The Vampire and the Scorpion (Blood and Venom Saga #1)

1. One

One

B itterness is unattractive, and I didn’t bleach my hair only to ruin my image with a sour expression. I took a deep breath to calm my thundering heart. After all, no one would take me seriously if I lost my temper—again.

“I’m not sure I’m the best person suited for this role,” I said with all the professionalism of someone in a job interview. It certainly felt like an interview, the way Greg sat opposite me, blue eyes locked on mine, clasped hands resting on the table, lackeys Matt and Chloe sitting either side. He even looked like an interviewer, not a trace of stubble upon his pale face, dressed in a white shirt and thin, black tie. Yes, he was one of those weirdos that wore a tie when dressed casually. We couldn’t have contrasted more, with me in faded, ripped jeans, and oversized hoodie. He’d side parted his hair, fixed in place with my floral-scented hairspray, something he’d won custody of after our breakup—not that I needed it, preferring wax in my newly-chopped, long pixie-cut.

“I said I’d make the costumes. Not run the whole backstage operation,” I said.

“Ava, you co-directed the last show. Someone else should have a turn,” Greg said. His tone matched mine, but forced politeness came easily to him. He was smirking beneath the surface of his neutral expression. The president of the theatre society should have been a professional actor; his portrayal of sincerity was second to none.

“I’m not saying I want to direct again. I’m saying that I don’t think stage manager would be the best role for me. It’s an enormous responsibility and I won’t have time to commit to it.” I tapped my pen against my notepad in time with my twitching foot, the noise echoing throughout the student union’s meeting room.

“Jo did it last time,” he said, referring to the vice president who sat next to me and the only member of the committee I could call a friend. “It would be nice for her to do something else. Matt and I are writing and directing, so we can’t do it.”

“And Chloe?”

“I don’t think I’d be a good stage manager,” Chloe said, joining the conversation, though her eyes remained fixed on her phone, her acrylic nails tapping against the screen with each swipe left.

How she’d secured a role within the society’s committee was beyond me, though I guess it helps when you’re the president’s housemate.

“You have more experience than me,” she said.

“No, I don’t. At least, not backstage. I offered to make the costumes as sewing is a hobby and I’d cannibalise the old costumes from last term. I’m trying to reduce my workload, not increase it. My tutors are already riding my arse over late submissions.” But Chloe wasn’t listening. Now using her phone as a mirror, she dabbed at her false lashes with the tip of her finger, pouted her gloss-coated lips and swept back sleek, highlighted hair.

“Perhaps if you actually turned up to lectures, you might not be behind. All you study is video games. How hard can it be?” Greg asked.

I clenched my jaw as I bit back the snappy retort that I was so desperate to unleash, the squeak of my grinding teeth echoing inside my head.

“Hang on,” Jo cut in as she saw I was about to explode. “Greg, I think you’d be a great stage manager.”

Greg raised an eyebrow, the compliment catching his attention. Jo always said that flattery got you everywhere. She smiled, dimples forming in the cheeks of her heart-shaped face, wide, brown eyes twinkling with hope. “I didn’t think I’d like it either, but it’s fun, and you’ve already shown that you can manage people. And it’s something you can put on your C.V.”

“I can’t direct and be stage manager,” Greg shook his head, not taking the bait. “As I said, Matt and I are directing this one.” He jerked his head towards Matt, who was leaning back in his chair, hands resting behind his light-brown faux hawk, biceps bulging, polo shirt pulled tight across his chest as he nodded along to everything Greg said. Their bromance was a strange one; Matt spending most of his free time in the gym and Greg in the library, but they say opposites attract, and since they’d started writing their script, the two of them were inseparable.

“All those in favour of Ava being stage manager?” Greg raised his own hand, Matt and Chloe following suit. Three to two.

“I guess I don’t really have any choice in the matter.” I leant back in my seat, arms folded.

“We will try to give you any help you need,” Greg said, this time unable to hide his self-satisfied grin, his words an empty promise. Last year I’d been thrilled when Greg had won the presidency, especially as I’d secured my position as secretary for another year. We had amazing plans for my final year at Kinwich University. Unfortunately, it ended up as fun as pushing pins under your fingernails. Funny how much can change in one summer.

