Cursed Witch

by September Stone

  I turn when the computerized voice tells me, a creeping sense of familiarity forming goosebumps on my skin. It’s been four years since the last time I was here, and suddenly coming back seems like a fool’s errand. It was only by chance that I encountered the sisterhood in the first place, and at my mission debrief with the Front afterward, Ryder made it clear how lucky I was that the Sisters hadn’t overlooked my heroism due to my gender.

  What if their goodwill toward me has waned? What if the Sisters who used to inhabit this refuge have moved on, leaving behind others who won’t let me in the door?

  I shake off my worries as I pull the car down the final road. The fact is, none of that matters. The Sisters have information we need, so we have to speak to them. It’s as simple as that.

  I park in front of what appears to be a run-down A-frame cabin. But the real structure is anything but a cramped shack. As I learned the last time I was here, it requires too much magical energy to cast a spell to permanently dissuade supernatural beings from drawing near to this place. Instead, the Sisters employ a cloaking charm on the building itself in the event that any uninvited supernatural draws near. But that charm only extends so far.

  Calder is the first out of the vehicle, but he doesn’t venture any closer to the cabin. I grab my phone from the cupholder as I slide out, and I’ve made my way around the car by the time Silas gets his feet under him. He gives each of his legs an exaggerated shake before following me and Calder up the walkway.

  I take slow, measured steps until I step inside the boundary of the cloaking spell. The A-frame cabin shimmers and twists for several seconds as its true form is revealed: A towering fortress constructed from logs hewn from this very forest. I scan the roof until my eyes land on the security camera installed there. I lift my chin so they can get a good look at my face.

  I hope they recognize me.

  Static crackles as a speaker blazes to life. “State your name and business.”

  I fight the urge to swallow down my nerves. “Taj Patel. I’m here to see Sister Lissette.”

  The speaker squeals and I wince against the noise. “And you need two companions to gaze upon this Sister?”

  I press my lips together. I forgot how snarky these women can be. “We would like to ask her about the location of a sacred artifact. I have helped your sisterhood before and simply hope you may be willing to return the favor.”

  The line is silent for several seconds. While Calder remains stock still, Silas twitches his legs so much I consider telling him to wait in the car. But before I can even shoot him a warning look, the front door swings open to reveal a woman in an emerald tunic with burnt umber hair and skin so light and translucent she seems to emit a soft glow.

  “Lissette will receive you in the parlor,” she says, sweeping her hand to invite us inside.

  I stride up the remaining distance to her, nodding a thank you as I cross the threshold. Everything looks just as I remember. The wood walls glow amber in the light from the sconces dotting the walls at intervals. Instead of flame, each bracket holds a fist-sized crystal spelled to give a steady gleam. I recall from my last time here that the front hall leads into a large, open room where the Sisters congregate, but the umber-haired woman guides us through the door on the left.

  Lissette stands in the center of the room, looking just as breathtakingly beautiful as she did the last time I spoke to her. Her dark chocolate hair surrounds her face in a series of tight, spiral curls, and her dark eyes study each of us in turn.

  After staring for a second, I remember protocol and sink down into a deep bow, glancing to each side to be sure Calder and Silas are following suit. Silas catches my eye and gives a wry look, but he doesn’t straighten his back until Lissette bids us to rise.

  “Please, sit,” she says, indicating the soft gray couch in front of her. While there’s a high-backed chair directly behind her, she remains standing while we take our seats. “Brother Taj. Many moons have passed since our last communion. I’m curious what brings you here today.”

  I struggle to keep my face neutral. I’m positive the girl we spoke to over the speaker relayed what I said to Lissette already—otherwise she wouldn’t have let us in in the first place. But if there’s one thing I learned about the Shadow Sisters the last time I spent with them, it’s that they live and die by ritual and protocol. “My companions and I are trying to locate a sacred artifact, and we found some information that suggests you might know where it is.”

