Dark Curse

by Danielle Rose

  I nod and shrug, trying to play it cool. I do not want him to overreact. Holland tends to cause scenes when he does this. The last thing I need is for a house of vampires to be staring me down, watching me as Holland is now.

  “Just a headache,” I admit.

  Holland smiles, but it never reaches his eyes. I have seen this very look numerous times since I returned to the manor. It is his fake smile, the one he uses when he wants compliance.

  “Why don’t we call it a day?” Holland says, as if he would actually stop researching.

  He asked me this same question a couple of weeks ago. At that point, I actually believed him. I agreed, welcoming the pause in research, thinking we might do something fun instead. We did not. Holland disappeared into the bedroom he shares with Jeremiah. I found him later huddled on the floor with stacks of books cluttering just about every square inch of that room. Never again did I agree to quit early.

  I shake my head. “I am okay.”

  “How about lunch?” Again, he smiles. This time, it is wider. His face is morphing into a creepy Cheshire cat, and I almost want to say no just to see if he can give me something even wider and more pronounced. Is it possible for him to transform his face into an even more eerie creature? Doubtful.

  “I am not hungry, Holland,” I say, a little annoyed. “Let’s just keep going.”

  Holland sighs dramatically, not bothering to hide his frustration. I lean over and pick up the book I dropped. The throbbing in my head is still a constant thrum, but I try to ignore it, hoping Holland will see that everything is all right.

  When I sit back in my chair, worthless book in hand, Holland has his sight focused on the pages of a thick, leather-bound grimoire. He does not look at me again until it is nearly sunrise.

  By the time Holland wants to quit researching for the day, my body aches. We have been sitting in the parlor, curled up with countless research books and grimoires, all written by supposedly powerful witches, for half a day’s time. And I am starving, my muscles stiff, my eyes heavy. My weak, mortal body was not made for this mental—and somewhat physical—torture.

  I stare at the ceiling, noticing the faded paint and chipped drywall, blemishes on an otherwise smooth surface. In the corner, where the crown molding meets one of the walls, the wallpaper is peeling. I have never seen the room from this angle, but I admire the manor’s imperfections. It does not try to hide its impurities the way I do. I wish I could lean on it, using its support and strength to amplify my own.

  I cross my legs at my ankles and wince as the pain in my lower back shoots down my spine. My body is tight, and I desperately need to stretch.

  Rolling my head against the hardwood, I look over at Holland, who is still perched on the couch. I, on the other hand, dropped from the chair to lie on the floor. At the time, I thought it would be more comfortable. I was wrong.

  “Need help getting up?” Holland asks.

  I want to laugh because I think he is joking. I want to believe he is messing with me. I want to throw my book at his foot or smack his shoulder or roll my eyes. Of course I do not need help. I am not an elder!

  But I do none of those things. Because I know he is not joking. Holland means what he says, and he truly believes I might need help pushing my weakened body off the floor. Ignoring his request, I turn away from him, letting my gaze settle on the imperfect ceiling once again.

  I linger on the fireplace, which, positioned at the center of the room, is a true focal point. It draws the eyes of everyone who enters. But as soon as any visitor steps inside to admire the architecture of the custom piece built specifically for this vampire Victorian manor, their gaze travels the rows of bookshelves stocked with first-edition novels.

  Even more are in piles on the floor. From classics to grimoires and historical references, the stacks tower over me, encasing me between seemingly endless rows of dusty, musty pages. None of which has contained even a single helpful word. I am beginning to think the answer is not here.

  The smell of something absolutely divine reaches my nose, and I close my eyes, inhaling slowly, deeply, relishing every second of this moment. Because soon it will be gone. With my senses dulled since I was cursed, I am rarely offered moments of indulgence. I lick my lips, my mouth salivating as if I have not eaten in days.

  “Come on now,” Holland says. “Up we go.”

