TRIGGER-WARNING:
The following scene contains depictions of violence and predatory age-gap relations. 

-----

The homecoming dance was shrouded in an ethereal aura, as if the sapphire spotlights were fracturing black shadows to reveal otherworldly beings. The students were dressed in their finest attire, shimmering like stars in the midnight sky. As Rayne and Lucas danced, her arms gracefully draped over his shoulders, Rayne could feel the liquid heat of sunlight rushing through her veins, rekindling the vivid recollection of him enfolding her tightly within the shack. The ache in her temples subsided, and the tumultuous swirl of uncertainty that had resided within her began to dissipate. In this moment, she simply met his eyes with the intent to soak up every second of this dance.

Lucas looked down, his lips carved with statuesque stoicism. "You really shouldn't look at me like that."

"Like what?" she asked, already knowing the answer. Her playful grin cracked into something a little more serious. "Why not?"

"I . . ." His eyes snapped to her lips, his own parted with words unspoken. "We—"

"Mind if I cut back in?" Cole stood next to them, hand extended.

Luke released Rayne's hand, and the breeze that overtook his warmth felt as out of place as she did. The music seemed to stutter and slow into a faint, mournful dirge. "Of course," he answered, smiling gently, and he stepped aside without another word, leaving Rayne to stand alone with Cole. The music was all but a hum in the background, Cole's anger radiating off him in waves.

She tried clearing her throat with a nervous laugh. "Thank you for—"

"What was that about?"

Stunned, Rayne was overcome by a rising tide of nausea, as if her core had suddenly turned sour. As the sensation intensified, a disorienting pressure began to engulf her head.

"So," he began, his voice low and serious, "it was something?"

"No."

"You said that a little too quickly. Trying to convince me or yourself?"

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her into a dance. The room seemed to spin. All Rayne could think of was Lucas' touch, the heat of his embrace, the smell of his cologne. Then, the shadows morphing around them. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog that was beginning to settle over her. Cole's chest pressed into her, his heartbeat achingly loud, and Rayne witnessed a raging fire ravaging her mind's eye.

"I . . ." Rayne closed her eyes.

The fire. Consuming.

The weight of his glare. Suffocating.

"Now, you're taking too long," Cole said, his grip tightening on her waist.

"Okay, no! You need to back off," Rayne snapped, pushing him back. The inferno sputtered out in her mind, coiling embers and smoke wafting around her. "I am here with you, aren't I?"

Cole stepped toward her. "Are you?"

◢✥◣

"He knows," Braiden whispered. "He knows you're a threat."

Dorian paced the living room. This was all absurd! He had never been one to believe in the supernatural, but the events of the past few weeks had truly shaken him to his core. It was more than all this talk of demons and sacrifices. Supposedly, his dead twin brother was in the room with them! Dorian looked to Emma, hoping for a lifeline, but she seemed lost in thought. "I'm sorry," Dorian said, pinching his brow, "who's a threat?"

"Your dreams," Braiden answered. "Of the girl. He put them there."

Dorian bit his cheeks, his heart lurching into his throat. "What are you talking about?"

"The dreams," Braiden continued, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. "They disturb you, do they not? Well, he put them into your mind, just like dipping a syringe into your skull. He wanted you to see this. He's"—Braiden circled his wrist, seeming to search for the right words—"trying to tempt you. Just as he tempted your colleague."

Emma's eyes widened. "Tempt him into what? What girl?" Her eyes blazed with the same ire they had when they first met. The day she'd held him at gunpoint. Suspicious. Distrusting. "You're having dreams about Rayne?"

Dorian shook his head. "It's not—"

"What kinds of dreams, Dorian?"

"Nothing! They're . . . She's different in them. She's—"

"Older?" Braiden presumed. "Prophetic."

Emma blinked. "Dorian, what are these dreams?"

Braiden deflected the question on Dorian's behalf. "Demons will toy with you," he said carefully, his eyes fixed on Dorian. "They are ancient tricksters who can peek into the past, the present, and the future. They're also very deceitful. They lie. They tempt. They toy."

