by Katie May
Her sightless face stares at me. “I’ve been the only one to defend you,” she says in a hushed murmur. “They call you a murderer, a monster, and I defend you. I always defended you, even at the expense of my own standing in this school. But this?” She laughs humorlessly. “What exactly are you accusing me of, Violet? Because I have a feeling this is about more than just a night spent with a shitty sex doll.”
I open my mouth but immediately snap it closed. I don’t have any idea what to say, how to fix this. I don’t even know what’s broken.
“I didn’t buy your fucking doll. I don’t know what made you think I did, but I never touched it. I didn’t even know it existed until you showed up at our room and shoved it into the wardrobe. And you know what? Never once did I think you were up to something notorious. I trusted you. Even when you were hiding your own body.” She takes a step closer until her slipper-clad feet touch my own. “If the situations were reversed, I would’ve known immediately that someone was framing you. Attempting to confuse me. Instead, you think I’m the bad guy.” Her voice holds a hint of her banshee scream when she speaks next. “I don’t like being accused of murder, Violet, even if it’s in a roundabout way.”
“Cynthia—”
“Don’t.” She holds up a gnarled, gray hand. “Just don’t. You have just made an enemy out of the Woman in White, Violet. I hope you realize what your accusation has cost you.”
“I didn’t—”
I’m beginning to think I fucked up. Royally.
What just happened?
“I didn’t buy your sex doll,” she repeats sternly. “And I didn’t murder anyone. I’ve been your friend. I defended you! And look what that cost me. Now…get out of my way before I make you.” My mind still racing, scrambling to catch up, I move to the side. Cynthia purposefully rams her shoulder into mine as she passes. “Whoops.”
As she storms down the hall, her backpack slung over one shoulder, I watch her with more confusion than anger or fear.
Again, what the everloving fuck just happened?
“I see that you got into a little altercation with your roommate,” a sly voice says as a familiar figure enters from around the bend in the hall.
“Go away, Dimitri.” I’m tired. Exhausted, really. Torturing people really takes a lot out of a girl.
“It’s Mr. Gray to you,” he reminds me, stopping in front of my door. He holds up what appears to be a...pen? “You left this in my classroom.”
“Huh?”
Eyes intent on my face, he grabs my hand, opens it, and wraps my fingers around the pen.
“You left this in my classroom,” he repeats.
“And you came all the way to my room to return it to me?” I ask incredulously, surveying the red inked pen. I do recognize it as being mine, but I don’t recall ever taking it out of my backpack. “In the middle of the night? A pen? Really?”
I eye the man warily.
“I was being helpful,” he states in that stoic way he says everything. It almost makes me feel like an idiot, like I should be grateful he returned my random ass pen that he probably stole from my backpack in the first place.
“You know what? Fuck you, Dimitri.”
“Mr. Gray,” he corrects with a wiry grin on his handsome face. An unmerciful, savage kind of beauty I’ve only ever seen reserved in predators, in monsters. But beauty is beauty, and his ensnares me as artfully as a net laid out to capture unsuspecting prey.
“Fuck. You. Do you think I’m stupid? Every time you’re around they find a body. Why is that, Mr. Gray?” I say his name like a curse word.
That damn smile doesn’t leave his lips.
“You’ve just seen what accusations cost you, Violet. You made an enemy out of the Woman in White.”
“And am I going to make an enemy out of you too?” I ask, taking a step closer. His words from class before echo in my brain. His promise to protect me with all of his darkness. Is that what this is? Him protecting me? Or was that another lie caught in this fucked up web?
“Would you scream if I said yes?” he asks teasingly, and I cross my arms beneath my chest. That gesture pushes up my breasts, and Dimitri’s eyes drop to them instinctively.
“I think, Dimitri Gray, that you’ll be the one screaming.” His eyes whip up to my face in shock. “Now get the fuck out of my room.”
“I’m not in your room,” he points out like the smartass he is. He points to himself, standing near the threshold, and then to my room. “And if it makes you feel better, I totally thought Cynthia was behind the murders too.”
His words chill me—his intended reaction, if the sly smile is any indication.
“What makes you think that?”
He shrugs a shoulder, nonplussed. “She has been in love with Mason for years now. She may claim to be your friend, but that girl is secretly vengeful. Jealous. Plenty of motive to murder her fellow students and then blame you.”
First: Cynthia’s in love with Mason? My stomach sinks with dread and jealousy at the prospect of the two of them together. I never would’ve suspected. Mason barely acknowledges her when we’re all together, and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t talked to him.
Second: How does Dimitri know all this?
My thoughts must’ve been clear on my face, for he shrugs once more. “I read her diary.”
He read…?
He may not be the murderer, but he’s a monster.
“Dimitri,” I begin in exasperation. “You don’t just read a girl’s diary, even if you do think she’s a psycho murderer. A girl’s diary is...well, it’s sacred.”
He smiles, unrepentant.
So if Cynthia was telling the truth—and she truly didn’t use my doll—someone else did and framed her. Is it related to the murders? And what role does Dimitri play in all of this?
