Ren peered down at his notebook. He skimmed the notes, not actually taking in the information.

There was never a point in Ren’s short life in which he thought he was completely hopeless. Ashton Mantel changed that. In one day, he’d turned Ren’s world upside down. Now, he didn’t have a clue as to how to make it right again.

The point in which his life turned for the worse could have been discovering Ashton covered in blood standing over a corpse. Or it could have been when he watched Ashton set said corpse on fire.

But either way, he couldn’t get those images out of his head.

He’d been so caught in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Darrien enter the cafeteria. He made his way to Ren’s empty table and stood there before Ren could look up.

He sat across from Ren as if it was no big deal. It was. The entire lunch room was staring at them. Ren thought about telling him to fuck off, but he thought better of it. There was always a small part of him that battled with the other half. One wanted to fight—tooth and nail—while the other wanted to duck and run.

Darrien brought both those sides out. He’d realized it back in the parking lot and hadn’t given it much thought until now. 

Instead of putting up a fuss, he sighed while closing his notebook. “What do you want?”

He guessed not making a scene was out the window. He thanked his brain who thought it was a good idea to start a fight.

Darrien was wearing a black t-shirt with a rock band logo Ren didn’t recognize. He only knew it was a rock band because it had a bunch of long-haired men with their mouths open in a scream in the photo.

Not that he had anything against rock music.

He was more of a piano goth follower than anything else. There was a joke in there somewhere—about vampires being legendary goths—but he was too focused on Darrien sitting in front of him to think too much about it.

“I wanted to apologize.” Darrien pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his pocket.

Ren raised a brow. “Apologize…”

It was a little hard to wrap his head around the concept. People didn’t apologize to him. Especially people like Darrien who hung out with people like Regan.

Darrien unwrapped the sandwich from its plastic casing. He took a large bite.

“Yeah,” he said with a mouth full of food. It struck Ren how unashamed Darrien was about it. He was nonchalant. “Regan can be a real dick sometimes.”

Ren snorted. “Sometimes?”

Try all the time. Regan was a cliche douchebag from high school movies. Of course, the ones from the 80s that diverged so far from reality that they didn’t even include vampires.

Or black people.

“Didn’t you just move here?”

Darrien took another bite. “Used to live here.”

He said it like it was an add on to Ren’s questions. Ren bit his lip as he thought about it.

There were a few things he didn’t remember from his childhood. Things that he shut out completely. 

Darrien smirked behind his sandwich. “Remember?”

It was a loaded question not to be answered.

Another slow bite.

Ren’s brows furrowed. “Yeah…”

They sat in silence. Neither of them were going to break. Ren could tell. Darrien didn’t know Ren was the master at this.

Darrien finished his sandwich, licked his fingers, and dusted the crumbs from the table. When he was done, he folded his arms and leaned forward. His movements were slow, calculated. Ren held his breath as he waited for him to drop the bomb on him.

Slurs, degrading words, Darrien could throw them all at him. Some would stick, some would roll off, but they would all hurt in the same way.

“Do you know any other vampires?”

Ren stiffened. 

The silence deepened. They were trapped inside a dome, pushing out all other strands of conversation. He could feel the weight of the question pushing on his shoulders and his temples. The skip of his heart was between fear and something else he didn’t want to label. 

His first thought was that Darrien knew.

It didn’t make sense why Darrien would know about the dead girl or about Ashton Mantel. These two separate worlds couldn’t have ever crossed.

There was a sliver of doubt.

Darrien’s eyes shined like he knew Ren was hiding something.

Ren held his gaze. If he looked down, Darrien would know.

“No. I don’t.”

Darrien leaned back. The sharp look in his eyes lessened.

He thought Darrien was going to say something else. His lips quirked into a smile. Ren’s eyes fell to it. He had a small patch of peach fuzz. Not enough to qualify as a mustache.

Clearning his throat, Ren stood from the table. Darrien watched him. There was something he wanted to say. He was holding it back for whatever reason.

