by Katie May
“There’s a piñata,” the girl adds as if I give a fuck.
I scowl at them both, and they giggle, seemingly unperturbed with a face that has once caused every monster to shit themselves in fear.
Am I losing my touch?
At least I’m not still in a skirt. I can’t be fucking terrifying dressed as Velma.
Without another word, they run around me—no doubt to find a quiet place to fuck.
And me? I’m going to head back to my room, away from the loud noises, the blaring music, and the girl who hates me.
The girl who I may or may not be falling in love with.
Fuck, what am I going to do?
Chapter 42
Violet
We emerge inside a familiar, sterile room. White lights flicker on, one after the other, until the room is engulfed in a pale glow.
“How are you feeling, Violet?” Ms. Stevens asks, not unkindly. She sounds almost concerned, a foreign sensation by itself. I’m not used to people caring about me, especially adults.
“Grateful that my insides aren’t being devoured by bugs,” I answer truthfully.
I allow my gaze to wander around Frankie’s lab. Had he sat on one of these stools, creating a formula designed to kill me? What was going through his head?
I don’t know if I can classify what Frankie did as a betrayal. Maybe he knew, from the very beginning, that he was going to save me. Maybe.
Or maybe he changed his mind when he entered the cavernous room and saw me tied up. Maybe he had every intention to kill me.
I’m not surprised the cave led to the lab, if I’m being honest. There’s a lot I don’t know about Frankenstein’s son. I didn’t even know he was an experiment and not a real person until today.
“I see your mind racing,” Ms. Stevens muses.
I shrug. I don’t really want to have a heart-to-heart with my professor.
Unbidden, my eyes land on the stool I’d sat on when Frankie was teaching me. His easy-going smile, normally hidden from the world. The patient way he explained each potion, each machine. The laughter in his eyes when I screwed up and caused my pinkie finger to grow hair—fortunately, he had a potion to reverse it.
Fuck, I need to hear his explanation. I need to know what’s real and what’s fake between us.
We walk out of the lab and into the empty hall. Moonlight splices through the various windows, illuminating the hallway and empty classrooms. The school feels much larger during the night without students wandering the halls.
Ms. Stevens leads me to her classroom, shutting the door behind us and leaning against her desk. She crosses her arms over her chest and levels me with a sympathetic look.
I don’t like it. Goosebumps feather across my skin, twisting my stomach and heart. I don’t like being seen by her, this stranger. Her eyes seem to stab me. Skin me. It’s...unnerving. This feeling of baring my soul and revealing my deepest, darkest secrets to the woman before me.
And suddenly, I know.
I know it as surely as I know the sun rises in the morning and lowers at night. As surely as I know my name is Violet No-Middle-Name Dracula. As surely as I know my name was actually supposed to be Violent, but Dad forgot to add the “n” on the birth certificate.
There’s nothing but kindness and warmth exuding from her eyes.
But…
The prickle of unease intensifies.
“I think Headmaster murdered those students,” I whisper, watching her reaction. Every twitch of her pretty eyes. Every intake of breath. I have to give her credit: she’s a good actress. She inhales sharply, eyes widening in her pale face.
I’ve always trusted my sixth sense. It guided me, led me.
Behind her compassionate gaze, behind her perfectly curled hair and twitching lips, lies a murderer. A monster.
Dracula always made fun of me when I spoke of my mysterious sense. I never understood it myself—I still don’t understand it. But I try it implicitly.
And this voice, this sixth sense, is screaming that I’m looking at a murderer.
Don’t ask me how I know. Again, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. At all.
“Or maybe,” I begin slowly, cautiously. I barely recognize voice; it’s not a growl exactly, but something dark and deadly. It’s the voice of my predator approaching her prey. “Someone else killed them. Framed me.”
Once more, her pretty eyes widen further.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
“Why did you do it?” No use beating around the bush. I want answers, answers only she’s capable of providing. “Why did you kill those students?”
