Awful Curse: A High School Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (The Celestial Bodies Series Book 1)

by Elena Monroe

  A little static electricity, and you too can turn the bad boy into a wuss.

  “Motherfucker. Is that what happened in Texas?” His head was down, trying to assess any damage to his still bare chest, while his eyes shifted up finding me.

  I pulled up my panties and kept adjusting myself until I looked at least a little closer to how I arrived, even with my now useless bra.

  “It was some static electricity… get over yourself.”

  Not so tough now, huh, pussy?

  I started to walk away, and I snatched my phone off the ground where it fell. As soon as I shot up, Bolton’s hand was wrapped around my arm, holding me in place.

  “It doesn’t work on me; you can’t hurt anyone else in the circle. Your ex? You probably gave him a heart attack. How many times has this happened?”

  I was hearing him, but my head spun out of control and my body shook from all the emotions building up without having anywhere to go. I felt drained from his betrayal, drained from the power I felt to defend myself, and now I was remembering him explaining how much of a god he was.

  Everything was out of control and sounded like lies I could believe, which made it so hard to decide what was real.

  “I don’t know, Bolton. I don’t keep track of the friction in my life. Didn’t you humiliate me enough back there? Pity fucked me into hating you just as much as you hate me?”

  He actually looked confused, like my words hurt him more than how he had just hurt me.

  “Pity fuck? Humiliate you? I couldn’t fuck you when you don’t remember me. I couldn’t hurt you like that. Queens don’t let men tell them how to feel. Decide for yourself, Arianna.”

  He let go of my arm and brushed past me, down the stairs, to the exit, before I could even get my thoughts together.

  Decided for myself? If I’m crazy? If I’m powerful? If Bolton is still messing with me? Crown or not, navigating Arcadia Prep was proving to be more difficult.

  I followed behind him, even though he was out of sight already, pondering every exchange we had up until now and his clues about who he was.

  He kept asking me if I remembered him, but I had never met him in my life, which ate away at me like cancer for the rest of the night.

  By the time I made it to the girls’ dorms, everything was dark and quite like not a soul was there. When I pushed open my door, the lights were off, and Luna’s bed was flat. She wasn’t here. I was thankful. I needed to shower off every part of me that I didn’t understand and hope it only left what made sense.

  I spent longer than I really meant to in the shower, taking my time, because once Luna got back, I knew she’d be tired, leaving me to be mindful of how loud I was. Downside of having a roommate your senior year of high school: a lack of freedom.

  The only things that felt better after my long shower were my muscles; nothing else seemed resolved enough to relax.

  I yanked out Henry Jon’s journal from my bedside table, before glancing at the time on my phone: 12:12 a.m. Curfew was 11 on game nights and weekends so we could all bask in the glory.

  Luna would never be caught missing curfew; she was practically the mom of her friends and so innocent that I thought even the Devil would shy away.

  Arcadia Prep kept track of our keycards and swipes, meaning every missed curfew was a mark against you. I was pretty sure I never made curfew and was still waiting for my punishment.

  I smiled to myself, pretending Luna got brave and Nyx stopped fighting how much he was into her. Who was I kidding? Luna wouldn’t even let love break the rules. If Nyx was going to love Luna, he was going to have to do it between classes, before curfew, and most likely in private so no one had to feel bad about themselves.

  I found my bookmark wedged between the old pages, and I let the diary fall open to where I had left off. I was hoping Henry Jon would make more sense than Bolton did.

  Henry Jon

  I was standing face to face with the Devil’s child, and my faith was stronger than ever. I laid in wait, watching my Rosalia get dragged deeper into the lust of the evil. I made no advances on the demon, I had nothing but my faith in my arsenal. I needed answers, and that took time.

  I prayed every night that God watched over my Rosalia, not letting her slip out of my grip.

  Every dusk, I went out to the forest to search for clues on how to defeat the devil among us. I found the tusk of the monster deeper into the woods and tucked it into my pocket, hoping this would be the first step to our victory.