I stayed silent for the rest of the meeting, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. The others discussed their plans for this week’s so-called rehearsals (not that there was anything to rehearse yet), no longer asking for my input. I wanted to interrupt with remarks about how their drama games were just time-wasting exercises to keep the society members occupied while Greg and Matt wrote their shitty little script. It had already taken them two weeks and was only half done. After all, it was a student’s production—not the next Phantom of the Opera.

Instead of taking the remaining minutes of the meeting, I started doodling a masterpiece of Greg being stabbed by various bladed objects, everything from a shuriken to a claymore. Petty? Perhaps. Therapeutic? Absolutely.

Just quit, I thought. That will show them. These idiots don’t know what they’re doing. Just quit! But I wouldn’t. It was an itch I had to scratch, even if it left me red, raw, and bleeding.

Chloe snapped me out of my trance when she brought up this evening’s social event. Organising socials was her one and only responsibility, the role of ‘social organiser’ having been made solely for her by Greg. I’d never enjoyed the socials, but this one in particular would be torture.

“Club Clique is having a Traffic Light Party tonight and we’ve already had ten people say they are going. We will probably have more people tag along after tonight’s rehearsal.”

Well-fucking-done. I don’t know what impresses me more: that you organised a social event, or that you can count to ten.

“Are you coming tonight?” Jo asked me.

“Yeah.” I fixed Greg with a hard stare. “We agreed to wear amber stickers to keep things civil. Right?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s important that all committee members attend the socials to set an example, and this would probably be the best way to prevent any hurt feelings.”

“Great. Are we done here? I need a fag.” I sprung to my feet, the chair’s legs scraping on the floor, making the others wince. “See you outside,” I said to Jo as I strode past her towards the door, letting it slam behind me.

When Jo met me in the smoking area for our pre-rehearsal cigarette, she didn’t mind listening to me bitch about Greg, even when it continued into the rehearsal itself, and even while we changed into dresses and heels backstage. But she wasn’t able to hide her annoyance by the time we were queuing up outside the club.

“Forget about him and enjoy yourself,” she said, her breath misting in front of her as her slight frame disappeared into her thick winter coat.

I could barely feel my toes, only just covered in my elegant, yet impractical shoes. The blister on my ankle was begging for a plaster and my thoughts drifted to my Doc Martens lying backstage, waiting for me to pick them up the following morning.

We were near the front of the queue, crammed behind a barrier alongside the club, a shabby-looking building covered with missing person posters—a detail I’d found unnerving in my first year, but had increasingly grown numb to.

“She won’t forgive Greg that easily,” said Hayley, a student in her second year and one of the few within the society I’d befriended. She linked arms with me and pulled me tightly to her side. Though skinny, she had an iron grip that I couldn’t escape. “Typical Scorpio. Too stubborn.”

“I prefer the term determined , thanks,” I said, giving her a playful nudge in the ribs.

“Obsessive.”

“I think you mean passionate.”

“Rude.”

“I’m not rude! Just honest. You’re rude!” We grinned at each other.

I rarely took teasing well, but I didn’t mind it coming from Hayley. Though I’d only known her a year, she was more like a sister to me, having bonded over the fact that our biological parents were no longer around, hers having kicked the bucket when she was a baby, and mine preferring the company of their lovers. For my mother that usually meant someone violent, or a drug user. Sometimes she’d outdo herself and find a violent drug user. For my father, that meant cocaine and ketamine. Classy people, my parents.

“If I call you passionate instead, will you get me a drink?” She fluttered her long eyelashes. Not that she needed to; she always looked gorgeous, with full, pink lips, cheek bones a model would envy, and long, golden curls.

“Go on then. First round is on me.”

We handed our IDs to the doorman, who waved us through to be greeted by a young man brandishing stickers.

