The dining hall at seven in the morning was a supernatural social experiment gone wrong.
Werewolves claimed the east tables, growling over rare meat. Vampires occupied the shadowy corner booths, sipping their "tomato juice" with theatrical delicacy. Sirens held court near the windows, their morning songs making everyone slightly dizzy. And the psychics sat wherever, probably seeing futures where the breakfast was actually edible.
High school hierarchies were the same everywhere. Add fangs and it just got more literal.
I grabbed a tray, loaded it with food I wouldn't eat, and searched for an empty table. Across the room, a blonde girl in pink bounced toward a familiar figure in black.
"Wednesday! I saved you a seat!" The blonde's enthusiasm could have powered a small city. "I'm Enid, your roommate! We're going to be best friends!"
Wednesday Addams looked at her like she'd suggested they perform amateur surgery together. "I don't do friends."
"But we could paint each other's nails! Black for you, obviously, and maybe a nice pastel for—"
"I'd rather remove my nails with pliers."
The blonde's smile faltered but didn't die. Impressive commitment to optimism in the face of obvious rejection.
I found an empty table in neutral territory. Perfect for avoiding supernatural politics and forced friendships. My plan lasted exactly thirty seconds.
"Hey! You're the new transfer student!"
A skinny kid with glasses materialized beside me, practically vibrating with excitement. Curly hair. Eager smile. The kind of energy that made me tired just watching.
"I'm Eugene. Eugene Ottinger. I run the beekeeping club!" He set his tray down without invitation. "You're Adrian, right? Adrian Blackthorne? That's such a cool name. Very mysterious."
"It came with the birth certificate."
He laughed like I'd said something genuinely funny. "You're in my botany class! Ms. Thornhill's, third period. She's amazing. Did you know some plants can actually communicate with each other through fungal networks? It's like nature's internet!"
"Thrilling."
"Right?" He completely missed my sarcasm. Or ignored it. "What dormitory are you in? I'm in Caliban Hall. It's mostly psychics and gorgons, but they don't mind that my thing is bees instead of mind-reading or turning people to stone."
"Thisbe Hall," I said, hoping brevity would discourage further conversation.
"Cool! That's where they put the guys with special requirements. Like, there's this vampire who needs a freezer for his blood supply, and a basilisk who has to wear special glasses so he doesn't accidentally petrify anyone." Eugene adjusted his own glasses. "What's your thing?"
"Chronic insomnia and a low tolerance for morning people."
He laughed again. This kid found everything amusing. "You're funny. We should definitely hang out."
The warning bell saved me from responding. Eugene jumped up, grabbing his tray. "See you in botany!"
He bounded off like an overgrown puppy. I stared at my untouched breakfast, wondering how someone with that much enthusiasm survived at a school for outcasts.
Third period arrived too quickly.
Ms. Thornhill's greenhouse classroom smelled like earth and growing things. Not unpleasant, but it reminded me of too many burial grounds. She stood at the front, all bright smiles and plant-printed dress, looking like she'd wandered in from a different, cheerier school.
"Welcome, everyone! Today we're discussing carnivorous plants and their adaptive evolution."
Eugene's hand shot up before she finished the sentence. Of course he sat front row center. Of course he'd saved the seat next to him. Of course he waved me over like we were old friends.
I took the seat because standing would draw more attention.
"Mr. Ottinger," Thornhill said warmly. "Would you like to share what you know about carnivorous plants?"
"They evolved in nutrient-poor environments!" Eugene practically bounced. "The insects they catch supplement their nitrogen intake. And some pitcher plants have developed symbiotic relationships with specific ant species that live in them and clean out the dead insects!"
"Excellent!" Thornhill beamed. "And fun fact, some larger pitcher plants have been known to catch small rodents and even birds."
"Like the Nepenthes rajah!" Eugene turned to me. "It's also called the toilet plant because—"
"Because Victorian explorers had one sense of humor," I finished. "They also thought the Amorphophallus titanum smelled like rotting flesh mixed with Limburger cheese. They were wrong. It's much worse."
Eugene's eyes went wide. "You've smelled one?"
