Holt continued his walk to his and Jackson's house, making sure to look around for anyone nearby so he could switch back with Jackson before they got home. He wasn't supposed to be out when he was grounded, and he sure as hell wasn't supposed to be out when he was supposed to be Jackson. But he was getting tired—not that he'd ever admit it—and he could feel Jackson stirring in the back of his mind, restless and anxious.
*Come on, Jackie,* Holt muttered internally, flipping his headphones off and letting them dangle around his neck the second he came to thier usaul alleyway. *Let's get this over with.*
And blackout.
----------
Jackson woke with his cheek pressed against cold brick, the alley's shadows stretching long and jagged like claws across the pavement. His left hand twitched scrabbling against loose gravel as he pushed himself upright. The headphones around his neck were still warm from Holt's skin.
"Ugh." He rubbed his temple, tasting copper. "Why does it always feel like getting hit by a coffin?" The alley's stench of damp brick and rotting garbage twisted his stomach. Jackson's fingers trembled as he fumbled for his glasses—left pocket, always—and nearly impaled himself on the frames when a familiar voice cut through the ringing in his ears.
"Jackie? Is that you lurking in the dark like some kinda tragic poet?"
Draculaura's combat boots crunched broken glass as she stepped into the alleyway, her pink skirt glowing faintly under the street lamp. She held a steaming thermos that smelled suspiciously of tomato juice and iron. Jackson's spine stiffened. Of course he'd run into *her* while looking like death warmed over.
"I wasn't—" His voice cracked.
He cleared his throat.
"Just. Taking a shortcut. How are you Draculaura?"
Draculaura tilted her head, the streetlamp catching the silver rings on her fingers as she tapped the thermos. "Shortcut through *this* alley? Jackie, even the rats take detours." She wrinkled her nose at the overflowing dumpster nearby, where something green and vaguely sentient groaned. Jackson shoved his left hand into his pocket to hide the tremor.
"Maybe I like rats," he muttered, then immediately regretted it when her eyebrows shot up.
"Ohhh-kay." Draculaura drew out the word like she was unraveling one of his bad lies. "So. You're *definitely* not avoiding the main road because Heath's still throwing a tantrum by the bike racks?"
Jackson's stomach dropped.
Of course something like that had happened.
He swallowed hard, tasting static. "Yeah... I can't believe he'd react like that just because Holt couldn't DJ..." He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly in response.
Draculaura's fangs glinted under the streetlight as she took a slow sip from her thermos, watching Jackson like he was a particularly confusing algebra problem. "Uh-huh. And Holt *totally* didn't tell Heath to 'eat a flaming bag of spider eggs' before storming off?" She air-quoted with her free hand, rings clinking. "Because, ghoulfriend, that sounds *exactly* like DJ Hyde's brand of dramarama."
Jackson's right eye twitched. He could already feel Holt stirring in the back of his skull, smug as a cat with a canary. *Oh, that's my line! Tell her I said hi—*
"Shut *up*," Jackson hissed under his breath—then froze when Draculaura's eyebrows shot up.
Shit.
She'd heard him.
Fuck.
Okay, he could lie his way out of this one—maybe. Jackson fumbled for his glasses again, buying time as he adjusted them on his nose. "I—uh. That was for Heath. Not you. Obviously."
Draculaura's smirk widened. "Obviously," she echoed, twirling a strand of pink hair around one finger. "Sooo... fo you wanna walk and talk, or well for me fly, home? Or are you gonna keep pretending rats are your new besties?"
Jackson exhaled sharply through his nose. The alley stank of rotting garbage and something distinctly *undead*—probably the zombie janitor's lunch leftovers. He could already hear Holt's internal cackling. *Tell her you'd rather cuddle a regular mummy than deal with this interrogation, Jackie-boy.*
He ignored him.
Barely.
Jackson's fingers twitched at his sides, itching to adjust glasses that weren't fogged up—just *wrong*, like everything else in his life, especially today.
Draculaura fell into step beside Jackson, her combat boots kicking up dust as they cut across the cemetery shortcut behind school. The setting sun painted the tombstones in long, jagged shadows—perfect for avoiding prying eyes. Jackson hunched his shoulders, acutely aware of how his human silhouette stuck out among the crumbling crypts like a sore thumb.
"So," Draculaura drawled, nudging a loose femur bone out of their path with her toe, "Heath's throwing another *literal* dumpster fire of a party tonight. You in, or are we sticking to your whole 'mysterious normie' aesthetic?"
Jackson's grip tightened around his backpack strap. *Don't sweat. Don't sweat.* The last thing he needed was Holt oozing out like molasses because some normie-boy couldn't regulate his own body temperature. "I'm good," he muttered. "Pretty sure my mom's got me on supernatural lockdown after… some personal stuff."
