The Last Vampire

by Romina Garber

Genres: YA Paranormal; YA Fantasy

Synopsis

When a boarding school opens in a once-condemned Victorian manor buried in the woods of New Hampshire, Austen-loving Lorena Navarro enrolls in hopes of finding her own Mr. Darcy. Instead, she stumbles across a coffin and accidentally awakens the world’s last vampire.

After hibernating for nearly three centuries, William Pride is desperate to find his family—and clueless about the modern world. Relying on Lorena for more than just blood, he enrolls at the school to catch up on all he’s missed.

Soon, William uncovers the chilling truth: He is the last hope for his kind’s return to power. Torn between protecting the humans around him and joining a band of surviving vampires who have been waiting centuries for his leadership, William must make a choice. Will he sacrifice his species for love . . . or will he embrace his dark destiny at last?

Release date: December 2, 2025

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter 1

Lorena

“Holy Pemberley.”

The words escape my lips like a breath as I stare up at the Victorian manor with its arched windows and pointy towers. The sprawling estate looks like it was ripped from the pages of my favorite nineteenth-­century novels.

The stone walls are stained shades of gray, but from certain angles they look black. The late-­afternoon orange sun flares against the glass windows, setting the house’s insides ablaze. Even though the start date for classes had to be pushed back for construction delays, nothing about this place looks unfinished or deteriorated.

“It’s so . . . stately.”

I turn to meet my best friend’s thickly lined eyes. She doesn’t mean it as a compliment. Salma was hoping for something slightly more decrepit and ominous.

I turn in a small circle, taking in the vast manicured lawns, adorned with metal benches, bronze busts, and sculptures of fanged lions, taloned peacocks, winged angels, and a tailed demon with horns. “What about that demon?” I ask.

“I’ve seen scarier,” she says.

I scan her black combat boots, ripped black stockings, black miniskirt, oversized black sweater, and dark purple lipstick. “You do realize the school uniform isn’t black and white like our old one, right?”

Salma has been wearing all-­black since eighth grade—­the same year she discovered Poe, Evanescence, and her mom’s deadly diagnosis.

“Mr. Santos emailed the director and said that I would be opting out of the requirement because I’m in mourning.”

Mr. Santos is what Salma calls the fake email address she created for her father years ago and provided to our old school. Since he’s always traveling, email is the best way to reach him.

“And you didn’t tell me?” I ask in surprise.

“I was waiting for her to respond, but she never did.”

“So how do you know you’re exempt?”

“Only one way to find out!” She bares her teeth in a would-­be smile, but the mirth doesn’t reach her heavy brown eyes. They’ve been lightless since—­

“You’re sure you don’t want me to go in with you, Lorena?”

We spin around at the sound of Ma’s voice. I’d almost forgotten she was still here, which is morbidly funny, considering her omnipresence in my life.

“We’re fine,” I say, a little too forcefully.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be apart,” says Ma, and while I won’t say it, I can’t, either. Salma and I have been attending the same private school in New York City since pre-­K. We’ve never even been away to summer camp.

“Don’t worry, Tía Viv,” says my best friend. “We’ll look out for each other.”

“I know you will, Salmita,” says Ma.

Salma used to hate that nickname when we were younger, but her eyebrows don’t crease anymore when she hears it. Not since Tía Elena died.

Our mothers became best friends when they were about our age, so Salma and I have known each other since birth—­literally, given that we were born on the same day.

“Well, this is it, then,” says Ma, sizing me up and down like she’s scanning my image and turning it into a memory. I get my curly hair and honey-­brown eyes from her, but my tanner skin and right cheek dimple from Pa. His firm is working on a big case, so he couldn’t make the trip with us.

“We’ll call once we’re settled,” says Salma, and I can tell that she’s eager to get going.

“You better.” Ma pulls her into a tight embrace.

My best friend isn’t a hugger, so when she doesn’t let Ma go right away, I know this is harder for her than she’s letting on. I look around to give them some privacy.

Gangly trees line the path from the iron gates, their limbs balding in the unseasonable chill. Driving over from the airport, we wound through dense forest for so long that I have no idea what direction we came from or how to get back to civilization. I’ve never even visited a place this remote, so I can’t imagine living here.

According to the school’s website, until recently this manor was condemned. For centuries, the estate had been owned by the Huntington family, and when the last member died, they bequeathed it—­along with their formidable
fortune—­to the founding of this school.

I survey the other families clustered in front of the castle-­like home, saying their goodbyes, and I meet more than a few people’s stares.

Ma’s arms wrap around me.

“Clean slate,” she says, reminding me of what we’ve been discussing all summer. When we pull apart, she holds on to my hands. “I know it hasn’t been easy being my daughter.”

A ray of light from the falling sun makes her eyes glow like gold, and I wonder if mine are just as gilded. “This is your chance to prove to me—­and yourself—­that you are ready to make your own way.”

Sometimes I’m not sure if she can hear how condescending she sounds. I meet Salma’s asymmetrically arched eyebrows, and I know she’s thinking the same thing.

“Okay, Ma. Love you.”

“Love you,” and as I start to walk away, she adds: “Make smart choices!”

I roll my eyes since Ma can’t see my face, but when I try to share a look with Salma, there’s a small comma between her eyebrows. And I hate that as long as Ma doesn’t forgive me for what I did, Salma won’t forgive herself.

We roll our suitcases across the cobblestones toward the manor’s open front doors, and many of the conversations around us lull as we approach.

Salma nudges me with her shoulder, and I follow the direction of her gaze. A couple of women up ahead are trading words while darting glances at Ma. Of course Viviana Navarro can’t set foot on a school campus without being recognized.

When I look behind me, a woman is already introducing herself to my mom, holding Ma’s new book in her hands, a purple hardcover titled The Parental Pardon: We Can Forgive Our Children, But Can We Forgive Ourselves?

