The Dragon of Cecil Court

by Genevieve Jack

  “Possum urine,” he said. “I never promised this would be pleasant.”

  She breathed through her mouth to lessen the stench. “I drink this and then what happens?”

  “As I mentioned, this potion will bind to the curse and show us where in the body the spell abides—at least if a witch is responsible. If I can see it, the shape and color glowing through your skin, I should be able to research its origins and find a cure.”

  She nodded. It sounded like a good plan despite the smell. She raised the glass to her lips but paused without drinking. “What happens if it wasn’t a witch who cursed me?”

  He backed up and kicked a silver rubbish bin in her direction. It skidded to a stop at her feet. She looked at him in horror.

  “If the potion doesn’t bond, it will find its way back out of the body.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “Magic.”

  Taking one more shaky breath, she raised the glass in his direction. “Here’s hoping that Eva is the culprit.”

  She tossed it back like a shot and swallowed it down. The taste that coated her throat made her gag, but the feel of the spell careening through her body was worse. It felt like worms, giant, squishy caterpillars, crawling and writhing up and down each of her limbs. She screamed and clawed at her skin to no avail. The wriggling was in her veins.

  And then, when the worming had burrowed down to her toes and back again, it gathered in the pit of her stomach. Without warning, it rose in her throat in a rush. She heaved into the bucket, her forehead breaking out in a dense sweat.

  Although she hadn’t drunk but an ounce of the brew, she filled the bottom of the bucket. Her head throbbed.

  “Not another witch,” Nathaniel said dryly, tapping his chin. “It’s possible the hair had nothing to do with it. Perhaps when the woman touched you, she cursed you. Maybe a nymph or a sprite?”

  He took the glass from her, strode to the bench, and returned with it a quarter full of glowing blue elixir.

  “A little heavy on the pour, wouldn’t you say?” she grumbled.

  “The amount required for the spell is based on your weight.” He arched an eyebrow.

  She gave him her most stinging glare and tossed back the shot. This one felt like ice in her veins, and she shivered violently as it coursed through her body. It came back up her throat with force and swirled in the bucket like a blue whirlpool.

  “No. No. That’s not it either.” Nathaniel took the glass from her sweaty hand.

  Clarissa’s head swam and her tongue went numb. She sank to her knees within the triangle. Her heart pounded like a restless prisoner against the cage of her ribs.

  “Is there a problem, Ms. Black?” Nathaniel asked tersely. He’d returned with something purple and sludgy. Her gaze locked with his and she forced any weakness from her expression.

  “No,” she croaked defiantly. She took the glass from his outstretched hand and tossed it back. It barely hit her stomach before her limbs turned to concrete and what poured out of her mouth resembled a giant slug. “What was that a test for?”

  “A spell that involved vampire blood.”

  She leaned her hands on the bucket. “I need some water.”

  “It’s better if you don’t drink. It will dilute the magic. Besides, there are only two more.” He left and returned with a fluorescent-orange elixir like nuclear mango juice. “Fairy magic.”

  This time she had to pant to build up her courage. She tossed it back and forced herself to swallow. Instantly her entire body vibrated like it was filled with Pop Rocks. She waited.

  When nothing happened, her eyes shifted to Nathaniel’s. “I’m not throwing up. Maybe this is our answ—”

  Vomit careened through her lips so fast and hard that she missed the bucket and slid backward on her knees. She fell forward, her hands landing in it.

  “Water, please, Nate…” She was dying. Her mouth tasted like ash, and it was becoming difficult simply to remain upright. Every muscle in her body ached.

  “Last one.”

  She thought concern flitted across his expression, but it was gone before she could be sure. He shoved a red elixir that reminded her of cherry cough syrup into the symbol.

  “Can’t we just assume this is it?” she asked through a raspy, sore throat.

  “No. If this fails, it means this isn’t a curse but something else. Perhaps you’re legitimately sick. Some kind of witch disease.”

  Her hands were shaking so hard she had to use both of them to lift the glass to her lips. The syrupy red liquid smelled like sulfur. With every drop of willpower she had left, she forced herself to swallow. It burned going down.

  The pain when it hit her stomach folded her in half and coaxed a scream from her lips. Her skin was on fire! She broke into a sweat and rolled onto her side, her breath coming in ragged pants. Tears streamed from her eyes. It hurt. It felt as if every drop of moisture had been wrung from her veins.

  She waited and the torture gradually faded.

  “By the Mountain,” Nathaniel said under his breath.

  Her hands glowed red. She tried to sit up but failed. Her head was spinning. Still, it was impossible to miss the bright crimson lighting her from within.

  “It’s in my bones,” she said, her voice cracking. She wanted to ask him what had cursed her. What did the red mean? But black dots swam in her vision, and then her head cracked against the floor.

  Chapter Ten

  “Drink. More. You still look green.” Nathaniel struggled to keep his emotional walls up as he supported Clarissa’s back and brought a cup to her lips. Seeing her pale and fragile against the white sheets, her limbs limp, her lips cracking, was almost enough to break his resolve.

