Chapter 7 Strange Symptoms (Vivienne POV)
The smell of bacon from the dining hall makes my stomach turn, but the scent underneath it, raw meat being prepped in the kitchen, makes my mouth water.
"Are you alright?" Sophie asks, watching me stare at my plate of scrambled eggs. "You've been pushing food around for ten minutes."
"I'm fine. Just not hungry."
"You said that yesterday. And the day before." She reaches across the table, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead. "You don't feel feverish."
I pull away from her touch, which suddenly feels too warm, too invasive. "I'm fine. Just adjusting to the school food."
But I'm not fine. I'm craving something I can't name—something raw and bloody that would horrify my roommate if I said it aloud. The vegetarian breakfast options look repulsive. Even the cooked meat seems overprocessed, overdone.
"I'm going to grab something from the kitchen," I say, standing abruptly.
"They don't usually let students—"
But I'm already walking away, following that scent that's making my senses sing. The kitchen door is marked "Staff Only," but I push through anyway, drawn by instinct I don't understand.
A chef is trimming steaks for tonight's dinner service. The raw beef gleams red under the fluorescent lights, and something in my chest responds with visceral hunger.
"Excuse me, miss, students aren't allowed—"
"Can I have one of those?" The words come out before I can filter them. "Raw. I mean, just a small piece. I'm doing a, um, science experiment. About enzymes."
The chef stares at me like I've grown a second head. "A science experiment."
"Yes. For biology. We're studying protein breakdown, and I need a sample of uncooked meat." The lie flows smoothly, surprising me. "My teacher sent me to collect it."
He doesn't look convinced, but something in my expression must persuade him. He cuts a small strip of steak, wraps it in plastic, and hands it to me.
"Thank you."
I'm out of the kitchen before he can change his mind, the plastic-wrapped meat burning a hole in my blazer pocket. I make it to the girls' toilets before unwrapping it, staring at the raw beef like it holds answers to questions I haven't asked yet.
This is insane. I don't eat raw meat. Father raised me on well-cooked everything, paranoid about food safety after Mum's death.
But my hands are already tearing off a piece, bringing it to my mouth.
It tastes incredible. Better than anything I've ever eaten. The blood and texture satisfy something primal that I didn't know was hungry.
I eat the entire piece standing at the sink, watching my reflection. My eyes look brighter somehow. More alive.
What's happening to me?
PE is worse.
We're doing track trials for the upcoming inter-school athletics meet. I've never been particularly athletic—Father kept me isolated enough that organized sports were foreign territory. But when Miss Davies blows the whistle for the 400-meter sprint, something takes over.
I run.
Not the awkward, uncoordinated jog I expected. I run like something is chasing me, like my life depends on reaching the finish line first. My legs eat up the distance, muscles moving with a coordination that should be impossible for someone who's barely exercised in years.
I cross the finish line a full three seconds before anyone else.
"Fifty-three seconds!" Miss Davies stares at her stopwatch like it's malfunctioned. "Vivienne, have you been training?"
"No, miss."
"That's the fastest time any Year 13 girl has run this year. Including Helena Wright, who's training for nationals." She makes a note on her clipboard. "Have you considered joining the athletics team?"
"I... no. I haven't."
Helena jogs up, breathing hard, eyeing me with suspicion. "Where did you learn to run like that?"
"I don't know. I just... ran."
"Nobody 'just runs' a fifty-three-second four hundred. That's county-level time."
But I didn't train. Didn't practice. One moment I was standing at the starting line, the next I was flying past everyone like I'd been running my whole life.
"Natural talent," Miss Davies says, still looking perplexed. "Though I've never seen it manifest quite so dramatically. Vivienne, I'd really like you to consider joining the team."
I nod, still trying to process what just happened. My heart isn't even racing. My breathing is normal. It's like my body knew exactly what to do, moved with an efficiency that bypassed any need for training or preparation.
In the changing room afterward, Helena corners me by the lockers.
"What are you?" she asks quietly.
"What?"
"I've been running track since I was twelve. I train six days a week. And you just crushed my personal best without breaking a sweat." She leans closer, her voice dropping. "So I'll ask again: what are you?"
"I'm just a student. Like you."
"No. You're not." She backs off, but her eyes stay suspicious. "But whatever you are, stay away from the athletics team. We don't need your kind."
She leaves before I can ask what she means by "your kind."
The hearing starts that afternoon during chemistry.
Mr. Brennan is explaining molecular bonds when I hear it—a conversation happening somewhere above us. Clear as if the speakers were standing next to me.
"—can't believe she asked him to the social—"
"—Marcus said she's playing hard to get—"
"—did you see the way Declan looked at him? Thought he was going to—"
I shake my head, trying to clear it. The voices fade but don't disappear. I can still hear them if I focus: footsteps in the corridor outside, whispered conversations, someone's mobile ringing two floors above.
