Dark Curse

by Danielle Rose

  Time slows as I realize what I must do. Condensation dribbles down my forehead, dripping down the bridge of my nose before splashing onto the hardwood floor. I watch as the droplets of sweat and blood cascade in all directions.

  Blinking, I push myself upright, sinking back so that I sit on my heels. My knees burn, my legs ache, and my arms feel numb. My head is throbbing, my heart pulsating so loudly in my chest that I am certain even the witches can hear it.

  Still, even as this heat wave makes the air sticky and unbreathable, I am shaking. But not from the cold—from the anticipation of what happens next.

  “Mamá,” I say. My voice cracks. I sound weak, and I hate that the witches might perceive me that way. Because I am not weak. Not anymore. And no thanks to them.

  Holland helps me stand. My limbs feel feeble, and I teeter when Holland releases me. My legs are heavy, and the soles of my feet smack the ground as I walk over to her. Everything feels raw and painful. I am tapping into too much magic, and too much magic is risky.

  I wonder if she can see it. I know power is radiating from me in waves—much like the darkness that was seeping from Abuela’s pores. But I imagine my power to be bright white, iridescent and shiny. No one will mistake my magic for evil.

  Already, the darkness is taking control of my mother. I can see it in her eyes. She is shaking and sweaty. She smells like death and looks weaker than ever before. The evil the witches created is absorbing so much power, it is forming, solidifying, and we all know I can’t let that happen. There is no place in this world for such darkness.

  “¿Me vas a matar ahora?” my mother asks, and I frown.

  “Do you truly believe I could kill you?” I ask.

  She remains silent, but the truth of my question flashes before her eyes. Yes, she does think I could kill her, but she is coming to that decision based on her actions, not mine, because she would kill me. There is no doubt in my mind that the witches are the absolute embodiment of true evil. It is no wonder they manifested something that would make demons tremble.

  “No, Mamá, I will not kill you.”

  “Eres débil,” my mother says, spitting the words at me.

  “You say I am weak, but it takes true strength to stand before you, after all you have done, and still want peace.”

  “No peace,” she seethes, emphasizing each word. “There will never be peace.”

  Although my mother speaks to me, the sound leaving her lips is not her own. The evil uses her, speaking for her, guiding her to commit its deeds. Her voice is deeper and darker than I ever remember it to be.

  I tear my gaze from hers, even though I see the darkness spreading within her, turning the whites of her eyes black. Her skin is wrinkly and pale and etched with tiny black veins. Her hand jerks, her leg twitches, and I know it is only a matter of time before the vile creature she created takes control over her actions. It is becoming too powerful now, and I must stop it—at all costs.

  “You are wrong, Mamá,” I whisper.

  My gaze drops to my mother’s neckline, where her talisman dangles from a chain. All my life, my mother has worn the same pendant. Formed by black onyx crystal and wrapped in gold wiring, Mamá once explained to me that it was used for protection. Too bad it did not protect her from herself.

  I remember my lessons. Black onyx is the most powerful crystal a witch can use for protection. It absorbs negative influences, acting as a shield to the wearer. Maybe that is why the evil creature focused its influence on my grandmother, who was too stubborn to rely on talismans for aid.

  Mamá once said the crystal is wrapped in gold wiring because gold metal represents the sun and harnesses its strength and energy. It is a symbol of power and dominance. Paired with black onyx, this talisman is quite formidable.

  The tiny black veins webbing around my mother’s frame make a curious pattern around her necklace. They thread everywhere, weaving through flesh to claim her body as its own, but they do not touch the skin surrounding the talisman. The veins make a complete circle, steering clear of the onyx crystal even while consuming the rest of her.

  “Peace is the only thing I can offer you,” I whisper.

  I snatch the talisman from my mother’s neck, and the chain snaps. She screeches at the sudden assault, wincing as my fingernails scrape against flesh. I cut her, and she bleeds black ooze. A vile odor seeps into the air, and I swallow down bile. I know I must move quickly, because the evil will understand soon enough.

