Chapter Text
George’s nightmare was weird, even by dream standards.
He was in a grey room with low ceilings and bookshelves lining the walls. Degrees hung on the walls, and a huge wooden desk sat in the middle of the floor. He knew this room well. He was in the principal’s office at school, sitting in the hot seat facing the principal’s desk.
All he could see of the principal was the back of her chair and the top of her tight, black-haired bun. “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Crabtree,” she said sharply. Her voice seemed to come at him from every direction.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Maheswaran,” he said, looking down at his shoes. “It won’t happen again.” He didn’t know what he had done, but whatever it was, it was bound to be his fault.
“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Crabtree,” she said. “This will happen again. These things will continue to happen as long as you are here at this school. This is just what you do.”
Tears stung behind George’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never meant to cause trouble.”
"And yet, you cause trouble." Mrs. Maheswaran turned around in her chair, but when she turned around, she wasn’t George’s principal, or, at least, not mostly. Her head was Mrs. Maheswaran, complete with the same grey, judgemental eyes she always had, but her head was attached to a lion’s body. Golden fur, paws the size of archery targets and claws as long as George’s hand. On her back were two, massive folded feathery wings. “Whether you mean to or not—” Her voice boomed and bounced around the room, shaking the desk and knocking books off of the shelves. “You cause trouble.” She rose from her seat, walking on all four of her massive paws. She made a cat-like leap onto the top of her desk, the wood groaning under her weight. “I have no more patience for you, Mr. Crabtree.”
George jumped up from his seat. “I’ll try harder!” he cried. “I promise! I won’t mess up anymore! I’ll follow every single rule, I swear!” He stared up into her eyes. “I can be a good kid.”
She squinted down at him, seeming to double in size. “You cannot,” she said. “You cannot escape what you are destined to be.” She opened her mouth wide, wider, and wider still, until it was a huge, massive gaping cavern. She bent down, aiming her mouth straight at George.
George gasped, ducking as she dove right at him, catching him in her mouth and swallowing.
He was falling, down, down, down onto a cold, stone floor. Groaning, George got to his feet, looking around.
It was too dark to see anything. He couldn’t even see his own nose.
A small orange light flickered to life in front of him. He took a few cautious steps towards it, stretching out his fingers to touch it.
The moment he made contact with the light, his surroundings changed.
He was standing in the middle of a forest clearing, near a large lake. Nestled in the trees were twelve buildings, like cabins at a summer camp, arranged in a roughly U shape around a huge, stone fireplace. George had never seen a more mismatched group of buildings in his life.
A bunch of kids ran past him; mingling in the field, shooting baskets at a basketball court and swinging bronze swords at each other. All of them were wearing bright orange t-shirts with a black pegasus printed on them. The shirts had words on them too, but George couldn’t read them. He was dyslexic, and letters had the nasty habit of whizzing all over and swapping places with each other when he tried to read. The kids were too far away and moving around too much for the letters to look like anything more than alphabet soup.
George wasn’t sure why, but he felt at home here.
He took a step forward. His foot sizzled against the ground. George blinked, staring down at his feet. His eyes widened in horror.
The grass under his feet was burning. Flames spread out from his footprints, blazing through the grass and leaving only ash behind. The fire bloomed outward, reducing everything to dust. The cabins went up in flames. The kids gasped, trying to run away, but their feet were stuck in place. They looked at George with wide eyes, begging for help, begging him to stop.
George couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was watch as the scene was swallowed by a wall of flickering flames.
Over the crackling of the roaring fire, Mrs. Maheswaran’s voice boomed overhead: “This is what you do, Mr. Crabtree!”
George woke up with a start.
Henry Higgins, his best friend, was shaking his shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.
George swallowed, trying to slow his breathing down. “Yeah.”
They were sitting on a moving train, taking the Long Island Railroad to spend the summer break at Henry’s summer home.
“Are you sure?” asked Henry, frowning. “You were kind of screaming.”
