“Thanks,” I say when she shoves the clothes at me, black and a lavender gray. Darker colors than I’d expect from her.
She holds out her hand, sunny orange sparking and popping. “I want that uniform. It’s all crinkled. It needs to get washed before school starts.”
“Okay, okay.” After stripping quickly and getting dressed just as quickly, I hand her my uniform.
“Mads did get you some basics, brand-new underwear and stuff for when we hit the showers later to get those dirt stains off you, so just check your wardrobe.”
Oh, I have one, too. “Why did you make me put these on then?”
“I wanted to see how my style looks on you. I think it doesn’t suit you.”
“Okay, then.”
“Paints?”
“Yes, please.”
Emery places watercolors and an entire watercolor sketchbook on my desk. “And now you’re set. Do you want a pen, too? A pencil?”
“Anything you’re willing to part with.”
When she’s done fussing, I sit at the desk, as black and sleek as the rest of the furniture, as outdated and strangely gothic, too. Or vintage. Victorian? I don’t know what era those really specific swirls are from. Whatever. I set my phone down on the desk, pull up the picture I took of Kian, and start drawing his silhouette, his uniform. Instead of recreating his face, hair, eyes, mouth, and nose, I start mixing colors on a clean palette Emery provided. Yellow and blue and more yellow and more blue until I’m kind of satisfied, but the color is too dark. Luckily, Emery has a tube of white; these are nice, expensive watercolors I’ve never used before.
“So why’d you sneak that picture of Kian at orientation?” Emery asks. “Me, I understand. I’m your roommate and pretty freaking fabulous, but Kian? I guess he’s all right if you’re into guys. Oh, don’t give me that look. I was teasing. He’s totally good-looking—but I’m still not into guys.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Emery’s bent down, staring at my phone screen, and then she’s on the next subject. “Oh my gosh, Oskar looks pissed in this picture.” She uses her fingers on the touchscreen to zoom in.
He really does look pissed. That explains what I saw from his Color before. I didn’t read it wrong, not at all. Pretty sure the guy hates my guts—for taking a picture of him or Kian.
“I wasn’t trying to get Oskar in that shot,” I say. But, since I did, I can match his Color and face, so that’s great, I guess.
“It’s a beautiful picture. I want to show it to him. I wish you could transfer your picture to my camera.” She opens a drawer and holds up a small silver camera that probably takes better pictures than my very cheap smartphone.
“If you have computers around here, I could dump the photo on one if you really want it.” I don’t care, just stop talking so I can concentrate on this picture again.
Even though she keeps going, I push through. I lay down the paint because the color is close. But the gradient is where it will get tricky. Kian’s Color is a subtle combination, mostly like chartreuse, but there’s more to it if I look closely. I wish I could see it now to verify. Oskar’s is a torrent of red, so I’ll need to wait for paint to dry after laying down a wash of red before I can get the right texture. I’ll do it later, but I have an image in my head already. The angry swirls could be abstract roses or their bloody thorns.
My paintbrush fans out against the paper as I press down and skim the surface. I’ll want to make the gradient while the paint is wet so the transition is smooth.
“That’s interesting,” Emery says. “Why green? Don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I don’t bother telling her that this is just a sad recreation of what I see. I like to pair up the pictures, my vision, with what everyone else sees. As a kid, it was hard to reconcile the two, but at least my vision is like everyone else’s when I look in a mirror or see someone indirectly, not through my own eyes.
“You should become a famous artist when you get out of here,” Emery says. “We’ll leave Nightshade together. You’ll get in a big gallery. I’ll become a famous fashionista. I mean, technically I could leave now. I’m not going to go all monster on someone like you did. I’ve got way more than the basics down. I’m caught up on academics. College outside is totally within reach.”
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask, because she doesn’t sound like she’s going to stop anytime soon. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Why spend another unnecessary year here?”
“It’s not unnecessary. There’s always more to learn… And you need a buddy!”
“Sure.” She’s really weird.
“Fine, okay. I’m scared to leave Nightshade. I want to make sure I’m ready, you know? So I want to take advantage of everything Nightshade has to offer before I do leave.”
“I’m not judging,” I say, because I’m not.
“Good. Oh, I’m a gargoyle, by the way. Nice to meet you again, vampire. I’m glad you aren’t trying to suck my blood this time.”
“Gargoyle.”
“Yeah! We both hate the sun. I was born and raised in Nightshade, so this is my home. If you have any questions, come to me. How old are you, Nova?”
“Also eighteen.”
“What a coincidence.” Emery gets back to her desk and picks up her paintbrush just to set it down again. (She’s forgotten all about her lollipop.) Her head whips toward me so fast her Color leaves an afterimage of bright orange. “What’s it like outside, Nova? Are the girls hot? I bet they’re hot. Not just the movie stars, singers, and models. I mean the real women. Oh, and specifically, the ones in the big cities. I’ve never been to a big city, but I’ll be living in one soon enough.”
“I don’t know.” I add a little more yellow to Kian’s chartreuse. “They just look like people.”