“. . . thought Huntington had cut ties with Viviana Navarro.”

I straighten when I hear Ma’s name, and I spy a platinum-­blond woman speaking. “Are we sure about sending our children to the same school as this mommy influencer?”

“I can’t believe her daughter was accepted after that video,” says her friend.

The two of them look at me and go quiet, as if just realizing I might be within hearing range. I keep my face stoic, but Salma raises her hand and waves to them.

When they wave back, Sal folds down her fingers, leaving just the middle one up.

The women’s fake smiles melt into grimaces, and I look down to tame my grin as I loop my arm around Salma’s elbow. Together, we approach the open double doors waiting to swallow us.

“Name?”

A woman with a deep voice is holding a clipboard. She’s the tallest person I’ve ever seen, and her bloodred hair makes her presence even more striking. Beside her, a pair of women are seated at a table with alphabetically arranged envelopes.

“Lorena Navarro.”

Red’s brow arches like my name means something. Her irises are so dark I can’t make out the pupils. From the way they suck me in, her eyes could be black holes.

“So you are,” she says at last, without even consulting the list she’s holding.

A large envelope is thrust into my hands by one of the seated women, and when Red looks away, I remember to blink. Then Sal introduces herself.

“Salma Santos.”

Once she gets her envelope, the two of us cross through the towering doorway. I feel a tingle in the back of my neck like I’m being watched, and when I peer back at Red, our eyes lock again.

I quicken my pace, pulling Salma forward as we enter a foyer the size of a small museum enshrouded in textured burgundy wallpaper. The space is furnished with a low-­hanging chandelier and wood-­trimmed couches and armchairs with dark velvet cushions.

Since the hall has been cordoned off with red ropes, we have no choice but to corral ourselves in here. Only a few people are seated, while others are examining the massive fireplace with its elaborately wrought stone mantel and the series of black-­and-­white portraits along the far wall framed in burnt gold.

“Still no service.”

I glance at Salma, who’s looking down instead of up. She shows me her phone screen so I can see that she has zero bars.

“I’m sure there’s Wi-­Fi.”

“I don’t see any networks.”

The front doors slam shut with a BOOM that reverberates like an explosion, cutting off every conversation.

“Hello to Huntington’s founding class! Welcome to your new home.”

Red stands in front of the unlit fireplace, and she’s easily the tallest person here. “I am Director Minaro, and I want to start by congratulating you on beating the odds and forming part of this special academy.”

Our classmates break into polite applause, but I don’t join them. Salma’s and my acceptance wasn’t earned; it was negotiated.

Minaro looks right at me like she’s thinking the same thing, and I turn to see if Sal notices. But she’s still scanning for networks.

“Hold on to your good cheer,” says the director, her gaze drifting across the room, “because you will like me less when you hear this next part.”

Now Salma looks up, and we trade bemused expressions.

“I am sorry to report that we are having problems getting cellular service and a Wi-­Fi connection installed.”

“I knew it!  ” Salma cries out, stomping one of her heavy combat boots on the floor. She’s not the only one—­a rush of reactions gusts through the place like an angry gale.

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not staying here.”

“Screw this—­”

“Settle down,” says Minaro, her voice deepening with authority. She waits for everyone to quiet before continuing. “We have maintenance crews coming to work on the issue. Yet until it is resolved, you will have to use the landlines by the administrative offices to reach your parents. Now, if you will open your packets, you will find your room location, your class schedule, and a map, among other things. You have also been provided with a calendar that marks every vacation, including a weeklong break for Thanksgiving, three weeks for the winter holidays, and one week in the spring. We now invite you to visit your rooms, deposit your things, and report to the dining hall for dinner promptly at six pm—­wearing your uniforms.”

There’s something strange about the way this woman talks. Like she’s only studied books about social interactions but never actually socialized. The rustling of papers surrounds me, and I look at my phone screen to see that it’s already 5:15 pm.

“A word of warning.”

Minaro’s voice is low, yet every sound in the hall cuts out when she speaks.

“There are clearly marked parts of the school that are still under construction and considered unsafe.” Her dark eyes comb across us like she’s rooting out the troublemakers. “I want to remind you that anyone who ventures beyond these roped-­off areas will be expelled—­no matter why you did it or who your parents are.”

She looks at me again, and now I’m sure I’m not imagining her distaste.

BANG!

I gasp, along with many others, as something heavy and metallic hits the front door. It sounds like someone is knocking.

Minaro goes over to open the door, and when she steps back, in walks a tall guy with a curly fade and hooded eyes. Judging by his broad shoulders and letterman jacket, he looks like an athlete.

I turn to Salma to see what she thinks, but she’s already ripping into her envelope. “Tower Three, penthouse,” she reads on the first page of her welcome packet. “And you?”

“Penthouse?” I arch my eyebrows. “Sounds fancy.”

Nerves flutter in my belly, and my fingers fumble as I unseal my envelope. This is the part I’ve been the most worried about—­not only am I going to be living at a school far from my city and all of civilization, but I’ll be sharing the experience with an absolute stranger. The application form specifically said that rooms would be randomly assigned, and they didn’t take requests.

I inhale deeply as I pull out my packet, and Salma leans over my shoulder as I read the bold print:

Tower 3, penthouse

Our stunned gazes meet.

“Damn,” says Salma. “They really wanted to get rid of Tía Viv.”

Sal and I already know that our acceptance was Ma’s consolation prize when Huntington decided to drop her as a consultant for the school and remove her from the foundation’s board. She agreed to go quietly, under certain conditions—­but I didn’t expect her to go this far, especially since Salma and I are the reason she lost the job.

“Why would she do this for us?” I muse out loud.

“Maybe it wasn’t for us.”

