Chapter 4 MONSTER ARE NOT REAL
LILIAN POV
There’s a special kind of chaos that comes from being late, not fashionably late — I mean sprint-down-the-hall-while-your-heart-beats-like-a-jackhammer late and that was exactly the mood I was in when I spotted Mia standing at the front steps, waving her arms like a human windmill.
“Finally!” she yelled, shoving a breakfast bar into her mouth mid-sentence. “I was starting to think you died.”
“Not yet,” I panted, slowing my jog as I reached her. “But if I have to run any farther, that might change.”
“Running’s good for you,” she teased, tossing her hair dramatically.
“So is shutting up,” I shot back, grinning despite myself.
She gasped in fake offense. “Rude! I am morning sunshine incarnate.”
“You’re morning nuisance incarnate,” I corrected.
Before she could fire back, Jonah joined us, earbuds dangling from his neck and that lazy smirk plastered across his face — the one that made teachers think he didn’t care and made girls line up like he was the last donut at a bake sale.
“Nice shirt,” he said, nodding toward me.
I glanced down at the bold white letters stretched across my chest: HATE ALL FUCKERS.
“You like it?” I said. “I wore it just to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s working,” he deadpanned, then smirked. “Principal’s gonna love that one.”
“Eh,” I shrugged. “Add it to my ever-growing list of disciplinary warnings.”
Mia was laughing so hard she nearly dropped her bag. “You’re gonna get expelled for your wardrobe alone.”
“Honestly? Worth it,” I said.
We spent the next few minutes loitering by the entrance, trading insults and laughing way too loudly for people who were already late. It felt easy — the kind of stupid, warm chaos that only existed when the three of us were together. Until the bell rang.
“Shit,” Jonah muttered.
“That’s the second bell,” Mia said, eyes wide. “We’re so screwed.”
“Only one way to handle this,” I said, adjusting my backpack. “With dignity and grace.”
“Meaning?” Jonah asked.
“Run.”
And we did.
We shoved past the double doors, sprinting down the empty hallway, our footsteps echoing like gunshots. By the time we reached our classroom, we were breathless and laughing, still half-running when Jonah practically shoved me through the door.
“Nice of you to join us,” Mr. Levinson said from the front of the room, eyebrow arched.
“Traffic,” I wheezed.
“On foot?” he asked.
“Terrible this time of day.”
A few students snickered as we slid into our seats. Mr. Levinson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t lecture us — which meant we were in the clear. For now.
“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Today we’re doing something different. We’re having a debate.”
A collective groan rippled through the room.
“On what?” someone asked.
“Whether or not vampires exist.”
I blinked. “You’re joking.”
“Dead serious,” Mr. Levinson said. “Half the class will argue for their existence, half against. Random groups. Lilian…” — his eyes scanned the list — “you’re arguing against.”
“Good,” I said immediately. “Because that’s easy.”
Jonah leaned over from the next desk. “You sure you don’t wanna be on the losing team?”
“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “Vampires are just stories. Like the tooth fairy. Or good cafeteria food.”
The debate started fifteen minutes later, and I was in my element. I didn’t just argue — I performed.
“They’re myths!” I shouted, gesturing wildly like some caffeinated lawyer. “Written centuries ago by people who were scared of the dark and needed something to blame their nightmares on!”
“Or,” countered a boy from the other team, “they’re real and living among us.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I was sure they’d stick. “Yeah, sure. And I’m secretly a mermaid. What’s your point?”
Mia, bless her chaotic soul, backed me up with equal intensity. “If vampires were real, don’t you think we’d, I don’t know, notice
people being drained of blood? Like, that’d probably make the news.”
“Exactly!” I said, slamming my palm on the desk. “Vampires don’t exist. End of story.”
By the time the debate ended, my voice was hoarse from shouting, and Mia was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
“Remind me never to get in an argument with you,” Jonah muttered as we walked out of class.
“Too late,” I said with a grin. “We argue every day.”
“And somehow,” Mia chimed in, “we’re still friends.”
“Miracles happen,” I said.
The rest of the school day blurred into a predictable routine: more classes, more sarcasm, more pointless hallway gossip. It wasn’t until the final bell rang that the world finally slowed down.
“Coffee time?” Mia asked as we exited the building.
“Coffee time,” I confirmed.
She waved goodbye, heading in the opposite direction while I made my usual trek toward Ace’s. My legs already ached, but the thought of earning a paycheck — and not having to explain myself to some foster family — kept me moving.
