In this unashamedly queer, supernatural romance, Justin Arnold, author of Wicked Little Things, challenges the institutions that have sidelined queer love to the shadows, and brings it into the light.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Justin Arnold’s Keep It In The Dark, which is out December 3rd 2024.
Rowan Young knew where his life was heading. The headmaster’s son and golden boy of elite Vermont boarding school Mockingbird Prep, Rowan was set to inherit a legacy passed down through generations of forefathers. Until a strange new student arrives to derail those plans.
Casper Belamy didn’t ask to be a vampire. But now that he is one, all he wants is to travel the world looking for more of his kind. Before he can do that, he must accomplish an impossible task set forth by his adoptive family of vampiric royals: prove he can keep their kind safe and finish high school without being discovered.
If controlling his thirst wasn’t hard enough, he is forced to share a dorm with the headmaster’s son. And despite their instant dislike for one another, Casper can’t ignore the mouth-wateringly delicious scent of Rowan’s blood.
When bitter fights become late night rendez-vous, forbidden romance blossoms in the shadows. Facing a fearful world that would rather they stay hidden, Rowan and Casper contend with an onslaught of troubles: Rowan’s father is breathing down his neck, the safety of Casper’s new-found family is on his shoulders, and a secret society of slayers threatens to destroy everything.
If love blooms in the dark, will it survive being brought into the light?
Chapter One
Rowan
Senior year starts with blood on my pillow. Then a scream.
Breathe in, I urge through pain. Breathe out. This is what I get for being careless while hanging the second fencing sword on the wall above my bed.
Daring a look at the cut, I hiss through clenched teeth. I cut my right index finger on the tip of the blade, deep. Blood stains my finger. I barely manage to hop off the bed before it drips onto the sheets.
“Are you dead?!” a voice calls from the doorway. I spin around to face Diego, my best friend. “Because if you’re not, I’ll kill you for scaring the crap out of me.”
I show him my finger. “Cut myself.”
“You got a Band-Aid in here?”
I nod to the cardboard box that sits on the brand-new futon I shoved where another student’s bed would usually be. Diego wastes no time in digging through it.
“Are you supposed to have those swords in the dorms?” Diego asks. “They’re weapons.”
I shrug. “No, but I doubt the headmaster is going to write me up.”
“Yeah, yeah, your dad’s the headmaster; you’re very special.” Diego tosses the box of Band-Aids at me as hard as he can. It hits my stomach, and I double over as though he’s truly wounded me. “Let’s have five minutes before Golden Boy Rowan comes back to school.”
“I have concerns.” Reed, our third musketeer, swaggers in and hops atop the futon to perch on the backrest. He scrolls through his phone with an exaggerated shake of his head. “I’m looking at your guest list, and it’s all over the place.”
“How?” I fish a Band-Aid from the box. “I only invited the most elite seniors.”
“Sophie Campbell isn’t one of us,” Reed says. “She’s out-of-state and not going to add to the atmosphere.”
“If we didn’t invite a few randoms, it would just be half the dorm,” I say.
Reed twitches his lips in thought. “Okay, that’s fair. Also, why isn’t Dakota on here?”
I set about applying the Band-Aid. “Uh, we haven’t hung out in a while.”
Diego and Reed gape at me.
“Dude,” Diego says. “The hell did you do?”
“Nothing!” It’s true: I did not do a thing. Besides, she’s talking to the guy down the hall now. “Tell Quentin to bring her.”
Reed types a text to whom I’m assuming is Quentin. Today is move-in day, and tonight is the night the three of us have been planning off and on since we were freshmen.
Tonight, we’re throwing the party of the year right here in Club Rowan. Since Mr. Abadi, our house dad, keeps his apartment on the first floor, we won’t be heard way up here on the fourth. We just have to keep the noise down. Even quiet, it’s going to be wild, highly secretive, and only open to seniors who are the best of the best. We’re going to do so much stupid stuff we’ll never be able to run for office.
This is just the start. It’s my year, and I’ve got it all planned out. Homecoming king. Prom king. Captain of the fencing team. Quarterback. Oh, and model student, I guess. Then it’s on to Cornell, where every man in my family has gone, then right back here to take over and be the headmaster so my dad can play golf to his heart’s content.
No one’s going to ruin this for me.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my uniform chinos, and when I pull it out, I see a text from Dad.
Where are you?
“Uh-oh,” I say. “It’s half past seven. The usurper’s almost here.”