“Now you’re telling me how unobservant you are. I’m sure they must be hot. I’ve dated a few girls here but never really got anywhere. I think I’m better suited for unchanged women. I hope so, anyway. I’ve never dated one.”
Apparently, Emery really wants to make a love connection.
“So what’s your type?” she asks. “Kian?”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Everyone has a type. All right, then. Boys or girls or both?”
I’m tempted to drop my forehead to this desk, but there’s no room. The drying chartreuse will just stick to my skin and be ruined.
“None of the above,” I say.
Emery keeps chattering, but I’ve stopped listening. She’s fine, but probably someone I’ll either need to mentally turn off from time to time or take in small doses. Since we’re roommates, it’ll have to be the mental turn-off option.
I let Kian’s picture dry and tear out another paper from the watercolor sketchbook. Angry Oskar is next. Or maybe not. I start mixing pink. Red and white, adding little bits here and there, maybe a pinch of blue? What is the exact hue and saturation? I hold out my left hand to check and keep painting with my right.
I’m sure of it, though. Kian’s Color complements mine, like it’s the exact opposite color on a color wheel. It’s exact. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen anything like it, at least not with any Colors I’ve seen side by side before.
It’s strange, but it probably doesn’t mean anything.
CHAPTER 8
I’m back in school.
I just graduated this year, worked at Elysian Fields all summer, and I’m back in school.
With no plans for college, this is the last place I thought I’d find myself.
The world is playing a cruel joke on me. On top of it, I’ve become a blood junkie.
I shake the black insulated bottle Madeline gave me. My first class is Vampires 101, so that sounds promising. There’s a huge whiteboard at the front of the classroom and a projector mounted on the ceiling. Standard stuff, nothing fancy, other than the room. It’s huge, like one of those college lecture halls
with raised seating and everything—except it’s old as old and as decrepit as the rest of this castle. There’s literally a plant growing at my feet.
I’m sitting on the edge of the second to last row in use. There aren’t enough students to fill this place all the way to the back. And, unlike college, we have assigned seats.
It’s the pits.
The tables bend and extend along an entire row, but there’s enough room to avoid touching elbows with my neighbor. That’s something to be grateful for.
Huge windows line the east wall and the royal-purple curtains are pulled back, revealing a perfect starry night sky. I can’t see past the trees for the supposed town beyond the academy, but that sky… I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a clear sky and so many stars.
Well, time for more pictures.
I take as many incognito as I can while the rest of the students get seated. The sooner I match Colors and faces, the easier it’ll be to socialize when I have to.
And another sip of blood.
God, I can’t believe I’m drinking blood like it’s Pepsi or something.
Concentrate, Nova. The sooner you can figure out what to do about this blood dependence, the sooner you can get out of here. Finish these stupid classes, whatever it takes. Maybe I need to acquire break-in skills so I can rob blood banks regularly.
But what about the sun? That’s a huge-ass problem, too.
Ugh, and why does this blood taste like piss half the time? My stomach lets out an embarrassing growl as if to agree with me.
“Dude, look at her hair.”
“It’s pink.”
“Duh, it’s pink. Is that within dress code?”
“You’ve seen Emery, haven’t you?”
“She can get away with it. Emery is a goddess. This one has a mean resting bitch face.”
Lovely.
I don’t bother to look at the three guys snickering and whispering behind me. I glimpsed their Colors on their way to their seats. They came in together and now they’re sitting together. They either made a deal with the teacher, or their last names are clumped together. Doesn’t matter. They make up the primary colors and they’re obviously a group. I’ll call them the Primary Colors. Keeping tabs on potential bullies is something I have plenty of experience with.
I take out an extra sketchbook, this one meant for pencils, and a box of colored pencils Emery had. They’re artist grade, super nice, not like those back-to-school boxes I always begged Mom for. I start with green and yellow, trying to find Kian’s chartreuse. The watercolors weren’t quite right, but I also haven’t seen Kian for a day, so maybe I’m just remembering it differently. If it’s a true complement to my color, it can’t be that hard, right?
But it is. Color theory, every medium I’ve played with and every book I’ve devoured, doesn’t exactly match up to people’s Colors. It’s the best guide I’ve got, though.
“All right, has everyone found their seats?” the teacher asks. Her Color is a violet-red. It looks like it constantly has fumes pluming around in it, like some parts are a little more red and others a little more violet, a chemical reaction waiting to happen. The room smells like a really strong synthetic perfume, like fermented grape juice on steroids, and I’m pretty sure it’s coming from her.
When no one answers, she says, “I’ll take that as a yes. I’m Zanza. Don’t use any unnecessary titles with me. I’m simply Zanza, your teacher. None of the miss and mister bullcrap, please. And no unnecessary pronouns. My name will do.”
The Primary Colors snicker behind me, and something hits my shirt collar. Great, they’re trying to get crumpled paper bullets down my shirt. Assholes.
Option A: don’t react.
I keep scratching away with green and yellow colored pencils, and then I bring in sky blue because I can’t figure out Kian’s damn Color. I take a break and pull up Kian’s picture on my phone to work on his silhouette again. This time I start detailing his clothes so there’s no mistaking the uniform. I color it first because it’s straightforward enough.
