by Parker Foye
Luc wanted in.
ROB didn’t answer his phone. Luc didn’t leave a message, then felt bad about it and sent a quick text about meeting later. He started to doubt himself the longer he walked, and the determination that had fueled his march from the chalets deserted him the closer he got to the center of the village. He pocketed his phone as his previously confident stride faltered. Rob had been worried about the exact kind of gold-digging—or cursebreak-digging—Luc intended to ask him about. The kind of “favor for a friend” Luc had grown out of after the whole thing with Matthew Clarke at school.
Luc had fond memories of Matthew Clarke, but even at fourteen, he knew hand jobs weren’t the usual sort of currency friendships traded in. Would he be doing any better in leveraging his whatevership with Rob for personal gain?
Luc scratched at the scaly skin under his cuffs. He chewed his lip. Snow dusted his shoulders and froze the tips of his hair as he stood next to the communal woodshed like a particularly dashing lawn ornament. Ethical quandaries had never been Luc’s strength, as certain parts of Birmingham and northeast England were able to confirm.
It would be selfish to ask Rob something he’d explicitly stated reservations about.
But wouldn’t it be selfish not to ask, when asking might change Luc’s family’s lives for the better?
As much as Luc saw the potential in what he and Rob were building together, he had to choose his family. Time and again, they’d chosen him, and to do otherwise would be cruel. He couldn’t be like Thierry, wherever he was.
Luc shook off the snow and set forward with renewed determination as the sky began to turn dark with brooding clouds. He glanced at the mountain peaks and found a thick mist had descended. Whiteout. Hopefully there were craft users on patrol able to negate the weather and guide people safely down the runs, since not everyone had bespelled equipment and a whiteout could be dangerous.
Luc flicked up the hood of his ski jacket and pulled the fabric in close to shield his eyes from the snow. He’d definitely chosen the wrong time to get determined, as snow leaked through his canvas sneakers. He curled his toes against the cold. Not much farther to walk to the center. He could dry out his socks at L’Arbre as he gathered courage.
Squinting into the snow, Luc almost missed the figure, swerving aside at the last instant and stepping heavily into the snowdrift banked against the curb. “Motherfudger.” He shook off his foot. His jeans were saturated to the shin. “Frostbite. Wonderful.”
“If you keep walking, you’ll probably be all right for frostbite.”
Luc’s muscles clenched at the voice. He could’ve gone a lifetime without hearing her again and having visceral terror grip him in its icy fist.
Harriet Nessom.
He edged to the side of the pavement, careful of the curb but more concerned with creating distance between himself and the hunter. He kept wiping snow from his face, unwilling to blink in case Harriet moved closer when he had his eyes closed.
“Are you following me?” he asked, his voice higher than ideal.
Harriet looked around her, as if surprised to find herself where she stood. She’d popped the collar of her leather jacket and had a knit cap crammed over her hair. Even in his ski jacket and layers, cold nipped at him, but Harriet could’ve been in the Cotswolds for all the weather seemed to affect her.
Finally she shrugged. “Why, do you live around here?”
“Look.” Luc surprised himself with the firmness of his tone. He could almost feel the weight of his antlers. Of his history. He edged forward, imagining his antlers between him and Harriet. “First of all, fuck you. Like, the biggest fuck you of all time, Harriet Nessom. Collector.” He sneered. “Fine, you know I’m cursed. Are you planning on skinning me right here in front of the chalets?”
“What? I—”
“Second of all,” Luc said, shifting his weight. He could barely feel his toes, could hardly see through the snow. Harriet was a dark smear against the gray sun. “You don’t know shit. Have you ever met a meta? One of the big ones, I mean.”
Luc’s skull throbbed with a sensation deeper than the itch of antlers in velvet. He felt like an egg before it cracked. His teeth vibrated with the pressure, like walking through a web of high-level charms and into an electric fence.
“I’m not sure you realize why I’m here,” Harriet said, her voice less confident.
Luc paused, looking at Harriet from the corner of his eye. “Why.”
Harriet’s blurry figure moved. He thought she might have lifted a hand. “Is the Lentowicz cursebreaker here? I saw him with you before.”
“Does every fucker know about him but me?”