As I look at my best friend’s downcast eyes, I realize what she means.

Tía Elena’s was a yearslong, drawn-­out death from a rare yet ruthless autoimmune condition that turned her body against her. And she spent most of that time thinking of how to make it easier on her daughter.

She made her own funeral arrangements and placed all her lifetime’s savings in a trust for Salma. Elena was still alive when this school came on the news, and Sal was intrigued by it almost from the start. A centuries-­old manor that had been dead for decades was about to be revived—­for Salma, it was an irresistible vibe.

Tía Elena encouraged us to apply because she didn’t want her daughter suffering in their old home after she passed.

Ma didn’t do this for Salma and me.

She did it for her best friend.

“Let’s check out our penthouse,” I say to distract Sal from her grief.

Now that the red ropes have been removed, we roll our suitcases deeper into the manor. Instructors are pointing students in the direction of their rooms, and we overhear someone say, “For Tower Three, go to the end of the hall and turn left. Keep going until you reach the large sitting area with a fireplace. Your rooms are up the stairs.”

We lag behind a group of girls headed in that direction, and I notice the boys are going a different way. When we reach the sitting area, I spot a recessed fireplace, stone accent tables, and paintings of Victorian children in ornate frames.

The stairs are against the back wall, beside a burnt gold plaque engraved with the number 3. Next to the stairs is a door with its own plaque that says tower 3 restrooms, sans gender designation.

“Hey, I’m Fran.”

Salma and I turn to see a student with a blue pompadour that makes me think of a tidal wave cresting a shoreline. They’re wearing a T-­shirt illustrated to look like a tuxedo vest that they’ve paired with a checkered necktie.

“I’m Lorena, and this is Salma.” The three of us start climbing the steps, and I ask Fran, “Where are you from?”

“Normal.”

I frown. “What?”

“Normal, Illinois.” A grinning Fran stalls on the first-­floor landing to gesture to their hair, eyebrow piercings, and outfit. “Obviously, I’m the town poster child.”

“Only because I’m not there,” says Salma, gesturing to her own Bride of Dracula fashion.

Fran chortles, and we keep lugging our suitcases up the stairs, our breaths growing steadily heavier. Looking down, I can’t help noticing my own outfit—­jeans, knitted scarf, round-­necked sweater—­and I feel a jolt of jealousy. Not because I want to dress like Salma or Fran, but because at least they have their own style and don’t look like they shop straight from a catalog.

On every landing, we pass doors engraved with numbers: 2A, 2B, 2C, 3A—­

“This is me,” says Fran, stopping in front of 3B. “See you around!”

“Later, Normal!” says Sal, and Fran’s loud snort makes us chuckle.

We keep climbing past rooms 3C, 4A, 4B, and 4C, until at last we reach the top of the stairs. There’s just one door on this floor, and it says penthouse.

Salma has already plucked the key from her envelope, and she inserts it into the lock. When the door swings open, we’re blasted with warm light.

A high-­arched window takes up an entire wall, revealing a mostly violet sky pressing down on thinning bands of red and blood orange. The fiery sun has nearly set, its final rays reaching across an expanse of greenery that doesn’t seem to end in any direction. It’s giving fairy tale.

Salma closes the door behind us as we scrutinize the furniture. Like the foyer, it’s all wood with golden accents, and the textured wallpaper glows with the same tone of burnt gold as the plaques on the doors. There’s a set of wardrobes, three narrow dressers, a bookshelf, three desks with chairs, a bunk bed, and a third bed.

We turn to each other at the same time, and I’m sure we’re sharing the same thought: We have a roommate.

Then a key clicks into the lock, and the door opens.

Chapter 2

lorena

“You can leave those anywhere.”

The speaker strides in wearing bright pink pants, stiletto heels, and an open blazer revealing a lacy crop top. She’s followed by a couple of male students who appear to have brought up her set of matching pink suitcases.

“Thanks so much,” she says, flashing them a dazzling smile. They stumble out the door like they’re starstruck, and our roommate surveys the space admiringly, taking her sweet time to acknowledge us.

“Oh, hello!” she says, like she’s only just noticed we exist. “I’m Tiffany Carter.” She announces her name as if we should know it.

I’m not surprised those guys fell under her spell because she looks like a Barbie who’s come to life—­long legs, high cheekbones, and dewy black skin that looks like it couldn’t grow a zit if it tried.

“Hi, I’m Salma Santos.”

Tiffany’s gaze drifts down, taking in my friend’s all-­black ensemble. It’s impossible not to notice how polar opposite their styles are, and I smirk as I flash to Wicked   ’s Elphaba and Glinda.

Tiffany looks at me, eyes narrowed, and I worry she thinks I’m laughing at her.

“I’m Lorena,” I say in a friendly tone.

She just stares back at me for a beat. “Is that a stage name, or don’t they have last names where you’re from?”

I turn to Salma, who raises her brow like she’s also taken aback. Tiffany went from sugary to sour as soon as those guys left.

Pick-Me Barbie.

“Her name is Lorena Navarro,” Salma answers for me. “Are we good, or do you need our social security numbers, too?”

I grin, but Tiffany’s expression stays tight.

“Come on, Lore, let’s unpack,” says Sal.

“Do you two already know each other?” asks our roommate.

“Our whole lives,” I say, and I’m pleased to see her expression slacken with disappointment. Then she shrugs, shaking off her displeasure.

“Guess that means this one’s all mine!”  Tiffany drops her pink handbag on the solo bed, and Salma and I lock eyes before turning toward the bunk bed.

“I call top!   ” she shouts first, and I don’t fight her because I’m just glad to see her getting excited about something.

As Sal climbs up to test her new mattress, I set my book bag on the bottom bunk and roll my luggage closer to the bed. Tiffany is already opening her meticulously packed pink suitcase and rummaging through it. She plucks out a poster and extends it on the mattress so it flattens.

