Elija Cullen POV
The car door slammed like a coffin lid. I was already seated in my dad's old-ass Volvo—an antique beast that creaked every time I breathed too loud. I turned on the music, something soft and ghostly, like a lullaby played on broken piano keys. Nothing like that trauma-inducing war siren of a morning alarm that almost exorcised my soul.
I was still half-dead from the dream. No, not a dream—a nightmare dressed in my memories' skin. The kind that wraps around your ribs and refuses to let go. I hadn't told anyone about it. Not even Lorena. Especially not her. She'd either laugh or start summoning spirits with her tarot cards and cursed Spotify playlist.
Anyway. First mission of the day? Pick up Lorena before she ends up trespassing on private property in a glittery cape, claiming to be the reincarnation of some Slavic goddess again.
The road hissed beneath the tires. Morning fog slithered across the pavement like it was crawling up from the underworld—thick, cold, cinematic. If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was driving through the set of a vampire flick.
Which, considering my life lately, wouldn't surprise me one bit.
Finally, I pulled up to Lorena's place—an old house with too many flower pots and not enough reality. The door opened before I could honk.
"Good morning, my melancholic muse, or whatever title you're running with today," Lorena announced as she twirled into the passenger seat like a chaotic ballet dancer on caffeine and sarcasm.
I side-eyed her. "Look who bloomed straight out of a fever dream. You look... well-rested. Must be nice."
She glanced at me, then flinched. "Jesus tap-dancing Christ, Elija—did you get possessed last night? Your eyes look like you've seen the devil's browser history. Did you sleep at all?"
"Define sleep." I muttered, shifting the car into gear. "Nightmare. Again. Not sure if it was a dream or some twisted memory. Doesn't matter. Just... give me your powder before I scare the teachers into early retirement."
Lorena raised a brow, handed me her makeup compact. "You keep dreaming about that girl again, huh?"
I paused. Just a heartbeat too long. "Forget it."
We drove in silence for a moment. The kind that wasn't empty—it was full of all the things we weren't saying.
Then Lorena dropped the next bomb like it was casual news.
"Oh, heads up, first class today? Miss Anderson."
I choked. "Fuck!"
"And after that... you know what's next, right?"
"Don't say it."
"Edward."
I groaned. "Wonderful. Let's all gather for the cursed reunion party. Should I bring blood sacrifices, or do we just hand over our souls at the door?"
She laughed. Loud and unapologetic. "Don't tempt me. I'll actually bring goat bones. I've got some in my closet for emergencies."
I laughed too, but mine came out jagged. Like it wasn't sure if it wanted to be joy or pain.
We kept driving, the fog slowly peeling away as the sun tried to claw its way through. Somewhere between the jokes and the silence, I realized something.
This wasn't just a bad day.
This was the kind of day stories were made from.
And I had no idea if I was the hero, the monster, or the sacrifice.
We'd finally made it to the gates of hell.
Also known as: school.
I parked my dad's ancient Volvo like a warrior arriving at the battlefield—except instead of armor, I had anxiety and a smudged eyeliner that said "don't talk to me unless you have coffee or a death wish." Lorena hopped out beside me like it was a fashion show, her plaid skirt catching the wind and her sarcasm already loaded.
We slung our backpacks over our shoulders like battle gear. Ten minutes till the bell would scream like a banshee, and we were already plotting survival strategies.
"So, ready to start the day with our favorite demonic literature queen?" Lorena asked with a smirk, already pulling out her lip gloss like she was arming herself.
"You mean Voldemort of the English department?" I snorted.
"No, no, babe." I looked at her with a straight face. "She's worse. Voldemort didn't wear heels that sharp or give me emotional damage with every stare."
Lorena cackled. "Okay, maybe you're right. But hot damn, she's terrifyingly hot. Like... uncomfortably hot. Like 'I might need therapy' hot."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm not talking about her abs, Lor. I'm talking about the way she looked at me yesterday like she wanted to dissect my soul with a fountain pen."
"Oh, trust me. I noticed. That woman looked at you like you were both a threat and a poem she wanted to burn." She paused. "Honestly, I ship it."
"Lorena, shut up and hold my hand before I lose grip on reality."
She reached out, dramatic as hell. "Only for you, my gothic disaster. Let's go die together."
We walked through the hallways, fingers laced, a duo of sarcasm and trauma. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry bees, and the linoleum smelled like old floor wax and student tears.
The school looked more haunted than usual today. The walls were stained with too many generations of teenage pain, and the air tasted like... ghost farts? Or maybe just expired cafeteria mystery meat. Either way, the vibe was: cursed and underfunded.
We finally reached the door.
The door.
English class.
With Her.
I swear it pulsed like it had a heartbeat.
"Well, here lies my will to live," I muttered. "Tell my grandmother I loved her and that my ghost demands decent coffee at the funeral."
"Shhh..." Lorena whispered. "Do you hear that? It's the sound of academic doom calling our names."
I froze. Something in my stomach twisted.
Not nerves. Not butterflies.
Fire.
Warmth.
Like something ancient stirred inside me every time I got near that classroom. Every time I smelled that perfume she wore—tobacco, rose, and pure damnation. Why the hell was my gut burning like I'd swallowed a cursed candle?
"You okay?" Lorena asked, her voice dipping out of the usual chaos and into something quieter.
I nodded too fast. "Yeah. Just... anxiety or witchcraft. Probably both."
She raised an eyebrow. "If it's witchcraft, do you think she'll teach us how to set boys on fire using haiku's?"
"If she does, I'm taking notes in my blood."
We laughed. Too loud. Too hard. Just enough to forget, for a second, that something was wrong.
Very wrong.
But as we pushed open that door, I felt it.
Something unseen... watching.
Waiting.
And suddenly I wasn't sure if this was a classroom or a trap dressed in literature and leather boots.