Before I can question him, a scream resonates from down the hall. The assassin’s eyes twinkle in the dim hallway lighting.
“Let me guess,” I say tiredly. So. Freaking. Tired. “They found another body?”
“A girl named Marie,” he answers with an affirmative nod. “An old client of Frankie’s.”
“And did you have anything to do with the murder?” I ask, giving the professor a critical once-over. There’s no doubt in my mind that he knows more than what he’s telling me. A lot more. Trying to get answers out of him would be like trying to stop the waves from cresting the shoreline with my bare hands: impossible.
“I can assure you, I did not murder those students,” he replies sincerely.
Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s not. The fact of the matter remains that he is hiding something. It’s no coincidence that he shows up just before a new body is found, providing me with a useful alibi.
Or maybe providing himself with one.
“Don’t keep leaving behind items in my class,” he warns sternly as another scream joins the first. Doors open and close; the hallway fills with curious students.
“I won’t,” I whisper.
“Have a good night, Violet.” He nods his head once before shoving his hands into his pockets and sauntering down the hallway. I watch him maneuver the throng of crying, terrified students. My heart seems to be growing in a rapidly shrinking vise. Insidious fear slithers through my mind and grasps my heart.
Another murder.
More fuel for the crazy vampire witch hunt.
Can’t a girl just go to school in peace?
Chapter 33
Mason
Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. The orange and black decorations. The pumpkins adorning each walkway. The skeletons and scarecrows.
Humans have romanticized it with time. It’s no longer a representation of the monsters haunting this world. To them, it’s some silly holiday when you can dress up and pretend to be Santa.
For us, it’s our most sacred day.
Monsters no longer have to hide in the shadows; instead, we’re worshiped in the light.
I take another long inhale
of fairy weed, staring off into the distance. The sunset has painted the town in soft yellows and oranges. The colors are calming—and a direct contradiction to my tumultuous thoughts.
She’s late.
Again.
I don’t know why I’m always so surprised. Maybe it’s because we never believe the person we love will hurt us until they do. And even then, we still seek out the best in them.
In our deluded minds, the people we love are incapable of actually harming us.
I’ve been making excuses for her for years.
I drop the cigarette, crushing it beneath my foot, and head back towards the school.
“Not even going to say hi?” There’s the click of heels and then a tall figure moves in front of me.
Graceful and elegant, Medusa is every inch the goddess and monster legends portray her as. Her silver gown clings to her front modestly but leaves her back bare. She’s taller than most women, even without the heels, coming to about six feet.
And erupting from her head, slithering and hissing, are dozens of snakes. Some are large while others are small. The width and color of each one varies as well.
Mother eyes my own beanie with distaste. She doesn’t understand why I hide my snakes, my heritage. I’m not under the impression that the school doesn’t know who I am, though.
But I don’t want them to constantly fear for their lives either.
The legends are wrong; the snakes don’t just turn men to stone. It can turn anyone who harms us into a block of cement. Male, female. Young, old. One look into the snakes’ slitted black eyes, and you’re a goner. I’m terrified I’m going to accidentally get angry and turn some poor soul into a living statue.
Fucking terrified.
“Mom,” I say, breaching the distance and kissing both her cheeks. One of her snakes hisses near my ear while another bites my cheek.
Not pleasant creatures.
To all the people who have pet snakes: fuck you. Those things are menacing. I should know. I have a very, very long one.
That’s a dick joke, by the way.
“Sit,” Mom demands, strolling gracefully towards the cement bench. Her dress cascades around her like starlit silk.
With great reluctance, I sit on the bench beside her, the school appearing small in the distance.
“I’ve missed these chats,” my mother begins softly. “I’ve missed you.”
I barely, just barely, stop myself from snorting. Mother misses only one thing. Well, two things. Her beauty and Zeus’s cock.
Both of which Zeus’s jealous wife stole from her.
“I missed you too, Mom,” I lie, staring down at my feet. Her gaze pierces me like a knife, but I refuse to lift my head.
“Halloween’s tomorrow.”
Okay, what the fuck is this? Mom doesn’t care enough about me to make idle chit chat.
A part of me wants to demand she cuts to the chase, but I know that would be futile. Her snakes aren’t the only ones with venom.
“Yup,” I say nonchalantly. “Going to the school’s Halloween party.”
I go every year, but this is the first time I can honestly say I’m excited. I can still picture Violet’s face when she arrived at the house and demanded we help her pick out a costume. I’m still pissed that lingerie model was immediately discarded, but Vin had a good point: would we want others to see her like that? Fuck no.
She’d been bouncing with childlike enthusiasm, her voice wistful as she discussed all she wanted to do and see.
For her, I’ll do it all.
“A little birdy told me you’ve been befriending Dracula’s daughter,” Mother bites out at last, and I turn to her, startled by the raw anger in her voice. Her eyes are as slitted as her snakes’.
Gauging her reaction, I don’t immediately speak.
What’s the proper answer? If I say yes, will she go on a rampage about how vampires are the lesser species? If I say no, will that be a betrayal to Violet?
Mother makes the decision for me.
“Don’t bother lying to me. I can see it on your face.” She huffs, turning her nose up as if Violet’s scent still clings to me.