It looks like some kind of manifesting collage filled with handwritten quotes alongside photos of people, designer clothing, expensive cars, and fancy houses. I recognize Abby Phillip, Rachel Scott, and Gayle King, who are all on-­air newscasters. Ma has been interviewed by two of them.

Since dinner is starting soon, I open my own suitcase to pull out my uniform, and I feel a sharp cramp in my uterus. “Bathroom,” I say to Salma, and when she says nothing back, I peek up at her. My best friend is fully asleep.

I think it’s a superpower of hers, the way she can nap at a moment’s notice.

“You better wake her up so she can change before dinner,” says Tiffany without looking at me. She’s buttoning the uniform’s white collared shirt over her lacy crop top.

“No need,” I say as I open the door to leave.

“Why not—­?”

Since I’m not going to tell her about Salma’s mourning, I let the thud of the heavy door shutting be my answer.

The bathroom looks more modern than the rest of the manor, featuring black and white tiles, gold-­brushed faucets, and frameless mirrors. There are four toilet stalls, four sinks, and four showers, but right now I’m the only one in here.

I lock myself in a stall, and as I suspected, my period has arrived a day early. Right as I sit down on the toilet, I hear the bathroom door swing open.

“No, no one else. I was the only one from my school who applied,” says a gently lilting voice. “What about you?”

“So was I,” says another girl.

“I was beyond ready to leave Whitefish, Montana: population one thousand,” says the musical voice as one of the shower faucets turns on.

“One thousand? Are you serious?” asks the other girl, who speaks in a slow drawl. A second showerhead gets going.

“That’s what it feels like, but it’s technically like eight thousand.” It’s harder to hear Whitefish’s lilt with the two showers going. “Where are you from?”

“Augusta, Georgia.”

I peel open a pad and adhere it to my underwear.

“Is that the only reason you applied?” asks Augusta. “To leave Montana?” Her voice dips so that I can barely hear her, and something about the way she asks the question makes my hand still on the flush.

“I . . . This is going to sound weird.”

“Try me,” says Augusta.

“None of my friends understood.” I can’t hear what Whitefish says next because it’s too soft, so I quietly shuffle toward the door and press my ear to it.

“. . . change schools right before senior year and go to prom and graduation without them.”

“Same!” says Augusta. “My boyfriend even said he’d break up with me if I left, and I did it anyway. As soon as I heard about this place, I felt like—­”

“A pull,” says Whitefish, completing her sentence.

“Yeah! Like . . .” Augusta’s whisper is so low, it’s hard to distinguish from the rushing water. “It was calling to me.”

After changing into my uniform, I head back to the room, where I find Tiffany hanging her clothes in one of the two wardrobes.

“You two are already sharing the bunk bed,” she says when she catches me watching, “so I figured you wouldn’t mind sharing a wardrobe.”

Ignoring her, I approach Salma’s mattress on my tiptoes.

“She’s still asleep,” says Tiffany, stating the obvious.

I nudge my best friend’s shoulder gently. “Sal?”

She blinks her eyes open in confusion, and I notice the bags under her eyes. I didn’t realize she was so tired—­especially since she slept both on the plane and in the car on the way here. “Time for dinner,” I say.

“Ready.” She sits up with a sudden burst of energy and swings her legs over the ladder to join me on the ground.

“No, you need to change,” says Tiffany.

Bossy Barbie.

“Actually, she doesn’t,” I say, looping an arm around Salma’s elbow.

“You’re going to get in trouble—­”

“My mom’s dead.” Salma’s voice catches, and I scowl at Tiffany for making my best friend have to say the words out loud. “I’m grieving, okay?”

I’m surprised she shared that because, before coming here, Sal warned me that she was going to keep her situation to herself. She felt that at our old school, where everyone knew Tía Elena from her years of volunteering, she would be the girl whose mother just died—­but here, she could just be Salma.

“I’m sorry,” says Tiffany, her voice deepening with sincerity. “That’s awful.”

“I know,” says Salma, and I squeeze her arm, pulling her closer to me.

“It’s a good thing black looks so lovely on you.”

I roll my eyes at Tiffany’s flattery, knowing Salma won’t fall for it—­but when I look at her, my best friend is giving Tiffany a small smile.

Doors start slamming across the tower, and it’s clear our neighbors are on their way to dinner. Tiffany darts ahead to open the door, and Salma unloops her arm from mine to go first. The two of them must be the same height—­almost half a foot taller than me.

I step forward next, but Tiffany skips ahead of me, shutting the door in my face.

Bitch Barbie.

We trail our tower-­mates down a passage that winds deeper into the manor. I can make out Fran’s blue pompadour ahead, leading the way.

All of us—­minus Salma—­are in the same deep-­blue blazer with gold buttons and the Huntington crest on the chest pocket, which is a golden silhouette of the manor. Under our blazers, we’re wearing white button-­down shirts. And while most of the girls went with the gray pleated skirt option, I’m one of the few who opted for the pants.

As we walk, my eyes dart everywhere to take in our surroundings. The wallpaper and furniture change in rhythm with the rooms, from a cream-­colored study area with cubicles through a wood-­paneled activity room with billiards tables and lounge chairs and across a dimly lit common space with green walls and velvet seating.

The common room’s low lighting makes it hard to see the full space as we cut through it. Squinting, I spy a shadowy corridor at the far corner that’s been cordoned off with a sign:

Under construction. Kindly do not pass.

I squint harder into the darkness, but I can’t make out what lies beyond.

“Wow,” murmurs Salma, and I swing my gaze forward as we approach a festival of lights.