  I open my eyes. He is standing over me, his arm outstretched as he offers me his hand. Begrudgingly, I accept his offer, and he pulls me to my feet. I stumble, grabbing on to him to steady myself as blood rushes to my brain.

  I blink several times, clearing my vision. Almost as soon as my dizzy spell hits, it dissipates, leaving me with nothing but a concerned-looking witch staring down at me. I find myself wondering what happened to Holland’s mask.

  His forehead is creased, his eyes narrowed as he squints while he looks at me. Except, he isn’t looking in my eyes. Mentally, I try to follow his gaze, to see what has captured his attention so acutely. He stands stiff, his muscles frozen in time as he assesses me.

  Suddenly I know what he sees, and I suck in a sharp breath at the realization. Holland’s gaze flashes to mine, and a moment of recognition crosses between us. I swallow the knot that forms in my throat and yank myself free of his embrace.

  I stumble backward, desperate to put as much space between the two of us as I possibly can. I am willing to put the entire forest between us if that is what I have to do to keep him silent. I do not want to listen to his questions or hear his accusations. I just want silence, even for only a moment longer.

  I see it in his eyes. The endless questions that play through his mind, the hurt on his face for realizing my secret, the fear that inevitably consumes him as he recognizes that I have far less time than he originally thought.

  “Ava…” Holland whispers.

  He does not hide his pain. It coats his words, wrapping around me until it chokes the life from me. Holland’s agony over my fate suffocates me, and I realize this is why I keep my secrets. Yes, I am scared to admit my fate, but more importantly, I do not want to witness these moments. I do not want to see it flash before Jasik’s eyes as he understands he must bury the first vampire he sired.

  I am going to die—it is just a matter of time.

  Holland takes a step forward, but I hold out my arms, stopping him in his tracks. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I cannot let them fall. If I weep now, every vampire in this manor will rush to my side. And I cannot stare down an entire nest while still maintaining my secrecy. I will break. They will force the truth from my numb tongue, and I am not ready for that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  “Please don’t,” I say, begging for silence but receiving none.

  “How long?” Holland asks. He is not specific. I suppose he does not need to be. We both know I understand his question.

  I do not respond, but not because I do not want to. My mouth has run dry, my tongue painful to move. Suddenly scorching, my skin is moist, and I dab at my forehead with my sweater. My breathing becomes loud and erratic, my heart pounding in my chest. I feel light-headed as my vision blurs, and I worry I might actually pass out.

  Holland wants me to admit my lies, to come to terms with my secrecy once and for all, but the thought of doing so nauseates me. I feel weaker than I have ever felt in my entire life, and I once took a dagger to the back courtesy of my own grandmother. But this is far worse.

  “Soup’s on!” Jasik shouts as he enters the parlor.

  His mouth is upturned in a beautiful smile that is wide and white. His fangs hang down low, betraying his identity as an immortal creature of the night. I notice them every time he looks at me, because mine are no longer there. There was once a time when I hated what I had become, and now, I would give anything to look at myself in the mirror and not hate what I see.

  Jasik’s dark-brown hair is shiny and silky, his skin pale, his eyes piercing crimson red. His body is toned and tall—much taller than me—yet as he makes his way into the parl
or, dressed in his typical hunting gear for tonight’s patrol, I go weak in the knees. This dark, dangerous predator walks confidently toward me, carrying a pot of sloshing liquid.

  Strapped to his torso is a bright pink apron that says Kiss the Chef in bold, black letters that sparkle. Hikari brought it home one day as a surprise for me. She included some cookbooks and said she stocked the kitchen with basics.

  “You got this for me?” I had asked her in disbelief when she gave it to me. I had only asked her for makeup and clothes.

  She snorted. “Do not act so surprised. You are basically confined to the manor. I thought you might like new ways to spend your time. I mean, what else are you going to do around here? A person could go crazy being locked in!”

  She was right. I was losing my mind—though for other reasons—but I did need to find new hobbies, and cooking was a great place to start. Unfortunately, everyone else claimed the space, and I never made it into those cookbooks.