In the excitement of moving in and thinking about how to get the club vibe just right, I’d forgotten I have to use what little free time I’ve got to show around the new senior coming in. I don’t get why—Mockingbird Preparatory gets new students every year, on all grade levels. Apparently, this one is important enough to warrant VIP treatment, which means he’s probably richer than all of our families combined.
“You’re not inviting him tonight, are you?” Reed asks.
“I might have to,” I say.
“Don’t do it.” Reed shakes his head. “The whole family’s sus. I spent all summer working at Dad’s realty office. I met his mom and his aunt when they came in. Both hot, by the way. Beautiful. But weird. They didn’t even want to see the house. They just bought it, insisting they knew what they were doing. Dad even had to get them investigated to make sure it wasn’t some mafia thing. But everything came out legit.”
That tracks. The boarded-up old manor house at the end of Main Street was empty for decades. One night, the lights turned on. No one’s seen the whole family at once, but a series of electricians, cleaners, and carpenters have been going in and out at all hours—mostly at night. Rumors about it have been tossed around Mockingbird like footballs.
“Okay, it’s suspicious.” I nod. “Either way, I’m stuck with him for the afternoon. Now I’m really late. Thanks, Reed.”
Diego perks up. “Can we watch while you polish his shoes with your tongue?”
I respond with my middle finger before pulling a royal blue blazer with the little red emblem featuring a mockingbird off its hook. “See you tonight.”
They drift into a debate about music, and I rush down the stairs of my dorm. I check the time again. With the dorm being at the furthest back edge of campus, I’ve got quite a way to go. Dad will not be pleased.
I push my way out onto the tree-lined path that leads to the main campus and break into a full run. Across the athletic field, the main campus, with all its gothic buildings, looks like it ought to be somewhere in Europe, not upstate Vermont. Above it all, at the front gates, is the white-lit clock of Gorham Tower, the highest structure on campus.
That’s my destination. When I finally reach it and zoom around to the front steps, I come face to face with the man who could be my double except for the three‑piece suit, gray hair at his temples, and crow’s feet.
“You’re late,” Dad says.
“Sorry.” I show him my finger. “Had an accident.”
He grabs my hand and inspects the cut. “You should’ve been more careful. I don’t want you to get an infection.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He opens his mouth to say something else but is cut off by the sound of an approaching car. “They’re here,” he says. “Look smart.”
I do my best to stand exactly like Dad, pulling my shoulders back and clasping my left hand around my right wrist. A long black car pulls through the gate and lumbers along the horseshoe drive that winds around the statue of our mascot, Mocky, a monstrous, Sasquatch-like beast.
“Remember,” Dad says, never taking his eyes off the car, “the Belamy family is very important.”
“Got it.”
The car parks yards from us. A gruff-looking man with a shock of white hair steps from the driver’s seat, and for a moment, I think he’ll never reach his full height. He could easily be a champion weightlifter or professional wrestler because he’s huge. A black T-shirt pulls tight against his chest, with a light black jacket covering his probably terrifying biceps.
Also, he’s the palest person I think I’ve ever seen.
He steps around the car and opens the back door. Another man steps out. He’s tall, though not as tall as the first man, with wavy dark brown hair smoothed back in a style that reminds me of a hero from an old black-and-white movie. He wears a high-end black suit that would look at home on a red carpet. What’s really impressive, though, is that he looks nowhere near old enough to have a son my age. This guy has to be early thirties maximum.
“That’s Malcolm,” Dad murmurs.
The man, Malcolm Belamy, smiles at my father with closed lips and reaches to the open car door. A delicate hand takes his, and a woman who I assume must be the mom steps out. She opens a small black umbrella and holds it over herself as the setting sun paints her white dress orange.
Camille, as Dad tells me, has thick dark hair that falls in curls down her back like you’d see on an antique porcelain doll. Reed was right: she’s capital B Beautiful but odd. An umbrella? In dry weather?
And then . . . there he is.
“Casper Belamy.”
“Casper,” I whisper back to myself. All I can think of is a ghost, with his pale complexion offset by dark sunglasses protecting his eyes from the sunset. Like the others, his face is almost too perfect, with high cheekbones and lips so pink and full they’d pop if you put a needle to them. His hair is as black and glossy as licorice, thick with curls falling in perfect cascades, pushed back from his face.
