by A. K. Koonce
Hall sex? Seems kind of rude to do it in front of the innocent rat corpse. And gross.
A shiver shakes through my shoulders and I force myself not to glance back as growls and moans echo down the hall after us. Luckily, we start climbing a set of narrow stairs and it muffles their sounds, for the most part.
Sort of.
Higher and higher we climb.
When we come to a platform, a door with a square window to peek through is to our right, but we keep on trailing up the stair well.
“We’re at the top. Late admissions get stuck on the fifth floor.” He says it without glancing over his crisp white-gold wings.
The higher we climb, the hotter the air gets. It’s so hot, that by the time we reach the door at the top of the stairs, I’m sweating. My long black hair sticks to the side of my face and I take small, secret gasps of air like I’m not ridiculously out of shape and completely pathetic.
Angel boy glances back at me, as perfect as if heaven just sent him down on a soft kiss.
The magical asshole.
He smirks at me before holding the door open, letting me pass and slowly trailing after me.
“Which room’s yours?” he asks quietly.
I peer back at him and his attention is slow to pull from the low place he was just studying on my body.
“Were you just looking at my ass?”
There’s that sinful smile again.
“Not at all.”
Can angels lie? I wait for him to burst into flames for his sins but it never happens.
So either he’s an honest man.
Or he’s not a fucking angel.
Definitely that second one.
I glare at his crooked smile for several seconds before cutting my attention away from him. I don’t answer him as I stalk away. When I reach 503, I turn the silver handle. The door opens with a burst of hot air that was pent up inside.
Before I slip in, his voice calls out to me.
“Not even a thank you?” His words whisper over the back of my neck and I find him right there, nearly touching me, but not.
He’s fast. But what is he?
“Thank you,” I clip out.
“What’s your name, Prodless?”
Prodless. I have a Prod, thank you very much... I just don’t know what the fuck it is yet.
“Izara Castillo, call me Izzy.”
The inky depths of his eyes flare to life, like they hide fire somewhere in the darkest part of him.
“Iz-za-raah,” he enunciates each syllable of my name like a purr. A deep, seductive sigh that I feel down to my toes.
My name. Has never. Sounded so. Sexy.
The pink of my tongue slides over my lips and he follows that move, his attention lingering on my mouth for so long that I can’t even pull my own gaze away from him.
“Castillo,” a deep rumbling voice says in perfect pronunciation. My name is spoken in slow, sexy flicks and rolls of his tongue. The sound of it circles my mind over and over again.
Everyone is really into my name right now and Juvie is finally looking like a place I want to be.
As for my jaw? It’s on the floor. I don’t need it. Talking’s overrated anyway.
The one who spoke my name in a perfect Spanish accent leans shirtless on the far wall within the room, the open window blowing a slight cool breeze into his messy dark hair. Line after line carves his chest into a solid form of strength, his abdomen holding taut lines that ladder down to a deep vee at his hips. Eyes as warm as sunlight sink into me with that penetrating stare of his.
Holy sexy supernatural.
A comparison of Sam and Dean Winchester only flickers through my dirty mind for a single second.
Another man with dark hair lies on a top bunk against the wall on the right side of the room, his elbows holding him up as he stares down at me with the brightest blue eyes. His smile spreads slowly across his face like the devil gazing upon sin in the middle of a sermon.
It’s unnerving.
And finally, my attention drifts to a man sitting on the bottom bunk on the opposite wall, his bare leg lifted, his arm slung over it in the most careless way. Fiery red hair hangs in his glaring green eyes. He’s naked aside from a snug pair of black briefs.
Thank god for boxer briefs and the massive bulges they refuse to conceal. The gift that keeps on giving.
I still haven’t spoken. I might not remember what words are at the moment.
Who needs words when three perfectly sculpted men are staring at you like you’re the person they’ve been waiting for their entire life?
“Shut the fucking door, you’re letting all our cold air out,” the hot ginger, with the apparently hot attitude, growls at me. Literally growls.
Maybe it’s not me but someone else he’s waiting on.
And then reality sinks back in to me.
“Wait,” I call after my heavenly guide, turning to him because this is all a very obvious mistake.
“Syko. My name’s Syko, in case you were dying to know.”
I narrow my eyes on him.
“Syko?” I spit the word out. “Syko? I let some guy named Syko lead me into a dark condemned building and trusted him not to murder me.”
“You trusted me with a lot more than that, let’s be honest.” I hate that smile on his lips right now.
“Syko,” I curl my lips at that name. “Why are there three men in my dorm room?”
I’m not the type to complain when gifts are given, but this is clearly a mistake.
The carving smile on his lips lifts even higher, very devilish for a man who may or may not be heaven sent. He walks backward, letting the wide hall span between us before turning the handle to the door directly across from mine. “Overcrowding. They don’t put a lot of effort into us first years. Half of us will be gone before the second semester even starts. You can change rooms then. Second years are more strict. Females in the left wing, males in the right. Until then, you tell me if any of your new friends fuck with you.” Syko slices his attention to the men standing behind me.
