by A. K. Koonce
Really, the only thing in the room that looks new is the whiteboard, sprawled with large bold lettering that glitters and waves like a magical banner.
INTRODUCTION TO PRODIGUMS 101
The funding of this place is completely bizarre. My outfit looks like it stole the budget and I’m not even sure why it matters what I’m wearing. Will my monster GPA just completely crumble if I walk in wearing a Jonas Brothers reunion shirt and ripped jeans?
The desks seem sturdy enough, the chairs less so. People are seated two to a table, and it reminds me of human high school biology when I had lab partners. Most every place is occupied by people whose expressions range from solemn, to pissed off, to on the verge of committing mass murder.
Well, at least I know I’m in the right place, I guess.
“You’re late!” a stout man accuses. His stiff brown tweed suit reminds me of a children’s story book character but I can’t place him. His balding head glows under the harsh fluorescent light of the bulbs. He has a smattering of hair behind his ears and on the back of his head. You’d think he’d find a spell to make himself look less like an amphibian. Unless he shape shifts into a frog or something. Seems a little odd, but who the hell knows with this place.
Saint shrugs too casually, almost mockingly. “It seems I am.”
Wow. Suddenly he’s a bit more attractive than his literal cocky dick lead me to believe.
The teacher goes red in the face. “Tardiness will not be tolerated.”
“Oh, don’t take everything so seriously. I was showing the newbie around.”
My face flames at being referred to as the newbie. He’s as new as I am, fucking vampire.
“There are rules to uphold, and we punish tardiness with confinement.” The teacher speaks directly at me.
As if it’s my fucking fault our juvie dorm is miles away from this building. As if it’s my fault Saint said he had to stick to the shadowed parts of the buildings or else he’d burn to a crisp and explode like crackling Rice Krispies—which I later found out he fucking lied to me about. The moment we arrived and sunlight washed over his porcelain fucking skin and there was no combustion. Unfortunately. As if it’s my fault no one bothered to explain the rules of this shithole to me.
“Won’t happen again,” I answer with forced obedience as I make my way to a table at the very back of the room.
“You’ll find notebooks and supplies in the closet at the back of the room.” Mr. Toad sniffs haughtily as he gestures with a fat, triple-jointed finger.
There seem to be a lot of prestigious students at the academy, a lot of poor ones as well. The school is obviously funding the supplies, and I can clearly see they took the cheapest route. Thin binders sit in stacked rows in the small closet. Plastic things with the stamped insignia of the academy on the cover as if we might be confused about who really owns these. Each one is filled with roughly ten slips of paper. I know because I flick through it the moment I pick one up.
Cheapskates.
I take a pen in a cup and avoid Saint’s gaze as he does the same, his wrist bumping mine just lightly. When I take a seat, he slips in right beside me. Like fucking glue I can’t get rid of. Like that one smear of paint on a shirt that, no matter how many times you wash it, it just won’t come out.
Like shit that just won’t rub off the bottom of your shoe.
The teacher, Mr. Toad in my mind, clears his throat. “As I was saying, there are three types of creatures in this world: Humans—or fecks as we may call them— are beings with no special significance whatsoever…”
My lip curls at the description. A feck... is that like fuck or frack? Just a week ago, I was basically a fucking human frack, and so far every word spewing out of his mouth is infuriatingly racist.
“... Supernaturals: beings with powerful monsters—or Prodigiums—living inside them, contained and living safely among everyone else.” He gives a pause as his gaze sweeps around the full classroom, stopping with particular attention on Saint. “And then there’s you: the bottom feeder supernaturals who don’t even know how to be a supernatural.”
The pause he lets linger is short lived before he carries on.
“In this class, we will cover all Prodigium creatures, from your everyday feline shifters, to your banshees and burlhorns...”
His tone drones on and on and I’m not sure if I should waste my ten precious sheets of paper on this or just stare dumbfounded.
I choose the second.
And so my first day at the Academy of Six begins.
I spend the next hour listening to Mr. Toad go on and on about the different types of Prods. Everyone looks bored. Finally, I jot down the different types as he explains them, staring at the words on the pricey little lined page. Perhaps, if I look at one term long enough, then I’ll feel a jolt. I’ll feel something to indicate, to give me some type of clue as to what lies dormant inside of me. What killed my ex boyfriend?
The thing is, I don’t remember that day. There’s nothing but a shadow of darkness where memories should be, something essential missing in my mind that landed me in this joke of a place. To be honest, I’m not sure I even want to remember. The Prods that arrested me that day showed me pictures of the carnage afterwards. There was nothing left of him but an assortment of limbs, blood and guts. Do I really want to remember that loss of control? Do I really want to know what vicious beast lies inside of me that is capable of completely ripping apart a grown man?
Adam was more of a man baby, really.
The point is, I don’t have a fucking choice.
I need to find out what’s inside me, no matter how painful the truth may be. Even if it wakes me up in the middle of the night heaving and gasping for breath, begging for forgiveness that I don’t deserve, I need to know and I need to control it.
Because what happened to my ex can never happen to anyone else ever again.