Draculaura snorted.
Jackson kicked a pebble harder than necessary, watching it skitter across a cracked tombstone shaped like a weeping banshee. The inscription read *"Here Lies Reginald Moaner—Finally Quiet."*
He almost snorted.
Almost.
"So, uh. How are you and Clawd doing?" He asked awkwardly to break the silence between them.
Draculaura arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with Jackson's clumsy attempt to shift focus. "Clawd's fine," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. "But don't think I didn't notice you dodging the question, Jackie-boy. What 'personal stuff' landed you in monster jail?"
Jackson adjusted his glasses, fingers brushing the bridge—where Holt would've shoved them up with way more swagger. "Uh. Just... mom stuff. You know how she gets." The lie tasted like week-old zombie cafeteria meatloaf. From the corner of his vision, he caught Draculaura's skeptical squint.
They passed beneath a gnarled oak, its branches twisted into shapes that looked suspiciously like screaming faces. A zombie janitor shuffled by, groaning mournfully at a spilled bucket of... something. Jackson sidestepped a puddle of viscous green liquid, acutely aware of Draculaura's effortless grace—she floated just above the mess, her combat boots barely skimming the cobblestones.
Jackson's left hand twitched against his thigh as Draculaura floated ahead, her combat boots kicking up wisps of mist from the cobblestones. "Soooo," she drew out the word, twirling a lock of pink hair around one finger, "when are you gonna stop ghosting Heath's and DJ's parties? Even Clawd shows up, and he's basically married to his Xbox."
Jackson's chuckle came out brittle. "Maybe when my mom stops thinking DJ's a bad influence." The lie tasted like burnt marshmallows—sweet at first, then acrid. He adjusted his glasses with his left hand, the motion jerky enough to smudge the lens. His handwriting might be chicken scratch, but Holt's perfect cursive had signed that forged detention slip last week.
Draculaura rolled her eyes, levitating over a puddle of something that hissed when Jackson accidentally stepped in it. "DJ's *such* a dorkazoid," she groaned, nudging Jackson with her elbow.
"You know, you and DJ aren't so different," Draculaura said, floating backward to face Jackson as they passed the cemetery gates. The street lamps flickered to life with eerie purple flames, casting shadows that slithered across the pavement. "You both get that same twitchy look when someone mentions Heath's parties—like you're calculating how fast you can bolt. Only that Holt stays around."
Jackson's hand spasmed around his backpack strap. A distant bassline throbbed from the Ghoul Mart parking lot, and he veered sharply away from it, nearly colliding with a zombie wheeling a shopping cart full of suspiciously squirming burlap sacks. The zombie groaned—whether in annoyance or existential despair, Jackson couldn't tell—but Draculaura just giggled, floating higher to avoid the cart's erratic path.
"You're jumpier than a werewolf on espresso," she teased, flipping upside down so her pigtails brushed the cobblestones. The movement made Jackson's stomach lurch—not just from the vertigo, but from how effortlessly she navigated this world. Even the cemetery gates ahead seemed to lean toward her, the wrought iron gargoyles twisting their necks to watch her pass.
Jackson forced a laugh. "Maybe I'm allergic to ghouls who float in no-passing zones." His left hand fumbled with his bowtie—Holt's handwriting might be flawless, but Jackie couldn't tie a knot to save his unlife.
Draculaura's grin faltered as she righted herself. "Seriously, Jackie. You've been dodging us since..." She paused, fangs worrying her lower lip. "Since as long as we've known you, really."
"I don't dodge," Jackson muttered, stepping around a puddle of something that shimmered suspiciously under the flickering street lamp. "I just... plan alternate routes." His left hand twitched toward his pocket, where his headphones were coiled tight enough to strangle a snake. One wrong move, one accidental press of the play button, and DJ would come crashing through like a wrecking ball dipped in glitter.
Draculaura kicked a pebble—or maybe it was a calcified eyeball; the sidewalks near the cemetery were *questionable*. "Alternate routes to *everywhere*?" She hip-checked him gently, her fangs glinting. "Face it, Jackie. You've got the social skills of a sleep-deprived gargoyle."
Jackson's laugh came out more like a wheeze. He could feel Holt's presence like a lit fuse at the base of his skull, hissing *Oh, I'll show her social skills—*
A zombie lurched past them, groaning mournfully at a crumpled love letter stuck to its shoe. Jackson sidestepped it—right into Draculaura's path. "Sorry," he mumbled, shoulders hunching as they finally made thier way back to thier neighborhood...