He pulls back his broad shoulders that fit nicely under his black jacket, which pulls over a tight satin shirt and tucks into his tailored pants. He’s tall as well, especially in the black boots he’s wearing, accentuating the fact that his legs are long and his torso is short, and that’s not fair.
Seriously, he’s seventeen years old. So am I, and I have acne on my shoulders. The least he can do is have one flaw.
“Mr. Belamy.” Dad extends his hand to the too-young father. “Welcome to Mockingbird Preparatory.”
“Malcolm, if you please,” he responds with a diplomatic tone that I’ve never heard my father attempt. “And this is . . .?”
“My son, Rowan.” Dad pats me on the back before gripping my shoulder—the command button to turn on the charm.
I flash my best smile and offer a hand, but I can’t stop staring at Casper, who has yet to look my way. When his dad takes my hand, the smile drops from my face. I fight the shiver that creeps up my spine. It has to be the unusually cool air because this man has the coldest skin I’ve ever felt.
Dad finishes welcoming Camille, so I shake her hand as well, and—okay, I was starting to worry they’d all be freezing, but her hand is warm. Actually, it feels too warm, like the world’s worst fever rages through her.
I glance at Casper again, prepared to greet him. He pouts as he scans the administration building and the campus. I can’t tell if he’s upset or just thoroughly unenthused.
“Casper,” Dad addresses him, and at first, he doesn’t answer. Does he not realize my dad is talking to him? “Casper?”
Camille jabs his shoulder.
“Oh,” he says, and that single syllable makes my knees shake. His voice is smooth, deep, and sure. I have to outdo him before he completely alpha-dogs me.
“I’m Mr. Young, headmaster of Mockingbird Preparatory Academy,” Dad says. “I’m so glad you’re completing your senior year with us.”
Casper forces a half-smirk before looking away.
“Well,” Dad says, his voice suddenly tight, “shall we step inside?”
Casper’s parents and the huge driver join Dad, making their way into the building and out of the sunlight, which is taking its sweet time hiding behind the horizon. But Casper seems unwilling to follow, opting instead to appraise his surroundings as though they’re works of art he has no intention of buying. When his eyes fall on me—or I assume they do, considering his sunglasses— his perfectly bored face is disrupted by his nose wrinkling and his lips pursing.
Wow.
I clear my throat, puff out my chest, and make my way toward him so he has no choice but to speak to me. “Hello, Casper,” I say, giving him the grin reserved for school pictures, Christmas cards, and students who need to watch their attitude. “I’m Rowan Young. Nice to meet you, man—”
He shuts me up by lowering his sunglasses and revealing the most ethereal, ungodly, and angry blue eyes. I feel so exposed and vulnerable and—
“Get that away,” he snarls, rolling those blue eyes at my hand. He slides his sunglasses back up before pushing his way around me and disappearing inside, leaving me rejected.
Chapter Two
Casper
He. Smells. Delicious.
I can’t get away from him fast enough, and there are several reasons why. First, his face. The arrogant smirk, the fraternity-brother gleam in his ivy-green eyes, and that well-rehearsed offer of a handshake, pretending like he wouldn’t throw me to the wolves.
Second, he looks expensive, from his sand-colored hair, carefully maintained with every strand perfectly placed, to the remaining tan of whatever exotic location his parents whisked him away to this summer.
But the third and most important reason is that he. Smells. Delicious. Woodsy, with traces of vanilla and something so sweet and potent it makes my jaw lock up: the scent of pure, untasted blood, a flavor every vampire loves but seldom indulges in. He’s a walking, smirking bottle of it. My tongue is watering, my lips twitching, and my fangs are begging to descend in my mouth for just one drop from the cut on his finger.
This is dangerous. Very dangerous.
“Come in.” Mr. Young extends a welcoming arm over the threshold of his office. “We’ll get Casper on track and allow him to get settled.”
Oscar, my ever-stoic bodyguard, leads Malcolm and Camille to the door, but I hang back, flicking my eyes over the foyer for something to grab my attention before I drool at the memory of that boy’s blood.
At least the school is antiquated, all polished oak and black-and-white tile, the walls lined with sconces that seem as though they could be the originals. Portraits of previous headmasters and important figures in the school’s history line the walls, and a quick glance at the plaques reveals that most of them have the surname Young. A generational position, then.
“Casper?”
I stiffen as that forbidden sweet, cozy, woodsy smell slips into my nostrils. A weight shifts behind me. My fangs, hidden in my gums, descend as the urge to drink him returns, and subtly, I reach into my mouth and push them back up before I whirl around and his eyes snap to mine—but not fast enough for him to mask that he’d been eyeing me up and down.