The grand dining hall could be the centerpiece of this whole construction, with its golden domed ceiling, network of multi-­sized crystal chandeliers, and polished floor that alternates wooden patterns. The space is littered with small round tables that seat five people each, and at the far end is a long table weighted down with food.

The only other long table is for the staff. Even seated, Minaro is a head taller than the rest.

Salma pulls out a chair at an empty table, and Tiffany and I sit on either side of her, leaving two spots open. I notice a lot of our classmates are looking in our direction, and I’m pretty sure it’s because Salma is the only one not in uniform.

“These plates must have come with the manor,” muses Tiffany, running a finger along the golden rim, then lifting hers to feel its weight. “Kind of expensive for a school.”

I lift my plate, and it’s heavier than my laptop. Why would they trust us with these?

“There he is,” whispers Salma, and I follow her line of vision to the hot guy with the curly fade who showed up late. She acted like she didn’t notice him earlier, but I’m not surprised she’s interested. Despite her edgy style, she’s drawn to an athletic and clean-­cut look.

He’s popped the collar of his white shirt, and his gray trousers hang a bit lower than the other guys’, bunching up a little around his Timberlands.

“Ooh, good find,” says Tiffany, nodding as if Salma needs her approval. “If I was into high school boys, I would totally go for him—­but I prefer college men.”

I try hard not to roll my eyes.

A pale kid with glasses hangs near Curls, wearing the uniform’s optional red tie. A bulky camera hangs from a strap around his neck, and I watch as he raises it and captures the scene.

Salma’s gaze is still glued to Curls as he studies the room, until his roving eyes land on us. Panicked, she turns to me. “What kind of food do you think they serve here?” she asks, as if we were midconversation. “Hot porridge, boiled kidneys, blood sausage—­?”

“These taken?” asks a low, husky voice.

The grin freezes on my face as I look up at Curls, who seems to be directing his question to Salma. When she shakes her head, he sits in the empty chair next to mine.

Glasses takes the fifth and final chair next to Tiffany. I’m not sure he’s even noticed Salma or me yet. “Hey, I’m Zach,” he says to our roommate.

Her eyes stray down to the camera he’s setting on the table as she says, “I’m Tiffany—­”

“I knew it!” Zach’s face lights up as he says, “You’re Tiff Investigates, aren’t you?”

A smile overtakes Tiffany’s face. Not the flashy one she used to dazzle the guys earlier, but a genuine grin that makes her look even prettier and slightly more approachable. “You follow my channel?” she asks in disbelief.

“I get a notification every time you post,” he says, nodding reverently. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you.”

“That’s unreal,” she says, still smiling. “I only have like three thousand followers—­”

“For now,” he says with conviction. “You’re a really good reporter. You come up with great catch lines, and you have a strong on-­camera presence—­you just need a better filming setup.”

“I use my phone to record,” she says, looking at his camera again. “Is that a Canon EOS?”

He angles it toward her. “R7. Want to see some of the shots I got of this place?”

“Sure,” she says, leaning over as Zach shows her the display screen.

“What’s your name?” Salma asks Curls.

“Trevor,” he says, and I spy flecks of green in his brown eyes.

“Hi, Trevor. This is my best friend, Lorena.” She tips her head in my direction, and I nod in greeting. “I’m Salma.”

“Like Salma Hayek?” he asks.

“I was named after her.” A smile warms her voice. “My mom grew up on her movies.” When she says mom, the brightness in her gaze crystallizes, and she blinks the emotion away. I squeeze her leg under the table.

“Your attention, please.”

Tiffany and Zach look up from his camera, and we all stare at the staff table. Director Minaro is on her feet.

“Good evening. It is wonderful to see you all in your lovely uniforms.” Her dark eyes seem to suck in all the light as she scans the room, her gaze snagging on Salma. “I suppose you have already found your class schedules in the envelopes we handed you earlier. Please note that all meals will be held in here, beginning with breakfast tomorrow morning, which will be offered from seven thirty to nine am on weekdays. Curfew is at nine pm every night, and staff will be monitoring the halls. Anyone caught violating the rules will be written up. Three strikes will lead to expulsion.”

A hand shoots up into the air at another table, and I recognize the blue pompadour. Minaro nods in acknowledgment, and Fran stands up. “What about the Wi-­Fi? When will it be fixed?”

There’s a murmur of agreement among the students, and I notice that even the staff members fix their gazes on Minaro, like they’re just as eager for an answer.

“A crew is coming to work on it this week. Until then, you can entertain yourselves with the thousands of books in our grand library on the third story, which is marked on your map. There are computers there that cannot connect to the internet at the moment, but they possess access to various encyclopedic databases. As I said earlier, the renovations to this manor are not yet complete, so we ask you to kindly stick to the labeled locations and not wander off into any forbidden areas.”

She looks right at me as she says, “The signs are there for your safety.”

I don’t know why she would think that out of everyone here, I’m the most likely to act out. Unless . . . 

She saw the video.

Which of course she must have—­that’s why the school parted ways with Ma in the first place.

“We now invite you to fill your plates and get to know your classmates!”

Since everyone makes a mad dash for the food, a line forms. Once I reach the buffet table, I partition my plate into four sections: mac and cheese, ­Caesar salad, chicken wings, and French fries. As I’m heaping on an extra serving of fries, Tiffany leans over my shoulder and says, “Cholesterol isn’t a food group.”

Her plate features a familiar salad: Spinach, tomatoes, and tofu, with a side of fries. Salma’s been vegan for ethical reasons since ninth grade, when she saw a documentary about the meat and dairy industries. This salad plus fries is her go-­to meal.

“At least my dinner’s not a knockoff,” I say before joining Salma at the drink station and filling a glass with lemonade.

“Hello, Miss Santos.”

The deep voice makes my blood run cold, and I look up to see Minaro addressing Sal.

