CHAPTER 152: FRESHERS’ BASH (II)

CLARK POV

Finding the location this time wasn’t hard. All I had to do was follow the noise and the crowd—like moths to a flame, the new students were already flocking toward the bash with excitement painted across their faces. Laughter, music, perfume, and cologne mingled in the air, a sharp contrast to the chill of dread still lodged in my bones.

It felt... surreal.

The building—one of the larger conference halls—had been transformed. Lights of every color bounced off the walls, spinning, blinking, casting shadows that moved faster than my eyes could follow. The beat of the music pulsed through the floor, vibrating in my shoes, in my ribs. Some freshmen were already tipsy, dancing like they had just escaped prison. Others were trying too hard to look cool, adjusting collars, sipping cheap drinks with pretentious straws.

It looked like something out of a teen drama series.

Too perfect.

Too alive.

If I hadn’t seen what I’d seen earlier, I probably would’ve been fooled too.

The place resembled some kind of upscale club—a poor man’s version, maybe, but the energy was electric. Glittering dresses. Loud laughter. Flashing lights. I couldn’t help but think: this would be the perfect hunting ground if you were a predator.

Like them.

And just like that, the thought soured everything.

I pushed through the growing throng of students, eyes darting left and right, scanning every face I could find. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t know what Sara looked like—it was that everyone looked like a stranger under the flashing lights.

Where the hell are you, Sara?

I kept moving, brushing past a group of girls taking selfies, avoiding a drunken guy already spilling his drink on his shirt. The air was thick—too warm, too loud. I hated it.

Then I noticed something else. Something that made the hair on my arms rise.

The party wasn’t just full of freshmen.

There were others. Older students—at least I hoped they were students. They stood out immediately. Taller. Better dressed. More... composed. They weren’t dancing. They were watching. Leaning against walls, eyes scanning the crowd, calm amid the chaos.

Predators in a room full of prey.

I felt it. The same feeling I had back in that hallway. That strange pull of danger. Like walking into a room filled with smiling masks but knowing there’s something sharp underneath each one.

Were they seniors?

Had they invited themselves? Or were they meant to be here?

Please don’t let them be part of that... blood cult or whatever the hell that was.

I shook the thought off and kept looking. It didn’t matter right now. I just had to find Sara.

And then, as if summoned by thought, I spotted her—just a glimpse of her in the crowd. She was laughing at something, head tilted back, her hair catching the light, sparkling like gold. She wore a short dark red dress that clung to her hips and flared out at the hem. She looked happy. Alive. Untouched.

And surrounded.

Two guys were standing close—too close—smiling, leaning in. One had hair so black it looked blue under the lights. The other had that easy charm, polished and practiced, the kind that came with knowing exactly what kind of effect he had on people.

I didn’t like them.

My gut twisted. I pushed forward, weaving through the crowd with purpose.

"Clark!" she called when she saw me. Her smile widened, genuine. "You made it!"

Yeah. I made it.

But now I had to make sure she made it out.

The moment I reached Sara, I saw it.

That flicker.

The subtle shift in the expressions of the two guys standing next to her. Their smiles didn’t falter, but something in their eyes sharpened. I wasn’t welcome—no words had to be said. They were doing that weird alpha male posturing thing. Shoulders squaring. Slight leaning forward. Like wolves annoyed that another had wandered too close to their prey.

And Sara? Well, she was oblivious. Her face lit up when she saw me, like I’d just made her night ten times better.

"Clark! You made it!" she beamed, touching my arm lightly, her perfume warm and familiar. "I knew you’d change your mind."

Yeah, I had changed my mind. Because I couldn’t let you walk into a goddamn blood orgy, Sara.

I gave her a half-smile, nodding, trying not to look like I was currently going through about seventeen different mental breakdowns at once. "Wouldn’t miss it for the world."

But I had more immediate problems. Namely—them.

The two guys standing beside her.

Now that I was closer, I got a better look. And Jesus, they looked like they had stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad—flawless skin, sharp features, a certain... polish. Too good to be real. And their eyes?

Dead.

Soulless.

They looked at me like I was a roach scuttling across their marble floor.

I was about to say something—anything—when I felt it. That presence. Like static down my spine. A familiar, blood-chilling energy.

Then she appeared.

The redhead.

Her.

From the registration day. The one who leaned too close. Who whispered I smelled delicious like I was a rare steak.

She was cutting through the crowd like she owned the place, every eye following her. Her red curls spilled down her back like molten fire, and her lips were painted the exact shade of fresh blood.

She saw me instantly.

And smiled.

