Blood Curse of the Human Huntress

I haven't taken two steps into the large ballroom when a hand grabs the back of my ass. Not a simple slap, but a full-on grope, with fingers digging into the flesh of my ass cheek. Oh, hell no.

My silk-gloved hand whips out behind me, and I grab the douchebag by his dick and balls, turning in a circle so I'm face-to-face with the asshole who thought he could get away with touching me. A full-on grope, only I'm going for pain.

Lots and lots of pain, if the guy's high-pitched yelp is anything to go by. The sound draws attention from the group of pompously dressed people nearby, and maybe that's just me being presumptuous or judgmental, but one person even holds a cup with his pinky up. How classy.

I refocus my attention on the man at hand. He wears a pressed black suit, the loose fabric of his slacks making it easier for me to grip him in his nether region. His brown hair is slicked back with grease, the scent of his cologne thick and pungent. He wears a simple, matching black mask that hides the upper half of his face, his dark brown eyes wide. Pimples dot the cleft of his chin, and I start to wonder where he got the confidence to do what he did.

Or maybe it's the fact that no one can tell his identity through his mask.

“Shit, fuck, I'm sorry.” He gasps, his hands raising up in surrender as his jaw drops. We start to draw attention from the other first-year students around us, but I'm not too worried about it anymore. Let them watch; the more, the better. Maybe they'll take this as a warning and won't do what this dumbass did.

“Hasn't your mother ever taught you to keep your hands to yourself?” I lean into him, my voice a low whisper as my breasts brush against his chest. He holds his breath, and I think his dick twitches in my hand. My upper lip lifts in disgust, and I squeeze him hard, a scream leaving him when I do.

“Let go, please.” His knees buckle, and he slams hard into the marble tile of the grand ballroom. I lean down with him, my long black hair falling over my shoulder and brushing against the side of his face, and I twist his balls for good measure.

“I'll happily teach you.” I mutter. I swipe my hand on the fabric of his suit jacket and turn back to the front. Whispers break out around us, the others backing away from the dude cupping his balls as he rocks side to side. I guess it's never too early to rack up a reputation.

I brush past him and everyone else near the front double-door entrance, but pause when I feel a presence following me. A quartet plays on a raised platform, the sound of music echoing through the large ballroom. The party is in full swing, with finely dressed young men and women staying on the dance floor with their fancy twirls and dips.

I forget all about the boy—because only a boy would do what he did—and smooth a hand down the white silky fabric of my late mother's wedding gown. I can do this, I encourage myself as I scan the room with narrowed eyes. If Roman could—can, then so can I. Reaching up to make sure my masquerade mask hasn't slipped off, I gather all the courage I can muster.

“Nice.” A girl murmurs as she moves to stand beside me. Her red hair is wild and curly, despite her attempt to pin it down neatly to her head. “He did that to nearly half the girls who walked in here. And it's only the first day.”

I raise an eyebrow, glancing around at the other young women near us. Some of them glare over at him, where he struggles to get back on his feet, looking like they'd spit on his face if they were given a chance to, and some of them look satisfied at the justice I served. Maybe I should grind his dick into the ground with my newly bought stilettos? High heels aren't just to look pretty, you know. They can deal a good amount of damage if you try hard enough.

“I'm Coralie. Nice to meet you.” She holds out a manicured hand. She wears an ankle-length red bodice dress with a slit on one side, revealing a long and elegant leg. I shake her hand, trying to ignore the way her cold skin comes into contact.

“Raven.” I introduce myself.

“If anyone else does that to me, I'll be damn sure to call you.” She chuckles. I hum, turning my gaze back to the front as I lose interest in the conversation. No offense to Coralie, but making friends is not exactly at the top of my list of priorities right now.

Dead boys sing no songs.

Despite the ironic lyrics, I find myself chasing after one. A dead boy, I mean. Or, I hope he's not dead and only just missing.

My phone vibrates inside my handbag, and I pull it out. Rachel Hollow. I ignore it. I'm sure my grandmother is furious with me, but she should've known better. Heck, she does know better, so I honestly don't understand why she's so mad. She knew this was going to happen.

Raven Hollow, which is me, by the way, is not going to stand by while her twin brother and best friend, Roman Hollow, could be buried six feet under by now. I gave my grandmother two months to find him and bring him back. Two months with no communication and no return. Two months too long, in my opinion. My phone vibrates like crazy, but I continue to ignore it.

Something weird is happening. Roman doesn't just go radio silent. Never for this long, at least.

Ashmourne Academy is not like the other schools and has earned an eerie reputation in my town. Their doors open once the sun has set, and for orientation they throw a grand masquerade ball. Let's not forget it's smack-dab in the middle of a haunted forest, or so the rumor goes.

A bunch of gothic freaks, my friend Vanessa had always said.

But I'm a professional detective. With this, I have to be, because I'll be damned if I end up going back home to Grandma empty-handed.