Nightshade Academy Episode 1: Awakened Vampire

by Kestra Pingree

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 Kestra Pingree

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Any unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  This is a work of fiction.

  kestrapingree.com

  Summary

  Vampirism.

  An academy made for monsters.

  A guy I want to eat because of a targetted and insatiable bloodlust.

  That's what my life has become.

  I'm used to being the weird girl.

  When I look at people, I see their Colors instead of their faces.

  But I never thought a vampire would rip out of me when a mysterious man told me these simple words: "Your blood is mine."

  The timing was too perfect.

  Right after that, the headmaster of Nightshade Academy kidnapped me before I could hurt someone with my newly "awakened" vampire genes. Now she's making me attend her school until I've relearned how to be a civilized human being.

  Well, I want out. I just graduated high school, and I'm not doing college.

  Mom is probably worried sick about me.

  Then there's Kian. He's a student at Nightshade Academy with a Color that's the perfect complement to mine.

  His smell is intoxicating. He fires up my bloodlust without even trying, and that's when I realize how in trouble I really am.

  If I can't control this bloodlust, I'm going to kill someone.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  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

  Newsletter

  Kestra's Books

  Stay Connected

  Message from the Author

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  The man with his girlfriend waves dollar bills like a flag to get my attention.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask once I’ve reached their table.

  “We’re ready for our check.” The man pauses. “You know, you’d look a lot cuter if you smiled.”

  His girlfriend slaps his forearm. Colors collide. Orange sparks against yellow, creating flames. The cash disappears from one Color and sticks out like dead grass from bright yellow. The Colors waver, the bright yellow rippling like sunflowers swaying in the wind.

  The girlfriend keeps her voice low. “That’s rude. Don’t say it to her face.”

  I interrupt. “I’ll leave your check here for you, then. Thank you for coming.”

  As I walk away, their whispers fade into the unintelligible hiss of cats. I wonder if they’ll call me back to ask for a box, but they don’t. I’m not surprised. The people who eat at Elysian Fields come from money, and they don’t do leftovers.

  I push against the door concealing the kitchen. The cooks are running around, busy as usual. I’m half-convinced the Chef just likes them frantic.

  I drop dishes into the sink where our dishwasher sighs. “More? Man, it’s busy today,” he says. He’s twelve. Shouldn’t legally be working here, and that’s why I remember it.

  I’m not sure why people with money like this small place; it doesn’t have the size to fit the demand. I guess Patapsco River is nice enough—if you like staring at endless docked rental boats, because that’s what Elysian Fields’ prime property has to offer. Plenty of people choose to sit outside and do just that. Or maybe they’re looking at the cracks in between, where the lights from buildings cast a rainbow of colors on the water’s quiet surface.

  Lucky for me, my tables are inside tonight, where the view is arguably better with the eclectic interior design and decorations. The servers Elysian Fields hires also tend to be eccentric. Diverse, too—or so I hear.

  And the most important part: the gourmet food.

  I’ve just left the kitchen when a streak of neon pink nearly slams into me.

  “Nova!”

  “Busy,” I say and sidestep.

  My coworker pops out her hip dramatically and blows a strand of vaguely brown hair out of her face, a habit that has earned her the name Blow Dryer. That, and I forgot her real name.

  “He’s right, you know,” she says. “You should smile more. Your tips will be so much better.”

  I wonder if that’s true or if it’s her frilly, pastel Lolita fashion that gets her all the tips. My eyesore color scheme is an assault on the eyes, I know, but it makes people look. Their Colors react to it.

  “Or maybe it’s because you’re tall and intimidating,” Blow Dryer says.

  “I’m not that tall.” I look over my shoulder, because I have customers waiting for me. One table in particular has been demanding tonight. It seats a single man who didn’t touch the food he ordered, and now he keeps ordering a new cup of hot tea when his previous one goes cold; he hasn’t touched any of those either.

  He doesn’t show any sign of leaving, and I’m thinking about telling the Chef.

  His dingy orange Color has burned its way into my eyes. The area around his shirt collar glows around the edges like embers. Or more like rust peeling away to reveal a hidden layer of copper underneath.

  It’s hard seeing past his Color for his eyes. Are they brown? I can’t tell. When I look in his direction, the browns and oranges move around, though, so he must be looking back.

  Rust. Yes, peeling rust and a coppery orange underneath. Slow-moving until I look, then the copper scatters like ants.

  He’s watching me.

  “Part of smiling is flirting,” Blow Dryer continues. “Learn it. It’s a useful skill if you’re planning on staying here for a while. Didn’t you just graduate high school? Maybe this is a job your using to save up for college? College isn’t for me, but hey, I get why you dress like that. If you’re not planning on living free like this forever, you’ve got to take advantage of outrageous fashion while you can. Me, I’m just sticking around long enough to get my modeling career going.”

  She drones on, and I start fiddling with my phone in my back pocket. My ripped-up patchwork jeans are impossibly tight, but at least the back pockets are good for something. I wonder if I can get away with taking a picture of the rust-orange man. I feel like I should know his face. He seems like he could be trouble, and good luck trying to describe a person’s Color to the police, or anyone else for that matter.

