Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Roasted - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

"Alexa, what the hell did you do to the necklace I gave you?" Scott's voice crackled through the phone, sharp with accusation. "That gemstone looks nothing like the one I custom-ordered! Where's the real one? If you didn't want it, you could've just given it back. But swapping it out like some cheap knockoff? That's low."
I rolled my eyes. Well, looks like the jig's up.
He must've realized the soul trapped in that little pig wasn't Jessica's anymore. Otherwise, he wouldn't be scrambling for answers like a desperate man.
With a scoff, I fired back, "Oh please, like I'd waste my time caring about your tacky jewelry. I threw it out ages ago."
His voice hitched. "Where?"
A smirk tugged at my lips. "You know that chicken farm west of campus? Yeah, it's probably decorating some clucker's neck by now."
I hung up and burst out laughing.
Honestly, the irony was too good.
When Logan came sniffing around that day, the body swap had already happened—just not the way they thought.
It wasn't me who got swapped.
It was one of the chickens.
And good luck finding Jessica in a sea of identical feathery bodies.
Maybe now they'll be too exhausted to mess with me.
Turns out, I underestimated them.
Midterms rolled around, and Logan showed up at school looking less like a mastermind and more like a guy who'd taken one too many punches.
He held out a bottle of coconut water, his smile strained. "Alexa, I've missed you. Since you moved out, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Got this airlifted straight from Hawaii. Figured you'd like it."
Before I could react, he shoved it into my hands, then grabbed my wrist, frowning. "Your nails are a mess. Don't you ever trim them?"
I blinked. Is he… trying to be nice?
Then, like some bizarre manicurist, he whipped out a nail clipper and went to work.
I stiffened. What the hell?
When I yanked my hand back, he looked almost… embarrassed. "Fine, fine. Exams are coming up. I'll leave you alone."
He walked off, shoulders slumped.
I stared at the coconut water, turning it over in my hands.
Nothing seemed off—until an old man with steel-gray hair snatched it from me.
"Don't drink that," he warned, voice like gravel. "It's poisoned."
He shook the bottle, and sure enough, tiny, translucent scales floated inside—something not quite human.
My stomach dropped.
The old man leaned in, his gaze piercing. "I've been watching you. That boy—the one who clipped your nails? He's not just playing games. He's trying to swap your life with something else."
A chill slithered down my spine.
He wasn't just some random stranger. He was an expert in Appalachian Dark Magic—a lost art of life-swapping curses.
In his office, buried in ancient texts, he found a way to break the spell.
But there was a catch.
"The curse won't end," he said, "until the caster does."
And the caster?
Logan.
This wasn't just some petty revenge.
It was something far darker.