George nodded. “I’m fine.” He blinked. “Just… weird dream.”
“A dream?” asked Henry, biting his lip. “About what?”
George shrugged, shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I don’t even really remember it anymore.” He was lying. He remembered everything: Mrs. Maheswaran’s words, the cabins in the woods, the way the kids screamed for help… George prickled, taking a deep breath, turning to gaze out the train window, watching Queens speed past behind him.
He tried his best to forget about his dream. His mind was one of the most forgetful minds imaginable, but no matter how hard he tried, it was burned into his memory.
It’s just a dream, he told himself. It doesn’t mean anything.
Beside him, Henry spun his thumbs around each other, mumbling something under his breath that George couldn’t hear.
“You okay?” asked George, poking him.
“What?” Henry jumped, like he’d been worlds away.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Henry nodded unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”
George shot him a pointed look. “You suck at lying, Henry.”
“Oh, but you’re allowed to lie about your dreams?”
George’s eyes met the floor of the train. He hugged his backpack against his chest.
“Sorry.” Henry took a deep breath through his nose, sighing. “I just… don’t like how it smells here.”
George sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”
Henry shook his head. “You wouldn’t. Nevermind. It’s… it’s probably nothing.” He wiped his hands across his jeans, still looking uncomfortable.
"Look,” said George. “I know there were a lot of creeps this morning, but that's just New York. You get used to it."
Henry didn't respond, sitting as tense and as still as a statue.
Henry Higgins was the jumpiest and most neurotic kid George had ever met. “Not that way!” he’d yell in the halls at school, dragging George down a different corridor or into the bathroom for no reason. On the way to the train station that afternoon, he’d dragged George down the weirdest back alleys and side streets, saying, “this is the safest way.” Every time George would ask him about it, he gave the same answer: “it just smells weird over there.”
George figured he was one of those kids with perfume sensitivities.
Henry was a weird kid.
The train pulled into a station, and a handful of passengers filed onto the train. One of them immediately caught Henry’s eye: a boy with neat black hair. He hesitated for a second, staring at Henry with wide eyes before shuffling over to the opposite side of the train car and taking a seat.
Weirdo, thought George. He turned to Henry to make a comment about the boy, but stopped when he saw that Henry was staring back at him, his face pale.
George poked him. “Everything okay?”
Henry nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, blinking. “Sorry.”
“Do you know that guy?”
Henry didn’t respond.
There was awkward, tense silence for several seconds.
George decided to change the subject. “Is your family rich or something?”
“What?” Henry pried his eye away from the black-haired boy.
George shrugged as he went on. “Cause we’re going to your summer home, right? I thought you have to be rich to have one of those.”
Henry cleared his throat into his fist. “Well,” he said. “It’s not exactly my summer home. I just… I stay there over the summer. My family doesn’t own it or anything.”
“So, you’re rich.”
“I’m not rich rich. Not super rich.”
“That is exactly what a super rich person would say.”
“I’m not!”
George laughed. “I’m messing with you, Henry.” He shuffled his feet around. “You’re sure it’ll be okay for me to come?”
Henry snorted an almost-laugh. “Trust me, George,” he said. “This is the only place where you’ll really be okay.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Henry glanced at him. “Nothing,” he said. “Ignore me.” He gazed back at the black-haired boy. His cheeks reddened.
George fiddled with the strings on his hoodie, pulling them so that his hood shrunk. "What's it called again?" he asked. "Something about blood?"
"Half-Blood Hill," said Henry, sucking in a tight breath.
"Why's it called that? Was there, like, some war that happened there but only on one side of the hill?"
"I don’t… maybe, actually?"
Outside the window, another train station platform came into view as the train slowed to a stop. A few other passengers left the train car, leaving only four passengers total: George, Henry, the boy with the black hair and a pretty blonde lady sitting in the seat right in front of George’s.
Henry swallowed. He scratched the back of his neck, looking at the boy with the black hair again.
