I ran and ran, running as fast as my legs could get me in the minimal time I had. I knew they were coming for me, for my powers, but I just couldn't let them. Who is chasing me? Well, to be frank, everyone. I managed to stay in the dark for twenty years, but those damn ancestors just love to make everyone's lives hell, don't they?

Apparently, they had sent the leader of some sort of "almighty" coven in Washington, my home state, a vision of my capabilities and whatnot. Not that I didn't know about them before, because when you accidentally blow up cars by the time you're sixteen, you tend to learn some things about yourself. But what I didn't know was that I was the "queen of the witches" according to the bloody ancestors. And as suspected, the ancestors and the rest of the living witches were more into the idea of democracy, sending out a demand for me to be burned at the stake. So, I did the only plausible thing I could think of.

I packed my shit and ran.

But you know how witches get. Never ones to keep their mouths shut. So word of my existence spread like wild fire. I was known to them as 'The Coven-less Queen' and they were known to me as 'The Bitches Who Are Trying To Kill My Sorry Royal Ass'.

Which is how I ended up in New Orleans. This place has so much supernatural running through it's veins that Sam and Dean Winchester might as well set up a private practice here. They'd probably be in business for the rest of their pitiful lives. But back to the point at hand. I knew that if I came to the lovely city, I'd be able to blend in with the rest of the supernatural beings whilst keeping my cloaking spell up, preventing the witches from finding me. Yet the ancestors always seem to be one step ahead of me, don't they? Not only did they basically stick a neon sign over my head that said "QUEEN WITCH HERE!" with some anti-cloaking spell, they also got the other withes of the New Orleans covens to notify all of the other supernatural beings of my existence.

Which leads me to where I am today. Running for my life down some random-ass-sketchy-ass alley from some forty or so witches all trying to kill me. Just a day in the life, right?

I heard their chanting coming from a few blocks down, desperately trying to end my life, but failing miserably. That was my advantage against them that they were so afraid of. I was more or less invincible. I was allegedly doomed to eternal life on this earth, and nothing but burning me at the stake would end it. Sounds like a weak kryptonite, I know, but the thing is that you can't just throw me in the fireplace and watch me burn. This has to be a proper burning. I'm talking about blessing my body to the ancestors, having a trial, performing the correct sacrifices, tying me to a damn tree and burning me alive. So as you can see that it might be hard doing all of that to the most powerful witch of all time. And what was the damn point? I was just going to be reincarnated anyways.

But to be quite honest with you, I have no idea what the hell I am doing. I mean, all I know is that one day I thought about setting a car on fire in an act of pure rebellion from the government and the next thing you know a cop car bursts into flames. It was then when I decided to start experimenting.

Over the span of four years I had come to terms with my odd talents, keeping them a secret. And it wasn't like I could exactly tell my family and ask how the hell I got the powers, as I am a bloody orphan. Cliché, right? All I know was that I was dropped off on the doorstep of St. Anne's Orphanage for Boys and Girls in the dead of night with a little necklace with my name on it.

But enough of my incessant digressions and tragic backstories. The point is - I am running for my life in a foreign place with witches on my ass trying to burn me at the stake. But what is every suspenseful moment without a dead end? A fucking ideal one, but that is just wishful thinking.

The chanting got closer and I used the one defense I had actually mastered. Sarcasm.

"You know," I began shakily, letting my voice bounce off of the walls. "If you wanted to get to me faster you could have just merely ran instead of stepping on the back of each other's penny loafers in that orderly fashion of yours, but that's just me. I've always liked a good run anyways, although I must say that I am a bit out of shape, don't you agree? I mean, you've managed to catch up with me after all of my sprinting, so you must be doing something right. I never did get the science of all that, though. How the hell does a mob that's got the speed of the elderly without their walkers catch up to Lincoln Memorial High's very own track star? Do you wear Sketchers? Do they light up? No, you lot must be using Heely's. God, I always wanted a pair of those, but how does that old saying go...?" I trailed off, smirking. "Mischief and witch queens never mix."

And just as they came into view, I snapped two fingers together, giving them all brain aneurysms. I laughed as they all clutched their heads in agony before booking it again.

My name is Ophelia Armstrong, and I am screwed.