Chapter 1 –
The alarm goes off for the third time.
It's that piercing beep-beep from my iPhone, which I've never bothered to change since I got it. 7:12. Or 7:13. Doesn't matter.
I'm buried under the covers, my head shoved into the pillow as if I could disappear into it. Morning light filters through the uneven curtains, a pale yellow strip hitting me square in the eyes. I groan and pull the blanket over my head.
"Just five more minutes…"
And then, like a dagger to the brain: the math test.
Algebra. Functions. That thing about differential equations I barely understood last night at 11:47 PM while scrolling through YouTube instead of studying.
I sit up abruptly. Too fast. The room spins for a second.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. Seven unread messages. All from Rickie.
Rickie, 6:58 AM: "Dude, are you dead or what??"
Rickie, 7:01 AM: "The bus leaves in 20 minutes!"
Rickie, 7:03 AM: "If you don't make it to the test, I'll kill you."
Rickie, 7:05 AM: "Seriously, answer me."
Rickie, 7:07 AM: "Did you forget your lacrosse gear too?"
Rickie, 7:09 AM: "Riven, I swear if you leave me alone with Mrs. Ramirez…"
Rickie, 7:11 AM: "OK, you're officially dead. I'm not bringing you your notes."
I sigh and set the phone down.
From downstairs, Elena's voice cuts sharply as always:
"Riven! Hurry up or you'll miss the bus again! I'm not giving you a ride today!"
The same chronic three-minute delay.
I jump out of bed. Well… I try. My foot gets tangled in the blanket, I stumble, and my right knee hits the corner of the desk perfectly. Pain explodes, white and immediate. I curse under my breath, a mix of "damn" and a growl, cutting it off quickly because even alone in my room, I guard my noises.
I limp to the mirror above the dresser. Messy hair, puffy eyes, pillow imprint on my left cheek.
"I really look like a zombie…" I mumble at my reflection.
I reach for my charger. My elbow hits the glass of water sitting on my math notes.
Splash.
Water spreads in a perfect puddle over the squared sheets. The blue ink starts to smear, turning equations into abstract blobs. Great. Really great.
In the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast fights with the forgotten coffee on the stove. I grab a still-hot slice, fold it in half like an emergency sandwich, and shove a spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar into it. Knife? Too much effort. Champion breakfast, senior year edition.
"You forgot to take out the trash again," Elena calls from the hallway without looking up from her phone.
"I'll do it tonight, promise."
Morning ritual lie.
I shove half the toast in three monstrous bites, rinse my cup under cold water, grab my backpack—which weighs roughly the weight of a dead donkey—and slam the door behind me.
Outside, the air already smells of hot asphalt and eucalyptus from the hills. I sprint to the bus stop, the laces of my right sneaker still untied, flapping against my ankle like a panicked metronome.
The yellow school bus is there, doors open, the driver absorbed in his phone. I'm twenty meters away.
I push harder. The backpack smacks against my back. The remaining toast slips from my hand, face-down into a peanut butter disaster. Greek tragedy, sandwich edition.
"Wait!" I shout.
The driver looks up, sees me… and closes the doors with the kind of theatrical slowness unique to school bus drivers everywhere. The engine groans, and the bus rolls away in a cloud of dry dust.
"Son of…"
I stand there, out of breath, hands on my knees, watching the bus disappear at the end of the street. 7:04. First bell in twenty-six minutes. Agoura High School is six kilometers away, give or take.
Option A: Cry on the side of the road.
Option B: Grab the old rusty bike that's been sleeping against the garage wall for three months.
I chose B.
The bike squeaks like it has arthritis. The seat is too low, the handlebars slightly twisted to the left, and the rear brake barely works, making only a rusty drill sound. But it moves. Kind of.
I push the pedals. Wind slaps my face. Cars brush past, honking because I take up thirty extra centimeters of the road. A black SUV honks long and loud as it passes; I give it the finger without turning my head.
The streets fly by: residential areas with neat lawns, Stop signs, hills the distance.
7:18. My thighs are already burning. I stand on the pedals to climb the hill leading to the high school. The bike protests; the chain clanks and threatens to snap. Sweat runs down my back, sticking my shirt to the small of my back.
And finally, around the main road bend, I see it:
AGOURA HIGH SCHOOL.
The big black wrought-iron arch, the half-chipped golden letters, the flag hanging limp, the gates wide open like resigned arms.