My heartbeat becomes a loud drumming sound in my ears. I try to focus on anything else, my hand drifting with the pen, twirling with inky colors and lines to distract myself from my own worries.
I’m so lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize when class ends, and I’m still doodling against the edges of the page absentmindedly. Claws and teeth, wings, and a disfigured body in bloody remains.
Fuck.
“You’re a pretty good artist,” Saint compliments, tugging the page of my notes towards him.
I pull it back, slip it into the little plastic binder, and gather my things to leave without a word . I can feel Saint prowling behind me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s being purposefully creepy just to make me uncomfortable. Either that or he really wants to drink my blood.
“Mr. Von Hunter, a word, please.” Mr. Toad’s voice cuts through my thoughts with all the subtlety of a croak. My steps falter, and I hear Saint let out a soft curse behind me before his feet are redirected to the teacher’s desk.
I pause shy of the door, my hand poised on the knob to turn it and leave. I should leave. But I’m curious as shit and want to know what he’s reprimanding Saint for.
Nosey, nosey.
Why do I even care?
Now I’m the one stalking .
“Just because you come from one of the most prestigious families and one of the original six founders of this academy does not mean you are immune to the rules and punishments.”
And there it is.
When I was a child, my father had a cat. A demonic little shit with black fur and yellow eyes that hissed, yowled, and scratched like it was possessed by the devil itself. I liked to watch it. I grew curious at its cruelty and lashed out at the thing myself. I remember one particular moment when I yanked at its tail and the heathen bit me, teeth embedding so deeply into my skin that I bled for hours.
“You knew nothing good would come of it, and still you did it anyway,” my father chastised as he wiped my tears.
I’m not sure why this reminds me of that moment. Probably because I know I should not have listened to this, an
d yet I did. And there’s no going back from that truth.
Saint’s family funded and founded this fucking prison.
And they sent their son to rot in here right along with me. What the fuck did the vampire do to get sentenced here? Is he really that out of control that he risked his family’s reputation by getting locked away?
Nerves make my hands tremble as I push open the door. Saint’s response is lost among the cacophony of raucous calls and shouts of delinquent Prods.
I’m completely alone now, left to my own devices to roam these halls and find my next class. The sensation is overwhelming, but being alone is better than being in bad company. And everyone here seems like bad company.
I drag my feet to my next class without incident. On and on my day goes. I share most of my classes with my roommates, but we don’t approach each other, rather glare from across mildewy, half renovated, shitty classrooms. The only one who even offers me a small smile of reassurance is Malek in fourth period, but even he turns away from me to mingle with his own group of friends, other wolves it seems.
I can’t wait until the day is over. So far, I’ve learned nothing of importance, been given no clue as to what could be inside me. Just as the academy starts to feel like a huge waste of time, it’s lunch hour and my feet eagerly carry me to the cafeteria.
Finally. I have something to look forward to in the form of nourishment in my belly. Of a warm meal and cold milk. I’m one of those people who always liked high school food. I lived for chicken nugget day.
I can almost taste the crisp of fried bread crumbs on my taste buds as I push past the double doors and come to a screeching, surprised halt.
This… this can’t be it, can it? No pleasant aromas warm my senses and settle over me like the hug of an enthusiastic grandmother, who all but shoves food down your throat because ‘you’re too skinny’.
Instead, the smells that assault my nostrils are bland. The orderous stench of steam and sweat overpower the food and push the cravings straight from my stomach.
Why had I expected anything more? This isn’t grandma’s house. It’s the fucking Academy of Six, where everything looks like a fourth generation hand-me-down. From the curtains, to the chipped trays, to the stale fucking bread the kitchen staff hands out.
I take a tray and utensils, praying to whatever gods exist that they at least fucking sanitize them, and get in line.
The lunchroom windows are stained with mildew and what... may possibly be blood. They let in just enough mood lighting for depression to really feel at home here.
I swipe a preassembled plate of some sort of porridge type meal, with hotdogs diced up into big chunks, and keep moving with the others.
That’s been my goal here, just keep moving and try not to gag at this culinary bullshit on my tray.
So far so good.
Until a mammoth of a hand slams into my tray and the hotdog porridge splatters down the front of my skirt and burns down my calves. Pain sears into me, but the lock of my jaw is a harsher feeling while I breathe though the urge to just completely scream about every fucked up part of this academy.
My lashes open slowly on my next cautious breath.
Translucent wings catch the light and the halo around a cruel face with even crueler eyes staring down on me
“Watch where you’re going, Feck.”
The man’s wings shutter with an eerie clicking sound before he rams his shoulder into mine and walks right out, the eyes of this school holding up his ego every step he takes.
Fucking moth man. What the fuck is that? He has bug wings, and that makes him better than me? What are the standards here because Saint’s a vampire and he still gets shit on? I bet he wouldn’t be such hot shit if I pointed a can of Raid at his sorry ass.
My hands hold up at my sides and for a long moment I have no idea how to react. My lunch, which looks more like vomit, is sliding down my thighs and legs and there isn’t a napkin in sight. Can’t spare us that luxury it seems.
