Supernatural School Chapter 1

Hey all! I got so wrapped up in this book yesterday that I forgot to preview the first chapter! It's lengthened a little and (mostly) edited! I tried to ease the exposition (original here: http://caffeinewitchcraft.tumblr.com/post/152395000799/writing-prompt-s-you-have-been-accepted-into-a )  and I hope I was successful! Next chapter coming up by tomorrow afternoon!

This work is in second person, one of the hardest POVs I've ever worked with. It's very limiting and I've had to really focus to get the right amount of detail in the story.

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Someone puts blood in your orange juice during the last week of your second semester. They’re hoping to trigger fangs, maybe, or claws. You know that vampires often take their meals this way, that they claim the acidic citrus enhances the taste, that they won’t speak until after the meal is done for fear of lisping.

You’re not a vampire.

“It’s not that I can’t drink blood,” you tell your friends, edging the juice back towards the center of the table with one finger. “It’s just—well, where did you even get this? It might not be clean.”

“Hey,” Amanda protests. Her glittery wings twitch behind her and her feather-eyebrows furrow. “That’s my blood you’re talking about.”

You grimace and push the glass further to where she’s sitting across from you. It clinks against her plate. “You should hold onto it then. I think chemistry is starting their blood studies this week and you do not want them to get their hands on your blood.”

Amanda’s pale, green eyes gleam for a second. In the next moment, the glass is empty, no blood left. Even the juice is gone, not even leaving a film of pulp along the sides. The fae, you know, have access to dimensions and portals that the rest of the supernatural world can only imagine. As far as you’re concerned, the contents of the glass never even existed.

Sam groans and slumps forward, scales scraping dryly over the table. He looks human but, even without the sound of his scales, you know it’s only a glamour. Underneath it, Sam is just as inhuman as Amanda, maybe even more so. Were-lizards are a diverse bunch. “Come on! If you tell us, I promise to split the prize money with you!”

“Well I don’t,” Lexi says, chewing on the end of her pen as she reviews the history notes. The move is unconscious and one you’re pretty sure means her adult fangs are coming in. Her long, black hair is tangled up in her prescription sunglasses and, judging by lines around her mouth, the low light in the dining hall is starting to get to her. You know that she’s going to have to change over to night classes soon if her vampiric awakening continues. You’ll miss her, but you’ve never been a fan of burning flesh, so you’d prefer she switch sooner rather than later. “I plan to collect in full once I figure it out.”

“Oh,” Sam says, baring his teeth. “I see how it is. You’re totally willing to share resources when I’m in the lead—”

“Share resources?” Lexi asks, wings twitching. “When did you agree to share—”

“You were never in the lead—”

You roll your eyes as the three of them dissolve into bickering. You might have told them what you are a long time ago if they didn’t constantly remind you how young they are (or even how young you are). Even with that, you don’t really mind them knowing, it’s the rest of the school that’s the problem. People, creatures or otherwise, can be terrifying and you’re not quite willing to throw away these easy days of anonymity so soon into the new semester.

Your friends are still arguing, and you take the time to see who’s up this early in the day. It’s more than usual—most of the upper years are awake and huddled around the buffet tables and a few of the first years (like you) are staggering in. It’s not a surprise. Today’s one of your school’s rare festivals, Mabon, the end of the growing period, and there’s anticipation in the air.

You can smell the cooks in the kitchen outdoing themselves in preparation for tonight’s feast. Your Ancient Scripts teacher, Mr. Tee, is talking with the head chef through the serving window. His lion’s tail is twitching excitedly, and the early morning sunlight is catching in the gold of his eyes. The head chef, a rather well-kept ghoul named Chris, is looking even more dour than usual, clearly not enthused with whatever new bit of micromanagement Mr. Tee is relaying.

