Where Monsters Hide (The Monster Within 1)

Chapter One

There are few things in the world more terrifying than discovering the truth.

Sometimes, it’s even worse than discovering a lie.

As a child I found safety in the fact that the stories my aunt told me about my parents couldn’t actually be true. Her stories painted my parents as heroes battling monsters; real life adventurers who only chose to settle down once they’d had a tiny baby girl, me. I knew they weren’t really pulled in for one final kill, one last hunt … never to return again.

And then, one day, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

As I look up at the sprawling, white brick building beyond the wrought-iron gate at the top of the hill, I think a part of me always knew, deep down, that I would find my way here. To them. To the Saint Marcellus Academy for Monster Hunters

I brush my thumb across a well-worn photograph I keep in my pocket at all times. My aunt claimed no photographs of my parents survived—but in that was her single lie. I think part of her always hoped that in telling the truth I would never suspect it. But then I found a photo, tucked behind one of me on my first birthday from the family album.

In the photograph, my mother stands proudly beside my father—the massive severed head of a gorgon hung between them. I knew right then and there that it wasn’t some prank. I looked into the eyes of that medusa, her head severed roughly from her body, and I knew that even in death she could kill me with a single glance.

And I knew, in that moment, that all the so-called-stories my aunt had told me were true. One perfectly posed question and my aunt’s shocked silence gave me all the confirmation I needed.

My parents were killed by a monster; not a monster dressed as a man, a literal, real-life teeth and claws creature. I don’t know what one, but I’m determined to find out.

And when I find it, I’m going to kill it.

After all, it’s my destiny. I was born to this. Like my parents before me, I was bred to be a monster hunter.

“Money. American. Money!”

I’m pretty sure by now that these are the only English words my taxi driver actually knows. I sling my backpack up onto the hood of his car and fish in the front pocket for the last of my money. For one gut-wrenching moment, I feel nothing but the rough polyester fabric. I swore I pulled out enough cash in Bucharest to pay for a taxi once I got to village closest to the school.

The taxi driver smacks one hand on the top of the wheel and starts ranting at me in Romanian, or whatever local dialect it is they speak this far out. While my fingers move to the next pocket up, I wonder, and not for the first time, why I couldn’t have just picked the North American school to attend. It would have been a hell of a whole lot easier. Then I feel the soft fold of crumpled bills and pull out a slightly-smaller-than-I-remembered wad of cash.

I know it isn’t enough, and so does he.

He swears in English and swipes the bills from me before peeling off in a cloud of dark dust. I wait until he glances up into the rear-view mirror before I wave both my middle fingers at him and snatch my bag from where it flew off into a nearby ditch.

“Fuck you too!” I shout at the back of his retreating car. I kick at the dirt edge of the road and send another cloud of dust up onto my already dirty self.

The gate stands imposing as ever in front of me when I turn around. I know that the invitation did say that the entrance exams to Saint M were closed … but I’m still surprised not to see a single other soul between the gate and the academy at the top of the hill. I must have gotten here earlier than I thought.

I smack the top of my bag and cough as I’m enveloped, once more, in an even coating of end-of-summer dirt. So much for a good first impression, I guess. I reach for my phone for a second and fiddle with the power button even though I know it isn’t going to turn on. I knew better than to play a certain candy-themed matching game the whole flight over.

My only consolation is that, even without the name of the world-famous monster hunting academy’s name emblazoned across the top of the gates, this is unmistakably the right place.

As if to confirm it, a deep growl echoes down the hill to greet me.

That’s as good as any invitation.

I swipe the ID card I was mailed to unlock the gate to Saint M and push it open. Now that the taxi has already driven off I realize what a miracle it is that I got here in such good time, or really, that I got here at all.

Navigating Bucharest to board my train was one thing, but trying to find a taxi driver in the local village that didn’t balk at where I pointed on the map was another. Maybe if I could speak a single lick of Romanian it wouldn’t have been such a problem.

I was pretty sure I was going to have to hijack a car or resign myself to walking the four-odd miles up to the academy when I finally found the one driver who mistakenly thought all Americans are made of money. That’s his fault, not mine.

I just wish I’d insisted the taxi take me the rest of the way up the driveway. He certainly charged me enough. I’m already covered in dirt and a fine layer of recycled plane air, and now, not even halfway up to the academy courtyard, a fine sheen of sweat too.

The air high up here in the mountains is thin. I felt a pressure building as the taxi drove up through the winding, tree-lined roads. By the time I reach the edge of the courtyard I’m a little short of breath and the outer corners of my vision look a little fuzzy.

Damn. I should have thought of that before. I kick myself for the oversight and end up with even more gravel in the back of my shoes.

Now that I stand directly in the shadow of the massive old building, I get a better look at it. It’s ancient, classic Gothic architecture if I have to take a guess. Symmetrical, with a b

ig bell tower in the center surrounded by gargoyles that were probably modeled after actual, real-life versions of the winged rooftop monsters. That’s one creature I’m not particularly keen to meet.

The school itself looms at the end of the long courtyard, its two sections extending like featherless wings to either side.

I adjust my backpack and pull out my map of the school. Prospective recruits are supposed to be meeting in the courtyard, but it’s currently empty. I take another glance up at the gargoyles on the roof. I’m not sure I want to turn my back to them, not, at least, until I am entirely sure they aren’t real gargoyles.

I tuck the map into my pocket and stride through the courtyard to the main building. So long as I’m waiting for everyone else to arrive, I might as well explore.

The big double doors are propped open and the entrance hall beyond is just as grand and imposing as the outside. It’s old, and time has not treated it kindly. Once painstakingly-painted grand stairways now peel away in tiny gold-flecks. The cream-and-navy checked tile floor is marred with years of scuffs, burns, and even claw marks. A few vintage pieces of furniture sag in corners where they look like no one has dared sit in them for decades.

And, like the courtyard, there’s no one here, either.

The echo of my footsteps is my only companion, and when I stop to double check the exam schedule again, they’re gone too.

A cold breeze blows in through the open doors behind me. It carries with it the scent of centuries-old snow caps and the far-off whistle of air squeezed through tight mountain passes. I shiver, but only half from the cold.

This place looks like it was abandoned suddenly, without warning … some sign of a tragedy so recent I’m the first to discover it.

As I stand here feeling jet-lagged and confused, trying to push my murky thoughts into clarity, the silence is shattered by the clatter of more footsteps. I look up from the scheduled and turn in time to see three boys my age round a corner.

Judging by their builds—broad and muscular with a certain air of recklessness not only common but necessary for the monster hunting profession—they are either students here already, or more applicants like me.

Either way, they are the only living thing I’ve spotted thus far.

They all hesitate for just a moment, their steps faltering before they rush past me, sneakers thumping against the tile. The one at their head catches my eye as they pass, meeting my gaze with his sharp, glacial blue eyes.

He brushes me aside with a quick sweep of his arm and I stumble back a few steps.

“Wait!” I yell, before they can barrel back out of sight again without giving me some kind of answers. “Where are you going?”