Witch Born - LJ Swallow Page 0,31

if I'm in a waking nightmare. Something warm runs down my face and I drop my pencil and wipe. Then I see blood on my lacerated hands.

Gasping for breath, I shake my head to dislodge the images being thrust into my head. I look again and my hands are clear.

Ivan. How has he managed this?

I press my palms either side of my head but can’t squeeze away the nausea. My magic is weakened here, which allows him to invade my mind, but how the hell did he get past the island's barriers?

"I need to go to the bathroom,” I gasp out and stand. The mocking words on the paper look back at me as I step away. If I leave the room, the horror can stay there.

“Eloise?” Oriana looks up at me and the room retreats.

Not waiting for permission, I throw myself through the door and into the hallway. The pain fills my head and limbs and I stagger at the hallucination.

“Get out of my head!” I yell and hit my palms across my temples.

Abruptly the hallucination stops as if somebody switched off a TV show, and I suck in a ragged breath.

“I’m coming for you,” whispers Ivan’s voice and I sink to the tiles, placing a palm on the hard floor to assure myself I’m here.

The world clears again and my clammy skin cools. I’ve always denied how much he scares me—told myself I’m strong enough to beat him. But if he comes here, Ivan could be more powerful than I am.

Unless Ivan means he’s coming to take me away from Ravenhold?

Either way, things don’t look good.

Chapter Eighteen

The large white clock with the black hands indicates I’ve five minutes to eat dinner before the doors are locked until the morning.

I’m still sickened by the experience in art class, and skipped other lessons and lunch while I hid in my room. After my missed lunch, I was hauled out and reprimanded for not attending lessons. Nobody asked me how I was, including Marcus, and instead I spent time in an empty room alone with my horrific thoughts as punishment.

Now I'm weak with hunger and can’t wait until breakfast tomorrow.

The small woman with the tightly curled grey hair looks down her long nose at me when I appear at the serving hatch.

“You’re late.” Her accent is local, thick Scottish brogue.

“I have ten minutes.”

She squints at me. “We have nothing left.”

My shoulders droop. “Oh.”

“Nothing you’d want, anyway,” she adds and pulls a tray from a row stacked on metal trolley shelves. “Soup and bread. The meat and veg are gone.”

I smile, genuinely grateful, but don’t tell her I’d rather avoid the meat. I’m not vegetarian, but the cuts in this place are more gristle than meat.

She grabs a metal jug and pours water into a plastic cup before placing it on a tray. The water sloshes onto the bread roll. Feeling like a kid at a primary school, I watch as she drops cutlery and shoves the tray at me.

“Thank you,” I say.

Her response is the hatch closing.

Choosing one of many empty tables, I stare down at my unappetising food, happy the dining hall is quieter than my last visit. I pick up the bread roll and dip it into the brown mush, and I’m surprised the spiced vegetable soup tastes of rich tomato and herbs and not dishwater.

My thoughts scatter in a multitude of directions and I try to gather them up. I spent the afternoon alone battling against Ivan's intrusion and the horror he left behind.

How did he manage?

The table shadows as somebody approaches and I sigh, ready to protest that I have at least five minutes before the canteen closes.

A tray slides onto the table and Ethan lowers his muscular frame onto the seat opposite. The bread sticks in my throat. Most people would ask first—plus every other table in the hall is free.

His arms are wet and damp hair curlier than usual. He picks up his bread roll in one hand and wrinkles his nose before dropping it onto the tray.

My cheeks heat with discomfort as Ethan picks at his food, not looking at me. Is he expecting me to speak first? He's the one who approached me.

I clear my throat.

“Hi. Ethan, right?”

He lifts his eyes and as they meet mine a tremor trips down my spine. They’re green, but an intense and unusual colour, almost the same as my aunt’s favoured emeralds, and I’m struck dumb by his startling gaze.

“How are you, Eloise?” His voice is as