CurseBreaker

by Taylor Fenner

  Loki: Norse Trickster God

  Nornir: in Norse mythology the Nornir are female beings who rule the destiny of gods and men known as “The Fates” in other European Mythology.

  Heimdall: Norse God of Light.

  Drakkars: Viking longboats.

  Frankia: The territory inhabited and ruled by the Franks, a confederation of West Germanic tribes, during Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages in what is now France.

  Deadly Nightshade: also known as Belladonna is a plant that can be used for medicinal purposes, but it can also be a poison.

  Blood Eagle: A ritualized method of execution where the victim was placed prone, the ribs severed from the spine with a sharp tool and the lungs pulled through the opening to create a pair of “wings”.

  Hedeby: an important Viking Age trading settlement near the southern end of the Jutland Peninsula, now in the Schleswig-Flensburg district of Schleswig-Holstein, Germany.

  Ribe: Established in the first decade of the eighth century, Ribe is the oldest extant town in Denmark (and in Scandinavia).

  Nidavellir: One of the nine worlds in Norse Mythology, known as the home of the dwarves.

  Alfheim: One of the nine worlds in Norse Mythology, known as the home of the light elves.

  Nokken: In Scandinavian folklore, Nokken were male water spirits who played enchanted songs on the violin, luring women and children to drown in lakes or streams.

  Inselbergs: Isolated hills or mountains rising abruptly from a plain.

  Munin and Hugin: In Norse Mythology Munin and Hugin are a pair of ravens that fly all over the world, Midgard, and bring information to the god Odin.

  Aldavellir: The fictional kingdom between Nidavellir and Alfheim that Queen Viveka rules over. It is filled with dark, twisted creatures and strange landscape.

  Character Pronunciation Guide

  Hel………………………………………(Hell)

  Dyre………………………………….(Die-er)

  Freya………………………………..(Fray-a)

  Odin………………………………….(O-din)

  Arika……………………………...(Air-i-ka)

  Axel……………………………………..(Ax-l)

  Donar……………………………..(Don-ar)

  Sorena……………………………(Sor-en-a)

  Bjorn……………………………...(B-y-er-n)

  Elvi..............................................(El-vi)

  Espen………………………………..(Es-pen)

  Leif………………………………………(Leaf)

  Wray………………………………………..(Ray)

  Daalgaard……………………....(Dall-guard)

  Britta…………………….…………….(Britt-a)

  Kiersten…………………………..(Kier-sten)

  Loki………………………………….(Loak-ee)

  Gerda………………………….……..(Gerd-a)

  Gustav………………………….....(Gus-ta-v)

  Rana…………………………………(Ran-a)

  Siglynn……………………………(Sig-lynn)

  Cade…………………………………(Kay-d)

  Inga………………………………….(In-ga)

  Viveka…………………………..(Viv-e-ka)

  Magda…………………………..(Mag-da)

  Acknowledgments

  The idea to do a retelling of the Norwegian Fairy Tale, East O’ The Sun, and West O’ The Moon, had been in the back of my mind for a while before I began writing CurseBreaker, but it wasn’t until I started watching and fell in love with History Channel’s Vikings that the hows and whys started falling into place. Without that amazing show this book wouldn’t exist. I just hope that Hel is one-tenth as fierce as Lagertha!

  As far as Hel’s survival skills go, I owe it all to my love for Discovery Channel’s Naked and Afraid. Things like knowing how to weave long grasses into a blanket came in handy when writing about Hel’s journey through Aldavellir.

  Thank you to my grandmother, Bonnie Fenner, for reading East O’ The Sun, and West O’ The Moon to me as a child.

  Thank you to my beta readers for your honest input and belief in this story.

  Thank you to the people I’ve interacted with on Instagram through Bookstagram this past year, I’ve loved talking about books with you!

  Thank you to all of my fellow authors and bloggers that listened to me rambling on about this story throughout 2016’s NaNoWriMo and beyond, your support and encouragement has been invaluable.