  “One of your tables is empty,” I say, glad for an excuse to get Blow Dryer to stop talking. “Did you give them their check?”

  “What? Shit. A dine and dash? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Blow Dryer streaks neon pink again as she scurries away like a flustered chipmunk.

  Right before the rust-orange man arrived, I noticed a couple of Colors in Blow Dryer’s section fluctuate. They slithered away like smoke caught in the wind.

  But they had snagged my attention before that, too. A parent and a child were all they were. Probably. The adult wore baggy clothes and something over their head, so most of their turquoise Color was hidden from me. Something about the little one’s vermilion made me second-guess the label “child.”

  The kid’s Color was fine grains of sand cascading slowly through an hourglass.

  Kids tend to have more pe
ppy Colors than that.

  The dine and dash is strange, though.

  I shrug it off, take a deep breath, and make my way back to the rust-orange man.

  I think Mom’s paranoia rubbed off on me. It’s ingrained itself so far into my being that I can’t pretend otherwise anymore. As a kid, it was as simple as being aloof, quiet, not trusting anyone. Now I’m expecting trouble to happen without a good reason like she always is.

  But what kind of trouble?

  I don’t even know.

  It’s just the thought, the feeling of someone stalking. Why else would we move so much, like we’re constantly running away from something?

  “Can I get you anything else?” I ask.

  “More tea.” The rust-orange man’s voice is low, smooth, confident.

  I hesitate. “Of course, sir.”

  The cold ceramic of the mug handle barely brushes my fingers, and then the man’s fingers are caressing the back of my hand. Rust orange meets lotus pink, and the two merge into a dirty brown instead of bouncing off each other. I recoil. The mug almost slides off the table, but I stop it with my knee.

  He chuckles quietly. “Apologies. You really should smile more, though. One might get the idea you’re trying to kick him out.”

  Well, I kind of am without being rude and saying it outright. He’s taking up an entire table, and we’re busy. He better not dine and dash too.

  “Not at all,” I say. “Stay as long as you like.” I snatch the mug before his hand can touch mine again. This place has no tolerance for harassment, but I’d prefer not to draw attention to myself. And it was just his fingers brushing my hand, after all.

  “Nova.”

  The way he says my name makes my skin prickle. It’s especially prominent at the nape of my neck, like someone is pinching the skin there too tightly, twisting centimeter by centimeter. It throbs, and I have this distinct image of that small chunk of flesh ripping clean off.

  “Y-yes?” My response is delayed. How long ago did he say my name?

  My eyes go to the chic black tabletop. I don’t want to see his shifting-orange Color, but it darts out like a snake striking, fangs glistening with venom. My wrist is caught in a viper’s grasp. Distinct Colors turn to mud, sludge. It’s just where our skin touches, but my wrist hurts. He’s squeezing too hard, cutting off my blood circulation. If I could see past our Colors to our skin, I wouldn’t be surprised to find it bruising.

  I didn’t expect this kind of strength from the lean frame wearing a crisp, silver pin-striped business suit.

  He yanks. My elbow hits the table, and the mug clatters with the force. It slips out of my fingers and rolls. The handle barely hits the brakes before it can fall off the table.

  Cold, bone-dry air hits my ear with a whisper. “Your blood is mine.”

  My vision goes wrong and double, like those cheap 3D glasses, one lens blue and the other red. I’m stumbling backward, suddenly free, and I don’t bother taking his mug. I just go.

  I run, because my stomach is bubbling. A sour taste hits my tongue, and I cover my mouth as if that’ll be enough to keep the nausea at bay until I reach a toilet.

  CHAPTER 2

  My body falls against the employees-only door. It leads to the alley, where we throw out the trash, instead of the bathroom. Here, I can collect myself or spill my guts in silence.

  And disappear.

  No.

  I shake my head once, twice. No running. Everything is fine. I’m not Mom. I just need to talk to… the Chef.

  “Really, Nova.” I press my forehead against the closed door, and the nausea seems to subside some. “If you want to stay, you should learn their names.”

  But it’s all temporary. It’s always temporary.

  I push off the door and stumble forward, toward the bricks of the neighboring building. It stinks back here.

  God, my head hurts. I press it into the rough bricks now, since pressure seems to be the only thing that helps, and try to steady myself. I can’t even stand up straight. The smell of rotting food burns my nose. And something else much sweeter cuts through.

  A sharp inhale freezes my lungs, washes away the dizziness for just a moment. The single streetlight at the closest end of the alley flickers. I push off against the wall but keep my hand on the bricks to steady myself. Trash catches in the wind, rolling into the light. I didn’t see it before. No wonder it smells like shit out here. Rotting food is rotting food, but the restaurant is adamant on keeping things as tidy as possible. So, why is the dumpster lid wide open?

  I take a step toward the mess. I almost think about picking the trash up and returning it to its proper place, but my vision sparks and pops. Before I know it, my back’s sliding down against a wall. The impact registers as a dull ache, that feeling that means a bruise will follow.

