(TAYLOR’S DEMONIC ADVENTURE) CHAPTER SIX

By this point, Taylor had learned more or less what to expect whenever she stepped outside her front door. Being an outed cape meant attention followed her whether she wanted it or not. 

Most of it was benign, made up of curious glances and half-whispered words rather than anything openly hostile, but there was a reason the PRT had insisted on protection all the same. All it would take was one overzealous gang member, or one idiot looking to make a name for themselves, and they would have another Fleur situation on their hands. Neither the PRT nor her dad wanted that, for painfully obvious reasons, and Taylor herself had no desire to become a cautionary tale before her life had even properly begun.

So it was with her head bowed and her shoulders drawn in that she made her way toward her new school on that first morning, aware of the distant presence of her escort even when she tried not to think about it too hard. She could not see them directly—even when she turned her head back—but she could somehow sense their exact location, though she saw it as less of a weird occurrence and more of a reminder that things would never quite be simple again.

Arcadia High rose up ahead of her, all four stories of pale brick and wide windows surrounded by well-kept grounds, looking more like a small college campus than any public school she had ever seen. It had a reputation as the nicest school in Brockton Bay, the place parents fought to get their kids into and the place people pointed to when they wanted proof that the city was not entirely falling apart.

It should not be as miserable as Winslow. That was what everyone said, anyway. But Taylor did not hold her breath.

Nice buildings did not change the fact that school was still school. There would still be cliques and hierarchies, still mean kids who sensed weakness the way sharks sensed blood, still jocks competing for attention and status, and still outcasts carving out small sanctuaries in libraries and bathrooms where no one bothered them. It would still be hell, she suspected, just painted over with brighter colors and better funding.

With a soft sigh, she pushed through the front doors and made her way into the halls on the south side of the school, following the directions she had been given during her private online orientation. Her footsteps echoed against polished floors that looked like they had never known the kind of grime Winslow wore like a second skin. Lockers gleamed, the lights were bright without flickering, and the air smelled faintly of a flowery cleaning solution instead of dust and old sweat.

And still, the eyes found her.

She felt the attention before she ever saw it, in the way conversations dipped as she passed and then resumed in quieter tones, in the way heads turned just a little too obviously before snapping back forward when they realized they had been caught staring. She did her best to ignore it, tugging her hood lower and burying her face deeper into the fabric as she walked, but even that did little to ease the prickling awareness of being watched. So she forced her thoughts elsewhere, clinging to the small, familiar comfort of the hoodie itself.

It was new, a gift from her mom the day before, chosen without her ever having to ask, because she had understood, somehow, that while Taylor could endure the scrutiny, she did not want to face it head-on, not yet, and maybe not ever.

It was warm, soft, and oversized enough that it nearly swallowed her whole, hiding her shape and narrowing her world to what lay directly in front of her. It kept her from seeing the eyes tracking her at her peripheral vision, and perhaps just as importantly, kept them from seeing much of her in return. The color was a deep purple that was almost black, and for reasons she could not quite explain, it called to her. There was something about it that felt steadying and quietly reassuring, as if the shade itself understood her in a way people could not.

Comfort was something she needed, because even in a place as polished as Arcadia, her nerves refused to settle. Every step carried the expectation that something would go wrong, that someone would say the wrong thing or laugh a little too loudly, and the fragile sense of control she had rebuilt would shatter all over again.

So when she rounded a corner without looking up and walked straight into someone, the jolt of surprise sent her heart leaping into her throat.

She stumbled back a half step, mumbling an apology on instinct as she lifted her head, and then froze when she saw who she had collided with.

Victoria Dallon.