  The moment Jasik realizes something is wrong, he halts. The pot of soup slips from his hand. Chunks of meat, potatoes, and vegetables scatter across the floor, the liquid dousing a pile of nearby books. They were probably priceless, but he does not care. He pays no attention to them, focusing solely on me.

  Jasik shuffles his way through the room, crushing chunks of food and kicking the useless bound paper to the side as he makes his way to me.

  “What is it? What happened?” His eyes are dark, and the concern within them makes my heart sink.

  Holland says something, but I do not hear him. My attention is solely on my sire. He reaches my side in seconds, and he wraps his long fingers around my thinning arms. He holds me like this, not too close and not too far, assessing every inch of me. His gaze never lands on my neck, where my mark and horrific makeup job betrayed my secrets only moments ago.

  I shake my head, losing my grip over one of the many tears threatening to spill, and it drips down to my chin. I fall against him. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly, and I feel like nothing can penetrate his arms of steel. Jasik is strong enough to keep me safe from any physical danger, but when I look up at him, our lips nearly grazing as he looks down at me, I see it.

  In his eyes, there is defeat, because he knows he can protect me from any threat that comes knocking at our door, but he cannot save me from the greatest danger of all: the evil residing within my mortal coil. Every day, he watches as I become weaker, thinner, smaller. Every day, I die a little bit, and he sits beside me, holding my hand as I take my final breaths. I know he will always be there, watching, waiting, unable to stop what fate has already set in motion.

  Life should not be this cruel.

  Gaining better control over my emotions, I sniffle and push away from Jasik. There is nothing I would like more than to fall into his arms and let the time pass in his safe embrace, but I know I can’t do that. I need to remain strong—if only for my own sake—because the truth is soon to be revealed.

  “What happened?” Jasik asks as I wipe my eyes and adjust my sweater. I fight the urge to leave it lopsided, where I know it will cover the blotches of mismatched concealer, but I know that will only cause more attention.

  I shake my head, ignoring Jasik’s question, and I dare a peek at Holland, who stands several feet away, arms crossed, brow furrowed. He is not angry with me, but he is insistent in his desires. He wants me to come clean, to admit the severity of my situation, but I can’t. Admitting the truth makes it real, and I am not ready for that yet. I do not think the hunters are either.

  After several seconds pass, Jasik tosses a glance back at Holland and says, probably more forcefully than intended, “Someone say something.”

  “I think the side effect of the witches’ black magic is starting to affect Ava,” Holland says bluntly.

  I shoot him a look of utter betrayal, but I can’t be angry with him. He said what I should have. These were my secrets to bare, and I should have confided the truth in Jasik. After everything we have been through, my sire deserved that.

  Jasik frowns. “Is this true?”

  He wants to hear it from me, so I mentally prepare myself to speak the truth. I nod, throat clenching. Once again, it is hard to speak. Whenever I think about my situation, I can’t see straight. My vision blurs, my mind races, my heart screams in my head. My hands get clammy, my legs grow weak, and everything just hurts.

  Never have I ever been this terrified.

  But I am not worried about the others finding out. I am just scared. I am petrified of what lies ahead, and I know every day I wake, I am one step closer to the unknown. Soon, I will rise, but it will not be me. The evil thing that bears my face will walk like me and talk like me and even look like me, but it will not be me. Without my sanity, only madness will remain.

  I will be silenced by the darkness, forced to watch as it gains control of this body and my mind. From the sidelines, I will bear witness to the terrible deeds committed by my own hand, even though it will be without my consent. This darkness is an intruder, and it wants nothing more than to find its way inside my very heart, to see what lies there and to find a way to tear it apart.