"Miss Ashford?" Mr. Brennan's voice cuts through the noise. "Are you paying attention?"
"Sorry, sir. Yes."
But I'm not. I'm overwhelmed by the cacophony of sounds that shouldn't be audible. The scratch of pens on paper sounds like screaming. Sophie's breathing beside me is deafening. The clock on the wall ticks like a hammer striking metal.
I press my palms against my ears, trying to block it out.
"Vivienne?" Sophie's hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch at the contact. "What's wrong?"
"Too loud."
"What's too loud? We're in the middle of a lecture. It's dead silent."
But it's not silent. It's chaos. I can hear conversations in the dining hall three buildings away. Can hear someone practicing violin in the music wing. Can hear—
My stomach lurches. I grab my bag and bolt from the classroom.
"Miss Ashford!" Mr. Brennan calls after me, but I'm already running.
I make it to the nearest toilets before my knees give out. I sink to the floor, hands still pressed against my ears, trying to make the noise stop. Trying to make sense of what's happening to my body.
The door opens. Footsteps approach.
"Vivienne?" It's Freya, her voice pitched lower than usual, soothing. "Can you hear me?"
"Everything. I can hear everything."
"Okay. That's... okay." She crouches beside me, not touching, just present. "I need you to breathe. Can you do that? Deep breaths."
I try. Focus on inhaling, exhaling, blocking out everything except Freya's calm voice.
"Good. That's good. Now I need you to imagine turning down the volume. Like you have a dial in your head, and you're slowly rotating it counterclockwise."
"That's ridiculous."
"Humor me."
I try anyway, because what else am I going to do? Imagine a dial. Imagine turning it. And somehow—impossibly—the noise begins to recede. Not disappearing, but becoming manageable. Background instead of foreground.
"How did you know that would work?" I ask.
Freya sits on the floor beside me, her back against the wall. "My grandmother used to get terrible migraines. She taught me that visualization sometimes helps with sensory overload."
"This isn't a migraine."
"No. It's not." She studies my face. "Vivienne, has anything else strange happened lately? Changes you can't explain?"
I think about the raw meat. The impossible sprint. The way my body feels different—stronger, more coordinated, more alive.
"Yes."
"Tell me."
So I do. All of it. Freya listens without interrupting, her expression growing more concerned with each detail.
"And you haven't told your father?" she asks when I finish.
"He'd just drag me to a dozen doctors who'd find nothing wrong. Or he'd pull me out of school, take me back to the estate where he can watch me constantly." I pull my knees to my chest. "Freya, what's wrong with me?"
"I don't think anything's wrong. I think something's waking up."
"What does that mean?"
She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "Has your father ever talked to you about your mother's family? The Silvermanes?"
"No. He won't discuss them. Whenever I ask, he changes the subject."
"Right. Because..." She trails off, seeming to reconsider. "Never mind. I'm probably reading too much into this."
"Into what?"
"Nothing. It's just a theory." She stands, offering me her hand. "Come on. Let's get you back to your room. You should rest."
"I'm not tired."
"You should still rest. Give your body time to adjust to whatever's happening."
She walks me back to Thornfield House, maintains a steady stream of neutral conversation that helps keep the sensory overload at bay. When we reach my door, she squeezes my hand.
"Vivienne? If things get worse—if you need help—you can call me. Any time." She writes her mobile number on a scrap of paper. "I mean it. Even three AM. I'll answer."
"Thank you."
She leaves, and I'm alone with my confusion and my too-sharp senses.
Sophie finds me lying on my bed an hour later, staring at the ceiling.
"Mr. Brennan excused you from the rest of the class," she says, dropping her bag on her desk. "Said you looked unwell. Are you feeling better?"
"Physically? Yes. Otherwise? No."
She sits on the edge of my bed, her face worried. "Vivienne, you've been acting strange for days. The food thing, the running, now this sensory overload. Maybe you should see the school nurse."
"And tell her what? That I can suddenly run faster than athletes who've trained for years? That I can hear conversations three floors away? That I'm craving raw meat?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "She'd have me committed."
"Or she'd run some tests. Figure out what's causing this."
"I don't want tests. I don't want doctors poking at me, trying to find explanations that don't exist."
"Then what do you want?"
I sit up, meeting her eyes. "I want to understand what's happening to me. I want to know why my body feels like it's changing into something I don't recognize."
Sophie is quiet for a moment. Then: "You seem different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. More... intense. Like there's something underneath your skin trying to get out." She shakes her head. "Sorry. That sounds mad."
"No. That's exactly what it feels like."