Having endure nearly two whole semester of Mr. Tee’s detail-orientation (“Remember, the curl of the apostrophe differentiates between Sumerian and modern language butchery!”), you can understand why the chef might want the conversation to end. You think that he probably knows what he’s doing, considering that he regularly cooks for a wide number of supernatural creature, all with different dietary restrictions and needs. And, with more visitors arriving this evening, he probably has more than enough on his plate.

“Amanda, you said your mom was coming tonight?” you ask, interrupting Lexi’s impassioned speech about relying on your own strength in the face of overwhelming odds. You’re not sure how the hash brown/terracotta warrior on Sam’s plate works into the conversation, and you’re not going to ask. You blink innocent, dark eyes at the fae. “I thought she’d be busy at this time of year.

Amanda’s immediately glowing, happy again. “She’s actually taking a break from Court! The first one in, like, half a century.”

“My mom’s coming too,” Sam says, scratching the back of his neck. The hash brown warrior lists to the side. “My, um, my dad’s going to be coming with her, just a head’s up. He’s not big on her coming by herself, what with the pregnancy and all. It’s kinda freaking him out more than we thought it would.”

You make an understanding sound when it seems like neither Amanda or Lexi can manage it. Alpha were creatures are rare, and dangerous. Combine that with being a were-reptile and Sam’s dad becomes someone very dangerous indeed. It makes you feel a little closer to Sam--who’s destined to become an alpha--and his dad, though they don’t know it. You know what it’s like to unnerve people.

“That’s good,” Lexi says finally. She pushes her sunglasses up her nose and pulls her hair further forward to block the ray of sun that’s creeping across the table. “Your mom’s human, right? Even without being pregnant, he should come.”

“When’s your sibling due?” Amanda asks, leaning forward. The fae don’t give birth, as far as you know, so you don’t think you’re misreading the furrow between her brow.

“Next month,” Sam says. His shoulders slump as his tension flees. He’d been braced for much worse than the awkward moment of silence. “They’ve already done up the baby room though they’re still fighting about the sand. Mom says--”

Dong.

You blink, the deep, brass of the bell so opposite Sam’s warm voice that your brain almost can’t process it. The familiarity of the ringing sends your stomach swooping, even with how far away it sounds. You try to focus back on the conversation, wanting to hear more about Sam’s incoming sibling, but--

Dong.

You swing your legs over the bench, shoes nearly losing their grip on the slick flagstone. You recover and stand, pushing your thick mane of hair away from your face to see your friends staring at you. “Sorry,” you say, “I just realized I forgot to hand in my math makeup exam. I’ll meet you guys at the festival, okay?”

It’s abrupt, but the bell demands nothing less. Your friends’ words of sympathy (“Ms. Under isn’t going to be happy!”) push against your back, propelling you out of the hall. The flagstone gives way to brick and you blink into the harsh light.

Dong.

It’s still far away, but you don’t have any idea where you’re supposed to be going yet. You take off across the quad, green grass bending underfoot, and let the tug in your spine strengthen with each step.

Dong.

It’s happening fast, faster than you’d hoped. The bell is all around you now, sound like ripples against your skin. You look around and, when you see no one, you break into a jog. The tug in your spine is spreading, creeping up past your shoulder blade and knotting the muscles at your neck. 

Dong.

You break into a run when you pass the uniform, one-story dorms, darting past students still too tired to properly notice you. You hope you look like a jogger to them though you’re closer to sprinting than jogging as the animal husbandry building looms across the field in front of you. The parking lot is jarring to your knees after the grass and dirt, but you would know without the bell that this is where you need to be.

Dong.

There’s a wailing woman--a banshee--clinging to the side of the building, two stories up. She’s upside down, hands wrapped knuckle-white tight on the brick windowsill that’s she’s peering into. Her long, white hair swings under her and you recognize her as the school guidance counselor, Ms. Jan.

You slow to a jog as you come up on the entrance, eyeing the way her jaw is practically unhinged under the weight of her scream. You can’t hear it, even though you’re also here for a death. A wailing woman’s grief is only for one person.

Dong. This time the bell is coming from inside of you, weak still, but there. You’ve made it just in time. 

