Chapter 70 You're It Witch

Chapter 70 You're It Witch
The sun was beating down on the cove, turning the surface of the lake into a shimmering sheet of silver, but the "Big Six" were currently knee-deep in anything but silver. The muck at the bottom of the swimming area was thick, dark, and smelled intensely of ancient, stirred-up lake weeds.

Puck leaned into his rake with a grin that usually signaled trouble. He heaved a massive, dripping pile of lake sludge upward, intending to toss it over his shoulder onto the waiting barge.

He severely miscalculated his own strength. Half of the black goo thudded onto the metal deck, but the other half sailed right over the edge and landed with a wet, heavy splat squarely on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean froze. He slowly looked down at the foul-smelling swamp mud dripping down his flannel shirt, and then looked up at Puck. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

"Oh, you are dead," Dean laughed, abandoning his rake entirely. He plunged his hands into the shallows, scooped up a massive handful of muck, and hurled it right back, catching Puck in the chest.

The retaliation was instantaneous. Within seconds, the dignified leaders of the Academy's Oversight Committee were reduced to feral camp counselors, hurling handfuls of lake bottom at each other. Water splashed everywhere, and the quiet cove echoed with shouting and laughter.

"Stop it!" Willow shrieked from the shallower water, throwing her hands up to protect her face from a stray glob of flying mud. "You two are literally just moving the dirt around! You're making more work for everyone, we just raked that spot!"

Echo stood beside her, hands on her hips, looking utterly unimpressed by the display of immaturity. "Dean Sterling, if you throw one more handful of that toxic waste, you are walking back to the Academy!"

Dean paused in the knee-deep water, his hands dripping with sludge. He looked at Echo standing safely out of the splash zone, his eyes dancing with absolute mischief.

"What was that?" Dean called out, feigning innocence. "I couldn't hear you over the sound of my total victory!"

With a quick flick of his wrist, Dean lobbed a heavy, wet pile of muck directly at her.

Echo didn't scream, and she didn't dive out of the way. She just let out an exasperated sigh.

Her eyes flashed with a sudden, sharp spark. With a lazy flick of her hand, she tapped into the current of magic that hummed just beneath her skin.

The flying ball of muck stopped dead in mid-air, hovering just three inches from her nose.

Dean’s smug smile instantly vanished. He slowly lowered his hands. "Uh oh."

With a sharp flick of her fingers, Echo reversed its trajectory. The sludge hurtled backward across the water at twice the speed it had come and hit Dean square in the face with a resounding smack.

The entire shoreline went dead silent for a split second before Puck, Franklin, and Leo absolutely lost it, doubling over with uncontrollable laughter in the shallows. Willow clapped her hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she tried to contain her giggles.

Dean stood frozen, the black lake mud coating his nose, cheeks, and forehead. He slowly wiped a glob of sludge from his left eye, blinking at his girlfriend.

"You know," Dean deadpanned, spitting out a tiny piece of duckweed, "when I call you a witch, I usually mean it affectionately."

Echo smirked, casually lowering her hand. "Consider the beach clean up a little more motivated. Now get back to work before I turn the lake water to ice."

The sun finally dipped below the tree line, casting a warm, golden-orange glow over the newly restored Camp Wolverine cove. The heavy driftwood was gone, the muck had been raked away, and the water lapping against the shore was crystal clear once again.

The scent of swamp mud had been completely replaced by the mouth-watering aroma of burgers and hot dogs sizzling on the massive stone grills near the mess hall. The students were scattered across the beach on picnic blankets, exhausted but buzzing with the satisfaction of a hard day's work.

Echo sat on a weathered log near the fire pit, her hair still slightly damp from the camp showers. She was laughing as Willow recounted the look on Dean’s face when the sludge hit him.

"I'm telling you, it was poetry," Willow giggled, passing a bag of marshmallows to Leo. "I thought he was going to spontaneously combust right there in the shallows."

"He deserved it," Echo smiled, warming her hands by the fire. "That’s what he gets for starting a war with a witch."

"Careful, Echo," Franklin warned from across the fire, turning a hot dog on a roasting stick. "You know he’s been plotting his revenge since we got out of the water."

Echo waved a dismissive hand. "Please. Bean wouldn't dare try anything at the BBQ. He's too busy playing 'Head Counselor' and making sure everyone gets a burger."

Just as the nickname left her lips, she felt a sudden, freezing cold sensation at the back of her neck—the unmistakable drip of a wet sponge.

Before she could even gasp, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her entirely off the log.

"Who are you calling Bean?" Dean’s voice rumbled right next to her ear, laced with pure, wicked delight.

The Retribution

"Dean! Put me down!" Echo shrieked, kicking her legs as he effortlessly carried her away from the fire and straight toward the shoreline.

"You used magic on me in front of my troops," Dean laughed, his boots splashing into the shallow water. "That demands retribution."

"We're clean! We just showered!" she gasped, clinging to his arms as he waded deeper into the freezing lake. "Dean Sterling, I swear to you—!"

"No magic this time," he interrupted, coming to a halt when the water was up to his shins. He looked down at her, the reflection of the sunset catching in his eyes. For a terrifying second, he looked like he might actually drop her into the icy water.

Instead, he flashed a devastating, triumphant smile. He reached into his flannel pocket with one hand, pulled out a perfectly roasted, gooey marshmallow he had swiped from the grill, and smeared it right across her cheek.

"Tag," he whispered, kissing the tip of her nose. "You're it, Witch."

The freezing water lapped at Dean's boots as he held her suspended over the shallows. He had just smeared the gooey, perfectly roasted marshmallow across her cheek, fully expecting her to unleash the wrath of the McFarland Wing upon him.