  At first watching her endure the effects of his test was cathartic. She’d hurt him in indescribable ways; it was her turn to hurt. He’d enjoyed it for about two minutes. But all too soon, the table-turning lost its appeal. Although the test had been necessary, he did not enjoy watching her heave her guts out or collapse on the floor. Carrying her to her room had proved a significant emotional hurdle. She’d draped almost lifeless in his arms, and the panic that rose at the feel of her against his chest truly was more punishment for him than for her.

  “Orange Gatorade. My least favorite,” she mumbled before chugging the rest of the bottle.

  He lowered her head to the pillow, took the empty, and handed her another. “This isn’t a hotel or an American restaurant. You can’t have it your way.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

  He backed away from the bed and reflexively reached for the pipe in his pocket, then thought twice about lighting it in her presence and left it where it was.

  “What did the red test for?” Clarissa asked. “What type of magic cursed me?”

  Waves of exhaustion washed over Nathaniel. He had to tell her although the thought disturbed him to his core. “You’ve been cursed by dragon magic.”

  “Dragon— How certain are you?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  Their eyes met. What little color she had drained from her cheeks.

  “Do you have any idea who might have done this?” she asked him in an unsteady voice.

  “No.”

  “Nathaniel… did you do this to get back at me?” Her last word was nothing but a breath.

  “Give me some credit, Clarissa. I didn’t even know you were in London until this morning.”

  Her lips pressed together, but she seemed to believe him. “Someone from the order?”

  “Not that I know of. There’s no love lost between you and the others though. I’m afraid you’ve thoroughly burned your bridges. Still, it’s hard to believe anyone would bother with a curse now. Why not years ago? Why not when you first left us? I’m quite certain any animosity they might have held for you has only dulled with time.”

  “But they do hate me.” She snorted. “My God, it’s been a decade. That’s a long time to hold a grudge.”

  “Is
that what you think? You think this is a grudge?” He motioned between them, the muscles in his forehead tightening.

  “What else would you call it?”

  He growled. Why was he still in this room, rehashing ancient history? “Enough. Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll work on finding a cure, and before you know it you’ll be off again and able to put this whole nightmarish event behind you.”

  Without another word or glance in her direction, he strode from the room to the sound of her quiet protestations.

  The woman was infuriating. Having her here, talking to her like this, it was opening old wounds. He needed to fix her and send her on her way. Nothing would feel normal until he did.

  Nathaniel strode into his library and nabbed his tarot cards from his desk. He’d always had an affinity for magic. While his brothers were busy training in the fighting pits, he’d often sneak off to watch his mother experiment with spells. By the time he was an adolescent, he’d practiced several with her, even created works of magic that she’d transcribed in her grimoire.

  Dragon magic lived in his skin and in his scales, but aside from strength, speed, invisibility, and the ability to ward treasure, most dragons couldn’t perform magic in the way a witch could. Most. He and his mother had found a way. Symbol by symbol and incantation by incantation, they’d discovered ways to use their own magic as a battery to fuel arcane rituals and potions. Witches drew on the elements, fairies drew on living things—dragons had to draw on themselves.

  His mother had helped him develop the foundations of this magic, but over time he’d learned that combining his strengths with those of human witches and wizards greatly increased his effectiveness. With a few tools he’d developed with the help of the order, he could more easily focus his energy, the pipe from Warwick being a perfect example.

  He fished it from his pocket and emptied it into the copper bowl on his desk. There was a package glittering on his ink blotter, next to the shadow mail candle he kept there. He turned over the tag.

  To dull the pain. Best, Warwick.

  He pulled the bow and unwrapped the brown-paper packaging. Inside, pipe tobacco with a lovely purple tint released its aroma into the air.

  There was nothing he’d like better than to numb the pain right now. Numb the ache in his chest. He loaded up his pipe and took a few draws. The calming qualities of the tobacco kicked in quickly, thank the Mountain. Warwick’s blend gave everything a nice rosy hue. Just the level of clarity he needed.

  Clarissa had been cursed using dragon magic. It was the last thing he’d suspected. The only people he knew who practiced dragon magic in this area were in the order. He hated to believe that one of them would have done something like this without his consent, but she’d left them, abandoned the order and taken her magic with her, in the same way she’d left him.

  He rubbed his chin. He had to admit it was possible that one of them heard she was doing a show in London and decided to mess with her out of some need for revenge or disjointed loyalty. That wouldn’t do. If that was the case, the fastest way to be rid of her was to devise a plan to out the guilty party and force them to lift the curse.

  He almost hoped the offender was among their ranks. The alternative was something he didn’t want to think about. Nathaniel was one of eight dragon siblings on this, the third rock from the sun, and the other seven he hadn’t seen in a very long time. He couldn’t imagine why one of them would do anything like this, but if it was another dragon, that would be a difficult curse to break indeed.

  Smoke from his pipe curled into question marks above his head. He wasn’t a detective or a psychic, but that didn’t mean he had no tools to divine the future. He shuffled his deck of tarot cards and squared them.

  “How do I find who did this to her?” He flipped the top card.

  Temperance. The card depicted Michael, the archangel of healing, straddling two worlds, water and earth in front of a long winding path. The angel was pouring liquid between two cups.

