Chapter Three

Rita

The Great Hall of Blackthorn Academy hummed with energy, the air thick with the mingling scents of magic, fur, and something faintly metallic—vampires.

Rita stood among the crowd of new students, her gaze flickering over the sea of faces. The woman at the front—Alice—was undoubtedly a witch. Her arms jingled with beaded bracelets, her neck adorned with layered necklaces, each one humming with protective charms.

"Junior students will be housed in eight-person dormitories," Alice announced, her voice smooth as honey. "Upperclassmen share four-person suites, and our pre-college foundational year students enjoy private studios."

Rita filed that away—maybe next year.

She scanned the room. The werewolves were easy to spot—tall, broad-shouldered, all with jet-black hair and an air of quiet dominance. They moved in tight clusters, their postures relaxed but alert, like a pack circling its territory.

The vampires, though? Less obvious—until she accidentally brushed past a blonde girl in a Chanel dress that probably cost more than her grandmother’s truck.

A wave of death hit her.

Not rot, not decay—just weight. Like the air after a storm, heavy and ancient. The girl turned, her blue eyes sharp, and smiled.

"Hello. I’m Deidre."

Rita blinked. "Rita."

"It’s my second year here," Deidre mused, "but Alice’s voice is just so beautiful, I couldn’t resist attending again."

Rita stifled a laugh. Definitely the witch’s allure working on her.

"You’re new, right?" Deidre tilted her head. "I’d remember someone like you."

Before Rita could ask what that meant, Alice dismissed them, and the crowd surged toward the dormitories.

Deidre fell into step beside Rita as they climbed the grand staircase. "Please tell me you’re in the east wing. I cannot handle another roommate who snores like a ghoul."

Rita checked her slip. "Room 317."

Deidre grinned. "Perfect. Me too."

The moment they pushed open the door, the scent of dried herbs and candle wax hit them. Two girls were already inside—one unpacking a stack of spellbooks, the other hanging a dreamcatcher over her bed.

"Oh good, you’re not vampires," Deidre said cheerfully.

The girl with the dreamcatcher snorted. "Freda. And that’s Pru."

"Rita," she offered.

"Deidre," the vampire said, flopping onto her bed. "Turned in 1754 by a bastard who kept me as a blood slave. Escaped in 1804, lived with a lovely coven of lady vamps until I got sick of the drama and took a very long nap. Woke up in the 1920s to a brothel massacre—free breakfast, I suppose—then went back to sleep until three years ago when my sire finally got staked." She sighed. "And now, here I am. Just trying to live my best undead life."

Freda’s mouth hung open. Pru dropped her book.

Rita burst out laughing. "That’s the wildest backstory I’ve ever heard."

Deidre smirked. "What can I say? I’m a treasure."

That night, Rita stood by the window, watching the werewolves below. They played soccer under the moonlight, their movements fluid, effortless.

Then—one of them stopped.

He turned, his gaze locking onto her window.

Short hair.

He was the only one she’d seen without the typical long, flowing locks. His dark eyes burned even from this distance, his chest rising and falling like he’d caught a scent.

"NATHAN!" one of his friends barked.

The boy—Nathan—shook his head, as if clearing a fog, and sprinted back into the game.

Rita yanked the curtains shut, her heart pounding.