Gluttony

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by Katie May

my wrists feel as if they had gone through a meat grinder. I know, without

  having to look, that the skin will be red and blistered from the cuffs.

  My lungs struggle to refill with air as my thoughts race in tandem to my

  heart. I may be in a hospital, but the cuffs demote me as a prisoner. I thought

  I was free. I thought I had escaped…

  The heart monitor reaches a crescendo as my thoughts run unattended.

  “You need to calm down,” the nurse instructs, not unkindly. “You’re

  safe.”

  “I’m a prisoner,” I retort, my voice a breathy whisper. It hurts to speak

  any louder, as if sandpaper is rubbing at my vocal cords. My words make her

  pause; I no longer hear her hustling above me.

  After a pronounced moment of silence, she resumes connecting a tube to

  my arm. An IV? I think I recall Kai telling me about one, but all of his

  lessons blur together. “I wouldn’t recommend talking until you have a lawyer

  present.”

  What?

  Try as I might, I can’t understand her words. They just don’t make sense

  in any context. Why would I need a lawyer? I’m not a complete imbecile. I

  know what a lawyer is and what they are used for. What I don’t understand,

  however, is why I would need one.

  The nurse finishes her thorough checkup before hurrying away, muttering

  under her breath.

  Alone with only my thoughts, I allow my mind to wander.

  I’m...free. Free. That word feels foreign, unnatural, as if I’m describing

  the situation of someone else entirely. For as long as I can remember, that

  word has never applied to me.

  Maybe when I was a child…

  A vivid memory of my three year old self being tied down to a table

  assaults me.

  No, not even then.

  I release a semi-hysterical giggle as tears burn my eyes. I want to shout

  from the rooftops, scream it to the world, brand it on my skin.

  I’m free!

  And yet…

  I helplessly wiggle in the restraints containing me to the bed. The metal is

  cool against my skin, almost uncomfortably so.

  If I’m truly free, then why do I still feel like a prisoner?

  I try to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head—a voice that

  sounds eerily similar to my main torturer—telling me that I’ll never be free.

  That I’ll never escape.

  For the longest time, I had relied on someone else to save me. A knight in

  shining armor or a handsome prince. Kai frequently told me stories about the

  beautiful princess trapped in a tower and how a handsome prince killed the

  monster and saved her. When no princes arrived and my knight was taken

  from me, I decided I needed to save myself.

  My stomach is a tumultuous mixture of dread and anxiety as I wait for the

  nurse to arrive again. When the door is pushed open and footsteps pound

  against the stark white tiles, I know innately that it isn’t the nurse visiting me.

  With great trepidation, I push myself into the newcomer’s head.

  Fortunately for me, the direction he’s staring at gives me an unrestricted view

  of his reflection in the hospital window.

  The man appears to be older—mid-forties if I had to garner a guess—and

  he has a thinning hairline freckled with gray. His eyes are chips of obsidian in

  a decidedly cold face. He’s immaculately dressed in a black suit with gray

  cufflinks and a periwinkle colored tie. Everything about this man screams

  wealth and power. Lots and lots of power.

  When he moves to stand at the foot of my bed, staring down at me, I

  retreat from his mind and embrace the darkness. It consumes my vision like a

  dark curtain being drawn closed.

  “What is your name, child?” he asks briskly. His voice is as cold as his

  features. Unease skates down my spine, unfurling in my stomach like a heavy

  ball of lead. My breathing is painfully shallow, sawing in and out. I have

  heard that tone of voice. Once, when Kai had beaten one of our guards

  because of a leering look directed at me.

  That tone? It’s accusing.

  “My name?” I repeat meekly. I wish desperately I could fiddle with my

  long black hair. It’s a nervous habit I developed when I was younger, and it

  drove Kai crazy.

  “Don’t make me ask again,” he snaps, and that previously mentioned ball

  of lead tangles with the nerves already present.

