In the weeks following the fiery demise of Joseph Crackstone and the Demonic Brute, a bizarre, unsettling normalcy descended upon Nevermore Academy. The shattered quad was rebuilt, the ruined crypt was sealed, and the student body collectively decided to elevate the four people responsible for saving their lives to the status of campus idols.
Enid Sinclair, naturally, thrived in the spotlight. She strutted through the gothic hallways like a pastel queen, her newly minted Alpha status making her the undisputed apex predator of the school. She graciously accepted the awe-struck stares, posed for endless photos, and happily recounted the tale of her first transformation to anyone who would listen.
Wednesday, on the other hand, found the sudden adoration physically nauseating.
"Fame is simply a prolonged, irritating prelude to public execution," Wednesday muttered one morning, glaring coldly at a group of whispering vampires who scurried away under her gaze. "If one more freshman attempts to thank me for my 'heroism,' I am going to start severing fingers and mailing them to their parents."
Aleksander shared her sentiment, ignoring the whispering crowds and pointed stares with practiced indifference. The fickle admiration of teenagers meant absolutely nothing to him.
The most surprising shift in the school's dynamic, however, was the newest addition to the student roster: Tyler Galpin.
With Laurel Gates securely locked away in a maximum-security supernatural facility, the true nature of Tyler's involvement had been brought to light. Once it was proven that his Hyde was acting entirely under the parasitic, magical compulsion of a master, his criminal record regarding the Jericho murders was quietly and thoroughly scrubbed. Sheriff Donovan Galpin had nearly wept with relief when the charges were dropped, though he hid it behind his usual gruff, exhausted exterior.
Trading his coarse barista apron for a Nevermore blazer, Tyler walked the halls with a quiet, lingering guilt, but also a profound sense of relief. He was no longer a secret monster; he was just another outcast learning to control his darker half.
While the rest of the school was busy gossiping in the quad, Aleksander had retreated to the quietest, darkest corner of the Nightshades' library.
He sat alone at a heavy oak table, the ambient chatter of the school completely muted behind the thick stone walls. The idol worship and the high school drama were behind him, because for Aleksander, the work never actually stopped.
Resting on the table in front of him, illuminated by a single flickering desk lamp, was a thick, worn leather folder. It had arrived that morning via a heavily warded courier.
Aleksander flipped open the cover, his eyes scanning the dense, handwritten notes and attached crime scene photographs. It was a new case.
Aleksander leaned forward, the dim light of the desk lamp illuminating the crisp pages of the dossier. The bold red stamp across the top of the file read: KIDNAPPING.
Clipped to the inside cover was a glossy photograph of the victim: Yasmine Van Der Woodsen.
Aleksander's glowing green eyes scanned the image, taking in the details with clinical precision. She had long, light blonde hair, perfectly straight and parted smoothly on her right side, draping neatly over her shoulders. Her face was a defined oval, framed by a pristine, neutral makeup look—subtle brown eyeshadow, a light coat of mascara defining her eyelashes, and a soft, natural pink shade on her lips.
She wore a bright yellow, long-sleeved button-up blouse with a structured v-neck collar and visible buttons on the cuffs. Around her neck hung a bold, gold-toned statement piece featuring a row of sharp, triangular fringe spikes. In the photograph, her striking blue eyes were glancing playfully off to the side, accompanied by a wide, teeth-showing grin.
It was the picture-perfect image of a girl who had never known a hard day in her life.
The background report confirmed his visual assessment. She came from immense wealth. Her parents, Richard Van Der Woodsen and Victoria Sterling-Van Der Woodsen, were prominent socialites.
However, the attached notes from local law enforcement and school counselors painted a less flattering picture of the victim herself. Yasmine was the undisputed, spoiled, and vindictive leader of the wealthy mean-girl clique at her school. She was a teenager who ruled her peers through intimidation and deep pockets.
Aleksander flipped the page to check the geographic details. The abduction had taken place across the country.
Location: San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles, California.