He cocks his head toward the office, folding his arms.
Oscar, from his place next to the office door, coughs to get my attention. He would never dare to order me, but if I remember anything from my feral days, it’s that I shouldn’t test him unless I want to be tossed like a baseball. I meander to the office and almost gasp with relief as Rowan’s scent fades behind me.
I’m so thirsty.
“Shall we?” Mr. Young asks as I enter a room that might as well be carved inside of a tree. Everything is oak: the desk, the chairs, the window trim, the shelves. Beneath my feet, a thick rug with a depiction of the school seal, a mockingbird alighted on a branch, peeks from beneath two large blue-and-silver Victorian-patterned sofas, upon one of which my “parents” have seated themselves, making sure to leave a gap for me. I sit between them as Oscar follows me in.
Mr. Young reaches for the door, but before he can close it, Rowan’s expensive-looking face appears. Thankfully, his father whispers, “Wait out here,” and shuts him out. Now I’m the one who gets to smirk.
Malcolm pulls my sunglasses off, dropping them in my lap. I squint. The sunset’s last rays are shooting straight through the large, latticed window, and I fight the urge to hiss. They tell me my sensitivity to sunlight will fade with time, but right now, it’s awful.
To help my eyes adjust, I focus on the wall ahead. A large oil painting, an old ship barely weathering a storm, hangs on the wall behind Mr. Young’s desk. I tilt my head, trying to focus my eyes. The plaque on the bottom of the frame reads Voyage of the Attercop—Artist Unknown.
By the time I’ve memorized this, the muscles around my eyes have eased a bit, but I still have to squint as Mr. Young reaches across his desk for a file.
“Now then,” he says, taking his seat on the opposite sofa. His eyes drift to the figure looming behind us, only just noticing that Oscar has joined us. “Oh. Hello.”
“Evening.” Oscar’s voice is as emotive as a dial tone.
“This is Oscar.” Camille gestures to him. “He’s part of the family. We wanted to ensure Casper was settled safely.”
Mr. Young raises an eyebrow, not understanding.
“He’s my bodyguard,” I offer. Malcolm and Camille stiffen, and I remember I wasn’t supposed to explain that. No one’s supposed to know we’re that important.
Mr. Young nods. “Okay. I’ll admit, I knew you were a very”—he tilts his head—“special student, but . . . Mr. Belamy, remind me, what is it you do?”
“Government,” Malcolm says, and Camille half-snorts, which makes me want to laugh. Monarchy would’ve been the more accurate answer. “International relations, but we wanted Casper to complete his education stateside.”
“You couldn’t have chosen better than Mockingbird Preparatory Academy.” Mr. Young grins, and I resist rolling my squinting eyes. When Camille showed me pictures of the school, a cluster of caste‑like structures perched atop Mount Constant like a tiny medieval city, I was excited. I thought I’d be among brilliant, if mortal, peers. We would debate literature and the beauty of life and death while strolling through cobblestone alleys and dusty libraries. But that boy out in the hallway, if he’s their best example, doesn’t leave me much hope.
Mr. Young goes through my previous education, and I only half-nod while Camille confirms everything: how well I did at my last school, how my test scores are excellent. It’s all fabricated. There is no Prince’s American Academy in Belgium. I’ve never been out of the country, though that will change, hopefully sooner rather than later. Everything about Casper Belamy was invented in the three months since they found me feral in a New York subway tunnel.
I don’t remember who I was before I was this.
Malcolm came up with Prince Academy because the Belamy clan is the royal vampiric family of the American East, which makes me, of course, the so-called prince.
That’s the thing I really love about being a vampire: I choose who I get to be.
“I’m sure you’ll have several questions as you continue to acclimate,” Mr. Young says after speeding through my schedule. The only thing I really cared to know was that my dorm number is 410. I can’t wait to get there and shut the world out. “You’ll find everything in this folder, but for now, are there any questions?”
Camille doesn’t waste a second. “How are students kept safe? What is security like? Cameras? Gates locked? Are the whereabouts of students known at all times?”
Mr. Young’s expression tightens, no doubt because of the urgency in her voice. But he must be used to handling parents, because he paints on a smile and says, “Student safety is our top priority. That said, we take the phrase ‘young adult’ seriously, and we trust our students to keep on their best behavior.”
“So he isn’t surveilled every minute,” Camille presses.
