Cursed in Love (Nora Moss Book 1)

by Zoe Ashwood

“But—” I draw away from him to better see his face. “There aren’t any covens in Iceland.”

  The last of the Icelandic witches were wiped away in the great dragon wars of the twentieth century. As humans were battling all across the continent during World War II, witches and dragons waged an equally savage and deadly war of their own. All the witches of Iceland were either murdered or scattered to the ends of the Earth, seeking refuge with covens all over the world.

  His smile grows. “So they say.”

  What does that mean? Are other covens—and the organizers of this competition—aware that there’s a real-life Icelandic witch among us? Their lore was supposedly amazing, and I would love to get my hands on their books to see if they have any useful spells for our repository of knowledge. My mind goes wild with all the possibilities, and I wonder what it would take to get him to share. After Levi and I win this prize, of course.

  The stranger—Isak—pulls me closer to his body for another turn, then presses his cheek to the side of my head as though we’re lovers, caught in a sensual moment. His warm breath tickles the sensitive skin below my ear as he says, “You should leave now.”

  I freeze in his arms. “What?”

  He lowers his rumbling voice even further. “It’s not safe. This competition is too dangerous for someone like you. Leave now before you get hurt.”

  My throat clogs up with fury, and I push myself away from his chest. But he doesn’t let me, and his grip on me gets stronger, his big body holding me captive.

  “Let go,” I growl through gritted teeth.

  I don’t want to cause a spectacle, but if he doesn’t release me, I’m going to knee him in the balls, discretion be damned. The string quartet plays on, and witches all around us laugh as they sip expensive champagne.

  “I’m trying to help,” he insists. “Trust me, there’s nothing here for you.”

  Where my hand rests on his shoulder, I feel the tremor of his deep voice. It’s doing something to my insides, liquefying them, even though the words he’s saying are the opposite of romantic. I spot Levi at the edge of the crowd and shoot him a warning glance. His eyebrows snap down, and he makes his way through the crowd toward us.

  “I don’t want your help,” I whisper-shout at the asshole who still hasn’t let go of me. “And you know nothing about me, so don’t pretend you care. You’re trying to get in my head so you’ll have fewer competitors. Sorry to tell you, but I’m not about to be scared away by some idiot I’ve never seen before.”

  “Do you know the death rate for the participants?” he asks. “One in three contestants don’t survive.”

  That makes me pause. “You’re lying. I researched the competition, and there’s no way they could keep doing this if there were so many casualties.”

  Isak Einarsson gives me an arch look. “Witches are good at hiding bodies.”

  His words are an echo of what I told Levi earlier—and I know he’s right. But I can’t believe witches from all over the world would willingly put themselves in actual mortal danger, even for the offered prize.

  This man is trying to intimidate me, that’s what’s happening.

  “Let me go now,” I tell him again.

  He grimaces. “You’re too stubborn. What—”

  I zap him with a bolt of electricity.

  He hisses in a breath, but the taser spell my mom taught me as a teenager to ward off annoying boys doesn’t affect him like I expected. He doesn’t jump back at all. Instead, his eyes go wide, and he groans, shudders, and bites his lip. His grip on me tightens again, and I’m suddenly flush with his big, broad body, my breasts pressing to his chest.

  I don’t hate the sensations that rush through me at the contact.

  That thought alone is enough to send me reeling, and I push back, trying to hide that his heavy-lidded gaze and delicious smell are so damn attractive to me. He inhales, and a low rumble starts in his chest, and oh my gods, is he growling?

  All at once, a church bell tolls through the hall, interrupting our dance. Flustered, I use the distraction to slip my hand from Isak Einarsson’s grip and move to stand a couple of feet away from him. Glancing around, I spot Levi about halfway across the hall from me. He meets my gaze and grimaces—we can’t move toward each other without making a scene now. I wish I could talk to him about the strange conversation I just had with the man standing by my side, but it’ll have to wait.