My mobile buzzes. A text from Father: How are you feeling? You haven't called in three days.
I stare at the message. Three days ago, I was normal. Three days ago, I wasn't craving raw meat or running impossible times or hearing conversations through walls.
Three days ago, Declan kissed me in the library.
The thought stops me cold. Because that's when everything changed, isn't it? The kiss. The moment his lips touched mine, something shifted. Something woke up.
"Sophie?" I keep my voice level. "Do you believe in supernatural things?"
"Like what? Ghosts?"
"Like werewolves. Vampires. Things that shouldn't exist but maybe do."
She laughs. "Are you asking if I believe in monsters?"
"I'm asking if you think there are things in this world we don't understand. Things that might seem impossible but aren't."
Her smile fades. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Just answer."
"I... I don't know. Maybe? My grandmother used to tell stories about things she saw in Ireland. Creatures in the moors. People who weren't quite people." She shifts uncomfortably. "But those were just stories. Weren't they?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because I'm starting to think the stories might be more real than anyone wants to admit.
The nightmare starts at 2 AM.
I'm running through a forest, but this time I'm not in human form. I'm something else—something faster, stronger, with four legs instead of two. The silver-eyed woman runs beside me, and when she turns to look at me, I see my own face reflected in hers.
"Little wolf," she says, and her voice is my voice. "They're coming."
"Who's coming?"
"The hunters. They've always been coming. You need to remember before it's too late."
"Remember what?"
"What you are. What he made you forget."
"Who made me forget?"
But she's already fading, dissolving into mist and moonlight. The forest around me shifts, becomes the estate where I grew up. I'm small again—maybe three or four years old—and I'm standing in Father's study watching him burn something in the fireplace.
Photographs. Letters. A small silver pendant shaped like a wolf.
"It's for your own good, darling," he's saying, but his voice sounds wrong. Desperate. "You'll thank me one day. I'm keeping you safe. I'm keeping you human."
Young-me reaches for the pendant, but Father pulls it away, throws it into the flames.
"No more wolves," he says. "No more monsters. You're my daughter, and you'll stay my daughter."
But young-me is changing. Silver fur rippling across small arms. Eyes flashing bright in the firelight.
"NO!" Father's scream echoes as he grabs something from his desk—a syringe filled with clear liquid. "I won't lose you too. I won't let you become what she was."
The needle plunges into my arm, and everything goes dark.
I wake up screaming.
Sophie is out of her bed in seconds, fumbling for the light switch. "Vivienne! What happened?"
"Just a dream." But my hands are shaking, and I can feel something underneath my skin trying to break free. "Just a dream."
"That didn't sound like 'just a dream.' You were shouting about wolves and needles and—"
"It was nothing. Go back to sleep."
But Sophie doesn't move. She's staring at my hands, her face pale.
"Vivienne? Your nails..."
I look down. My fingernails have grown—not dramatically, but noticeably longer than they were when I went to bed. And they're stronger, almost claw-like.
"It's just from not trimming them," I say, but my voice shakes.
"You trimmed them yesterday. I watched you do it in the bathroom."
We stare at each other in the dim light, and I see the fear creeping into her expression.
"What's happening to you?" she whispers.
"I don't know."
But that's a lie. Deep down, in a place I've been trained to ignore, I do know. The dreams are memories. The woman is my mother. And the clear liquid Father injected into young-me was designed to suppress something he didn't want me to become.
Something I'm becoming anyway.
"Go back to sleep," I tell Sophie. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"Please. Just... give me some space."
She climbs back into her bed reluctantly, but I can feel her watching me in the darkness. Can hear her elevated heartbeat, smell the fear-sweat on her skin.
I sit on my bed, examining my hands in the moonlight streaming through the window. The nails have receded slightly, returning to normal. But for a moment—just a moment—they were something else.
Something inhuman.
My mobile buzzes on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number: You're changing. Don't fight it. When you're ready, meet me at the old chapel. - F
Freya. It has to be.
I type back: How do you know what's happening to me?
Her response comes immediately: Because I've seen it before. Because my grandmother's prophecies mentioned someone like you. Because you're not the only one at this school who isn't entirely human.
I stare at the message, my pulse racing.
What am I?
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally: That's not my truth to tell. But Vivienne? Be careful. The changes you're experiencing make you vulnerable. And there are people who would hurt you if they knew.
People like who?
People like your father.
The message hits like a physical blow. I think about the dream-memory, about Father burning my mother's belongings, about the syringe and his desperate words: I won't let you become what she was.
What was she? What am I becoming?
I lie back down, but sleep doesn't come. Instead, I listen to the night sounds—so much louder now, so much clearer—and wonder if the girl I was is disappearing.
And if the creature taking her place is something I should fear or embrace.