  About the Author

  Taylor Fenner grew up in a small town in Wisconsin. She's been an avid reader with a vivid imagination since she was very young. Most of her childhood can be described as having her nose stuck in one book or another. She's a strong believer in ghosts and the paranormal, which led to her interest in writing paranormal romance. Since then she has branched out into Urban Fantasy and now High Fantasy and Fairy Tale Retelling

  An admitted workaholic, when not working on a novel Taylor spends most of her time blogging about books, taking photos for her bookstagram account, binge watching the latest season of Vikings, and listening to music that's sure to ruin her hearing eventually.

  Taylor still currently lives in Wisconsin, not far from where her debut novel The Haunting Love is set. Taylor is the author of The Haunting Love, Finding Elizabeth, Out of Darkness (Eternals Trilogy #1), Into the Light (Eternals Trilogy #2), Through the Fog (Eternals Trilogy #3), Eternal Fire: An Eternals Trilogy Novelette, Night of Terror and Other Assorted Stories, and her upcoming New Adult debut, Headless, a contemporary reimagining of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

  You can connect with Taylor online on her website: www.taylorfenner.com, on Facebook: www.facebook.com/taylorfennerwrites, on Twitter: www.twitter.com/taylorfenner, or on her blog: taylorfenner.blogspot.com.

  Take a First Look at Taylor Fenner’s next novel:

  Headless, coming October 2018!

  CATALYST

  CHANCE

  Son,

  You'll soon learn that nothing in this town is as it seems. Men have been dying in this town under mysterious circumstances since I was a boy. And I saw "her" again - Cora Whitt, the girl that got away. She looked the same as I last saw her, young, vibrant and beautiful. Chance, I don't know what she is but it isn't possible to look twenty years old when I haven't seen her in nearly thirty years. She may be dangerous, she may be the one behind these killings – I don't know. But I doubt I'll live to see the truth. Come home Chance, find out the truth. Stop the killings. You’re the only one that can.

  Love,

  Pop

  Chance folded the letter, worn from a hundred readings, and tucked it back into the map on the passenger seat. Beside it lay a half-eaten, half discarded tuna sandwich he'd picked up at a gas station where he'd stopped to fill his tank. The bread was stale and all signs pointed to his vintage Mustang needing an oil change. He didn't drive much. Living in New York City meant he didn't need to. Most people took the train or the bus from the city into Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow but something made Chance think this wouldn't be a quick weekend visit to check on his pop. No, this stay would be infinitely longer.

  1

  CORA

  My story started with a blade and someday it will end with a blade. It was the sharp blade of a scythe, wielded by someone other than the grim reaper, and not a pumpkin carried by a headless horseman that truly scared poor Ichabod Crane enough to drive him from our sleepy village. But nobody tells that story.

  Contrary to what you might think, Ichabod was far from the scrawny bookish type you might think him to be. He could best Brom Bones any day in the looks department. But let's face it, nobody in the eighteenth century looked like what Hollywood depicts. People weren't that sexy then. Men didn’t have steroid created muscles or have perfect tans from working the fields and you’d rarely see a woman of
any virtue wearing the cleavage enhancing bodices you see in movies. This was New York State in the pre-nineteenth century, people were plain.

  I'll be the first to admit, it was immortality that made me beautiful. But even so, Ichabod and Brom were both fairly attractive for the time. In any case, Ichabod was shy - not in the peculiar Johnny Depp kind of way - but in the modest never-knows-when-to-make-a-move way and Brom was the type that always got what he wanted. Always. From women to lie with to positions in the community, I'm not sure Brom ever heard the word no.

  I've spent the last two hundred years trying to eradicate all traces of Brom from my memory and my life, starting with his descendants. After managing to wipe him and his male heirs from the world I was less than satisfied and as time wore on I used my gift on others.

  If my dearest friend Irvie were still alive he'd find my drive for revenge almost amusing; just like he would find Tim Burton's interpretation of his most beloved story amusing. He was always calm, always able to find the joke in things. That's why I loved him as fiercely as if he were my own brother. I've missed him and felt his loss like one would feel a phantom limb every day since they laid him in the ground. And I've not let another soul get that close to me in all the years since.

