Withering Rose (Once Upon a Curse Book 2)

by Kaitlyn Davis

  "Take him with you, darling," Mother told me gently.

  I grabbed the little brown bear, clutching him to my chest the way I used to when he was my toy. The soft touch of his fur was comforting, and he smelled like home. Then I hugged them both goodbye and climbed into the carriage next to my father. He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me to his side, offering the silent strength he knew I needed.

  I tried to be brave as the carriage rolled away.

  I didn't once look over my shoulder for one last peek of my mother, my sister, and my home.

  But I wish I had.

  As I hug Mr. Winky to my chest now, he still smells like the fresh garden scent of home. A place I will never see again. A place I hardly remember. But I breathe in the essence of the people I love, trying to form their images in my mind. My mother's wild auburn hair is easy to remember because I see it in the mirror every day. Her rosy skin, always a hint away from a blush, was the same as my own. But her face is harder to see. I remember her eyes, their mix of gold and green that reminded me of a sunny spring day. The rest is blurred. Did she have my nose? My chin? And what about my sister? What would she look like now? She was so little when we left. Her chestnut hair had barely started growing. Her eyes were green too, I think. Her skin was darker, like my father's. But what I remember most is the sound of her laugh, so intoxicating that whenever I heard it, I would laugh too, and together we would fall into a fit of giggles for no reason at all.

  Be brave.

  Those were their parting words to me.

  And how have I honored that request? By hiding, by pretending my life away, by cowering in the corner. Even now, I'm locked away in my room, running from my fears instead of facing them.

  No more.

  I can't do it anymore.

  It's time to be brave.

  I'm not sure how long I sit alone in my room, hugging that old bear to my chest. But when the doorknob turns and my father's head pokes through, I finally have the courage to say the words I've wanted to say for so long.

  "Papa, I'm leaving." A weight lifts from my chest as soon as they are spoken. And before my doubts can take over, I push through the fear and continue. "I want more than a life of hiding. I want more than a life of fear. I can't stay here anymore. I yearn for freedom, for adventure. I yearn to be myself, to find a place where I belong. So I'm leaving. With or without you, I'm leaving, and you can't stop me."

  He doesn't say anything. Instead, my father steps fully into the room and shuts the door behind him, watching me quietly. He traverses the small space quickly, sitting across from me on my reading chair, clasping his hands together on his lap. He looks older than I've ever seen him. The wrinkles across his brow suddenly seem deeper. His hair suddenly seems grayer. And something in his expression is so unbearably forlorn that I need to look at the ground.

  "I forbid it," he says with the deep voice of the king I remember.

  My heart drops. But I lick my lips and find the strength to look up and meet his gaze. "What's keeping you here, Papa? What's keeping us here?" A brief glimmer of light passes over his eyes, and I recognize it. Hope. The heavy pressure in my chest grows. "They're gone, Papa. They're dead."

  The light in his eyes fades.

  His frown deepens.

  A familiar despair gnaws at my thoughts, but I push it away. We've never spoken of this, but it's always been there. And it's time.

  "Mother and sissy are gone," I whisper. My throat is still raw from my earlier screaming, so the words come out scratchy and broken. "Our kingdom is gone. How many times do we need to search the maps before you will believe it? Our castle, our city, our lands, they disappeared in the earthquake, and there is no way to retrieve them. You are king of a lost kingdom, and I'm the princess of a people who are never coming back. I can't live in the past any longer."

  "We don't know," he whispers, strength gone.

  I cringe. "We do, Papa. We've known for a while. How many more times will you use their machines to search in vain for our kingdom? How many more times will you try to find a home that isn't there? Mother died ten years ago, you and I both know that is a fact. I could never have the magic otherwise. And there's another fact we both know. Sissy was barely two, and Mother never let her out of her sight. They are gone, Papa. We must accept it. We must move on and figure out how to live in this new world we've been thrown into."

  He looks to the floor, dropping his forehead into his hands, running his fingers through his ebony hair. For the first time in a long time, I realize I'm not the only one hiding, not the only one running. "You are all I have left, Omorose."

  "I know, Papa," I murmur gently. "We're all each other has. And if you love me, you must realize it is killing me to be here. You must—"

  "Being here is the only thing keeping you alive," he interrupts, snapping his head up to find my eyes.

  My own go wide.

  I flinch as though struck.

  There is a confession in those words, one I've never understood until now.

  "You," I gasp, then swallow, trying to bite back the hurt. I shake my head as the realization fully hits. "Staying here was never about Mother or sissy or our people. Staying here, you knew what it was doing to me. You knew how hard it was for me. But you didn't care. As long as I couldn't use my magic, you didn't care."

  "Your magic will kill you," he says, not denying anything. "I watched it kill your mother. Day by day a little bit of her life seeped away, a little bit of her soul, her happiness, her beautiful essence that I loved so dearly. You were too young to understand, but it's not only time the magic takes away. It strips away pieces of you, slowly enough that you won't even realize they're gone until it is too late."

  "Papa," I whisper.

  I know all of this. I've felt it.