  Her paintbrush-stroke eyebrows lift. “A sacred artifact, you say? When last we met, you were in the business of saving supernaturals from those who sought to harm them. Now you’re… Indiana Jones?”

  I force my lips to curve at her attempted joke. “Not at all.” I raise my left hand to display the black crow on my palm, and Calder and Silas mimic my movement. “The three of us, along with two more friends, have been cursed, and the consequence of it running its course is much worse than just our deaths. We sought help from the great mage Elowen, and she agreed to help us—but only if we bring her something.”

  Lissette’s expression reveals nothing. Her poker face is something I remember clearly from our last encounter. It’s always a dance with her—revealing just enough information. Too little will make her cross and disinclined to help. But too much is dangerous, too, because the fact is I don’t know much about her or her sisterhood. Just because we were on the same side once before doesn’t mean our objectives are still aligned.

  “And this something is what you believe I can help you find?” she asks at length.

  “Yes.”

  She holds my gaze for a long moment. “What do you seek?”

  “The Staff of Rahn.”

  Lissette’s painted lips pop open for a split second, forming a tiny O of surprise. If I had blinked, I would have missed it. In the next breath, her face is the picture of composure yet again.

  But it was enough. If she doesn’t have it, she knows where to find it. I had my doubts before, but now I’m sure of it.

  I lift my chin, fighting to keep a triumphant smile from spreading across my face. “If you recall, after our last encounter, you promised that if there was ever anything you could do to repay me, you would do it. I saved your life, Lissette. Now I’m asking you to save mine.”

  Her eyes dart to the door and her fingers toy with the fabric of her emerald tunic. “The Staff of Rahn is indeed a sacred object. I’ll need to speak to my sisters before I can give you an answer.”

  The response hits me like a punch to the gut. I was counting on this conversation involving only the two of us. Lissette and I have a history, but I’m a stranger to the rest of her sisterhood. If their general distrust of men outweighs their gratitude for saving Lissette, we could be screwed.

  But I nod. “Of course. We’ll wait here.”

  She’s barely out the door when Silas circles his hand around my wrist and jerks his head toward Calder. By the time I touch Calder’s forearm, Silas’ voice already fills my head.

  What the hell was that?

  I grit my teeth. A good sign.

  A good sign? Silas asks. She left to chat with her creepy sisters. How is that a good sign?

  Because it’s not a no, Calder responds. Think positive.

  Silas grunts and removes his hand from my skin. I usually try to look for the bright side in situations, but Silas’s general distrust permeates my skin. If they say no, we’re back to square one. We might even be worse off than that. The spell Bryn and I cast pulled up just one source out of Elowen’s whole collection. Maybe it just pulled up the best lead—or perhaps it gave us the only information available. It’s impossible to know.

  Lissette is gone so long my leg is jumping with nerves by the time she returns. But when she sweeps into the room, she isn’t alone.

  My stomach sinks. This can’t be a good sign.

  “Thank you for your patience, Brother Taj,” Lissette says as she comes to a stop in the same place as before. But this time she’s flan
ked by two other women—the burnt-umber haired girl who let us in, and a raven-haired woman who stands half a head taller than Lissette.

  She pauses, but if there’s an appropriate response I’m supposed to give in the moment, it doesn’t come to me.

  “We’ve reached our decision,” Lissette says.

  I nod, biting back a demand for her to spit it out already. And when the raven-haired woman takes a step forward, I’m glad I held my tongue.

  “Brother Taj, our sisterhood thanks you for your hand in bringing Sister Lissette back to us,” she says in a rich voice. “And our gratitude to you can’t be measured.”

  One of Silas’ fingers presses against the back of my arm. But, his voice says in my head.

  “But the Staff of Rahn is a sacred treasure indeed,” she continues. “And gratitude alone is not enough for us to part with this information.”

  Calder stiffens beside me, and my mouth goes dry. But Silas leans forward on the cushion. “If thanks for saving your sister’s life isn’t enough, then what is?”

