Bound (The Curse Trilogy Book 2)

by Nicole Marsh

  As much as I tried to convince Sylvia to stay after she showed me the videos on MeTube, she adamantly declined. Her excuse was that she needed to go practice a haircut on her mannequin head before she did the same style on a live model at school tomorrow. As much as I want her support, I also don’t want her to butcher someone’s hair and fail her test. She was able to convince me she wouldn’t have enough time to study if she stayed, so I finally relented and reluctantly said goodbye an hour before the Morts arrived.

  Now, sitting at the dinner table with Vlad’s empty seat beside me, I wish I would’ve pushed a little harder for her to stay and keep me company. The chatter at the table seems muted compared to its normal vibrancy. The Morts try to retain their usual upbeat personalities, while my parents carry the majority of the conversation.

  I can tell Tricia tried to hide the bags under her eyes with concealer, but she looks exhausted. Tonight, her normally silky hair looks greasy and neglected. Even the hug she gave me when she walked in the front door, was more like being held by a limp noodle, than her normal tight squeeze. I think everyone is trying to keep up the routine, as if the Morts missing a Sunday dinner is admitting the fact that Vlad is gone and no one knows where he went or if he’ll be back.

  I’m shaken from my thoughts when I suddenly become the focus of everyone’s gaze. “Uhm, sorry. I missed the question…” I throw out timidly.

  My dad lets out a more-mild-than-usual chuckle, then throws me a lifeline, “Your mom asked what your grandma wanted to see you for today.”

  The question takes me aback momentarily. My mom hasn’t exactly said anything against me hanging out with my grandma, her “dead” mother, but she also hasn’t encouraged me to talk about what we do together. I appreciate her interest in me, despite the fact that she hasn’t yet mended their relationship and may never choose to do so.

  I hesitate a brief second then respond, “Oh, she said she had a surprise for me. I was hoping it would be related to a potion she’s brewing to find…” My eyes slide to the Morts before I continue, “A mall that sells better socks.” I finish in a rush, not wanting to bring up the topic we’ve all been avoiding.

  “And was she able to find… the mall with the socks?” My dad asks, his brow furrowed quizzically.

  “Uhm, no. Well, I’m not sure,” I backtrack. “At least that’s not why she called me to come over today. She had a guy there; his name is Leif. Leif Golden. Grandma said he came here on behalf of the Canadian Coven to help me pass my witches exams.”

  It seems like my words cause all of the adults at the table exchange glances that I can’t interpret before four pairs of eyes come back to rest on my face. “Well, sweetie.” Tricia begins cautiously, “It’s great for the Canadian Coven to offer some assistance, but just… be cautious of this Leif. The Canadian coven,” She pauses looking contemplative before she finally continues her train of thought, “Well they’re not known to always follow the rules.”

  “Are you saying they’re dangerous?” I ask, confused by her wary tone.

  “No, no, nothing that dramatic, Mira.’ My mom chimes in, a smile plastered to her face. “They’re just a different coven, in a different place, with different rules. That’s all. Every coven is different, and you should always be mindful when interacting with witches from different places. We just wanted to make sure you remembered to follow the guiding principles of our coven, even if Leif’s does things a bit differently. That’s all.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be a great instructor and help you pass your witches exams in no time.” My dad tacks on, his tone upbeat.

  “Oh of course,” my mom adds on. “I’m sorry Mira, I wasn’t trying to sound discouraging.” Her tone is contrite and she continues to explain, “We all want you to pass your witches exams, as soon as possible, so you can start practicing with the coven. I think our overprotective mom instincts were just kicking in,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh and a look at Tricia.

  Mr. Mort has remained silent, so I look to him to see if he has any advice. He takes a sip of water, but right before I look away, he offers me a wink over the top of his glass. Maybe he thinks the other adults are being too dramatic after all.

  “Well, thank you for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind when working with Leif. I trust your instincts and won’t keep brewing with him if it seems like he’s dangerous or trying to get me to do something I know I shouldn’t. I just hope he can help... I want to start working with the coven too.” I flash a smile to everyone seated at the table, hoping it helps smooth over the awkwardness Leif’s name brought to our dinner.