I skidded into the yard at 7:29, brake too hard, bike slipping on gravel, and put a foot down to avoid falling flat. A few seniors laugh near the central oak.
"Hey Riven, did you do the Tour of America or what?" Rickie calls, chewing his gum.
I'm out of breath, hair stuck to my forehead, a smear of peanut butter still on my left cheek.
"The bus… didn't wait," I manage between gasps.
I drop the bike against the lockers outside and run toward the main building as the bell screams its first piercing cry.
Behind me, the old bike squeaks one last time, as if to say: "Never again." I enter room 204 at 7:31, out of breath, alive, late as usual.
Mrs. Ramirez raises an eyebrow without even stopping writing on the board.
"Riven."
"I know, ma'am. Bike. Sadistic bus. Sacrificed toast. Sorry."
A few muffled laughs ripple through the class.
Mrs. Ramirez sighs, but a faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
"Sit down. Next time, aim for 7:25. We're slowly getting used to your dramatic entrances, but still."
I collapse into my seat, resting my forehead on the desk for a second just to catch my breath.
I lift my head, breathing a bit easier. Through the window of room 204, the sun beats down on the yard, making the gravel sparkle. Amid students lingering near the old twisted oak, I spot him.
A guy I've never noticed before. Tall, slow but confident walk, simple black hoodie, dark jeans slightly worn at the knees, white sneakers immaculate despite the yard dust. Everything about him stood out, almost aggressively. His eyes scanned the space without lingering, yet you could tell he absorbed everything. An aura… heavy. Just… dominant.
I tell myself: new kid. Or maybe just someone picking someone up. Nothing important. I shrug mentally and return to my half-empty worksheet.
Rickie, sitting just ahead of me, turns slightly, his usual smirk already in place.
"Today's tryouts for the team. You're going to show up, right, Riven?"
I nod without thinking.
"Of course I am. I'll show up."
Mrs. Ramirez writes on the board, marker screeching in rhythm. I lower my voice.
"I really hope I get picked this time…"
She freezes. Marker stops moving. Slowly, she turns, glasses slipping slightly down her aquiline nose. Her eyes pierce Rickie and me like two caught mosquitoes.
Dead silence. Even the flies seem to have landed.
She waits three seconds, then, in a calm but sharp voice:
"Mr. Sanchez and Mr. Hartmann… since you apparently have very important things to share with the class, why not do it out loud?"
Rickie raises his hands in innocence.
"Nothing, Mrs. Ramirez. Really nothing."
"I hope so."
She turns back to the board. I thought it was over.
Mistake.
Tyler, two rows behind, kicks my calf discreetly but viciously. A sharp, embarrassing "ouch!" escapes me—a tiny surprised squeak resonating in the silence.
Mrs. Ramirez's marker slips from her fingers, rolls along the edge of the board, bounces once on the floor, and ends under the front-row desk.
Head tilted, she stares at the marker, then slowly straightens.
"Sanchez. Hartmann. Principal's office. Now."
Rickie opens his mouth to protest.
"But ma'am, it was just—"
"I said now."
No discussion. Her tone is that of someone who's already decided.
We stand. Chairs scrape, bags grabbed hastily. Glances from other students: some amused, some sympathetic, most just happy it's not them.
Passing Mrs. Ramirez's desk, I whisper a barely audible "sorry." She doesn't even blink. We cross the door. The hallway smells of disinfectant and old notebooks. Rickie walks next to me, head down, but I can see he's holding back laughter.
"Seriously… that little squeak? You're too cute when you startle, Riven. Almost made me laugh in front of everyone."
"Shut up, Rickie. Tyler kicked me."
"Yeah, well, now we'll get chewed out by the principal because of your cute war cry."
We descend the stairs in silence for a few steps. I look up.
"You think they'll kick us out of the tryouts for this?"
Rickie shrugs.
"Nah. Coach loves underdogs. Part of Agoura's folklore."
I sigh.
"Yeah… but still. I already missed the bus, pedaled like crazy, sacrificed my toast… and now I might fail tryouts because of a dumb kick."
Rickie pats my shoulder.
"Don't worry. We'll plead the case of the sacrificed toast. Unbeatable argument."
At the end of the hall, the principal's office door looms, massive, intimidating. And somewhere in my head, the image of the guy in the black hoodie floats again. That's all
In my room. Door slammed. Light on. Closet mirror wide open, like an invitation to judgment.
