Chapter 4

By Thursday, the school routine had settled into its usual rhythm. The initial excitement of a new year had faded, replaced by the steady hum of familiarity. The hallways weren´t as chaotic, students weren´t scrambling to figure out their schedules anymore, and teachers had begn to pile on the assignments, eager to make up for lost time.

For most people, this was just another school year—another cycle of exams, social posturing, and figuring out how to coast through without too much effort. For me it was different. I had already been there done that, and got the t-shirt. High school wasn´t just a checklist of miles stones to get through, it was a delicate balancing act, a game I had to play carefully. At least not in this school. Every move mattered.

That was the thing about Sunnydale—it looked like any other small-town high school on the surface. Cheerleaders gossiping in the halls, students half-asleep in class, the usual teenage drama. But I knew better. The town didn't make sense. People went missing, strange things happened, and no one ever asked the right questions. They didn't even try. Gas leaks, wild animal attacks, gangs hopped up on PCP—Sunnydale had an endless supply of flimsy excuses, and everyone just accepted them.

But if you paid attention, you could see the ways people had adapted. Nobody had a welcome mat that actually said welcome. Invitations were rare, especially after dark. Silver crosses were everywhere, not just on the devout but worn like a quiet kind of insurance—especially among the elderly. There were signs, subtle ones, that people knew something wasn't right.

And yet, no one left. Maybe it was the cheap housing, the government grants that propped up small businesses and schools. Maybe it was something deeper, something pulling people in. Even the docks and the airport had grown into major hubs, despite LA being so close.

Sunnydale wasn't just a town. It was a trap. And most people never even realized they were caught.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, exhaling through my nose. Dwelling on it wouldn´t change anything, and besides, I had more immediate concerns.

The school paper was officially mine—ours, I supposed considering Megan and Emily were along for the ride. I hadn´t fully decided if that was a good thing yet. Megan was… Megan. Snarky, unpredictable and undoubtedly going to make my life harder. Emily, on the other hand, was an unknown variable. I got the feeling she was smarter than she let on, and that made her worth keeping an eye on.

Either way, there was work to do. We had deadlines to meet, stories to write, and an entire school to convince that the paper was worth reading. If I pulled it off, it would give me the perfect cover—something to keep people, especially my father, from looking too closely at what I was really paying attention to.

As I stepped inside into the French class, shifting into the school mode, I pushed the thoughts aside. Whatever else was coming my way, it could wait until after the class.

***

When I entered, the room was already filled with the usual pre-class murmur—students chatting in hushed voices, flipping through notebooks, or pretending to review last night's homework. The smell of dry-erase markers lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of old paper from the classroom's worn textbooks.

Madame Lefevre stood at the front of the room, her sharp eyes scanning the class like a hawk surveying its territory. She looked like a woman of precision, from the way she tied her silk scarf to the crisp way she enunciated every syllable of her French. According to Tom, she didn't just teach the language—she expected fluency, and she had no patience for mediocrity.

Emily slid into the seat next to me, dropping her notebook on the desk with a quiet thud. She gave me a brief nod before flipping open her notes. She had the air of someone who wanted to get through the class with minimal fuss.

"Today," Madame Lefevre announced, writing on the board in neat, looping script, "we will be working on pronunciation and fluidity. Remember—French is not merely a language; it is a rhythm, a melody. If you butcher the sound, you butcher the meaning."

A few students groaned quietly. French was a required credit for most of them, nothing more. But for me, it was second nature. I barely had to think about it.

Madame Lefevre began calling on students, having them read sentences aloud. The usual struggle unfolded—mangled accents, misplaced emphasis, hesitant pauses as students fumbled over vowels they didn't know how to shape. She corrected them swiftly, her red pen tapping against the desk like a metronome keeping tempo.

Then she got to me.

"Richard," she said, glancing up from her lesson plan. "Lisez cette phrase, s'il vous plaît."

I barely glanced at the board before speaking. "Le soleil se lève sur Paris."

The words flowed easily, my pronunciation effortless. Not a single letter was clipped or out of place.

A beat of silence followed. Then Madame Lefevre's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly—her equivalent of outright shock.

"Impeccable," she said, tilting her head as she studied me. "Votre accent est très authentique. Vous avez grandi en France?"

I shook my head. "Non, madame. Just learned along the way."

A few students turned to glance at me, like I had just sprouted a second head. No one actually spoke French in this class.

Madame Lefevre narrowed her eyes, intrigued but not pressing further. "Impressionnant. Continuez comme ça."

She moved on, but I caught Emily watching me from the corner of my eye.