“Is that all you wanted to know?”

He met Ren’s eyes.

Ren braced himself for backlash. Darrien’s eyes, his face, just everything about him showed that he was holding back anger. If Ren wasn’t used to finding the emotion in others, he might have never noticed it.

The air between them was hard to breathe through. Ren waded through it, searching with his mind, lungs filling with lackluster air. The tips of his fingers tingled as he threw his bag over his shoulder. The strap bit into him, distracting him for a second so he could gather himself before he fell apart. Darrien’s dark eye were ripping Ren to pieces while his small smile kept Ren whole.

He mentally shook the thoughts away. An unknown feeling settled into his chest. Like when he saw the dead girl’s face for the first time, he had to clench his fist to stay standing. The ache in his body flourished the more he stood at the table.

Darrien was watching him as he walked out of the cafeteria. When they first met, Ren had written him off as a nobody who transferred here at a bad time. Now, he had to wonder why Darrien was so intent on running into him. It wasn’t all the time, but he was seeking something out. Information. 

Ren had a bad feeling about him. He was too watchful, too dark for him to be anything close to trouble.

Darrien’s smile and eyes haunted Ren as he walked to the library. He clenched the strap of his bag closer to his chest as he pushed through the front doors. The large room opened to a few tables reserved for studying, chairs, and then some computers. He walked past it all and surveyed the tall bookshelves pressed against the wall. There weren’t many, but there was a small section for historical books.

That’s what he needed.

He glanced around the empty library before he turned to scan the first row. They were about the war, the first settlement in the newly founded countries, and the fallout in relation to Europe.

The further he went down the line, the more puzzled he became. The books were obscure finds, nothing that interested him, but he knew he had to find something. The Hunter Society had formed during the war. Anything after might talk about them briefly but it was more likely they would talk about their fall.

He bit his lip and then picked up a book on vampires. It was a general topic. Flipping through the pages, he found pictures and descriptions about feeding, mating, and offspring. He wrinkled his nose at the photo of a male vampire ripping out the throat of a woman.

That wasn’t how he fed. It was a waste of blood.

With a sigh, he placed the book back. He drifted to the next. His eyes narrowed to read the spine.

Supernatural: Claims and Rituals

The title wasn’t what he was looking for. Though, when he slipped to the inside cover it did say it was a quick history reference as well. He took a look at the index and it did mention the Hunter Society in relation to how it destroyed vampire and witch culture.

Without a second thought, he checked the book out. The bell rang just as he exited the library.

***

The book was heavy in his backpack. It shouldn’t be since it couldn’t have weighed more than a pound. The ridge of the spine pressed against his lower back, making it more obvious it was there. The fear he felt was illogical. There was nothing scary about carrying a book.

But he looked over his shoulder anyway.

Nothing. 

The winding path was empty except for the trees and falling leaves. And ahead of him, there was only woods until his home came into view.

Yet, he swallowed down a lump in his throat. His palms were sweaty.

Mantel had said to pretend like nothing had happened. He had told Ren to forget everything about the HS and the dead girl—Carla. Her name was Carla.

And his name is Ashton. Not Mantel.

Ren ran up the front porch and slammed the door.

Mom wasn’t home as usual. She was always working late though he more than once tried to persuade her to cut back her hours.

He locked the door behind him and tossed his bag onto the couch. His throat ached for a cold glass of water. He had every intention of doing just that when he felt it again.

His body was thrumming for blood. Not just blood. He wanted to feel blood, guts, and flesh on his hands. He wanted to feel the warmth as he squeezed the life out of the living.

With a sharp breath, he froze in the middle of the kitchen.

His vision went blurry with that rage. He stumbled out of the kitchen and to his mom’s bedroom. The anger became too much. He didn’t know why he was angry or what had set it off, just that it was happening. 

His body was no longer his. His limbs weren’t listening to him. 

He walked in, hands ready to rip everything to shreds. 