The boy checked his watch and stood up, walking down the aisle towards the onboard washroom stall.
Henry’s gaze followed him as he walked past.
George elbowed him. “What’s his deal?”
Henry made a surprised sound. It was a noise he made a lot, something that sounded almost like a shocked goat’s bleat. George assumed it was a nervous tick. “What?”
“Why do you keep looking at him?”
Henry’s eyes shot into his lap. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
“Henry, I saw you!”
“I wasn’t looking at him, I was just… staring into space!”
“Staring into the exact same space several times in a row? Who does that?”
“I wasn’t staring at him!”
“Do you have some kind of crush on him or something?”
“Of course not! Maybe you have a crush on him! You seem super interested in why I’m looking at him!”
“I don’t have a crush on him, because unlike you, Henry, I get to know someone before I decide if I like them or not!”
“If this is about that girl from the eighth grade—”
“Her name is Becca, Henry, you can at least try to learn names—”
“Boys!” The thin, pretty lady whirled around, peeking her head over the seat in front of them. “What are you shouting for?”
The boys immediately stopped talking.
Henry stiffened, staring at her with wide eyes.
“Sorry,” said George apologetically. “We just got excited. We didn’t mean to bother you.”
She smiled. Her teeth were a glittering white. “Oh, you weren’t bothering me,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure that two sweet boys like you both weren’t fighting.” She grinned at George. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Don’t talk to him,” snapped Henry through gritted teeth.
The woman’s smile wilted as she turned to him. She looked at Henry with what was almost a snarl on her face. She leaned a little further over the seat, peeking at George again and smiling. "What's your name, dear?"
Henry elbowed George. “Don’t tell her, George,” he whispered. He blushed when he realized his mistake. “Oh, sticks.” Henry’s go-to swear made no sense to George.
Thunder rolled overhead.
The lady smiled. “George,” she repeated. She ran her tongue along her teeth, as if imagining the taste of a juicy hamburger. “What a delicious name.”
“Uh, thanks?” George had never heard anyone use the word delicious like that.
Henry let out a shaky breath.
The lady went on. "You know, George, you're so sweet, I think I'll just eat you up."
George squinted at her. "Don't you mean you could eat me up?"
She laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh, more like an evil witch cackle. "No," she said, standing up from her seat. She was taller than she'd initially seemed.
It only just then occurred to George that the train wasn't moving. It had stopped at Bellrose station, and the doors had opened and closed, but it hadn't started moving again.
The lady's hair started standing up on end, slowly turning redder and redder. Her teeth grew longer and sharper, filing into two huge fangs. Her eyes glowed crimson.
"Whoa," George swallowed. "What… are… are you a vampire?"
She stepped around the seats, and George caught a glimpse of her legs, which were poking out from under her flowery dress. He gasped.
Jamming his fist into the emergency stop button, Henry grabbed George's hand. "Run," he ordered, pulling him to his feet and dragging him halfway across the train compartment. "The doors aren't going to open for us, we have to hide."
George's eyes were wide as he slung his backpack over his shoulders. "What's up with her legs?"
"She's a monster, George, there's going to be a lot wrong with her." Henry shoved him under a seat.
"Okay, but one of them is made of metal and the other one is a freaking donkey leg!"
Henry eyed him sharply. "You got a problem with animal legs?"
“Yeah! Kind of! When they’re on people!”
Henry looked offended, but he shook his head, ignoring it. “Look,” he said, nodding towards the back exit of the train. “If you run now, you can make it to the next car over.”
“We’re not going to have time for that, Henry.”
“You will.”
George stared at him as his words sunk in. “If you think I’m going to leave you with Countess Von Freaky Legs over there, then you’re even dumber than I thought you were.”
"You're the one she wants, George!" Hissed Henry, shoving George towards the exit. "She won't care about me… probably."
"Probably?"
Henry sucked in a breath. "Look, George," he said. "You're… you're my best friend. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"How do you think I feel?" George shook his head. "We're staying together."
