I pulled up my dark hood as I hurried through the streets of Crescent Bay. Something was wrong, I could sense it. It made my heart race faster, and my chest tighten.
Things had been changing in the town I’d lived in for over a century, and not in the way of modernization. No, it had been something far worse.
Dark forces were gathering. Forces that could threaten my very existence.
As I passed the massive hospital building, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My chest heaved as I struggled to pull in breaths.
The distinct scent of werewolf filled my nostrils. And it was a werewolf I was intimately familiar with. One I had turned myself.
I clutched at the locket around my neck, my lower lip trembling. Visions of a past time floated through my mind.
I tamped the memories down, unwilling to live through them again. “No,” I cried as a tear rolled from my cheek.
With a heavy heart—a constant companion thanks to my condition—I hurried to escape the familiar scent and the flood of memories it brought. But my rush was cut short when I stumbled over an uprooted piece of sidewalk, crashing face-first onto the ground.
Being a witch didn’t mean I was impervious to embarrassing injuries. In fact, I’d spent more time than I cared to admit having medical emergencies tied to my seer abilities.
Seeing the future wasn’t neat, enjoyable, or even remotely useful for me. It was a burden I despised carrying.
As I picked myself up off the ground, a passerby crouched to eye my wounds. “Those look pretty bad. You may want to get them checked. Did you hit your head?”
“No, and I’m fine,” I answered without a look at them.
“Could have a sprain of that wrist. It’s swelling pretty good.”
“Is that your expert opinion?” I shot back, trying not to wince as pain shot through the very wrist he indicated.
