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 ─────
The afterlife was surprisingly light and airy, all white curtains and silk sheets. I regained my bearings through little landmarks of colour, taking in the slip of blue sky through the window, the weathered green lump at the end of my bed. When it resolved into my trusty backpack, I paused, holding up my bandaged arms for inspection. Had I been mummified, or was I somehow miraculously still alive?
"Alive," I muttered, taking in the black clipboard next to my bag. It had been carelessly dumped, left open for anyone curious enough to read my personal information. But it was the bright yellow packaging on top that truly disproved my theory of being dead, for I doubted the afterlife would concern itself with product placement for things like chocolate Flake bars.
Stomach gurgling, I reached for the little chocolate, looking forward to at least one bright thing in my dreary day. The action sent ripples of pain through my body, and I held still as I waited for the feeling to peter out before moving again — more gingerly this time.
Piper was right. I shouldn't have challenged her. But there was nothing to be gained from regretting my decisions, so I gritted my teeth and seized the consolation prize. The Flake bar crumpled between my fingers with a harsh crinkling sound, obnoxiously loud for something so frail. Empty.
"That was your complimentary chocolate," said Ethan.
I sucked in a sharp breath, hands flying up to my chest as if to settle the heart hammering within it. Had he been sitting on my bedside table this whole time?
"The infirmary hands them out to all of their serious patients," he went on. "You know, to lift their spirits and boost the healing process? It worked for Harry Potter, anyway."
"And you ate it," I said, irritation leaking into my voice.
"Waiting for you to wake up was depressing, so I self-medicated."
"But it was a Flake bar," I stressed. "I love Flake bars."
"So do I," Ethan retorted, wiping a chocolate-smeared hand on my bedspread. It looked like a shit stain. How the hell was I supposed to convince the nurse it wasn't me?
I was about to tell him it was a wonder no-one had bashed him up for being annoying yet, but then I recalled that I'd beaten him with a rock. By accident, but still.
"It tasted fantastic," he said, and I wished for another rock.
Groaning, I held onto the bars of the bed and manoeuvred my body into a sitting position. My real, female body, not the male one from that bizarre dream, unnaturally fresh in my mind. Usually I struggled to recall my dreams, but this was a vivid exception. My name is Isaac King, and I am your —
I hissed as pain lanced through my side. I hated the way my back shuddered, like a car on the verge of breaking down. It felt inherently wrong to experience such persistent weakness and pain; as a werewolf, pain was always a temporary affair. Only now did I realise how much I'd taken my regenerative abilities for granted.
