Chapter 3: Targeted

Wendy’s POV

The moment I step into the new classroom, I just know—

Trouble's here.

The room goes dead silent, like someone hit a giant pause button on the universe. Dozens of eyes whip around to look at me, sharp and cold like laser pointers. I instinctively touch my face—nope, nothing on it. So what’s with the stares? Is this because of Damien?

Just as I quietly shut the door, trying to make myself invisible, the teacher turns to me and starts to speak.

“I’m Professor Wickman,” he says, eyeing me with a mix of curiosity and scrutiny. “Everyone, please welcome our new student—Wendy Alder. She’s from the Silver Moon pack… and she’s the Alpha’s daughter.”

What? My brain explodes with nerves like someone set off fireworks in my skull. Alpha’s daughter? Did he really have to say that out loud? I was going for low-key, not main-character entrance.

“Wendy, would you care to take a seat?” Professor Wickman adds.

I nod stiffly, then walk—more like stumble, really—toward the only empty chair in the front row. It’s this rickety, wobbly thing that looks like it might fall apart if I breathe too hard, and it creaks as soon as I touch it.

As I sit, not a single person smiles. No one says “welcome” or even “hey.” There’s just this thick, silent tension hanging in the air, and a vibe I can only describe as hostile—like a balloon full to bursting, ready to pop.

I can’t help but wonder—are they waiting for someone to say something? Or for me to self-destruct?

Either way, I don’t like it.

I try to focus on class, but my brain’s stuck on one loop: What did I even do wrong?

The rest of the lesson continues seemingly as normal, but that strange energy is still loomingly heavily over the classroom. After what feels like an eternity, the bell finally rings. I bolt into the hallway, heading for my locker to grab my stuff for the next class—Combat Training.

And that’s when it happens.

The moment I open my locker, I nearly ascend to another dimension.

“AHHHHHHH!”

A flood of squirming bugs comes pouring out of my locker, a disgusting, wriggling waterfall like something out of my worst nightmares. Some crawl up my arms. Others creep along my shirt. One dives into my hair, much to my horror. I go full meltdown mode, smacking myself like a lunatic trying to get them off.

“You’ve got to be kidding me—BUGS?!” I scream, stumbling back, nearly dropping my gym bag.

The response from all the students around me? 

It’s not help. Not concern.

All I can hear as I stand there, blood boiling, bugs crawling along my body, is cold, cruel  laughter.

“She scares that easy? Wow!” Some guy snorts, doubled over.

“There’s one in her hair! Ew!” A girl gasps, covering her mouth like I’m Patient Zero.

“Damn… no one’s gonna wanna sit near her now,” someone else throws in coldly.

My face burns with rage and humiliation, but I force myself to act unfazed. I get the feeling that showing any more emotion would only be adding more fuel to the fire. I brush the bugs off as calmly as I can manage, doing my best to compose myself when suddenly  something in the locker catches my eye.

Pasted to the back of the locker, there’s a card. Bright red. Handmade. Almost ceremonial-looking, oddly enough. And squarely in the middle of the card, written in a strangely ornate font, one big black letter has been neatly printed:

W

“She got the Witch Card!“ Someone shouts.

Before I can even begin to figure out what the hell a Witch Card could even be, the hallway explodes.

All of a sudden, what was just a cruel prank suddenly feels like a school-wide event.

“She’s so screwed!”

“First day and she’s already cursed?”

“Oh, she won’t last a week. I bet she cries next period.”

I’m frozen, my brain spinning. Witch card? What even is that? Why are people reacting like I just got marked for execution? Is this some kind of werewolf version of a medieval witch trial?

Whatever it is, I certainly don’t have the patience for any of it. I grit my teeth, grab my gym clothes and sneakers, and storm off toward the locker room. I don’t say anything. I don’t look back. I don’t listen. 

I’m not scared. I’m pissed.

But the second I walk into the girls’ locker room, the atmosphere shifts—and not in a good way.

Whispers. Side-eyes. Noses wrinkle like I smell bad. The way the other girls look at me… it’s like they think I’m dangerous somehow, like I might spit venom at any second.

“Go on, keep staring,” I mutter, heading for the farthest corner to change.

I tug my shirt over my head, momentarily blind, flailing to find the sleeve hole. I finally get dressed and take a deep breath, ready to leave. I tell myself it can’t possibly get worse.

And then—.

SPLASH!!!

A whole bucket of ice water crashes down on me.

I freeze. Literally. Water runs down my scalp, spine, back, soaking my clothes. My shoes squish when I shift my weight.

They actually did it. They really just dumped ice water on me.

“Oh my god, she looks like a wet dog!”

“Don’t come near me—I don’t wanna get cursed too!”

“She looks pathetic, haha. Serves her right!”

I just stand there as water drips off my chin. The laughter stings  like a thousand needles plunging into my flesh. I know this isn’t just some stupid prank.

This is war.

And I’ve just been branded:

The witch. The outsider. Public enemy number one.

Awesome job, Wendy. First day and you’re already the school joke.

Honestly? Peaked.