Ms. Jan’s eyes snap away from the window and down to you as you open the door, showing that they’re an unearthly red, vivid in her bloodless face. She won’t recognize you with her eyes like that. Red eyes are for seeing souls. Creatures like you don’t have things like that.

You have something else.

Dong.

You hurry into the building, paying no mind to the way Ms. Jan scurries along the building face, her white hair sliding along behind her. As you gain the steps to the second floor, a weight falls over the top of your head. It rolls down your neck, taking the tension, and past your shoulders, settling like a thick fog. When it stabilizes, you are wrapped in a black cloak. You draw the hood up, casting your face in shadow, as you reach the second floor.

In your bones, the bell tolls. Dong, dong, dong.

You find him in the room the banshee had been looking into, in the room you knew you’d find him. You’ve never seen this man before, don’t recognize the crows feet at the corners of his eyes or the salt and pepper of his hair, but that’s not unusual. He might be a visiting researcher considering where he is. He might be a festival visitor, here early. He might be a thief.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s in his seventies, on his knees by a lab table, one hand clenched over his heart. When you enter the room, he lists to the side, hitting the linoleum hard, and rolls onto his back, mouth opening and closing as he desperately works for breath. There are terrible lines of pain around his mouth, but it’s okay. You’re here now.

Dong, dong, dong.

You walk into the room, bringing with you a blue-grey tint that seeps along the ground, the furniture, the walls. Ghostly fog rolls out from underneath your cloak and, when it touches the man, it steals his pain, wraps around it and freezes it.

The man goes limp and his eyes roll to you instinctively, red slowly staining the whites of his sclera as he dies. The hand he had clutching his chest reaches for you, fingers twitching with yearning. He reaches towards you like you’re an old friend, like you’re a savior, like you’re inevitable.

All of these things are true in this moment.

Dong, dong, DONG.

A cool, heavy rod appears in your hand, brought to you by the cold fog. It sings in your grip and the man’s eyes follow it as it climbs higher and higher. At the top it curves, flattens and shines. Your scythe is different from your mother’s, from your father’s, from any reaper’s, and it’s yours. It’s yours and Death’s and no one else’s.

“Ple--please,” the man says and his hand, the one reaching for you, trembles with something other than pain. “Please.” An exhale.

DONG, DONG, DONG.

The bell is at its loudest now, filling you and shaking you apart. Booming in your mind. It’s time.

You hum reassuringly as you move forward, glide on numb feet to his side. He needs this, needs your comfort and what little else you can give as his life spills from his body in gentle waves. You take his hand in yours, kneeling to do so. He doesn’t feel much under the painkiller your fog brings, but he’ll feel your power and the ages of knowledge and strength your family has passed down to you. He’ll feel your warmth, your love, you reassurance.

Most importantly, he’ll feel someone holding his hand.

You raise your scythe with your other hand and bring it down. No sense in drawing it out. He doesn’t feel it when you sever his life or when you pluck his soul from his body. He is free of pain, at last, and he revels in it, unaware that his body has gone cold and still on the floor. He’s innocent in his wonder, in his thanks, and this is why you love humanity. You push him towards the warm place, the beyond place, the place where even Death does not go.

His joy lingers on your fingertips when he’s gone and you smile. Reapers aren’t always so gladly received, even when they need you most.

You drop the body’s hand as you rise. It’s not a man anymore as far as you’re concerned. It is the shell a man once inhabited, unconnected to who you just helped on to the other side. The bell is quiet now, going back to wherever it came from, and the knots in your back release all at once as the driving need to reap disappears.

It’s time to go.

You let the fog fade, curling through and dissolving your cloak and scythe. The color leeches back into the room, black table tops, blue walls, and tan linoleum. Your knees are shaky as you descend the stairs and exit the building, but you’re satisfied.

You’d managed to get there before your powers manifested in front of anyone. You’d done your job and you’d done it well. Now all that lies ahead is the festival.