“I received your father’s request to excuse you from wearing the uniform. My deepest condolences for your loss.”

“Um, thank you,” says Salma, her gaze on the plate in her hands.

“Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to wear your current wardrobe to class.” My best friend’s head snaps up to meet the director’s eyes in anticipation of a fight. “That skirt is too short, and those stockings are ripped.”

“I will only wear black,” Salma insists, her thick eyebrows nearly touching, and my grip tightens around the glass. I know that when she uses that tone, she’s immovable.

We may not be at this school much longer.

“I understand,” says the director. “That is why I ordered you an all-­black version of the uniform.”

The frown fades from Salma’s features.

“It is presently being delivered to your room, so that you can wear it to class tomorrow. Are we in agreement?”

Sal nods in assent, and I follow her back to our table, where the others are already seated. No one asks us what that conversation was about, and we eat in silence.

I’m not a fan of the wings, but I finish everything else. Salma scarfs down her fries first, loses interest in her salad after she’s finished all the tofu, and eventually goes in on my fries.

“Where’s everyone from?” asks Zach.

“New York City,” Salma answers for us.

“I’m from Miami,” says Tiffany.

“I know,” says Zach, then he stiffens, like he realizes how creepy that sounds. “I mean, from your reporting. I’m from Chicago.”

Looking far from concerned, Tiffany tips up her chin, as if she’s proud to have a fan/stalker.

“LA,” says Trevor.

“I love Los Angeles,” says Salma, even though I know for a fact she hates it. The last time we flew there with my parents, she complained the whole time about the constant driving and the clogged highways and the “lack of weather.”

“What made you apply here?” It’s unclear if Zach is asking all of us or just Tiffany.

“We don’t have places that look like this in Miami,” says Tiffany with a shrug. “When I saw the pictures, it seemed . . . special.”

“The photos got me, too,” says Zach. “I felt like . . . this school was calling to me.”

“Oh my God, me, too,” she says, looking at him with wide eyes.

I flash to the girls I overheard in the bathroom, and how they used that same word. Could it be coincidence that at least four people felt called to this school?

“I felt it, too,” says Salma, and I turn to her in astonishment. I knew she was intrigued, but I thought it had more to do with getting away from home.

“I didn’t,” says Trevor. “My parents made me apply.”

“Why?” asks Salma.

He flashes her a smirk flanked by adorable dimples. “Probably hoping I could be reformed.”

The corners of my best friend’s mouth curl. Nothing she loves more than an unrepentant bad boy.

“Attention, students.”

Minaro is on her feet again.

“When you are finished with your meal, you may leave everything at the table and exit the dining hall. Feel free to study your map by walking around the manor and becoming familiar with the locations of your classes, but make sure you are back in your rooms by nine pm. The rules are already in effect—­anyone caught venturing about after curfew will receive their first strike.”

Students at other tables are on their feet, and as I push back from my chair, Trevor says, “Wait.”

He pins me with his greenish gaze, and I slowly sit back down. Then he looks at the others. “We should figure out our plan before we go.”

“What plan?” asks Salma.

“You know the plan,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows as he stares into her eyes. “The one where we sneak out after curfew to explore this manor’s forbidden parts.”

Chapter 3

Lorena

“I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are,” says Salma.

We’re back in our room, where we found three sets of an all-­black version of the school uniform waiting for Salma in a package outside the door. She’s swiveling in her desk chair, waiting for her purplish black nail polish to dry. Tiffany is in the bathroom, retouching her makeup.

“Have you forgotten that anyone caught in a blocked-­off area will be expelled   ?” I ask, lying back on my bed.

Salma raises her hands in exasperation, fingers widely extended. “I thought you said part of the appeal of this place was getting away from Tía Viv’s rules. Seriously, if you want to keep being lame, you’re going to have to do it on your own. I want to have fun—­”

“Have you forgotten what happened the last time you had fun?” I blurt out.

Hurt flashes across Salma’s features, like a shock of lightning, and I know I screwed up.

“Sal, I didn’t mean—­”

“You’re right. You should stay.” She swivels around, giving her back to me.

Just then, the door opens, and our roommate strides in. “Some of the girls are gathering in the common room to hang out before curfew. Should we join?”

Salma shrugs, and I don’t answer.

“What’s going on?” asks Tiffany, eyeing us curiously.

“Lorena’s not coming tonight,” says Salma, swiveling from side to side in her chair.

“Makes sense,” says Tiffany. “Mommy wouldn’t approve.”

She must know who I am.

“What’s your problem with me?” I ask, and Salma stops moving.

“I don’t like hypocrites,” Tiffany shoots back, as if she already had the answer locked and loaded. Then she grabs her phone and shows me the screen, like a lawyer presenting an exhibit in court.

Salma leans in as a two-­second video begins to play, probably a live photo that’s been looped. I’ve only seen it once, back in February, and I’ve avoided it ever since.

I’m sitting on a couch in a packed living room, still wearing my winter coat. Music blasts in the background, while a group of people plays beer pong,
and a couple makes out against the far wall. I’m holding a Rick and Morty bong in one hand and a beer can in the other, and I’m staring at the camera like a deer in headlights.

This is the video that wrecked Ma’s parenting credibility.

It wouldn’t have been such a big deal for anyone else, but Ma had just led a huge campaign against recreational cannabis when it was on the ballot. It felt like her detractors were waiting for me to mess up so they could rip her apart.

But why would Tiffany save it to her phone?

“Put that shit away,” says Salma, and Tiffany lowers the screen, releasing me from its hold. “If you bring up Lorena’s mom again, you’re going to need to find a new room.”

Salma’s voice is ice, same as her eyes.

“Whatever,” says Tiffany. “I’m going downstairs.”

Once she leaves, Salma checks her nails again, and I say a soft “Thanks.”