"Going somewhere, boys?" The lady materialized in front of them. With her grey skin, flaming hair and shining red eyes, George couldn't think how he ever thought she was pretty. She towered over them, cornering them against the window seat.
George glared at her, kicking his leg in her direction, sending her tumbling backwards into the aisle. "Back off!" He said. "I…" he swallowed. "I don't know what you are, or where you get off harassing kids on a train, but I'm not going to let you hurt my friend!"
Henry glanced at George with an almost proud expression, like George was a little kid who'd just learned the alphabet.
The lady growled, picking herself up off the floor. She glared at George, lashing out with her hand and grabbing his arm.
"George!" Cried Henry. "Let him go!"
Her fingers were squeezing George so hard, he felt like they might go right through his arm. She hissed, baring her teeth and opening her mouth wide, ready to take a bite.
George broke out of her grip, grabbed Henry's hand, and sprinted to the other side of the train car, ducking under a row of seats.
Henry stared at him. "How did you do that?"
"Do what?" George's vision was starting to blur, and his limbs felt like lead. He forced himself to keep his eyes open. Adrenaline, don't fail me now.
"How'd you get here so fast?"
George looked at Henry funny. "I just ran," he said.
"But—"
"There you boys are." The donkey vampire lady caught up to them. She sneered down at George. "You're a quick little boy, aren't you?" She leaned in close to the boys, closer and closer, almost like she was going to kiss them.
"Hey, whoa, whoa." George ducked away from her. “Not until at least the third date!”
Henry whimpered. “We're about to die and you're making jokes?”
"Consent isn't a joke!"
The lady smiled. "It's lunchtime, boys!"
George swallowed. "It's three o’clock in the afternoon,” he pointed out meekly.
She huffed, sitting back slightly. "Well, what do you want me to say? It's teatime? There is absolutely nothing threatening about tea!" She smirked evilly. "Breakfast, lunch, or dinner; either way, I’m sure you’ll be just delicious!”
George gasped, squeezing his eyes shut as she lunged forward, waiting for her to chomp on him, but nothing happened.
He heard a sickening sound, a gasp, and then he was suddenly hit in the face with a wave of dust.
He blinked, staring in disgust and confusion at the sulphur-smelling powder covering his hoodie.
“Are you all right?” asked a voice.
Standing over them, holding a four-foot long bronze sword, was the boy with the black hair, the one that Henry had been so fixated on earlier.
George stared at him. His mouth refused to work for a full fifteen seconds. When he finally managed to speak, he cleared his throat. “Did… did you just disintegrate a donkey vampire?”
“Empousa,” said the boy, stretching out a hand to help George to his feet.
“Gesundheit,” said George, dusting his clothes off.
The boy looked to be somewhere around sixteen years old. He must have unzipped his jacket in the bathroom, because George could see his t-shirt now, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
The boy was wearing a bright orange t-shirt, just like the ones the kids in George’s dream were wearing. The letters were faded, and the pegasus picture was cracked and peeling, but it was definitely the same shirt.
Now that he could see it clearer, George could read the words printed on the shirt. Or, well, sort of. To him, it looked like Cmpa Hfla-Boold, but that didn’t seem right.
The boy fiddled with the hilt of his sword, and something incredible happened. The blade shrank down into a red Swiss Army Knife, and the boy folded it back into its casing and tucked it into his pocket.
George didn’t know much about swords, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t normal.
The black-haired boy shot Henry a glare, resting his hands on his hips. “You almost got him killed!” he hissed. “Couldn’t you tell she was a monster? You have one job!”
Henry looked down, getting to his feet. “It’s not like it’s easy,” he mumbled. “We had to avoid two monsters at school and three on the way to the train station. He—” He broke off, glancing at George and lowering his voice to a whisper. “He’s got a pretty strong smell.”
“Hey!” George elbowed him in the ribs. “You smell like a barnyard half the time.”
