Page 5 of Sweet Nightmare

“As I’ll ever be,” I answer, holding up the coffee cup in silent thanks as we head back out into the hall.

A quick glance at my phone shows a text from Uncle Carter, saying that he’s on his way to check the basement. I wave goodbye to Eva before taking off down the hall toward my British Lit class.

A small pack of leopard shifters is loitering in the hall near the door to the science lab. One eyes me like I’m his post-lunch snack as a glimmer of ivory fang flashes at me. The girl next to him senses his excitement and starts prowling toward me. I keep my eyes averted—the last thing I need right now is a dominance challenge.

That’s when I see a freshman—I think she’s a witch—look directly at me and the shifters. Bad move, kid. They immediately smell chum in the water and turn their sights on her. If you want to survive here, direct eye contact is usually not the way to do it.

I pause, unsure of what to do next, when the girl suddenly lets out an ear-piercing scream that rings out through the hallway. It reverberates off every hard surface as it makes its way to my protesting eardrums. Not a witch, a banshee, I mentally note, as the leopards scatter to class.

Saved by the scream.

I quickly walk to my locker. I grab my backpack and slip through the door into my seat about one second before the final affirmation sounds.

“I am stronger than all of the problems and challenges I encounter. I just have to believe in myself.”

A groan goes up from the class even before Ms. Aguilar chirps, “And there’s the bell! Let’s dig deep today, shall we?” in a voice that is way more bubbly than the affirmation bell or this school warrants.

Then again, everything about Ms. Aguilar is too bright and shiny for Calder Academy. From her electric-yellow hair and her bright-blue eyes to her manic smile and frighteningly upbeat attitude, everything shouts that the pixie doesn’t belong here. And if that wasn’t enough, the snickers coming from the asshole fae currently taking up the last row warn that they’re about to make sure she, and everyone else in this classroom, knows it.

“Fuck, teach, did you snort too much pixie dust at lunch?” Jean-Luc calls, swishing his deliberately messy blond hair out of his eyes.

“And you didn’t even bring us any.” His friend and henchman Jean-Claude sneers. As he laughs, his green eyes glow with the unnatural electricity common to the dark magic fae. “Don’t you know, sharing is caring.”

The fact that the two of them—as well as the other two members of their little coterie of immaturity and evil, Jean-Paul and Jean-Jacques—start cackling tells everyone in the room that they’ve got something planned.

Sure enough, the second she turns her back to write on the board, Jean-Jacques sends a handful of Skittles soaring straight toward her.

I swear, these guys couldn’t get more annoying if they tried.

Ms. Aguilar stiffens as the Skittles hit her. But instead of reprimanding the obnoxious fae, she ignores them and keeps writing on the board.

Her silence just eggs them on, and they throw another whole round of Skittles at her—but this time, they’ve sucked on them first, so that when they hit her white blouse, they leave a rainbow streak of goo. And that doesn’t even count the ones that get caught in her spiky hair.

When she continues facing the board in what I’m pretty sure is an effort to hide tears, Jean-Luc flashes to the front of the room—fae are still preternaturally fast, even without their powers—and stands right in front of her, making crude faces and flipping her off.

Most of the class bursts out laughing, though some look down uncomfortably. Ms. Aguilar whirls around, but Jean-Luc is back in his seat by this point, smiling innocently and leaning on an elbow. Before she can figure out what happened, yet another handful of Skittles flies at her. Most hit her in the chest, but a couple strike her right between the eyes.

She squeaks a little, her chest heaving, but still doesn’t say a word. I don’t know if it’s because she’s a new teacher and has no classroom management skills or if she’s just afraid of shutting down the Jean-Jerks because they come from some of the most powerful—and dangerous—mafia families in the paranormal world. Then again, it’s probably both.

As spitballs soar toward her, I start to speak up like I usually do, but I stop myself. If she doesn’t learn to stand up for herself and fast, this school is going to eat her alive. I’ve already saved Ms. Aguilar’s butt three times this week—and have the bruises to prove it. After all, you don’t cross members of the fae court with the darkest magic in existence and not expect to get the shit kicked out of you. Plus I’m still shaky from all of the chricklers I spent the last hour fighting off. I’m not sure I have it in me to take on a whole different group of monsters after class.

She doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, she just turns back around and starts writing something in a flowery script on the board again. It’s the absolute worst thing she could do, because the Jean-Jerks—and a few other less-than-enterprising souls—take it as a sign that it really is open season.

A new round of spitballs soars straight at her, getting caught in the tips of her pointy hair.

More Skittles are launched at her ass.

And Jean-Claude—jackass that he is—decides now is the time to shout a bunch of suggestive comments.

And that’s it. That’s just it. Fuck the pain. It’s one thing when the Jean-Jerks were just being their regular asshole selves, but they’ve crossed the line. No one, not even the sons of fae mafia dons, gets to sexually harass a woman and get away with it. Screw that.

I clear my throat, resigning myself to another beatdown by the Jean-Jerks after class, but before I can figure out an insult devastating enough to shut their mouths, a rustling sound comes from the left of me.

It’s quiet, so quiet that most people in the class don’t even register it. But I’ve heard the slow, deliberate rhythm of that slide from stillness to action before, and though it’s been a while, it still makes every hair on my body stand straight up even as an unwitting relief sweeps through me.

Apparently, I’m not the only one in this class who thinks their foray into sexual harassment is worse than their usual bad behavior and has to be stopped.

I shift slightly to my left just in time to see all six-foot-seven, gorgeous, grim-faced, broad-shouldered inches of Jude Abernathy-Lee turn around in his seat. For one second, my eyes clash with his swirling, mismatched gaze, but then he’s looking straight through me to the members of the Jean-Jerk club.

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