Note to self: do not tamper with the bracelet if you enjoy having two feet...
“Only the teachers can take them off, and since most of them want to see us fail, you won’t catch one of them coming to your aid.” He drops his feet back to the floor with a loud resonating sound. His elegant features pull into tight mocking displeasure.
“So why would they bother with the academy? The purpose of this place is to make us better Prods, better citizens. Now it’s a fucking prison.”
Saint shrugs, drumming his fingers along the edge of the table. He has a restless energy inside him that comes out in distracting bursts sometimes. Annoying but charismatic all at the same time.
“Times change.” The drumming stops and is replaced with incessant finger tapping. I wonder if he’s annoying on purpose or if it all comes easy for him. “Nowadays, they don’t want to deal with us anymore. Most dangerous Prods leave here just to cause problems in society all over again. It’s easier on both their time and budget to try and break us in the first semester instead of reforming us.” He stops and gives me a side-long, conspiratorial look. “You know what happens to those who can’t reform, right?”
“They go to the real prison.” Which is probably better than this place. At least I’m sure they get edible meals. No hot dog porridge for those lucky Goldie Locks.
Saint scrapes his nails along the surface in front of him. “Something like that. Depends on their resources. Look, I don’t wanna scare you, but you need to figure out what your Prod is and fast. When the Prodless can’t reform, they give them the death penalty in the end. It’s too dangerous to have uncontrollable supernaturals among humans and the others.”
Unease ripples through me. Fucking what? No one told me that.
“How do you know?”
“Family connections. Family history too. Von Hunters have a bit of a bloody background if you know what I mean.” That charming, deadly smile slashes across his features.
Right. He’s a vampire, but he came from the founding fucking fathers of this hellhole.
He’s likely safe from death, at any rate. Which explains his carelessness.
I take him in, the long length of his body. He’s lithe, but strong. His uniform is askew, like he couldn’t be bothered to put himself together for this joke of a school, even if his tie is perfectly knotted. Dark hair presses against his temples, curling at the ends and at the back of his nape.
If I had to draw up the image of a prep school bad boy, Saint would be it. With mischief shining in the blue depths of his eyes, and the slightest hint of tattoos peeking out from his sleeves and neck. I can picture him with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth and smoke clouding my better judgment, making me actually want a taste of him.
He’s rich but in a way that money means nothing to him. Just like this place.
“Why are you even here?” I whisper almost angrily. Seriously. He talks back to almost every teacher and yet no one throws his ass in confinement. He does it for the pure joy of annoying them, pushing them to test how much of his bullshit they’ll take before they snap. I have to wonder if he even really belongs here or if he pissed off mommy and daddy and this is just some weird rich boy punishment.
All motion in his body stops. A preternatural stillness sets over him in a way that’s so eerie, it settles a prickling sensation across my skin. He’s a predator, a vampire, and he looks every inch of it as he slowly turns and smiles at me, revealing the jutting points of his incisors pressing into his bottom lip.
“Why do you think?” His voice drops low, and his body suddenly angles closer to mine. I tense, and all I can stare at are those two pointy teeth piercing his lip, drawing a thin line of blood down his chin.
“I don’t know.” My voice is calm even if I’m all too aware of the pounding of my heart and the rushing of my blood. “That’s why I fucking asked you.”
He blinks and throws his head back as he barks out his laughter. When he looks at me again, his teeth have slid back up to their normal size. Really, I’m curious about them. Do they suck blood up like a straw or does he have to taste it? Do the teeth go up into his gums or do they grow like claws on a werewolf? What’s the average fang size for vampires? Do male vampires lie about their length or is it not as idolized as other body parts?
The questions are endless but I refrain from spewing my endless curiosity for now.
“No need to worry, I didn’t suck the blood out of innocent virgins, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Hmmm didn’t contradict my virgin comment. Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting because I’m not a virgin,” I fire back at him and the intrigue in his eyes almost matches mine. But I keep pushing him, “What’d you do?”
“Failed my family,” he says quietly.
There is such sadness laced in his simple words, I’m taken aback. It’s so raw, so broken, I have this maddening urge to take his hand in mine and offer him some sort of comfort.
“How?” The word is a weak whisper that leaves my lips. All the playfulness in our banter drains away with each ticking second.
I almost think he won’t answer me. Maybe I hope he doesn’t. Think of the devil cat and consequences of actions. Do I really want to know this truth? It could be harder than I can probably bear.
Eventually he answers me. And it’s not in the way I expect at all.
“I failed them because I’m a vampire that won’t drink blood.”
Professor Toad begins scrawling the history of the Academy of Six onto the board at the front and still I stare at the sharp angles of Saint’s perfect features.
While I watch the vampire vacantly, large swooping letters magically drift across the board of their own accord:
In Eighteen Sixty-Six, six of the founding Prodigums joined forces after decades of what is now known as the Dark Genocide. Their efforts were successful in dethroning the reckless leader of the Dark Genocide once and for all. Lucian Morningstar, a powerful Prod...
“Miss Castillo, if you would please give our studies on the history of the Dark Genocide a rare moment of your time, the entire class would be appreciative.” A mocking but monotone voice calls back to me.
My head snaps up and I’m met with those protruding eyes. “Yes, Mr. Toad.”
His thin lips curl back from his crooked teeth. “It’s Professor Moore.” His beady glare alone is writing up a detention slip as we speak.
“Right.” I nod. Smile. Nod. Smile one more fucking time before he finally turns his insulted attention back to his lesson.
And then my gaze slips to Saint all over again.
I just can’t believe how well he fakes it. He acts like he understands everything, like he has the entire world in his deadly palm.
He’s just as lost as I am.
These terrible, frustrating, powerful men I surround myself with, are just as broken and confused as I am.
I wish I could say my endless questions have simmered some since first period.
They have not.
“So can you eat food?”
Saint sighs with exasperation. “Yes, I can eat food.”
My barrage of questions doesn’t stop. But really, what did he expect when he confessed the truth? That I’d just nod and say, “Oh, you poor dear.”? I’m not his fucking grandmother. And I’m curious.