Dorian swallowed hard, the hairs on the back of his neck standing high. "So it's messing with me," he surmised, more to himself than anyone else. ​​He took a seat and massaged his collarbone, trying to block out the anxiety that was beginning to grip him. It was one thing to know that he was being targeted by a demon, but quite another to know that a demon was inside of his head, manipulating his thoughts and dreams.

"You're a noble soul," said Braiden. "A rare gem that he envies deeply." He exhaled. "And of course, while he meddles with your dreams at night, your brother remains locked away from you."

Dorian's lips parted, an action which seemed to elicit sympathy from Braiden.

Softly, Braiden said, "Daniel has been trying to reach you. The demon, however, bars his way." Braiden nodded. "That's why he sought out Emma. Make no mistake, however. This is all part of the demon's game. He is relentless. And he is determined to see you fall, Dorian."

"I would never."

"We all fall." His eyes never left him. "He's just trying to find the right way in. Dare I say, through you, perhaps?" Braiden suggested, eyeing the policewoman.

Emma bristled at the suggestion. "Me?"

Braiden smiled. "The two of you are—"

"Oh, we're not anything," she said sharply.

Dorian's anger reached a boiling point, his hands hovering near his ears in a feeble attempt to block out all of the nonsense. With a surge of rage, he thrust his hands downward, as if he could crush all of their problems in his fists. "Look, none of this explains what happened to him! What happened to my brother?"

◢✥◣

"I don't know what you want me to say," Rayne said coolly.

This was the side of her that Cole loathed. The distant side, the calculated side. The one shrouded in some foreign mask he could never uncover. "The truth," he pressed.

"I am telling you the truth."

"We both know you're hiding something."

Rayne stepped backward, eyes narrowing. Her eyes held him for almost a moment too long—long enough for him to start doubting himself—but then, she took a deep breath. "Fine, Cole. I did this for you. But if this is how you want to be, then I don't really need to be here anymore, do I?"

Rayne turned and began to walk away, her steps low and measured, hips swaying with a nearly provocative fury. Cole shouted after her, "Fine!"

"Fine!" she hollered back over her shoulder.

He couldn't take his eyes off her though as she stormed away, her borrowed gown billowing behind her. A knot twisted in his stomach. God, this was the old him resurfacing again, wasn't it? He knew he was being boorish, but how could he suppress this budding suspicion? He wanted to shake the truth out of her! He wanted to punch it out of his friend . . .

Cole glanced sidelong, toward his best friend standing at the edge of the dance floor with a goblet of punch in hand. A sense of unease gripped him. What if this was all a misunderstanding? He couldn't keep pulverizing people in the pursuit of truth. That was exactly how he'd lost Bianca, and he didn't want to lose anyone else. The thought was enough to make him inhale deeply, attempting to keep a level head. He turned on his heel to confront his best friend, and Lucas seemed to inhale sharply at the sight of him, too.

Cole wasted no time. "Is there something going on with you and Rayne?" he probed, trying his damndest not to sound too accusatory. But damn . . . maybe it was in his blood.

Lucas looked up, his amber eyes dim and unreadable. "No," he said, also a little too quickly. But how could Cole possibly believe him? He studied Lucas's face, looking for any sign of deception, but his expression was entirely guarded, lips pressed tightly together.

"Luke, you're my best friend," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "You know that, right?"

Lucas nodded slowly, his eyes flickering to the dance floor where Pierce and Jackie danced.

Cole tried again. "You're the closest thing I have to a brother," he said, and the desperation in his voice was uncharacteristically palpable.

Lucas looked back at him, his expression softening. But with what? Sympathy? Or was it guilt? "You're like a brother to me too," he whispered.

◢✥◣

Rayne exhaled so loudly, it was nearly a moan as she stormed out of the dance hall. She stomped her feet, pulse racing and thoughts clouding over once more. Her temples began to throb. She couldn't explain it, but it was almost as if she could feel an electricity beginning to slink back into her skin. She couldn't fathom wasting any of her precious time with boys who didn't seem to understand the gravity of their situation anyways. Why would she waste any time . . . dancing . . . with either one of them?

Lucas's soft smile played on repeat in her mind, and her heart fluttered.

