sanctified poison. So Lottie said nothing.

The kitchen grew quiet except for the whisk’s rhythmic scrape against metal. The overhead light flickered once, a nervous tic in the power grid.

Laura Lee smiled at her batter, oblivious. “You can tell when something’s blessed,” she said softly, almost to herself. “The air feels lighter. It’s like the Holy Spirit breathes through it.”

Lottie nearly laughed out loud. Or burns through it, she thought, watching the faint wisp of steam curl from the bowl.

Misty nodded approvingly, misunderstanding entirely. “Exactly. Purification through proper process. The Guild believes in that too.” Laura Lee looked up, brow furrowing. “The Guild?”

Misty’s smile tightened. “I mean… metaphorically. Everyone should strive for purity.”

Lottie’s laugh came out sharp. “You make it sound like a detergent commercial.”

Misty ignored her. “I just think it’s smart to ensure no one gets hurt. You can’t be too careful, right?”

Laura Lee set down her whisk, her eyes soft but steady. “Sometimes caution and fear look the same.”

For once, Misty didn’t have a rulebook response.

Lottie leaned back in her chair, pretending to stretch, while inside her head the world crackled like radio static. The holy water was singing - soft, almost imperceptible, like distant church bells. Every molecule of her being reacted to it. Her fangs itched behind closed lips. Her palms prickled.

She thought of speaking up, of telling Laura Lee that her kindness was being weaponized. But how could she? She wasn’t supposed to know what holy water sounded like. She wasn’t supposed to notice at all.

Instead, she tried to focus on the rhythm of Laura Lee’s humming, on the sound of the spoon scraping the bowl. The melody was old - older than the hymnal she’d stolen it from. A tune of faith and fire. For a strange, fleeting moment, Lottie felt both awe and dread. There was something ancient in that kitchen, something biblical. The room had turned into a tiny cathedral - stained linoleum for marble, fluorescent light for candle flame.

And in the middle of it all, three women stirred holiness and heresy together in a metal bowl, pretending it was just sugar and eggs.

When the dough was done, Laura Lee smiled like a saint. “Perfect,” she said, and her sincerity made Lottie’s heart ache. Misty nodded briskly, ticking a box on her clipboard. “I’ll log this as a successful preliminary test batch.”

“Test for what?” Lottie asked, unable to stop herself.

Misty hesitated. “Quality control.”

“Uh-huh.”

Laura Lee placed the cookie sheet in the oven and clasped her hands, murmuring a final prayer. “Bless the work of our hands,” she whispered, “that it may feed body and soul alike.”

The oven clicked on, low heat filling the room with warmth and something sharper - an acrid sweetness that made Lottie’s stomach twist. She could already feel the holy resonance crawling up her throat like heartburn. Misty, oblivious, scribbled notes. “Excellent texture, strong cohesion, mild luminescence - sign of proper sanctification.” Laura Lee turned, eyes wide. “Luminescence?” “Metaphorically,” Misty said quickly, flipping the clipboard shut.

Lottie stared at the oven window, at the golden orbs slowly rising inside.

They looked harmless - beautiful, even - but she could sense the danger beneath.

Eve’s apple, baked and blessed.

And she knew, even before they cooled, that someone would eat them.

That someone would bleed.

And that Laura Lee, sweet and faithful and entirely unknowing, would blame herself for the miracle that was never supposed to happen.

The basement of the old Wisayok chapel looked like it had been blessed, exorcised, and condemned - possibly in that order. What used to be rows of pews were now mismatched folding chairs and wobbly card tables. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, half of them flickering like nervous halos. The air smelled faintly of incense, dust, and something coppery that refused to be scrubbed out of the stone floor.

Laura Lee stood near the front, bathed in the sickly glow of a flickering light, smiling like this was Sunday morning service instead of a supernatural convergence. She’d arranged the tables with near-ritualistic care: platters of cookies, thermoses of tea, a stack of napkins that read “Faith, Fellowship, & Frosting.” Someone - probably Mari - had stuck googly eyes on the water cooler. It was chaos masquerading as community.

Lottie hovered near the snack table, the de facto hostess. She’d helped string fairy lights between the ceiling beams, a futile attempt to make the space less like a crypt. Her nerves hummed; she could feel the pulse of everyone in the room - their hunger, their hesitation, their strange, knotted excitement. It was the kind of energy that made the walls feel alive.

And what a crowd it was.

A group of vampires lingered near the corner, their pale skin tinted blue by the cheap lighting. They looked like an avant-garde art exhibit titled Disassociation in Velvet. Across from them, a cluster of werewolves in oversized hoodies whispered to each other, trying and failing to hide the occasional growl between jokes. A witch sat cross-legged on a desk, lazily stirring a cup of cider that glowed faintly green. Even a ghost hovered near the snack table, occasionally possessing a napkin long enough to scrawl “Thanks 4 snacks” before vanishing again.

And somehow, a handful of humans had wandered in, lured by curiosity and the promise of free baked goods. It was, without exaggeration, the most diverse mixer in the history of cursed academia.

Misty Quigley stood at the back with her clipboard, expression pinched in concentration. Her eyes darted across the crowd like she was performing a census of the damned.

“Two confirmed vampires, four suspected werewolves, one ghost manifestation, three possible witches, five baseline humans,” she whispered to herself, scribbling furiously. “Potential risk level: catastrophic.”

She adjusted her badge, trying to look authoritative, though no one was paying her any mind. Laura Lee’s hospitality radiated too strongly, a gentle gravitational field of kindness that pulled even predators into calm orbit.

Laura Lee was making the rounds, offering cookies and compliments with equal grace.

“Oh, you’re from the art department? Wonderful! We’re all creators here,” she said to a witch who had clearly just hexed her eyeliner to shimmer.

To a vampire with a rosary wrapped around her wrist, she offered a cookie and a quiet smile. “No need to worry - it’s symbolic.”

The vampire blinked. “Symbolic of what?”

“Forgiveness.”

The vampire accepted the cookie anyway, as if politeness might earn her absolution.

Mari, armed with her flip phone and far too much enthusiasm, darted from group to group. She wore a beret for some reason - her “journalistic look” - and narrated everything into the tiny microphone.

“Welcome back to Mari on the Street! Tonight we’re live - well, sort of - from the Taxidermy Club’s first open mixer-slash-vampire social experiment-slash-potential crime scene.”

She shoved the camera at a bewildered werewolf sophomore. “Name, major, and favorite type of blood?”

He blinked. “Uh… biochem? And… like, none?”

“Fascinating! And what brings you here tonight?”

“My roommate said there’d be free food.”

Mari swung toward Lottie next. “And you, mysterious host-slash-cryptid club president - how do you respond to allegations that this is actually a covert vampire coven?”

Lottie, visibly panicking, managed, “We’re… um… taxidermists of the soul?”

Mari grinned. “Love that. Very postmodern.”

At the refreshment table, Misty lingered like a wasp waiting for an excuse to sting. Her pen scratched furiously across the page as she documented what she called Phase One of Observation: Communion Substitutes.

“Subject Laura Lee continues distribution of suspect pastries,” she muttered, half under her breath. “Atmosphere resembles early cult formation. Estimated casualty risk: medium to high.”

She squinted as Laura Lee handed another tray to a vampire with conspicuously sharp teeth. The vampire sniffed, then smiled uncertainly before taking a bite.

Misty leaned forward. “Aha,” she whispered, gripping her pen like a crucifix. “Target ingestion confirmed.”

But to her mild disappointment, the vampire didn’t combust or burst into flames. They just smiled politely, crumbs on their lips. Misty frowned. Perhaps the sanctification ratio was too low. Still, she logged it. Protocol was protocol.

Lottie floated through the crowd, offering small talk and calming smiles. It was strange, seeing so many creatures - so many versions of herself - in one place. Normally, the supernatural at Wisayok existed in the margins: behind locked doors, in the shadows between classes, whispered about in half-jokes. Now, here they all were - alive, undead, half-alive, uncertain - sharing space under bad lighting and paper streamers.

She felt a kind of fragile pride. This was what Laura Lee wanted: proof that monsters could coexist, that they could sit at the same table and talk about majors and midterms instead of hunting and hunger.

Still, beneath the chatter, something hummed wrong. The air shimmered faintly. The holy water’s residue clung to the cookies like static. It was subtle, but she could feel it - the purity burning faintly in the sugar, the prayer still echoing through the flour.

She tried not to think about it. Tried not to imagine what would happen when a vampire’s stomach realized it had just ingested a sacrament.

Across the room, Mari’s camera caught snippets of conversations that would have sounded insane anywhere else:

“So technically, my roommate’s a necromancer, but like, a chill one.”

“Do werewolves have finals during the full moon or do professors just… not?”

“I once dated a fae for three days. It was great until I owed them my car.”

The absurdity helped - made it feel almost normal, like a Halloween party that forgot to end.

But then someone coughed.

It was soft at first - a dry, throat-clearing sound from near the vampire cluster. Then another joined. Then another. Misty’s head snapped up.

The first vampire’s smile faltered. She pressed a hand to her throat, eyes wide. “Is it… hot in here?” she whispered.

Lottie froze, instinct prickling.

Laura Lee, oblivious, offered a cup of cider. “Here - maybe you’re dehydrated.”

The vampire took it, hands trembling. The moment the liquid touched her lips, she gagged, stumbling back into the table. The cider sloshed, splattering onto the holy water–tainted cookies. The hiss that followed was barely audible, but Lottie heard it. She felt it.

The ghost flickered out. The werewolves started growling. The witch’s drink curdled in her cup.

And still, Laura Lee stood there, horrified but calm, as if praying might fix chemistry. “It’s okay,” she said, voice trembling. “It’s okay. It’s just - maybe an allergy?”

Misty clicked her pen and began taking notes again, her face lit with unholy fascination. “Phase Two: Reaction begins.”

Lottie lunged to steady the vampire, her hands shaking. The girl’s skin was blistering faintly where the cookie crumbs touched. Holy water. It had to be.

And as chaos began to ripple through the crowd - panic, whispers, confusion - Lottie looked across the room at Misty, who stood scribbling like a scientist in a disaster zone.

Their eyes met. Lottie’s glare was pure accusation.

Misty, entirely misreading it, wrote: “Subject Matthews displaying signs of hysteria. Possible contamination.”

The flickering lights dimmed, plunging the basement into uneasy shadow. The noise rose - a chorus of fear, growls, murmurs, prayers. Somewhere, Mari’s camera kept recording, the lens capturing the moment the fragile experiment of peace began to collapse. Laura Lee whispered one final, desperate prayer. Lottie tightened her grip on the vampire’s shoulders, holy smoke curling around her like a warning.

And Misty, already drafting the report in her head, titled it simply: Incident #113-B: Fellowship of the Damned.

The first cough had been shrugged off as nerves. The second turned heads. The third - a wet, choking sound from the corner by the hymn books - changed the air.

Thirty minutes later, the basement was a slow-motion disaster. Vampires swayed on their feet like shipwreck survivors. The ones who had eaten two cookies instead of one knelt by the folding chairs, hands braced on the concrete as if trying to keep the room from tilting. A bluish blistering crawled up pale throats in irregular constellations, as if the skin itself were rejecting something sanctified. A fine smoke curled from the corners of mouths, a steady thread that smelled faintly of wet iron and lightning. The ones who were especially polite about pain kept smiling, teeth clenched, eyes glassy.

The werewolves had migrated instinctively toward the walls, forming a worried perimeter; hoodies up, hands out. A few growled when the smoke thickened, not at anyone in particular - just at the idea of it, of hurting and not knowing how to stop it. Witches tapped shaky counter-charms against their cups. Humans did what humans do best in a crisis: whispered, fumbled for phones, reached for someone’s hand and didn’t let go.

On the table, Laura Lee’s tray slid from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Cookies scattered, a halo of crumbs. Her face kept trying to be calm but her hands gave her away; they trembled once, twice, then she laced her fingers together to make them behave. “Is - does anyone need water?” she asked, voice too bright. “We have… tea?”

One of the vampires, a girl with a rosary looped twice around her wrist, pressed a shaking hand to her throat. “No water,” she managed, voice a scrape of sand. “Please.”

Lottie had already moved. She didn’t remember deciding to; her body knew and went. She slid between folding chairs, a quiet thread weaving from person to person, kneeling, offering a steadying palm at the small of a back or a shoulder. She looked luminous in the bad light, a lantern held in a storm. Up close, though, the tremor at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. The air for her had changed, too - her senses were singing and not in a good way.

The holy water inside the vampires made a noise only Lottie could hear. It wasn’t a hiss anymore; it was a high, wire-bright keening that ran through her teeth and down her spine, like current looking for ground. Each breath they took ran the sound over raw places. Each swallow sent a thread of that song deeper. It made her stomach twist.

“Hey, hey,” she murmured to the rosary girl, voice pitched low and soothing, as if calm could be transmitted if you said it gently enough. “You’re okay. Don’t try to cough it up, you’ll tear your throat. Stay still.”

“How - ” the girl tried, coughed again, winced. “How do you know - ” “Lucky guess.” Lottie’s smile was quick, apologetic. “I’m good at… throat problems.”

Across the room, Mari’s flip phone sagged slowly toward her lap. She’d been narrating like a game show host ten minutes ago; now she recorded silently, eyes enormous. “Is anyone else seeing the… the smoke?” she whispered, half to Akilah’s empty chair, half to the room. She put the phone back up out of reflex, like a kid raising a flashlight against the dark.

Misty, at the back, was writing so fast her handwriting decayed into a jagged EKG. Subject group A: blistering localized to mucosa, superficial dermis. Combustion absent. Smoke output increasing. Contributing compounds: heat, sanctified aqueous solution, sugars. Outcome TBD. Awe threaded the clinical notes like embroidery. She hadn’t expected it to work this well. She hadn’t expected it to look like this.

It was one thing to plan a clean operation on paper - a harmless diagnostic, a litmus test with frosting - and another to watch a teenager press the heel of her hand into her sternum to keep from crying out.

Laura Lee stepped into Misty’s line of sight to pass another napkin to a vampire too polite to bleed on the table. “Deep breaths,” she said, soft and firm. “I know it hurts. It won’t last. Just breathe with me.” She breathed slow to demonstrate, one hand open at her chest. A few of them matched her without meaning to.

Misty’s throat felt tight. She wrote breathing synchronization reduces acute panic response because that was preferable to writing I might have done this.

“Lottie?” Laura Lee called, not taking her eyes from the frightened faces in front of her. “Do we have… anything that might help?” There was nothing in the Guild handbook for what helps when your cookies were consecrated by accident. There was, however, something in Lottie that remembered being five and newly unmade, remembered holy symbols pressed against feverish skin, remembered the burn and what dulled it.

“I might,” Lottie said, and the words came out a little hoarse. She ducked behind the serving table, out of the densest part of the smoke. Her hands shook once, then steadied. She bit the inside of her lip until taste turned copper-bright and clean. A bad idea? Absolutely. But not as bad as letting a roomful of people blister from her friend’s hospitality. She dug into her bag and pulled out the tiny travel jar she kept for emergencies - a concession to how often her life turned into one - and a sterile lancet she absolutely hadn’t stolen from the campus clinic.

Misty saw the glint of metal and froze. For a heartbeat, the whole scene narrowed to that - Lottie’s hand, the little cruel pin, the soft skin of her wrist. “What are you doing?” Misty demanded, voice too loud in the quiet. Her pen hovered midair.

“Help,” Lottie said simply. “If I’m wrong, it won’t do anything. If I’m right…”

“If you’re right, you’ll - ” Misty swallowed. Compromise your cover. Compromise control. She couldn’t say it out loud. “You’ll contaminate the scene.”

“Better than letting people choke on grace.” Lottie didn’t look at her when she said it. She had the lancet against her wrist now. Her pulse beat there, a small frantic bird.

She pressed. The sting was nothing - she’d had worse paper cuts. Blood welled up dark and quick. It smelled like everything she denied herself: heat and iron and a sweetness that was not human. It filled her mouth by scent alone. For a dizzy half-second the room tilted, and the old problem - If I lick my own wrist I will not stop until I hit bone - put cold hands on her shoulders.

Lottie closed her eyes, steadied the heavy swing of hunger, and opened them again. “Open,” she told the rosary girl, gentle as tapping on a locked door. “Just a drop.”

The girl had the sense to look at Laura Lee first. Laura Lee’s eyes were wet. She nodded once. “Trust her.”

Lottie pressed her bleeding wrist to the girl’s lower lip. A single drop slid inside.

To everyone else, it looked like nothing happened. To Lottie, it was thunder in miniature. The holy water’s wire-song flared as if surprised, then shivered and went quiet beneath the weight of her blood. The blisters didn’t vanish, but the smoke thinned. The girl’s breath hitched, then came easier.

“What - ” She pressed her fingers to her throat like someone feeling for a miracle. “It - stopped.”

“Good,” Lottie said. Her knees felt wobbly. “One more.” She moved fast then, not trusting herself to smell the air for too long at any one person. Dip, touch, gone. She made nonsense noises on purpose - not words, not names, just soft sounds in the space mothers make for frightened children: “Shh, shh, almost there, keep breathing, there you go, I know, I know.” People who will never be touched in tenderness let her put her wrist to their mouths because Laura Lee was beside them saying “You’re safe with us,” and because the pain made the usual rules not matter.

Misty watched, clipboard forgotten against her chest. Every reflex she had - to shout stop, to cite regulation, to pull Lottie back from the center of attention - stuttered and fell behind the reality of the room: vampires not burning but easing; Laura Lee’s hand on a shoulder; Lottie’s face gone pale and set with the kind of determination you only saw on people who didn’t get anything back for what they gave.

She had meant to protect the humans in the room. That had been the point. What she hadn’t accounted for - what she didn’t want to account for - was the way grace and harm could look like each other when you were far enough away from either.

“Water,” Laura Lee said, remembering suddenly. “Not for you,” she added to a vampire who flinched; “for washing.” She fetched a bowl and a clean cloth and dabbed at blistered skin where crumbs had stuck. She was praying under her breath - not performative, not for show, just the little words she kept in her pocket: “Be near. Be gentle. Be soft where I cannot.”

When she finished with one, she took a step back, head bowed. “Lord, forgive whoever did this,” she said, voice steadying as it rose. “They didn’t understand Your mercy.”

It was a simple sentence. It hit Misty like a thrown stone. Forgive whoever did this.