“You don’t have to come tonight if you don’t want to,” says Salma, and there’s still a chill in her demeanor. “But if you’re just scared of what Tía Viv might say, then really think about this. We both turned eighteen last week, which makes us grown-­ass women. It’s time you stand up for yourself and make your own fucking choices.”

At 10:30 pm, Salma, Tiffany, and I slip out of our room and tiptoe downstairs. Part of Trevor’s plan was for us to bring our phones so we can scout any pockets of cell service.

“I think I hear someone!” I whisper, and the three of us duck behind a couch in the common room.

Only two lights are still on—­those closest to the bathroom—­and the rest have been shut off, drowning most of the space in darkness. All I can see of Tiffany and Salma are the whites of their eyes.

“I don’t hear anything,” Tiffany whispers.

“Let’s go,” says Salma.

We stick close to the walls as we pad carefully down the dim passage. The illumination throughout the manor has been set so low that it’s hard to make out much of our surroundings until we reach the room with the billiards tables. This is where we said we’d meet the guys.

We huddle by the table farthest from the room’s two entrances, and I spy a shadow moving in the opposite corner.

I grab Salma’s arm, pulling her under the table with me. She yanks down on Tiffany’s arm, too.

I don’t even dare to breathe as we wait.

“It’s us.”

At the sound of Trevor’s voice, the three of us straighten.

“Did you guys run into anyone?” whispers Salma.

“No,” says Zach, who brought his camera with him.

“Where do we start?” whispers Tiffany.

“Anyone seen one of those roped-­off areas Minaro was talking about?” asks Trevor.

When no one else answers, I say, “I have.”

“Good eye.” Trevor’s teeth sparkle in the darkness, and even in the poor lighting, I see his twin dimples. “Lead the way,” he says, and I march us in the direction of the dining hall.

When we get to the room with the green walls and velvet couches, the air is just one shade above pitch-­black. “Back there,” I say, pointing.

“I see it,” says Trevor, edging ahead of me and making it to the velvet rope first. He pulls out his phone and touches the screen, which lights up the sign:

Under construction. Kindly do not pass.

He holds up his phone to look beyond the warning. “I can’t see much,” he says. “Just a long hallway, I think.”

“What are we waiting for?” Salma steps over the rope and plunges into the blackness without waiting for any of us.

Typical.

Trevor chases after my friend, and I climb over the rope next. The passage smells musty, and within a few steps, I can’t see anything.

A handheld light pops on ahead of me, then another. Salma and Trevor are using their phones to see, and I tap on my flashlight app, too.

The walls fall open around us, and we’re in a wider space blanketed in so much dust that it feels like we’re walking on freshly fallen snow. As our five light beams cast around the space, they reveal grimy white tarps covering pieces of furniture and tangles of spiderwebs clouding the ceiling.

“Anyone have service?” asks Zach. “Or see any Wi-­Fi networks?”

After clicking through our phones, one by one we all report no.

“All this dust is getting in my eyes,” says Tiffany. “Have we considered this might be off-­limits because it’s full of asbestos?”

Just the suggestion makes my lungs feel coated with dirty air.

“I thought you wanted to be an investigative reporter,” says Salma, illuminating the stained and bruised walls. “Don’t you want to know why the passage here was so much narrower than the others? It’s like this room is being deliberately kept out of the way.”

“I like the way you think, Hayek,” says Trevor.

“Thanks, Dimples. But why hide a whole room?”

Trevor looks like he’s stifling a grin as he says, “Let’s find out.” Then he sets down his phone so that the flashlight is aimed at a large piece of furniture and starts to pull on the tarp. Zach helps him remove it, exposing an empty bookshelf.

We uncover a few sofas next, as well as accent tables, a wardrobe, and a grand piano. Our phone lights bounce around in every direction as we keep unveiling more and more items, displacing enough dust that we sound like a chorus of sneezers.

“I found something.”

Trevor’s whisper carries through the space, even though it seems low enough that he could have been talking to himself. He’s standing in front of the wooden wardrobe as the four of us approach. It appears to have been custom-­built into the wall because even though Trevor is shoving his body weight against it, the furniture doesn’t budge.

“What is it?” asks Zach.

Trevor opens the wardrobe’s doors and casts his flashlight across the inside. “See that?”

All I make out is blackness.

“No,” says Salma. “I don’t see anything.”

“Exactly.” Trevor reaches his hand inside, as if to prove it’s empty. “Nothing.” He leans farther in, until his arm disappears completely. “Get it yet?”

“Can you just tell us what—­?”

But the rest of Tiffany’s question falls away as we watch Trevor climb inside the wardrobe and vanish from view.

“Trevor?” Salma calls out, but there’s no response.

“Did he just go to Narnia?” is all I can think to say.

“What are you, twelve?” Tiffany asks me.

“I’m going in,” says Salma, climbing after Trevor.

“Me, too,” says Tiffany, and she goes next.

Zach raises the camera to capture the wardrobe with its open doors, and the flash turns night to day.

“Come on,” he says to me as he climbs inside.

I hesitate, remembering the way Minaro looked at me like I could be a troublemaker. Then I think of what Salma, Zach, Tiffany, and those girls in the bathroom said about this school calling to them. And I wonder—­what if the secret this room is hiding is one best kept buried?

But I can’t abandon Salma, so I shake off my worries and follow the others into the wardrobe. I use my phone for light, but I can’t see anyone ahead of me.

“Hello?” I ask, my voice small in the darkness. By now, I’ve taken too many steps to still be inside a piece of furniture. This passage must cut through the insides of the manor.

It’s so narrow in here that I can reach my arms out and touch both walls, which are smooth and lacking in texture. My calves start to tighten like I’m descending, and then a light appears in the distance. Once I’m closer, I shut off my phone.