In the ethereal embrace of the dimly lit corridor, Rayne's mind was in the midst of labyrinthine musings when a painful scene unfolded before her eyes: a play of shadows and whispers. There, in the distance, she recognized her friend, Hillary, arguing with a taller, darker figure.

Mr. Davenport.

The deep sound of a distant clock ringing in the new hour reverberated throughout the hall, a rich, sonorous tone. Both of their voices were elevated, and Rayne could see that Hillary was close to tears. Hillary's image, once a delicate portrait of serenity, was now scarred with anguish, each feature twisted in a mosaic of torment.

Without thinking, Rayne quickened her pace.

"Tonight was supposed to be special," Hillary said, whimpering. "You can't do this to me. I can't keep doing this."

"You knew what you were getting into," he replied.

"I didn't know it would be like this! Please, Vincent! I love you!"

Rayne's pulse surged, its primal rhythm thrumming her ribcage. This thing between Hillary and Davenport had seemed scandalous at worst and slightly intriguing at best, but now, she could see it for the dangerous game that it was. Davenport's commanding figure loomed over Hillary, his power an undeniable force that threatened to devour her. Like a broken marionette, the young girl wept at his feet, while Davenport bore down at her with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. The air thickened, heavy with unyielding tension, and in this enigmatic moment, clarity dawned upon Rayne with unwavering certainty: Davenport was the embodiment of a ravenous predator, and Hillary, his hapless prey.

As Davenport slinked away and vanished around the bend, Hillary scrambled to her feet to pursue him, oblivious to Rayne's silent presence trailing close behind. Anger boiled within her. She followed them down a long, dark passageway, her high-heeled footsteps echoing in time with the muffled music, a haunting cadence throughout the hall. As Rayne rounded another corner, she found that both of them had disappeared. That wasn't going to stop her though. She urged forward, determined to find them both.

◢✥◣

"Well?" Dorian demanded, standing from the dusty armchair. "Why Rayne? Why Daniel? They had nothing to do with this school."

"Exactly." Emma added, "None of this explains why Leviathan forced them to kill. Or how Rayne and Dorian both wound up at Maria J. Westwood with this same demon after these possessions."

"Fate is complicated, Emma." Braiden rubbed his beard. "I do not understand it either."

Dorian clenched his fists. "Braiden, tell me why this thing targeted my brother!"

"Lower your voice," Emma whispered, her gaze softening as it drifted over him. The way his eyes, pale blue and rimmed with scarlet, seemed to flicker with deeply rooted pain and unshed tears, or the way his steady hands seemed to tremble now, as if the weight of the world had been placed squarely on his shoulders and his alone. Even the raven strands of his hair were tousled now, from running his hands through it so many times in frustration. Emma could almost feel his heartache seeping into her own being, a slow-burning ember that threatened to engulf her whole. There was a longing in her fingers to take his shaking hands into hers, and some part of her knew it was absurd.

"No!" he cried out in anguish. "He doesn't know what he's saying! You're telling me that my brother," Dorian paused, his voice breaking as the tears finally began to well over, "didn't do it. My brother didn't . . . do it. He didn't kill anyone."

Braiden nodded. "Your brother was used, and then, he was silenced."

"Oh, God." Dorian buried his sobbing face in his hands.

Emma reached for his knee as he crumbled before her. This was a side of him that she'd never witnessed before. Even when she had pressed the cold nose of her gun into his chest, Dorian had remained stoic and controlled. But now, the grief was a quiet storm that streamed down his face, his usually composed exterior cracking under the weight of heavy sobs. She could not fathom the torment that must have descended upon him—learning that his brother had never been the monster they all thought him to be. The vulnerability pulled her to him, a moth to a flame. Emma's touch seemed to have confused him though, and so, she withdrew, watching him in peaceful silence as her heart shattered alongside his.

For a moment, Braiden seemed to ponder something, before becoming alarmed by the ticking of the clock. "There's a dance this evening?"

"Yes," Emma confirmed.

