What Does A Dragon, A Vampire, and God have in common?

Monday mornings always seemed to treat me like a personal punching bag, and this one was currently winding up for a brutal left hook. My apartment looked exactly like it always did: a cramped, two-bedroom unit that was last renovated back in the early 1950s. It was choked with a hideous orange shag carpet everywhere except the kitchen, which featured peeling yellow cabinets and a yellowing black-and-white checkered linoleum floor. My roommate and I had gone cheap when furnishing the place. Every piece of furniture was a secondhand relic fished from thrift stores, like our cheap black table with wobbly silver chairs that we had literally dragged out of the back alley behind our Philadelphia apartment. The rest of the home looked as it always had—canvases stacked precariously against paint-splattered walls, half-empty tubes of acrylics littering the coffee table, and a sticky kitchen floor begging for a mop—but the real disaster struck when my toasted everything bagel, dripping with melted chive cream cheese, slipped from my fingers. I made a heroic, desperate dive for it, my feet flying out from under me as usual, but instead of the expected, bone-jarring impact with the sticky floor, I plunged right through a shimmering, iridescent rift that tore open beneath my feet, smelling of burnt copper and cold static.

The fall lasted forever and forever lasted no time at all. A terrifyingly cold void wrapped around me like an icy cloak, my skin tingling and burning with a chaotic, dormant power that felt both terrifying and strangely familiar, like a static shock that vibrated straight through my bones. The emptiness pressed against my ears with a heavy, deafening silence, and the air tasted of ancient dust and ozone. Just as my lungs began to scream for oxygen, I slammed back onto my kitchen floor with a heavy, wet thud that rattled the cheap plastic cabinets. My skin glowed with a pulsating, vibrant rainbow light that illuminated the dark room with neon hues of violet and gold, casting long, jittery shadows up the yellowed walls. Jill stood frozen in the doorway, her thick glasses slipping down her nose and a half-eaten banana clutched in her hand like a trophy as she stared at the iridescent aura pulsing wildly around my body, her eyes wide as dinner plates behind her frames.

"Serenity, what the literal, actual hell was that?" Jill shrieked, pointing her half-eaten banana at me like it was a loaded weapon. "Did you just portal through the space-time continuum to avoid sweeping? Because if so, that is a whole new level of lazy, even for you. Next time, just tell me you're allergic to the broom."

I looked up at her from the floor, my hair defying gravity and my dignity officially deceased. "My bagel. It committed suicide, Jill. I was just trying to perform CPR on a toasted carb, and the universe decided to swallow me whole instead," I muttered, rubbing my aching backside. "And for the record, I'd gladly jump into another dimension before I touch that prehistoric broom of yours. But hey, at least I didn't have to finish wiping down the counters, right? Always look on the bright side of cosmic anomalies."

The bagel itself had vanished without a trace—presumably now floating through some cosmic dimension where carbs reign supreme—leaving behind only a sharp, metallic smell of ozone that hung heavy in the air. My hands shook violently as I pushed myself up from the cold tile, watching the strange, colorful light gradually recede back beneath my skin like ink dissolving in water. Jill rushed over to help me up, her fingers digging firmly into my shoulder as she carefully guided my trembling, uncoordinated frame toward a wooden barstool that wobbled under my weight.

"Look at your hands," Jill whispered, her voice dropping to a frantic, hushed register that I had never heard from her before. She grabbed my wrists, turning my palms upward. Faint, spiderweb-thin lines of iridescent violet and gold were still pulsing right beneath my skin, tracing my veins like an illuminated roadmap. "Serenity, normal humans do not turn into disco balls when they drop their breakfast. What did you feel in there? Where did you go? And please tell me you didn't leave the cream cheese in another dimension."

"I don't know! It was just cold. Freezing, teeth-chattering, 'holy-crap-I'm-going-to-die' cold," I stammered, rubbing my arms to ward off the phantom chill that still lingered in my marrow. "And then there was this weird pull, like some cosmic magnet was dragging me by my belly button. I think my bagel went first. If there's some extra-dimensional demon out there eating my toasted everything with extra chive right now, I'm going to sue for cosmic copyright infringement."

Jill didn't laugh. She just stared at my palms as the glowing veins finally faded back into my pale skin, her expression a mix of absolute terror and something else—something that looked suspiciously like calculation. I should be worried that this whole event didn't freak her out more, but the cold and injured backside prevented me from looking too closely. "We need to get you to school. You can't miss your first-period art class, but the second we get home, we'll figure this out. Do not touch anything metallic. Actually, do not touch anything at all if you can help it; if you can't, wear these oven mitts," She said as she handed me our kitten-infused oven mitt and our only other mitt, stating, "May the force be with you".  