"You really speak French," she said, keeping her voice low.

I smirked slightly. "That was kind of the point of the class, wasn't it?"

Emily shook her head. "No, I mean… you really speak it. Like someone who didn't learn it from a textbook."

I shrugged, keeping my voice casual. "Just picked it up over time."

She didn't look convinced, but she let it go.

When the class shifted to a quiet writing exercise, I turned to her. "So, you and Megan. How'd that happen?"

Emily didn't pause, still scribbling in her notebook. "Kindergarten. She took my snack and declared it was hers by divine right. We've been friends ever since."

I smirked. "Charming."

"She thought so." Emily's tone was dry, but I could hear the amusement beneath it.

I leaned back slightly. "And now she's too busy playing queen bee?"

That got a chuckle out of her. "Oh, she committed to that role immediately. Day one of high school, she had a full clique. I think she had them assigned ahead of time."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

Emily shrugged. "Nah. It's Megan. She's always been like that—she just has an audience now."

The way she said it made it clear she wasn't bitter—if anything, she found it funny. Megan might have been wrapped up in her new social circle, but Emily wasn't sitting around pining for the friendship they used to have.

I nodded. "Makes sense."

Emily tapped her pen against her desk. "Not really. But it's Megan, so it doesn't have to."

Fair enough.

Before I could say anything else, Madame Lefevre clapped her hands for attention, signaling the end of the exercise. Emily refocused on her notes, and I let the conversation drop.

The rest of the class passed without much fanfare. Madam Lefevre moved on to drilling verb conjugations, and I zoned out, letting the rhythm of the lesson fade into background noise. Bu the time the bell rang, signaling the end of the period, I had already packed up my things.

Emily walked beside me as we left the classroom, her notebook tucked under one arm. "So, what´s next for you?" she asked, adjusting her bag strap.

"Lunch," I said. "You?"

She lifted a brow. "What kind of a question is that? You think I have some secret mid-day life you don´t know about?

I smirked. "You asked me first."

She huffed out a small laugh but didn´t deny it. As we stepped into the crowded hallway, I caught a glimpse of the usual flow of students, everyone falling into their well-worn patterns. Groups clustering together, voices rising in excitement—there was an unspoken energy to today, something extra.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

That´s when I remembered.

The Bronze party.

That explained the buzz in the air—the little extra pep in people´s steps, the subtle shifts in conversation. Everyone was already thinking ahead to tonight.

I spotted my usual table as we stepped into the cafeteria. Ben and Jake were already there, deep in some argument, while Tom sat back, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. I nodded toward the open seats. "Come on, might as well eat with us."

Emily hesitated for half a second before shrugging. "Alright."

After grabbing our trays, we made our way to the table. Today's special was some kind of green sludge, with chunks of something orange floating in the middle. There was a side of fries, probably as an apology. I had no idea what it was, and honestly, I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.

"Sit. They don´t bite."

Tom barely looked up. "Debatable."

Emily raised a brow but sat down anyway. I set my tray down just as Megan materialized out of nowhere, dropping into the seat next Emily without so much as a greeting.

"Oh, look," she said, setting her tray down like she owned the place. " All my favorite people."

Emily didn´t even blink. "You weren´t invited."

Megan stole a fry from Emily´s tray. "Like I need an invitation."

Tom smirked. "So, does this mean we´re discussing important matters, or are we just here to bask in Megan´s presence?"

"Both," Megan said easily.

Jake leaned forward, finally abandoning whatever debate he and Ben had been engaged in. "Alright, speaking of important matters—everyone's going to the Bronze tonight, right?"

Ben gave him a skeptical look. "Why do you sound like you're taking attendance?"

"Because I am taking attendance," Jake shot back.

Megan rolled her eyes. "Obviously, I'm going."

Emily muttered, "You live for this stuff."

Tom cut in, interrupting the girls. "My brother says it's supposed to be huge this year. Some local band's playing, and they're bringing in extra speakers to turn it into a full-on party."

Jake perked up. "Wait—actual good music, or just some guys butchering Nirvana?"

Tom shrugged. "Could go either way."

Megan waved a dismissive hand. "Doesn't matter. It's the event. First big night of the school year. Everyone's going."

Ben turned to me. "So? You in?"

I hesitated. Not because I wasn't going—I already knew I would be.

But the Bronze wasn't just a club. It wasn't just a high school social scene.

To most people, it was a place to hang out. A spot to be seen.

To me? It was the watering hole in the savannah, hunting ground straight out of a documentary.