  One last look is exchanged between the adults, then everyone turns back to their plates to eat without another word about the Canadian coven or Leif. Silverware scrapes against the plates in the ensuing silence. A quiet conversation begins between my parents and the Morts, but is unable to hold my attention.

  Instead, my gaze continues to drift to the empty chair next to me, which is serving as a constant reminder that Vlad is missing. The irony doesn’t escape me that I used to wish Vlad would no show to Sunday dinner, even just once, as a reprieve from his bullying antics. And now that he’s gone, I just wish he was in his chair, even if he decided to throw another soda in my lap, like he used to so love doing.

  Jacob comes into the dining room and clears the last round of plates, but we all remain seated as if unsure what to do next. After a few beats, my mom abruptly stands up from her chair, “Tricia, Bart, would you like to join us for coffee and desert in the parlor?”

  “That sounds lovely,” Tricia agrees quietly.

  My dad and Bart nod as well, and chairs begin to slide across the floor as the adults stand and file from the room. Normally, Vlad and I would also be obligated to join the coffee and dessert party.

  Even when we weren’t on speaking terms, we would sit on opposite sides of the room and exchange glares while speaking to everyone else in the room. Tonight, however, I excuse myself and head upstairs to my room.

  I close my bedroom door quietly behind me and slip out of my summer dress into some loose sweats. Grabbing my laptop, I plop onto my bed. I lean against the wall behind my bed, propping myself up with a wall of pillows. Setting my computer on my lap, I type in the address to search on the world-wide witching web.

  When the same homepage from Sylvia’s phone pops up on my screen, I let out a small squeal of excitement. It’s real! Even though I just experienced it earlier, in the back of my mind I felt like Sylvia was messing with me. So much has changed since my eighteenth birthday, I’m still not used to this potion, or witches, business. Every time witches or magic is mentioned, it partially feels like someone is playing an elaborate prank.

  After the page loads, I stare at the screen. I type a few words into the search bar, then delete them. Repeating this process several times before I finally decide where to start. Clicking on the search bar again, I type “The Curse Florence OR”.

  As much as I want to look for tracking spells and find Vlad, if for no other reason than to scream at him for disappearing without a trace… There are bigger, more important issues at hand. Like the fates of half of our town.

  My search pulls up one link with an article. With crossed fingers, I double-click my mousepad and pull it up, hoping it contains at least some of the answers I need. Skimming the words on the page, disappointment begins to bloom in my chest. It’s literally just an article outlining the legend of Florence, it doesn’t have any more information than the children’s tale about why the Main Road separates the town down the middle.

  With a sigh, I try several more searches to include: “Witches Curse Florence OR”, “Wolves and Witches Florence OR”, and “Curses from Witches”. The last search brings up tons of interesting information regarding curses. Selecting the first article, I settle in to read the information that the article contains.

  I spend hours poring over the history about different curses cast by witches over the decades, well at least the ones that have been chronic
led in articles on the witching web. When I finish reading through the last article my search found, I’m impressed by the creativity of my kind, but not any closer to answers on how to save my town.

  Sylvia made the witching web sound like it contained information or access to anything that you could possibly need to search for as a witch, but that’s obviously not true. Not for the first time, I wonder why the rest of the witches in the town don’t seem more concerned about the curse and how it affects our fellow Florence citizens.

  Disappointed by my lack of results, I shoot off a text to Sylvia: wwww is not as helpful as you pretended it was.

  Her reply comes back pretty quickly, considering she’s supposed to be cutting mannequin hair: Even Foogle doesn’t have all the answers. No website is perfect.

  With narrowed eyes, I reply: Show me the mannequin hair, or was that just an excuse?

  The picture that comes back has me widening my eyes in horror. What was supposed to be a nice, layered bob is hideously uneven with patchy layers covering the back of the fake head. With a grimace, I type a semi-encouraging, but honest response: How did you even do that?! Keep practicing, it’ll get better!