“Here…” Blonde hair slips into my space before the psycho angel from earlier today falls right to his knees, right in front of me. As if he might start a religion of my body and begin worshipping between my thighs at any moment.
A coldness presses at the highest part of the sticky mess, beginning just below my hem line at the inside of my thigh and he drags the white cloth ever so slowly down. I swallow hard and it’s impossible for me not to shift beneath his every move.
“There.” His warm breath kisses the quiet word against my skin before Syko stands to his full height, looking down on me with those sinfully dark eyes.
The small girl at his side rolls her big eyes at the man before taking her tray to a table at the back, her long blonde pigtails swinging with every step she takes.
“Thanks,” I rasp out on the weakest sound that pushes from my throat.
“You’re very welcome.” That smile of his shows every one of his perfect white teeth.
He nods to me and I trail after him to where the girl is sitting by the blood stained window.
“Don’t fall for it.” The girl shovels a spoon of muck into her mouth and I can’t help but wait to see if she gags it back up.
She swallows without change in facial expression.
Well. That solves it. This little girl is a demon for sure. Only someone straight from hell could have eaten hotdog porridge and not exorcist vomit right on the spot.
“Don’t fall for what?” I ask, pulling out my chair and taking the spot directly across from her. I don’t scoot in though. I don’t have food and after that warm welcome, I don’t think I’ll be staying.
The flat out way the girl seems to not give the tiniest hint of a fuck and the annoyance in her gaze when she looks at Syko makes me like her immediately.
Common interests and such.
“Don’t fall for that obnoxious flirtation my brother likes to shove down women’s throats. Don’t fall for it, you’re too good.” Her round face holds the soft curve of adolescence but it seems something in her has aged her outlook on life.
“No, she’s not. She’s not too good for it,” Syko whispers, his hip leaning right next to me, his palm splaying wide enough to nearly slip his fingers right between mine.
... shit maybe I’m not.
“She is.” The girl passes her cold glare back to her brother, and he arches a nearly white brow at her.
“Want to know the secrets to keeping the big bad monsters off your back?” His voice is pure, low drawn out seduction.
And I hate that I truly do want to know the advice he’s about to tell me.
I nod hesitantly.
He takes a single step closer, his boot settling with a quiet tap along the dirty tile floor just between my thighs. He interrupts my space just like that, but the closeness is something that draws me in like an unseen power luring me to him. His head dips and I follow the move with watchful attention.
“The secret is,” one hand settles on the back of my chair and before I know it, my chin is tipped up to him, breathing in his close spoken words and the gleaming glint in those dangerous dark eyes, “the secret, Innocent Izzy, is to find bigger, badder monsters.” A tearing sound tips through the room just as enormous, battered white wings jut out from his broad shoulders. Warmth slips down my cheek and when I look up, each one of those perfect feathers are coated in blood.
His blood.
My breath catches but I force myself to find a steadiness inside me before replying. “And you think you’re the bigger, badder monster?”
The way his lips carve up in a sneering smile should be answer enough, but he leans in ever so slightly, his warm promising lips grazing mine as he speaks once more just to me.
“I know I am.”
And that is how I became best fucking friends with an angel living a life in hell…
Wait. Stop. Time out. I’m getting too distracted by the one pretty thing in this entire doomsday of an academy.
“What are you?”
&nbs
p; The mysterious shine in his eyes brightens and his arms flex from holding himself rigidly above me.
“What do you think I am?” His weight shifts and now he’s so close to me his hips are held firmly between my thighs, not touching but blazing up my skin with how much his pants tease my center with his closeness.
“You’re an angel.” I don’t blink, I refuse to show any uncertainty from here on out with these people.
He shakes his head but doesn’t answer.
“We’re nephilim. My brother and I are children of fallen angels.” The girl cuts in like she’s absolutely sick of watching the two of us.
“You’re one of the founding Prods,” I say slowly, trying to remember the notes I took.
Syko straightens slowly, pulling back from me fully as he shrugs and pushes his white hair out of his big black eyes. “It’s not really a prestigious thing to be a race of the founding six prods who created this shithole.” The venom in his words linger in his cutting features. “The angel, the vampire, the faerie, the shifter, the warlock, and the nephilim had good intentions. They prevented reckless supernaturals from destroying the world. But this place is not what they had in mind. I refuse to believe a daughter of a fucking angel took one look at this prison and said ‘sign me up’. It was a great idea with a shitty execution.” He slinks down into the chair next to mine and I note how discreetly he slides his arm along the back of my seat.
“What’s your name?” The small girl asks.
“Izzy. What’s yours?”
Her dark eyes study me for a moment as if she might not tell me at all.
“Kayos.” When that strange name slips from her tongue, her pretty blue eyes flicker from bright to black before she blinks it away and focuses on her lumpy lunch.
Nerves crawl through me, the hair along my arm standing abruptly on end as I watch the sinister little girl with the big beautiful eyes.
Syko nudges my leg with his, drawing my attention back to him as he shakes his head just minimally.
“I forgot ketchup,” she mumbles on a faraway voice and my confusion only grows when she wanders off to... god knows where because I guarantee condiments cost extra in this joint.