“Hello, ladies,” he said. “Tonight’s theme is a Traffic Light Party, and so you may choose one of three stickers. Red is a warning to others to keep their hands to themselves. Amber is neutral or playing hard to get.” He gave us a cheesy wink. “Green means you are D.T.F or—“ He then silently mouthed the words, ‘ Down to fuck’ . Forming a complete traffic light ourselves, Jo took a red sticker, I took amber, and Hayley took green. “One last thing,” he said, “make sure you don’t—”

“Walk home alone,” we all said in unison, having heard the warning every time we’d visited the club.

“Don’t worry, we won’t let the goblins and witches get us.” I gave Hayley another nudge, who in response rolled her eyes, exasperated that I didn’t take her outlandish theories seriously. “Oh, don’t get upset, Hay. Come on. Let’s get you that drink.”

Club Clique was already heaving with people. Unsurprising, as it was the most popular club in Kinwich. The floor was sticky under foot, spilt drinks and bodily fluids. Among the usual stench of stale beer and sweat, the sickeningly sweet smell of mixers and spirits assaulted my nose.

After paying our entry fees and leaving our coats in the cloakroom, we made a beeline for the bar. As promised, I bought the first round, and then hovered near the bar, knowing that round two was soon to follow.

After round three and a strategic trip to the toilet for a swig from Hayley’s concealed hip flask, I was ready to face the dance floor. Jo had spotted one of the taller members of the society within the crowd and we made our way over to join him. I kept my eyes peeled for Greg and spotted him dancing with a girl who I recognised from the theatre society, someone I knew was after a lead role. But at least he was wearing an amber sticker. My mind at rest, I sought other society members. The best thing about clubs is that it’s impossible to make small talk. But after enough vodka, I was happy to flail in a drunken stupor, screaming above the music, “ I love this song!”

Hayley was in her element, her tight, green, sequin dress hugging her slender frame, and long hair tossed from side to side as she swayed to the music’s hypnotic rhythm.

It was time for shots. Hayley offered to buy this round, but knowing she was strapped for cash, I paid for mine and Jo’s, but gave her a suggestive look when I noticed her buy another for some random guy she’d met. I didn’t recognise him from our group, but going by his youthful appearance, I figured he was another student. Dressed entirely in bottle-green, he wore a top hat, tail coat, and matching trousers. A total peacock. Whilst I had no objections to guys in fancy suits, wearing one to a club was so pretentious that normally I wouldn’t have given him a second look. Tonight, however, thanks to the ungodly amount of alcohol I’d consumed in such a short time, I would have gladly danced the night away with him—or anyone.

He tipped his hat to Hayley as she handed him his shot, and the four of us knocked them back. I turned to leave them to their mating dance and perhaps find a conquest of my own when I spotted Greg grinding up against the backside of the girl I’d seen him with earlier. But now, emblazoned across his chest, was a green sticker. It seemed to illuminate the entire room, penetrating through the crowds and into my eyes. In that moment, there was nothing else. Just the flash of green that consumed me. I stood dumbfounded, mind racing at an impossible speed but my body immobile. Until something inside me snapped. Heat flared through me, my muscles tensing.

You... You promised me...

As though possessed, I marched up to him, ripped the sticker away, scrunched it into a ball, and threw it at his head. When this received nothing but a sneer, I slapped him—hard—across his repugnant face.

“What?” I could just about hear him force a laugh over the pounding bass—or was that my heartbeat hammering in my ears?

Turning on my heel, I stalked off, pushing through the dancers towards the doors labelled ‘ Smoking’ . Outside, a wall of fumes and icy cold air struck me.

I blinked back tears, fumbling to open my clutch bag before groping inside, the orange glow of the heat lamp insufficient to see. Retrieving my cigarettes, I put one to my trembling lips, but to my dismay could not find a lighter. I’d left it in my coat pocket, sitting useless inside the cloakroom. I wasn’t going back in there. Not until I’d calmed down.

I looked around for a familiar face. No one.

Resigning myself to be that smoker—the one who had to scrounge off strangers—I plucked up the courage to ask someone for help, when I caught sight of a bottle-green top hat in the doorway.