  As dawn approaches, I sit astride my faithful buckskin horse Blood and watch my latest victim trip and stumble his way home after a long night of partying.

  A low disgusted growl escapes my lips as his pitiful wife or girlfriend races out to help him inside, peppering him with questions about where he’s been all night as she leads him indoors. This wasn’t the first time he came home late, definitely not the first time she stayed up all night waiting and checking the time on her phone every other minute. Nor would it be the last I’m sure. She knows it too, she just won’t admit it.

  The first pale rays of sunlight appear over the horizon and I realize I’m out of time. My task will have to wait another night. I sigh and pat Blood’s silk mane as we turn back toward Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. I know we won’t get there in time, not before the sun turns me back to dust, returning me momentarily to the darkness I hate.

  A few minutes later I wake up inside the dark, dank crypt of my dearly departed best friend Irvie. To the rest of the world he’s the famous author Washington Irving, best known for writing The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, but to me, he will always be plain old Irvie; the only person who knew the truth about me and loved me anyway.

  I know what you’re thinking; you think I’m the Headless Horseman. Ha! What if I was to tell you there was no headless horseman? No, there is no headless Hessian out for revenge on his fellow man, just me, the headless horsewoman with a completely different reason to want revenge. Oh, the legend is real alright – but I'm no Katrina Van Tassel. Let's just say I had a vested interest in the man she chose; the man that spurned me – the man that ended me.

  I stand up, shaking away the past like the cobwebs covering my mortal body. I have just enough time to shed last night’s skimpy clothing and slip into a floral skirt and a loose-fitting magenta blouse. Since I have to get to my photography studio to meet with an enthusiastic bride that wants me to photograph her wedding, I don’t have enough time to run up to my apartment above the studio and scavenge up something more professional.

  Personally, I hate weddings. Then again, maybe that’s because of my past.

  CHANCE

  An ominous chill crawls over me like invisible spiders even before I turn onto Pop’s tree-lined street. Pop’s neighborhood sits on the edge of town, with enough distance between homes to give privacy without being completely desolate but today the area gives off an eerie vibe. Even in broad daylight, my mind conjures visions of the famed headless horseman lurking in the shadows waiting for an unsuspecting victim.

  Pop’s car is missing from the driveway when I pull in, but that doesn’t strike me as odd. He often hid the car in the garage when I was a child, to fool potential visitors into thinking we were away. I doubt that’s changed in the past ten years I’ve been gone.

  I lay my head against the cracked headrest as I survey the house. Pop still hasn’t finished the screened in porch he started building when I was ten. He used to say he was waiting for summer to come, and then a sunny day project, then it became his retirement project. As if he’d ever close up the shop. The pathway to the house, gravel worn down into a haphazard walk from dozens of repetitive tracts to and from the house, had begun to sprout calf-high weeds and I wonder why Pop hasn’t yanked them out.

  Finally, I bite the bullet and shove the car door open. I swing my duffel bag over my shoulder and force myself to put one foot in front of the other until I’m standing in front of the crooked screen door I knocked off the hinge in my hurry to escape the house, my Pop, and this town. Pop never fixed it.

  I tug the screen door open and twist the storm door’s doorknob. For a brief second I’m met with resistance, then the door pops open with a creak. Air rushes out like an exhale after a long period of holding ones’ breath. I push the door open further and am met with a cold frigid enough to fog up my breath.

  “Pop, I think the heater’s busted,” I call out and I breathe into my cupped hands and rub my palms together. Even with a busted heater, the house shouldn’t be this cold yet. It’s only October.

  My comment is met with strangled silence.

  “Pop?” I call again, straining to hear signs of him puttering around inside the small house. “The door was open, are you alright?”

  I didn’t think anything of the unlocked door. After all, this is Sleepy Hollow, New York. Nobody locks their doors because nothing ever happens here. I step down the hallway, past boxes upon boxes of books for Pop’s shop and old photos hanging crookedly on the wall. Next to the doorway to the kitchen Pop’s fishing rod lays forgotten and collecting dust.