Braiden narrowed his eyes. "I have been wondering why the demon didn't follow Daniel here. By the sounds of it, escaping the demon's watchful eyes is damn near impossible at times . . ." His eyes widened. "He's not here, because—"

"He's busy," Emma concluded, realization dawning on her.

Dorian's face fell, his cheeks stained with frozen tears. "Another sacrifice."

"Oh, God. Dorian, we have to get back to the school!"

"And do what, Emma?"

"I don't know! Can you see it, Braiden? Can you tell who it's going to be?"

Braiden shook his head. "I'm—"

Emma slammed her hand on the table. "Who's next, Braiden?"

◢✥◣

Pierce and Jackie stood at the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped awkwardly as they admired the sea of students swaying to the music alongside them. His fingers were rough against hers, and she could feel the heat of his palm through her sequined dress.

"Jackie," he began quietly, "I've been meaning to tell you something."

Her breath caught in her throat. There was a foreign thought bouncing around the back of her mind, a mantra uttered in a secret language she couldn't translate. All at once, she knew what he was going to say, and at the same time, had no idea what it could possibly be. "What is it?" she asked.

"I know we've been friends for a long time," he said, his words tumbling out in a rush, "but I've been feeling something more these days. Something . . . deeper."

Her heart leapt, heat rising to her cheeks. "Pierce . . ."

Before she could respond, Jackie's eyes darted left, catching sight of Bianca standing at the edge of the room. There was something different about her stare, something that stirred the depths of Jackie's soul. Bianca's eyes, normally a deep brown, were now a glowing and electric hue, resembling the color of lush foliage found in pristine forests. Yet there was also a paradoxical vacancy about them now, as if the light that had once burned inside her had gone out. Jackie had been worried about her for a long while, but this was something else entirely. A dark cloud seemed to hang over her, its shadowy tendrils twisting at the hem of her dress, and Jackie knew that she needed to talk to her.

"Pierce," Jackie said, pulling away from him, "I'm so sorry. I have to go. I'll be back soon."

His brow furrowed. "Is everything okay?"

Jackie shook her head. "I'll explain later. It's not you." She planted a kiss on his cheek, the heat of his blush on her lips. "I'll be back."

Without waiting for a response, Jackie spun around, her mermaid gown cascading in a mesmerizing whirl akin to tempestuous waves. She couldn't bear to see the look on Pierce's face. She hurried off as quickly as her tight gown would allow, following the trail of Bianca's emerald dress through the throngs of dancers. A tribal cadence drummed her chest, while an intoxicating melody resounded in her skull, compelling her forward amidst a tapestry of sweating bodies and sparkling lights. As she left the dance, her heels clicked the polished floor, their echoes reverberating throughout the hall like a metronome, driving her toward her goal. Her breaths were shallow gasps, and her hair whipped across her face like a storm-tossed banner. She was a young girl possessed, determined to confront her wayward friend and uncover the secrets beneath those glowing green eyes.

Whatever it takes.

◢✥◣

Rayne hastened down the corridor, thumping heart aflutter in her ribs like a caged bird, clamoring to be set free. She had to find Hillary and Davenport before it was too late. The sense of impending doom gripped her with an iron fist, tightening the muscles in her body until zinging pains began to pulse her taut temples with renewed vengeance. The memory of a red moon sent shivers down her spine, and as Rayne turned the corner, a crimson hue caught her eye through the window. The light it emitted possessed an eerie and otherworldly quality, stopping her dead in her tracks. 

A blood moon. 

Rayne tried to suppress the creeping dread on her forearms, but it clung to her at every step. She ran down the hallway, searching frantically for any trace of Hillary and Davenport.

It was as if the walls were closing in around her, suffocating her with their weight. She stumbled backward, hands shaking to steady herself. The moon's ominous glow seemed to taunt her as if it knew something she did not.

Someone's going to die tonight, she thought, but the voice did not seem to be her own. 

◢✥◣

"Is it going after Rayne?" Emma demanded, panic staining her voice. Her heart raced as she waited for Braiden's answer, her mind churning with the worst possible scenarios. The flickering candles flung unearthly shadows over the antique furniture, and the howling wind outside seemed to echo with a foreboding warning. In this gloomy space, every breath felt like a battle, every sound an omen.

