A Curse So Dark and Lonely

by Brigid Kemmerer

  I find lots of jewelry.

  Diamonds and sapphires and emeralds sparkle in the sunlight, each piece nestled on a little satin pillow that reminds me of a high-end jewelry store. Earrings. Bracelets. Necklaces. Rings. Every style, from large and gaudy to simple and delicate. This stuff looks real … and expensive.

  I think of Mom pawning her engagement ring to keep Dad out of trouble and anger swells to fill my chest.

  Rhen has nothing to do with her illness, with Dad’s poor choices, with the “business partners,” but this room feels like a smack in the face anyway.

  I have to swallow the anger before it steals my ability to think.

  Move on, Harper.

  In the second drawer, I find three circlets, each adorned with more jewels. Tiaras. Because of course.

  I sigh and open the third. Clothes, though these are more practical than the racks and racks of dresses. Doeskin-lined riding pants, heavy cable-knit sweaters, thin, light undershirts.

  I consider my worn jeans and threadbare sweatshirt. If I want to get out of here on horseback, I’ll need better clothes.

  I pull a pair of riding pants from the drawer, then an undershirt and a light sweater in dark green. The sweater has leather laces along the sides and at the ends of the sleeves, and I pull them snug.

  The fourth drawer has long, thick woolen socks. I pull them onto my feet, lace up the borrowed boots, and re-buckle the dagger around my waist.

  The dagger. It’s another puzzle piece that just won’t fit. If they meant me harm, why would they let me hold on to a dagger?

  If they don’t mean me harm, why would they lock me in this room?

  I don’t understand. Either way, I need to get out of here.

  Except the only way to really do that is through the window. There’s a stunning view of the stables and the sunlit forest—and a clear view of the ground, two stories below. Unless I want to tie dresses together to make a rope, just so I can pretend my body could handle such a thing, I’m not going anywhere.

  I’ve been avoiding the food all morning, but the scent of warm biscuits and honey has swelled to fill the room. I haven’t eaten since last night, but fear of drugged food is stopping me. I lie on the bed, boots and all, and think.

  All I can think about is food.

  Eventually, I take a tentative bite.

  The biscuit flakes in my mouth. The honey is warm and gentle on my tongue. The cheese all but melts. It’s literally the best food I’ve ever tasted.

  Nothing happens, so I eat my fill.

  My earlier panic has faded, leaving cold determination in its wake. Once I can get out of this room, I can get away from these men.

  I fish Jake’s phone out of my pocket. I’ve checked the signal a dozen times, and it’s been consistent: nothing works.

  According to the screen, it’s almost noon. Rhen said he’d return at midday.

  My muscles are stiff and tight, so I won’t be able to run fast, but I might be able to take him by surprise. I move a chair near the door and drop myself into it.

  This solitude leaves me with nothing to do but worry. If Jake got out of the job safely, by now he’ll definitely know something is wrong.

  If he didn’t get out safely …

  “Oh, Jake,” I whisper at the screen. “I wish I could see you.”

  The phone responds by doing absolutely nothing.

  There’s one way I can see him, I guess. I click on the photo app. He’s not exactly a selfie guy—I don’t even think he has a social media account—but he takes them with Mom when she asks.

  I want you to remember me, she always says. There’s no way to refuse that.

  Sure enough, the most recent picture is of Jake and our mother. She doesn’t get out of bed much anymore, so he’s lying next to her, giving her a goofy kiss on the cheek. His dark curly hair is too long, twisting into his eyes, and she’s got a frail hand on his chin. Her eyes are shifted to look up at the camera, her own dark hair limp and thin on the pillow.

  I wish I knew. I wish I knew they were okay. I swallow hard past the lump in my throat and quickly swipe to the next one. Another picture with Mom. And another. Then a picture of me and Mom, my arms around her, snuggled against her shoulder. We’re watching television, a pinkish glow splashed across our faces. I don’t even remember Jake taking this picture.

  Swipe. Me and Jake making faces at the camera. I was trying to cheer him up after a job.

  Swipe. Jake giving the camera the finger. Classy, big brother.

  Swipe. Jake snuggling his face into the neck of another guy, his eyes closed, his lips parted just enough for me to know this is more than a friendly peck.

  My fingers freeze on the screen. The other guy is African American, with dark brown skin and close-cropped hair. His smile at the camera is lazy. Blissful. He has kind eyes. From the angle, I can tell he’s the one taking the selfie.

  I’ve never seen him before.

  Slowly, I slide the screen to the next photo.

  They’re together again, in the same clothes. Jake has a baseball cap on backward, an arm around the guy’s neck.

  He looks happy. I can’t remember the last time I saw my brother look happy.

  I tap the photo so I can see the date it was taken.

  Last week. Jake never mentioned anyone, so maybe it was a one-night thing. I can’t begrudge my brother getting a little action. He probably needs the stress relief.

  It feels weird that he wouldn’t have said anything about it, though.

  Swipe. Another photo of the two of them, another day. My brother is laughing, covering his eyes. The other guy is grinning.

  I keep swiping. More pictures. Lots of them.

  They go on for months.