The boy sighed, fiddling with his wristwatch. “I assume you’re taking him to camp?”
Henry nodded.
“Camp?” George swallowed, remembering his dream again. He glanced at Henry. “Your family owns a camp?”
Henry flushed pink. “I told you, my family doesn't own it! I… I just work there.” He tilted his head, taking in a sharp breath. “I mean, if you want to get technical about it, his family owns it…” he gestured to the black-haired boy.
The boy shot him a glare. “Stop talking,” he hissed, eyeing George pointedly. “The less he knows, the better. Especially if he smells as strong as you say he does.”
George frowned, subtly maneuvering a hand under his shirt and into his underarm, sniffing his finger. He didn't smell that bad. No worse than average, at least. “Do you two know each other or something?” he asked, pointing to both of them.
“You could say that,” murmured the boy. He turned to Henry. “Is your nose working now?”
Henry turned beet red, nodding. He sniffed the air. “I don’t think I smell any monsters nearby,” he said. “But it’s hard to tell. This train goes underground, and it always smells like monsters underground.”
The boy sighed. “Great,” he muttered. “Are there any other half-bloods on the train?”
Henry paused. “Maybe? Your guys' smell is covering a lot of stuff up… no offense.”
George shook his head, tugging on the bottom of his hoodie. “No. Stop. Hold up.” He pointed at the boy with the black hair and at Henry, swallowing hard. “What the heck is going on?” He pointed to the boy with the black hair. “Who are you? How do you two know each other? What the heck is with that Swiss Army Sword you have? What do you mean ‘camp?’ And ‘half-bloods,’ what the heck is that supposed to mean?”
Henry and the boy exchanged a look.
The boy cleared his throat, extending a hand out towards George. “My name is William Murdoch,” he said.
“George Crabtree,” said George, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you. Now tell me what the heck is going on.”
“Not now,” said Murdoch. “It’s too risky. The less you know, the fewer monsters you’ll attract.”
“Monsters,” repeated George. “Like the donkey vampire lady.”
“The empousa,” corrected Murdoch. “Yes.”
“So, you’re telling me that monsters are real?”
Murdoch pinched his lips together. “Yeah,” he said. “But that’s all I’m telling you.”
“But…” A slow smile spread on George’s face. “Monsters… They’re real? Like, vampires and werewolves and zombies? They’re all real?”
“More like manticores and minotaurs and BAAH —” Henry got cut off by Murdoch kicking him in the shin. He made that goat-like noise again.
“Stop talking!” Murdoch hissed, looking around nervously as if he expected a bunch of monsters to come crawling out of the ground. He took a deep breath. “Yes, they’re real. Now, no more questions.”
“But—” began George.
“No more questions.” Murdoch sat down on a seat. “We are going to ride the train in silence and pray that that was the only monster here.”
Henry raised a timid hand.
“What?” asked Murdoch, exasperated.
“Someone’s coming,” Henry said quietly.
Murdoch’s eyes went wide. “A monster?”
Henry shook his head. “A half-blood.”
Right as he said the words, the door at the end of the train car slid open and a tall, red headed boy burst in. “Bloody hell, Murdoch,” he greeted. “Nice to see you.” He had some kind of British accent. He looked older than Murdoch, maybe eighteen or nineteen. In his right hand, he held a huge, bronze spear. “How was your summer?”
“Fine,” said Murdoch.
“Glad to hear it,” said the British guy breathlessly. He locked eyes with Murdoch. “We’ve got company.”
“What kind of company?”
The British guy gripped his spear. “Dracanae.”
Murdoch went pale. “How many?”
“Two.”
George waved his hand. “Hey, hi. What the heck is going on?”
The British boy looked at him.“What’s your name?”
“George Crabtree.”
“Nice to meet you, Crabtree. The name’s Brackenreid,” he said, pulling a bronze knife out of his belt and pressing it into George’s hands. “Take this.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?” demanded George.
Brackenreid smirked. “Try not to die.”