Noah Santiago had been at the school for twenty-three minutes and already regretted agreeing to this. Not because of the school. Mortal schools were all essentially the same. Fluorescent lights. Overly polished floors. Lockers painted some color nobody actually liked. An inexplicable smell somewhere between cleaning solution, old paper, and teenage despair. No. 

The problem was the assignment. Find one demigod in a school containing approximately twelve hundred students. Easy. Perfectly reasonable. No problem whatsoever. Soteria Hall had received reports of unusual monster activity in the area. That by itself wasn’t remarkable. Monsters wandered. Demigods attracted them.

Usually, Soteria sent someone to investigate, found some terrified kid accidentally setting trash cans on fire or speaking to animals, explained that Greek mythology was considerably less fictional than advertised, and brought them back. This time was different.

Nobody knew who the demigod was. Nobody knew their divine parent. Nobody even knew whether the kid knew what they were. But something in the area had changed. The monsters knew it. And if monsters were searching— Soteria wanted to find the demigod first.

Noah had been selected because he could disappear into a senior class without raising many questions. At eighteen, he could pass for exactly what his forged records said he was: a transfer student finishing his final year after an inconvenient family move. He was good with people. He could defend himself. He was one of the better archers at Soteria. And according to one of his instructors, Noah possessed “a natural talent for gaining people’s trust.”

Noah personally thought that was a polite way of saying he could bullshit convincingly. Either way, he’d been handed transfer documents, a class schedule, a backpack full of perfectly ordinary school supplies, a concealed Divine Alloy weapon, and one instruction: Find them. Then bring them to Soteria. Home, some people called it.

Noah had never particularly liked that word. Soteria was safe. That was different. The institution had existed long before it became a school. Centuries earlier, Soteria Hall had been little more than a sanctuary—a protected estate where children caught between mortal and divine worlds could hide from creatures that wanted them dead.

Then hiding stopped being enough. Demigods needed training. Education. History. Weapons. Control. A way to live long enough to become adults. Dormitories followed. Classrooms. Training grounds. Libraries. An infirmary. What had once been a sanctuary became a school without ever losing the purpose behind its name. Safety. Protection. Deliverance.

Cross the boundary of Soteria Hall, and sanctuary was yours. No questions asked. At least, that was the promise. Noah had been there long enough to know promises could be complicated. The counselor beside him kept talking.

“And your second-period teacher is Mr. Delaney. American Literature.”

Noah forced a smile.

“Great.”

It was not great. Noah fucking hated American Literature. The counselor glanced down at her papers.

“We received everything from your previous school. It looks like—”

Noah stopped listening. Movement in the hallway caught his attention. Two students. A girl. And— Noah’s gaze shifted. A boy. Small. Really small. Black hair except for two striking white sections framing his face. Pale skin. Green eyes. Black ripped jeans. Cropped band shirt. Red leather jacket despite the heat. Silver jewelry. Multiple earrings. Septum ring. Pretty.

That was Noah’s first thought. His second was considerably less convenient. Oh, fuck. Not because the guy was attractive. Noah liked attractive people. Attractive mortals were particularly convenient. Easy. Fun. Temporary. Safe.

Noah had rules. Not many. One of the important ones was simple. He didn’t get involved with other demigods. Ever. He’d seen too many rooms emptied at Soteria. Too many beds that stayed made because their owners weren’t coming back. Too many memorial services. Too many names carved into stone.

Demigods died young. Everybody knew it. People just didn’t like saying it aloud. Noah preferred mortals. Mortals weren’t immortal either, obviously. But they didn’t routinely leave breakfast carrying swords and return in a funeral shroud before dinner.

No. No demigods. The boy across the hallway, however, was currently just some extremely pretty mortal dressed like he’d personally declared war on color. And that wasn’t why Noah stared. Something moved at the boy’s feet. Noah narrowed his eyes. Shadow. For half a second, the hallway became darker around him. Not dimmer. Darker. As though every nearby shadow had leaned in his direction. Then it stopped.

The boy looked up. Their eyes met. Green. Really fucking green. Noah temporarily forgot why he was supposed to be suspicious. The stranger stared back. Then his friend said something. He answered. Finally, he turned away. Noah watched him leave.

“Mr. Santiago?”

He looked back toward the counselor.

“Sorry?”

“Your schedule.”

“Right.”

She handed it over. Noah accepted it. People trusted smiles. He’d learned that years ago. So he gave her one.

“Thanks.”

Her expression softened. There it was. Useful.

“You’ll be starting with Mr. Delaney.”

“Awesome.”

Again: not awesome.

⸻

Raine hated American Literature. He didn’t hate literature. Literature was fine. He liked books. Poetry could be good when it wasn’t written by some dead man desperately trying to prove that describing a tree for fourteen pages constituted emotional depth. 

Lyrics were better. Lyrics were poetry that admitted it wanted to be heard. American Literature at 9:10 in the morning, however, was an act of violence.

Raine sat near the back of the classroom with his chin resting against one fist while Mr. Delaney explained symbolism to a group of seniors who looked collectively ready to walk into traffic. A clock ticked above the whiteboard. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Raine’s pencil moved across his notebook. Not notes. Lyrics. Or an attempt at them. The melody had followed him around since the previous night. Words were always harder. Music came first. Feeling second. Language last.