  “Nina,” I reply, voice a hushed murmur. And then, louder, I repeat,

  “Nina.”

  “Nina.” He speaks my name as if it’s something disgusting, a curse word

  spoken in church. The bed dips as his heavy weight settles at the end. “Do

  you know a Raphael Turner?”

  His question takes me off guard, mainly because I have never heard that

  name before in my life. Granted, the guards at the Compound never gave me

  their true names (Kai referred to them as Asshole One, Asshole Two, Asshole

  Three… and, well, you get the picture), but even then, that name had never

  even been mentioned.

  “This will be much more difficult if you play dumb,” the man points out

  scathingly. I flinch instinctively at his tone of voice. God, when will I never

  not cower when someone yells at me? I don’t know how I’m expected to

  survive this new world if the slightest noise sends insidious fear snaking

  down my spine.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply honestly. He releases a

  disgruntled sigh, and I resist the urge to peek into his head one more time. All

  I’ll see is myself...pathetic and trapped, like a feral dog taken off the streets

  but immediately locked in a cage.

  “Councilman Raphael Turner.” His words are spoken succinctly, a no-

  nonsense manner used commonly at the Compound.

  I stare at him blankly, attempting to calm down my rabbiting heart.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” I say slowly, carefully. It feels as if I’m

  tiptoeing along a thin rope miles above shark-infested waters. One wrong

  move and I’ll tumble over, never to be seen again.

  “You had blood on you,” the man announces curtly. At my raised brow,

  he elaborates. “When we found you. You had blood on you.”

  My own blood, I think somewhat amusedly. Definitely macabre

  amusement. I picture a knife descending on the sensitive skin of my

  stomach…

  “I was tortured,” I admit quietly. The very words hurt to say, as if

  confessing them out loud somehow makes them more real. “I’ve been there

  since I was two or three—”

  “The blood we found on you belonged to Raphael Turner,” he cuts me

  off, and I can practically hear the banked anger and frustration lurking just

  beneath the surface. His next words take the remaining air from my lungs. I

  exhale heavily, my muscles losing strength, as tears prick at my eyes.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Councilman Raphael Turner.”

  MONSTERS (PRODIGIUM ACADEMY

  BOOK ONE)

  Violet

  I just barely dodge the onslaught of bullets.

  Heart hammering, I duck behind a rusty, old pick-up truck and chance a

  peek over the hood.

  There, in the shadows, my target stands, back silhouetted.

  The town is quiet, almos
t unnaturally so. The peaceful air belies the

  tension ratcheting up a notch.

  Because some asshole is trying to kill me. Again.

  How did this become my life?

  I am a good girl. Promise. I haven’t killed anyone in over two years, and I

  always clean up after I eat.

  So why try to kill me?

  I duck down once more as another round of bullets fire in rapid

  succession. Wooden. Of fucking course.

  Another glance over the hood confirms what I suspect. Etched into the

  side of the literal smoking gun is a golden crest.

  The Van Helsings.

  Fuck me in the asshole.

  Hands clenching, I slowly pull myself upwards, hands denting the poor

  car. I’ll have to leave a check for the owner later.

  I can feel the telltale sign of my fangs elongating, scraping against my

  bottom lip.

  With a speed that defies logic, I race towards my attacker.

  And promptly trip over an orange construction cone in the street.

  Here’s the thing about my speed: you can’t fucking control it. You don’t

  have any extra senses or shit like that as the movies display. You can’t know

  where each and every obstacle is.

  Running through a forest? Damn near impossible. You can bet your sweet

  ass I’ll run face first into at least one tree.

  So, yeah.

  There’s that.

  Lying face first on the ground, I groan, using my arms to push myself up.

  “Freaking tit,” I curse, brushing dirt and pebbles off my clothes. My knee

  stings from where rocks are embedded into the pasty skin my skirt reveals.

  Another urban legend. Vampires do get hurt. Quite easily in fact,

  especially if you’re like me.

