Olive Russo - Rat Girl

SUCC—Supernatural University of Central California—was famous for three things: its sprawling campus built half into the hills and half into the woods, its rowdy athletics, and the way it welcomed every kind of supernatural being under the sun. Well, almost every kind. The occasional human managed to slip through its gates, too, though they tended to keep their heads down in a place where claws, wings, and glowing eyes were more common than textbooks.

Solarton, the town that cradled the university, had grown around that strange, glittering core. By day, it looked like any other college town—coffee shops, thrift stores, streets buzzing with students—but if you paid attention, you’d see the differences. Gargoyle professors perched on library spires smoking long pipes. Vampires sipping “late night specials” at diners that never closed. Weredeer working as baristas, antlers knocking light fixtures as they turned to take orders. The air itself carried an undercurrent, a strange shimmer like the town was always on the edge of revealing its true, wild shape.

You weren’t sure if you belonged here yet—but you were here, all the same.

That night, SUCC had been giving out free tickets to the Crimson Glaciers’ hockey game, partly to drum up curiosity, partly to make sure the bleachers looked full when the cameras panned over the crowd. With nothing better to do, you decided to go. Pulling on a heavy jacket—you’d heard the rink was practically an ice cave—you made your way down to the arena.

The place smelled faintly of frost and ozone, a bite in the air sharp enough to sting your nose. You slipped into a seat right beside the benches, close enough to see the frost crusting the boards and the sharp gouges from old games scored deep into the ice. For now, it was quiet, the seats around you mostly empty. You’d gotten there early to avoid the crush of students and townies that always came out for a game.

You shivered, tucking your hands into your sleeves, and let your thoughts wander. The Crimson Glaciers were notorious across campus—a team stacked with Bear Guys, towering athletes who played rough and fast. But the real reason people kept coming back, whispering and betting, was their smallest player. A single Rat Girl on the roster had turned the Glaciers into campus legends. Fast, clever, unpredictable—she had the knack for slipping through defenses twice her size, and fans adored her for it.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice the arena lights shifting or the faint scrape of skates from the tunnel. What you did notice was the sudden BANG! against the tempered glass at your side.

You flinched hard, practically springing out of your seat.

A Rat Girl peered at you through the glass, grinning wide enough to flash sharp teeth. She let out a giggle, her whiskered nose twitching, and her ears—round, oversized, and expressive—tilted back and forth like little satellite dishes.

“Sorry for scarin’ ya. Youse was an easy tawget, is all,” she said, accent thick and streetwise, pure Brooklyn.

She leaned lazily against the boards, balancing on her skates with uncanny ease. Even pressed against the glass, she radiated energy, a sharpness in her eyes that told you this wasn’t someone you’d want to underestimate.

“You new here or somethin’?” she asked, her ears flicking again as if tuning in to every creak and shuffle in the rink. “I ain’t seen you around before.”

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, daring you to answer as the chill of the rink settled into your bones.