He wrote: I met the devil in a Sunday coat— Raine stared. Crossed out devil. Too obvious. He tried: I met an angel in a Sunday coat— Worse. Jesus Christ. He scribbled through the entire thing.

“Mr. Graves.”

Raine looked up. Mr. Delaney stared directly at him. Shit.

“Yes?”

“Since your notebook appears considerably more interesting than my lesson, perhaps you’d like to tell us what Fitzgerald’s green light represents.”

Raine glanced toward the board. The Great Gatsby. Easy.

“Gatsby wants something he’s idealized so much that eventually wanting it matters more than actually having it.”

Mr. Delaney paused.

“Correct.”

Raine looked back down. Maya kicked his chair from behind. He flipped her off without turning around.

“Mr. Graves.”

His hand immediately dropped.

“Sorry.”

Maya muffled a laugh. The classroom door opened. The counselor stepped inside. And beside her— Oh, for fuck’s sake. Sunshine. Maya made a strangled noise behind him. Raine refused to turn around.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the counselor said. “We have a transfer student joining us.”

Mr. Delaney smiled.

“Come in.”

The blond boy stepped inside. Up close, he was somehow worse. Freckles. Of course he had fucking freckles. Soft ones dusted across his nose and upper cheeks. Because apparently God had favorites. The necklace Raine had noticed earlier was visible now. A small shell hanging from a leather cord. His blue eyes scanned the room. Stopped. Raine. Again. The guy smiled. Not broadly. Just enough. Raine looked down. No. Absolutely not. He did not have the emotional bandwidth for an attractive stranger. Mr. Delaney gestured toward him.

“Want to introduce yourself?”

The boy shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Sure. I’m Noah Santiago. I’m eighteen, just transferred in, and apparently picked a great time to start over. I play guitar, surf when I can, and I’m terrible at introductions.”

A few people laughed. Raine’s pencil stopped. Guitar. Behind him— Kick. Raine ignored Maya. Another kick. Harder. He turned halfway around.

Maya mouthed:

GUITAR.

Raine mouthed:

DIE.

“There’s an empty seat beside Raine,” Mr. Delaney said.

Raine slowly closed his eyes. Of course there was. Noah walked toward him. The chair scraped against the floor. He sat. For approximately thirty seconds, neither spoke. Raine returned to his notebook. Or tried to. He could feel warmth beside him. Raine frowned. The classroom wasn’t warm anymore. The air-conditioning had finally started doing its job. Yet the side of his body closest to Noah felt like he’d stepped into sunlight. He shifted farther away. Noah noticed. Naturally.

“Am I bothering you already?”

Raine glanced sideways. Noah’s mouth twitched.

“You’re breathing pretty loudly.”

Noah stared. Then laughed. Actually laughed.

“Sorry.”

“You should be.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“Appreciated.”

Mr. Delaney cleared his throat. Both looked forward. Three minutes passed. A folded piece of paper appeared beside Raine’s notebook. He stared at it. Then Noah. Noah looked innocently toward the board. Raine unfolded it.

‘Do you always bully new students?’

Raine picked up his pencil.

‘Only the annoying ones.’

 He slid it back. Noah read it. Wrote something. Returned it. 

‘We’ve spoken twice.’

Raine replied:

‘And yet you’ve accomplished so much.’

Noah bit the inside of his cheek. Raine noticed. Unfortunately. There was something extremely satisfying about making pretty boys struggle not to laugh. Noah wrote again. What are you writing? Raine immediately closed his notebook. Noah raised both hands.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Nosy.”

“You had lyrics.”

Raine looked at him.

“You read them?”

“Accidentally.”

“You accidentally turned your head and read my notebook?”

“I’m talented.”

“Apparently.”

Noah leaned slightly closer.

“So you write music?”

Raine hesitated.

“Sometimes.”

“What do you play?”

“Guitar.”

Noah smiled. Raine instantly understood Maya’s bullshit excitement from earlier. It wasn’t just that Noah was attractive. Noah smiled like he knew exactly how attractive he was without becoming unbearable about it. Yet.

“Electric?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Acoustic too. Bass. A little keyboard.”

Noah blinked.

“A little?”

“I can play it.”

“So that’s not a little.”

“I’m better at guitar.”

“What kind?”

“Depends.”

“Helpful.”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“You answer most of them.”

Raine opened his mouth then closed it. Annoying. Noah leaned back, satisfied. Mr. Delaney started discussing symbolism in weather. Raine tried paying attention. He lasted four minutes. Another note appeared. Music room? Lunch? Raine stared. He should say no. He didn’t know Noah. Noah was clearly irritating. Maya would never shut the fuck up about it. And— Tap. Tap-tap. Raine looked sideways. Noah’s fingers were tapping a rhythm against his thigh. Four-four. Then something shifted. Syncopated. Raine recognized where the pattern wanted to go. His fingers moved against the desk. Noah stopped. Then he looked at his hand. Then Raine. Raine added another beat. Noah answered. For the next thirty seconds, they quietly built a rhythm between them using nothing but fingertips against wood. Noah’s grin slowly widened. Raine hated how quickly he returned it. He grabbed the note. Wrote one word. Fine.