Page 4 of Revenge is a Witch

Dryads cluster around the potted trees by the entrance, their skin shimmering like bark under sunlight, branches swaying with every word they speak. They’re always whispering, as if nature itself is sharing its secrets with them. Over by the windows, a group of fae sit on the ledge, their wings flickering like dragonfly wings, eyes gleaming with mischief as they plot their next prank—innocence never suits them. And then there are the gargoyles, hunched over their own table, their stone-gray skin cracked and weathered. They’re surprisingly chatty, their deep voices booming like thunder, though they seem to take breaks every few minutes to pose dramatically. Everyone’s gottheir group, their clique, their species-specific circle of friends. It’s like any other high school, but with fangs, fur, and wings.

Me? I’m with Sam and Derek, seated at one of the central tables, which is prime real estate for people-watching and occasionally dodging magical mishaps. Derek’s practically inhaling a plate of something that smells vaguely of meat, while Sam pokes at her salad, clearly more interested in her grimoire than her food. Meanwhile, I’ve got a half-eaten sandwich in front of me that I’m pretending to care about.

"You know," I say, lazily swirling my straw in my drink, "if I have to listen to one more siren laugh like she’s auditioning for some supernatural version ofThe Voice, I might just hex myself."

Sam grins, still scribbling notes in her grimoire. "You’ve survived worse, Z. Remember that time in Cauldron Concoctions when Hank almost set your hair on fire?"

I roll my eyes. "Ugh, don’t remind me. I still smell burnt lavender every time I walk into that class."

Derek chuckles, his mouth half-full. "You mean when he tried to fix it with an anti-flame spell and accidentally turned your cauldron into a geyser?"

I shoot him a mock glare. "Yes, Derek, I remember. Very vividly, thanks."

He smirks and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still, you’ve got to admit, it was hilarious watching you dodge boiling potion."

Before I can retort, I feel the familiar prickle at the back of my neck—like someone’s watching me. And not in the "I’m crushing on you" way. Nope, this feels more like "I’m planning something, and it’s going to be awful."

I glance over my shoulder and—yep, there she is. Kyla. Sitting with her perfectly poised, perfectly annoying group of friends. Witches and half-vampires, all looking like they’ve stepped outof a supernatural magazine. Kyla catches my eye, and the corner of her mouth lifts in that smug little smirk she’s perfected over the years.

Great.

"Z, don’t engage," Sam says without even looking up from her grimoire. She knows me too well.

"I’m not engaging," I say, turning back around and taking a sip of my drink. "I’m just... aware."

Derek snorts. "Yeah, right. You two have been circling each other for weeks. It’s only a matter of time before one of you snaps."

"I’m not going to snap," I say, more to myself than anyone else. "I’m going to be mature and take the high road."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Sure you are." Before I can argue, I feel a sudden tug on my leg—more specifically, on my stocking. I glance down, and my eyes widen in horror. A thread. A loose thread. And it’s unraveling fast.

"Oh, you’vegotto be kidding me," I mutter, reaching down to stop the thread from pulling any further.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s behind this. I glance up, and sure enough, Kyla’s got her wand discreetly pointed in my direction, her smile widening as the thread keeps unraveling. My perfect red stockings, coming apart at the seams.

My blood boils, but I force myself to stay calm. I could hex her. I could. But no. That’s what she wants. I’m better than that. Instead, I take a deep breath, stand up, and walk—no,strut—over to her table, making sure to put a little extra swing in my step, like I don’t have a care in the world.

"Kyla," I say sweetly, leaning on the edge of her table, "I couldn’t help but notice my stockings suddenly started unraveling. Any idea how that happened?"

Kyla feigns innocence, batting her eyelashes. "Oh, Zaria, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe they were just cheap?"

Cheap. My stockings. Myvintagered stockings.

I force a smile, though I can feel my teeth grinding. "Cheap? That’s rich, coming from someone who spends more on lip gloss than I do on an entire outfit." Her friends snicker, but I keep my focus on Kyla. She knows what she did, and she knows I know.

Kyla shrugs, twirling a strand of her perfectly curled hair. "Maybe you just don’t take care of your things. I mean, not everyone has the luxury of beingperfect, right?"

"Perfect?" I tilt my head, giving her the most saccharine smile I can muster. "Oh, Kyla, honey. If perfection was measured in self-obsession, you’d be queen. But I guess I’m just content being, you know, a real person." The cafeteria erupts in laughter. Even a few of Kyla’s friends chuckle before quickly covering it up with coughs. Kyla’s smile falters, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.

She straightens, her voice dripping with venom. "Careful, Zaria. You wouldn’t want thatreal personof yours to get hurt. You know how fragile you can be."

My fists clench at my sides, but I stay rooted in place, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose my cool. "Fragile? Sweetie, the only thing fragile around here is your ego." The laughter around us gets louder, and even Sam and Derek are grinning from ear to ear. Kyla’s face is a mix of rage and humiliation, and for a second, I think she might actually hex me.

But then, like the universe’s timing couldn’t be worse, my stocking gives one final tug and tears, right across the knee. I glare down at it, my blood boiling.

"Oh, Kyla," I say, my voice calm but laced with poison. "You know the only thing I hate more than dealing with your pathetic little power plays? Ruined stockings." Kyla’s smirk returns, but before she can say anything, I take a step back and give her a mock bow. "But don’t worry, I won’t stoop to your level. Some of us have standards."

And with that, I turn on my heel and walk back to my table, head held high, even though I can feel the tear in my stocking like a neon sign.

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