I looked at myself. Hair sticking up, plastered with sweat, cheeks still red from practice, a bruise starting to show on my forearm after a failed tackle. Not terrible… but not too bad either.
I pulled off my t-shirt in one motion, shirtless in front of the mirror. I flexed a little—for style, you know—and grimaced. Yeah, I need to work on my abs more if I don't want to look like the scrawny rookie all year.
I opened the wardrobe wide. Total chaos: crumpled clothes, old hoodies, shirts I never wear. I grabbed a plain black t-shirt—simple, just tight enough, not "trying too hard." Slim black jeans. Clean white sneakers (miracle, I still had a pair). I hesitated on the jacket: gray hoodie or open shirt over it? I went with the hoodie. Comfy. And… it reminded me of him. The guy in the black hoodie. The one who had caught the ball like it was a mosquito.
Stop. Not the time to think about that.
I sat on the bed for a second, still shirtless, towel around my neck after a quick shower. I grabbed my phone. No messages from Rickie—he was probably primping too. Just an old text from Tyler from earlier: "Don't be late, rookie. And don't bring your loser face." Nice.
I sighed, stood up, and did another mirror check. Hair: a bit of gel so I don't look like a wet porcupine. Deodorant: double dose. Cologne: a discreet spritz (the one Mom gave me last Christmas, "for special occasions"). I put on the t-shirt, hoodie over it, sleeves rolled up. One last look: okay. Not bad. Nervous, but not ridiculous.
Suddenly, a noise downstairs—the front door? No, just the wind. Or my imagination spiraling. I shook my head. But deep down, that little voice returned: what if he's there tonight? The black hoodie. At the party. Watching me again, like on the field. Knowing things I couldn't understand.
I took a deep breath. Come on, Riven. It's just a party. You're on the team. You've got a friend to tease you all night. And maybe… maybe that weird guy will show up and everything will change.
I grabbed my keys, turned off the light, and ran down the stairs two at a time. Outside, the air was cool, carrying the smell of a late-summer evening. Rickie honked at the corner—his beat-up car, an old Golf, was already vibrating to a loud trap beat, the kind that shakes the windows and makes you feel invincible.
He rolled down the passenger-side window with a snap, grinning ear to ear.
"Hop in, legend! How long did it take you to pick your outfit? You look like a guy going to a job interview to be cool."
I slammed the door behind me, buckled my seatbelt reflexively, and shrugged, trying not to blush.
"Shut up. At least I didn't wear the same t-shirt from yesterday with the mayo stain."
Rickie, laughing and accelerating: "It's vintage. You put on that gray hoodie to match your mysterious ninja, admit it."
Me, seriously: "Vintage my ass. That guy caught the ball like it was nothing. He doesn't move normal, and that look… he was sizing me up. Something's off."
Rickie: "Okay, detective. You think he's what? Some overtrained psycho?"
Me: "I don't know. But that text, 'unpredictable full moon'… maybe it's from him. If he's there, I'm watching until he talks."
Rickie, tapping the steering wheel: "Deal. We watch together. No solo stupidity."
Me: "And if it goes sideways, you call your cop uncle."
Rickie, volume up: "Relax. We're almost there. Ready for the chaos?"
Tyler's house lights were already flashing. My stomach tightened. Not for the party.
He slowed a bit to turn onto a wider street, streetlights streaking across the windshield. The night was warm, windows down, air heavy with lingering summer. We passed illuminated houses, people setting up their own parties. I stared at the dashboard, fingers tapping nervously on my thigh.
Rickie, calmer now, serious tone: "Dude… you're really hyped for tonight, huh? Not just for the team or free beer. There's something."
I hesitated. Then admitted: "Yeah… it's stupid, but I feel like this won't be a normal night. Ever since practice, everything's weird. Tyler inviting us, that guy showing up from nowhere…"
Rickie: "Okay, weird. But hey… we're on the team now. We're not letting a creepy text ruin the night. We drink, we dance, we avoid Tyler when he's drunk, and if your hoodie ninja shows up, you ask him straight if he's a serial killer or just shy."
I laughed despite myself.
Me: "You're the worst advisor ever."
Rickie: "And the best friend. Come on, breathe. We'll be there in two minutes. Ready to be the kings of the party?"