The mask slips like it never existed. I wouldn’t quite compare it Dimitri’s expression—not nearly as apathetic or cold—but it still makes me stagger back a step.
Note to future self: don’t poke the bear without backup. Seriously. Don’t.
“How did you know it was me?” she asks, cocking her head to the side in obvious bemusement. She doesn’t bother trying to deny it, which I can appreciate...in a sick, twisted way.
We’re monsters, after all. We’re immune to death and murder. If she had framed any other student, any other vampire, I probably wouldn’t have cared. Instead, she had blamed me. And if there’s someone I fucking care about, it’s me.
I don’t bother telling her about my sixth sense. Instead, I reply with a half-truth.
“You’re too fucking nice. No one is that nice in this world.”
And that’s true. In this world, if you’re nice, you secretly have an agenda. You have to learn to look at the world as a murky shade of gray instead of black and white. There are numerous facets of evil. The line between that and good is blurred, unrecognizable.
“You suspected me because I’m too nice?” she asks in obvious disbelief.
Okay, I’ll admit. It sounds fucked up even to me.
I don’t need logic to be right.
“Just give me your evil villain monologue, and let’s get this over with.” I wave my hand for her to begin. Already, I’m planning how I’m going to get rid of her.
“Violet, dear, I did it for you,” she replies earnestly. My eyes bug out of my head as I stare at her. Out of everything she could’ve said, I hadn’t expected that.
What the fuck?
I’m not exactly the most upstanding citizen, but murder in my name? Fuck no. I prefer to do my own murdering, thank you very much.
When I remain silent, gaze blistering, she sighs and crosses to sit in the chair behind her desk. Her entire body seems to deflate like a balloon being popped. Tired eyes stare back at me.
“Even when I was a student, vampires have been considered the lesser species. We’re looked down upon. Made fun of. Ridiculed.”
“And you think murdering people helps with that?” I ask. Am I the only monster with sense here? When the fuck did that happen?
Ugh. Dad would be so disappointed in me.
“It’s funny,” Ms. Stevens scoffs, but her voice holds no humor. “We’re the inferior race in the eyes of monsters when we’re stronger and faster. Why else do you think Van Helsings hunt us? Because the monsters are scared of us. Scared of our powers. Scared of what we can do. We combine the strength of a werewolf, the compulsion of an incubus, the immortality of a ghost, and the speed of a wendigo. We’re the superior species, and it’s about time the others realize it.”
I try to process her words, I honestly do. I don’t want to say I’m dumb or anything, but…
Yeah, I don’t really understand what this speech has to do with the murder of my classmates.
Ms. Stevens—I wonder if I should call her Diedre given that we’re murder buddies and all—gives me a dry look.
“I made the murders appear to be from a vampire. Well, technically your...clone did. I believe Mikey had three of the Violet sluts,” she speaks slowly, as if trying to explain a difficult equation to a child. I would take offense to it, but I’m so damn confused I’m grateful. “But all the vampires know that the
deaths were faked, designed to frame them. The other monsters? They genuinely believe that the murders had been done by a vampire. They never bothered to think differently.”
Okay, that makes sense. She wanted a bridge between the species. The vampires know the deaths were fake—the product of a knife, not fangs.
But the other monsters? They thought we did it because they wanted to believe we did it.
Now, the question is why. Why cause discord? Why blame me?
If I was just a tiny bit smarter, I’d probably be able to answer those.
“We need them to fear us, dear. And we need the vampires to unite. What better way than having Dracula’s daughter wrongly accused of murder and put to death?” She sounds so fucking sweet, as if she isn’t discussing my demise.
“You were going to use me as a martyr,” I say evenly. First Headmaster, and now Ms. Stevens. Why can’t I catch a break? Why does the entire staff want me dead?
“A necessary sacrifice for the greater good,” she replies calmly like the psycho bitch I now know her to be.