Misty’s fingers tightened around the clipboard until the edge bit her palm. The fluorescent bulbs threw long, trembling shadows across the concrete, and in one of them, she could see herself as the Guild saw her - efficient, loyal, unflinching. In another, she saw herself how Laura Lee might: a person who wanted order so badly she’d sanctified food.

Your mercy.

It was a field test, she told herself. A necessary screening. Liability mitigation. Language that had always soothed her now sounded like packing foam shoved into a wound.

On the far side of the room, one of the witches who’d had only a lick of frosting already looked better. “It’s easing,” she breathed. “It’s - whatever she’s doing is easing it.” She nodded toward Lottie as if naming it might make it ordinary.

Lottie swayed once and caught herself on the back of a chair. The smell of blood saturated the air - not just hers now, but the small broken places where blisters had popped. Every nerve she owned wanted to crawl out of her skin and drink the room dry. She bit her tongue, hard. Her vision black-flecked at the edges and then cleared. “No biting tonight,” she muttered to herself, not sure if she was joking or pleading.

“Sit,” Laura Lee told her, and it was the voice of people you can’t disobey even if you want to. Lottie sat. Laura Lee took her wrist gently, pressed a clean cloth to it, tied it off with purposeful hands. “Thank you,” she said, voice raw with it. “Thank you.”

Lottie laughed once, breathless. “I’ll invoice.”

It got a laugh from the werewolves near the door, a shaky ripple that cracked the panic enough for air to get in.

Misty wrote something - she didn’t even know what until she glanced down. Subject Matthews intervened with… She stopped. The obvious word would give too much away. She settled on nonstandard hemostatic agent; rapid relief observed. She could tell herself later that she had to be vague for confidentiality. She could tell herself a lot of things later.

Right now, she was watching Laura Lee bow her head again, not to the room, not to the Guild, but to someone Misty couldn’t file under any category that made sense.

“I’m so sorry,” Laura Lee said to the crowd, and to the air, and to whoever had sanctified the frosting under her nose. “I’m so, so sorry.”

A vampire boy with a lip ring shook his head. “Don’t - It wasn’t you.” He looked at the tray on the floor. “It was a nice idea.”

“It was,” Laura Lee said. Her smile went crooked and brave. “It still is.”

A legitimacy committee in Misty’s head voted to object. The committee lost.

There were humans shaking as the adrenaline ebbed. A werewolf wiped at his eyes and pretended it was dust. The ghost tried to write s’okay on a napkin and came away with a smear. People eased. Not everyone, not all at once, but enough that the buzz of panic softened to a tired murmur.

Misty could have stayed. She could have helped carry chairs back into rows and watched Laura Lee make herbal rinses and watched Lottie sit very still with her bandaged wrist clutched to her chest until the room stopped smelling like a chapel after a lightning strike. She could have.

Instead, her body had already decided. Her feet were moving, clipboard tucked so tight it might bruise her ribs. She threaded past Mari - who lowered the camera just long enough to look at her like don’t you dare - and avoided Laura Lee’s gaze entirely. The stairs up out of the basement felt longer than they ever had going down. At the last step, she paused where the shadows from the doorway cut across the cracked tile. The basement hum lifted toward her: breath, soft sobs, someone laughing because their body needed to release tension and didn’t care how it sounded. Laura Lee’s voice floated up distinguishable words: “mercy,” “together,” “healed.” Lottie’s voice, softer: “Just breathe with me.”

Misty pressed her mouth into a line and stared at the blank page tucked under her notes. Title blank, summary blank, conclusions forming like frost on glass.

She wrote, because writing was what she could still control.

Incident Report 115-C Working Title: The Communion Incident Summary: Unauthorized interspecies gathering resulted in cross-reactive response to sanctified consumables. Collateral distress among nocturnal populations. Human attendees unharmed. Countermeasures deployed by unknown means. Recommendations: Increase ratios; restrict…

She stopped mid-verb. She heard Laura Lee’s prayer again - forgive whoever did this - and her own neat handwriting blurred for a second. Misty swallowed hard, crossed out increase ratios, and wrote cease use of liturgical adulterants in mixed-company settings like it had been her idea all along.

Then she snapped the clipboard closed. The sound echoed in the stairwell, oddly loud. She told herself it was the right move to vacate the scene, to preserve authority, to file immediately. She told herself a lot in quick succession, until the edges of guilt were dull enough to touch.

On her way out, she passed the corkboard in the hall where this had begun. A yellow corner of flyer stuck out from under someone’s notice about a yard sale. The halo over the o still made the word look like it was glowing.

Misty didn’t tear it down.

Back in the basement, Laura Lee rinsed a cloth and wrung it out with steady hands. “If you can’t keep it down,” she told a vampire softly, “we’ll make tea and wait. We won’t leave.”

Lottie rested her head against the cold metal of the table leg for one second, eyes closed, listening. The holy water’s song had softened to a faint, sulky hum in the room, like wires cooling. Over it, other sounds rose: a witch telling a werewolf it was okay to cry, a human asking a vampire where she got her sweater, Laura Lee’s unshowy prayer.

“Lord,” Laura Lee said, voice level now, “teach us how to make peace that doesn’t hurt.”

Lottie’s mouth curled, small and tired. “Amen,” she said, and meant it.

The dorm had two windows that never quite shut all the way and one overhead light that hummed like a tired refrigerator. Tonight, the light was off. The room was lit by a desk lamp shaped like a tulip and the thin orange strip of a parking lot sodium-vapor lamp leaking through the blinds. The air smelled like burned sugar and cheap hand soap, faint traces of both clinging to fabric and hair as if the mixer had followed them home and refused to leave.

Laura Lee sat on the edge of her bed, cardigan folded neatly beside her like a small sun. Her head was bowed, fingers laced, lips moving around words too soft to hear. The lamplight made a chapel out of the blank cinderblock wall behind her. Under the glow, her face looked both older and unbearably young.

Misty stood just inside the door and did not take off her shoes. Perfect posture as armor; clipboard hugged to her chest like a shield; hair still pinned exactly in the places she’d pinned it at 7 a.m. A smudge of flour marked the cuff of her blazer, a pale crescent against navy. The glass vial that had been in her pocket wasn’t there anymore. She’d washed it out in the bathroom sink, watching the last shimmer of holiness spiral down a drain ringed with toothpaste foam. No one spoke. The lamp hummed. The window clicked in its frame. Somewhere in the hallway a microwave beeped, followed by a muffled cheer and the smell of instant ramen.

Laura Lee breathed in. Breathed out. Lifted her head.

“Did anyone die?” she asked, voice steady.

Misty flinched at the question because of how simply it landed. “No,” she said. “My preliminary observation suggests full recovery across the affected cohort. Minor dermal burns. Throat irritation. Afebrile response. No fatalities.”

Laura Lee nodded once and swallowed. “Good. That’s good.”

She didn’t say thank God. She didn’t say thank you. She pressed her palms together as if she had more to say to Someone else first, and then she looked at Misty. The look was not sharp. It was not even disappointed in the way teachers get disappointed when a student forgets their homework. It was… careful. As if moving too fast might spook a deer.

“You believe in the same God I do,” Laura Lee said. “How could you turn Him into a weapon?”

Misty’s spine tightened. The clipboard dug harder against her ribs. “He gave us rules,” she answered, more quickly than she meant to. “I just followed them.”

Silence again, except not the easy kind. Laura Lee glanced down at her fingers and unthreaded them. “Rules without compassion aren’t holy,” she said softly. “They’re cruelty in a nicer outfit.”

Misty’s mouth opened and shut. Her brain found a dozen pre-approved rhetorical lanes and none of them felt wide enough to hold the scene she’d left downstairs: smoke like prayer gone wrong, a girl in a rosary swallowing a single drop of something that had no category and then breathing like she wanted to live again.

“It wasn’t - ” Misty tried, stopped, reset the sentence. “It wasn’t meant to harm. It was meant to identify. A diagnostic. A - ” She hunted for a word that would feel sterile enough to step on. “ - screening.”

Laura Lee made a small sound that was not quite a laugh. “I don’t think the body knows the difference between harm and screening when pain is involved.”

“You invited predators to a student mixer,” Misty said, as if the moral math might still add up to her side if she stacked the facts right. “On an open campus. Without Guild clearance. Do you understand the risk you created?”

Laura Lee’s expression didn’t change. “I invited my neighbors to share food.”

Misty pushed away from the door and set the clipboard on the dresser, face down so the words wouldn’t look back at her. Her hands, suddenly empty, didn’t know where to go. She folded them behind her back, then in front of her, then held them loosely at her sides.

“Hospitality is not a risk-free activity,” she said, hearing the faint, precise cadence of a training module in her own voice. “Your intentions were good. The outcome was… suboptimal. My intervention prevented escalation.”

Laura Lee tilted her head, kindness lowering its gaze but not leaving the room. “You put holy water in the frosting.”

Misty did not look at the sink. “Grade II purity in a ratio that should have remained sub-perceptual.”

“You trusted ratios more than you trusted people.” No accusation in it; just the fact of a thing said aloud.

“Ratios don’t lie,” Misty said, and immediately hated how small she sounded. She took a breath and reached for the language she always knew would hold: “The Guild exists to protect humans first, then compliant allies. Tonight there were humans present. I neutralized - I mitigated - I ensured early warning if a hostile actor attempted to weaponize the gathering.”

“The only weapon there was the one you made,” Laura Lee said, and it did not come out like a strike. It came out like grief. “We had people - children, Misty - shaking on that concrete floor while you took notes.”

Misty’s cheeks grew hot. She heard the pen in her head, the scratch of it: Phase Two: Reaction begins. “I documented to improve response for future incidents,” she said, the defense neatly pre-cut and packaged. It didn’t sound right in this light. “And I helped. I brought water. I - ”

“You wrote while Lottie bled, so our friends would stop smoking from the mouth.”

The words were simple and accurate and sliced her open from breastbone to bellybutton. Misty breathed in sharply; the memory rose too fast: the silver light of the basement, the smell of ozone and sugar, Lottie’s face white and set as she pressed her wrist to other people’s mouths like a sacrament and didn’t shake until after.

“She shouldn’t have done that,” Misty said, because panic always came out of her as control. “She compromised - She could have - ” Lost control. Shown them what she is. Shown me what she is. The last part she did not say. “It was reckless.”

“Maybe,” Laura Lee said. “Or maybe it was love.”

Misty clenched her jaw until it hurt. Love was not a protocol. Love didn’t keep campuses safe. Love got people killed. “Love does not supersede safety,” she said, drawing the line as crisply as a ruler across paper.

Laura Lee watched her for a long moment, and Misty had that unsettled sense again that she was being seen the way a body is seen by a scanner: layers down, bones lit, old breaks glowing. “I think you believe that,” Laura Lee said gently. “I also think you’re very tired.” Misty almost laughed. It came out a sharp exhale instead. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Fatigue blurs the line between prudence and fear,” Laura Lee said. “You did what you thought was right. I know.” She looked down at her folded cardigan, smoothed a wrinkle with her thumb. “And I still think it was wrong.”

Misty’s hands found the sink without permission. She turned the tap on low and watched water ribbon over her fingers. She scrubbed at a smear of dried frosting on her palm with the pad of her thumb, then rinsed, then scrubbed again when she imagined she could still feel a shimmer. Her reflection in the little mirror over the sink looked like someone she recognized but couldn’t quite name.

“When I was nine,” she said to the mirror, surprising herself, “I won a safety award for identifying a faulty exit sign in the school auditorium. The principal shook my hand in front of everyone. I thought: If I am careful enough, no one will ever get hurt.” She turned the water off. The drip continued anyway, a soft metronome. “It’s not a weapon to insist on caution.”

“It becomes one when you’re aiming at people,” Laura Lee said.

“Vampires,” Misty corrected.

Laura Lee’s mouth quirked, not unkindly. “People.”

They sat in that for a while. The radiator kicked and hissed. A car door slammed outside and laughter drifted up - unremarkable laughter, godsend laughter, proof the world had not ended downstairs even if it felt like something had ended in their room.

“Do you think I don’t know what they are?” Laura Lee asked at last.

“Do you think I don’t know what I am?” The lamp caught on her cross, a dull shine. “I know better than you how sharp they can be. How sharp I can be. You think I threw a party to pretend we aren’t dangerous. I threw a party because I know we are.”

She looked at the little stack of napkins she’d brought back by mistake, the ones that read Faith, Fellowship, & Frosting, and smiled at them, sad. “If we only ever gather to hunt, that will be all we know how to do.”

Misty sat on the desk chair because standing felt like trying to hold up the ceiling with her shoulders. The chair creaked; she did not wince at the imperfection. “You’re asking me to trust a roomful of impulses,” she said quietly. “To trust yours. To trust hers.” A beat. “I don’t… do that.”

“I’m asking you to trust me,” Laura Lee said. “And to trust God where you cannot trust me.”

The words should have warmed Misty. They hurt. “He gave us rules,” she repeated, but it had less starch now, more plea.

“And He gave us mercy to read the rules with,” Laura Lee said. “Otherwise all we have are knives disguised as commandments.”

The desk lamp hummed louder for a breath, then softened. It seemed to Misty that the room breathed with them - this small, ugly room with the cinderblock walls and the futon that dipped and the window that didn’t close, this little stupid holy place where two people were trying very hard not to break each other.

“I filed an incident report,” Misty said, which was as close as she could get to confession without heaving. “The Communion Incident.” The title tasted bad. “I documented variables. I recommended changes.”

“Changes like what?” Laura Lee asked.

Misty’s mind flashed to the line she’d written on the stairs and then crossed out. Increase ratios. She swallowed. “Like… ceasing the use of sanctified adulterants in mixed company.”

Laura Lee’s eyebrows lifted, just a little. “That sounds like compassion disguised as policy.”

“It’s pending,” Misty said quickly. “I haven’t actually… filed it.” She surprised herself again. She always filed immediately. That was part of the ritual: observe, document, submit, cleanse. “I want to review the footage.” Mari’s flip phone. The thought of Mari’s commentary in an official archive made her grimace and, absurdly, want to laugh. Laura Lee nodded. “You could also sleep.”

“I don’t - That isn’t - Sleep is not necessary for - ” Her voice gentled of its own accord. “I will attempt rest later.”

They were quiet again. Laura Lee reached for her cardigan and folded it a second time even though it didn’t need it. Misty watched her hands do this pointless, tender thing and had the sudden, childlike impulse to ask if she could put her head down. She didn’t.

“You prayed for me,” Misty said to the room, to the lamp, to the window crack letting in the orange neon. She had heard it in the basement between triage and smoke: Lord, forgive whoever did this. “I prayed for all of us,” Laura Lee said. Then she met Misty’s eyes with a steadiness that felt like stepping into shallow water and realizing it was the ocean. “That includes you.”

“I don’t need - ” Misty started, then let the sentence end there because she didn’t know how to say I don’t know how to be forgiven for things I still think might be right without crying. Laura Lee slid over on the bed and patted the mattress once, an invitation measured in inches. “Sit,” she said, borrowing the same voice she’d used on Lottie when she tied off her wrist. “Just for a minute.”

Misty sat. They were not touching. The lamp buzzed. The parking lot light hissed. The room smelled like burned sugar and hand soap and the wool of Laura Lee’s cardigan, and underneath all that, very faintly, like iron gone cold.

“What will you do the next time someone posts a flyer?” Laura Lee asked.

Misty looked at the clipboard on the dresser, at the pen clipped to the top, at the neat square of blank form visible under the flipped cover. “Observe,” she said automatically, then softer, “And… ask questions before I act.”

“That sounds like faith,” Laura Lee said.

“It sounds like uncertainty,” Misty said.

“They’re cousins.”

Misty huffed something that might have been a laugh. “You should… not do mixers for a while.”

“No,” Laura Lee said. “But next time I’ll make savory.”

“Mercy,” Misty said before she could stop herself. Laura Lee laughed, and the laugh did not make Misty feel like she’d failed at being serious.

The clock on the desk blinked 1:17 a.m., then 1:18. Misty stood, took the clipboard, and flipped it open. She drew a single line through the word Filed at the bottom and wrote Pending in neat block letters. She could almost hear a trainer in her head scolding her for delay. She ignored it.

“Good night,” Laura Lee said.

Misty hesitated at the door, then looked back. “I’ll bring tea tomorrow,” she said, which was the closest she could get to apology without the word splitting her tongue. “For throats.”

Laura Lee smiled. “Bring enough for yourself.”

Misty nodded once, a soldier’s nod to a command she chose to follow. She stepped into the hall, and the door clicked softly shut behind her.

She didn’t go far. She stood under the EXIT sign she would have reported as faulty when she was nine and leaned her head against the cool cinderblock wall. In her mind she saw the basement again: Lottie’s bleeding wrist; a girl’s breath coming easier; Laura Lee’s small, stubborn prayers; her own fingers turning a vial until it uncorked.

She opened the incident report on her clipboard, reread the title, and under it, in tidy script, added a single line: Notes: Consider the possibility that mercy is also a control measure. Then she closed the folder and went to find a sink that didn’t smell like toothpaste, not because her hands were dirty but because some habits are prayers with different names.

Inside the room, Laura Lee lay down fully clothed, eyes open to the tulip lamp glow. She whispered a final sentence into the quiet that had nothing to do with rules and everything to do with hope. “Teach us to keep each other,” she said, and let the night hold the answer.

By noon the campus had a new urban legend and three different versions of the truth. Mari’s LiveJournal post went up at 8:03 a.m., tagged #campusculture and #bakedandbetrayed. She wrote it hunched over a dorm lounge computer that kept making dying-modem noises, Ash asleep on her sneakers. By 8:17 it had been printed, stapled, and slipped under half the doors in the humanities building.

Cryptid Weekly - Special Report “THE BAKE SALE THAT ALMOST KILLED HALF THE STUDENT BODY” subhead: not clickbait, please do not sue me Last night’s “Nocturnal Fellowship Mixer” (sponsored by the increasingly suspicious Taxidermy Club) ended in mass coughing, light face smoking, and HUNDREDS - okay, dozens - of students discovering they are allergic to “mystery frosting.” Sources say “it felt like inhaling a church.”

Updates to follow. If you died, comment below.

Humans passed copies between classes with scandalized delight. “Food contamination,” someone said by the vending machines. “Seniors pulling a prank,” someone else insisted in the library line. A pre-med kid opined loudly about “mass psychogenic illness.” Two freshmen swore they’d seen a special-effects fog machine. A theology major solemnly declared it a parable and refused to elaborate.