  With the crystal firmly in my hand, I angle it outward and slash it forward. Mamá attempts to deflect my attack, just as I expected her to, but I am much faster than her. I slice the crystal forward, tearing through flesh. Blood pools in her hand, and I clasp our palms together, keeping the talisman at the core. The crystal scrapes against her raw wound, and she grinds her teeth against the pain. Mamá’s eyes are full of tears, and they drip steadily down her cheeks. I do not know if she cries out of fear or pain, and either way, I do not care.

  “I will offer you the one thing you never gave me, Mamá: mercy,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Mamá shrieks. Her terror is raw and real, her screams filling the manor. The witches are confused, unsure of what to do. They are loyal to my mother, to this coven, but they are tired. They are weak, and they are afflicted by this curse.

  “Repeat what I chant,” I order, even though I am confident I can complete this dark curse without the witches’ help.

  Still, it would be easier if they were on my side. Because of this, I consider adding if you want to live, but I decide that is far too dramatic. Either they will aid me or they will not. Either they will live or they will die. I have made my intentions known. For months, I have wanted nothing more than to be on friendly terms, to live in peace. Now is the time they choose.

  Life or death.

  Peace or war.

  The choice is theirs.

  I chant the very same words Will repeated the night he transferred his power into me. I use the spell, stealing my mother’s magic, knowing her connection to the coven will take their power as well, and I alter the spell so that their magic is stored in the talisman. Black onyx is supposed to be the strongest crystal available for ritual use, and it is time it earns that title.

  I have no idea if this spell will work. Mamá is not a willing participant, but then again, neither was I. I had no idea Will was transferring his magic, storing it within me, yet our ritual was successful. If mothers used this spell to keep strong-willed daughters in line, then why can’t the tables be turned? Why can’t I use it to steal the magic and absorb the evil residing in Mamá, confining it to an eternity within this very talisman?

  I continue my chant, ignoring the gnawing realization that bubbles within me. We are not performing this spell within a protected ritual space, but the elements are represented here, and the sun is high in the sky. I have enough power inside of me to overpower this broken coven, and I am determined to make this work.

  Mamá begins to shake convulsively. Her grip loosens, so I grab on to her even harder, holding her upright with my free arm. I keep the other clasped around her hand, squeezing tightly so she continues to bleed onto the talisman.

  Blood seeps from her palm and splatters onto the floor, but I ignore it. If I have to, I will bleed her completely. In order to contain this evil, I know I must be prepared to sacrifice anyone, including my own mother.

  Mamá screams a gut-wrenching howl that ends abruptly, and she falls limp in my arms. Unconscious, she rests against me, and I lower her to the ground.

  I hold her hand out before me, and I watch as darkness swirls round and round, being sucked into the talisman. I think I even hear it. The evil this coven created by dabbling in black magic screams in agony, begging for life, for freedom. It sounds scratchy and weak, and I smile, knowing it will be forever contained.

  I do not release Mamá’s hand until the black veins stamped across her skin dissipate. Only then do I know she is truly free, finally safe. When I lower her hand,
I peel back her fingers, taking the talisman with me.

  I back away from her, and as I do, the other witches rush to her, collapsing at her side. They do not look at me, but I know they are aware the spell was successful. Their magic, like my mother’s, resides in this talisman now, and the witches are cursed to live and die a mortal death. But I like to think that is a far better fate than the alternative.

  I glance at Will, who is turning ashy. His eyes are still open, and they have glossed over. But he no longer stares at me with pain or accusations. The glint in his eyes is gone, but somehow, I know he is at peace. I just wish I still had time to convince him that he did exactly what he set out to do: he found a home; he had a family.

  “Are you okay?” Jasik asks, and I crane my neck to look at him, tearing my gaze from Will’s cold body.

  My sire stands in front of me. He reaches for me, cradling my head between his palms. He still looks broken and pained by the loss of his sire. I sense his exhaustion, his weakness, his hunger. But I also see his love and his devotion to me. That alone will get us through.

  I nod and bring my hands up between us, resting them against his chest. He releases my face and steps back, glancing down. I show him what I was holding. Cradled in my palms, I have the black onyx pendant, and somehow, even though I know it is not possible, it looks darker than it used to.

  “Their magic is in there?” Jasik asks.