“And this is Oskar,” Zanza says. “He’ll be my aid today.”
Oskar? My head jerks up from what I’m doing—at the worst time; the Primary Colors just hit me again. Oskar’s rose red slinks out of a dark corner of the room. He was sitting on a stool back there, half-concealed by an unnecessary wall jutting out in that corner of the room. I suppose it’s meant for semi-privacy. I think the teacher’s desk is back there, or a filing cabinet.
I pull out the green, yellow, and sky-blue colored pencils. Now to decide how much to use. I think I’ll start with a light application of green.
“What’s she drawing?” one of the Primary Colors whispers.
“I dunno. A green man? An alien wearing our uniform?”
“She’s got a picture up on her phone.”
“Hey, that’s Kian.”
“We’ve got a stalker.”
I shade in the hint of eyes, a nose, and a mouth. I can sort of see all of those things, mostly the shape of them, especially when someone turns and gives me their profile. It’s not usually what I focus on, though. Because it doesn’t mean anything. Someone’s Color tells me more than basic facial features and expressions could. I’ve never seen a Color that can fake emotion like a well-trained face, mainly actors in movies.
“Where do vampires come from, does anyone know?” Zanza asks.
“From Europe,” one of the Primary Colors shouts.
“That is incorrect. Demons. Our origin lies with demons.”
Demons? Are those real? Drinking someone dry is pretty dark, though. So, demons, sure. Makes as much sense as everything else does lately.
“Since this is an introductory course on vampires, we won’t be taking a deep dive into demons, but it is important to know that demon blood is the origin of all our changed-human branches. First-generation changed humans were faced with a demon who fed them their blood. That blood changed them on a fundamental level, and they’re physically stuck at the age they were turned. Often, those capable pass their altered genes, or curse, on to their offspring. Those like you.”
“Why would a demon do that, though?” the girl next to me, with a Color so pale I almost miss the lilac undertone, asks.
“The reason varies from demon to demon. They’re as unique and individual as you and I. Since none of you are first-generation, controlling your inherited demon blood shouldn’t be as big of a challenge.”
“Why?” that same girl asks.
“Because first-generation changed humans are closer to demons. The inherited demon blood, or curse, dilutes as generations go on. That means some of you will deal with sunlight better than others, for one example. You also won’t reap as much from the benefits, such as the insanely quick healing capabilities of most first-generation changed humans. Even something as miraculous as regrowing a limb is technically possible. You shouldn’t count on that, but all of you here should be able to supplement human blood with animal blood and even normal human food. Win some, lose some.
“After the first-generation, demon blood becomes a bit unpredictable. Sometimes it’ll stay dormant in a second-generation for years, or a second-generation might be born with their demon blood awake. It’s different for everyone, and it’s also why we have so many different ages here at Nightshade Academy.”
Zanza draws a diagram with a black marker on the whiteboard. “Oskar, hand out the class overview, would you? Everyone else, get ready to take notes. You’ll be tested on this, and we’ll be talking about blood consumption in a moment. I’m your teacher as well as the one in charge of making our little blood cocktails. Some of you won’t care what kind of blood you get, though everyone will do better on unchanged-human blood to start. Others of you likely have sensitivities to certain blood types.”
While Oskar passes out papers, I go back to my drawing. It’s almost right. I almost have Kian’s chartreuse, the perfect shade. I’m sure of it this time.
The Primary Colors hit me with anoth
er stupid wad of paper. It never ceases to amaze me that teachers don’t see this shit.
“Hey,” a growl, “knock it off.”
I glance up to see Oskar at my row. Since I’m on an end seat, I shouldn’t be surprised, but he’s really close. I thought he would have set down the papers and told me to pass them along. But no, he’s right behind me. To tell the Primary Colors off apparently.
Wait, is he sticking up for me?
“Do it again and see what happens,” Oskar says.
“Hey, sorry, man. We’re cool.” Primary Blue holds up his hands and drops his stupid rolled-up scrap of paper.
“Throw it all out.”
“Is there a problem?” Zanza asks.
“No,” Oskar replies as Primary Blue hops out of his seat to toss his gun and all of its ammunition.
Oskar gives me a pile of papers, and I’m about to thank him, but then he snatches my drawing, rips it right out of the sketchbook.
“Hey!” I reflexively try to smash the paper back down on the desk, but Oskar is too fast, and his velvety red is hard again, like a ruby. Even the abstract roses have hard ridged edges now.
“No drawing in class,” he says, folds up the drawing, and pockets it.
“Oskar.” Zanza huffs.
“Coming.”
“As I was saying…”
I tune everything out as my heartbeat pounds in my face. Oskar descends the stairs and I expect him to either throw my picture in the teacher’s trash can or hand it to the teacher directly. He does neither. He goes back to his seat in that shadowy corner with his arms folded. His red stays hard and jagged like broken glass waiting for someone to step on it.
CHAPTER 9
This is the strangest questionnaire I’ve ever seen. Do you see ghosts? How about visions of the future? Can you move things with your mind? How about people’s auras?
Nightshade Academy Episode 1: Awakened Vampire Page 5