The supernatural kids didn’t print anything. They didn’t have to. Their rumor network moved under the skin of campus - glances that lasted a second too long, whispers riding cigarette smoke in the courtyard, notes folded so small they were practically amulets.

Someone poisoned us.

Holy water. It had to be.

This is a Guild move.

The Guild knows.

By lunch, the old chapel basement had quietly become a clinic. Lottie spent the morning hauling stolen ice packs from the athletic center and mixing saline rinses in repurposed Gatorade jugs, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair pinned back with whatever clips she could find. She had no medical degree, but she had the kind of triage face that made people settle: attentive, kind, a little scared. She checked throats with a pocket flashlight and told everyone the same truth: you’re going to be okay.

A vampire sophomore with blistered lips flinched when Lottie approached. “Don’t want your… y’know,” she muttered, embarrassed at needing anything.

“It’s saline,” Lottie said, showing the jug. “If I gave you the other thing, I’d need an audience and a therapist.”

The girl snorted, which turned into a cough, which softened into a laugh. Lottie eased her head back, dripped the rinse, and hummed the barest thread of a tune - not magic, not glamour, just human rhythm to knit panic back into patience. The blistering calmed. The girl closed her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Lottie murmured. “I’m about to accidentally schedule a meeting.”

She texted six numbers and one landline she shouldn’t have, then taped hand-written flyers to the inside stairwell of the bio building: URGENT TAXIDERMY CLUB MEETING – 3:00 p.m., Basement Attendance not mandatory (but please come). Bring water.

The lies in the poster were small and tender. “Taxidermy” was a joke they all got by now; the water was for nerves.

By 2:58, the basement hummed like a beehive.

Werewolves in flannels leaned against pillars, sleeves hiding the tremor in their hands. Witches kept their coffees close and their eyes closer. A fae girl braided and unbraided the same silver ribbon. Two ghosts attempted solidarity by flickering in rhythm. A handful of humans - friends, partners, stubborn roommates - sat in the back row with the haunted politeness of people who’d been told not to touch anything.

Laura Lee stood at the front beside a whiteboard that said WELCOME in careful handwriting, as if kindness could preempt terror. She’d brought tea. Of course she had. She held the thermos like an offering.

Lottie climbed a chair and clapped once. The room quieted, not because she was loud but because she looked like someone who might apologize to a hurricane and have it listen.

“Hi,” she said. “Thank you for coming. I’m… really sorry.” A ripple. Someone near the front clicked their tongue. Someone else hissed.

“I didn’t do it,” Lottie added quickly, cheeks flushing. “But I invited you. So I’m sorry that - what happened - happened in our space.” A werewolf with sharp cheekbones raised a hand, knuckles white.

“Say it,” he growled softly. “Say holy water.”

“It was holy water,” Lottie said. The word made the air go thin. “We can’t prove it - yet - but - ” She didn’t look at Misty’s empty chair. “ - we all know how it felt.”

A witch with lavender lipstick leaned forward. “So it’s started.”

“What is it?” asked a human girl, hand on her vampire girlfriend’s knee.

“The Guild,” the witch said simply. “They’re here.”

Laura Lee stepped in, voice steady. “We don’t know that.”

“They used sacrament like a bomb,” the witch shot back. “That’s a signature.”

A vampire in a leather jacket spat delicately into a napkin and lifted it to show a faint grey smear. “Blessings as chemical warfare,” she said. “Cute.”

Lottie held up both hands. “I know. I know. It’s… awful. We can be angry and also plan. Both at once.”

“Plan to do what?” someone called from the back. “Pray harder?”

Eyes turned to Laura Lee. She did not flinch. “Forgiveness is strength,” she said quietly. “And clarity. If we panic, we make it easier for them to win.”

“Forgiveness is a luxury,” the leather-jacket vampire snapped. “We have people who still can’t swallow. We have first-years who think they’re dying because they ate a cookie at a church basement. Our clarity is that we’re under attack.”

A few people hissed their agreement. A werewolf’s chair scraped against the floor like a threat.

Lottie stepped down off the chair and into the space between Laura Lee and the crowd, palms open - not to stop anyone, just to be seen doing it. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.” She ticked points off on her fingers.

“First: if you’re still reacting, you come to me or Laura Lee. We have rinses that help. The witches have countercharms for the worst of it. No one goes through it alone."

“Second: we stop eating anything we didn’t make ourselves. I’m sorry. I know. It sucks. We’ll organize safe kitchens. Witches can bless the salt, unbless the salt, whatever salt wants, I don’t care, we’ll do it."

“Third: we lay low. No dramatics, no public scenes, no feeding near buildings with cameras. If the Guild is watching, we give them dead air.”

“And fourth?” the leather jacket asked, unimpressed.

Lottie exhaled, slow. “Fourth - we talk to each other. And if anyone sees something that smells like a policy, we don’t try to be heroes. We come back here and figure it out together.”

“Translation,” murmured the witch, not unkindly: “Try not to die.”

“Preferably,” Lottie said, a wry slant to it that made a few people smile despite themselves.

Laura Lee crossed to the tea and unscrewed the lid. “If anyone needs warm,” she said. “No - no sanctification. I promise.” She poured a cup, tasted it first, and only then handed it off.

In the back row, a human boy lifted his hand, awkward. “Can we… do anything? The humans, I mean.”

“Yes,” Lottie said immediately. “You can tell the other humans this was an allergic reaction. You can tell them we’re fine. You can be boring on purpose.”

“Deep cover,” he said, nodding solemnly. His vampire girlfriend squeezed his fingers under the chair.

The door opened and closed with a soft click. For a heartbeat, the room bristled.

It was only Mari, out of breath, hair in a lopsided ponytail, clutching a stack of freshly printed Cryptid Weekly like talismans. Ash padded in behind her and flopped at Lottie’s feet, a sigh that was almost a benediction.

“They’re saying ‘epidemic’ upstairs,” Mari reported, wide-eyed. “The RAs are telling people it was a mass allergy to… nuts? EpiPens are trending. Also, someone in Economics called it a market correction but for immune systems.”

“Good,” Lottie said. “Let them have that. Spread it.” Mari glanced at Laura Lee, then Lottie, then the crowd. “Are we mad?”

“Yes,” half the room said.

“Cool.” She lifted a newsletter. “Then we stay funny. Panic is their brand. Ours is gossip and survival. And Ash content.”

Ash thumped his tail. The room exhaled a little. The smallest laugh rippled like a hand smoothing wrinkled sheets.

Lottie caught Laura Lee’s eye. A shared pulse of gratitude crossed between them, plain as speech. We’re not losing them. Not yet.

Across campus, in a windowless classroom that smelled like dust and authority, Natalie sat through a briefing that felt like a verdict. The slide on the projector said WISAYOK UNIVERSITY – SITUATIONAL UPDATE in bold serif font. Below it: High-Probability Corruption Site. Someone in administration had practiced the phrasing until it felt like math.

Gen presented with clinical calm. “Unusual density of nocturnal activity. Evidence of inter-species coordination. Hostile elements likely embedded. Public narrative currently favors ‘allergic event.’” Click. Next slide: blurry photos, indistinct shapes, a set of fairy lights that made everything look like a wedding reception for ghosts.

Shauna stood beside her, arms crossed. “We’ve lost control of the perimeter. If there is a nest, it’s getting bold.”

“Or we’re late,” Misty said, voice flat. She didn’t look at anyone. She took notes like she was paying off a debt.

“Recommendation?” Gen asked. It wasn’t really a question.

“Containment,” Shauna said.

The word lodged in Natalie’s throat like a splinter. Containment meant door-kicking, floodlights, and public safety statements crafted by people who’d never seen a teenager cry because they couldn’t stop their teeth from changing. Containment meant the Guild turned campus into a map.

Natalie glanced at the photo on the third slide. The fairy lights, cheap and brave, strung in a damp basement she recognized. Her stomach flipped. Lottie’s WELCOME handwriting had bled through the paper in one corner. You couldn’t see it unless you’d seen Lottie write. Natalie had.

Heat crawled up her neck. “This is a mistake,” she heard herself say.

Shauna’s gaze cut to her. “Clarify.”

Natalie straightened because she knew how to do that even when everything inside was tilting. “If we roll in now, we turn rumor into war,” she said. “We spook everything into the woods. We lose the network we’re trying to understand. We make enemies we don’t need.” She swallowed. “This campus has always been… noisy. Let it be noise.”

“Complicity disguised as prudence,” Misty muttered, a reflex.

“Strategy disguised as not being an idiot,” Natalie shot back, too quick. Her hands were steady on the table because she made them be.

Silence stretched. Gen clicked her pen once. Twice.

“Noted,” Shauna said finally. It was not agreement. It was a pin in a map.

The meeting dissolved into logistics. Natalie heard none of it. Her pulse was in her ears, in her fingertips, in her teeth. High-probability corruption site repeated until the words sanded down to meaninglessness.

She left as soon as she could. In the hallway she pressed her forehead to the cool cinderblock and let the dread heave its weight across her chest. Hiding place had always been a temporary concept; she’d known that. Knowing wasn’t the same as hearing it read off a slide. She pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over Lottie’s name and didn’t press. She texted two words to no one instead, typed and deleted twice, then finally sent them to herself:

Hold. Ground.

She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, breathed once, and went to class because camouflage sometimes looks like attendance.

By sunset, the campus had sorted itself into lines no one had drawn. Humans crowded the dining hall in a kind of communal denial, spooning mashed potatoes like sandbags against a flood.

The supernatural drifted to the edges - to the chapel basement, to the bio building stairwell, to the shadow under the library’s broken clock.

Lottie stood at the basement door and counted heads as they came in - not as a roll call, but as a prayer. Laura Lee poured tea. Mari posted.

Misty filed nothing.

And somewhere between the last soft laugh and the first long shadow, the campus exhaled the beginning of a pact: We are here. We are tired. We are not running yet.

The chapel courtyard was the color of a half-healed bruise: purple shadows pooling under the hedges, a smear of gold still clinging to the bell tower. Cicadas ticked like misfiring clocks. On the steps, Laura Lee sat with her knees together and her hands folded around a small wooden cross, the soft-worn kind you keep in a pocket and worry smooth with thumbs. She looked like a painting that had been left out in the rain and dried gently - edges a little blurred, colors stubbornly luminous.

Lottie paused at the edge of the courtyard, where sunlight spilled like a low tide over the bricks. She could feel it on her skin before she stepped into it - a thin, stinging veil. Not enough to scorch, but enough to remind. She lifted her sleeve without thinking and crossed the last patch of light quickly, as if she were late for something and not avoiding pain.

“Hey,” she said, settling a careful step below Laura Lee so she could look up instead of down. Polite angles mattered in the architecture of comfort.

Laura Lee didn’t jump; she just exhaled and let her shoulders drop a fraction. “Hey,” she echoed. Her fingers tightened around the cross, then loosened again. The wood had the faint sheen of something carried through too many anxious days.

They sat that way for a while. The chapel doors behind them were propped open by a folding chair that had lost one rubber foot; each breeze squeaked it against stone in a small, domestic complaint. Down the path, a student in a hoodie cut through the quad at a fast walk and didn’t look over.

The campus hummed its evening noises - dorm windows thudding, laughter breaking like small waves, the distant metallic rattle of a dumpster lid.

“You should be inside,” Lottie said eventually, gentle. “You look cold.”

“I’m not,” Laura Lee said. “Just… trying to be still long enough to hear what I believe again.”

Lottie smiled with her mouth and not her eyes. “Let me know if it says anything actionable.”

That earned a ghost of a laugh; then the quiet folded back over them. Laura Lee rubbed her thumb along the cross’s edge. “I keep thinking,” she said softly, “if I can’t even host a bake sale without hurting someone, maybe I’m not meant to lead anything.”

Lottie felt that sentence like a draught along bones. “You didn’t hurt anyone,” she said, and she meant it as hard as she could. “You tried to feed them.”

Her voice shivered on the last pronoun, a little tremor she couldn’t quite cage - part sincerity, part the thing that lived in her throat and woke when anyone said feed. She cleared it with a tiny cough and looked away, letting her gaze snag on the stained-glass sliver visible through the cracked chapel door. The window inside showed a lamb with a halo. It always made her hungry and ashamed in the same instant.

Laura Lee watched her, heard the tremor, decided to let it be. “Trying isn’t the same as doing,” she murmured. “Intent doesn’t cool a burn.”

“No,” Lottie said. The sky was deepening to indigo; the angle of sun softened and with it the ache across her skin. She let her shoulders lower. “But you didn’t put the fire there.”

Laura Lee’s hands went still. The little cross sat in her palm like an answer she’d been trying not to read.

“Someone did,” Lottie added, quieter. “On purpose.”

Laura Lee kept her gaze on the bricks for a heartbeat longer, counting the moss in the mortar like beads. Then she looked up. “You’re sure.”

“About the purpose?” Lottie nodded once. “Holy water doesn’t jump bowls on its own.”

A wrinkle formed between Laura Lee’s brows - the crease she got when she was solving a problem she didn’t want to exist. “It could have been anyone,” she said, and it wasn’t denial so much as a last courteous knock on the door of doubt.

“It could have,” Lottie agreed. She had never liked accusing. It tasted too much like older voices. “But it wasn’t.”

Silence opened like a book. The pages smelled like sugar and smoke and an empty vial rinsed in a bathroom sink.

Laura Lee closed her fingers around the cross again. “Misty,” she said, not as a question. The word didn’t curdle in her mouth. It landed and lay there, heavy and true.

Lottie didn’t answer right away. She opened her hand in a small, helpless gesture and then let it fall. “She thinks it keeps people safe,” she said finally. “Humans, mostly. She thinks the rules are good. She thinks… she won’t have to be afraid if the ratios are right.”

“You’re making excuses for her,” Laura Lee said, and there was no censure in it. Only a kind astonishment, as if she were watching someone keep feeding a fire with water that turned to steam.

“I’m making sense of her,” Lottie said. “It’s how I don’t…” She trailed off, then smiled crookedly. “Frenzy.”

That pulled an actual laugh from Laura Lee, brief and soft. “That’s a terrible joke.”

“I’m a terrible person,” Lottie said lightly, as if saying it first would make it untrue. She lifted her head; the last bar of sun had slipped behind the chapel roof.

Her skin relaxed as if unbracing. It always felt like stepping out of shoes that were one size too small. “I don’t think she wanted to hurt anyone. I think she wanted to know who could hurt her.” “And so she hurt them first.” Laura Lee let out a slow breath that sounded like something torn carefully, so it wouldn’t rip. “What a small way to live.”

“Safe,” Lottie said. “For some.”

Laura Lee’s eyes flicked to her. “Not for you.”

“Never for me,” Lottie said, simple as weather.

They sat with that, too. The chapel bell cracked once for the quarter hour, then rasped because the rope stuck. Lottie watched a moth worry itself against the door jamb, light-struck and stupid and determined. “They’re scared,” she said. “The ones downstairs. They think the Guild is here to purge. They’re not wrong.”

Laura Lee bowed her head, and Lottie could hear the shape of a prayer forming under her breath - not words yet, just the quiet muscular gathering of intention. When she looked up, her face was no less gentle, but the gentleness had a spine. “Then we protect them,” she said.

“We?”

“Us,” Laura Lee corrected, and the word felt like a candle lit and cupped. “I will not let my kindness make me a vector. If they use my language to hurt my neighbors, I will learn a new language.”

“Swearing?” Lottie offered.

“Strategizing,” Laura Lee said, though the corner of her mouth lifted.

“You sure?” Lottie asked. “Strategizing gets… less pretty.”

“I don’t need pretty,” Laura Lee said. “I need true. And faithful.”

“Faithful to what?” Lottie’s voice was not mocking. She honestly wanted to know where the center would be if they moved the fence posts.

“To the people who sat on concrete with burning throats and still said ‘sorry’ when they bumped the chair beside them.” Laura Lee’s gaze held steady. “To the girl who bled herself so we would stop smoking. To the ones who hissed because they were scared and still stayed in the room. To the ones who will never be safe enough to admit what they are, and to the ones who believed a bake sale could be a sanctuary.”

She swallowed, small muscles working. “To mercy that doesn’t require anyone to be harmless.”

It was Lottie’s turn to laugh, and she did, quiet and raw. “You’re going to get in trouble,” she said, and she loved her for it.

“I usually am,” Laura Lee said, with the mildness of someone who had decided a long time ago that worth and approval rarely shared a pew.

The last light left the front steps entirely. Evening settled on their shoulders like a shawl that finally fit. Lottie’s body stopped humming with warning and started humming with hunger; she recognized the switch with an old, weary intimacy and filed it away for later.

Not now. Not here. She pulled a lighter from her pocket - cheap, green, faded - and held it up. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s make a spectacle of normalcy.”

Inside the chapel, the air had that cold, old-stone smell, as if the building exhaled its age at night when no one was around to be impressed. They moved down the side aisle, past hymnals with soft-broken spines and prayer cards tucked between pages like pressed leaves.

Lottie took two votives from a dish by the sacristy, set them in their little glass cups. Laura Lee struck the lighter; Lottie cupped her hand. Flame flared, small and animal, then settled to a steady breathing.

They set the candles near the back where the light wouldn’t be obvious from the quad. The glass caught their faces in double - Laura Lee’s calm and a little wrecked; Lottie’s pale and fox-bright, pupils wide. For a second the reflection merged them into a single composite: one saintly, one haunted, both lit by something too stubborn to be extinguished by embarrassment or policy.

“Do we pray?” Lottie asked, not teasing.

“Only if you want to,” Laura Lee said.

“I want to want to,” Lottie admitted. “Does that count?”

“It always has,” Laura Lee said.

They didn’t speak for a while. Lottie watched the way candlelight refused to be still, the way it insisted on trembling even when nothing moved in the room. Outside, the campus kept living - someone shouted a greeting, a bike chain clicked, a door slammed, laughter spooled out and thinned, the infinite small proofs that the world was not pausing while they considered how to defend it.

“Laura Lee,” Lottie said at last.

“Mhm?”

“If I ask you for help,” Lottie said, and it cost her something to say it so plainly, “it might mean breaking rules you think are holy.”

Laura Lee’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then we’ll decide which ones were only ever costumes.”

Lottie’s throat tightened in a way that had nothing to do with thirst. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making me be good before you let me be loved.” She grimaced, then made a face at herself. “Sorry. That sounded like a bad lyric.”

“It sounded like truth,” Laura Lee said. She looked toward the door, toward the steps and the courtyard and the invisible line where the campus turned from sandstone to rumor.