  "Twenty-five years." He sighs deeply. "Twenty-five years is the longest amount of time any woman in your lineage has lasted after inheriting the magic. Twenty-five years is not enough, Omorose. I've outlived one wife and one daughter, and I cannot do it again."

  I deflate. My shoulders hunch, and the bear I had still been clutching to my chest falls away as my arms go limp.

  Twenty-five years?

  And I've spent ten of them in hiding.

  I shake my head and take a deep breath. "This changes nothing," I answer softly. "If anything, it makes my conviction even stronger. I have to go, Papa. If I only have fifteen years left, I want them to be spent living. And what I do here? It's not living, Papa. I'm barely getting by, barely surviving. Don't you want more for me than that?"

  The corners of his eyes glisten. But his jaw is hard-set and stubborn.

  I continue before he can say anything. "Don't you want me to be happy?"

  My voice falls away. The words hang between us, filling the small space of my room with a charged silence. I refuse to say anything until I have his answer. He refuses to answer me. Instead, we stare at one another, two sets of stubborn umber eyes, the only features I inherited from him.

  "Where would you go?" he asks somberly. "Did you really think I haven't thought all of the options through? There is nowhere in the world you could go where they wouldn't find you. Always their machines are pulsing, tracking every movement the magic makes around the world. Always they are watching for it. It is safer to be here under their noses than out there on the run with no food, no warmth, no protection. You are still a child, my darling Omorose, just a child. You don't understand what you are asking for."

  My heart warms when I hear the endearment from his lips, the same one my mother used to use. My darling Omorose. Their darling. And I love his love for me, his concern for me. But I'm not a child, and I haven’t been one in a very long time.

  I've spent so long dreaming of escaping this place that an answer rolls smoothly off my tongue, one I've practiced a million times in my thoughts. "I'm going to find Queen Deirdre and Prince Asher. He's still my fiancé. He'll keep me safe. And no one will be able to tell I'm there. On their machines, the magic all lo
oks the same. Once I'm in Queen Deirdre's realm, they won’t be able to tell my magic from hers. They'll think it's the same. I have thought this through, Papa."

  His brows furrow tightly and then lift as an almost apologetic expression passes over his face. He stands, crossing the small room quickly. The mattress dips below his weight as he hugs me to his side, sighing deeply.

  "What?" I ask softly.

  He kisses my temple. I look up at him, confused.

  "Did you hear the announcement?" he finally says, voice so gentle I hardly recognize it.

  "Yes," I say, breathing the word more than saying it as the wheels in my head start to spin. New York City. New York City. The name turns over as I shuffle through my thoughts, trying to place it.

  "Kardenia," I whisper. "New York City is Kardenia."

  My father nods.

  Suddenly everything becomes clear.

  "Queen Deirdre is the magic user they killed?"

  My father nods again.

  "And the magic is gone?"

  "Yes," he confirms, gauging my reaction.

  But I'm numb. For so many years, I'd been practicing my speech. My plan had been foolproof. How could my father deny me the right to find my fiancé? How could he refuse to let me go to a city where he knew I'd be safe? How could he prevent me from fulfilling a contract he himself signed a decade before?

  "Asher is dead," I murmur.

  And all my plans have died with him.

  "I'm sorry, Omorose." My father hugs me tighter, but I can't feel it. My limbs have grown cold. "If the magic is truly gone, then we both know what must have happened. The last heir has to die for the magic to be released back into the world. Queen Deirdre was killed, her magic passed to her only heir, her son, and then he was killed as well. There is no other way to get rid of the magic, or your mother would have told me long ago. She would have done it to save you from her fate."

  I can't think about my mother. It's too hard.

  So I think about a different queen. "But Deirdre was undefeatable," I protest, shaking my head and pushing my father away. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. "Her magic was so strong. She could steal people's emotions. She could control their thoughts and their movements, could put suggestions in their mind. Loyalty was her power. How could anyone defeat that?"

  "I don't know," my father says, shaking his head. There is still a hint of pity in his eyes, but mostly there is love. "The general said there will be more information coming in over the next few days. Some of the survivors are going to share their stories and reveal what they know about defeating the magic."

  I pace across my flowery carpet, grasping in vain for another option, another plan, another chance at freedom. But my father is right—where could I go where they wouldn't find me?

  And then I stop as though struck.

  My feet are rooted to the ground.

  My head turns toward the gray concrete wall of my room, but my eyes see beyond it. My gaze cuts through the underground, through the dirt and the iron and the rock, and remembers a view I haven't seen in years—the sweeping veranda my old room on the surface used to look upon.

  The mountains.

  Snow-capped peaks far off in the distance.

  The sanctuary that has always been waiting within reach but I never considered until now.

  "I can go to the beast," I mutter, speaking to myself.

  But my father hears. "Absolutely not."

  He stands, grabbing my arm, turning me away from the wall as though he too can see the vision filling my sight. But I spin in his hold, eyes wide with possibility.

  "It's perfect, don't you see, Papa? We can tell them he kidnapped me. It worked years ago when I lost control, they believed when you said he wanted to take me for revenge. They never doubted you." My words are flowing at a mile a minute as the excitement mounts. My pulse races as the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place. The more I speak, the clearer everything becomes. "I'll run away. I won't use any of my magic until I reach the border where the beast's magic begins to affect the machines. They'll think it was him."