  I try to shake off the weirdness of the dance. Levi and I have come this far. I have no intention of letting go of the only opportunity we might ever get for seeing the inside of this library. No one knows I’m the one putting together what Princess and I affectionately call the Witchypedia, our super-secret but public repository for magical knowledge. When we win—because I’m now fucking determined we will, if only just to spite that Nordic asshole—I’m going to take all the secret knowledge these witches have been hoarding for centuries and share it with everyone.

  Then all witches will be able to perform helpful spells. Healing and security, that’s what we’ll focus on in the twenty-four hours given to us if we win. I know there are spells in there that could have helped my mom when she got sick. Spells that could have saved her, if only we knew about them.

  That’s the real problem with being a witch whose coven only has a hundred-year history. Yes, we have our grandparents’ grimoires and knowledge, but our legacy bookshelf at home only takes up about two feet of space. Mom and Dad added loads of items to our family’s knowledge base, but even Levi’s family, who can trace their magical roots back generations, only have a modest collection. With a coven that’s hundreds of years old, you get a whole damn library.

  I swallow my anger at the witches who organized this competition. Their penchant for hoarding magical knowledge didn’t directly cause my mom’s death, but knowing I could have saved her if only I had access to this place makes me want to punch someone.

  The torches suddenly wink out. I gasp, blinking in the inky darkness. Out of instinct, I put my hands out, feeling unbalanced and disoriented, even though I haven’t moved a step.

  Warm fingers clasp my hand, and I stifle a shriek. Don’t cause a scene, don’t cause a scene.

  “It’s okay,” a deep, accented voice rumbles. “They’re just putting on a show.”

  Oh gods, it’s Isak’s hand I’m holding. For a second, I grip his fingers tighter, unwilling to let go of that tether in the dark, then I straighten my shoulders, even though no one can see me, and pull my hand away without saying anything.

  At that moment, a hundred candles burst into flame on the small stone stage at the end of the hall, illuminating a silk-covered heap in the middle of the fiery circle.

  Despite the spectacle of it all, I turn to search for Isak, but he’s gone.

  Gritting my teeth, I focus back on the stage. Two witches stand beside the mysterious heap, their purple hooded robes almost black in the dim light. Their faces are hidden by silvery half-masks that reveal only that one of them is a woman, the other a man with a full, bushy beard.

  Wow. Clearly, I need to add some silk robes to my wardrobe, because they look awesome. Despite my anger and resentment, a bubble of excitement grows inside me as I think about the upcoming competition. We’ve got this. Levi and I may be young compared to most of the contestants, but we’re going to freaking crush this thing. I crack my knuckles and take a half step to the left to have a better view of the stage.

  “Welcome, witches,” the woman begins, her Scottish accent clear in just those two words, “to the two hundred and fourteenth Ballendial Games.”

  Applause erupts, and I join the noise, clapping politely in case someone is watching me. I have a role to play now, and we’re too close to getting into the competition for me to fuck something up. Just a little longer, and I can become Nora again.

  “You have been chosen as this year’s participants, which means you stand among the best magic users in the world,” the man continues. His accent is pure Oxford, and he bears himself wit
h a regal dignity. He’s flattering the crowd, and I shouldn’t even be here, but I preen at his words, unable to help myself. “We hope that the tasks we set will bring forward the most spectacular magic we’ve witnessed, and that the winner of this competition will benefit greatly from access to our library.”

  Everyone claps again, clearly riveted. His words give me pause, however. Did anyone here enter just to show off their magic? To live through the thrill of the competition and brag about it later? I can’t imagine doing that—there’s too much at stake for me. But maybe Levi would have entered just for fun if he wasn’t working with me. It’s exactly the kind of thing that he usually gets excited about.

  This means we might be facing two types of competitors: those who are in it for the thrill and glory, and those who actually need something from the library archives and are willing to risk their lives to get it.