Not the flirty kind of smile you throw across a dancefloor. No, this was the kind of smile you gave before a kill. Slow. Calculated. Hungry.

Panic rose in my throat, thick and bitter. My hand twitched by my side. I was one hundred percent sure she was part of whatever the hell was going on here—the same blood cult thing those three guys from earlier belonged to. Maybe she was their leader. Maybe worse.

I had barely begun processing when I felt Sara’s fingers slip from my arm.

I looked at her. She was watching the redhead approach. And then, to my complete horror—

She winked at me.

Winked.

Like I had just scored or something. Like I was a player juggling multiple girls at once.

What the actual fuck, Sara?

Her attention drifted away from me, back to the two clowns beside her. She leaned in toward one, laughing at something he whispered in her ear. And I swear, the other guy sniffed her hair.

I wanted to scream.

Or shake her.

Or just drag her the hell out of here.

But the redhead was closing in now. Step by step, her heels clicking across the floor like countdown clock ticks.

Too late to run.

Too late to hide.

"Clark," she purred, her voice smooth like poisoned honey, "I was hoping I’d run into you."

She looked me over like I was something laid out on a silver platter—like she was deciding which part of me she wanted to bite into first. And it wasn’t flattery. It was terrifying.

"You haven’t had any drinks yet, have you?" she asked, her voice soft, lilting—meant to disarm, to seduce. But there was something behind it, a weight beneath the words. A test. A trap.

My spine stiffened.

Why did it matter to her whether I’d had a drink or not?

Could it be that the drinks here weren’t just your average party cocktails? Were they drugged? Laced with something to dull your sense of fear? To make you compliant? To... loosen you up for the feeding?

I shook my head, forcing a casual shrug I didn’t feel. "I’m not thirsty."

Lame. I know.

But my mind was elsewhere. I turned quickly, searching the crowd—Sara. She had just been next to me. A second ago.

Gone.

No trace of her. No flutter of her curls. No flash of her sequined dress. And the two guys? Vanished, like ghosts into mist. Like they had never been here at all.

What the actual hell?

"Sara?" I called, pushing through the crowd, my chest tight.

"Clark!" the redhead snapped behind me, louder now. Sharper. Like a whip crack.

I turned, heart hammering, to see her glaring at me, eyes narrowed. Her lips were curled into the tight smile of someone who was losing patience. I must have tuned her out—probably for a while. How long had she been calling me?

I swallowed. "Sorry, I—uh—I need the restroom."

It was the dumbest excuse. The most cliché, transparent move in the book. Her expression said it all. She didn’t believe me for a second.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she tilted her head and said sweetly, "You can run, Clark... but you can’t hide."

She said it like a promise.

No. Like a fact.

The air seemed to constrict around me.

I didn’t wait for a follow-up. I turned and bolted.

Not full-out sprinting, but a fast enough walk that I was bumping into people, muttering apologies I didn’t mean. My eyes scanned the crowd, every red light, every shadowed corner suddenly menacing.

I wasn’t looking for the bathroom.

I was trying to disappear.

I pushed past a pair of dancers grinding against each other and ducked behind a tall partition that led toward what looked like an emergency exit. It was darker here, quieter, and the music thumped from a distance like a pulse—like my own heartbeat.

I pressed my back to the cold wall and finally exhaled.

That woman... she wasn’t just another pretty face.

She knew. She was one of them. I was sure of it now.

And the drinks? Yeah. They had to be part of it. Loosen up the prey. Dull their senses. Make them laugh and dance and bleed without screaming.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to calm down, but my mind was spiraling.

Where was Sara?

Where had those two guys taken her?

And why had she just vanished like that?

I pulled out my phone and called her.

No answer.

Again.

Voicemail.

My throat tightened. Something was wrong.

And if I didn’t find her soon, she might become another one of those moaning girls laid across a classroom desk with blood trickling down her arms, thinking it was all just some euphoric dream—until it wasn’t.

I peeked out from behind the wall, scanning for the redhead. She was gone. Or hiding.

Which was worse?

I didn’t wait to find out. I made my way down a dim corridor that led out of the party hall and into the quieter wings of the building.

And that’s when I heard it.

A laugh.

Soft.

Feminine.

Familiar.

Sara.

It echoed from down the hall, past a set of frosted glass doors leading into the old lecture wing. The wing we were told during orientation was "under renovation."

Bullshit.

I followed the sound, pulse pounding, trying to stay quiet.

Whatever was going on at this school—whatever I had seen, whatever Lucas was afraid of—it was bigger than I thought.

And tonight?

It was happening again.