“So what now?” I ask, flicking my gaze to the shut door. Can I run? Would I be fast enough? I’m faster than most monsters, most vampires, but am I fast enough to escape her?
Ms. Stevens stands gracefully, smoothing down her skirt. Even on Halloween, she isn’t wearing a costume. She looks as impeccable as always in her pencil skirt and blouse.
“I’m sorry, my sweet darling. I’m going to kill you.”
Chapter 43
Violet
I don’t consider myself desensitized to death. Not really. Even after all this time, it still affects me. I’m not the type that freaks out when I see blood, obviously. Nor do I freak out coming face to face with a dead body.
But it still chips away a tiny sliver of my soul. Piece by piece, until I’m barely recognizable. Death...it does something to a person, something words fail to articulate.
When Ms. Stevens advances at me, a predatory glint to her eyes and a sympathetic curl to her lips, that same change rushes over me. That feeling you get when you stand face to face with death.
It’s not fear coursing through my veins like electricity. It’s not even annoyance. It’s...a sort of numbness. A cold chill that seeps into my bones and sends ice down my body.
I have no delusion that I’ll somehow emerge victorious. Ms. Stevens is older than me, wiser. She probably had years of extensive training. I’m just a vampire who trips over chairs and runs into walls. In a movie, I’m the dumb blonde who dies first—not final girl material.
In her hand, like an extension of her limb, the god-blessed dagger rests. One of the only things capable of killing me.
“I’m truly sorry, Violet,” Ms. Stevens says, and there are tears—honest to fuck tears—in her eyes. Why does she have to act nice when she’s trying to murder me?
“We can work something out,” I begin before lunging for the door. The handle glints in the artificial lights, my reflection visible. The whites of my eyes…
Before I can grasp it, Diedre—I feel as if we’ve progressed from last names—tackles me from behind. I fall to the ground, my face whacking the floor. Pain explodes behind my eyes and in my nose.
“Stupid fucking bitch,” I curse, doing the only logical thing possible in this situation. I toss my head back, my neck flexing unnaturally, and headbutt her.
Pro tip: don’t do it. It fucking hurts.
But it has the desired reaction. Diedre releases me with a curse, favoring her now bloody nose. It’s only fair, after all, for her to have an injury similar to mine.
For the first time ever, there’s a break in her front. A crack in her usual cheery facade. In that brief moment before her mask slips back into place, I see a darkness in her eyes. An abyss. Anger and hatred and jealousy that I can’t quite understand.
“Violet,” she says in a calm, placating tone. “Don’t be difficult.”
Don’t be difficult, she says.
I’m going to murder you painfully, she says.
Fuck her.
When it becomes apparent I’m not going to comply and hand myself over for slaughter, her face contorts hideously. Her lips pull over her teeth, and her fangs descend.
“You’re being a bitch, Violet,” she hisses.
“Heard that one before.” I move into a defensive stance, my entire attention fixed on the knife in her hand. The knife capable of killing me. “There is one thing I’m curious about, though. How did you get my venom?”
I understand the rest of it. She sent my sex clone to murder the students. Signed me out using Cynthia’s name. But while the doll has numerous similarities to me, she doesn’t have my venom. My blood. My DNA.
Deidre's lips curl into a malicious smile. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“Did you know,” she begins, almost conversationally, “that you’re not really Dracula’s daughter?”
Her words momentarily strike me dumb. Freezes me. She could’ve told me that I had a mouth for a vagina and I’d react the same way.
She’s lying, of course. Dracula is my father.
“I was with him when he found you,” she continues, and this time, there’s no hiding the derision in her voice. The disdain.
“Found me?” I parrot stupidly. Why am I even humoring her with a response? She’s lying. I know she is. But the tiny, curious voice in my head is screaming at me to shut up and listen.
“You became his world. The golden child.” Disgust twists her pretty features. “He forgot about all his other children.”
At that, I did gasp. I always knew that I wasn’t Dracula’s only child, but I’ve never met any of my siblings before. Never even thought about them, if I am being honest.