Braiden's eyes flickered to Dorian and back to Emma, his gaze piercing. "I'm—"

"Is Rayne in danger?" Emma pressed.

"Be quiet!" he hissed, his voice thundering through the room. Braiden closed his eyes, his face contorting with a look of pain. "I'm trying to listen."

◢✥◣

Bianca Hawthorne lingered in the shadows, a wraith-like figure haunting the halls of Maria J. Westwood. It wasn't really her though, was it? It was the body snatcher, taking control of Bianca's body, making her move in unfamiliar ways. Using Bianca's eyes, the body snatcher studied Hillary and Davenport, eyes shimmering like gemstones as the couple argued. Their voices carried like spectral echoes throughout the vast hallways.

The body snatcher's presence was indiscernible from her own, urging Bianca to act, to take matters into her own hands and rid the world of this pestilent girl. Trapped in the confines of her own mind, Bianca caught glimpses of her body moving in the reflections of windows, crimson light pooling at her feet as the red moon shone brightly overhead. Bianca tried imagining herself throwing her body against the wall, willing herself to seize control over her body once more, but her footsteps marched onward, driven by the insidious whispers of the body snatcher that twisted around her mind like a serpent.

As Davenport ended things with Hillary, he left her alone to weep, and Bianca stepped closer, her hand clutching a knife concealed behind the folds of her dress. The snatcher's hold on her was unrelenting, but Bianca fought back with all her might. Throw yourself into the wall! she thought, and she had envisioned it so many times, and so vividly, that she thought she could feel the bruises carving themselves into her body. Yet her body continued to approach Hillary with slow, measured steps, her eyes fixed intently.

Bianca felt the snatcher's hold tighten around her mind, urging her to raise the knife. Her body trembled with the weight of the struggle—Please, God, no!—her fingers curling tightly around the hilt. Bianca tried to resist, to fight back against the influence, but it was too strong. Her arms began to rise, the blade glinting menacingly under the cherry moonlight. She could hear Hillary's terrified gasp, could see the fear in her eyes, and Bianca's heart shattered.

She didn't want to hurt anyone! Not like this! Not tonight.

And then, in a sudden burst of clarity, Bianca opened her eyes to find the knife in her hands propped above Hillary's unharmed chest. Her friend stared at her, wide-eyed and terrified, and Bianca's hands shuddered, the knife clamoring to the marble below as she released it from her trembling grasp.

"Oh, my God!" Bianca cried, collapsing to the ground. Her body wracked with sobs. The weight of what she'd almost done was more overwhelming than a tidal wave, but finally, finally, finally! She could feel again! With shaking fingers, she reached for the wet tears that streamed down her cheeks. How could someone feel so much horror and relief all in one breath!? "I'm so sorry!" she wailed to Hillary. "I don't know what—"

When she met Hillary's eyes, she found that her friend was trembling, the fear in her flooding Bianca with a wave of shame just too strong to bear. She stood, legs wobbling, and fled down the corridor. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Bianca stumbled and nearly fell, but she kept going. With these legs that were finally hers once more, Bianca ran and ran and ran, until her legs just couldn't hold her anymore.

◢✥◣

Lucas couldn't recall the last time he had heard desperation in Cole's voice, if ever at all. He watched him pace back and forth. "I've been . . . trying so hard to be different this time," Cole began tentatively, "because of you."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

"You're my moral compass, man." Cole stepped toward Lucas and placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch heavy and desperate. "Tell me I didn't break you."

When they first met, Cole had more or less beat Lucas into submission, into becoming his right-hand man. Lucas had been drawn to his charisma, his fierce determination, but overtime, he had come to know the darkness that lurked under the surface. It was that darkness that kept them alive. Was Cole beginning to regret his tactics? Lucas looked into Cole's eyes, seeing the fear, confusion, and betrayal churning within. He swallowed hard. "No. You didn't."

"Promise?" Cole pressed. As if saying, promise, I can trust you. He squeezed his shoulder. Was it a silent plea for trust? Or a threat? "Please, Lucas."

"I'm just . . . thinking about Olivia," Lucas confessed, trying to change the subject.