  “Bloody hell.” This was a card about unification. It symbolized harmony, grace, and forgiveness. Well, if the spirits were requiring him to welcome Clarissa back with open arms in order to find her cure, everyone would be disappointed. She could just live her life without her singing voice if it came down to that.

  But as he stared longer at the card, he noticed the two flowers in the background. Iris flowers. They represented the goddess of rainbows. It was said that Zeus would sometimes make Iris go to the underworld to fill a golden jug from the river Styx and would require each of the gods to drink from it. If he or she had lied, they would fall over breathless for a year.

  The card wasn’t talking about him welcoming her back after all. This card was suggesting a test, just like the golden jug. A test of the Order of the Dragon. What he needed was a ritual that would draw out the guilty party.

  A smile spread his lips. He tipped the card back onto the pile. He knew exactly the ritual that would accomplish his goal, and it would have the delicious side benefit of making Clarissa very uncomfortable.

  Clarissa couldn’t sleep. Her insides ached as if she’d been turned inside out, scrubbed raw, and put back together. Not only did the remnants of nausea leave her tossing and turning in the cool sheets, but a gnawing hunger left her feeling hollow.

  The half-moon bathed her room in ecru light. Her room. That was a slip of the mind. This room was no longer hers. It was the place she was staying, and as soon as Nathaniel broke the curse, a place she’d never see again. For some reason, that particular realization made her eyes prick with tears.

  Her stomach growled. Nathaniel was probably asleep. She could sneak down to the kitchen and try to prepare something, but Tempest would probably catch her and send her back up here without a bite to eat. She covered her eyes with her hands. What had she been thinking, forcing his hand and claiming sanctuary? Why would he be compassionate to her after what she put him through?

  He hated her and he was going to make this hell until she voluntarily left or her rights to sanctuary were fulfilled.

  Worse, she deserved to be hated. Nathaniel had bared his soul to her the last time she was here. He’d told her what it meant for his inner dragon to want her as his mate. If what he said was true, had she accepted the bond, he would go to his death loving her. She had no reason not to believe him. He’d never lied to her. And the way he’d loved her had proven to be his singular focus. His loyalty and devotion to her had been unfailing over the year she’d spent here.

  And his reward for the devotion was her leaving him without so much as a goodbye. Oh, she’d had her reasons. It had all made sense at the time. But she’d been brutal in her abandonment, telling herself that she wasn’t doing anything to him that hadn’t been done to her in the past. And wasn’t it for the best? She’d been too young for a forever commitment.

  Only, her lack of maturity had caused her to end things in the cruelest way. Truly she regretted it now, seeing it through her adult eyes. And here she was, crawling back with her tail between her legs and forcing him to take her in.

  Thirst left her tongue stuck to the top of her mouth. Were her tears making it worse? Everything in her neck and chest felt tight, as if a ball were lodged in her throat. The feeling only made her cry harder. She whimpered, unable to hold back her sobs.

  The silver candle beside the bed flamed to life, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Shadow mail. Nathaniel had invented the enchanted candles that could be used to exchange messages or even pass items between them. When she’d first come here, he used to use them to flirt with her late into the night. He must have heard her crying and was probably going to chew her out for it.

  The shadows on the end table swirled and twisted, transforming from flat, two-dimensional gradients of black and ecru to three-dimensional charcoal curls. The individual strands braided and meshed into a dark cloud the size of a small box. When the smoke cleared and the candle blew itself out, there was a sandwich and a bottle of ginger ale in its wake.

>   Seeing the food was a relief and also made her tears stream faster. Nathaniel had sent this. The oreads did not use shadow mail. They had no need to. The thought that he’d put his animosity aside to provide her what she needed squeezed her heart. She didn’t deserve it.

  She moved the food to the desk to clear a spot on the end table, then opened the drawer. The box of matches was still there. With a flick, one blazed to life and she brought it to the candle’s wick. She waited until the glow splashed across the wood.

  Dipping her finger into the shadows, she wrote thank you with her fingertip. She hoped and prayed the candle would still work despite her lack of magic. A sigh of relief broke her lips as the shadow writing coiled up and dissolved in the flame. A few seconds later, his response painted itself in wispy letters across the surface. Stop crying and eat.

  The flame hissed and blew itself out.

  She wiped her eyes and reached for the sandwich.

  Chapter Eleven

  Later that night, Clarissa finally slept, a deep, dreamless sleep like she used to enjoy when she lived at Mistwood full-time. It was the kind of sleep that only came from knowing she was perfectly safe. She missed it. After she’d eaten the sandwich Nathaniel had made for her, she’d known that for sure. He wouldn’t have fed her if he truly loathed her and wished she were dead.

  No. That wasn’t exactly true. He likely did hate her, but at least he didn’t intend to torture her.

  She dressed in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and grabbed her athletic shoes. There was one thing she had to know, and a quick walk before breakfast would tell her what she needed.

  Tempest met her on the stairs, although he didn’t reveal himself to her. She heard his footsteps and smelled his eucalyptus scent. His disembodied voice was clipped when he addressed her. “If you want breakfast, you can make your own.”

  “I didn’t ask you for anything,” she replied firmly.