"Unfortunately." Jakarta, 1937. The memory still made my nose hurt.
"That's so cool! Did you know some corpse flowers can grow over ten feet tall? And they only bloom every seven to ten years, and when they do—"
"Mr. Ottinger," Thornhill interrupted gently. "Perhaps we should let others contribute?"
Eugene deflated slightly. "Sorry, Ms. Thornhill."
The class continued with Thornhill demonstrating a Venus flytrap's triggering mechanism. Eugene took notes like there'd be a test on the afterlife. His enthusiasm should have been annoying. Instead, it was oddly refreshing. When was the last time I'd seen someone genuinely excited about learning?
After class, Eugene cornered me immediately. "Want to see the beekeeping workshop? The Hummers meet Wednesdays after school, but I can show you the hives now!"
"I don't do clubs."
"It's not really a club. Well, it is, but it's just me and sometimes a few others who aren't afraid of bees." His smile dimmed. "Most people think it's weird."
Right on cue, a group of werewolves passed. The alpha, all swagger and insufficient deodorant, snorted. "Hey Bee Boy, recruiting for your loser hive?"
"It's apiary, actually," Eugene corrected. "A hive is a single colony structure, while an apiary is—"
"Nobody cares, bug brain."
I stepped between them. Not threatening. Just present. "Fascinating perspective from someone who probably thinks flea shampoo is a beverage option."
The werewolf blinked. "What?"
"You know, because of the dog thing. Fleas. It's a whole..." I waved vaguely. "You probably had to be there. Or have more than three functioning brain cells. Either way."
Eugene made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.
The werewolf growled, but his pack pulled him away. Probably remembered that fighting on school grounds meant detention with Coach Vlad. Nobody wanted detention with Coach Vlad.
"Thanks," Eugene said quietly.
"Don't read into it. I just have a low tolerance for stupid before lunch."
"Still." He brightened again, resilient as a weed. "Come see the bees? Just for a minute?"
The smart answer was no. Don't get involved. Don't make connections. Don't care about an enthusiastic psychic who'd be dead in sixty years while I stayed seventeen.
"Five minutes," I heard myself say.
Eugene's workshop sat behind the greenhouse, a converted shed surrounded by white box hives. The sound hit first. Not buzzing exactly. More like a low electrical hum that you felt in your bones.
"Aren't they amazing?" Eugene pulled on a beekeeper's suit with practiced ease. "Sixty thousand individuals working in perfect harmony. No ego. No politics. Just pure purpose."
He opened a hive, movements slow and deliberate. The bees flowed over his gloved hands like living honey. "They recognize me. Bees can remember human faces for days. They actually have favorite keepers."
"You can communicate with them?"
"Sort of. It's more like... understanding. I know when they're agitated or content. Right now they're curious about you." He tilted his head, listening to something I couldn't hear. "They think you smell weird."
"Thanks. Very flattering."
"Not bad weird. Just... old. Like really old honey that's crystallized but is still good." He paused. "That sounded better in my head."
Despite myself, I laughed. Actually laughed. Not a sarcastic snort or a dismissive chuckle. A real laugh.
Eugene grinned. "See? Bees bring out the best in people."
"That's definitely not what's happening here."
"You should join the Hummers. We need members. It's just me and sometimes this girl from Ophelia Hall, but she only comes when she needs honey for her potions."
"I told you, I don't—"
"Do clubs. I know." He carefully closed the hive. "But if you change your mind, we meet Wednesdays at four. You could just watch. Or mock things sarcastically. You seem good at that."
"It's a gift."
Back in my room that evening, I stared at the ceiling and wondered what had just happened. I'd come to Nevermore to lay low. Avoid attention. Definitely not make friends with an enthusiastic beekeeper who could psychically communicate with insects.
But Eugene's genuine excitement about his bees had been oddly infectious. When did I last meet someone who cared about something that much? Without agenda or pretense?
Through my window, Wednesday's cello started its nightly concert. Still playing everything backwards and wrong. Still hauntingly perfect in its imperfection.
Two days at Nevermore. One possible friend. One familiar stranger playing twisted music in the dark.
This was definitely not going according to plan.