Commonly known locally as simply "The Valley." Her school was listed as West Valley High School.
Aleksander tapped his index finger slowly against the heavy oak table, his brow furrowing slightly. He stared at the words West Valley High School and The Valley. The location tugged at the edges of his memory. It felt strangely familiar, he couldn't quite pinpoint why he knew the area.
Aleksander closed the folder with a soft thud. Idol worship and schoolyard drama in Jericho were over. It was time to go to California.
Aleksander didn't waste any time. He took the Van Der Woodsen file and navigated the winding, gothic corridors of Nevermore Academy, ignoring the lingering stares of the student body as he made his way to Ophelia Hall.
He didn't bother knocking on the heavy wooden door to Wednesday and Enid's dorm. He simply pushed it open.
Enid was sprawled out on her brightly colored bed, aggressively typing away on her phone, while Wednesday was seated at her typewriter, her posture rigidly perfect as she stared blankly at the wall, likely plotting something highly illegal
.
"Pack your bags," Aleksander announced, tossing the heavy leather folder onto the center of Wednesday's immaculate desk. "We have a case."
Wednesday slowly turned her head, her dark eyes locking onto the file. "Please tell me it involves a gruesome, unsolved murder. The idol worship around here is giving me a rash, and I need an excuse to leave the state."
"A kidnapping," Aleksander corrected, tapping the glossy photo of Yasmine Van Der Woodsen. "Yasmine Van Der Woodsen. Wealthy, spoiled, and apparently the vindictive apex predator of West Valley High School. She was snatched two days ago in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles. Local authorities are coming up empty. The family is quietly desperate."
Enid bolted upright, nearly dropping her phone. "Wait. Did you just say Los Angeles? As in, California? Beverly Hills adjacent?"
"Yes," Aleksander confirmed.
Enid let out a high-pitched squeal, her werewolf fangs accidentally dropping down for a split second before she retracted them. "I am so packing my sunnies! Do you think we'll see any celebrities? Oh my god, I need to find SPF 100 for Willa. She'll literally burst into flames in the California sun."
"I would rather burst into flames than participate in a Hollywood sightseeing tour," Wednesday replied flatly, though she was already standing up to retrieve her black duffel bag. "However, a vindictive rich girl being dragged into the shadows does sound mildly entertaining. Assuming the kidnappers are competent and dangerous."
"Assume they are," Aleksander warned. "This doesn't feel like a standard ransom grab."
As the girls began to pack, Aleksander pulled out his phone. He opened a secure, encrypted messaging app and quickly typed out a text to Sofia, sending her the coordinates and a brief summary of the Van Der Woodsen file.
Wheels up in twenty. We're heading to the Valley.
By the time Aleksander, Wednesday, and Enid walked out the heavy iron gates of Nevermore Academy, the fog had started to roll in. Waiting for them at the edge of the access road was a sleek, black, heavily warded SUV.
Leaning casually against the hood of the vehicle was Sofia. She looked up from her phone as the trio approached, the dim evening light catching the warm, medium-brown complexion of her skin. Her face was a perfect oval, framed by soft, defined cheekbones and large, expressive dark brown eyes. Full, neatly groomed eyebrows sat above subtle, winged black eyeliner that sharply accentuated her gaze, paired with a light coat of mascara.
Her deep black hair was meticulously styled into long, detailed micro braids. They were gathered closely at the crown before cascading heavily past her shoulders, the braids blending beautifully into loose, wavy ends.
She pressed her naturally full lips together, a soft, neutral gloss catching the light as she offered a faint, knowing smirk. Her sharp eyes took in Enid's excessively bright, pastel luggage and Wednesday's rigidly monochromatic duffel bag.
"I got your message," Sofia said, slipping her phone into her jacket pocket. She gave Wednesday and Enid a brief nod before looking at Aleksander. "Spoiled heiress in Los Angeles. Sounds like a headache. You sure this is our kind of fight?"
"We'll find out when we get there," Aleksander replied, opening the back door of the SUV. "Get in. We have a flight to catch."