He cranked the volume back up and we drove toward the flashing lights at the end of the street—Tyler's house, already packed, music spilling from open windows. My heart beat with the bass. Tonight, anything could happen. And deep down, I knew Rickie was right: this wasn't just a party.
The lights were visible from afar. Tyler's house was a total mess: flashing lights everywhere, bass vibrating the walls, the smell of warm beer, sweat, and pool chlorine hitting you as soon as you entered. Rickie parked his old Golf crooked on an already crowded sidewalk, and we got out immediately.
Rickie, slamming the door: "Come on, rookie! We're on the team now. No shy mode tonight, own it."
Me: "Yeah, yeah. Let's go before I turn around."
We crossed the lawn, littered with crushed red cups. Inside, it was packed: people dancing like maniacs in the living room, others yelling at beer pong in the kitchen, and Tyler at the center, shirtless with a neon necklace, bottle in hand, king of the world.
He saw us and raised his cup:
Tyler: "Hey! Rookies! Come toast, damn it!"
He pressed two red cups filled with orange liquid that smelled like cheap vodka into our hands. Rickie clinked his against mine without hesitation.
Rickie: "To the team, bro!"
Me, taking a burning sip: "To not embarrassing ourselves too fast."
Tyler chuckled, leaning toward us: "You look stressed already, rookie. Relax. There's beer, pool, dancing girls… enjoy. And try not to hit the post with your ego tonight."
He laughed and walked off toward a group of cheerleaders calling him.
Rickie nudged me: "He's in full form. We start with beer pong for humiliation or straight to the pool to drown?"
Me: "Kitchen first. Need water before I end up like him."
We pushed through the crowd. Music pounded—a trap remix making everyone jump. In the kitchen, chaos: bottles everywhere, people laughing too loudly, someone spilling a pack of beers on the counter.
We grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge (miracle, some were left). Rickie popped his open with a snap:
Rickie: "Plan: stick together, avoid Tyler when he's too drunk, enjoy. Ready to become legends or blush like on the field again?"
Me, smiling despite myself: "I'm ready. But if I start dancing like an idiot, don't film me."
Rickie: "Too late, already in the friend contract."
Outside, screams came from the pool—someone had jumped in fully clothed, splashing everywhere. The full moon lit the yard like daytime. Warm air, filled with laughter and music.
For the first time since practice, I really felt in it. Not just a lucky rookie. A guy on the team, at a real back-to-school party.
I managed to lean against the kitchen wall, water bottle in hand, to catch my breath for two minutes. Rickie was next to me, scanning the crowd like a human radar.
Rickie, nudging me: —. Hey Riven, look who's here. The most popular girl in school knows you? Crazy, bro."
I turn. And there she is: Cleo Vondergeist, the undisputed queen of the high school—perfect black hair, killer smile, star aura. She's walking straight toward us, arm in arm with a tall, dark, model-esque guy. The same guy from the field. The black hoodie was gone, replaced by a tight black t-shirt and dark jeans, but it was him. No doubt. Jäher.
They stop right in front of us.
"Hi Rickie!" Cleo says, smiling wide.
Rickie, a little too fast: "Hi, Cleo Vondergeist."
Cleo, pointing to the guy beside her: "I'd like you to meet Jäher von Tod. He's Romanian-American and new at school."
Rickie raises an eyebrow, already defensive: "Wait… Jäher von Tod? Isn't that a German name?"
Jäher, calm voice, accent faint, almost imperceptible: "It's normal. My dad was Romanian-American, my mom German."
Cleo, laughing and leaning on him: "So cool! We're from the same country, we already have so much in common."
She gives him a knowing look, like "we're made for each other," then leads him toward the living room, whispering something in his ear. They disappear into the dancing crowd.
Silence. Rickie and I freeze for two seconds.
"I see someone stole your crush," I say, glancing at him.
Rickie, teeth clenched, dark gaze: "I hate him."
The music is still pounding, a heavy beat shaking the kitchen floor. Rickie stands there, cup in hand, staring at where Cleo and Jäher just disappeared.
"Seriously, Cleo with that guy?" he mutters, annoyed. "She's known him what, five minutes?"
I shrug: "Apparently they have 'things in common.' Country, background, all that. She seems happy."
Rickie exhales: "Yeah, well, I already hate him. He's the kind of guy who thinks he knows everything. And that name, von Tod… sounds like some goth rapper alias."