“We should tell them we’ll watch the doors,” she added, more practical now. “Take shifts. Pair a witch with a wolf, a human with a ghost, a vampire with someone who will tell them to sit down when they start to spiral.”

“Taxidermy Club security,” Lottie said, and couldn’t help the grin. “Clipboards optional.”

“Clipboards, mandatory,” Laura Lee said, and a shadow of mischief warmed her voice. “But not Misty’s. Not for this.”

Lottie nodded. The decision sat in her chest like a second candle. “She’s not your enemy,” she said, because she needed that on the record even if it complicated everything. “Not yet.”

“I know,” Laura Lee said. “That’s why this will be hardest.”

They blew out the candles together, not out of fear but because there were other lights to tend. Smoke curled up, sweet and thin, and vanished into rafters that had heard much worse and kept standing. They stepped back into the violet evening; the chapel swallowed the last of the gold. The courtyard felt cooler, the cicadas louder, the hedges more like witnesses.

On the threshold, Lottie glanced sideways. “We’re calling it the Taxidermy Club still, right? For tradition.”

“For cover,” Laura Lee corrected. “And because the truth is too tender to say out loud all the time.”

They started down the steps. Behind them, the chapel door sighed closed. In the brickwork at their feet, weeds pushed up where mortar had loosened. Lottie thought of roots and rules and which ones cracked stone first. Laura Lee tucked the cross into her pocket like a promise she intended to keep but not worship.

By the time they reached the path, other shapes were moving in the half-light - wolves in flannel, witches swelling with caffeine, humans clutching tote bags like improvised shields. The campus’s secret city stirred. Under the umbrella of a ridiculous name and the memory of sugared smoke, a sanctuary had been declared, not by decree but by attendance.

If there was a list of things Mari Ibarra wasn’t supposed to do, “sneak into a college she didn’t attend” would probably be somewhere near the top - right under “trespass on federal property” and “use the Dean’s Wi-Fi to torrent The O.C..”

But the thing about Mari was that she’d never been particularly concerned with rules. Rules were for people with consequences. She was consequence-resistant - a phenomenon that could probably be studied by scientists if she ever sat still long enough to let them.

At seven forty-three in the morning, Wisayok University was half-asleep. The dorm hallways smelled faintly of burnt coffee and industrial disinfectant. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead like they were just as tired as the students. Mari, dragging two suitcases and clutching a Dunkin’ iced coffee the color of old caramel, paused in front of the front desk.

The desk was empty.

No attendant, no clipboard, not even one of those overly peppy resident assistants who normally existed solely to ruin fun.

All that sat on the counter was a flickering monitor and a sticky note in blue gel pen that read, “BACK IN 5 (PROBABLY).”

Mari took a long sip of her coffee and stared at the note, unimpressed. “Yeah,” she muttered, “I’ve been hearing ‘five minutes’ since 1999, and Britney still hasn’t called me back.”

She glanced down the hallway. Empty. A single door slammed somewhere in the distance, followed by muffled swearing and the sound of someone tripping over a backpack.

It was now or never.

Mari adjusted her sunglasses - they were oversized and glittery, even though they didn’t hide much - and rolled her suitcases toward the elevator like she owned the place.

As the doors slid open, she caught sight of her reflection in the dull metal surface. Bedazzled jeans, pink velour jacket that said JUICY across the back, hair just barely brushed. She looked like she’d time-traveled straight out of an MTV music video.

“Okay, reality show confessional,” she whispered to herself as the elevator began to rise. “If I get caught, I’ll just say I’m doing an independent study in Paranormal Sociology. That sounds real, right? Like, that’s a degree somewhere. Probably.”

The elevator dinged. Third floor.

The hallway was quiet - too quiet. She could practically hear the fluorescent lights buzzing. Every door looked the same: beige wood, tiny nameplate, magnetic dry-erase board with “Midterm Hell!” or “Call Mom!” scribbled on it.

Mari stopped in front of one that read A. GREEN.

The door was unlocked.

“God, college security really is worse than concert security,” she murmured, easing it open with her hip.

The room was small but spotless - one bed unmade, sheets in disarray, textbooks stacked on the desk like a miniature fortress. The other side, though, was pristine. Blank bed. Empty dresser. A roommate-shaped void.

Mari’s grin spread like wildfire.

“Well, well, well,” she said, setting her coffee on the nearest surface. “If it isn’t fate.”

She wheeled her suitcases inside and shut the door behind her.

There was a strange sort of calm in the act - the confidence of someone who had absolutely no legal or moral right to be there but carried herself like she was moving into a beach house she’d just inherited.

She popped open the first suitcase. A cascade of clothes spilled out: velour in every color, a suspicious amount of leopard print, at least three shirts featuring rhinestone skulls. From the second suitcase came the essentials - a pink hairdryer, an alarming number of empty lip gloss tubes, and a small stack of Us Weekly magazines held together by a rubber band.

“Home sweet technically-illegal home,” she sighed, plopping onto the bed with a bounce.

Her Dunkin’ cup tipped over, dripping a few sticky drops onto the clean sheets. She winced, dabbed at it with the corner of a magazine, then shrugged. “Adds character.”

The sunlight through the blinds made dust particles glow like glitter. Somewhere down the hall, someone was blasting Evanescence. It was all so college, so chaotic, so deeply mediocre - and Mari loved it.

She set up her Hello Kitty alarm clock on the nightstand, plugged in her phone charger, and stuck a few polaroids to the wall: her and a group of girls posing in front of a gas station; a blurry picture of a concert stage; a close-up selfie with a raccoon she swore was “just chillin’.”

The room was starting to look lived-in - or at least Mari-ed-in.

A knock startled her. She froze mid-pose, one arm halfway to hanging a poster of Hilary Duff.

Then nothing. No follow-up knock. Just silence.

She tiptoed to the peephole and peeked. No one there.

“Ghosts. Cool. Love that for me,” she muttered.

Still, she wasn’t about to leave. The spot was too good. Big window, decent lighting, far enough from the RA’s room that she could get away with murder - not that she would, obviously, but she liked the option.

She flopped back onto the bed and dug through her purse, pulling out her old flip phone. The screen was cracked and the wallpaper was a pixelated picture of Paris Hilton holding a tiny dog.

She scrolled through her contacts until she found the one labeled AKILAH (??) - a girl she’d met once at a coffee shop who’d mentioned living on campus. Mari had somehow convinced herself that counted as an invitation.

She typed a quick text:

hey sooo funny story i might have moved into ur dorm?? dont freak out its totally fine

No immediate reply.

Mari tossed the phone onto the bed and resumed unpacking, humming along to the muffled “Bring Me to Life” drifting through the walls.

Her internal narration kicked back in - she always did that when she was nervous.

Cut to Mari, sitting on the edge of the bed, confessional style.“Do I feel bad about breaking into a dorm? No. Because, spiritually, I belong here. This is my vibe. Also, the front desk was unmanned, which feels like an open invitation. And, okay, maybe I don’t technically pay tuition, but I bring cultural value. Emotional enrichment. Sparkle.”

She nodded to herself, pleased with the justification.

As far as she was concerned, she wasn’t trespassing - she was manifesting housing security.

The longer she stayed in the room, the more she convinced herself it was fine. The air smelled faintly of lavender detergent and coffee. A single hair tie on the desk suggested the roommate - Akilah Green, probably - was tidy but not obsessive.

Mari took another sip of her melted coffee and sighed dramatically. “This is gonna be great. Nothing weird ever happens in college dorms, right?”

Right on cue, the lights flickered.

She stared up at the ceiling, unimpressed. “Okay, that’s fine. Probably just old wiring. Definitely not ghosts. Or vampires. Or werewolves. Or-”

A loud thunk came from the hallway, cutting her off.

Mari blinked, frozen mid-sentence. Then she shrugged and went back to hanging her Mean Girls poster.

“Yep,” she said aloud. “Totally normal campus. Love the vibes.”

By the time she finished unpacking, the room looked like a Lisa Frank starter kit collided with a clearance sale at Claire’s. The air glittered faintly with loose sequins.

She stood in the doorway, hands on hips, admiring her work.

“Perfect,” she said, grinning. “You can’t evict someone if they make it cute.”

And with that, Mari Ibarra - non-student, uninvited guest, and soon-to-be chaos incarnate of Wisayok University - officially moved in.

By the time Akilah Green returned from morning training, the sun had burned through the fog hanging over Wisayok’s east quad. Her shirt clung to her skin, her braid stuck to the back of her neck, and her crossbow - a matte-black, perfectly maintained piece of Guild tech - hung lazily over her shoulder like it weighed nothing.

Ash padded beside her, nails clicking against the linoleum floor. His breath puffed rhythmically, calm and even. He was far too dignified for a dorm setting - the kind of dog that looked like he should be guarding ancient tombs instead of watching freshmen eat instant ramen.

They’d been up since dawn, running the obstacle course behind the gym. She liked the quiet that came before sunrise - no whispers of vampires in the walls, no reminders of the Guild’s latest directive. Just focus, breath, and movement.

That peace lasted exactly four minutes and twenty-three seconds after she opened her dorm door.

She froze in the doorway.

Her room - her clean, organized, normal dorm room - had exploded. Glitter was everywhere. Sequins shimmered on the floor like spilled fairy dust. On her neatly made bed sat a half-unpacked suitcase, a Dunkin’ cup, and a Mean Girls poster taped to the wall at a crooked angle.

And in the middle of it all was a girl.

Mari Ibarra, sitting cross-legged on the floor like she was hosting a craft circle from hell, hot-gluing rhinestones onto what appeared to be Ash’s spare dog hoodie.

The glue gun cord stretched precariously across the carpet. A magazine open to a page about “Celebs Who Secretly Dated Vampires!” sat nearby. Mari looked up and beamed as though this situation - the breaking and entering, the casual glitter infestation, the defacement of a trained hunter’s tactical companion’s wardrobe - were entirely normal.

“Don’t freak out,” she said brightly, “but your dog’s an icon now.”

Akilah blinked.

Ash blinked.

The silence between them was long enough that somewhere down the hall, a student sneezed twice.

“You broke into my room,” Akilah said flatly.

Mari tilted her head. “Moved in is such a negative term.”

Ash, standing by Akilah’s side, looked directly at his owner - a look that could only be translated as I did not consent to this fashion crime.

The rhinestones on the hoodie sparkled mockingly.

Akilah’s voice dropped into that dangerous register reserved for malfunctioning crossbows and freshmen who aimed stakes backward. “That is my bed. My wall. My dog.”

Mari, unbothered, gestured with her glue gun like a talk show host presenting a giveaway. “Correction - your dog is now a star. Do you see this sparkle placement? It’s couture. I’m thinking Juicy Couture for canines. He loves it.”

Ash did not look like he loved it.

Akilah stepped inside slowly, setting her crossbow down on the desk with practiced precision. The muscles in her jaw flexed. “You know breaking into student housing is a crime, right?”

Mari waved that off. “Crime, trespassing - semantics. I’m bringing positive energy into this space.”

“Positive energy doesn’t pay tuition.”

“Neither do I!” Mari chirped. “It’s kind of my thing.”

Akilah exhaled through her nose. Deeply. “So you admit you don’t go here.”

Mari froze for the briefest moment, eyes darting to the floor. Then, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, she straightened and said with absolute confidence, “Technically, I’m auditing the human experience.”

Akilah stared at her, deadpan.

Mari smiled wider. “It’s like anthropology, but free.”

Ash gave a low chuff, sitting down beside Akilah with the weary posture of someone realizing he was now emotionally responsible for both of them.

Akilah rubbed her temple. “You can’t just move into a dorm. Someone lives here.”

“Yeah, you!” Mari said cheerfully. “Which is perfect because I’m clean, quiet, and bring strong decorative instincts to the household dynamic.”

“You are none of those things.”

Mari looked mildly offended. “I’m quiet sometimes. Like when I’m asleep. Or watching America’s Next Top Model.”

Akilah’s sigh was heavy enough to qualify as a prayer. She glanced around at the room - her half still mercifully untouched, Mari’s side already resembling a Lisa Frank-sponsored war zone.

Ash leaned forward to sniff at the glue gun. Akilah gently redirected him with a click of her tongue.

Mari followed his movement fondly. “He’s so majestic. Like a furry tank.”

“He’s trained to track and detain bloodsuckers.”

Mari paused mid-glue. “...like a goth bouncer?”

Akilah pinched the bridge of her nose. “Like vampires.”

Mari’s expression lit up. “Oh my God, there are actually vampires here?!”

The words hung in the air, half-accusation, half-delight.

Akilah froze. “...No.”

Mari narrowed her eyes. “That was a very specific no.”

“It was a normal no.”

“Sounded like a cover-up no.”

“Please stop talking.”

Mari pressed her lips together like she was physically restraining more questions, which for her was a small miracle. She shifted to hold up the hoodie instead, changing the subject. “Okay but seriously, look at this - I spelled his name in rhinestones across the back. A–S–H. It’s giving pop star bodyguard.”

Ash sighed. Audibly.

Akilah stared at the sparkling monstrosity. “You used hot glue on polyester.”

“Yeah, the strong bond kind! It’ll never come off.”

“That’s the problem.”

They stared at each other for a beat - Akilah’s deadpan patience vs. Mari’s relentless optimism. Then Mari cracked first, breaking into a grin that was half mischief, half apology.

“Okay, okay, fine, I get it - I maybe overstepped.” She gestured vaguely at the whole room. “But to be fair, the door was unlocked, and I feel like that’s on you. Legally.”

Akilah opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. She hated that Mari technically wasn’t wrong.

“Just…” Akilah began, running a hand down her face. “Don’t touch my side of the room. Don’t touch my weapons. Don’t touch Ash.”

Mari saluted with the glue gun. “Roger that, Roomie.”

“Not your roommate.”

Mari grinned wider. “That’s what you think.”

Ash gave a single bark, sharp and judgmental, like a punchline.

Akilah pointed at him. “See? Even he agrees.”

Mari, unfazed, reached out to boop the dog on the nose. “You’re just saying that because you haven’t seen the matching hat yet.”

Akilah’s expression went flat. “There’s a hat?”

Mari’s eyes darted toward the bed.

Akilah followed her gaze.

The hat in question sat there innocently - a rhinestoned cowboy hat sized perfectly for a large dog.

Akilah closed her eyes. “I’m going to shower. When I come back, I want my dog out of that hoodie, that hat gone, and you-”

“Moved in even more?” Mari offered.

“-not arrested. Which is currently a maybe.”

As Akilah retreated toward the bathroom, Ash stayed put, torn between loyalty and curiosity. Mari held the hoodie up in front of him again.

“Listen, buddy,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I get that you have like, hunter duties or whatever. But I’m telling you - this outfit? You’re gonna slay. Literally. Probably.”

Ash blinked slowly, unimpressed.

Mari patted his head. “That’s fine, play hard to get. The camera loves a challenge.”

From the bathroom, Akilah’s voice echoed faintly: “If you’re taking pictures of my dog again, I swear-”

Mari flopped onto her bed, grinning like the chaos gremlin she was. “Relax!” she called back. “It’s not like I’m posting them anywhere public.”

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She checked it. The screen showed an unsent draft of a campus gossip forum post:

spotted: new girl moves into A. Green’s dorm uninvited. is she a transfer? a ghost? or both?? 👀 stay tuned for pics

She smirked. “Yet.”

Ash groaned.

And that was how Akilah Green, serious hunter and semi-functioning adult, ended up sharing a dorm with Mari Ibarra - professional trespasser, part-time menace, and full-time bringer of sparkly chaos.

By mid-afternoon, Akilah was gone - summoned by a terse text from the Guild about “mandatory operational briefings.”

She’d left in uniform: black tactical jacket, regulation boots, hair pulled into a no-nonsense braid that said I take notes and kill monsters before lunch.Ash went with her, trotting beside her with the solemn energy of someone clocking in for his second job.

That left Mari alone in the dorm.

Alone with Akilah’s books.

And her files.

And the absolutely irresistible mystery of whatever the Guild kept so tightly zipped.

Mari sat on her bed, pretending to watch a rerun of The OC on her laptop. The sound was muted, but she kept glancing at Akilah’s desk like it might whisper secrets.

Ten minutes later, curiosity won.

She slid into Akilah’s desk chair, spinning once for courage. The surface was immaculate - pens lined in military precision, a binder labeled Field Procedures: Year 1 Recruit.Next to it sat a small stack of Guild manuals, the kind printed on thin paper and bound in humorless black.

Mari flipped one open.

LEVEL 2 PURIFICATION PROTOCOL

She blinked. “Sounds like hazing but with more silver.”

She kept reading, mouthing the words. ‘Submersion of contaminated limb,’ ‘administer prayer under supervision,’ ‘avoid emotional attachment to target.’

“Ew,” she muttered. “They really put that last one in writing? HR’s asleep at the wheel.”

A loose folder caught her eye. It was older, its corners soft with wear.

Typed label: SUBSPECIES IDENTIFICATION: VAMPIRIC TYPES (CAMPUS LIST 2003–2004)

Mari froze halfway through pulling it out. Her gossip-trained brain lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Campus list,” she whispered. “You have lists of vampires here?!”

She opened it carefully, like it might bite.

Inside were pages of neat tables - names, photos, notes scribbled in the margins. Each entry read like a grim yearbook:

ANDERSON, Caleb - Level 1 Feeding Risk. Monitor Dormitory B.MALHOTRA, Priya - Guild approved truce subject. No night classes.MATTHEWS, L. - Undetermined Status.

Mari’s eyebrows shot up. “Undetermined? That’s not a good SAT word.”

She circled the line in pink gel pen she’d fished from her bag and added a note in loopy handwriting:

Possible gossip goldmine 💋

Then she grinned at the printer sitting on the dresser - a chunky beige dinosaur that took five minutes to warm up.

Two minutes later, it was spitting out grainy photocopies of the vampire list.

Mari fanned the pages, admiring her handiwork. “For journalistic integrity,” she told herself. “Also, backup in case my dorm-mate kills me.”

The door clicked.

Mari nearly swallowed her pen. She shoved the files back into the folder, flipped it upside-down, and sprawled across her bed like she’d been there all along.

The printer whirred its final dying beep at the exact moment Akilah opened the door.

Akilah stepped in, exhausted but sharp-eyed. She set her crossbow against the wall, dropped Ash’s leash on the hook, and stared directly at Mari.

Mari smiled too quickly. “Hey, roomie! I was just… studying!”

“Studying what?”

Mari hesitated. “…sociology?”