Her room was a dull yellow color. It was muddy by the years of neglect. Yet, the twin bed was neat and her dark wood dresser was clear except for a mirror. Her clothes hung in the small closet with no door and her one other pair of shoes—small kitten heels—were pressed into the corner of the closet.

It looked as if no one had lived here for years. 

As he edged closer to the made bed, he smelled a hint of the only perfume she owned. She wore it daily. It was a soft smell that didn’t irritate, but it lingered even when she was gone. Of course, her bedroom smelled like her. She lived here. There was nowhere else in the world that she could call her own.

This had always been her room. From when she was born and until his grandparents died. Even now, when she had a child of her own.

He couldn’t help the smile that broke over his face. For a moment, he forgot he was under the influence of the anger. The small sliver of happiness was taken by the surging thoughts of horror. He was captive in his own body and in his own home. There was nowhere in this world safe for him.

The need to destroy was replaced by a force using his body like a puppet. It held him hostage as he was forced to his knees. It clawed at the bedding hanging over the edge of the bed. Under the bed was a box not much bigger than his hand.

The force lifted. He was breathless. He jerked upright and looked around the room. 

He was going crazy. He was going out of his fucking mind. 

When he looked back down at the box, he wasn’t thinking about backing away. He’d already come this far. He might as well see what the hell was important about this box.

The wooden lid flipped up with little force. His heart dropped in his chest as he eyes fell on the thing in the box.

For a second, he thought he was seeing things. Nestled in red cloth, a swirling orb of glass glowed from within the confines of the box. It looked otherworldly and fragile like it would disappear with a soft breeze. The smoke swirling inside the glass pressed against the surface of the orb. It kept pushing as if it were trying to escape the small cage it had been put in.

Something sick happened to him then. It pushed at the back of his neck, working its way down his spine. The sickening feeling shot shards of pain through his body. He bent over, falling down to his side. The box fell to the floor and the orb clanked inside the box.

He gasped as the force barred down on him. It squeezed him like a worm. Like he was nothing more than vermin that needed to be extinguished. His mouth fell open as another piercing shock of pain rippled through his body. Pinpricks like a needle pushing through his neck jabbed into him. Over and over that invisible needle hammered into his neck.

His legs seized as he tried to grab onto the edge of the bed. He tried to pull himself up but his legs gave out beneath him. His chin hit the bed frame and he bit down on his tongue.

Blood pooled in his mouth. The taste wasn’t metallic nor was it good. It was like vomit but so much worse.

He gagged on the taste, clutching his throat as he made his way across the room.

The force let him go for one second and then it was back again. He cried out as he was forced back to where the glass sphere was. His hands grabbed it. He fought through the pain, prying his eyes open to watch what this thing was doing to him.

The sphere was small in his cupped hands. It changed colors. From dully gray to black and then to dark blue. He didn’t know what these colors meant or even what this sphere was. His fingers pressed into the glass.

He cried out as his fingers burned. The force let up on the sphere.

“What…” He managed to bite out.

Another searing jolt of pain was all the answer he got.

He stood. No not him. The thing controlling him did.

With the sphere still in his hands, he was forced to walk to the door. The taste of his own blood made him sick and he tried to swallow it down. The force kept going. He was starting to think he would never get his body back. The pain made it hard to think about anything else.

Pain was all he could feel. All that he knew.

But the thing didn’t get past the front door.

He sagged to the floor as the power over him disappeared. Before he had the chance to think about what had happened, he heard footsteps on the gravel road.

His eyes widened. He heaved himself up and bolted for his mom’s bedroom. He shoved the sphere into the box and threw it under her bed.

But he stopped as he saw something else. A thick journal had been pulled out along with the box. The page it had flipped to was of his grandfather’s ring. 

The car door slammed shut. 

He grabbed the journal and ran out. By the time he threw the journal under his own bed and was safely in the living room, she’d made it to the porch.

And it was then, that the pain consumed him, knocking him out onto the living room floor.