  “That is not all,” I whisper.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, watching as the darkness swirls within the crystal, but it is contained. It loops round and round, moving back and forth, swirling in circles on an endless cycle for all eternity.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Jasik asks.

  “Keep it,” I say, fixated on the swirling magic within the center of the crystal.

  “Maybe we should just destroy it?” Jasik suggests, snapping my attention into focus.

  I blink several times, clearing my vision. I look up at him and frown. “We can’t. That will only release the magic inside. The earth might be able to consume the coven’s magic, but it cannot contain the evil inside.”

  “But if someone gets their hands on that talisman…”

  I nod, understanding. “He will have control over an entire coven’s power, including the dark energy the witches created.”

  “Then we will protect it,” Jasik says.

  “We have to,” I agree.

  “So what happens now?”

  I look up at him and smile. I release a long, sharp breath, relaxing as the tension in my shoulders finally loosens.

  For months, I have been beaten and abused, bloody and bruised. But now, the war is over. Powerless, the witches are no longer a threat, and while the possibility of rogue vampires will always lurk around every corner, we can live without worry—because eternity is a long time to fret over fruitless feuds.

  I glance at the others. Jeremiah and Holland hold each other closely, and I realize true love can survive some fairly brutal moments. It gives me hope, which is something I have not felt in far too long.

  Malik and Hikari stand beside them, and the other vampires that survived look to us for guidance. Without Amicia, we will be forced to rebuild the manor as someone else takes leadership, but most importantly, we will find a way to move on, to release the pain and simply live—which is all we ever wanted.

  Finally, there is peace in Darkhaven.

  I glance back at the talisman, watching as it sways from my steady hand. The magic contained swirls relentlessly round and round, ever searching for the stone’s weakest points. It yearns for freedom, and I can’t say that I blame it. There is something spectacularly awful about being held prisoner within your own shell.

  I think about Jasik’s question, about what happens next, and I come to one conclusion.

  “Now, we rest,” I say.

  And within the black onyx crystal, the darkness laughs.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is no easy feat. It takes countless people to publish a book—from the writer who drafts the story, to the editor who perfects the words, to the designer who mends the pages, to the marketing team who spreads the message. One person can’t do it all, and I am immensely grateful to have such a supportive team behind me.

  To Nicki — I dedicated this one to you because, in the short time we’ve known each other, you’ve become one of my best friends. Selfless and strong, helpful and understanding, you’re everything I strive to be, and you’re an excellent role model for Ava, who shares your headstrong personality in all the best ways. I see a little of you in her, and I hope you do too.

  To my cohorts, Shawna, Francie, and Heather — It’s hard to think of my life without you three in it. Your friendship means more than I can ever explain. Although we’re separated by distance, with thousands of miles between us, we’re always readily available to lift each other up. That’s the kind of friendship that lasts a lifetime.

  To my readers and my family — You’re the reason I write; you’re the reason behind my desire to tell stories people want to read. Writing isn’t easy. It’s emotionally draining and mentally exhausting, but I can’t imagine doing anything else. Without you, I wouldn’t be the writer I am. I love you.

  To Waterhouse Press — I probably say this too much, but I am exceptionally proud to write for you. I can’t imagine a better home for the worlds I create.

  Continue the Darkhaven Saga with

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  Also by Danielle Rose

  Darkhaven Saga:

  Dark Secret

  Dark Magic

  Dark Promise

  Dark Spell

  Dark Curse

  Dark Shadow

  * * *

  Pieces of Me Duet:

  Lies We Keep

  Truth We Bear

  * * *

  For a full list of Danielle’s other titles,

  visit her at

  DRoseAuthor.com

  About Danielle Rose

  Dubbed a “triple threat” by readers, Danielle Rose dabbles in many genres, including urban fantasy, suspense, and romance. The USA Today bestselling author holds a master of fine arts in creative writing from the University of Southern Maine.

  Danielle is a self-professed sufferer of ’philes and an Oxford comma enthusiast. She prefers solitude to crowds, animals to people, four seasons to hellfire, nature to cities, and traveling as often as she breathes.

  For more information, please follow Danielle Rose at:

  DRoseAuthor.com