  According to Isak Einarsson, the Games end badly for more than a third of the entrants. I glance around the hall, wondering if a third of these people will be dead by the next full moon. It seems improbable—impossible, even. Witches are terrible gossips, so I’m sure rumors would get out if this was true.

  I turn from side to side again, trying to memorize the faces of fellow contestants. I want to know who I’m up against if I meet them again at the locations I’ll be choosing.

  The woman on the stage flicks a hand at the silk covering the mound beside her, and it flies off, landing in a heap precariously close to the candles. I cringe, thinking that she’s awfully sure of herself to leave such a fire hazard lying around when we’re actually in a library, but given what coven she belongs to, she can likely summon water with another flick of her fingers.

  What she uncovers is a…cash register? An old computer? It’s a monster of a machine with brass buttons and levers, all of it polished so it gleams honey-gold in the candlelight.

  Raising my eyebrows at Levi, I mouth, “What is that?”

  He shrugs, just as confused as I am, then slowly inches in my direction. I do the same, needing his support. Whatever this is, we’re facing it together.

  The woman takes a step forward and places her palm on the side of the machine. A crackling blue glow emanates from her hand, and the thing hums to life. I realize it’s powered by her magic, not electricity.

  “When we call your name, please come forward, place one hand on the panel in the front, and choose your destinations. Once you pick them, you cannot change them,” she instructs us. “You will only be able to collect your tokens from the locations you decide on today.”

  We knew that much going in, but I haven’t made a final decision yet. Levi and I have talked over the most probable locations—the ones that we gleaned from rumors about this competition and from a meandering conversation with a very drunk contestant from six years ago. We found the guy in a pub in Glasgow, and the evening ended with him crying over the friend he lost. It had left me with a profoundly bad taste in my mouth. We covered the poor guy’s tab and called him a taxi, but the conversation had nearly been enough to put me off my mission. Nearly.

  With Isak Einarsson’s warning still echoing in my mind, I have to wonder whether the man’s friend died in the competition.

  “When the winning team is known, only the people who register here today will be able to enter the library,” the masked witch adds. “Any attempt at manipulating the markers of another team will mean immediate disqualification from the competition.”

  This, we knew as well. We can add team members and seek help from others, but when it comes down to the reward—a full day spent in the library with access to every magical book imaginable—only two people can enter.

  “Anton and Larisa Dorokhov,” the man calls from the stage, and a couple in their late thirties walk up. The man’s hair is shaved, the woman’s tight French braid hangs all the way to her ass, and they’re both tattooed and mean-looking, even though they’re beautiful enough to grace the cover of a fashion magazine. They each place a hand on the polished brass panel, and the woman punches three large buttons. I hope we won’t have to go against them at any of the locations, because they don’t seem like they’re messing around.

  Next, two men approach, their black tuxedos ill-fitting and their hair matted and dirty. They press a different combination of buttons, then slink back to the shadows in the corner. A gleaming knife is strapped to one man’s waist, and I shiver at the sight. Yikes. What if we are out of our league?

  Aline and Helene are followed by the couple who danced so flamboyantly earlier, then the male witch on the stage calls, “Isak Einarsson.”

  He ascends the steps alone—the first contestant to do so—and places his palm on the panel. His face gives nothing away, not when he deliberately presses three buttons, nor when he descends again. Only when he’s standing at the edge of the crowd again, he glances my way.

  I drop my gaze to the floor. His ego doesn’t need another boost, that’s for sure, and I don’t want him to think that he got inside my head.

  Levi finally appears at my side, and I breathe a sigh of relief. His familiar presence has a calming effect on me, as though his aura communicated with mine in some instinctual way.

  “Do we know where we’re going?” he asks, keeping his voice low. “Now that San Diego is out, I mean.”

  I press my lips together for a moment, debating the locations I’ve come up with considering all the information I have now. My plan is rudimentary at best, and even thinking about the steps I’m about to take has my stomach flipping over. I know what path to take, but doing so will dig up a part of my past that I’ve buried deep.

