Expelled from her old school for a crime she didn't commit, Ivy must gain the trust of the High Pack at Ridgeview Academy to stop her new home from going up in flames.
Season 2 of Witchfire
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───── Ivy ─────
His teeth came together in an empty click, exactly where my throat had been moments before.
I twisted around, catching the rival wolf's ear in my mouth. The thin flesh tore to ribbons as he pulled free with a yelp, prancing back to escape further mauling. I let out a series of harsh barks, hoping Dean would surrender to instinct and retreat from the sound. To my relief, the ploy worked, and I gained a brief respite from fighting.
It was desperately needed. My chest was heaving for a breath I couldn't quite seem to catch, and my muscles burned with the effort of staying alive. Dean was a shrewd opponent and had kept me on my toes with an impressive commitment to foul play. I could still feel grains of sand stinging in the corners of my eyes from when he'd kicked it up in my face. It was only through sheer desperation that I'd stayed shy of his jaws, using the sound of his snarl to orient myself.
That snarl sounded again, and my eyes narrowed into feral slits. I almost wished I'd missed his ear and gouged out an eye instead; the arrogant triumph shining in them was really giving me the shits.
Dean stalked forward, enforcing the deadline by which I had to make my next decision. I need to knock him off his feet, I thought, retreating as I tried to think of a way to manage the task. Flipping him over would be like catching the snitch in a game of Quidditch; not just a game-changer, but a game decider.
My retreat triggered something in him; he closed in even faster, springing for my throat. His reaction triggered something in me, and I turned tail and fled. He chased me thoughtlessly, like a dog after a rabbit, unable to resist the urge to run down that which was fleeing, that which he considered prey. I let him gain on me, feigning fatigue. When he was close enough, sure enough of his victory, I whirled upon him. Dean toppled beneath my weight, paws scrabbling for purchase, but there was none to be found in the sand. He whined in terror as I seized his throat in my jaws and squeezed.
His pelt was thick, and it prevented my teeth from sinking into the hot flesh underneath, but my grip was still strong enough to cut off his air supply. Realising what I intended to do, Dean struggled with all the violent force of desperation, writhing and kicking and yapping. I held on grimly and stepped to the side, out of the reach of his legs.
With time, his struggles became feebler, easier to rebuff. Now and again, Dean would resist spasmodically and to no purpose — we both knew that he'd lost the fight. Eventually, he went limp. When I felt sure he was actually unconscious, and that it wasn't another one of his tricks, I let him go and sat on my haunches, blinking up at the crowd.
The students in the tiers had gone quiet with my victory. It was eerie, after relying on their blood-thirsty cheers to fuel my violence; their morbid curiosity was almost a palpable force. They wondered if I had killed him. It wasn't unusual for things to get out of hand at a Placing Tournament; death was considered an acceptable - albeit unfortunate - risk.