  I push forward, passing the kitchen and heading for the living room. Maybe Pop nodded off in his old recliner. Perhaps he didn’t hear me.

  As I step onto the threshold of the living room I’m once again met with a rush of cold air and the room around me drops ten degrees. My eyes dart around the darkened room, the trees outside the picture window blocking out the sunlight from the east. That’s when I spot Pop, lying face down on the living room floor.

  “Shit,” I exclaim as I drop to my knees at Pop’s side, “Pop, wake up! Come on, don’t do this to me. I’m here Pop, I’m here.”

  I fumble around trying to find his pulse as all recall of the training I had to do for the lifeguard job at the local pool I took the summer I was sixteen flees my mind. I’d only half paid attention in the first place because I only took the job because Stacey Jensen, the hottest girl in my grade, said she liked to hang out there and maybe she’d see me there. Now I wish I would have paid attention instead of fantasizing about a girl that never did show up at that stupid pool.

  When I find his pulse point and don’t feel a pulse I curse under my breath and yank my phone from my pocket. My hands shake as I dial 911.

  “911, please state your emergency,” the aging dispatcher’s voice crackles as the call is picked up.

  “I need an ambulance. My father isn’t breathing. I came in from out of town and found him face down on the living room floor.” The fingers of my left hand tap out a frantic rhythm against my thigh as I speak to the dispatcher.

  “Calm down, I’m tracking your call and sending help your way,” the dispatcher’s voice is soothing like a comforting grandmother’s voice might be. “What is your name?”

  “Chance Jordan,” I answer quickly. “My father is Chancellor Jordan Junior.”

  “Alright Chance, hang on,” the dispatcher murmurs and she types something into the system. “Can you check to see if your father pulse is strong or weak, honey?”

  “I checked but I couldn’t find a pulse,” I explain as worry colors my tone.

  “Alright,” the dispatcher types something more. “I have EMS and police on the way. The ETA is two minutes out. Stay on the line until they get ther
e.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, even though I can tell from the change in the dispatcher’s tone that things don’t look good. I’ve seen enough medical dramas on television to know that if there’s no pulse, you’re most likely dead or soon to be dead.

  “They’re coming Pop, just hang on,” I plead.

  I hear the shrill sound of sirens fill the air in the distance growing closer. “They’re coming,” I tell the dispatcher.

  “That’s good, honey,” the dispatcher sounds sympathetic. “I’ll let you go let them in.”

  “Thank you,” I say, though for what I’m thanking her for I’m not sure. Maybe for just listening, I don’t know.

  On autopilot, I get to the front door as the police chief and the paramedics clamor up the front steps.

  He’s in here,” I motion for them to follow me as I quickly weave between boxes to get to the living room.

  “The EMTs will take it from here, son. I need you to step out of the room.” Chief Devries places his hand on my shoulder to get my attention as EMTs hurry to get to work. He’s been the police chief since I was fifteen but it sounds like he still hasn’t lost the thick accent acquired somewhere far in the south where afternoon garden parties are held beneath fragrant magnolia trees and dripping Spanish Moss and Weeping Willows blow gently in the breeze.

  I begin backing away to follow his direction when a young female EMT who’d been beginning to check Pop’s vitals raises her head, making eye contact with Chief Devries, and shakes her head gently.

  I don’t need to be a genius to figure that gesture out. “No,” I exclaim as I try to push past Devries to return to Pop’s side. Devries’s hands shoot out, gripping my shoulders and holding me in place as I shake my head angrily. “No, that’s not right. He can’t be dead.”

  “I’m sorry, son.” Devries’s mouth hardens into a grim line as I watch the paramedics move Pop to a stretcher and begin placing a white sheet that’s materialized from out of nowhere over Pop’s face and body. Devries rubs the back of his neck nervously. “It’s been a long time since you left town, Junior. Was your old man expecting you?”