  Then again, winning this competition will mean I never have to worry about my future again. I’ll be able to protect my family and make sure they never suffer the same fate my mom did. The image of my siblings and dad floats in my mind, and I make up my mind then and there.

  I take Levi’s arm again, smiling up at him like a doting wife would.

  “Do you trust me, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

  He smirks. “Sure, Mrs. O’Sullivan. With my life.”

  “Then we’re going to Egypt,” I tell him, then quickly slap a palm over his mouth before he can object. “No, listen, I have an idea, and no one else will pick Egypt for sure.”

  Levi glowers down at me, then pulls my hand away. “Yeah, because they’re not suicidal. There’s enough ancient magic left in Egypt to power Manhattan for a year.”

  I give him my best puppy eyes. “But you said you trusted me. I know someone who could help us.”

  It’s a long shot, and the man in question might rip my head off when he sees me again, but… I won’t know until I try.

  “And you never say no to a crazy mission,” I wheedle, tugging on Levi’s sleeve. “Plus, if we win, it’s not just me who will get to visit the library. It’s all the knowledge in the world, right at your fingertips.”

  “It’s not— I mean, I don’t…” He trails off with a sigh. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when we trip some curse that’ll shrivel you up and mummify you on the spot.”

  I pat his arm. “That’s why I have you with me. You’re the best curse-breaker in the world.”

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” he grumbles, but I swear his dimple shows, just a little.

  “Okay, I’m glad that’s settled,” I say. “For the other two locations, I thought Ireland and Greece, so we stay in Europe. Those two shouldn’t be too bad—are you even listening to me?”

  Levi has taken his phone out of his tuxedo jacket and is grinning down at it. As two more pairs of witches are called onto the stage, he types a swift reply to whoever is writing to him. It’s probably a woman. I mean, he doesn’t have a real girlfriend, but Levi is always going off on dates. To his credit, he never brings a woman home to our shared flat, though I’ve told him often enough that it’s fine.

  I try not to let it bother me, but it’s hard. Whenever he stays out late and I’m left home alone, watching Netflix, I can’t help but
imagine him in the arms of some beautiful witch, or worse, human. It’s a problem I’ve never discussed with any of my friends, and I intend to keep it that way.

  “Mr. and Mrs. O’Sullivan,” the male witch calls from the stage, and I jerk Levi’s arm.

  “Come on,” I whisper urgently. “It’s our turn.”

  He slips the phone back into his pocket and straightens his shoulders, then puts his hand on the small of my back. My breathing hitches. It’s such a normal gesture for a couple, but he’s never done this before. Flustered, I try to follow as he leads me up the stone steps and forward to the machine. We both place our hands on the panel—it’s warm, as though heated from within. There are seven rows of brass buttons in front of us, each with…I count quickly under my breath…seven buttons. Forty-nine locations across the globe that we get to choose from. The scope of the competition is baffling. How much time did it take them to set up the entire thing?

  Focusing back on the task, I search for the names of the countries I picked. I spot Greece first, so I press the gleaming button. Levi finds Egypt, so punches that one with a grimace to me.

  Then I spot Ireland and extend my hand to reach for it, but Levi is faster: with a quick jab of his finger, he presses the Iceland button instead.

  “No, wait,” I begin, my eyes widening in alarm, but at that moment, a sharp sting of pain pierces my hand, and I jerk it away, barely containing a yelp.

  Three sets of letters and numbers appear on my palm, engraved into my skin. The wounds sting like a bitch but scab over as I watch, horrified at this barbaric practice.

  Levi doesn’t utter a sound. He takes my elbow and steers me down the steps and off the stage, his grip tighter than normal.

  “What—?” I start to say, but he shakes his head just once, so I clamp my mouth shut and cradle my injured hand to my chest.

  I glance over my shoulder to see two women climb the steps to the stage, choosing their locations and enduring the pain without a blink. Clearly, our drunk friend from Glasgow failed to mention this part of the process. If I’d known I’d be branded like a cow, I might have reconsidered.