Akilah’s gaze slid to the printer. One eyebrow lifted. “My manual’s still warm.”

Mari laughed nervously. “That’s wild. Maybe the dorm ghosts were doing paperwork.”

Akilah crossed her arms. “You touched my files, didn’t you?”

Mari’s mouth opened, then closed. “Define ‘touch.’”

Ash padded to his bed, clearly done with both of them.

Akilah leaned against the desk. “Mari, those are classified.”

“Okay, but like-‘classified’ in a ‘national security’ way, or in a ‘you just don’t want me to see your handwriting’ way?”

“In the I’m legally obligated to not tell you who’s undead way.”

Mari nodded gravely. “Right, right, sure. Totally respect that.”

Beat.

Akilah waited.

Mari cracked. “I might’ve skimmed.”

Akilah’s sigh could’ve powered a small wind turbine. “Of course you did.”

Mari brightened, trying to pivot. “It’s really interesting, though! Like, you guys have literal categories for vampires. Do you have trading cards too? Collect all eight?”

“Mari.”

“Because if you do, I want the shiny holographic one.”

Akilah pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is not a game. Those files are dangerous if they get out.”

“Right. Totally. I mean, who would I even tell? It’s not like I run a gossip blog.”

Ash gave her a withering look.

Mari coughed. “…Anymore.”

Akilah eyed her suspiciously, then shook her head and dropped her gear bag on the floor. The exhaustion seeped through her voice. “The Guild’s on edge. Someone’s been breaking the treaty lines again. Just-don’t make yourself a target.”

Mari tried for casual. “Define ‘target.’”

Akilah gave her a flat stare.

Mari smiled sheepishly. “Got it. No photocopying, no poking vampires, no dying.”

Akilah didn’t respond. She sat on the bed, rubbing the back of her neck, lost in thought.

For the first time since Mari had met her, she looked… worried.

Mari noticed, but didn’t comment. Instead, she tucked the copied pages into the bottom of her drawer, under a pile of glitter nail polish and gum wrappers.

The printer light blinked lazily, like an afterthought.

Outside, the campus hummed - too quiet, too normal, the kind of silence that comes right before something cracks.

Mari chewed her straw and thought, If the Guild has a list, that means the monsters have one too.

She smiled faintly. “Guess I’d better look good on paper.”

The sun bled slow and syrupy across Wisayok’s quad, glazing the Gothic rooftops in honey and shadow.

It was that golden hour where everything looked beautiful - even the cracked cobblestones, even the ominous gargoyles that probably weren’t just gargoyles.

Students drifted between buildings, backpacks slung low, chatter echoing off the old stone walls. The air smelled like wet leaves and burnt coffee. Somewhere, a saxophone player practiced the same wrong note over and over again.

Mari trailed after Akilah and Ash like an uninvited tour guide.

She had a notebook in one hand, her pink flip phone in the other, and the kind of overconfidence only possessed by people who’d never faced real consequences.

“For the record,” she said, “I’m not following you. I’m conducting investigative journalism.”

Akilah didn’t even look back. “You’re walking behind me with a camera.”

“It’s called documentary filmmaking,” Mari corrected, snapping a blurry photo of the sunset. “Working title: Hot Girls and Holy Water.”

Ash’s ears flicked backward, unimpressed.

They passed a group of undergrads sprawled on the lawn, drinking out of thermoses that absolutely did not contain tea. The whole campus had that half-feral, end-of-day energy - laughter too loud, shadows too long.

Akilah’s crossbow hung at her side, casual but ready. She’d changed out of her morning training gear into jeans and a Guild-issued jacket, which somehow made her look more like a threat.

“Seriously,” she said, scanning the tree line, “go back to the dorm, Mari. This isn’t-”

“A place for civilians?” Mari interrupted. “Cool. I’m an embedded reporter.”

Akilah shot her a look sharp enough to peel paint.

Mari, unbothered, snapped another photo. “You have to admit, though - the lighting? Kind of vampire aesthetic.”

She gestured at the way the light caught the cathedral spires, turning them molten at the edges. “Like, if one showed up right now, I’d at least get a good shot for the thumbnail.”

Ash stopped walking.

His fur rose almost imperceptibly, tail lowering, muscles tightening. His nose twitched once, twice.

Akilah froze instantly - body language shifting from exasperation to alertness. “Ash?”

Mari kept filming. “Oh my God, he totally does the pointing thing! You should get him a little Sherlock hat-”

“Quiet,” Akilah hissed.

That one word carried enough command to still the air.

Mari blinked, the humor catching in her throat. “Oh.”

Ash’s ears locked forward, eyes fixed on the treeline that framed the quad’s north edge. The branches there swayed in a way that didn’t match the wind.

Something was moving - fast.

Akilah lifted the crossbow, her whole posture coiling into readiness. Mari instinctively crouched, not because she knew what to do but because it seemed like the cinematic thing to do.

“Uh, just confirming,” Mari whispered, “this isn’t like… a deer, right?”

“Stay down.”

Mari’s heart thudded against her ribs. For a second, the sunset looked wrong - the shadows too deep, the gold light flickering like candle flame.

Then the movement burst into view - a blur of motion, dark hair, long limbs-

Mari screamed. Akilah nearly fired.

The blur stumbled into the open, panting, clutching a water bottle like it was holy relic.

Van.

Just… Van. In full track gear, earbuds dangling, face flushed with the effort of running laps she clearly didn’t want to be running.

She looked up, eyes wide at the crossbow aimed squarely at her.

“Uh,” Van said, catching her breath. “Evening?”

Akilah exhaled hard, lowering her weapon. “Jesus Christ, Van.”

Mari straightened up, brushing grass off her jeans. “Okay, but if she’s not undead, she’s definitely underfed.”

Van blinked. “Excuse me?”

Akilah shot Mari a look that could have stopped a heartbeat. “Not. Helping.”

Mari held up her hands. “I’m just saying, hydration is key.”

Van gave a bewildered little wave and jogged off again, muttering something about hunter overkill and campus psychopaths.

Akilah watched her go, still tense. “She’s not supposed to be out here after curfew.”

Mari frowned. “Curfew? I thought that was, like, metaphorical.”

“It’s Guild policy. We keep students inside after dusk for a reason.”

Mari tilted her head, eyes scanning the treeline where Van had come from. “So… there is something out here.”

Akilah didn’t answer right away. She just adjusted her crossbow strap and started walking again, slower now, eyes on the shadows.

Mari followed, a few paces behind. The humor had cooled, replaced by something she didn’t want to name.

For a fleeting moment, the golden light dimmed - replaced by the purplish tint of real night setting in.

The campus, so bright and lively minutes ago, seemed to hold its breath.

Somewhere in the trees, something moved again. Not Van this time. Too smooth. Too deliberate.

Ash gave a low growl.

Mari looked around, half-expecting Akilah to crack a joke, to break the tension.

But she didn’t.

And that silence - that real silence - made the back of Mari’s neck prickle.

Wisayok, she realized, wasn’t just a university with weird rumors and bad lighting.

It was a place built on a fault line.

She raised her flip phone again, but her hand trembled slightly. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “If I die, someone better use this footage.”

The clock on the dorm wall read 11:42 p.m., though time had stopped making sense hours ago. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly, the kind of background noise that made the quiet feel louder. Somewhere outside, a car alarm hiccuped into the night, then gave up.

Inside the cramped dorm room, chaos bloomed in pastel.

Mari sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a battlefield of rhinestones, hot glue sticks, and the unmistakable shimmer of a hot-pink hoodie that read JUICY across the back in curly, glittering font. Ash - Akilah’s massive German shepherd and reluctant participant - sat in front of her like a hostage, his tail thumping once every minute as if to register minimal protest.

“Hold still,” Mari said, squinting as she applied another rhinestone to the ‘Y’. “Beauty is pain.”

Ash sighed - or maybe that was a growl muffled by dignity. His patience, much like Akilah’s, was not infinite.

“There,” Mari whispered, pulling back with satisfaction. “Perfection. Wisayok’s next top model.”

She angled her flip phone, snapped a picture, then another with flash on. The flash reflected off Ash’s eyes, making him look faintly demonic. Mari giggled. “Okay, maybe not that one. You look possessed. But like - fashionably possessed.”

She took a sip of her lukewarm Dunkin’ coffee, surveyed her masterpiece, and felt the thrill of creation. Her dorm-turned-illegal-residency was now a craft studio, a gossip headquarters, and, apparently, a pet fashion atelier.

The door handle rattled.

Ash’s ears perked.

Mari froze mid-glue. “Oh, that’s my cue,” she whispered, scrambling to hide the hot glue gun under a pile of Seventeen magazines.

The door opened, and Akilah stepped in - exhausted, sweat-damp, still in her training jacket, hair tied back in a messy bun that had clearly survived combat. Her crossbow leaned against her shoulder like a second limb.

She stopped dead in the doorway.

Mari smiled brightly, holding up Ash’s paw like a proud stage mom. “Surprise! He’s an icon now! I finished his hoodie!”

Ash turned his head toward Akilah, expression unreadable but clearly apologetic.

Akilah set the crossbow down with deliberate calm. “You rhinestoned my dog.”

“It’s protective,” Mari said quickly, waving her hands as if that explained anything. “Sparkles ward off evil! Haven’t you seen Practical Magic?”

Akilah stared at her. “He’s not a talisman. He’s a German shepherd.”

Mari, undeterred, picked up her flip phone and showed Akilah the photo. “But look! He’s serving mystical realness. It’s giving ‘holy guardian, but make it couture.’”

Ash, for his part, seemed to sigh deeply - the existential weight of doghood pressing heavily upon him.

Akilah leaned against the doorframe, one hand over her face. “One more rhinestone on my dog and you’re the one getting staked.”

Mari grinned. “Kinky.”

Akilah’s hand dropped slowly. Her glare could have vaporized stone.

“I mean,” Mari said quickly, “metaphorically!”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The room was filled only by the faint hum of the vending machine out in the hall and the subtle rustle of Ash trying not to move too much in his sequined shame.

Then Akilah exhaled - a long, tired breath that seemed to deflate her entirely. She crossed the room, plopped down beside Mari on the floor, and pulled her knees up. “You’re insane,” she muttered.

Mari offered her a Dunkin’ cup. “I know. But I make good coffee.”

Akilah took it, hesitated, then sipped. “This is cold.”

“It’s iced,” Mari corrected.

“It’s October.”

“Seasonal contrast,” Mari said, leaning back against the bed. “You’re welcome.”

They sat like that for a moment - an exhausted hunter and an illegally squatting chaos gremlin - sharing bad coffee and worse life choices while Ash stared stoically into the middle distance.

Mari watched Akilah out of the corner of her eye. There was something about her posture - the way she didn’t quite relax even when sitting, the faint tremor of constant alertness. Most hunters wore that tension like armor. Mari wondered if Akilah even knew she was doing it.

“You work too much,” Mari said softly.

Akilah glanced over, caught off guard. “Comes with the job.”

“Still. You could, I don’t know, hang out. Get a hobby. Knit. Start a podcast.”

Akilah gave a humorless laugh. “Pretty sure the Guild frowns on hobbies.”

“That’s tragic,” Mari said. “You’ve got main-character energy, but no leisure time.”

Akilah shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” Mari said proudly. “That’s my charm.”

Ash rested his head on Akilah’s lap, still clad in rhinestones, his tail thumping once. She scratched behind his ear, her eyes softening in a way that Mari almost missed.

For the first time since she’d barged into this dorm, Mari didn’t feel like an intruder. She felt like… furniture that had accidentally become part of the room’s decor.

Akilah leaned her head back against the bed frame, eyes half-closed. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw you out.”

Mari smiled, quiet for once. “You weren’t gonna anyway.”

“Don’t push it.”

Mari just reached out and adjusted one last rhinestone on Ash’s collar. “See? Ward against evil.”

Akilah didn’t answer. She just sat there, too weary to argue, sipping her iced coffee and pretending not to notice that for the first time in a long time, the room didn’t feel empty.

Ash’s tail thumped again - slow, steady - a metronome for the fragile peace settling between them.

Mari picked up her phone and whispered, “Scene title: Ash Wore Juicy Couture.”

Akilah cracked one eye open. “If you post that anywhere, you’re dead.”

“Noted,” Mari said, typing it anyway.

And just like that - in a room too small, too fluorescent, and far too ridiculous - the foundation of an unlikely friendship quietly set itself in rhinestone and coffee stains.

It was sometime after midnight, though Mari’s definition of “night” had blurred into “any time the world gets quiet enough to be bored.” The dorm was bathed in the soft amber glow of a single desk lamp. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpane, carrying faint laughter from the quad - a few drunk students, probably human, though these days Mari wasn’t willing to bet on anything.

Ash snored at the foot of her bed, a heavy, rhythmic sound that somehow managed to be both comforting and judgmental. His rhinestoned hoodie hung from the chair nearby, glitter catching the lamplight like tiny galaxies. Akilah had gone to bed hours ago, her door closed, her sleep undoubtedly fitful. Hunters didn’t rest easy - Mari had figured that out fast.

She cracked open her prized possession: a battered pink binder covered in stickers and magazine clippings, stuffed with printed-out LiveJournal posts, gossip scraps, and half-legible notes. She called it her blog, though it was really more scrapbook than web presence - a paper trail of chaos.

She clicked her cheap ballpoint pen, crossed one leg over the other, and began writing in loopy, glitter-ink cursive:

Mari’s Late-Night Thoughts, Vol. 18Wisayok University - where the coffee’s bad, the monsters are worse, and somehow I still don’t have a student ID.

Entry #1:Pretty sure half the cafeteria is vegan by necessity, not choice.

Like, sure, Jan, you “don’t eat meat.” But maybe it’s because “meat” screams when you bite it.

Entry #2:Akilah said the Guild’s getting new recruits next week.

Translation: fresh blood.

(And not the vampire kind… hopefully.)

If they’re cute, I’ll consider re-enrolling.

Assuming anyone ever notices I’m not technically enrolled to begin with.

Entry #3:Saw Natalie Scatorccio in the quad today. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a year, was smoking like it was a coping mechanism (which… mood), and had the kind of thousand-yard stare that says “I’ve seen things.”

Kinda hot though.

I’m starting to understand why chaos is attractive.

Entry #4:Someone told me the Taxidermy Club meets on Wednesdays in the Bio Building basement.

Someone else told me the Taxidermy Club doesn’t exist.

Both sound equally true.

If it’s a cover for vampire meetings, I want in. I bring snacks and social anxiety.

Entry #5:Ash barked at the vending machine again. I think he sees ghosts. Or maybe it’s just haunted by the ghost of that expired Pop-Tart I ate last week.

She paused, tapping the pen against her lip. The sound of the radiator filled the room in a soft hum. Her eyes flicked to Akilah’s closed door.

The hunter slept light, probably dreaming about duty or monsters or whatever the Guild drilled into their heads. Mari couldn’t decide if she pitied her or admired her. Maybe both.

She leaned back, pen scratching across the page again.

Entry #6:If I had a dollar for every time someone said “Don’t get involved,” I’d have enough to pay tuition.

If I had a dollar for every time I ignored that advice, I’d probably still be broke.

But at least I’d be entertained.

She smiled to herself, a quiet little thing. The world at Wisayok was absurd - a strange, stitched-together ecosystem where vampires crammed for midterms, hunters took ethics classes, and she, a completely unqualified outsider, lived rent-free in the middle of it all.

She looked down at Ash, who had rolled onto his back in his sleep, paws twitching as if chasing spectral squirrels. “You get it, right?” she whispered. “This place is ridiculous.”

Ash snorted softly in agreement.

She capped her pen, leaned back, and grinned at her work. The lamplight flickered once, just briefly - the kind of flicker that might’ve been a power surge, or something stranger watching from the dark.

Mari didn’t notice.

She was too busy stapling her latest post into the binder, humming under her breath, perfectly content in her own little world - a world that had no idea how close she was to stumbling headfirst into something far bigger, far bloodier, and far less forgiving than campus gossip.

Outside, the wind picked up, carrying with it the faint sound of laughter. Or maybe it wasn’t laughter at all.

Mari didn’t look up.

The smell hit her first, and it nearly made her gag: a stew of old wood polish, industrial-strength disinfectant, and something faintly coppery that reminded her a little too much of blood. It wasn’t fresh blood, not really-she could tell from experience-but the memory alone was enough to make her stomach tighten. That metallic tang followed her in waves, crawling into the spaces between her nostrils and making her feel simultaneously alert and nauseated.

Her boots clicked against the warped stone floor as she walked the Guild’s long hallway, lined with banners proclaiming the evils of the unnatural. “Against the Unworthy” read one in bold black letters, the edges frayed from decades of neglect. Another warned in Gothic script that monsters lurk where vigilance falters. Only the posters about rescue missions hinted at something other than annihilation: “To Save the Unordinary” they said, almost apologetically. Natalie couldn’t tell if that was encouragement or a warning.

She adjusted her backpack strap with an exasperated sigh, feeling it dig into her shoulder. This wasn’t the part of Guild life she’d wanted. She hadn’t joined for bureaucracy, for endless meetings where everyone hovered around clipboards and spelled out protocol like it was the only thing keeping civilization from dissolving. She’d joined to hunt. To track, to outsmart, to survive-and maybe, just maybe, to prove that the Guild’s obsession with paperwork and politics didn’t always matter.

The orientation hall appeared suddenly at the end of the corridor, lit dimly by a scattering of flickering wall torches. The air inside was thicker, warmer, and smelled faintly of wax and old stone. The wooden pews creaked under the weight of students and hunters alike, a chorus of groans and whispers and rustling papers. Misty was already standing near the front, waving her clipboard with a kind of ferocious enthusiasm that made Natalie flinch.

Of course, Misty had already started talking before Natalie even reached the nearest pew. “…and if you do not sign your attendance sheet, you will be in violation of subsection 4B of the Guild procedural manual, and-” Natalie’s eyes glazed. She tuned out the rest, already knowing that Misty would quote at least three more obscure passages before the night was over.

Shauna Shipman was at the front as well, standing with that infuriatingly perfect posture and that smug grin that somehow managed to be both irritating and impossibly self-satisfied. Natalie’s jaw tightened reflexively. Shauna had a talent for making a room seem like it revolved entirely around her, and somehow she’d managed to convince the Guild that her “initiative and command potential” outweighed Natalie’s perfectly documented kill record.