  I turn to glare at him. We talked about this in the car. The Sisters don’t tolerate outbursts or rudeness. I’m about to apologize on his behalf, but when I glance at the raven-haired woman, a thin smile curves her lips.

  “Ironic that it’s you to voice the question,” she says, her eyes on Silas. “Because in addition to our gratitude, our price includes one vial of daemon blood.”

  “You have to be kidding me,” Silas snarls. “It’s not like you actually have the staff.”

  I clench my jaw, fighting not to turn and glare at him. If he keeps this up, the Sisters could show us the door without giving us what we came for.

  “I assure you we’re not,” the tall Sister says. “It isn’t just information you’ll need to find the staff. You’ll require an item to trade. That is what the blood is for. You have our word we won’t bind you, and it will remain in the possession of our Sisterhood.”

  Silas goes still, and he doesn’t respond. The eldest sister eyes him for a moment longer before returning her gaze to me. “We’ll give you a few minutes to make your decision.”

  I keep my eyes trained forward until all three women have exited the room and shut the door behind them.

  Silas is on his feet before I can get a word out. “No,” he says, his jaw set.

  “What do you mean, no?” Calder asks. He stands and gestures toward the door. “They’ll give us the information in exchange for a few ounces of your blood. If it were me, I’d give it to them in a heartbeat.”

  “No pun intended, I’m sure,” Silas grumbles. “But the fact is, they don’t want the blood of a psychic or a witch. They want the blood of a daemon.”

  They promised they wouldn’t use the blood to control him. I would’ve thought that would be his biggest concern. But his tone indicates there’s some deeper meaning I’m missing. “What’s so special about daemon blood?”

  Silas’ eyebrows hike. “It’s a powerful spell ingredient. Used mostly in the dark arts in curses that force people to bend to the caster’s will.”

  My stomach twists. I’ve never been one for studying spellcraft, and anything I do know is decidedly within the realm of light magic. The idea that someone could use Silas’ blood to control another person chills me, but it isn’t like the Sisters are giving us a choice. “That may be the case, but how much damage can they really do with a single vial’s worth?”

  “That’s not the point,” Silas snaps. “Have you ever been at the will of another person? Forced to do whatever they want—no matter how awful?”

  The edge of guilt curling inside me is consumed by a flare of indignation. “I have, as a matter of fact. I worked undercover for Mona for months, and when she used her siren power, I had no choice but to obey. I know what it is to have my will stripped away.”

  Silas snorts. “It’s not the same.”

  “Who cares if it’s the same?” Calder says. “The fact is, this is our only lead. If we leave here empty-handed, there’s a very real possibility that we’ll never find the staff. And I don’t think I have to remind you what that means.”

  Silas turns his back, and I fight the urge to grab his shoulder and spin him around. He’s right—my experience with Mona isn’t the same as what he’s been through. Daemons can be bound to a master for as long as a year, meaning they can be controlled day in, day out for months and months on end. And while I don’t know that a spell using Silas’ blood would force a person into a similar type of servitude, I can understand why he wouldn’t want to have any part in controlling another being.

  “If we get the staff, Elowen will lift the curse,” I say. “She’ll undo a portion of the evil you were forced to commit. And after that, you’ll have the rest of your life to make up for the things other people have compelled you to do. You can choose to do good, if that’s what you want.”

  His shoulders bunch, and I take a step back, sure he’s about to wind up and punch me in the jaw. But after a beat, he blows out a breath. “Call them back in. I’ll do it.”

  Chapter Five

  Bryn

  My face presses against the warm, moist grass in the center of the meadow, and I inhale the comforting scent of dirt and wildflowers. Every muscle in my body aches, and I want nothing more than to fall asleep right here.

  “Up.”

  Poe’s voice is like a knife down my back. My muscles scream in protest when I force them into motion, but I ignore them. I have to get back on my feet. I have to keep training. Not because I think I’ll be in a situation where I can’t call on my magic or because I agree with Poe’s reasoning.