The walk to school was a total exercise in paranoia. I kept my hands shoved deep inside my coat pockets, burying my fingers in the linty lining and praying that I wouldn’t accidentally open a portal to Middle-earth while crossing Broad Street. Every car horn and screech of brakes made me jump a foot in the air. By the time I walked into my high school art classroom, my nerves were completely shot. The room smelled of turpentine, damp clay, and the distinct, slightly damp aroma of teenagers who had skipped morning showers. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, sending a sharp throb straight behind my eyeballs. I tried to focus on my lesson plan, but my hands were still trembling, a weird, electric itch buzzing right beneath my fingernails like I’d drunk five shots of espresso.

"Hey, Ms. Lark, can you check out my sculpture?" asked Toby, a sweet but incredibly clumsy sophomore who had spent the last three weeks agonizing over a clay figure of a dragon. "I think the wings are finally holding up."

"Sure thing, Toby," I said, forcing a cheerful smile as I stepped over to his desk. I leaned in to get a closer look at the gray, unbaked clay. I didn't even touch the damn thing. I just stared at the delicate curve of the left wing, thinking about how easily clay could collapse if it wasn't balanced right. Suddenly, a weird jolt of heat shot straight out of my chest and down my arms. Before my eyes, the clay began to glow with a dull, orange heat. Toby let out a yelp and scrambled backward as his dragon literally melted into a steaming, bubbling puddle of gray sludge right on his wooden board.

"Holy crap! Ms. Lark, what did you do?" Toby gasped, staring at the ruin of his three-week project with wide, terrified eyes.

"I—I don't know! I didn't touch it, I swear!" I stammered, raising my hands in surrender. The rest of the class was staring at me now, whispered murmurs breaking out across the room. I spent the next twenty minutes frantically apologizing, assigning Toby an automatic 'A' for his lost effort, and hiding behind my desk while trying to keep my breathing under control. My accidents weren't just clumsy anymore. They were turning into a straight-up hazard to public property.

By the time the final bell rang and I practically sprinted back to the apartment, I was a certified basket case. Jill was waiting for me, pacing the checkered kitchen floor with a stack of old, dusty books that looked like they belonged in a museum rather than our cheap Philadelphia apartment. Before she could even ask, a heavy, deliberate knock echoed from our front door. The sound was slow and rhythmic, vibrating right through the cheap wood and settling in the pit of my stomach like a lead weight.

Jill froze, her eyes locked onto the door as if she could see right through it. I slowly walked forward, each step heavy as my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. When I pulled the heavy door open, the sharp, crisp scent of cold winter rain and expensive, rich tobacco washed over me, instantly cutting through the stale smell of burnt toast in our apartment. Standing in the dim, flickering light of the hallway was a man who looked like he had stepped straight out of a Victorian nightmare, and holy hell, he was absolutely gorgeous. He wore a tailored charcoal overcoat that draped elegantly over his broad shoulders, hinting at a seriously built chest beneath. His dark hair was swept back from a pale, aristocratically sharp face with high cheekbones, and his lips were full, dark, and practically begging for a sin. His eyes were a piercing, unnatural shade of silver that seemed to look right through my skin, making me feel suddenly naked. He stood perfectly still, not even seeming to breathe, a dark silhouette against the peeling wallpaper of our hallway.

"Serenity Lark," he said, his voice a smooth, low baritone, with a slight Old English accent, that vibrated straight through my bones and settled somewhere far lower, giving me a sudden, inappropriate flush of heat. "My name is Andrei Volero. You have awakened, little hybrid, and you are currently the brightest beacon in the supernatural world. I suggest you let me in before someone less polite comes to claim you."

Panic flared hot in my chest, but my sarcasm reflex kicked in first. "Nope, not today, Dracula. I'm fresh out of blood, and my roommate already used all the garlic on our cheap pasta," I yelled, slamming the door shut with all my might. But instead of a satisfying thud, my hand passed straight through the wood. A soft, golden light pulsed from my palms, and the center of our front door instantly dissolved into a cloud of shimmering, sparkling dust, leaving me staring right back at his smug, amused face. "Well. There goes our security deposit."

<|eos|>