Cole sighed. "Of course. Of course, you are. I'm so sorry, man."

Lucas ran a hand through his blonde curls, eyes distant. "I've been thinking about her a lot lately."

"Why?"

Lucas's mind raced for an answer, and then doubled-back to find one he could share with Cole. Truthfully, he wasn't sure. Was it because he believed the shadow people killed Olivia, and now he feared they might take Rayne, too? Or was it something deeper, an unspoken dread that if Rayne were taken, it would shatter him in ways he would never recover from? He grappled with the sudden surge of emotion, reliving Olivia's death while trying to understand why just the idea of losing Rayne was hitting him so hard. Regardless, none of that felt like something he could share with Cole.

Just then, a chilling scream pierced the grand hall, and the music screeched to a halt as everyone turned toward the source of the sound. Lucas's heart sank. Chaos erupted as students began running in all directions, terror etched into their faces. Cole's eyes seemed to search the room for Rayne, but Lucas was already moving, his lean form slicing through the crowd like a knife. Cole followed close behind. They weren't sure where the sound came from, but as everyone ran for safety, Lucas and Cole were running toward the sound. It seemed to be emanating from the very corridor Rayne had last been seen wandering toward.

◢✥◣

Braiden solemnly bowed his head. "It's . . . It's already happened."

Emma leaned forward. "Who?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Braiden shook his head, his eyes fixed on some unseen horror. "I don't know," he said, his voice filled with terrible sorrow. "But she's already gone."

◢✥◣

Rayne could not tell where the crimson moonlight ended and the pool of blood began. The marble floor was slick with it, the metallic scent heavy in the air. Hillary lay motionless, her gilded ballgown now a deep shade of red, her strawberry blonde curls matted to her face, and her neck stained with streams of scarlet. Rayne felt her stomach sink, eyes transfixed on the knife on the ground, its blade gleaming like rubies in the light. For a moment, she remained frozen. Was this some macabre trick? A twisted prank? Her thoughts were shattered by the blood-curdling wail that emanated from her own throat as she snapped to reality and ran to Hillary's side.

"Help!" Rayne screamed. With trembling hands, she held Hillary's body, her fingers wet with blood. Her chest began to cave in under the gravity of the situation. "Somebody, please!"

Her mind raced with questions, each one more terrifying than the last. What happened? Was it Davenport? God, she could barely think through the teardrop haze. Then, like a beacon of hope, Jackie stumbled into the room, her hand flying to her lips.

"Oh, my God," Jackie breathed, stumbling backward.

Rayne looked up at her friend, tears cascading down her cheeks. "Jackie," she sobbed, "get help. Please."

Jackie gaped at the scene in stupefied horror, unable to speak or move. Raucous footsteps sounded toward them, growing louder and louder until, in the stillness of the moment, Lucas and Cole ran into the hall. Cole's eyes were wide, his mouth fixed in a silent gasp, unable to process the enormity of the tragedy unfolding before them. He, like Jackie, seemed unable to move. Lucas, on the other hand, was firm in his resolve.

"Rayne," he whispered, his voice barely audible. Lucas drew nearer, slowly, his eyes fixed upon her with a gentle look of concern. "Rayne, what happened?"

Rayne held Hillary's body close, rocking back and forth as she cried. "I—I don't know," she said, voice shaking. Her words slipped like droplets of rain, falling heavy and relentlessly against the pavement. "I f-found her l-like this. P-please, we . . . we h-have to h-help her."

Lucas nodded, saying softly, "We will, we will." He extended his hand toward her. "Everything's going to be okay, Rayne. Just . . . give me the knife, okay?"

"What?" Rayne looked down. In her bloodied hands, she held the knife, its weight heavy and hot in her palm. She dropped it instantly. Underneath the light of the blood red moon, Rayne's navy dress appeared nearly black, and Hillary's golden ball gown was both red and dripping. The gore encircled them, a target in the middle of Maria J. Westwood. In the distance, the sound of sirens pierced the quiet, growing louder and louder, until—as a cloud shifted over the sky, plummeting them into darkness—it was all they could hear.