  Pastor Cotton buried himself in his scripture and books, trying to find the beast, but we found nothing. The Devil himself was getting creative with his demons, becoming more unknown and made of nightmares.

  There was a knock at the door, and it made me jump as I scanned Henry Jon’s cursive ink on the pages. Luna wouldn’t ever forget her keys, so whoever it was wasn’t my roommate.

  I made my way to the door and stood a few inches away asking, “Who is it?”

  I waited for their response, but none ever came. I mustered up an eye roll before looking through the peephole.

  When I leaned in, hands on either side of the small hole, I tried to focus on the shadow. The lock rolled over, unlocking itself. I backed up quickly, not sure who it was or what they wanted, but clearly they had some tricks, unexplainable ones.

  The door opened to Caellum leaning against the door frame, looking bored to be in front of me, yet here he was.

  I didn't believe Bolton for a second that my hands were anything but static zapping against him, but in this moment, in the fear of their enemy, I was willing myself to give into all this.

  I held out my hands like a deranged person, hoping they'd protect me. He mocked my idiocy: “They give you a wand with those too?”

  I dropped my hands, feeling more stupid than I ever had in my life. I clamped my eyes shut, only for a second, wishing I never actually did that.

  “Can I help you? Aren't you supposed to be going back to your school?”

  He completely ignored my questions when he invited himself in and took inventory of our room, starting with Luna’s side. “How much did they tell you?”

  I played dumbed, hoping it was more useful than static-less hands. “Tell me what? How much of a douche bag you are? Kind of learned that on my own.”

  He saw Henry Jon’s diary on my bed, making me a liar and psycho now. He picked it up, scanning the words, before a smile plastered to his face. “Oh, Henry Jon. Such a good Christian. Guess faith can't save everyone.”

  I wanted to ask him what he meant, what he knew, what he wanted with me this late, but he left no time between his thoughts. “Be careful who you trust. Not everyone is on your side.”

  “But you are? I don't even know you.”

  He leaned down over me, merely inches from my face, with his hands behind his back, leaning down. “No. I'm on whoever’s side wins in the end. Normally, sacrifices don't win.”

  Sacrifice? Me? Bolton said you can't hurt the circle, but maybe I'm not one of them.

  I folded my arms against my chest and regained composure, even with his close proximity. “Normally traitors don't either.”

  I didn't know what actually happened between everyone that made Caellum land on the side of Bolton that was permanently pissed off, but he didn't know that.

  He stood up, with his eyebrows dipping and assessing how much my face gave away that I knew.

  Don't give anything away. Don't give anything away when you know nothing.

  Chanting in my head must have helped because he leaned against another wall, giving me room to finally breathe. “You have no idea, do you?” He laughed to himself, pleased as punch, while I kept looking like an idiot.

  He sat down on Luna’s desk chair, swinging one leg over and his arms pressing into the back of it. “Don't you think you should know my side before you condemn me?”

  His sharp jaw, dark eyes, and almost perfect body was distracting me, as the muscles in his arms protruded against his thin shirt. I crossed my
arms, sitting on my bed across from him, waiting for him to explain.

  “Bolton's always had a hard on for being leader. I don't really care. I appreciate facts and people who don't know what betrayal is. We clashed on everything. He wanted pizza; I wanted ice cream. He wanted to save the sacrifices; I wanted to go home. He didn't have powers; I had too much to handle.” He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, like he hadn't thought about any of this until now.

  “So you’re opposites, cool. That doesn't explain the pure uncut hate.”

  “It doesn't matter how much we clash. He needs all of us for the ritual to go right. The hate…? Well, that was born out of you.”

  “Me? I'm nobody. I didn't even meet any of you until I moved here.” I was over deciphering every confusing word, and it was showing. My voice was limp and tired.