  Sylvia sends back the cussing emoji which makes me bust out into laughter. Sylvia is great at dyeing hair, especially her own, but maybe not-so-great at haircuts. Hopefully she can improve with practice or just specialize in dye or something.

  Placing my phone back down on the bed, I stare at the black and blue screen before me. Without much thought, I decide to pull up MeTube and type in ‘Leif Golden’. His page pops up and I scroll down the page to see he’s uploaded almost two-hundred videos!

  Starting at the very bottom of his MeTube page, I click on the first video he uploaded. The date shows this was added over four years ago. A slightly younger Leif pops up onto my screen. His dress and manner are more casual than the video I watched with Sylvia earlier. His hair is shorter and gel-less and he’s wearing a pale blue polo shirt with jeans. Unlike the confident twenty-something year old I met; this version of Leif seems a bit timid. He barely looks at the camera and talks much softer. In order to hear, I turn the volume on my computer up completely, listening to him as he explains the steps to the potion he’s making in his lightly accented timbre.

  I find this version of Leif much more endearing and can see why people would enjoy watching this shy-seeming guy brew potions. Towards the end of the video, he completes the potion and does his “reveal”. Leif dips the ladle into the cauldron and pours the contents into a small, glass jar. He sets the jar on the table, revealing a pale pink liquid that appears so innocent and pretty. The next ladle scoop is poured directly into a vase, and immediately turns into a lush, beautiful bouquet of pale pink roses. A small smile forms on my face. I’m much more charmed by this version of Leif, the younger one who posts videos of himself brewing flower potions on the witching web.

  Instead of clicking the next video, I pull up a second browser and Foogle search ‘Leif Golden’ on the witching web. A ton of articles and gossip sites come up with his name. I click through a few, which basically confirm what Sylvia told me about him earlier. Leif’s the son on a world-renowned potions master, and a pretty “Hot Bachelor” if the gossip sites are to be believed.

  There are a few pictures of him at various events in suave suits, with different dates. The more I learn about Leif, the more of an enigma he seems to become. I wonder if his dad ordered him to come here, and why. In an article I find, his dad’s name mentioned: Archibald Golden.

  Typing Leif’s father’s name into Foogle populates seven times the number of articles as typing in Leif did. Archibald is on the Superior Witches’ Coven, which apparently oversees all the covens. Almost like a Supreme Court for witches. He also runs the Canadian Coven and is believed to have cast a spell in the late 1980’s, even though witches’ powers were restricted to potions magic at that point.

  Pictures show Archibald as a distinguished man, with light brown hair and piercing blue eyes. I click to a picture of Leif, trying to recall if his eyes were that vibrant. Leif’s eyes and hair must take after his mother, as the picture shows his eyes are a muddy brown instead of his father’s vivid aqua. I search around for a bit to find out more about Mrs. Golden, but there is no mention of her.

  It’s as if she doesn’t exist, or at least not according to information available on the witching web.

  An hour of reading about the Golden’s and I feel caught up on all there is to know from the witching web. With my curiosity semi-satisfied, I return to my browser with Leif’s MeTube site and resume watching videos of his potion brewing magic.

  Eventually, I flip over to my belly and place the computer on the bed in front of me. My eyelids start to grow heavy as I continue to click ‘Next Video’, watching clip after clip of Leif transforming plants into magical potions. My head gradually drifts downward to rest on my folded arms as I’m halfway through the videos on his feed. At some point, I fall asleep. The last thing I remember is Leif’s lightly accented words floating into my ears as he explains the necessary ingredients to brew a transfiguration potion.

  4

  The Daily

  Mirabella

  Pulling into the parking lot of the Daily the next morning, I flip down my visor and try to delicately extract the blonde strands that have attached themselves to my sticky pink lip gloss. Driving with the windows down always seems like a better idea than the reality. Instead of waking me up more, like I had hoped, it just wreaked havoc on my hair and gloss coated lips.