Akilah Stewart was near the back, crouched slightly, gently coaxing Ash-the massive German shepherd-through some sort of pre-assignment warm-up. Ash’s paws thumped against the floor as he chased crossbow bolts with mechanical precision, his ears flicking at the faintest sound. Akilah’s expression was calm, focused, but Natalie caught a flicker of frustration in her eyes as Misty barked instructions at every moving thing in the room.

Gen stood off to one side, leaning casually against a stone column, silent as a shadow. She radiated the kind of quiet confidence that made most people want to apologize for existing. Natalie wasn’t sure whether to admire her or fear her. Probably both.

And then there was Van, lounging against the opposite wall, arms crossed and smirking like the entire Guild was a joke she was willing to survive. Her bright sarcasm practically radiated off her in waves. Natalie had always found Van frustratingly unflappable. The woman had survived more missions than logic should allow, and now she treated near-death as a minor inconvenience rather than a life-altering risk.

Natalie found a seat near the front, just far enough from Shauna to avoid being elbowed by smugness but close enough to observe. She rested her chin on her fist, tapping her fingers impatiently against her thigh. Between Misty’s sermonizing, Shauna’s grin, Akilah’s unacknowledged competence, and Van’s casual insubordination, she could feel the migraine already forming behind her eyes.

This was going to be a long night.

Her eyes wandered around the hall. The banners sagged slightly, faded from decades of sunless exposure. The floorboards creaked with a hundred hidden histories, each step echoing with the weight of hunters who had come before. She caught the glint of polished weapons displayed on racks along the walls-crossbows, stakes, knives, and at least one unfamiliar contraption that looked vaguely torturous. She knew what each of them was capable of; she just hoped the others weren’t going to make her job harder.

And of course, there was the Guild’s warning: somewhere among the students at Wisayok College, at least one vampire lurked. Clever, elusive, probably enjoying the thought of watching them stumble through bureaucracy before making their move. Natalie felt a shiver of anticipation-and not just because of the vampires. She was surrounded by people who would argue over minutiae until it killed them-or her.

Ash barked once sharply, pulling Natalie from her thoughts. Akilah rolled her eyes at Misty, who was already frantically checking off some imagined procedural box. Shauna clapped her hands, already barking orders to a room that hadn’t even received the mission brief.

Natalie huffed quietly, slinging her backpack higher onto her shoulder. She straightened, took a deep breath, and tried to focus.

She might survive. Probably. Maybe.

Shauna didn’t waste a second. Before anyone could even glance at the mission brief-or confirm who exactly would be in charge-she began issuing orders like a general rolling through a parade of undertrained cadets.

“Alright,” she said, voice sharp enough to cut through Ash’s rhythmic thumping paws, “once we arrive at Wisayok, we’re splitting into reconnaissance pairs. Akilah, you’ll take Ash and canvas the dorm wings. I want a full sweep of every common area and bathroom. Natalie, you’re on internal security, perimeter checks, and-oh, and don’t lose the paperwork this time.”

Natalie froze mid-breathe, blinking at her rival as if Shauna had just suggested they juggle chainsaws blindfolded. “Excuse me,” she muttered, tone flat, “we haven’t even-”

Shauna cut her off, hand flicking toward the exit. “We will have a full plan by the time the van leaves. You’ll follow orders, Natalie. Secondary, but critical.”

Secondary. Critical. That phrasing made Natalie’s stomach twist. She wanted to roll her eyes, kick something, and scream simultaneously-but she settled for the quieter option: calculate the fastest escape route from Shauna’s egomaniacal grasp.

Misty, of course, seized this precise moment to hover closer, waving a clipboard like a banner of righteousness. “Actually,” she interjected, voice high-pitched but full of conviction, “subsection 6B of Guild operational protocol explicitly requires that all team members acknowledge their chain of command before any field movement occurs. Please sign here, here, and here.”

Ash barked once, low and unimpressed, giving Misty a look that clearly said, you’ve got to be kidding me. Akilah followed his gaze, rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder she didn’t get dizzy.

Van, leaning lazily against the wall with arms crossed, snorted. “Yeah, because the best way to survive a vampire infestation is to autograph a bunch of papers. Should I get pens?”

Shauna’s eyes narrowed. “Van. Focus.”

“On what?” Van deadpanned. “The horror show unfolding in front of me? Because that’s literally all I can see right now.”

Natalie’s mind was already spinning, toggling between Shauna’s orders, Misty’s procedural corrections, Akilah’s calm competence, and Van’s irreverent commentary. She mentally ran through the squad layout:

Shauna: Type-A perfectionist, absolutely certain she’s earned authority by sheer force of personality. Likely to micromanage everyone into exhaustion.

Misty: Walking rulebook with a nose for every violation. Probably capable of reporting a vampire for improper posture if it wasn’t in regulation.

Akilah: Calm, competent, quietly brilliant, but unlikely to yell over Shauna or Misty. Might save the day if no one screws up too badly.

Van: Immune to authority, casual chaos magnet. Risk factor: high. Entertainment value: off the charts.

Gen: Silent, intimidating, likely to cut someone down with one look. Best not to annoy her.

The hallway’s torchlight flickered over the group, shadows dancing across faces that reflected a bizarre spectrum of emotions: annoyance, exasperation, amusement, and something sharper beneath it all-Natalie couldn’t quite place it, but the Guild’s way of pressuring you without ever saying “you’ll die” was in full effect.

Shauna clapped her hands again. “Right. Everyone, we’ll need preliminary reconnaissance reports before our first patrol. Natalie, I expect detailed mapping of all entrances and exits. Misty, double-check the legal parameters for dorm entry. Van, observe, comment, and try not to die. Akilah, make sure Ash behaves. Gen…”

Gen’s head tilted slightly, a single eyebrow raised. The room immediately quieted at the weight of her gaze. Even Ash paused mid-pounce, as if sensing the deadly calm radiating off her. Natalie could feel her pulse quicken. Gen didn’t need to speak to command attention-the air around her practically vibrated with competence and menace.

“-provide medical support. And… yes,” Shauna added, as if daring anyone to challenge her further, “that includes stopping Natalie from getting herself killed.”

Natalie bit back a retort that involved multiple curse words and at least one metaphor about impaling Shauna with her own clipboard. Instead, she exhaled slowly and internally tallied potential hazards: Shauna’s micromanagement, Misty’s obsessive rule enforcement, Van’s unpredictability, and the lurking unknown vampire. Add to that the fact that Gen was capable of ending everyone in the room with a flick of a scalpel-like finger, and Natalie’s mental checklist looked increasingly bleak.

Misty piped up mid-muttering, almost gleeful, “Remember, any deviations from Guild protocol must be logged immediately, or-”

“-we’ll be fine,” Van interrupted cheerfully, tilting her head back with mock solemnity. “I’ve survived worse. Including mornings like this.”

Shauna’s glare could have cut glass. “Van-”

“Relax, Shauna,” Van said, shrugging. “I’m just pointing out that our fearless leader is barking orders into chaos before even knowing the battlefield. Not that I’m complaining, really. It’s very entertaining.”

Akilah pinched the bridge of her nose. Ash tilted his head, perfectly attuned to her thoughts. Natalie, meanwhile, was quietly appreciating the irony of her situation: the mission that should have been simple reconnaissance was already spiraling into full-blown comedic chaos, complete with one snarky hunter, one obsessive rulekeeper, one terror-in-silence, one eager-dog handler, and one egotistical squad leader giving orders before she knew who was even in charge.

She leaned back against the pew, letting her eyes wander over the group. Somewhere in the chaos, she thought, we’ll figure out who the vampire is. Hopefully before someone dies-or gets a glitter-covered crossbow bolt in the face.

And just like that, the mission officially began.

The heavy doors at the far end of the hall creaked open again, this time slower, more deliberate. The sound echoed off the timber walls like a gavel striking a courtroom, and suddenly the room, which had been simmering with minor squabbles and nervous energy, went completely still. Even Ash, who usually didn’t miss a beat, paused mid-thump, ears twitching toward the source.

Inspector Harlow stepped in: tall, angular, and immaculately composed, with that aura of authority that made the faint smell of old parchment and iron hang heavier in the air. Candlelight flickered against the polished black insignias on her coat, making them look almost alive. She didn’t smile. She didn’t gesture. She simply let her presence fill the hall, a vacuum sucking all chatter into silence.

Natalie shifted in her seat, aware immediately of how small she felt in comparison. She liked being in control-liked assessing threats before they knew she was looking-but this? This was an entirely different game. Harlow wasn’t just in charge; she was the rulebook incarnate, the embodiment of Guild authority.

“Good evening,” Harlow said, voice precise, measured, cutting through the residual tension. “You are gathered here because the Guild has identified a possible vampire presence at Wisayok College. Your mission is to investigate, infiltrate, and neutralize any threats. This is your priority above all else. Understood?”

A chorus of murmurs ran through the room. Natalie’s teeth clenched. Finally, something that actually mattered. Something that could prove her worth. She leaned forward, scanning her future teammates: Shauna’s chest puffed with self-satisfied anticipation, Misty’s fingers tightened around her clipboard, Van leaned lazily, smirking as if the threat were a trivia question, Akilah’s posture was calm but alert, and Gen’s dark eyes swept over everyone like a scalpel through tissue.

Natalie’s stomach twisted with a mix of irritation and reluctant respect. She should be leading this mission, her kill record alone proving she was the one most qualified. Instead, Shauna was poised like a commander in a war she hadn’t yet fought. Natalie’s internal monologue was vicious. Really, Shauna? Lead the team? Of course, because barking orders and smiling smugly is exactly what saves lives.

Harlow moved methodically down the line, her gaze landing on each member individually. “Shauna Shipman,” she said, voice even but heavy with authority, “you are assigned team leader. Your record demonstrates initiative, command potential, and a capacity to enforce Guild directives in the field.”

Shauna’s grin widened, a smug, perfectly calibrated arc of triumph. She shot Natalie a quick glance that was all challenge and satisfaction rolled into one.

Natalie felt her jaw tighten. Initiative? Command potential? I’ve cleared three rogue vampire nests without needing anyone to tell me how to breathe, but sure. Go ahead, Shauna. Show everyone how to micromanage a potential bloodbath.

Harlow didn’t wait for rebuttals. “Natalie Scatorccio, you are assigned recon and support operations. Your role is critical. You are to execute it efficiently, without obstructing team leadership. Misty Quigley, maintain procedural oversight. Any deviations from Guild protocol are to be logged and reported immediately. Akilah Stewart, handle tracking and tactical support with your canine companion, Ash. Van Palmer, field reconnaissance and strategic assessment. Gen, provide medical support and tactical consultation. Full compliance with operational protocol is expected from all of you.”

Ash barked once, deliberately, as if acknowledging his orders. Akilah simply gave a slow nod, eyes flicking to Ash in silent communication. Natalie’s attention, of course, was on Shauna. Shauna’s smugness was a physical weight, pressing down, reminding Natalie exactly why she was simmering with resentment.

And Van. Van, leaning casually against the wall, let her smirk linger, tilting her head like a cat observing prey that didn’t realize it was dinner yet. “Strategic assessment,” Van whispered, half to herself, half to the room, “aka, run around and look cool.” She gave a lazy salute toward Shauna, who ignored it-but Natalie caught the glint of amusement in her eyes.

Harlow continued, each word slicing into the tension with surgical precision: “You will proceed to Wisayok College using any means necessary. Once outside the hall, you are autonomous. Coordination is expected only through approved Guild channels. Remember-vampires are cunning and dangerous. Failure will not be tolerated.”

Natalie felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t adrenaline yet. It was the faint, undeniable acknowledgment that this wasn’t just a mission. It was a test-a proof of skill, patience, and restraint under scrutiny. And she hated that she wasn’t leading it.

She stole a glance at Shauna, who was already mentally mapping patrol routes, calculating timelines, and assigning hypothetical duties to everyone-even before Harlow finished speaking. The sheer audacity, the ineffable smugness of it, was enough to make Natalie’s fingers itch to reach for her crossbow and rearrange Shauna’s tactical plan… permanently.

Misty seized the pause like a beacon. “Now, remember,” she said, raising her clipboard like a shield, “all deviations from this assignment must be logged in triplicate. You are responsible for adherence to subsection 8C, paragraph 4. And, team leader Shauna, ensure subordinate compliance at all times-failure to maintain chain-of-command integrity will result in disciplinary action.”

Van snorted. “Wow, this is gonna be fun.”

Akilah pinched her nose, exhaling in quiet frustration. Ash tilted his head and whined softly, apparently weighing the merits of joining Van’s rebellion against Misty’s paperwork tyranny.

Natalie leaned back, letting the absurdity wash over her for a fraction of a second before tension returned. Her mind clicked into reconnaissance mode. Shauna might have the title, but she had the skill. The mission would succeed because she would make it succeed. She just had to survive the chaos-and the people who considered her a subordinate rather than a partner.

Harlow finally stepped back, giving a single, almost imperceptible nod. “Dismissed. Proceed to Wisayok College. Time is critical. Vigilance is mandatory.”

The room erupted in movement. Shauna immediately began barking orders again, Misty was scribbling furiously on her clipboard, Akilah corralled Ash with patient efficiency, Van leaned back and prepared to make the journey entertaining, and Natalie silently calculated every advantage and liability in her squad.

She adjusted her backpack, inhaling the musty scent of timber and waxed stone one last time. This is the squad. These are my people. And this is going to be… a long, ridiculous mission.

As the hunters spilled out of the Guild hall into the night, the chaos of personalities that had been simmering inside suddenly found room to stretch its legs. Misty, clipboard clutched like a life preserver, was already muttering about “proper canine supervision.” Her voice, though low, carried across the group. “Ash must maintain a six-foot buffer from pedestrians at all times. Any deviation from standard field conduct will be noted…”

Ash, for his part, was having none of it. He trotted just behind Akilah, ears flicked back, tail swishing, glancing at Misty with the kind of disdain usually reserved for humans who thought chocolate milk was a suitable substitute for dinner. Every so often, he let out a single, pointed bark, almost as if saying, Do you really expect me to follow your paperwork?

Natalie tried to ignore the sound and the lecture. Her mind was already running through the route to Wisayok College, calculating shortcuts, potential ambush points, and the most efficient way to avoid Shauna’s incessant micromanagement once they arrived. She adjusted her backpack, fingers tapping against the straps as she silently grumbled, She’s going to assign seats in the van, isn’t she? The thought made her roll her eyes so hard she feared the muscles might lock. Shauna, as expected, was already standing to the side, whipping out a notebook and furiously scribbling potential strategies for transit, checkpoints, and hypothetical engagement scenarios.

Van, ever the jester of calamity, leaned against the wall near the exit, smirking at the unfolding scene. “So, what are the odds we survive the ride without anyone accidentally impaling themselves?” she asked, voice laced with sarcasm. She extended an arm dramatically, pointing at Shauna. “Team lead: 100% chance of micro-managing us to death. Support crew: 0% chance of taking her seriously. And me? I give our fun factor a solid… five out of ten.”

Shauna shot her a glare that could slice through steel, but Van just tilted her head and grinned, unbothered. It was the kind of grin that said, I will survive you, shipshape or not. Natalie found herself smirking despite herself, acknowledging, even if begrudgingly, that Van had a way of diffusing tension without actually solving anything.

Akilah, meanwhile, was the picture of calm efficiency. She checked Ash’s harness, ensuring it was secure without adjusting her stride, and cast a quick glance at Misty, lips pressed in a thin line. Akilah’s inner monologue was simple and grounded: Ignore the chaos. Focus on the path. Keep Ash from wanting to eat someone’s shoelaces.

Misty, hearing none of it, continued her muttering, this time producing a small laminated guide from her clipboard. “Subsection 12, canine field engagement: any deviations from protocol-such as excessive sniffing or costume interference-must be reported. It is imperative that Ash maintain professionalism…”

Ash stopped mid-stride to tilt his head at her, clearly weighing whether obedience or dignity won out. After a moment, he chose dignity, trotting ahead and flicking his ears in deliberate disregard.

Natalie inhaled the crisp night air, letting the tension of the Guild hall fade slightly. Despite the absurdity, a pattern began to emerge-everyone’s personality had already staked its territory: Shauna’s unrelenting control, Van’s irreverent commentary, Misty’s obsessive regulations, Akilah’s quiet competence, and Ash’s unspoken judgment. She found herself mentally filing each one away. Understanding them might be as important as understanding the vampire they were hunting.

Van broke the silence again, voice carrying across the sidewalk. “By the way, has anyone checked if Wisayok College has airbags in its hallways? Asking for a friend.” She gestured vaguely at Natalie and Akilah, who ignored her. Misty, however, gave her a scolding glance over her clipboard. “Airbags are not sanctioned by the Guild,” she said sharply, then muttered something about endangering the mission through humor.

Shauna, ever the strategist, clapped her hands once. “Alright! We need to decide on transport immediately. Vans, sedans, rental options-who has the fastest route, and how are we accounting for potential vampire interference along major roads?” She scribbled a note, eyes scanning each hunter as if she could already see them falling into line-or tripping over the nearest curb.

Natalie groaned internally. She’s literally assigning imaginary tactical units before we’ve even left the city. But outwardly, she folded her arms, pretending to consider the logistics. Meanwhile, her brain was running interference simulations, analyzing potential vampire activity at rest stops and the likelihood of civilian interference.

Akilah finally spoke, voice steady and calm, cutting through the commotion. “We stick to main roads until we reach the outskirts. Ash will handle perimeter checks.” She crouched slightly to give her dog a gentle pat. Ash responded with a focused sniff, the subtle acknowledgment of a partnership forged over countless hunts and miles.

Misty whipped around, clipboard shaking with excitement. “Excellent! That’s procedural compliance! I will document this plan in full. Subsection 3B requires a detailed route log. Please ensure-”

Van cut her off with a laugh. “Misty, just let the dog breathe, the college isn’t going to disappear.”

Akilah rolled her eyes but said nothing. Natalie allowed herself a small smirk, secretly enjoying the dance of personalities. The mission was serious, but in this moment, the absurdity-the barking, the plotting, the muttering rules, the sarcastic commentary-made the entire enterprise feel… almost manageable.

Almost.

Because as much as humor cut through the tension, Natalie knew the real test was waiting at Wisayok College. Shauna might be capable, Misty might be meticulous, Van might be indestructible, Akilah might be steady, and Ash might be brilliant-but vampires didn’t care about personalities.

And Natalie, despite herself, felt a thrill run through her.

This was going to be a long, chaotic, and extremely entertaining mission. And she was going to survive it-strategically, sarcastically, and maybe a little dangerously.

