Chance Nightshade, daughter of the Melbourne City Alpha, will avenge her brother's murder at any cost. Even if it means working with a charming vampire prince.
Season 1 of Witchfire
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Memories haunted my dreams.
They whirled about me like dancers, and shortly after partnering with one, another whisked me away. And so my senses were maddeningly assaulted by snippets of irretrievable days spent with the brother I'd lost, revitalising my anguish at his death.
I dug my hands into mouldering leaves, turning over sticks and stones in search of elusive butchy-boy bugs. Gorse bush nicked my skin as we threw it onto the bonfire, watching the flames soar. Scalding jam exploded on my tongue as we sampled the morning's batch of donuts, all the sweeter for the fact they were stolen.
Our cherub cheeks gradually lost their roundness, though my pinched expression in the mirror remained. Arthur's frame filled out with muscle and his eyes brightened along with the gradual darkening of his hair, until the brown almost appeared black at first glance. I'd always looked scruffy, borderline feral, but that wildness took on a dangerous edge as I claimed our father's height for my own. His strength. His eyes.
That only scratched the surface of our changes. While my temperament soured with age and imposed isolation, Arthur was encouraged to throw himself into the community and win their hearts and minds. Through his charismatic kindness, he solidified the respect the people held for our family, which Ford Nightshade commanded inspired through fear.
No matter what standing he gained and how aloof I became, however, Arthur always involved me in his life, never once leaving me behind, never once considering me anything less than his equal. He was an incredible man, I realised with the painful clarity of hindsight. As capable as our father and compassionate as our mother: the prime legacy of their coupling.
My heart wrenched in my chest with the realisation that he had been my one genuine friend in life. And now...
The whirl of memories came to an abrupt stop. I sat up in my bed, only to be confronted by the sight of Arthur sitting on the corner of the mattress. He was picking absently at the threads in the blue coverlet.
I frowned, perturbed by his lack of drive. Where was the man whose soul had once strained under the burden of royal responsibility, whose muscles had built over time to lift it? Where was the firstborn child of our father, the decisive and indomitable heir to the werewolf throne? The man before me wore Arthur's face, but shared none of his drive.
"You're not my brother," I accused, narrowing my eyes at the imposter.
"Oh, I am," he assured me. "But I am also a dream."
Ah, a dream. The idea leant sense to this odd encounter. "Of course," I muttered, rubbing at my eyes. "You're dead."
"Indeed. But for now, I'm alive in concept, given voice by your subconscious mind. There must be a reason for that."
"Perhaps I miss you," I proposed. "Perhaps I wanted to say goodbye."
"No, I don't think that's it." There was a small furrow in his brow as he looked for the right words. "I think... that you want advice on how to proceed."