“Mom,” I begin slowly. Cautiously. Tentatively. “She’s my mate.”
The silence this time around could be cut with a knife. It’s thick, settling between us like molasses. Only her eyes move to stare down her nose at me. They’re dark—not physically dark, but emotionally. I’ve never seen such an expression on my mother's face before, and she’s never been an overly warm woman.
“That...makes a lot of sense,” she says at last.
“You know you can’t control the mate bond,” I continue. I don’t know why I’m constantly trying to defend myself to her, defend my actions. I sure as hell don’t want to defend my blossoming relationship with Violet.
“I went to the oracle the other day,” Mother says after another long moment of silence passes. Her face is tight—a change from her usual apathetic expression.
Mother goes to the oracle like some girls go to the spa. She calls it her “girl’s day”—pimps herself out, visits the oracle of the gods, and then bathes in the blood of her enemies. I think her and Violet will get along great if they ever got to know each other. Maybe once Mother gets over her prejudices, she can invite Violet to her girl’s day.
The thought makes me smile. My two women.
It’s every man’s dream for his mom and sort-of-girlfriend to go on a murder spree together.
“The oracle…” Mom begins, seemingly far away. Her eyes are slightly dazed.
“The oracle what?” I ask, irritated.
“She saw you.”
I freeze—because what else can you do when your mom says that a seer saw your future? I’m both terrified and curious about what she’ll say next.
“And?”
Mom’s hands fiddle with the hem of her long skirts. I wonder if they’re a gift from Zeus or one of her other lovers. The gods only know how much my mother hates shopping for herself.
Don’t get me wrong: she loves the act of shopping itself. But she thinks it’s beneath her to spend Olympus Silver on clothing or jewelry when a lover can buy it for her.
“And…” Her body heaves with her deep breath.
Why do I have the distinct feeling she’s being overly dramatic on purpose?
“And that girl, that Violet,” she twists her name into something hideous, something worse than a bug beneath her sharp heel. I don’t like it one bit. It feels like thousands of snakes are slithering up my spine, cutting off my circulation—snake pun intended.
“What about her?” I grit out.
I wish I had something to take the edge off. Something to make this conversation somewhat bearable. However, I’ve been trying to cut down on fairy drugs for Violet’s sake. I’ve regulated myself to only one a day.
“Mason, sweetie…” She places a hand on my shoulder, but it feels more like a fifty pound iron weight than the comforting touch of a parental figure.
“Spit it out,” I say through clenched teeth.
“The oracle saw your future. Dracula’s daughter is going to be the one to kill you.”
Chapter 34
Vin
I feel fucking stupid.
Staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror, I wonder if Cupid’s “you’re now a dumbfuck” arrow hit me in the ass when I slept last night.
There’s no fucking way I’m wearing this in public. And yet…
I’m totally fucking wearing this in public because Violet insisted and batted those big, beautiful eyes of hers at me.
Mason steps into my room, takes one look at me, and then crawls onto his hands and knees to search under the bed.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I growl, crossing my arms over my chest. The costume severely restricts the movement, so I end up awkwardly placing them by my sides.
Mason pokes his head out from underneath the bed, eyes alive with mirth. “Looking for your balls.”
Mo
therfucker.
“What costume did she pick out for you?” I snap, facing the mirror once more. My lips are pulled into a tight scowl, and my eyes are narrowed into slits. Frankly, I look murderous.
“Not that one,” Mason says. In the next second, the laughter he was trying to keep inside him bursts out like a dam exploding. He clutches his stomach, tears in his eyes.
I hope he fucking chokes.
When Violet had told us she wanted us to wear matching costumes, I had argued profusely. The last thing I wanted to be was one of those couples who wore boyfriend/girlfriend cutesy clothes.
Not that we are a couple.
Or cute.
Or boyfriend and girlfriend.
And then she smiled—that gorgeous smile that caused butterflies to flutter in my stomach—and I had conceded somewhat graciously.
I hadn’t seen the costume she had delivered...until now.
You see, my girl wanted something ironic. And what is more ironic than monster hunters? When she suggested we dress up as the Scooby Doo Gang, I’d agreed, completely forgetting that there were only two males.
One dog.
And two females.
Oh yeah, you’re resident monster hunter isn’t even Scooby himself. Instead, my whipped ass finds itself in a pleated red skirt, an orange sweater pulled tight over my chest, and a pair of thick glasses sliding down my nose. To add insult to injury, the crazy girl put a wig in the box for me to wear. A fucking bowlcut, dark brown wig.
Velma.
Fucking Velma.
Mason wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I need to go get dressed,” he says, gaining control of himself. “But you...you look fucking fabulous.”
“Go eat ass,” I grumble. Still laughing, he clasps my shoulder in a show of manly solidarity before exiting the room.
Fucking hell. The things I’ll do for my woman.
With one last glance in the mirror—affirming that my ass does look good in the skirt—I stalk downstairs. Frankie and Jack are already seated on the couch when I arrive, Frankie mixing together a strange concoction and Jack’s head buried in a book. They both glance up when I enter.