The journey from the Guild building to Wisayok College felt like an exercise in controlled chaos, though Natalie wasn’t convinced any control actually existed. The night air was cool and sharp, carrying a scent of pine from the surrounding trees, mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood that always seemed to linger around hunters no matter how cleanly they thought they operated. Ash padded silently beside Akilah, every pawstep measured and deliberate, his massive frame a quiet reassurance amid the chatter and bickering.

Misty, of course, had already launched into a running commentary, clipboard in hand. “Subsection 7D of travel protocol requires us to maintain a constant log of departure times, transit speed, and potential hazard engagement. Please ensure no unauthorized stops are made for food, human interaction, or non-Guild-related distractions.”

Van leaned back in her seat of the rental van, legs stretched across the dashboard, flicking a casual glance at Misty. “You do realize a college campus isn’t a warzone until we make it one, right?” Her tone was light, teasing, but there was a flicker of truth beneath the humor.

Shauna, seated firmly in the passenger seat with a notebook balanced on her knees, ignored Van entirely. She was already mapping out approach vectors in her mind, potential choke points, and safe zones for extraction. “We need to assume multiple vampire presences. Even if we spot only one on approach, there could be more in hiding. Our assignments will be split accordingly. Natalie, you take the north side perimeter first; Akilah, cover the east wing with Ash; Van, coordinate reconnaissance with Gen monitoring-”

Natalie rolled her eyes so hard she could feel the muscles protesting. Her internal monologue was ruthless. I could plot a hundred more efficient paths than this, and she’ll still insist on marching in like a parade marshal with a clipboard. Yet she also knew that Shauna’s obsessive strategies, for all their overkill, sometimes saved lives. She squared her jaw and nodded once, more to herself than anyone else.

Akilah reached over Ash’s broad back to pat his shoulder, whispering under her breath, “Ignore her. Stick to the plan, and keep your eyes open.” Ash responded with a low, approving grunt, his eyes scanning the road like he was already predicting potential supernatural interference.

Misty, meanwhile, had not let a single word go without annotation. Every glance, every hand gesture, every adjustment to seatbelts was meticulously documented. “Potential safety violations noted. Noncompliance with vehicular protocol may incur disciplinary action. Repeat: disciplinary action-”

Van chuckled, elbowing Natalie lightly. “You ever notice how Misty treats us like we’re auditioning for an obedience trial instead of hunting literal vampires?”

Natalie smirked despite herself. “Better to live with paperwork than die with bite marks,” she muttered, her fingers tapping against the notebook in her lap as if counting all the mistakes Shauna might make in the next thirty minutes.

It was in the midst of this tension that Misty finally handed out the assignment briefs. She had folded each sheet with clinical precision, sealing them in little envelopes stamped with the Guild insignia. As the van rolled over uneven asphalt, the dim glow of streetlights flickering across the papers, Natalie unfolded hers and immediately felt the familiar tug of anticipation mixed with dread.

The memo began innocuously enough with the Guild’s standard language, but one line made her pause:

“There is at least one vampire hiding among the students, likely more. Extreme caution and vigilance are required. Engage only under sanctioned protocol; lives, human and otherwise, may be at risk.”

Her stomach tightened. The brief was clinical, detached, but the implications were anything but. Wisayok College might look like any other campus on a quiet night, but somewhere within its dormitories and lecture halls lurked predators capable of extraordinary speed, strength, and cunning. The Guild’s warning set the tone perfectly: this was no ordinary investigation.

Shauna, noticing Natalie lingering over the text, leaned forward, sharp eyes narrowing. “Read carefully. Every detail could be crucial. This isn’t just a patrol. Any mistakes and people die. Understand?”

Natalie’s lips pressed into a thin line. People like us, probably, she thought darkly. Yet she didn’t speak, letting the tension coil inside her as her mind began plotting potential scenarios.

Van nudged her shoulder lightly. “First rule of vampire hunting: expect the unexpected. Second rule: survive the nerd parade. Third rule…” she trailed off, wiggling her eyebrows. “Honestly, the rest is optional.”

Akilah, ever the grounded presence, glanced at Ash, who now sat perfectly still, ears twitching. Her internal thoughts were focused and precise: We need to stay sharp. Misty will fuss, Shauna will over-plan, Van will be reckless, Natalie will be snarky… and all of that is fine. Just don’t let the vampires see our chaos.

Misty, of course, didn’t hear any of that. She had already begun rewriting the transit log, annotating every turn and potential procedural deviation, muttering to herself about “potential breaches of protocol” as the van coasted toward the outskirts of the campus.

For Natalie, the Guild’s warning had done its job. The comedic chaos of her team-the bickering, the sarcasm, the overbearing rule-following-was now interlaced with a palpable tension. Somewhere ahead, the campus held secrets she didn’t yet know, and a predator-or several-was already moving among the students, unseen, waiting.

Her eyes drifted to Shauna, whose gaze was already locked on the horizon as if she could sense the vampires hiding behind the dorm windows. Natalie clenched her hands on her knees, taking a deep breath. The mission had just begun, but she already knew two things: one, surviving the personalities in the van was going to be nearly as difficult as surviving whatever awaited at Wisayok College; and two, she wouldn’t let anyone underestimate her-not Shauna, not Misty, and certainly not herself.

The campus loomed ahead, bathed in the eerie glow of streetlights, ancient brick glinting faintly in the night. Shadows stretched across empty quads and deserted paths, and the line between mundane college life and lurking supernatural danger began to blur.

Natalie tapped her fingers against her thigh, adrenaline coiling tight in her stomach. This is it. The real game starts now.

The van rolled on, every mile bringing them closer to the unknown, closer to confrontation, and closer to chaos. And with a team like this, chaos was almost guaranteed.

The van came to a slow halt at the edge of Wisayok College, the campus sprawling before them like a maze of gothic architecture and modern dormitories stitched together under the muted glow of lampposts. Shadows pooled along brick walls, and the rustle of late-night wildlife mixed with the occasional distant car horn in a way that made the place feel both ordinary and uncomfortably alive.

Shauna immediately swung open her door, clipboard clutched like a shield. “Everyone out, now. Stick to assigned perimeters. Remember-do not deviate from protocol. Checkpoints, recon sweeps, evidence documentation. This is serious!” Her tone was sharp, clipped, every word a reminder that she was officially in charge, and that she expected no dissent.

Natalie, as usual, ignored the lecture entirely. Her boots hit the cobblestones of the quad with deliberate, impatient taps, and she let her gaze wander over the campus with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Finally, she thought, I get to see what a normal college night looks like. I’ll take reconnaissance seriously, sure-but let’s be honest, the real mission is enjoying the illusion of a normal student life for ten minutes.

“Natalie!” Shauna called, voice rising in irritation. “Your assignment is to patrol the north perimeter! Follow the plan!”

Natalie waved a dismissive hand without even looking back. “Plan? I’ve got my own plan. It involves not dying and maybe actually going to a lecture for once. You can keep your clipboard fantasies.” She ducked into the nearest dorm building, the familiar rush of adrenaline mingling with a secret thrill. This was the closest she’d ever get to experiencing college without a dozen bloodied corpses waiting outside.

Akilah led Ash along the eastern walkways, murmuring encouragements and quietly noting potential hiding spots where a vampire could be lurking. Ash’s massive frame moved almost silently beside her, tail swishing low, ears twitching at every faint noise. Akilah’s eyes scanned every shadow and tree line, mentally calculating escape routes, secure observation points, and routes for intervention. She kept her tone soft but precise. “Stay sharp, Ash. Don’t let anything sneak up.”

Misty hovered at the van door, clipboard still in hand, muttering rules under her breath about proper dorm approach procedures, pedestrian spacing, and unauthorized campus area entry. Her voice was precise, almost surgical, and each syllable sounded like it could be used as evidence in a tribunal if someone broke Guild law-even by accident.

Van leaned casually against a lamppost, arms crossed. “I’m just going to wander the west wing. Risk assessment is fun when the odds of dying are only moderately high.” She grinned, shrugging, as if the idea of confronting vampires-or nearly getting herself killed-were just another way to kill boredom.

Natalie slipped into a hallway and paused outside a classroom, peering through the slightly fogged glass. She let herself inhale the scent of chalk dust and old books, a small, almost guilty pleasure. It was a momentary escape from the tension of the Guild and the absurdity of Shauna’s obsession with rules, Misty’s neurotic oversight, and Van’s gallows-humor antics. In this fleeting anonymity, she could almost pretend to be a regular student-just for a few minutes, just to feel normal.

Meanwhile, Shauna was marching across the quad, clipboard raised like a sword, muttering to herself about perimeter sweeps and tactical advantage points. Misty trailed her like a shadow, occasionally stepping on a crack in the pavement to make a note in her ledger, nodding with grim satisfaction at the correctness of every action.

Akilah and Ash paused near the fountain at the center of campus, Ash sniffing the night air carefully, tail still low but alert. “We’re clear for now,” Akilah whispered, though her eyes never stopped scanning. Her senses picked up small movements-the flutter of a bat, the scrape of a branch, the distant shuffle of someone-or something-walking unseen. Ash’s deep, steady breathing was a reassurance, a reminder that they weren’t facing this alone.

Back in the hallway, Natalie finally made her way to the classroom door. She pressed her palm against the cool wood, feeling the vibration of distant footsteps from the dorms, the hum of the streetlights, the subtle pulse of life in the college she was supposed to protect. This is what normal feels like, she thought, and a small, private smirk tugged at her lips. Of course, “normal” was a relative term when the entire mission was about hunting monsters hidden among humans, but she allowed herself the indulgence.

As the teams dispersed across the campus, the tension between the personalities-Shauna’s control, Misty’s officiousness, Van’s dark humor, Akilah’s calm efficiency, and Natalie’s sarcastic independence-set the stage for what would be a chaotic night. Each step forward was weighted with anticipation and subtle dread; the Guild’s warning hung over them like a shadow they couldn’t shake.

Natalie’s fingers brushed the edge of her notebook as she ducked into the classroom, already planning how to balance reconnaissance with attending an actual lecture. Second-in-command my foot, she muttered. I may be under Shauna on paper, but on this campus? I make the rules for myself.

Ash’s paws echoed softly on the cobblestones, Akilah’s calm presence a counterpoint to the storm of personalities flaring around her. Van’s laughter drifted on the wind from the west wing. Misty’s muttering was a constant undertone, an unrelenting metronome of bureaucracy. Shauna’s clipboard-wielding march marked the center of authority, and somewhere in the shadows, Wisayok College waited.

Somewhere in the halls, in the darkness just beyond the glow of lamplight, eyes moved with predatory patience, sensing the intrusion of hunters into their territory. Natalie paused at the doorway, letting her gaze sweep over the silent classroom. She took a deep breath, knowing the night would only get stranger from here.

The mission had officially begun. Chaos and danger were all packed tightly into the quiet streets, the campus corridors, and the students oblivious to the invisible war about to unfold around them. Natalie stepped fully inside, and for the first time in a long while, allowed herself to feel a small thrill of anticipation.

This was it-the line had been crossed. The Guild had deployed them, the campus lay before them, and the hunters were scattered like pieces on a board, each ready-or unready-for whatever came next.

Coffee: thermos, lid off, steam looping like a tiny model train. Crossbow: slung onto the table with the gracelessness of a boulder. Cloak: wolf-fur, ceremonial and heavy, stuffed in her backpack because the sight of it made her teeth hurt. Somewhere in the building above, a printer screamed as if it had bitten its own tongue.

She cracked the folder. The briefing memo was stamped with the Guild’s preferred font - serifed intimidation - and bulleted into paranoia:

WENDIGO, SUSPECTED: Reported near café dumpsters. Behavioral markers: emaciation, mimicry, hunger vocalizations. Note: multiple decoys possible.

UNICORN HERD – ANOMALOUS MORTALITY: Five carcasses discovered 2.4 miles WNW of campus power substation. Horns intact. Note: contamination event suspected (Class C).

LOW-LEVEL PSYCHIC ENTITY: Philosophy building, second floor. Reports: whispers, weight-on-chest, sudden rejection of Kant.

GENERAL: Increased nocturnal congregation in chapel basement (see: “Taxidermy Club”). High-probability corruption site. Observe. Do not engage without squad.

She rubbed her eyes until sparks burst behind her lids. This is a scavenger hunt, she thought: wendigo by the dumpsters, unicorn death pile in the woods, haunted philosophy majors. Somewhere between bullet points and coffee sips, the absurdity became a buoy. If she pretended the world was a satire, maybe it would stop gnawing at her ankles.

Essay #1: Taxation and the Vampire Citizen. She read three sentences and stopped at “if vampires don’t age, do they count as dependents forever?” The argument swerved off a cliff, arms up, screaming YOLO. She typed F in the margin, then backspaced to D- because she wasn’t a monster. The kid had put in a bibliography.

Essay #2 opened with, “I believe vampires are symbols of late-stage capitalism,” which made her consider flinging herself bodily into the book return slot. She rubbed the back of her neck and remembered: she was supposed to be out there circling predators while grading whether a nineteen-year-old could string a thesis together.

Her phone buzzed. Squad thread:

Shauna: Check in every 45. If you see anything we didn’t brief, don’t be a hero. Gen: Text coordinates, not vibes. Misty: Make sure to log all interactions on form 9A. Also, bring back any unusual residue in sealed evidence bags - Van: grab me a cookie if you find any. not the holy ones. Natalie: If I die, delete my browsing history. Misty: That’s not in the handbook. Van: i’ll write it in

Natalie smirked despite herself and pulled a sticky note from the stack Gen had labeled FOR ACCOUNTABILITY in Sharpie. She wrote:

If I die, tell the Guild they owe me tuition.

She stuck it to the corner of the laptop screen where it flapped like a limp flag.

The clock on her phone slid past 9:58 p.m. She checked her quiver, counted bolts (twelve, one cracked fletching she’d pretend wasn’t), checked the tension on the bowstring (good), checked the thermos (full), checked her pulse (too fast for sitting still). She told herself it was caffeine. She told herself a lot of things with perfect diction.

Upstairs, a student laughed the kind of laugh that came right after someone said shots? The sound made her chest ache with a dumb, soft envy. She had the sudden, sharp memory of the first week of freshman year - before the Guild moved her into their dorm, before the cloak, before she learned how to reduce fear to policy - when she had sat on library steps with a cigarette she didn’t smoke and dared herself to be a regular person.

You failed that dare, she told herself, and flipped the page to Essay #3: Ethics and the Consent of the Undead. It was… not terrible. She circled “consent applies even when you can hypnotize people” and wrote Yes. More of this. She wanted to put a gold star on it. She settled for a B+ and a smiley face she immediately erased.

A soft knock on the half-open door made her grab for the crossbow. “Jesus - ”

“Sorry,” said a voice. A grad assistant from the library - green vest, key ring big enough to anchor a boat - leaned into the frame. “You’re the, uh, night security?”

“Something like that.”

He held up a paper cup. “The Café said your card is flagged for ‘patrol coffee.’ I’m supposed to refill you every two hours so you don’t fall asleep and sue us.”

“Oh,” Natalie said, caught between gratitude and suspicion. “Thanks.”

He put the cup on the corner of her table, eyes skittering over the crossbow like it was a weird pet. “Hey, uh… be careful out there. People say there’s a… raccoon. Or, like, a big rat. Or maybe a - ”

“Wendigo,” Natalie supplied, deadpan.

He blinked. “Is that… a band?”

“Probably.” She saluted him with the coffee. He escaped back into the gentle safety of reshelving carts.

She checked the time (10:07), stood, slung the crossbow. The basement door stuck; she hip-checked it with the familiarity of a family argument and stepped into the stairwell. The air up here was cooler, less library-breathed. Posters plastered the walls at odd angles - acapella auditions, a Marxist study group, a lost sweater that looked like a crime. Someone had drawn fangs on a photo of the dean. She resisted the urge to add better ones.

Outside, night poured over Wisayok with a campus-town gentleness: streetlights haloed in moths, the quad a nubby black carpet, the academic buildings huddled like solemn conspirators. It was late enough that the drunks were still funny and early enough that the anxious hadn’t yet cried in the bathroom. Natalie took a long sip of coffee. It was somehow both too sweet and too bitter, a personality trait disguised as a beverage.

North sector first. She walked the path along the humanities buildings, boots quiet on brick, ears tuned to the cottony hush that meant nothing and the needle-scratch that meant something. The Guild never trained you how to distinguish your own heartbeat from the world’s, but maybe that was deliberate. It was harder to hear doubt if you were counting in time with orders.

Her earpiece crackled. “Unit Two, status,” Gen’s voice, cool as a scalpel.

“Unit Two alive and literate,” Natalie murmured. “North perimeter clear.”

“Copy. East perimeter patrol in twenty.”

“Copy.” She clicked off and muttered, “Copy this,” to the owl that blinked at her from the philosophy building cornice.

She eyed the philosophy doors. Rumor said there was a psychic entity on the second floor that whispered stop reading Kant into people’s dreams. Natalie considered offering it a medal. She moved on.

Behind the café, the dumpsters squatted like metal teeth. The air carried the sweet rot of pastry and the sharp whiff of bleach. Something skittered. Natalie angled her body, drew the crossbow halfway up, every muscle waiting for a mimicry call and the slap of bare feet on concrete. A shadow slipped, thin and awkward, over the far side of the bins.

“Hey,” she said softly, “don’t.”

A raccoon the size of a small dog peered up at her with bread stuck in its whiskers. It chittered the raccoon version of fight me, grabbed a cruller, and waddled into the dark dignity of the hedges.

“Wendigo threat neutralized,” Natalie reported to no one, jotting raccoon, hostile pastry acquisition, non-lethal in her notebook because Misty had infected her with formality.

She circled west next, the campus thinning into the edge of woods. She could feel the pull of the trees the way you feel the pull of sleep on a bus - tug, tug, just let go. The unicorn report pulsed in the back of her head like a bruise she didn’t want to poke. She didn’t believe in unicorns exactly; she believed in the things the Guild called unicorns when it didn’t want to name something else. The euphemism smelled like bleach and paperwork.

Her shoulder ached where the cloak’s strap dug in her bag. She tugged it out, thought better of it, stuffed it back. The fur had been soft once. It wasn’t softness anymore. It was weight.

When the hour ticked toward eleven, she doubled back to the library to finish the first grading round. Her brain moved like a shopping cart with a broken wheel; it veered toward thoughts she didn’t want and squealed when she corrected. Essay #4 posed the question, “Can love redeem a vampire?” and she wrote maybe before she could stop her hand.