  “You have the biggest clue sitting on your bed, and yet you’re still clueless.”

  I stood up, annoyed with everything and still a kind of exhausted that stopped begging for sleep; it was now demanding. “Why don't you just tell me instead of the damn riddles?”

  He sighed heavily. “You. We always argued about you. He never wanted you to be the sacrifice in the ritual. He wasn't ever sure enough you were one of us... he didn't know if you'd come back. You’re always running away, and we are your private army.”

  Nothing was falling into place, even after the answers I begged for. Caellum was willing to spill every ounce of truth, but it didn't matter, because my entire body refused to believe him.

  I was just me. I wasn't anything but a teenager on the verge of college with a bad attitude and two parents in other places.

  Me.

  Shooting up off my bed, I started pacing, like often Bolton did. “We don't live in Twilight, True Blood, or The Vampire Diaries. This isn't happening.”

  Caellum’s gritting laugh sounded genuine, unlike his eyes. “Damn straight. We aren't vampires or werewolves. We’re gods, crowned in by Zeus himself. Different movie completely.”

  Everything about him was calm and dormant, like he knew one day he'd have to tell someone, and this wasn't as hard as he thought it'd be.

  Good for him.

  “None of this is real. You sound crazy. I already have enough problems.” My voice was confused, pleading for a sliver of truth in all this. Bolton was a god—a real life mythological god stuck on earth for whatever reason?

  “I really thought it would have clicked by now.” He should leave the sarcasm to a professional. It was going over like a lead balloon.

  “So why can't you go home? Why do you need me?”

  He thumbed the pages of Henry Jon’s journal, looking for something specific, when he handed me back the book, pointing a few paragraphs down. My eyes found his finger and started to glance over the cursive that was almost unintelligible to read without some history degree.

  Henry Jon

  We peered through the tall trees watching the Devil’s children form a circle around Rosalia, closing her in and suppressing whatever faith she had left.

  The Devil’s children were always forming circles in the dark, doing their father’s bidding.

  Rosalia hugged their leader, careful to not use his true name, tightly against her corset, before she laid down on a rock with a smooth top. She trusted him blindly, more than our Christian God.

  Pastor Cotton, to my right, clung onto the large cross around his neck, hoping it would save him. I wasn’t sure anything would save us, when monsters like these walked around.

  I watched the girl moving around Rosalia closely, watching her grind herbs and chant to one of the witches we cast back to hell.

  The sky was a heavy shade of black, making the stars seem even brighter than on the clearest night. The others closed in on my prized possession, and it wasn’t until their leader spoke that I realized Rosalia wasn’t meant to be a vessel or survive, but she was to be their sacrifice.

  He chanted the words: “The sun, the moon, and the rising. You will return home to Olympus, and I will never let you out of my sight again.”

  His words burdened us, while we hid in the bushes, anchoring us in our steps and halting our movements.

  Their leader, the sour, lonely child, not much older than Rosalia, disrobed. Every urge for violence and retribution flared up. This was an act of war—one I couldn’t ignore. Cotton’s hand held me still. There were to be no hasty decisions if we wanted the advantage.

  I saw the moonshine hit the silver blade tucked behind his back, while he leaned down over her, and I watched their lips meet.

  He was stealing her purity in every form.

  His bare chest made him seem so much more innocent, even more childlike, but I knew the Devil would tempt my sympathy in any way he could. I fought for Christ, even if that meant slaying the children in the forest.

  The dead leaves of the season crunched under my boots, while my adversary pointed to his chest. I didn’t want to pull my eyes away from Rosalia, but regrettably, I did, seeing the horns burned into his chest like a badge of honor.

  Those weren’t the wings of a godsend, but an evil I was determined to vanquish. While I was focused on the burn, everything around me sped up in a way I couldn’t stop.