  It’s all about my own stubborn pride. I have to take him down just once to wipe that smug smirk off his face—if even for only a second.

  But when I finally force myself to my feet, the loathed smirk is in place on Poe’s lips. How is it that he’s spent all day waling on me and he still looks relaxed and refreshed? If it weren’t for the sheen of sweat glistening off every square inch of his exposed flesh, one could think he’s doing nothing more strenuous than a leisurely stroll. While I don’t have a mirror handy, I can guarantee I don’t look nearly so composed. I can feel how damp my hair is, and my face is probably beet red—both from the exertion and the hours under the midday sun.

  Poe’s eyes travel the length of my body—but not in the lecherous way that Mona’s guards used to look at me. Instead, his gaze holds the precision of a field medic scanning for obvious injuries. “You ready to give up?”

  Yes. But instead of voicing the answer I’m desperate to give, I lunge for him, trying to take him by surprise.

  The move fails miserably. Poe sidesteps me at the last second and my momentum almost makes me do another face-plant into the ground. I regain my footing, but before I can turn to mount another attack, he hits me from behind and I go sprawling onto the hot earth.

  The air escapes from my lungs and I gasp like a fish out of water for oxygen that just won’t come.

  “Oh, you’re fine,” Poe says, a hint of mirth to his tone. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

  It’s that truth that stings worst of all. I’m going all out against him, and I can’t get a hit. Poe is barely exerting himself and he’s completely dominating the fight.

  He was right when he declared I would need the most work, and I hate him for it.

  When I’m finally able to gasp in air again, I gulp down several breaths before even attempting to get back on my feet. “You know what? I don’t think you’re actually trying to train me. I think you’re trying to humiliate me.”

  Poe’s brow knits. “There’s no one here. How could I possibly be humiliating you?”

  A mirthless laugh escapes me. “How are you not humiliating me? No matter what I do, I can’t land a punch and I end up with my face in the dirt.”

  He tilts his head. “So you’d rather I just let you hit me? What are you supposed to learn from that?”

  “What am I supposed to learn from this?” I snap. “You’re
not actually teaching me anything, you’re just watching me fail.”

  His lip curves. “I’ve been teaching you plenty. You’re just so blinded by wanting to prove yourself that you’re not learning anything.”

  The assertion is so ludicrous I can’t disguise a snort. “What exactly have you been teaching me?”

  “How to watch your opponent,” he says as if it should be obvious. “How to use their attack to your advantage. No matter how hard I train you, you’ll never be the strongest one on the field.”

  I throw up my hands. “Great. I’m a lost cause. I get it. No need to rub it in.” Spinning on my heel, I start for the cabin. I don’t know if there’s any more important information about the staff hiding in the texts, but there might still be something useful to glean from the information on all those pages.

  “Stop being dramatic and listen to me.”

  Poe’s voice isn’t mocking or commanding. A note of pleading curls around the edges, and it’s that fact alone that stops me in my tracks.

  “I’m not saying you’re weak; I’m saying that you should always assume you’ll be going up against someone stronger. I do.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right.”

  But the look in his green eyes kills the laughter bubbling in my chest. “It doesn’t matter how many fights I’ve been in; I always go in assuming my opponent has the upper hand. Pride will only end with you getting your ass handed to you—or worse. You need to learn to fight smarter, not harder.”

  His sincerity catches me off guard, knocking into me at an unaccustomed angle that quickens my pulse. “That sounds great. But how do I do that?”

  “You can’t run in headlong without a plan—or with the sum of your plan being ‘hit the other guy.’ You have to watch your opponent and figure out what he’s about to do. Then, use his own move against him.”

  “Yeah. Easy, right?” I don’t bother hiding my irritation. I’m no psychic. How am I supposed to know what someone else is about to do in the milliseconds before they attack me? Maybe this advice is all well and good for shifters, but it doesn’t help me one bit.