  My heart is pounding now. Jake never mentioned a relationship with anyone. Not once. Not at all.

  I don’t know what this means. I don’t know if it even matters. I’m still locked in this room. Jake could be hurt. Jake could be—

  My breath hitches. I can’t think like this. I need to distract myself.

  With shaking breath, I click on my brother’s text messages. I’ve never snooped on him before, but I have nothing else to do.

  Four message conversations sit on the screen.

  Lawrence, Jake’s “boss.” I scowl.

  Mom.

  Me.

  Noah.

  Noah. I shouldn’t click.

  I click.

  The last message exchange happened an hour before the job.

  NOAH: My shift ends at 7. Are you OK?

  JAKE: Yeah. I’ll be done by then.

  NOAH: Please tell me what you’re doing.

  JAKE: I will. Soon.

  NOAH: Please be careful. Promise?

  JAKE: I promise.

  NOAH: I love you.

  JAKE: I love you, too.

  I love you. He loves someone? My brother is in love?

  I wish I’d known. I wish I knew more. I wish I knew what this meant. We’ve always told each other everything. Or at least, I have. Friends have been an impossibility since Dad got tangled up with Lawrence, and Mom spends most of her life sleeping now. It’s just been me and Jake for so long.

  Keys rattle in the lock.

  My breath catches. He’s back.

  The lock gives. The door creaks open.

  I draw my dagger and throw myself forward. I don’t have a plan more intricate than stab and run, but I don’t even get that far. A hand brushes my arm aside, a foot catches my ankle, and before I can find my balance, I’m crashing into the hard wooden floor. The dagger clatters to the ground in one direction. Jake’s phone skitters in another.

  I’m not staring up at Rhen. I’m staring up at Grey.

  I roll to seize the dagger and hold it up in front of me, but he’s not coming after me now. He hasn’t moved from the doorway. My heart is a wild rush in my ears, but he’s barely even breathing quickly.

  “Draw a weapon on me again,” he says, “and I am certain you will not be pleased wi
th the result.”

  I tighten my grip on the dagger. “I did okay with the crowbar.”

  “Ah, yes. The bar.” He gestures around the room. “Tell me: Are you pleased with that result?”

  “What do you want? Where is Rhen?”

  “He is indisposed.” His eyes flick left, past me, to Jake’s phone, lying six feet away.

  My heart stops. It’s my only connection to Jake and to Mom. Sort of.

  I make a dive for it, but Grey is closer than I am—and really, there’s no contest. He’s frowning at the screen before I’ve crossed half the distance.

  I scramble to my feet in front of him, the dagger pointed up at him. “Give that back to me. Right now.”

  My voice is full of fury and fear—more than I’m ready for. His eyes shift up to meet mine. This close, I can see that the welts I left on his neck have turned an angry red, worse than they were earlier. Good. I hope they’re infected.

  He glances at the blade between us, and his eyebrows raise by a fraction. “You would fight me for it?”

  Grey’s tone is ice-cold and backed with steel. Rhen seems to be all about chivalry and thoughtful contemplation. This man is not. This is a man of violence.

  I tighten my grip on the dagger. “Yeah. I will.”

  Without warning, his hand shoots out and he catches my wrist. I choke on my breath and throw myself back.

  His grip is strong. “I know better than to underestimate you now.”

  I’m fighting like a fish on a line, but he’s immovable. My breath echoes in my ears. I’m so stupid. I twist, bringing back a knee so I can drive it right into his crotch.

  He steps into my motion, giving me no room to do anything at all, then lifts my arm to hold me in place. Just when I’m sure he’s going to clock me in the face or cut my head off, he says, “Here now. There’s no need for all that. Take it.”

  His voice is calm, completely at odds with our relative positions. My pulse rockets in my head and it takes me a second to realize he’s holding out the phone.

  I seize it with my free hand and shove it in my pocket. I want to whimper with relief.

  I also want to whimper at the way he’s pinning my arm overhead.

  He lowers it slowly, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. “Those devices do not work here.”

  “I don’t care. Let me go.”

  He doesn’t. Instead, he begins prying my fingers off the dagger.

  “Stop.” I try to grab his wrist, to wrestle him away. “You can’t take it.”

  “I am not taking it.” He pries it free, flips it in his hand, and presses it back into my palm, the point angled down. “This way.”

  I stare up at him. “What?” I say dumbly.

  “Keep wielding a dagger like a sword and you’re likely to lose your hand.”

  “I’m—what?”

  Grey speaks as though we’re in the midst of a casual conversation, not like I’m a deadweight against his grip. “You are quick to fight. I thought some technique may be useful.”

  He’s not going to kill me. My heart begins to settle.

  He turns my wrist and puts the hilt against the center of my chest, the point level with his own. “See? Now you have some defense when an opponent grabs you. If you were lucky, you could pull me right into your blade.”

  My mouth is working, but no sound is coming out. I can’t decide whether to be impressed or angry. “Can I do that right now?”

  He smiles, and his eyes light with genuine amusement. “Perhaps next time.”

  Then he steps back and releases me. I’m breathless and caught in this space between terror and exhilaration. It’s a miracle I haven’t dropped the dagger.

