Celia Vargas pov

### Chapter 2 Rewrite 

**Celia Vargas’ POV** 

“Do you think those stories are real? The witch sacrifices to create beasts, that’s terrifying,” Ambrose said, his icy blue eyes wide with mock fear. The way they sparkled, paired with his devious grin, made my stomach flutter despite myself. 

Ambrose was magnetic, the kind of guy who could light up any room with a single joke. I still didn’t understand how someone as popular and charming as him ended up being my best friend. I was the weird girl, the one who got by with sarcastic quips and daydreams about things that didn’t belong in reality. And once, a long time ago, I’d liked him—really liked him. But I never told him. It’s better this way. Staying friends meant I wouldn’t lose him. 

He nudged me with his elbow, breaking my train of thought. “Hello? Earth to Celia! Did Mr. Vargas give you permission to come to my party?” His grin turned smug, as if he already knew the answer. 

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yes, I’m coming. Obviously.” I added a wink, hoping it would mask my lingering irritation at him for spilling the party details to my dad. 

He stopped mid-step, turning to look at me with a raised brow. “Wait, you’re coming because of Asher Knight, aren’t you? You hate parties.” 

I groaned inwardly. Why did he have to bring up Asher? Ambrose had always disliked him, though I couldn’t figure out why. Asher was nice, well, most of the time and whatever rumors swirled about his father being involved in shady business were just that: rumors. 

“Biscuit,” Ambrose said, using the ridiculous nickname he’d bestowed upon me years ago, “I’m serious. Asher’s bad news. He’s a player, and his dad...well, let’s just say you don’t want to get tangled up in that mess.” 

I rolled my eyes, exasperated. “Thanks for the unsolicited advice, Dad,” I shot back, brushing past him. “I’ve got class.” 

Ambrose called after me, but I ignored him. My next class was biology, where Jasper was already waiting. Jasper and his twin sister, Shelly, were two of my closest friends. They’d been through so much, losing their parents at a young age and being raised by foster parents, but they never let the world see their pain. 

As I approached, Jasper waved with his unbandaged hand, his usual lopsided grin in place. But my gaze was immediately drawn to the fresh bandages covering his left hand. 

“Oh my God, Jasper, what happened?” I asked, sliding into the seat beside him. 

He shrugged nonchalantly, though I could see the tension in his jaw. “Got into it with Jim,” he said, avoiding my gaze. 

Jim. His foster dad. Jasper never called his foster parents "Mom" or "Dad," unlike Shelly. Their relationship was complicated, to say the least, and Jasper’s temper didn’t help. 

Before I could press further, our teacher, Mr. Morgan, strode into the room. “All right, class,” he announced, “today we’re dissecting frogs.” 

The groans were immediate, but none louder than Natalie Scott’s. “Ew, no! I’m not touching those slimy things!” she exclaimed, her perfect face twisted in disgust. 

Natalie was the epitome of high school royalty: head cheerleader, flawless, and insufferable. Her boyfriend, Hank Walter, sat beside her, looking like he wanted to sink into the floor. 

“Miss Scott,” Mr. Morgan said with barely concealed disdain, “you’re free to leave and accept a failing grade.” 

Natalie huffed, flipping her golden hair dramatically. “Fine. I’ll talk to my father about this.” 

Her father, of course, was the school principal. Natalie’s tantrums were legendary, and no one dared to challenge her—except for Mr. Morgan. 

“Jesus, she’s exhausting,” Jasper muttered, earning a laugh from me. 

The dissection itself was a struggle. I hated the sight of blood, and the smell made my stomach churn. Thankfully, Jasper took over, wielding the scalpel with surprising precision. “You’re hopeless,” he teased as I grimaced. 

By the time the bell rang, I was more than ready to escape. “Coming to lunch?” Jasper asked as we packed up. 

I shook my head. “I need to hit the library. Got something to research.” 

The library was nearly empty, its quiet a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the cafeteria. I stood near one of the computers, my dry chicken sandwich untouched beside me. 

“Excuse me,” I said to the librarian, a kind but strict woman who always seemed slightly exasperated. “Where can I find books about the town’s history?” 

She glanced at me over her glasses. “No books—those records are digital now. Not many young folks take an interest in history these days.” 

I forced a smile. “It’s for a project.” 

Settling in front of the computer, I hesitated before typing “werewolves” into the search bar. I didn’t believe in myths, but my nightmares and Mr. James’s lectures had planted a seed of doubt. 

The search results were chilling. Articles about a “beast attack” surfaced, each occurring exactly ten years apart—2010, 2000, 1990. Each incident was gruesome, victims mauled beyond recognition. And then there was the story of Laura Jones, a woman who claimed to have seen werewolves before she was found dead, her heart ripped out. 

My stomach twisted. Was this real? Why had no one talked about this? 

I checked the date on my phone. My breath caught in my throat. Tonight was a full moon. 

Before I could take a picture of the article, the librarian appeared beside me. “No pictures allowed,” she said firmly. 

I quickly closed the tab and stood. “Nothing important,” I lied. “Just boring history stuff.” 

She nodded, but I could feel her eyes on me as I hurried out. My mind raced, questions piling up with no answers in sight. 

I needed to talk to Ambrose.