Syko. I’m supposed to go running to a man named Syko if anyone scares me.
What the fuck is wrong with this place?
Two
Phoenix
A girl. The random number game this shithole likes to play threw us in with a fucking girl.
Great.
As if the hipster wasn’t bad enough. He fucking unloaded more herbs than an Olive Garden out of his duffle bag, decorating our room like a fucking greenhouse. And now, to top it off, the two of them are speaking quietly together in Spanish. As if by whispering, Saint and I won’t know what the fuck they’re saying.
News flash, I already don’t know what the fuck you’re saying and the conspiratorial tone it’s said in just pisses me off even more.
My attention drifts to Saint and it’s like the vampire knows exactly what I’m thinking just by looking at me. I hated that he could do that when we were younger and I hate it now. He reads people too easily.
It’s fucking creepy.
And hot.
I shift my attention and pin my glare to the back of her inky hair. It curls down at the ends, wafting across the narrow span of her back, nearly touching the perfect curve of her ass.
She’s wearing a leather jacket like she might catch a cold in this fresh hell they’ve tossed us all into.
The longer I stare at her though, the more I really notice her curves. The sliver of skin peeking out beneath her t-shirt and the way her torn jeans hug her body like a second skin.
The quietness of my chest gives an aching spasm, disrupting the emptiness just slightly. It’s the smallest hint of emotion, a tease of feelings.
Then it’s gone.
“Malek,” Hipster says, his big hand sliding into hers with so slowly it’s like he’s fucking her palm with each roll of his wrist. Jesus just get out already. Go fuck in the hall like the rest of these people.
Maybe I’m bitter. I am. I know I am because Saint s
ays I am. He’s so good at reading people I don’t even question it when he says something like that. I’d trust his word over a trained psychiatrist any day.
I’m tired of searching for real feelings though. It’s an endless game that I always lose. I’m tired of being a fucking soulless incubus who can’t feel sex. Sex, excitement, lust, any basic human emotions in general.
It’s all bullshit.
I’ve tried. I’ve fucked my way through plenty of women and men, done the deed but never... felt it.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t define me.
That’s what Saint says, so it must be true.
The humming sound of Malek’s voice is this non-stop growl of flicking words and seductive tones.
If sex had a sound, it’d be that hipster asshole’s theme song.
And I can’t stand to listen to its tune any more.
I push off from the old mattress, ripping open the closet door and finding hanger after little wire hanger of khaki pants.
Fuck my life.
You know who wears khakis? People who can step foot in a fucking religious establishment without being burnt alive by holy water.
Not me.
I shake my head and tear the offensive clothing off its hanger. I pull on my assigned khaki pants like a good little academic student. I button the top button in silence. It’s so quiet I can hear the zzzppp of the fly as I pull it up.
Why the hell is it so quiet in here? I can hear the silence of my fucking soul in this place.
When I turn, all three of them are staring at me.
“What?” My jaw clenches and I look back at the closet to find crisp white button downs mocking me.
Nope. Not doing it. I shouldn’t have to wear a fucking tie.
“What?” I ask again, agitation clawing at my chest with each mute minute that slips by.
“Chick across the hall said you guys fucked,” Saint says, amusement tinging his tone.
I search my mind, but I have no idea who ‘chick across the hall’ is. My shoulders lift. “So?”
Saint’s lips do that slow slicing smile he gets when something really intrigues him.
“She said the soulless incubus had a tail. You know, little devil like tail? Spear shaped. Maybe red and swaying.” He pauses, his blue eyes lighting up like fucking christmas morning over a goddamn tail. “Care to expand on that? I’d love to get the details.”
A tail? What the fuck is wrong with people?
Somedays Saint is my best friend. But most days, he’s a demented asshole.
“I don’t have a tail. Sorry to ruin your fantasies, Saint.”
“Really? Nothing? Not even a little nub?” His long tattooed fingers gesture, putting a small amount of space between his index finger and his thumb, gesturing sizes like the fictional nub might be growing with each passing second that I let his little mind run wild with disturbing—probably naked—images of my non-existent tail.
“Fuck, shut up. There’s no tail. No...nub.” My lip curls as I say that fucking word. The bastard just wanted me to say it, I think.
New girl keeps flitting her attention over every move I make. Her watchful quietness sets me on edge. Like I’m being judged even if I’m not.
It’s not her fault. It’s my Prod’s. It draws people to it. They crave the incubus’s affection without even realizing it.
It gets me so much attention that I feel like I’m being crushed under it.
“What’s your name?” The girl tilts her head at me, her body lingering close to Malek’s like they’re already an item.
An item I’ll have to tolerate, watch, and listen to for the next four semesters.
I shake my head at both of them and, with too much strength rippling through my body, I pull the door open, letting it jar harshly against the frame before striding through it and slamming the heavy door shut behind me.
“Nice meeting you too, Nubbie,” she calls after me, her smooth voice muffled but still ringing out with clarity.
My back stiffens and I realize I should have just fucking told her my name.
It’s day one here and now my name is Nubbie now.