“I—I have the internet?”
Luc snorted and kicked up the snow. He could scarcely see it in the storm. “Go on.”
“Is he here? I need his help with someone.”
“Help you skin them?”
“You have an unhealthy obsession with skinning.”
“You’re a collector,” Luc said. The word tasted greasy on his tongue. “You can’t— Fuck!” His words turned to a whine as pain grabbed him by the throat and choked every sense with agony. The snow falling on his face pricked like icy needles. Luc wheezed. His wrists blistered as his curse pushed against them, looking for a way out. He abruptly felt every gram of the antlers on his skull, and his vision blurred with pain.
Someone touched him, and Luc shoved them away, hearing their surprised yelp as if from down a tunnel. He staggered back, almost falling, and looked to the sky. The clouds were growing darker as the sun began to sink. The time of the curse. Luc needed to return to the chalets. He needed to get home.
With unsteady footing, he turned around, and the wind immediately shoved at his back as if to chivvy him along. Someone might have called to him, but Luc could scarcely hear beyond the wind and blood rushing in his ears. He stumbled forward. One more step. Another. More. He marked short distances in his head, to the streetlight, to the gate, but the heavy press of snow and darkness made progress hard to gauge.
Eventually he saw something familiar: Eloise’s damn fairy lights. Luc trudged doggedly toward them, surprised to reach the chalet faster than he imagined. He frowned and dragged his hand across the wooden door, splinters catching his frozen skin and making hot beads of blood trickle across his hands. When he touched a metal handle, he realized he’d arrived at the woodshed.
Whatever. Any port in a—quite literal—storm.
Luc yanked open the door and dashed inside, shutting it firmly behind him. Sawdust and mustiness made him sneeze, but the woodshed was well insulated from the storm, and he could remember once seeing a flashlight somewhere near the door. Most people used the expensive portable magelights, but Luc couldn’t make them work. He managed to find the flashlight by stubbing his toes on it, and heaved it up, splashing the beam across the floor in search of a dry place to wait out the curse.
When he dropped to his knees, the flashlight dropped with him. Cramps took hold of him, and Luc crawled the rest of the way to the corner of the woodshed, where he curled up among grossness and cobwebs. He dragged his phone from his pocket to call Eloise for help, but his phone had switched off. Snarling in frustration, he tried to turn it on, but the screen flashed the red symbol of a dead battery before dying again. The weather had done for it. Piece of shit. Tempted to throw his phone at the wall, Luc managed to wrest his temper under control and shoved the phone back in his pocket.
Eloise and Amandine would wonder where he’d gone. He’d said he’d be back to pick up the guests, and when they couldn’t get hold of him they’d come looking. Luc stretched out to kick the flashlight over to shine at the door. There. Not that he’d need it. The pain and storm would pass, and he’d walk home.
He breathed out shakily. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be—Hells take you!”
The sun was setting. Luc knew without needing to look. He knew as it burned through his skin and screamed in his bones. Something had gone wrong with the curse. Shudderi
ng, suddenly unbearably hot, Luc ripped off his jacket and raised his wrists to his eyes. The sight of enflamed skin beneath the cuffs made him feel detached; surely that couldn’t be part of him.
He reached out to grab the flashlight, but a vicious tremor made him stumble. Catching himself before he ruined years of dental work, Luc saw the first symbol burn off his right cuff. Like smoke, the magic flickered and evaporated with a small, almost subaural hiss.
Luc tasted metal. He’d bitten through his lip. He spat out a mouthful of blood.
Another puff of smoke. Another hiss. Something cracked in Luc’s spine, and he bellowed, twisting to lie on his back. Quickly he tried to unfasten the cuffs and yank them away, fear driving his shaking hands, but he couldn’t move fast enough. Smoke plumed from his wrist as, one by one, every symbol on the cuff disappeared. With a final surge of effort, Luc managed to rip the left cuff away and toss it into the corner of the shed.
Someone knocked on the door of the woodshed.
The sun set.