The tunnel spills into a basement that’s windowless yet illuminated by a web of glowing white wires strung across the ceiling.

“What is this?” I ask in awe.

“It looks like a library,” says Zach, holding his camera like he’s recording.

Rows of bookshelves fill the space, brimming with spotless spines that match in height and style, differing only in color and thickness. It’s as if they’re all fresh off the same press.

There are a couple of pieces of furniture covered with white tarps. They look smaller than the ones in the dusty room, and I think they might be an ­armchair and a bench. Hanging on the wall are three small portraits, the artwork as detailed as photographs.

The first is of a mustached man with pale white skin, black hair, and silver eyes. The second is of a bald man with coal-­black skin who also has silver eyes. They look like they’re from the eighteenth century in their woven vests with cravats and waistcoats. There’s an ageless quality to their faces that makes me think of Director Minaro, like they could be anywhere between thirty and sixty years old.

“These paintings are older than this manor, probably older than daguerreotypes,” says Zach, studying them closely. “I think the paper is vellum.”

“What’s vellum?” asks Tiffany.

“Calfskin.”

The third portrait features a guy dressed in similar fashion to the others, only he looks younger, closer to our age. Instead of looking straight ahead, he’s in profile and staring at the ground. He’s undeniably handsome, with a sharp jawline, straight nose, and windswept black hair.

He kind of reminds me of how I’ve always pictured Mr. Darcy.

“Are these sketchbooks?” asks Tiffany, holding a text open in her hands. “Or unlined journals?”

I see that Salma and Trevor are also flipping through books, and I ask, “What’s going on?”

“They’re all blank,” says Salma with a frustrated exhale. “I don’t get it.”

“Maybe they’re planning to hand these out to us tomorrow,” says Zach, picking one up. “For our assignments.”

“Then why did they tell us to bring our own notebooks?” I ask as I peruse a text with a purple cover. The leather binding is immaculate, like it’s never been touched. I leaf through the thick pages, but there isn’t a drop of ink anywhere.

“If anyone finds anything, call it out,” says Trevor as he picks up a green book.

We’re quiet for a while, the only sound in the space the turning of pages.

“Can I get some help with this?” asks Salma after what feels like hours but could have just been minutes. Tiffany bounds over before I can even set down the book I’m holding.

I’ve already gone through dozens of texts, but Trevor is still thumbing through the same green book, carefully inspecting it page by page. “Anything good in there?” I ask.

He looks up like I’ve startled him. “Just being cautious,” he says.

There’s a snap of fabric, and I turn to see that Salma and Tiffany have removed one of the tarps, revealing a leather love seat that releases a whiff of a sour and moldy odor. They plop down on the cushion, and the backrest leans back automatically.

A footrest pops up, elevating their legs, and they shriek in unison as both armrests open and metal arms shoot out, with candle holders and metal fingers.

“Whoa,” says Salma.

The three of us approach for a closer inspection, and Tiffany tells Zach, “Pass me a book.” When he hands her one, she nestles it in the metal fingers. They hold the pages up at head level for her to read.

“What is this?” asks Trevor, while Zach captures it with his camera.

Salma grins at me. “If you had this chair, you’d never leave your room again.” Then she leaps to her feet and approaches another piece of furniture, eager to keep unwrapping surprises.

This time, she pulls off the tarp on her own, uncovering what looks like a low wooden storage bench with metal latches and an oxidized lock. The whole thing looks ancient.

“What’s that?” asks Tiffany.

I hear Sal’s sharp intake of breath, and it’s only then that I register the hexagonal shape and black cross on the side.

I take a horrified step back.

“A coffin,” I whisper.

I don’t know how long we all stand and stare. It starts to feel like we’re giving the coffin a moment of silence.

“Let’s open it.”

Salma’s voice penetrates the quiet. This is what she does when she feels vulnerable—­she overcompensates by pretending everything is a joke.

“Let’s not,” I say.

“There’s a lock,” Tiffany points out.

“We can probably break it!” Salma moves forward like she’s going to do it. “What are you afraid of—­?”

“NO!”

Trevor’s shout makes us all jump. He’s still holding the green book, and his eyes are wide with actual fear.

“Okay, let’s calm down,” says Zach, his voice tight. “It’s probably empty.”

I move closer to Salma. I want to get her out of here before the adrenaline recedes and leaves sadness in its wake. I also really need to use the bathroom and change my pad. “It’s late,” I say, speaking only to her. “Why don’t we—­?”

A thump sound cuts me off, and Zach leaps back, knocking into me. I fall to the floor, scraping my palm on the stone hard enough to draw blood.

“Did that thing just move?” whispers Tiffany as Salma pulls me to my feet.

Zach says, “Let’s just—­”

Then the metal lock goes flying as the coffin’s lid blasts open.

Our screams pierce the air as we run.

We’re forced to funnel single file into the tunnel, and Trevor makes it there first, followed by Salma, Zach, and Tiffany. I plunge into the darkness after them, but I feel a sharp tug on my hoodie, like the fabric snagged on something.

I glance back to see where it’s caught—­and horror hardens my blood to ice.

I part my lips to scream, but a chilly hand covers my mouth, and I’m dragged back to the basement, then slammed into the wall.

Pain burns in the back of my skull, and as my blurry vision clears, a face swims before me.

The guy is as pale as a corpse. He’s tall, with a mane of black hair that’s wild and unkempt, and he’s dressed in some ridiculous vintage costume. Yet something about his blade-­sharp features looks familiar, and my eyes widen—­

The teen guy from the portrait.

His hand is a vise across my lips, and I can’t speak. Yet he’s not looking at my face. His gaze is tipped down, transfixed on my bloody hand.

His mouth starts to widen in what looks like a smile . . . 

Until a pair of pointy fangs slides out. ...

View all