Season 4 of Witchfire
After sacrificing himself to save Chance Nightshade, London Irephang - lamia prince of the vampires - is resurrected as an immortal vampire. Now, Chance Nightshade and Nora Walker must combine their powers and delve into the mi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
After crowning the suspiciously tall werewolves and slipping the ancient rings on their fingers, masking them from prying eyes as well as the second sight, we walked leisurely through the hallways, simply two nurses transporting a patient to another wing of the building. When the black-armoured guards thundered down the hall, back the way we came, we peeled away from the main carriageway and waited patiently for them to pass, ogling them just as any other bored employee would have done.
It had been laughably easy to escape from then on, smiling blandly at the receptionist as we pushed Ivy's wheelchair through the foyer. When she arched an eyebrow, Seth gestured at the wheelchair, feigned smoking a cigarette and then shrugged, as if to say what can you do? The receptionist rolled her eyes and waved us on, evidently disgusted but not surprised by a habit that actively thwarted the hospital's hard work.
It had been even easier to blend in on the street. People milled before the gates of the main keep, clamouring for the re-opening of the portals, swelling against the wall of black-armoured guards like waves upon the shore. I lowered my lashes, letting their grim expressions blur into colour and energy, marking the emotions running rampant beneath their lowered visors. The guards' spirits were eroding with each push of the crowd, frustration warring with sympathy for the plight of those they refused. Nobody wanted to be trapped in the Incantum with the Mad Witch. Everybody wanted to go home.
I was surprised by how many of their thoughts fixated on Mischa; rumours about her legion had run rampart since our last visit, along with the doomsday prophecy she featured in. The fear of the masses was sharp and tangy, making my tongue tingle as I flexed my psychic wings, drinking it all in.
They felt cramped in this confined dimension, large as it was. Like they were pressing up against unseen walls that prodded the eyes embedded in every feather, smushing them closed. Even so, I could feel the energy of a thousand storms fizzling through the walls of the pocket dimension, as if only a thin membrane separated us from the crashing waves and burning forests that whirled in the maelstrom overhead.
It was a disturbingly tangible feeling, one that made my skin prickle and my hair stand on end. I reeled the energy back in as soon as I'd taken the edge off the crowd's emotions, making my wings small enough to tuck against my back. Only my friends were left untouched: Seth was a tight ball of worry and doubt, while Ivy's aura barely even glowed at all, more like the hint of light that touched the clouds every morning before the sun actually rose. I fervently hoped her sun was rising and not setting.
Out of curiosity, I turned my attention to the other two, still shielded from sight. The air was slightly hazy where they should have been standing, so I concentrated harder, squinting through the befuddling fog.
Sure enough, I pierced the veil, though it took a tremendous effort and the knowledge of exactly where they were standing. Waters was a storm cloud of guilt and self-loathing, sparking with intermittent flashes of anger, but it was no match for the fire that burned in the pit of Jerome's stomach. The Frenchman was utterly livid, and he stoked the coals of that rage as if it was the only thing keeping cold despair at bay.