Vampires loved the Bronze, and why wouldn't they? Loud music. Dim lighting. A crowd full of teenagers who wouldn't think twice when one of their own slipped out the back door with a stranger.

And tonight? Tonight was an open buffet.

If I was right, this party would be packed—new students looking to make an impression, old ones trying to reclaim lost status, all of them oblivious to the shadows watching from the corners.

By tomorrow morning, someone would be missing.

And no one would ask questions.

They never did.

I exhaled through my nose, pushing the thought aside. That was why I needed to be there. If something was going to happen, it was better if I saw it firsthand.

"Yeah," I said finally. "I'll be there."

Megan smirked. ""Obviously. What else were you gonna do, sit at home and read?"

Jake nudged Ben. "Alright, looks like we´ve got a full group."

I glanced at Emily. "You coming?"

She made a noncommittal noise, but before she could answer, Megan threw an arm around her shoulder.

"Oh she´s coming,"Megan said smugly.

Emily sighed, peeling Megan´s arm off her. "Fine. But only to watch you trip over your ego."

Megan gasped in mock offense. " I'd never trip over my own ego. Other people's, though? That's another story."

Tom snickered. "This is gonna be fun."

I wasn´t so sure about fun. but I knew one thing—tonight was going to be interesting.

***

There was a rhythm to getting ready—shower, hair, clothes. I moved through it on autopilot, letting muscle memory do the work. It was routine, something familiar, something normal. And in Sunnydale, normal was a fragile, precious thing.

My reflection stared back at me, wearing the same face I'd had for the last five years, only older. Green eyes, sharp and a little too knowing. Hair that never quite decided whether it wanted to behave. A face that people trusted when they should probably think twice. My father said that was a gift. I wasn't so sure.

I buttoned my shirt, fastened the cuffs, and reached for the chain on my dresser. The silver pentagram caught the light as I clasped it around my neck. It wasn't about faith—not in the way most people thought. I used to be an atheist, what felt like lifetimes ago, but here, magic wasn't just myth or metaphor. It was real. Energy was real. Symbols held power, older than any church, older than the things that lurked in the dark. I couldn't float a pen with a thought or hurl fire from my hands, but this? This, I could make work. And sometimes, a small edge was all that mattered.

I grabbed my jacket and, before slipping it on, I checked the inner pocket. The small vials were exactly where I had left them. One with salt. One with dirt from a graveyard. One with holy water. They felt like relics from a different time, a different world, but here, they were insurance. Last, I slid the stake into the inner lining of my jacket. It wasn't much—just a carved length of wood, rough but sturdy. I told myself it was just for peace of mind.

I hesitated at the door, fingers resting on the handle. I could have just left. My mother probably wouldn't have noticed. But something about slipping out without a word felt… wrong. Too much like my father.

I found her in the living room, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and some black-and-white movie playing in the background, as usual. She didn't look up right away, but when she did, her expression was distant.

"I'm heading out," I said.

She blinked, then gave me a slow nod. "Be careful."

It wasn't a warning. Not really. Just something to say.

I nodded back, and that was it. Not exactly a heartwarming send-off, but it never was.

As I stepped outside, a thought nagged at the back of my mind.

Vampires.

I didn't get them.

I had read the books, watched the movies, and done the research. The lore was consistent—mostly.

Sometimes, they were nothing more than rabid animals, all hunger and instinct, tearing through anything in their way. Other times, they slipped into conversations with the kind of ease that made you forget what they were. They laughed, they taunted, they remembered details they shouldn't. Some were sloppy, little more than feral beasts clawing at their next meal, but others? Others were deliberate. Calculated.

They made choices.

And that was what threw me.

If they had been just mindless predators, that would have been simple. You didn't hesitate when a rabid dog lunged at your throat—you put it down. But some of them? They moved through the world like they still belonged in it. Like they had never really left. And that was where the rules started getting messy.

They didn't have souls. That much was clear. It wasn't the person who had died—it was a demon wearing their face, puppeting their memories like a con artist slipping into a stolen identity. A warped reflection, distilled from the worst parts of whoever they used to be.

And yet… some of them didn't seem to change all that much. They kept their quirks, their humor, their personal grudges. They slipped back into old habits like they had never stopped breathing.

It made me wonder—how much of the person was really gone?

Were they just shadows mimicking a life they no longer had? Or was there something left behind, buried under the hunger, warped but still there?

And if there was… what did that mean?

I shook the thought off before it could dig too deep. It didn't matter. It couldn't.

A vampire was a vampire.

And if one came at me, I needed to be ready to put it down.