  "Omorose," my father tries to interrupt.

  But I can't stop. I won't. "There's a bunch of kids going to the surface for a party tonight. I'll go with them. I'll get separated from the group. Tomorrow morning, you tell them I never came home. I can leave some clues behind me, shred up some of my clothes. I can even cut myself if I need to. I can—"

  "Omorose!" he shouts.

  I only stop because I notice a tear falling slowly down his cheek.

  "Omorose," he repeats, voice breaking. I can see the fear written across his face. Fear for me.

  "He has magic, too, Papa. He won't hurt me," I say.

  "You don't know that. You can't. The stories—"

  "Are just stories," I finish for him. Then I reach up and wipe the drop from his deeply tan skin, meeting his watery gaze. "Those stories are from a different time, Papa. The world has changed. People with magic can't afford to be each other's enemies, not anymore. He'll help me, I know he will."

  "Help you what?" he asks, tone full of the same dread that's written across his face.

  I know what answer he wants to hear. It's the only answer that might make him agree to this plan. The only answer he'll accept. But it's also a lie. And it rolls smooth as butter through my lips. "Help me get rid of it."

  Relief flickers in his cocoa irises.

  I fight the guilt coiling in my gut. "If this is what magic has become, my death trap, my personal prison, I don't want it anymore. It will kill me slowly if I use it. My death will just be quicker if it's discovered. The only freedom I see for myself is the freedom I could have if the magic were gone. And the beast might know something. His magic might be able to help. I have to try. I have to do something."

  The words are more heartfelt than I thought they'd be.

  I'm no longer sure who I'm lying to.

  My father.

  Or myself.

  "Okay," he whispers.

  For a moment, I think I've imagined it.

  But then he sighs, and his shoulders fall as though a weight he has been carrying around his entire life has been lifted. And maybe it has.

  "Okay," he says louder, with more authority.

  I jump into his open arms, and he catches me, just the way he used to when I was a little girl. Laughter rolls up my throat from a place I thought had died with the earthquake. I feel light, bubbly, like a child again. More than anything, I feel brave.

  "Thank you, Papa," I whisper into his chest.

  His grip tightens.

  "I'll come back as soon as I can," I promise. "And then we'll both be free to find a new home together. A place where we don't have to pretend. A place where we don't have to live in fear any longer."

  It's after midnight by the time I've found enough nerve to leave my room and make my way to the surface. There's a quiver of excitement beneath the anxiety, a little part of me that is thrilled to finally go on an adventure. But the bigger part of me is shaking at the thought of leaving everything behind, of seeking out a man so terrifying we call him the beast. And there's another little piece of me, the wallflower piece I can't quite shake, who is just scared of the simple fact that I'm going to my first real party. And that when I'm there, I need to create a scene so embarrassing that no one will blink twice when I run away. But before any of that can happen, I need to make it to the surface, and I need to control my magic.

  The last time I breathed in fresh air was five months and seventeen days ago. I always keep count. I always try to see how long I can push it before needing to use the magic just a little bit. The more I can keep it inside, the better off I am, because I never really know when a storm is going to pass through that is ferocious enough to affect the electricity, covering my tracks. But the older I've grown, the worse my control has become. Each time I use the magic, my addiction to it strengthens. Right after the earthquake, I was able to repress it for three years before that night in my sleep when it leaked
out. And then three years turned to two, which turned to one. The last time I went to the surface, I had been holding the magic in for eight long months, and I was desperate for release. I was barely able to contain the power beneath my skin. Each breath was a struggle for those last few days. We'd been in the middle of a drought, and I was terrified a storm would never come.

  My fingers still twitch at the memory. And as I turn down another long hallway, they keep shaking, more and more with each step I take toward the exit.

  The only thing I'm thankful for right now is that there is no need to worry about getting caught sneaking outside. I've heard of some freedom fighter bases where everyone lives underground, where the magic they are fighting is so dangerous that they need to implement very strict rules just to ensure everyone's safety. But here, there is no need. Though we call him the beast, the most frightening thing about him is that we really don't know what his magic does. We live very close to the edge of where his magic stretches, but he's never tried to use it against us, not unless we go on the offensive first. So we live a relatively safe life. Safe enough that many of the people who live here still choose to live above ground. And tonight, everyone is celebrating. Some are drunk on preciously saved alcohol. Some are just drunk on joy. Everyone is wandering the halls, going up into the night and coming back down to the underground base. Disguised by so much activity, I don't look the least bit suspicious as I make my way slowly across the base.

  Not yet, anyway.

  But I will.

  Which is why I wait until the ramp to the surface is empty before slowly making my way up the steep incline. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering unnaturally. The concrete walls press in against me. My boots thud against the thick floor.

  I hate it down here.

  So I keep my eyes glued to the solid metal door at the end of the tunnel, watching it grow bigger with each step as I try to ready myself for the onslaught. Breathe in. Breathe out. Step one foot. Step the other. I bring my body into a rhythm, clearing my mind, doing whatever I can to prepare.