Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

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Truth is, I was so concerned with finding out what was wrong with me, that I completely disregarded Stranger 101. Other than the fact that he's a werewolf, I really know nothing about Beck. And the alarming part is that, after he showed up on my doorstep, I completely threw away my ability to rationalize. I wanted to know everything, without really learning anything. I know what he is, not who. I know where he works, but not where he grew up or what his family life is like. I've disregarded everything my Dad ever taught me simply because this boy from the woods dazzled me with tales about werewolves and witches and magical drugs.

He grunts. "Don't push me, Conall."

It's my turn to frown, "Actually, I think those are pretty valid questions, ones that I should have asked you two days ago."

"So, now that you've got what you want, you're just gonna shove me off? Well, then." With a large swipe, he brushes his hair back from his face and walks out of my bedroom. I follow behind him through the hallway, but by the time I reach the front yard, he's vanished.

*****

When I reach the school, second period is already over and the senior hall is flooded with kids from my year. Pete is waiting for me at my locker, his eyes wide and worried beneath his messy blonde fringe.

"Wow, you look—" He sees my glare and immediately shuts his mouth. Pete leans against the wall of blue lockers while I try to unlock mine. "So, your Dad's been blowing up my phone."

"What?" Not once in our lifelong friendship has my Dad felt the need to call Pete, like ever. "Did you answer?"

Pete lowers his voice, "No, I was in class, where I was supposed to be. Where have you been?"

Quick flashes of Beck in my bedroom, and his face through rays of sunlight paralyze me briefly.

God, I want to tell Pete everything. More than anything, I want to talk about Beck and Olivian and how I cast a freaking spell in the middle of my bedroom, but the conversation we had outside of The Fox Glove still resonates in the back of my mind. He wouldn't believe me, not without proof that everything occurred.

I sigh as I grab the thick Lit book for third period and shut my locker.

"I've just been sick," I say as we start down the hall.

"Well, I believe you on that one," he mumbles, and if I didn't feel so weak, I'd punch him for the subtle insult.

"Are you coming to theatre tonight?"

I shake my head. "No, I promised Dad I'd focus on skating, remember?"

So much for that. How am I supposed to focus when I've just learned I can morph a flower into a liquified, albeit disgusting, healing agent? What else am I able to do?

Then, like an egg cracked over my skull, a cold chill prickles my skin like yoke running down my hair. What if that's what they were trying to suppress--that I'm a witch?

I mean, that could make sense. The pills suppress everything supernatural, they change events involving them to keep the memories hidden...what if I'm really powerful? What if someone's afraid of me?

Part of me relishes in the surge of power from the idea. If I had strong, magical inclinations, and if I was made aware of them, what would that change? Why would someone feel the need to bury the magic? Am I good or evil?

"Shell, you coming?" Pete turns around and closes in the space between us.

"Yeah," I shake the bewitching thoughts from my head, but that cold, prickling sensation doesn't dissipate. It grows.

My stomach begins to gurgle again, and I drop my books and scramble to the nearest bathroom. Not a second after I lunge into a stall, the silver goop is cascading out.

This time it's different. This time it burns like acid.

I'm sweating and crying and freezing and burning at the same time, and I can't seem to stop puking out the Ironide.

The door slams outside the stall, and Pete calls out my name. Most cases, I'd be mortified that he's in the girls' bathroom, but right now I couldn't be more thankful.

"Pete," I croak.

He bursts through the stall and makes a gagging noise when he sees what's happening.

"What the hell--what is that, Shell?"

"Find Olivian!" Something's wrong. This shouldn't be happening.

"Oh-okay," he says, and I know he's gone when the heavy door slams again.

The tar is still coming, scorching my esophagus in large bursts.

"What are we supposed to do?" The words bounce off the tiled walls in an eerily ambiguous voice.

"Hello?" I cough out the remaining bits of tar, and try to stand on my limbs made of straw. There's nothing outside the stalls, and I stumble across the floor to the sink. I take a moment to splash cold water over my face and rinse out my mouth.

When I look into the mirror, there's a flash of room with floral wallpaper and two silhouettes standing beside the bed.

"This is wrong." The voice says, and I whip around to find the source. Again, there's nothing, but suddenly I'm so dizzy and so weak. In a matter of seconds, the world around me starts to blur, the walls swirling around like a beige tornado.

Before I can grab onto something sturdy, my knees buckle and everything goes black.