  Grey nods at the window, where bright midday sunlight courses into the room. “Dinner will be served at full dark. His Highness will return for you then.”

  I force myself to nod. Swallow. Speak. “Okay. Sure.”

  Then he’s gone, and the door is locked once again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RHEN

  I wake with a belly full of fire. My body feels torn apart.

  I draw a hand across my abdomen. No bandages, no stinging tightness. Lilith didn’t break the skin. Sometimes that’s worse—when the pain is all magic. Magic takes longer to heal.

  A crackling fire throws shadows on the wall. Music carries from the Great Hall, a slower flute melody that tells me we have an hour until dinner. I’m in my bedroom, an early autumn draft from the window fluttering across my face.

  I am also alone.

  I struggle to right myself, but pain ricochets through my body. I hiss a breath between my teeth and remember Lilith’s admonition. She said this would be the final season—something that should be a relief, yet instead she’s turned it into a darker form of torture.

  I clutch an arm to my stomach and make it to sitting. “Grey.” My voice sounds as though I’ve been eating ash from the fireplace.

  He appears in the doorway. “Yes, my lord?”

  I run a hand over my face. “What happened?”

  He moves to a side table and uncorks a bottle. Red liquid glints in the light as he pours. “Lilith appeared in the arena.”

  “I remember that.” I shift forward. The pain is easing a bit with my movement. The marks on his throat have darkened and scabbed over. “Did she harm you after I fell?”

  “No.” He holds out the glass, and I take it. The first sip burns my throat, and then my stomach, but I welcome this pain because it will dull the other.

  Grey pours none for himself. He never does. At one time it was forbidden among the Royal Guard, but now there is no one here to care.

  Still, he would refuse if I offered. I’ve been down this road before.

  “Have you checked on the girl?”

  He nods. “I have.”

  After I turned the lock this morning, I expected her to pound on the door in fury. Instead, I was met with a silence that seemed loaded with furious resignation. “Would she speak with you at all?”

  “She drew a dagger and seemed willing to fight over one of those devices they all carry.”

  I sigh. Of course. “Anything else?”

  “She is interesting.”

  My eyes flick up. That’s not a word I’ve ever heard Grey use to describe one of the girls. “Interesting?”

  “She’s impulsive, but I believe she would fight to the death if cornered. If there was something she wanted.”

  That is interesting.

  Considering that she wants nothing more than to go home, it’s also disheartening.

  She’s afraid of me now. Such a turn of events. Just wait until she sees the monster.

  These thoughts are not productive. I drain the glass. Grey moves to refill it, but I wave him off. I need to move.

  He steps back to stand against the wall, his right hand gripping his left wrist. Something has changed about him, and it takes me a moment to discern what it is. He’s fully armed, from his long dagger to his throwing knives to the steel-lined bracers guarding his forearms.

  Grey hasn’t been fully armed in ages. We so rarely leave the castle grounds, and there’s certainly no one here to pose a threat. I smile as I pour. “Does this girl have you spooked, Commander?”

  “No, my lord.”

  His voice is even, unaffected. He never lets me bait him.

  Like his refusal to drink, this is part of Grey’s unfailing commitment to duty. It’s something I envy, but also something I hate. He is not a friend or a confidant. Maybe he could have been, once, if the curse had begun a different way. If I had not failed in my obligations—and if he had not failed in his.

  I drain the second glass. I could order him to drink. He would obey then.

  But what fun is a drinking partner if you have to order him to do it?

  Grey was like this in the beginning, too, before the curse trapped us in this hell together. Then, he felt he had something to prove. He would have carried lit coals between his teeth if I’d ordered it. He’s lucky I ne
ver thought of it or I might have.

  The thought makes me wince. I don’t like to think of before, because too many memories crowd my mind, until the weight of loss and sorrow makes me want to fling myself from the ramparts. But Grey weaves through so many of them.

  Grey, fetch me fresh water.

  No, I said fresh water. Bring it from the waterfall, if you must.

  Grey, my meal is cold. Fetch me another from the kitchen.

  Grey, my meal is too hot. Tell the cook I will have you bring me his hands if he cannot do better. Make him believe it.

  Grey, the Duke of Aronson says his man-at-arms could ride a full day without food or water, then win a sword fight at sunset. Could you do that? Show me.

  Grey could do that. He did do that. I watched him almost die trying.

  I pour a third glass and take a sip. “Grey, I have orders for you.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “When I begin to change, I want you to kill me, while you still can.”

  I’ve ordered him to do this before. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

  This time is different.

  I’ve watched him long enough that I know he is weighing the words. “If Lady Lilith has declared this to be our final chance, killing you would be a true death, not a new beginning.”

  “I know.”

  “I swore an oath to protect you,” he says. “You cannot order me to break it.”

  “I can,” I snap, then wince as my body protests this motion. “And I will.”

  “You would leave your people with no one to rule them.”

  I want to slam the glass down. “There is no one to rule now, Grey. If this is our last season, I will not risk destroying more of them. I refuse.”

  He says nothing.

  “You will do this,” I say.

  “I can lead the monster through the forest. I can keep it away from the people. We have been successful for many seasons.”