Chapter Eight
THE sun was beginning to set, smoldering warm orange behind the snow-topped hotels and chalets, visible even through the storm. Rob hurried, too impatient to wait for the ski shuttle. The storm would delay it, and he couldn’t stand more delay. Luc wasn’t answering his phone. Rob didn’t want to finish the season by letting the best thing that had happened to him in years fizzle out through some star-crossed bullshit.
He hadn’t seen enough of Luc yet. Not nearly enough.
Rob recognized a runner when he saw one. He’d looked in the mirror often enough. With Luc’s curse and the way Rob knew things could be in the craft community, he thought he might understand the impulse for Luc to hide. Whatever Luc’s curse was, it obviously weighed on him. Secrets always did, Rob reasoned. His certainly felt like something strapped to his ankles at times, waiting for him to stop struggling against the pull.
He yanked his beanie lower and pulled up his hood, wondering if he should’ve brought his goggles. He might look odd once the whiteout lifted, but at least he’d be able to see. Even the cars had stopped because of the storm, judging by the lack of headlights piercing through the heavy gloom.
He didn’t have his goggles, but he had an idea. Still walking, Rob fished through his bag. His mother always said never to travel without a compass and a clean pair of underwear, and Rob had taken her advice to heart after the thing with the boar. Clean underwear was definitely needed that day. But a storm required the first part of the Lentowicz emergency kit.
Withdrawing his hand, Rob cupped the small field compass and tapped the dial with his thumb. After a second more insistent tap, a green light flickered on in the center. Using the shelter of his bag, Rob tapped the base of the compass against his phone, which he’d loaded with Luc’s address, and waited as the light flickered off and on again. His fingers prickled with cold that made his eyes water. When he got back, he’d splurge on the newer compass model. The one for extreme climates.
Finally the compass bipped and fought against Rob’s hold. When he released it, it flew upward, and Rob hoped he hadn’t just thrown money into the storm. He refastened his bag, holding it close to his body to protect the contents from the weather, and squinted into the falling snow. The little compass and its green light floated ahead into the gloom, then returned, bobbing up and down in front of his face impatiently.
Rob cheered. “Well done, little guy!”
Bracing himself against the wind, Rob followed the compass past the few straggling shoppers and the occasional skier or snowboarder trying to carry their equipment in a way the wind wouldn’t battle. He wondered what his visitors were doing, if they were still in the restaurant debating him. Maybe they’d moved on to a glass of wine. Rob would appreciate a glass or two himself.
Storm Lentowicz had arrived in Les Menuires at lunchtime with his mother leading the charge. After Rob left London, the family had apparently decided an intervention would be in order and tagged along with the Curses Anonymous crew; the crew had been rolling as his mother strode into Rob’s hotel room. Like a fool, he let one of the camerawomen in for their “reaction shot” a few minutes earlier, not realizing there’d have to be something for him to react to.
He wondered how the show managed with cutting Polish swearing. Likely Uncle Jorge had trained them already.
In the mess Rob had missed Luc’s calls. When he didn’t pick up, Rob made his excuses. As much as his family asked, he didn’t give specifics. Even if Rob and Luc never spoke again, he’d protect Luc and his secrets.
Though he’d prefer they speak again. And kiss. Lots of kissing. More mutual naked occasions too: Rob was a big fan of those. A big fan of Luc Marling all around, if he was being honest.
Did cold rot the brain? Rob didn’t know. He suspected his emotions were more at fault than the weather, though as he couldn’t feel his face, he didn’t want to entirely relieve the weather from blame. He ducked his head and pushed forward, peering into the snowstorm for his compass. Which had—
Which had pissed off when he wasn’t paying attention. “Hells!”
Shielding his eyes, Rob searched for the little compass light but could barely see his hand in front of his face. Wind whipped his skin in icy lashes, stinging his fingers. He flexed them and reassessed his position. The chalets couldn’t be far since he’d been walking awhile. He considered turning back, but chances were he’d get equally as lost on the return journey, at least until the storm cleared.
Cautiously Rob chose the third option. He touched his charm necklace and concentrated, closing his eyes even as his instincts warned him against it. Casting the net of his awareness, he reached out for magic, hoping to find the compass as a pinprick in his consciousness. The gem warmed beneath his fingers, seeming hotter than usual under his cold skin. Rob could sense the compass some feet ahead.