Mr. Young’s expression darkens. “Not unless he breaks our trust.”
My shoulders relax. It was a trick. Camille wasn’t concerned about how I’d be protected; she was ensuring I wouldn’t be filmed feeding outside at night or caught brushing my fangs. Part of this whole scheme is for me to learn how to live undetected among mortals.
“Camille is a worrier,” Malcolm says, trying to ease the tension. He claps me on the back. “But Casper has always been a model student, and I’m sure you’ll agree once the semester has begun.”
“Of course.” Mr. Young nods. “I’m certain he’ll make an impression. Well! I believe we have everything in order. If you like, Casper, I’ll have Rowan show you the ropes.”
My eyebrows knit together as I process what he said. Rowan. Will show me the ropes. As in I have to follow him around school? Alone?
“Christ.” I pinch the space between my eyes.
“I’m sorry?” Mr. Young asks.
Camille grabs my shoulder and digs her fingers in so hard her nails pinch. “I think it’s a lot for Casper,” she says. “Might we have a private moment before he continues?”
“Oh.” Mr. Young stands. “Of course. I was just about to step out.”
When he does, leaving us with a soft thud and the echo of his son whispering a slew of questions outside, Camille turns to Oscar. “Shut the damned curtains.”
“I’m so thirsty,” I grumble.
Camille reaches into her purse and produces a silver flask. She thrusts it into my hand, and my fingers shake as I fumble to get the lid off. A second later, lukewarm blood is pouring down my throat. It’s not sweet, flat from being in the flask too long. But it’s all I have for now.
“The first rule of going undetected is not giving in to the irritability that comes with your thirst,” Malcolm says.
I breathe in through my nostrils as the blood does its work. The veins in my temples relax, and my shoulders unclench. My hands stop trembling. The edge is gone, but it’ll be back with a vengeance the minute I’m around that boy again.
“Don’t leave me in this zoo for the overprivileged,” I say.
“It’s temporary,” Malcolm says, pacing. “You are over your initial thirst, and you must hone it, along with your discretion. Every vampire across the East looks to us. It’s up to you to show them you won’t endanger us.”
“Right,” I say. “Let’s rest the future of a vulnerable population on my eternally seventeen-year-old shoulders.”
“Malcolm, perhaps he isn’t ready,” Camille muses, one arm draping around my shoulders while the other pulls me closer so my cheek rests against her collarbone. “He’s still a newborn. What are we doing, throwing him to these cruel, pubescent wolves?”
“Very well,” Malcolm says. “If Casper doesn’t want to stay here, he doesn’t have to.”
My heart twitches with microscopic hope, but I sense a catch. Still, I ask, “Really?”
“Although you won’t be allowed to go on the tour if you don’t.”
There it is. Malcolm and Camille’s promise of sending me on a grand old-fashioned world tour—provided I don’t murder anyone or expose our secret—has been dangled like a carrot in front of me since I could form a coherent sentence. The chance to get out of my attic room in Belamy Manor and see the world, to walk the same streets bohemians and revolutionaries once walked, where history was made and twisted. To see other vampires!
“That’s unfair,” is the best argument I have.
Camille runs her long fingernails over my cheek. “Your father has a point, and I agree with him. You have to complete the obstacle before the reward. But if you aren’t ready, we will wait.”
“But sooner or later,” Malcolm adds, “you must do this. It’s important to experience first-hand how our subjects get by. You might not always have the luxury of your casket, a bodyguard, and an endless supply of blood acquired for you. If you’re going to mess up, it’s better on this small playing field than in front of the entire world.”
No choice; only do.
Camille and Malcolm must sense my resolve because they wrap me in a hug. I wince, unsure why I do whenever they show me affection. I make myself lean into it.
“You are our son now,” Malcolm says. “We believe in you.”
Though I’m not entirely sure how to think of them, they’re all I remember knowing, and I’m about to be without them. Alone. The only one like me in the entire school.
I’m scared. And angry. And already tired of it.
My throat dries up, and my chest tightens. It would be a nice relief to cry a little in this moment. Even if it was only a break in my voice or a misting eye, it might make me feel a little less angry. But vampires don’t have tears, so it all stays bottled in my heart.
The door swings open, and my nostrils flare with the smell of wood, vanilla, and horrible temptation. I pull from Malcolm and Camille’s arms.
“Sorry,” Rowan’s irritating voice almost burns my ears off. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The school year cannot end fast enough.
