Salem's Scorn: The Witch Reborn

, and a faint, cloying perfume I already hated. This body, the one they called "Hope," felt foreign, a cheap rental. My name is Gabrielle Johns,

hoed from the

teps, a theatrical display of flailing limbs and feigned pain. She landed in a heap

y shrieked, her voice

sapproval, knelt beside her. His wife, Elyse, a woman so brittle she looked like she might shatter, hovere

ing with classist disgust. "You just got h

gh for me to hear. "Straight from the tra

ointed a trembling finger at me. "You are a dis

ogize. They expected the timid, frightened

one. Only Gabr

simmering resentment of the girl whose body I now wore-a girl bullied for her accent, her passion

slowly to

Andrew warned, steppi

ly, who was now shrinking back, a flicker

d raspy with the Appalachian accent this body

the face. The sound was a clean, sharp crack that silenced the room

sped. Ow

e and hauled her to her feet. She was heavier than s

n roared, finally

own. She struggled, her designer heels scraping against the polished wood. I was

rnate iron railings overlooking the dark, choppy wat

sane?" Molly screamed, her voic

e railing. She clung to

m?" I whispered in her ear.

decisive push, I sen

by the splash as she hi