  “I’m going to get you!” I call to the Van Helsing who is...nowhere to be

  seen.

  I spin in a wide circle, arms raised to fend off any attack. There could’ve

  been tumbleweeds bouncing about with how still the town is. All of the shops

  have their lights off, shutters drawn.

  But haven’t you heard? It’s night, and the monsters love to come out and

  play.

  I finally drop my hands just as a body tackles me from the side. I squeal,

  landing once more in the asphalt. Yes, in. As in, my mouth swallows a good

  handful and a few loose pebbles get in my eye. I really should put a claim to

  this spot of land. My face is getting well acquainted with it.

  “Get off of me, you Van Helsing scum. I. Will. Crush. You.” And then I

  growl, the sound ominously loud and sending unpleasant goosebumps down

  my spine.

  The body above me freezes before pushing off.

  I blame it on the growl. What person would respect a monster that sounds

  like a bat giving anal?

  Note to self: don’t ever fucking growl. Actually, don’t even speak.

  Speaking and growling are off limits. From now on, I am a nun...of silence.

  That’s right, bitches.

  “What the fuck was that? Were you trying to growl? ” a familiar voice

  says, jumping to his feet and looming over me.

  Oh, fuck.

  I think I prefer the man trying to kill me.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, still awkwardly sprawled on the ground like the badass

  I know I am. I scramble to a sitting position and brush out my blonde locks,

  trying to give the impression that I totally meant to be on the ground.

  Dracula is a scary son of a gun. Movies and shows fail to depict my

  domineering father. Towering at over seven feet, he is the epitome of classy

  monster. Bedecked in a business suit with his hair slicked back, you almost

  fail to notice the blood dripping from his mouth. A few feet behind him is the

  Van Helsing dipshit who dared try to hurt me.

  I glare at his dismembered body.

  “Take that, bitch,” I say snottily, as if I had any hand in his death. When

  Dad glares at me, I remember my new life motto.

  No. Fucking. Speaking.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dad reluctantly offers me a hand. I take

  it, pulling myself up, when he promptly releases me, and I land on my ass.

  Hard.

  “You need to practice, Sweet Girl,” Dad says, love emanating from his

  eyes. My asscheeks hurt from where they connected with the ground, but I

  manage to amble to my feet without his help.

  “I’m sorry,” I say earnestly. “But did you see me that time? I almost had

  him.”

  Even before I finish speaking, he’s shaking his head.

  “You almost had him an hour ago when he first started shooting at you.

  Your hands were around his neck, and all you needed to do was snap.” His

  hand pats my blonde mane placatingly, and I duck my head in shame.

  Dammit. The last thing I need is to fucking cry in front of Dracula. So help

  me—

  “I wanted to play with him first,” I lie, kicking my foot out.

  Dad is silent for a moment. So silent I almost think he believes me.

  Until he speaks.

  “You’re soft, Violet. Too soft to be a monster in today’s world. But we’ll

  work on it. I already talked with the headmaster—”

  “Wait what?” I interrupt, glancing up at him.

  “Prodigium. Otherwise known as Monsters Academy. It will train you.

  Harden you. Turn you into a monster worthy of my love.” As he speaks, he

  continues to pet my hair like I’m a damn dog instead of his daughter.

  “You’re sending me away?” I rasp. I’m a fuckup as a monster...and as a

  daughter. You should just have “fuckup” stenciled into my forehead at this

  point. I can’t stand to see the disappointed look in my father’s eyes, as if all

  his plans never came to fruition.

  But dammit! I can conquer the world if he really wants me to.

  He just never gives me the chance.

  I open my mouth to say all that, to beg him to change his mind, to give

  me another chance, when his large hands grasp my neck and abruptly snap it.

  Parent of the fucking year.

  Document Outline

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  Recap of Previous Books

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Katie May

  Blindly Indicted

  Monsters (Prodigium Academy Book One)

  p;

  Katie May, Gluttony

 

 

 


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