The shop was a fifteen-minute walk from school, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. The bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside, and the familiar scent of roasted beans hit me like a hug.
“Evening, Lilian,” Mr. Rourke called from behind the counter.
“Evening, boss,” I said, forcing a smile.
I slipped behind the counter, tossing my bag under the shelf and reaching for the apron that hung on the hook — the same faded brown one I’d tied around my waist a thousand times before. Tie the straps, roll the sleeves, pull my hair into a messy bun. Barista mode: activated.
The first rush hit within minutes. A woman in a business suit ordered a double espresso with oat milk. A group of teenagers asked for caramel frappes with extra whipped cream. A guy who looked like he hadn’t slept in three days mumbled something about a black coffee “strong enough to kill a horse.”
“Rough day?” I asked, sliding his drink across the counter.
“Week,” he muttered.
“Welcome to the club.”
The hours blurred into one endless stream of orders, foam, and caffeine-fueled chatter. But despite the exhaustion, there was something comforting about the routine — the hiss of the espresso machine, the rhythmic clink of cups against the counter, the murmur of conversation filling the shop.
That was until she walked in.
It was almost closing time when the bell above the door chimed again. A woman — no, not quite a woman, more like something sculpted out of moonlight and wrongness — stepped inside. She wore black from head to toe, her coat sweeping behind her like smoke. Her skin was pale, but not the kind of pale you get from skipping sunscreen. It was unnatural, like candle wax — smooth, cold, and lightless.
Her eyes… God, her eyes. Grey like a storm that hadn’t decided whether to break or vanish.
“Can I help you?” I asked, forcing a polite smile, though my throat suddenly felt dry.
She scanned the board behind me, her head tilting slightly. “You don’t have it.”
“Don’t have what?” I asked.
“Crimson roast,” she said softly, her voice carrying a faint, melodic accent I couldn’t place. “With a splash of black syrup.”
I frowned. “Uh… that’s not a real drink. At least, not here. Closest thing I’ve got is a dark roast with cherry drizzle, maybe?”
She stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then, unexpectedly, her lips curved — not into a smile exactly, but something close enough to make my stomach twist. “Surprise me then.”
“Sure thing,” I said, trying to sound casual, though something about her tone crawled under my skin. I turned away, pretending to focus on the espresso machine, but I could feel her eyes on me — sharp, unblinking, studying.
When I slid the cup toward her, she didn’t touch it right away. She just stared at the steam curling from the surface, then finally looked up at me again. “You smell… familiar.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
She didn’t answer. She just picked up the cup, took one delicate sip, and said, “Interesting choice.”
Then she went to sit at the far end of the café, near the window. Alone. Watching.
Every time I glanced her way, she was still looking. Not at the cup. Not at her reflection. At me.
Her eyes followed my movements like they were tracking something she already owned.
I started to wonder if I’d spilled something on my shirt or if my eyeliner was smudged. I wiped my face with my sleeve when I thought she wasn’t looking. Nope. Still staring. My skin prickled, my heartbeat quickened — and not in the good, crush-on-someone way.
When Mr. Rourke passed behind me, I muttered, “That lady gives me the creeps.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “What lady?”
I turned toward the table to point.
Empty.
I blinked. The chair was vacant, her cup untouched, steam still rising faintly.
“Never mind,” I murmured. “She… left.”
Mr. Rourke gave me a weird look. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just tired.”
By the time the clock hit 10 p.m., the last real customer had left, and the shop was finally quiet. I wiped the final streak of milk foam from the counter and untied my apron, tossing it onto the hook.
“Good job tonight,” Mr. Rourke said, locking the register.
“Thanks,” I said, stifling a yawn. “See you tomorrow?”
“Same time,” he said with a smile.
I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the cool night air, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The streets were mostly empty now, save for a few distant headlights and the hum of a streetlight flickering above.
The alley was just ahead — the same one I always took as a shortcut. Narrow, dim, and tucked between two crumbling brick buildings. It should’ve been creepy, but after walking it every night, it was as familiar as my own hallway.
“Let’s get this over with,” I muttered, adjusting my backpack.
I broke into a light jog as I turned down the alley, sneakers slapping softly against the concrete. The night air was crisp, and somewhere far off, a siren wailed. It was all so normal.
Too normal.
I didn’t notice the shadow that slipped across the far end of the alley.
I didn’t see the shape that moved with inhuman speed.
Because why would I?
Monsters weren’t real.
At least… that’s what I believed.