She must see something on my face, for her smile grows. “Yes. I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out earlier, sister.”
Sister. I have a sister.
At the same time, I don’t know if I can believe her. She’s a psycho bitch trying to kill me—I need to take every word she says with a grain of salt.
“He chose you over his own daughter. His sons. His family. You, a monster who wasn’t even a vampire.” Anger darkens her eyes.
Okay, so she has daddy issues. With my daddy. Wait...that sounds bad.
“We can work something out,” I cajole, holding my hands in the air like a prisoner approaching an armed police officer.
“It doesn’t matter,” she sniffs. “He’ll notice me soon enough.”
“What do you mean ‘a monster who wasn’t even a vampire?’” I ask. If I’m going to die, I’ll be damned if I don’t know everything. Maybe someone will hire a necromancer to resurrect me or some shit.
Diedre rolls her eyes as if my monster status is the least of her worries. “Surely you’ve noticed that you don’t behave like a normal vampire?”
Oh yeah, definitely.
Dumbass.
That is sarcasm, by the way.
“I drink blood,” I point out, finally able to turn the tables and make her the stupid one. “I’m fast. I’m strong. I’m a vampire.”
“You have attributes of a vampire, yes, but you’re not one. Maybe you’re a hybrid. I don’t know. All I know is that Dracula found you abandoned and took you in. Made you his. Even hired a witch to restrain your monster.”
She’s lying.
She has to be.
I stare at the crazy woman for a prolonged moment. Nothing makes sense. I feel as if I’m on a carousel with no way off. Around and around we turn, but I’m unable to escape. I can never stop turning.
“Enough of this.” With a sigh that hints at her incoming strike, she comes for me again. I just barely duck out of the way of her dagger.
“Diedre, please,” I begin seconds before her leg connects with my stomach. I stumble, catching my hip on the edge of a desk.
So reasoning won’t work…
I allow her to grab at my shoulder, but I use the distraction to punch her face. There’s a satisfying sound of bones crunchin
g. Flesh hitting flesh. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does.
But hey, can you blame me for being a little vindictive?
She charges me like a bull, the momentum propelling us both to the ground. Her crazed, luminescent eyes zero in on me. Her prey.
Her hand raises with the dagger, and I desperately grab her wrist, holding it in the air. Fuck, I don’t want to die today.
“Diedre, stop!” I scream, attempting to infuse my persuasion power into each word. Of course, it doesn’t work. Not when she’s holding a god-blessed dagger.
Fuck.
She releases a ferocious growl, teeth bared, and a distant part of me knows I’m going to die here today. It’s the same way I knew she was the murderer.
But everything within me rebels.
With a roar of my own, I use my strength—a strength that surpasses a normal vampire’s—and flip positions. Her frosty eyes spear me sharper than the dagger in her hand could’ve. There’s raw hatred in her gaze. Underneath all that, there’s pain. Pain for the family she lost. Pain for Dracula who discarded her. Pain for the love that has been lacking in her life.
I twist her wrist until a sickening crack resonates in the room. She releases a startled scream, dropping the dagger. It clatters against the floor with a thud.
I don’t give myself a second to think, a second to reconsider. All I know is that this woman, this teacher, tried to kill me, and she will continue doing so.
I don’t like murdering people, honestly. I don’t despise it, but it’s not like I’m advocating for slaughtering all of your enemies.
Still, I don’t hesitate as my dagger cuts through skin and muscle. Her mouth parts in a circle as she exhales—one of her final breaths. There’s a glossiness to her eyes, a sheen that I’ve only ever seen in corpses.
And still, she talks. Her voice is whispered, hoarse. Guttural with blood. I have to lean forward to catch her words. “Don’t…” She coughs, blood cascading down her chin. A normal person would’ve comforted her in her final moments, but I’ve never been normal. I’m a monster. “Don’t trust your men,” she rasps at last.