  “Will you show me?” Jasik asks, his voice soft. Everything about him is comforting, from the way he looks at me to the sound of his voice. But these words lash out, striking me down.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending I did not hear his request. The thought of letting him see the atrocity my body has become makes me feel ill. A slop of bile works its way into my throat, and this time, I cannot push it down. With my hand over my throat, I run. I escape into the adjoining sitting room, throwing open the door to a half bath positioned directly under the stairs that lead to the second floor. The moment I reach the toilet, I expel everything I can, hoping the darkness inside of me will take the opportunity to leave as well, even though I know that to be a futile dream.

  When I am finished, I sit back on my knees, resting my bottom against my heels and my hands on the toilet seat. While heaving, I was squeezing my eyes shut so hard, tears now drip steadily down my cheeks. I pat them away with my sweater and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  I hear the door creak behind me, and the heavy footfalls of someone entering the bathroom echoes all around me, but I do not open my eyes. I can’t bear to see his face right now. The floor creaks under weight, and I do not have to look to know Jasik is here, watching, waiting.

  Finally, after I have summoned the strength to look at him, I open my eyes and suck in a sharp, sour breath. Thankfully, I did not miss the toilet bowl, but the contents inside are enough to make me scream.

  And I do. I release everything I have. I am angry that this is my reality, pained that I have become a burden the vampires must protect, and terrified of what will come next.

  Because the bile coating the toilet bowl is not only thick and black like sticky tar, but it moves, coming to life as it swirls around the bowl, mixing with the cold water in its depths.

  Jasik walks over and crouches beside me. He uses his fingertips to loosen the wet strands of hair that cling to my forehead before tucking them behind my ear. He smiles at me, whispering my name. His love for me reaches his eyes, and I lean against him.

  After a long silence, Jasik reaches over me and flushes the toilet. We both watch as the substance I expelled from my body is sucked down the pipes, cast out of the manor with one quick thrust. If only every problem could be alleviated so easily.

  We remain silent, unmoving, staring at the now-white toilet bowl, even when the floor creaks again and again as the vampires linger to witness my curse.

  Chapter Three

  I am standing on the front porch. The manor is dark, the air cold. With each exhalation, I see my breath as lacy puffs of steam that cloud my vision. My nightgown blows in the breeze as a bitter chill works its way up my legs. The wind grabs hold of me, an icy burst that settles deep in my bones.

  I know I am not alone.

  Staring at the front door, I shiver at the realization
. I wrap my arms around myself in my fruitless attempt to soothe my nerves. I rub my bare arms as I peer over my shoulder, terrified of what—or who—I might find. At first glance, there is nothing there, but quickly, my vision adjusts, revealing my deepest fears.

  The woods surround me. The trees loom overhead, casting shadows that move as the wind blows. The nightmarish creatures that dance among the shadows laugh at my pain and my fear. They know the secrets hidden in the night. They know I am not alone.

  I am shaking so viciously I teeter back and forth on my heels. My feet are bare, my toes frozen. My hair is loose around my shoulders, and every time it sways in the breeze, it tickles my skin.

  Squinting, I search the forest, desperate to confirm my suspicions, even though that seems like a far worse situation to be in. There is a difference between believing you are not alone and knowing you are not alone. That startling truth feels like the tip of a blade that teases a throbbing vein. The difference is life and death.

  I see nothing unusual at first, so I tear my vision from the forest and look for the gargoyle. I used to greet him daily with a pat atop his smooth stone head, but I rarely leave the manor now. I think hard, but I do not remember the last time I sat beside him, I cannot even remember the last time I crossed the threshold from the vampires’ world into the witches’. I suppose it was the night I returned home, after the bloodshed, after the spell, after the curse that condemned me to this hellish existence.

  Once again, I feel eyes on me, a gaze that penetrates deep inside, as if my stalker can see straight into my soul. That thought terrifies me because I am forced to acknowledge the truth. If he can see into my soul, does he recognize the evil that now resides there? Does he know it is not me?

  This foreign entity that consumes my life is nothing but an intruder. Even as I internally justify its presence, I know whoever lurks within the shadows does not care. Very few who stalk the night care about those who can walk in the sunshine.