I snicker despite myself: "You're jealous he snagged Cleo in two seconds, admit it."
"Jealous? Me? Pff. I just don't want a new guy showing up and stealing the spotlight. We're already the team rookies, we don't need a Romanian-German model overshadowing us."
"Relax. He's just a new guy. He's not going to steal our spot on the lacrosse team."
Rickie downs his cup in one go and sets it on the counter.
"Yeah, you're right. Come on, we're not gonna stand here like idiots. Beer pong?"
"I'll bet I beat you in one round."
"You've never beaten me at beer pong, bro."
Rickie, finally smiling: "Exactly, tonight's my night for revenge. And if I lose, I pay for the pizzas next time we watch a game."
"Deal. But if you lose, you twerk in front of everyone."
We burst out laughing and head toward the living room where a beer pong table is set up. The crowd is dense, but we make our way through. Tyler is already yelling encouragements at a winning team. Cleo and Jäher are somewhere in the middle, laughing with others, but we don't care.
Tonight is just a back-to-school party: beer, nonsense, friends, and the team starting to take shape. No drama, no weird stuff. Just us, ready to embarrass ourselves joyfully.
Rickie hands me a ping-pong ball: "Your turn, rookie."
"Get ready to lose, legend," I reply.
We start the game amidst the noise, laughter, and nonstop music. After a few beers, I start feeling sick.
I set my water bottle on the counter, voice slurred: "Rickie, I'm stepping out for a sec. If I stay here another second, I'm gonna throw up."
Rickie grabs my arm: "Wait, we're not done! You already missed two shots."
"I'll be back super quick, promise. Two minutes."
I gently pull away, push the kitchen door open, and step into the yard. The full moon casts a cold, gray-blue, almost unreal light. The air is cooler, heavy with the smell of wet grass and chlorine. The shouts from the party, the music, the laughter… all still audible, but already distant, muffled by the trees surrounding the property.
I look at the dark line of the forest behind the pool. It seems huge, almost swallowing the entire town in the distance. Too much noise in there. Too many people. Too much Cleo and Jäher dancing close. I tell myself: just a little further, to really breathe.
I move away from the spotlights, cross the lawn, slip between two bushes. Fog rises from the ground, thick and sticky. My sneakers sink into the wet grass. The party becomes a distant hum. I walk faster, almost mechanically, like my legs want to escape on their own.
Then I enter the forest.
The trees close in overhead. Low branches scratch my arms, dead leaves crunch under my steps. The fog is thicker here, swallowing shapes. I can barely see my hands in front of me. My heart beats faster, but not from fear—just adrenaline from the cold air filling my lungs.
Craaaac.
A sharp noise behind me. I freeze.
Craaaac. Craaaac.
Branches snapping. No wind. No animal.
I turn slowly. A baby deer. Tiny, trembling, huge eyes in the moonlight. It stares at me for two seconds, then lowers its head.
I exhale, almost relieved.
Then, in a flash:
A massive shape bursts from the fog. Tall. Too tall. Black claws sink into the deer's side. A high, piercing scream. The little body is lifted effortlessly, thrown against a tree. Blood splashes on the bark.
I stand frozen, mouth open. My brain refuses to comprehend.
The creature rises. Huge, furry, hunched back. Red eyes glow like embers in the night. It turns its head toward me. Slowly.
Our eyes meet.
Shit.
I spin and run.
Branches whip my face, roots snag my ankles. I sprint, short breath, heart exploding. Behind me, low guttural growls. No doubt, it's following. Fast. Too fast.
I zigzag between trunks, jump over a fallen log, slip on wet leaves. The fog disorients me, I turn left, then right, with no idea where I'm going.
A snap just behind me. Very close. I feel its hot breath on my neck.
I scream, push harder. My lungs burn. Legs tremble.
A treacherous root. My foot catches. I pitch forward, hands first. I roll on the ground, half-rise.
Too late.
A massive paw slams on my back, pins me down. I scream. Fangs clamp onto my left ankle. A searing pain, like liquid fire running up my leg. I kick, punch, scratch the dirt.
The creature growls, releases for a moment. I crawl desperately, belly to the ground, toward a bush.
But the bite already pulses. Hot. Burning. Something spreads through my veins.
My vision blurs. The moon spins above me. The trees tilt.
Everything goes black.
I lose consciousness, taste of blood and earth in my mouth, distant screaming from the party fading like an echo.