Fuck.
Three
Izara
“He seems friendly.” Not. And I’m going to have to put up with that asshole’s attitude for the whole school year? Just kill me now, I silently beg the nameless, faceless Prod that lays dormant inside of me.
I search inside myself, mentally pulling and tugging, looking for any sign that the thing that murdered my ex is there.
I feel nothing.
I tear my gaze away from the door long enough to look back into the eyes of Malek to find his dark gaze already regarding me through the thick-framed glasses perched on his nose. The glasses look a bit out of place on such a beautiful face, but somehow add to the allure of dark skin and prominent features. His nose is relatively straight, his cheekbones high and flushed. The shadow of a beard peppers along his jaw, and when he smiles the gesture seems… wolfish.
“So what are you?” I ask, trying to appear casual as I make my way over to the bunk bed on the right side of the room. The bottom one is bare of covers, sheets, or pillows. Nothing but a thin, lumpy looking mattress with holes sheared through it to reveal uncomfortable metal springs beneath. I poke it with my finger and immediately feel like I need to shower.
Instantly, I take a step back and fold my arms over my chest, standing awkwardly but ensuring I won’t have the urge to touch anything else for a while.
“Spanish,” Malek replies, the grin that highlights his face bleeding into his sarcastic words, I whirl around to see the twitching of his lips.
I roll my eyes. “That was obvious from your accent. I meant what’s your Prod?” Is that a rude question to ask? Whatever, I’ve been haunted with that question left and right from everyone ever since I got arrested. At least he can give me an answer that doesn’t echo my own ‘I don’t know.’
Malek pushes himself away from the window and prowls towards me like some type of feline or predator, his dark eyes gleaming the color of molten honey in the light like I’m the prey he’s cornered. I have this urge to step away, but my choices are minimal here. Step away and fall onto a disease-infested mattress, or stand my ground and face a man I don’t know as he saunters dangerously close to me.
He seems nice enough, like someone I can be friends with, but I have to remember that every single person at this academy has a reckless Prod inside of them that has made them commit a crime. Just how dangerous are my new roommates?
And why the fuck do I feel a sliver of anticipation race down my spine instead of trepidation?
Maybe I’m just fucked in the head.
Probably. Possibly.
Another stalking step has another pulsing of my heartbeat thrumming between my thighs.
Definitely. Definitely fucked in the head.
Malek stops before me, far enough away to give me the illusion of space, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off of his golden kissed skin, see the very detailed ridge of muscle carved down his abdomen, see every droplet of sweat roll down his taut skin invitingly. Tattoos catch my eye. They trail up his arms in dark shadowy images I’m familiar with of Aztec warriors and conquistadors, sugar skulls, roman numerals, a moon, and a monster. Bits and pieces of his heritage are stamped on him like a badge of pride.
He has a body I itch to paint in smooth, even brush strokes.
Hell, he has a body I itch to lick in smooth, even strokes.
He bends a fraction so we’re face to face, and whispers, his voice dripping like a dangerous promise of forever until the one word he says slashes through my senses, making me jerk back.
“Licántropo.”
Lycanthrope.
They threw me into a tiny cell of a room with a werewolf. My gaze goes warily to the man on the top bunk on the other side of the room, looming above us and watching the show. He’s sprawled sideways lazily, his head propped on to his open palm as he takes in our in
teraction with mischief in his bright eyes.
I swallow, trying to appear the epitome of calm. They wouldn’t hurt me. They can’t. Not at the academy. Can they? I wonder just what type of restrictions the golden magical band around my ankle gives us all.
“And what are you?” I ask, relieved when my voice comes out steady. Confident. Fake.
In response, the man smiles and I’m gifted with the image of perfect white teeth, and the sliding points of incisors lengthening against his plump bottom lip.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“No,” he smirks. “I’m his counterpart, actually.”
Fucking vampire.
Fucking school.
I’m an unknown Prod with no inkling or hint of power, trapped in a small raggedy dorm barely held together by fragile peeling walls and tape, with a werewolf, a vampire, and a fucking demon with a nub. Not to mention that asshole angel across the hall. Who knows what else lurks in this crumbling detention center of a place.
Werewolves, vampires, and everything in between thrown together. It all sounds like a deadly fight waiting to happen.
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” Malek promises softly. I can see his eyes soften into such tenderness, I’m already lost in the gentle depths of his gaze.
And then the vampire ruins it. “Much.”
Malek rolls his eyes and turns away from me, making his way to the rickety closet. One closet filled with white shirts, khakis and four small drawers.
Are we meant to share that thing?
Swiftly he lowers his jeans. He takes out khaki pants and unfolds them.
He does it ceremoniously, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to dress in front of a girl he barely knows. And I can’t help but stare as he bends over, his boxer briefs hugging his ass, as he steps one leg in and then the other. When he straightens, he reaches in again to pull out a collar shirt, a dark blue blazer, and a red tie.
My gaze is so mesmerized by those long fingers that I swear his mouth moves with what could be words.
Shit, he’s definitely talking.
To me.