The gem flared with heat, and Rob yelped. Magic seared through his awareness like a serrated knife, something jagged and huge and needing his help. Rob dashed toward the source, not needing a compass or a guide. The magic blazed like a beacon in his soul.
The storm began to lift as Rob ran, and he recognized the streets leading to the Dufour Chalets. His stomach twisted as he neared Luc’s home, and he hoped the strange magic didn’t mean Luc was in danger. Distracted, he nearly slipped as he took a corner, the slush slick beneath his boots, and stumbled to a stop as he reached his destination: a woodshed smoldering with magic. Behind the squat building, the sun glowed as it set, casting long shadows across the clearing. Rob cautiously approached the woodshed, the magic enveloping him in its strange spiky sensation. He knocked on the door.
“Anyone there? I’m Rob Lentowicz, I’m here to—Hooooly fucksicles.”
Big.
Just. Really big.
That was Rob’s first, second, and third thoughts. He’d seen Bambi, sure. Cute dappled deer making friends with bunnies. He’d seen stag heads at hunting lodges, where his mother would tighten her lips but keep silent, needing the business of the owner. But Rob had never seen a grown stag. The creature that burst from the shed was fully grown, if not overgrown, with tangled antlers spread again half as wide as Rob was tall, breath steaming in the cold air of the clearing storm.
The stag flickered his ears toward him, and Rob froze, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. Stags didn’t eat people, right? Rob didn’t want to move to check on his phone. Did stags charge? Were they territorial? Rob hadn’t brought protection spells, and his improvisation work was never up to much. He swallowed. The stag picked its way through the snow toward him, and Rob tried to apply “Bambi on Ice” to the image but couldn’t make it connect. The stag had bits of the woodshed door caught in its antlers.
Slowly Rob raised his hands palms-out. He shifted his weight and started to edge away. “Sorry to interrupt. Nothing to see here, I know. I’ll get going, don’t mind me.” Rob froze when the stag lowered its head. “What are you doing?” The stag ducked its head, then raised it, repeating
the motion. If Rob hadn’t had a working sense of self-preservation, he’d have thought it was beckoning him closer. “I’m fine over here, thanks.” The stag bellowed, a short impatient noise, then stamped its front foot. The gesture pinged something in the back of Rob’s brain, and he faltered in his retreat. What is it?
Rob dropped his arms to his sides. He stared. “Luc?”
The stag bellowed again, the noise shooting down Rob’s spine.
“I need to sit down. Somewhere.”
Everywhere had a fine layer of snow covering it, and Rob didn’t want to add a soggy arse to the day’s events. He eyed the woodshed, which had survived Luc’s assault largely intact; the door had acquired an interesting Scooby-Doo cut-out shape, but the roof held, and the inside looked dry. As good an option as any.
Rob glanced sidelong at Luc. Looking directly at him was difficult, as Rob’s brain kept sending up alarms on the threat posed by a large mammal with weapons attached to his face. It was the thing with the boar all over again, but without Rob’s mother—thankfully—and with Rob’s… Luc.
“Right. ’Scuse me,” Rob said, edging around Luc and heading for the shed. He stepped carefully over the debris and found a spot to perch on a pile of chopped wood, hopeful his jeans would protect him from splinters. A flashlight had been kicked into the corner, and Rob leaned over to grab it and set it near his feet. With the woodshed tucked away from the street, streetlights didn’t offer much more than a glow, and the flashlight helped as Rob’s eyes adjusted to the dark.
Without anything else to distract him, Rob looked at Luc, who had followed his progress. Snow decorated his antlers, and his huge eyes seemed worried. Rob cleared his throat and gestured to the wound where a door used to be.
“Did you want to—to come in? Can you fit?” Rob asked. “I mean, I’m assuming you have any idea what I’m saying. Hells, I’m assuming you’re Luc.”
To Rob’s relief, Luc proved his understanding and moved jerkily forward to hunker down next to Rob, half-in and half-out of the woodshed. His back reached Rob’s knees while his antlers stretched well beyond. Magic thrummed from him like a note sung off-key in a distant room, occasionally seeping back into Rob’s awareness. He smelled cold. Rob wanted to wrap him in a blanket.