  “Can’t breathe,” I gasp. As if the moon cares.

  That other smell hits my nose again. Sweet. There’s definitely something sweet among the shit. And there’s something breathing near the dumpster: greasy black, a stained coat, curled up like a mangy cat. I can’t see his Color because he’s perfectly cocooned. This must be the homeless guy the Chef keeps going on about. “If you see him, call the cops,” he’s been saying. “It’s bad for business!”

  Wait a minute. Is that sweet smell coming from him?

  I plug my nose. But when I hesitantly force my hand back to my side, the smell hits me again, and I’m sure of it. It’s almost sickeningly sweet. It fluctuates between being so sweet my teeth will rot and something as pleasant as walking into a bakery first thing in the morning. No, definitely too sweet. Like hopped-up cotton candy.

  My stomach makes an awful noise, and I think I’m going to be sick for real this time.

  The back door opens with a soft click. I expect to see a coworker, or the Chef himself, here to lecture me, but it’s the rust-orange man. His Color flickers, dark parts peeling off to make way for its bright core.

  Guests aren’t allowed back here. Why’d they let him back here?

  I try to get off the floor, but my legs won’t cooperate. They’re like Jell-O.

  “That was rather rude, don’t you think?” he says.

  It’s his voice, not just the tone but the way he talks. He’s probably one of those people who gets everything he asks for. Apparently, that includes walking through employees-only doors.

  My gums hurt. I reflexively plug my nose again, but that sweetness taints the air, and it lands on my tongue. My teeth can’t take it. They’re about to rot out of my mouth. It’s like one of those nightmares where the slightest thing is enough to jar them loose. Is that what this is? A nightmare?

  “Nova,” the man says, “get up.”

  When I don’t, he grabs my arm. He lifts me like I weigh nothing. He holds me in place, unaffected by my useless legs. My arm screams with how tightly he’s holding me, but then he switches out for my waist. Then his other hand grasps my chin. Something sharp cuts my neck, and I realize it’s his teeth. His face is buried into my neck. My brain screams so loudly it short-circuits. I fall as limp as a dishrag.

  His fangs enter my skin like twin shots. It hurts just for a couple seconds, and I think that’s it. I want to laugh about it, because this really is a weird-ass nightmare. It was so realistic at first, but now vampires. What the actual hell?

  A whimper escapes my lips when the pinpricks come back. Worse. Now it feels like someone is using dentist drills to burrow into my neck.

  I scream, but it’s cut off before it can gain volume by the man’s hand sealing my mouth shut. My eyes cloud over with tears, my vision blurs black around the edges, and I tell myself to wake up. Any minute now would be great.

  He freezes. The man goes completely still, and I wonder if he’s petrified. The sun’s not out, and I don’t think vampires are supposed to turn to stone in sunlight anyway, but—

  “Like that,” he says. His lips brush against my wound, and I shudder. “Feed just like that. You’ll feel better.”

&nbs
p; He twists me around so my back is facing him and holds me up with his hands on my shoulders. He’s pointing me toward the homeless man.

  My blood heats up, more and more until blood isn’t running through my veins anymore. It’s lava. Lub-dub pounds in my ears like a chant. My eyes search wildly for something specific: a juicy, fat artery.

  “That’s right, Nova. You’ve the blood of a monster. Give in to it.”

  My legs work better than they ever have. I take a step, and it counts for five. The homeless man’s smudgy coat touches the toes of my lime-green Converse. My hand reaches out with a mind of its own, tearing the fabric away like a thin sheet. The wind takes it, flapping like a crow.

  The homeless man snorts and kicks out his legs. “What the?”

  Skin. His neck is exposed. I don’t see the artery I’m looking for, only his Color, gray falling like snow in reverse, but my eyes are locked onto a specific point within the gray. There. Bite there, I think.

  “Hey!” The gray turns white. “I’ll leave, all right? No need to call the cops. It was warmer here, and your dumpster lid was open, and all this trash was flying around. I was going to put it all back in for you, but I fell asleep. Honest mistake. I’m harmless.” He pauses. “God, your teeth!”

  “Go on, Nova,” the rust-orange man says. “Taste him. Then I’ll show you all you need to know.”

  Taste him and the sickeningly sweet of him. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe I want it to tear out my teeth—they’re dangling by thin, sinewy threads. I hold out my hands just as my canines pop loose. They drop into my palms, and I have this fleeting thought of when I was a kid, losing teeth, expecting the tooth fairy to come like all the kids at school always bragged about, but she never came for me. And then I learned it was because she isn’t real. Mom was too preoccupied to propagate the lie.

  Taste him.

  My new teeth can take it, and I’m so hungry—thirsty. Drool dribbles down my mouth, drips from my chin like runoff after a heavy rainfall.

  The homeless man turns to run, but he’s slow. My fingers curl around his threadbare shirt collar, and I yank him back. He gags. Chokes. Lands on his ass. There, that spot of gray is where the artery is. I’m so fixated on that one spot I almost miss the stampede, boots scuffing against asphalt, getting louder and louder. Something tells me to look. I can’t drink in peace if there are witnesses.