She set it aside and leaned back until the chair groaned. The ceiling tiles looked like stale crackers. She imagined biting one until it turned to chalk dust on her tongue. You’re tired, she told herself. You’re not a poet. You’re a janitor with a weapon.

Her phone buzzed again.

Shauna: East sweep now. Misty: Reminder: log each sector pass with time stamp. Van: if anyone sees a unicorn pls take a pic. for science. Gen: No pictures. Van: fine. for my locker

Natalie typed copy, didn’t send it, and dragged herself upright.

As she slung the crossbow again, her gaze snagged on the sticky note. If I die, tell the Guild they owe me tuition. She added a second line:

Also tell Lottie to feed the plant.

Then, because the thought came with a bodily clench of affection and confusion she didn’t have time to catalog, she added:

(Not blood.)

On her way out, she checked the pocket of her hoodie for the tiny flask of stimulant tincture she wasn’t supposed to have. She didn’t take it. Not yet. The coffee crawled her veins like ants. The night air felt like a wet towel slapped over her face. She breathed through it and kept moving.

Outside, the quad looked like a stage between acts: lights down, set half-changed, the audience murmuring in the dark. She cut across the grass, boots pressing damp against the blades, and thought of the Guild’s slide deck. High-probability corruption site. Cold phrasing for a place where people breathed and laughed and hid and ate bad cookies.

She angled toward the bio building. The basement window glowed dim, fairy lights making a low galaxy. She slowed without meaning to. From this distance the shape of the room was suggestion: movement passing and repassing, shadows gesturing, someone’s head bowed next to someone’s bandaged throat. She told herself not to name anyone. Her mind did it anyway. Lottie, it said, the way a compass needle says north. She watched the glow for exactly three breaths and then turned away like she hadn’t.

“East sector,” she said into the earpiece, because saying the task out loud made it truer. “Clear so far.”

“Copy,” Gen said. “Stay sharp.”

“I am a needle,” Natalie muttered. “So sharp.”

She passed the philosophy building again. The entity, if it existed, settled over the stone like a heavy thought. Natalie paused at the steps and whispered, “If you can hear me, tell me to go home.” The night didn’t answer. Or maybe it did and she ignored it.

Her legs found a rhythm. Her mind didn’t. It ricocheted: father, gun, blood like a fireworks flower opening; mother’s voice, you killed him; Guild, dorm, run, stop, run. She breathed through the spikes the way the training taught her - count, locate, tighten hand into fist, loosen, count again. The method worked on panic the way counting sheep worked on insomnia: technically.

Midnight came. The campus shifted temperature; the warm layer got peeled back and something rawer pressed in. Natalie checked her quiver (eleven), checked her thermos (half), checked her pulse (still too fast). She had been a child who thought rules could domesticate fear. She had grown into a soldier who made checklists out of ghosts.

In the west stand of trees, something moved. Not raccoon, not wind. Heavy, careful, too quiet for deer. It stopped when she stopped, the way a mirror stops when you stop because you’re the one making it move.

“Okay,” she said softly to the dark. “You want to dance?”

No answer. A twig cracked. She pivoted, crossbow up. The night held its breath. She did too.

A rabbit exploded out of the underbrush, furious at the existence of everything. Natalie’s laugh jammed in her chest and came out as a cough. “Congratulations,” she told it, lowering the bow. “You’re a metaphor.”

Her phone buzzed again. Check-in. She typed alive and added nothing else.

When she pivoted back toward the path, her knee twinged - the old ache from the day she’d jumped off a loading dock instead of taking the stairs. She felt it more lately. The coffee made her palms feel like they had static under the skin. It wouldn’t be hard to mistake the body’s complaints for omens. She resolved not to.

On her return loop past the bio building, the basement lights had dimmed to a few stubborn constellations. A figure slipped out the side door, hood up, moving with a very specific carefulness that said don’t notice me noticing you. Natalie’s mouth formed a greeting before her brain supplied a name. She swallowed it. She had a job. She had a perimeter. She had a list of things she wouldn’t let herself want.

She kept walking. The night kept humming. Somewhere behind her, a door clicked softly shut.

Lottie had perfected the art of looking like she was packing for a sleepover when she was actually packing for a crime.

On her desk: a dollar-store cooler she’d bedazzled with star stickers because stickers made everything less suspicious, a fat Sharpie, and a blood bag that sweated condensation like a guilty conscience. She wrote BIOLOGY CLUB PROJECT  -  DO NOT TOUCH across the plastic in gigantic bubble letters, added a wobbly smiley face, then circled PROJECT three times as if emphasis could put a lock on curiosity.

The bag gleamed in the lamplight, deep and opaque. She tried to think of it as medicine and not a magnet. It worked for exactly three seconds.

She slid the bag into the cooler with the tenderness of someone tucking in a sleeping cat, then layered two ice packs on top. The cooler had a squeak in the hinges; she opened and shut it twice until the squeak settled into resignation. Cheap rosewater stood next to her lamp, pale pink in a travel atomizer. Lottie misted herself liberally - wrists, collarbones, hairline. The scent settled like a polite lie over the stubborn seam of iron that lived in her pores.

“Normal,” she told the mirror. The girl who looked back had two stubborn cowlicks, a mouth that always quirked like it had secrets (it did), and eyes a little too wide for daylight. Normal sat on her like a jacket borrowed from a friend: the color was right, the shoulders were wrong.

Across the desk, her checklist lay prim and hopeful:

⬜ Dispose of animal remains discreetly

⬜ Don’t talk to the trees tonight (They gossip)

⬜ Remember: Normal girls don’t hiss at the moon

⬜ Smile with fewer teeth

⬜ If Natalie asks, it’s frogs (science likes frogs)

⬜ Bring napkins

She clicked the pen and filled in the open squares for the joy of pretending progress. She added a seventh line - ⬜ Be a girl who goes for a walk and not a creature that goes to feed - and immediately drew a heart next to it, as if punctuation could make it true.

The room had the lived-in chaos of a schedule kept at night: candles melted into little lakes around their wicks; a stack of dog-eared notebooks held down by a chipped ceramic swan; a thrifted scarf tacked over the window to soften the orange parking-lot glare. One corner housed the mini-fridge, humming with the steady patience of an accomplice. Inside: a Ziploc of venison (thank you, discreet butcher), two raccoon portions (labeled FOR CLUB DEMO in Sharpie, which was both a lie and not), and a baggie of peppermint candies Laura Lee insisted helped with cravings. They did not. Lottie kept them anyway.

Natalie’s absence hung in the room like extra space - a freedom shaped exactly like the girl who wasn’t here. No clatter of crossbow bolts in a drawer, no gruff you good? tossed over a shoulder while tying boots. Lottie missed her like a tooth you keep probing with your tongue: tender, maybe dangerous, impossible not to touch.

She left a note on Natalie’s pillow anyway, because ritual counted even when it was ridiculous: Library late. Taxidermy early. Don’t wait up  -  L. She drew a tiny beetle in the corner, a private joke with no audience.

The hallway outside smelled like popcorn, hair dye, and the expensive perfume Jackie used as if it were air. Lottie lifted the cooler, shouldered her tote (contents: wipes, napkins, a Tupperware of beef broth cut with rabbit stock - her version of chamomile tea), and locked the door.

Mari was sprawled half in, half out of Akilah’s doorway, cross-legged in a velour tracksuit the color of bubble gum, a pile of stapled Cryptid Weekly zines fanned around her like flower petals. Ash snored with opera-seriousness at her feet, one ear flipping with each breath.

“Lo!” Mari announced, as if Lottie had been summoned. “Going to the morgue again?”

“Extracurricular dissections,” Lottie blurted. Her default lie had the rhythm of a nursery rhyme at this point - comforting because it always arrived on cue. “It’s for… frogs.”

“Dead frog gossip,” Mari said solemnly, clicking open her flip phone camera. “Hold the cooler up like a proud mother.”

“No, thank you,” Lottie said, already moving. “We preserve privacy, not moments.”

Mari pivoted on her butt and crab-walked after her down the hall. “Sooo… do I need permission from the club to cover your meeting? My readership is demanding answers. And by ‘readership,’ I mean me.”

“You can come if you don’t bring stickers or questions,” Lottie said, then softened. “Okay, you can bring one of each.”

Mari grinned, victorious. “Is there going to be food that doesn’t try to make me Catholic?”

Lottie winced. “We’re experimenting with savory.”

“Bless.” Mari patted the cooler like a friendly boulder and peeled off into Akilah’s room with the spry grace of a sitcom raccoon.

At the stairwell, Lottie paused, listening. The building had its own pulse - a low thrum running through pipes and banisters. Tonight it felt… chatty. The fluorescents hummed, the exit sign sizzled, and the old radiator clanked as if retelling a joke for the fiftieth time. She sometimes heard words in those noises, and she had learned the trick of ignoring them kindly. Not now, she told the building. Later, when the world is quieter or I am.

On the landing, a blond RA startled at the sight of her cooler. “Uh - ”

“Biology club,” Lottie said, too quickly. Then, gentler: “Specimens.”

“Oh.” The RA relaxed with the relief of someone happy to outsource responsibility. “Cool. Science.”

“Very,” Lottie said, and pushed through the door into night.

The campus breathed different after ten. Less performance, more bare mechanics - people moving because they had to, because the day had asked too much of them and they were taking back the edges. Streetlights cast halos on the damp pavement. A moth tore itself to shreds against a lamp and Lottie shivered in sympathy. She kept to the shadowed side of the path out of habit and out of tenderness toward her skin. Moonlight made the lawn a sheet of pewter.

“Normal,” she said again, just to practice shaping the word. She adjusted her grip on the cooler; the plastic dug into her palm with a practical ache. The strap of her tote bit into her shoulder. She let the pain anchor her.

Past the quad, past the philosophy building (which she avoided out of a superstitious respect for anything that could whisper back), toward the biology wing where the basement door swung on a stiff hinge and smelled like bleach, formaldehyde, and trapped rain. She had a key for the side entrance she wasn’t supposed to have - thank you, witch friend with a moral allergy to gates. The door made its usual complaint. She stepped into the cool humidity of concrete and old water.

The hallway lights buzzed awake in the staggered way of municipal electricity. She kept her eyes down and her breathing steady, moving with the half-glide of someone who had learned how to pass. The TAXIDERMY CLUB noticeboard, which held exactly three legitimate notices and twenty-five coded messages, winked at her with a flyer for a “Bone Art Workshop” (cover for how to bury things correctly), a sign-up sheet for “Field Collection Training” (cover for don’t get caught), and a cartoon moose labeled with the Latin names of fake organs. Someone had added a sticky note: STOP DRAWING HEARTS ON THE SKULLS. Someone else had drawn a tiny heart next to the o in STOP anyway.

In the tiny prep room off the basement, she set the cooler on a lab bench and let herself exhale the way people do when they put down a sleeping child. She washed her hands like a surgeon, scrubbing diligently under the nails where iron clung, then lined the counter with paper towels. The room wore the gentle chaos of their pretend club: a dissecting tray with nothing but a pebble in it (good fidget object), a stack of masks, a jar of tweezers that had all been bent into worry-shapes, a tin of mints labeled DO NOT CONFUSE. Above the sink hung a cheap print of a cardinal sitting on a twig. It looked like a warning in a fairytale. She looked away.

Feeding was always two acts: the make-believe and the mercy. She did the theater first. She opened cabinets and clanked things as if anyone were listening, measured nothing into tiny cups, labeled one FIXATIVE and one DEIONIZED WATER. She wrote SPECIMEN 6B  -  LAGOMORPHA on a sticky note and put it beside the cooler. The make-believe smoothed the animal in her long enough that the act that followed could be quiet.

The mercy was the blood.

She took the bag out and held it for a second against her cheek. It was cool and heavy and - if she was very still - utterly silent. No heartbeat meant mercy. No crying meant mercy. She opened her mouth and counted in her head: one, two, three, four, five, six. On six she let her fangs drop, small and terrible and familiar, and bit.

It was bliss and it was a punishment, as always. Warmth rolled under her tongue and lit every nerve from within. The part of her that was little and feral wanted to throw her head back and drink until the world went white. The part of her that had learned to hold forks and pencils and hands pressed her palm flat on the bench and let the ache in her fingers widen until she could breathe through it.

“Slow,” she told herself. “We’re slow.” She imagined sewing - neat, measured stitches. She swallowed in deliberate sips, kept her eyes open so the room couldn’t tilt. The rosewater on her wrists fought with the iron in the air, a ghost of a romance that would never quite work. She hummed without meaning to, the tune she used for calming other people when they panicked. The hum turned into a line of prayer with no language, just intention, and then dissolved back into sound.

When the worst of the hunger loosened its teeth, pleasure softened to gratitude. Gratitude softened to shame and then, because she knew that shape too well to be fooled by it, back to gratitude. She wiped her mouth with a paper towel and then wiped the counter twice because there is always a drop you didn’t see. She pressed her thumb to the plastic mouth of the bag until the hole closed and taped it, labeled it USED the way you label a grenade after it doesn’t go off.

She breathed once. Twice. The world resettled - less bright, more kind.

Checklist time. She pulled the paper from her pocket and uncapped her pen.

⬜ Dispose of animal remains discreetly

Her gaze slid to the mini-fridge tucked under the counter. Inside, the wrapped parcels waited - two from last week, one from the night Misty had walked her home uninvited and Lottie had smiled too much to keep her hands steady. She made a face at her reflection in the stainless steel door. “Tonight,” she said. “We plant a little graveyard.”

⬜ Don’t talk to the trees tonight (They gossip)

“Not tonight,” she said aloud, which technically was talking to them. “Be nice anyway.”

⬜ Remember: Normal girls don’t hiss at the moon

She drew a tiny fanged smiley face next to this one and moved on.

⬜ Smile with fewer teeth

She practiced at the paper towel dispenser, which regarded her with its blank, generous rectangle of wisdom. Less incisors. Cheeks, not fangs. There. Human.

⬜ If Natalie asks, it’s frogs (science likes frogs)

At Natalie’s name, the air dented around her like someone had just sat on the edge of her thought. If Natalie asks was generous. Natalie didn’t ask; she watched. She noticed if Lottie moved a plant to catch more light, if the mini-fridge ran longer at certain hours, if Lottie flinched when she capped a pen and it clicked. Natalie’s noticing felt like being studied by an animal who hasn’t decided whether to approach or bolt. It made Lottie want to be very still and very honest, which was unfortunate for her continued existence.

⬜ Bring napkins

She patted the Tupperware pocket, then added + a joke under the list. She always brought jokes to the club - the silly, nothing kind that required no one to laugh. The way humor made a room exhale was its own sort of magic.

The door clicked softly. Lottie froze, heart lurching into her throat before her brain reminded her that she had a key and anyone else would have made more noise. The whisper of fabric against fabric followed. She exhaled a millimeter.

She packed the cooler again - bag sealed, ice packs repositioned, lid closed gently - and wiped the counter one more time because the ritual had its own gravity. She slid the used bag into an opaque tote with a recycling symbol and delighted briefly in the metaphor.

Before she left, she leaned toward the cardinal print. Up close its red was too red, a printed flatness that never happened in real feathers. “Sorry,” she told it, because apologies were part of her liturgy. “I know you’re supposed to be bad luck.”

The cardinal, being paper and smug, did not reply. She took that as permission.

Back outside, the night had thinned a degree. Crickets sawed their little violins. The air carried a sweetness from the ivy that climbed the humanities building like gossip. Lottie tucked the cooler into the crook of her arm and headed for the small stand of trees near the science quad where the ground was soft and forgiving.

“Normal girls don’t hiss at the moon,” she murmured again, and then, because it was funny and she needed one laugh that belonged entirely to her, she added, “But they can growl at bureaucracy.”

At the edge of the trees she stopped, listening. A breeze combed the leaves and the leaves told on themselves in soft conspiracies. You again, they said, fond. Always, she admitted, and stepped under their whispering roof.

The earth there knew her. She could feel it in the way the topsoil yielded, in the hum she felt when she pressed her palm flat to the ground. She knelt, set the cooler aside, and dug gently with the hand spade she kept in her tote - the motion practiced and respectful, a gardener’s care with very different flowers. She placed the small parcels reverently, said the names she’d chosen for them under her breath like a promise to remember, and covered them. A little crooked line of smooth stones went on top, unofficial headstones for the unofficial dead.

“Thank you,” she said to the mound, and meant it. “I’m sorry,” she added, and meant that too.

On her way back to the path, she caught a flicker of movement at the corner of her sight - a figure cutting across the quad with a crossbow slung casual-sinister over one shoulder. The breath she drew made her feel taller, thinner, less obvious. She ducked her chin, shifted the cooler higher, smiled the small teeth smile, and kept walking.

Natalie didn’t see her. Or if she did, she didn’t know what she saw. Lottie’s heart did a complicated thing with relief and longing and the old ache of being unlooked-at where you want it and looked-at where you don’t.

Back in the building, the hallway felt like a river mouth - everything flowing into it, everything inevitably going out again. Mari popped out of Akilah’s door like a jack-in-the-box, face triumphant. “Breaking news,” she intoned. “The cafeteria is out of garlic bread. Coincidence, or - ”

“Conspiracy,” Lottie said dutifully.

“Thought so.” Mari sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. “Smells like… roses and hospital. That’s an aesthetic.”

“New perfume,” Lottie said, which was true in the way that wearing a raincoat is a fashion choice.

“You’re weird,” Mari informed her, delighted. “Don’t change.”

“Okay,” Lottie said, and then, because the universe loved a punchline, added, “I’ll try.”

She slid back into her room and locked the door. The note she’d left for Natalie stared up at her from the pillow, the beetle grinning its dumb little grin. She tucked the cooler into the mini-fridge, put the used bag where it wouldn’t accidentally become a conversation, then washed her hands twice. The rosewater had softened, the iron stubborn and domestic.

Her checklist waited, loyal as a dog. She filled the last box and set the paper under her little ceramic swan, where important things went to feel silly and safe.

She turned off the lamp and sat in the dark long enough to hear her own breath the way she liked it - steady, human, boring. Outside, someone laughed. Far away, a bell made a tired sound. Lottie curled on her side and whispered to the room, “Good job,” because sometimes you have to be your own parent. The room, kind as old rooms get when they know your name, hummed back.

She didn’t talk to the trees again. She did, however, make the mistake of glancing at the window, where the moon had hauled itself up and was peeking over the humanities building like a nosy neighbor.

“Don’t,” she told it.