  Once I’ve successfully removed the gooey strands from my lips, I snatch up my purse and march towards the front doors. This is my second Monday at the Daily without Vlad. It feels like everything is measured in the days and hours since he disappeared, and the longer he’s gone, the more my worry and concern continue to grow. The small rock in my stomach has become a large anvil, dragging me down further with each hour that passes.

  Straightening my spine and pushing my shoulders back, I plaster a smile onto my face and push through the doors to the lobby. I greet the receptionist, then continue onto my desk, my eyes sliding to Vlad’s empty spot across the room—out of habit.

  Glenna must catch my quick look, as she stops by my desk while dragging her chair to the front for the morning meeting. “Trouble in Paradise, honey?” Her face looks sincere and concerned, which gives me comfort. At least someone outside of our families seems concerned about Vlad’s disappearance.

  “Oh, not really.” I reply with a shrug. “I think Vlad is just… going through some things.”

  “Young wolves always are, honey. They always are.”

  After her sage words, she continues toward the front leaving me with my mouth hanging open over her casual mention of the shifters. I contemplate pumping her for information, in case she knows anything important related to Vlad, then I remember what my grandma said about the town. Almost everyone in Florence is a supernatural of some sort because the town is sprayed down to keep humans away. Apparently, this group of supernatural beings includes Glenna or at the very least someone Glenna is close with.

  Shaking my head, I twirl around to grab my own chair and drag it to the morning meeting area. I’m one of the last people to the front, so I quickly settle in with my pad of paper and a pen and turn my attention to Marc. His gaze sweeps over the group gathered, quickly flitting over me and moving on to take in the rest of his employees in attendance. Things have been a bit odd this week. Marc seems even more tense around me than he was before, now that Vlad is gone, versus when he was still here and flaunting our newly formed relationship.

  Marc turns back towards the whiteboard and claps twice before grabbing a marker. “Okay, who’s first? What do you have for me today?”

  Hands raise amongst the chairs and ideas are thrown into the meeting. Glenna suggests a follow-up on the wolf attack at the Expo. Another employee suggests an article comparing the best sprinkler systems for lawn care during the summer. I observe and listen as the whit
eboard slowly fills with ideas. Marc calls out for final suggestions and I take a deep breath to bolster my confidence. For the first time during a morning meeting, I raise my hand into the air.

  “Mira,” Marc says, an eyebrow quirking up in question or maybe in surprise, as I haven’t contributed much during meetings in the past.

  “I think we should do a story on the missing wolves. The town deserves to know what’s going on,” I state calmly, with my clammy hands clasped in my lap. My words cause one or two small gasps, but as I shift my eyes from Marc to look at my coworkers, I mostly see looks of confusion.

  “Like wolves from the woods?” One of the women sitting a few seats away asks after a few beats, a quizzical look on her face.

  My own brow scrunches, confused at her response. Has no one else in the town noticed that shifters have started to go missing? I open my mouth to reply, but Marc claps his hands again, effectively cutting me off.

  “Okay, thanks for the suggestion, Mira. It doesn’t seem like a good idea for this paper, but maybe next time. Let’s get started with the ideas that we have here,” Marc proposes as he scribbles down names next to the list on the board. The very last idea he puts his own name, then mine right next to his. “You can work with me today, Mira. We’ll get started right away, if you want to come with me to my office.”

  A pang of panic hits me, his reaction to my story idea making me feel like I messed something up. With a feeling of dread, I leave the morning meeting area to replace my chair at my desk then trudge into Marc’s office. Without looking up from his computer, he instructs, “If you could please close the door, Mira.”

  I softly shut the door to the office and think, this is it. This is the day I get fired. I’m not sure why my reaction to his odd behavior is so extreme, but I’ve been going straight to doomsday with everything going on lately. Ignoring the feelings that Marc is angry at me, when he hasn’t said he is, I strive for professionalism. “Where should we get started?” I ask politely, sitting in one of the chairs across from his desk.