SHADOWS OF BLOOD

CHAPTER ONE: THE GATES OF RIVERSIDE HIGH

The limousine glided to a stop in front of Riverside High, its polished black surface reflecting the morning sun. Students turned their heads, whispering as the doors opened.

Fiona Moreau stepped out first, her mischievous smile daring the world to challenge her. She adjusted her blazer with a flick of her wrist, eyes scanning the crowd like a predator sizing up prey. Viola followed, clutching her books tightly, her gaze fixed on the ground. She looked like a shadow trailing behind her sister, fragile and uncertain.

Inside the car, their mother’s voice still echoed in Fiona’s mind: “Keep your distance. Fiona, stop shielding your sister. She must learn to stand alone.”

Fiona had laughed at the command, but deep down she knew Rebecca meant it. Their mother’s words were sharp, like knives disguised as advice.

“Don’t look at them,” Fiona whispered to Viola as they walked through the gates. “They’ll stare. They’ll whisper. Just keep your head up.”

“I can’t,” Viola murmured, her voice trembling. “They’re all looking at us.”

Fiona smirked. “Let them. If anyone tries anything, they’ll regret it.”

The sisters entered the grand hallway, where portraits of past scholars lined the walls. Fiona’s stride was confident, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Viola clung to her side, shrinking into herself.

The administration office smelled of floor wax and old records. A boy named Victor approached them as the assigned Head Prefect.

“Fiona and Viola, I assume?” Victor asked, checking a clipboard. He gave them a brisk professional nod. “I’ve been assigned to escort you to your lockers and then to the principal’s office for your final intake.

Viola learned towards Fiona and whispered, “seems like he sleeps with that clipboard under his pillow.” Fiona just smirked, adjusted her bag as they followed him through the bursting hallways.

When the door to the inner office pulled open, they were met by Principal Rita, sitting behind the desk-a woman in her early thirties with a sharp bob and a designer scarf that screamed “Board of Directors.” She didn’t look up from their files immediately. “Ah, the girls are here. Welcome.”

“Thank you, Madam,” Fiona said, her tone polite by practiced.

Principal Rita finally looked up, focusing entirely on Viola as if Fiona was just a strand of hair in Viola’s head. Viola panicked and immediately held her sister’s hand. Fiona could tell how much Viola feared being the center of attention. She held her sister’s sweaty hands tightly as a way to give an indirect assurance. Principal Rita finally shifted her gaze, sharp but professional, to Fiona. “I saw your mother’s name on the emergency contact list. Rebecca, isn’t it? I recognized the surname. We actually share the same aesthetician at The Golden Lily.”

The girls didn’t even blink. This was the standard script.

“Oh, that makes sense,” Fiona said with a dry shrug. “If there’s a high-end salon, a boutique opening, or a brunch spot with a three-month waiting list within a fifty-mile radius, our mother has a VIP membership.”

“She mentioned she was heading to a ‘lunch-to-late-afternoon’ retreat at the spa after she dropped you off,” Rita added, a faint, amused smile playing on lips. “She seemed very… dedicated to a regimen. Viola chuckled in annoyance. Seeing her mother at home every morning and evening was enough but having another lecture about her, really annoying. This is their mother. They know her very well. She spends more time with high class socialites than her kids. They spend more time with workers than their mother. Viola is so pissed by the lecture. Her mind keeps screaming, “cut me off the slack.”

“She calls it ‘self-maintenance,’” Fiona added flatly. “We call it ‘the reason we know how to order our own Uber at midnight.’”

Principal Rita laughed-not the stiff laugh of a superior, but the laugh of someone who knew exactly who she was dealing with. “Well, as long as the tuition checks clear, I don’t mind where she spends her afternoons. Victor, take them to class.”

Victor led them down the corridor that smelled faintly of ink and expensive perfume-a combination the girls had dubbed “Academic Chick.” He stopped at form two pink room, rapping his knuckles against the wood before swinging the door open.

The hum of forty teenagers evaporated instantly. It was classic “new girl” moment, a heavy silence where every pair of eyes judged everything from their shoe to their posture.

"Class," the teacher, a lanky man named Mr. Henderson, announced while adjusting his glasses. "These are our newest transfers, Fiona and Viola. Please ensure they feel settled." Fiona scanned the room with a practiced, cool gaze. She didn't look for the friendliest face; she looked for the most strategic position. The classroom was a sea of desks arranged in pairs. The Front Row: Occupied by the "Victors' types"—students with color-coded highlighters and spines so straight they looked braced for impact. The Middle: The loud zone, where whispers were already flying about Fiona’s earrings. The Back Corner: A sanctuary of shadows, where a few students were tucked away with headphones or sketches. "There are two seats open in the back left," Mr. Henderson signaled, pointing toward a sun-drenched corner near the tall Victorian windows. As they wove through the desks, Viola notices a girl in the row ahead of them watching their every move. She had a manicured hand resting on a limited-edition handbag that would have made their mother proud. "I'm Tinsley," the girl whispered as they sat down. "I love your boots. Are those the new season?" "Last season," Fiola replied, clicking her backpack shut. "The new ones haven't hit the boutiques here yet, and Mom was too busy getting a 'volcanic ash wrap' to order them from Paris." Tinsley’s eyes widened with instant recognition. "Wait, your mom is that, Rebecca? The one who shut down the salon for a private party last Tuesday?" Fiona sat down, leaning back with an air of bored elegance. "That sounds like her. If it involves cucumbers on eyes and ignoring phone calls, she’s the one." The sisters exchanged a look. They had been in the building for less than twenty minutes, and they already had a seat, a reputation, and a front-row view of the courtyard.

At lunch, the whispers grew louder. “That’s Alexander Moreau’s daughters,” one boy said. “Richest man in the country.” Another girl added, “The one with the smirk looks dangerous. The other… she looks like she might cry.”

Fiona leaned across the table, her eyes flashing. “Let them talk,” she said to Viola. “Words can’t hurt you. But if they try more than that, I’ll make sure they regret it.”

Viola nodded, her fingers tightening around her fork. She had always depended on Fiona — her shield, her protector. Without her, the world felt unbearable.

At home, their younger sister Baila, only eight years old, greeted them with excitement. “How was school?” she asked, bouncing on her toes.

Fiona ruffled her hair. “It was fine. Just a bunch of kids who think they’re important.”

Viola smiled faintly, but her eyes betrayed her insecurity. Later that evening, she confided in Elena, the young cook who had become her closest friend.

“They all stared at me,” Viola whispered as Elena stirred a pot in the kitchen. “I felt so small. Only Fiona makes me feel safe.”

Elena placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, Viola. One day, you’ll see it.”

But Viola shook her head. “I don’t want to be strong. I just want Fiona.”

Outside the kitchen door, Fiona listened silently, her mischievous grin fading. She knew her sister’s weakness, and she knew Rebecca’s command to keep distance was more than just advice. It was a test. A cruel one.

And Fiona had already decided: she would never let Viola stand alone.