  Their fearless leader brought his arms up into the air, with the knife firmly between his fists, and as I ran towards Rosalia, the certainty of being too late already corroded my heart. Her body folded up into the knife without fighting the blade lodged into her abdomen. Blood quickly spewed from her mouth in a graceful way that only a pure child could manage. Carefully moving her body from the rock, I held my little girl against my chest, whispering how much I forgave her, hoping that was enough forgiveness for the Gates of Heaven.

  The boy branded with the horns of the Devil leaned down, pressed his palm into my shoulder, and he told me this would all make sense someday.

  It has been seven years since that night in the woods, where I sat on the dirt, rocking Rosalia into her death. As time moved me on, it has also moved my anger with me.

  I read the passage and let it all sink in. Bolton had the same mark, only it was a “birthmark” now.

  Was Caellum really trying to tell me that they had lived through the 1600’s? Complete with religious fanatics and the trials of witches? I was overwhelmed with information that only weighed me down more, making my eyelids heavy to hold up.

  “You died that day—luckily for Bolton, not actually. That was just the human form you took while on earth.”

  “This is too much, okay. I’m not anything but human, and whatever kind of joke this is…? I’m over it. Tell your pal Bolton getting me naked was punishment enough, but I’m not going to bow to him.”

  Caellum stood up frustrated, and then intrigued by what I had just shared accidentally.

  I wasted no time pushing my hands against his solid chest and kicking him out of my room. I felt the same static I did with Bolton only a few hours ago.

  “Maybe you should get this pissed at him and let him feel those hands. He wouldn’t question… driving that… knife… in you… and sending us back home.” The last sentence was full of pauses to exaggerate his point between each word.

  “You’re a dick. We all get it.”

  I gave him one hard push, making him step back over the threshold of my room, before closing the door in his face.

  Once your body takes on news you can’t comprehend, a part of your mind unlocks everything that was every confusing, like friendships that end, why my dad keeps taking jobs that leave me stranded in a stranger's homes, why some people live past thirty and my mom died.

  Misery loves company, my ass.

  Confusion loves company, and denial loves desolation.

  Right now I was firmly in the company of the bad memories still scarring me, before I moved on to the desolation of self-torture—something I knew all too well. Between the tragedy of losing my mother and never having a father figure to count on, I was the poster child for emotional trauma.

  I hardly ev
er let myself cry—at least not over things I could no longer change. However, all the new information was pushing out old memories to make room.

  I couldn't even bring myself to read more of Henry Jon’s journal before I fell asleep with the tears running down the sides of my face, making stains on my pillow.

  Luna didn't come back to the room. She granted me one night of freedom, and I used it to cry.

  Arianna

  The dreams were getting more active. There wasn't a night my subconscious wasn't trying to scream epiphanies at me.

  Last night, I dreamed about the morning my dad broke the news that my mom had died.

  It was a cruel joke when your mind makes you relive your worst memories, hoping you'll find what you didn't see before.

  In the dream, I was the age I am now, and my dad didn't even wake me up to tell me he went to the hospital. Now he was standing in front of me, breaking news, like I would overlook those small details to mourn. He was wrong. My eyes were becoming brighter, and the violet fused with gold in my irises. My hands were glowing, flecked with gold, and my veins were illuminating my palms, except now it was gold.

  Every part of me unexplainably ran gold.

  Royal.

  Desired.

  Myth.

  In the dream, I let the lightning spark against my skin, and before I knew it, I was the only thing unharmed when my hands faded back to normal.

  Our house was struck down by lightning, burned to a crisp, and barely any beams were still up right, all struck down by my wrath.

  I could still feel the cold sweat on my back and around my hairline when my alarm went off. I twisted over in my bed, looking behind me to see if Luna was anywhere in sight.

  Her bed was perfectly made, meaning she never came back to our room. I was starting to worry, knowing this wasn't a girl who broke any rules.

  Last week, she yanked me over to the right side of the sidewalk, because that's apparently the side traveling northbound, and I wasn't leaving room for the southbound students.