Curse Reversed
Wards and Wands
Rebecca Royce
Contents
Untitled
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Other books by Rebecca Royce…
Untitled
CURSE REVERSED
(Wards and Wands #2)
Rebecca Royce
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Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Curse Reversed (Wards And Wands #2)
Copyright @ 2018 by Rebecca Royce
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-947672-30-7
Cover art by Crimson Phoenix Designs
Content Editing: Heather Long
Copy/Proofread Editing: Bookends Editing
Formatted: Ripley Proserpina
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All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Published by Rebecca Royce
www.rebeccaroyce.com
Created with Vellum
Foreword
Dearest Reader,
Thank you so much for picking up Curse Reversed (Wards and Wands #2). I hope you are reading this because you enjoyed Hexed and Vexed (Wards and Wands #1), but if you haven’t you don’t need to stop reading, this book can be read all on its own.
Truthfully? I intended to make Hexed and Vexed a one-off book, but my critique partner Ripley followed immediately by my content editor Heather Long and then copy/proofread editors Jennifer and Becky at Bookends Editing all told me I had to keep writing in this world. And I trust them all implicitly, so I set off to continue. Truth is, they were right. Mitchell did not get a great ending in Hexed and Vexed, and he was totally hero material.
Soon after that, he started speaking to me. And then I met Eleanor.
I am back in this world, and I love it. I hope you do too. Let’s stay in touch, www.rebeccaroyce.com
Love,
RR
Chapter 1
My mother was a witch, and my father wasn’t.
For a long time, Eleanor St. Vincent wasn’t allowed to say that aloud. Doing so would earn her a slap on the hand by her mother, and on the few times she saw her father, he hadn’t behaved much better. He’d preferred to deliver a hard whack on the back of her head, but the result was the same. They made their point.
People like her—half witches—were not welcome in any part of the world, so it was better if she just never mentioned it to anyone, ever.
There were a lot of things to admire about the world, but the lack of love between witches and humans wasn’t one of them. Particularly not for the few people who had the pedigree of both. Eleanor sipped her ginger ale and stared through the window of her prison—whoops, no, wrong word—room they had locked her in three weeks earlier for acts real or imagined. Who knew what this time?
Eleanor wished she could say this was her first time in a mental institution but that would be lying. She was trying really hard to minimize how often she indulged in that particular sin. The problem was she’d been trained to be economical with the truth, particularly about who she was, since birth. Then there was the big lie. The deep, dark one she could never let slip.
Don’t tell anyone, Eleanor. Don’t ever, ever tell.
“Ms. St. Vincent, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to answer my question.”
She turned her attention back to the doctor. He meant well, but the problem was he helped people magically—mostly by taking their magic away—and that wouldn’t work with her at all. Eleanor’s magic was pretty much nonexistent these days. Even when she’d been at full strength, she’d hardly created enough power juju to even make magic alarms go off. She was human—only she wasn’t.
And no one knew what the heck to do about her.
Don’t ever tell, Eleanor. Don’t ever tell them or we’re all dead.
Don’t worry, Mom.
She supposed she could give the doctor a small bone and let him in on a little secret. She heard voices and talked to her deceased mother. The aforementioned worried a lot about dying, which was funny since she’d long been dead.
“I feel fine,” Eleanor answered at last. If she hadn’t, he might have shocked her magically to get her attention. They really didn’t like it when she drifted off. It frightened them. Or at least that’s what they said.
He nodded. “I see. I think… I mean, I’m afraid you might be lying to me again.”
That was a big problem for Dr. Ruttan. He couldn’t tell if Eleanor told the truth or not, and he could always tell if someone lied, or so he told her. It was one of his powers to know if someone tried to mislead him. She was afraid she might be making him slightly nuts. Oh, that was not an okay word. People didn’t say, or think, nuts, unless referring to “a fruit composed of an inedible hard shell and a seed.” Then it was okay.
She’d had to learn to police her thoughts so she could correct and control her speech habits when she spoke aloud. What doctor had told her that gem of advice? She couldn’t even remember anymore.
Eleanor!
Yes, Mom.
Eleanor wasn’t going to tell. Not ever. Not even if she had to spend the rest of her existence locked away in places like this one, or lesser facilities when the family got sick of paying her rising medical costs.
“I am lying to you. I’m always going to lie to you.” She set her glass of ginger ale down with a clink. Dr. Ruttan, with his square shoulders, round belly, white hair, and a large mole that had one hair always sticking out of it, really did mean well. She might as well level with him right now. But he, like so many others before him, would really do better if they just accepted the fact that they weren’t going to be able to cure her. Better to leave her alone to mind her own business and think her own thoughts. And communicate with her dead mother…
It would be better for the world—no matter if all outside these walls had always despised her for being born a half-breed—if everyone just left her alone. Their opinions aside, she was determined to protect the world who hated her from danger
Dr. Ruttan gazed at her with a mix of pity, sadness, and frustration. Eleanor recognized the tragic combination. Since she publicly shamed her family at her mother’s funeral by speaking in a made up language and twirling in circles, she’d seen the same appalled displeasure in everyone. They deposited her at her first mental institution between burial and the gathering after.
“Well, that is progress. It is.” Though he shook his head, his expression suggested he weighed her comment against all the others she’d made in the past. Unlike the one she constantly engaged in with her mother, she wasn’t privy to h
is internal conversations. Maybe he wondered how he got saddled with the sick half-breed St. Vincent girl. She’d heard that one enough. “Since you made progress and confessed you’re always lying, I’m going to let you out of your room on privilege. You can come to the main hall, eat dinner with everyone else today, and socialize.”
Eleanor almost said something snippy that she was sure would get her so-called privilege revoked for the evening. Hanging out with the other people who were just as stuck didn’t sound like so much fun. Having spent the better part of a decade in similar facilities, she already knew what to expect. There would be someone in the corner shaking. Other people would be silently watching television programs she couldn’t follow or didn’t want to view. Finally, there would be some kind of checkers game being played from two corners of the room, each magical practitioner showing off their powers to the other one while they moved the pieces around without touching them.
No one would be anywhere near her age of twenty-four, and she’d spend most of the time wishing she was back in her room staring out the window. Still, she hadn’t gotten any kind of a view of this place when she’d arrived because the goons her grandfather employed to deliver her had dosed her with an overload of drowsy magic and she’d been all but comatose for her first two days in residence. At least she’d find out if they had a frozen yogurt machine magically spelled to know what she wanted. One of her first places had one of those.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“I can help you. I know others have let you down. I know you have special circumstances that make you slightly different than some of our other patients…”
Eleanor knew exactly what he meant by that—the circumstances of her birth.
He was still speaking. “But I’m good at this. I’m surprised your family hasn’t sent you to Prestige Institute before now.”
The location of these facilities hadn’t meant much to her since inside was inside and they rarely let her wander around, but she thought she’d been mostly on the west coast and that Prestige was sort of centrally located. Her family must have run out of places closer to home.
Not that anyone visited her.
Ruttan really did like to talk. “I have a history of being able to help people with unusual problems. We won’t lose you to wherever you go when you have an episode, and I can promise you that you’ll walk out of here healthy. The few who stay here forever are old and have health problems you don’t have. You’re going to be okay. I’m telling you this because from the first day you arrived, I believed you would be okay. It’s time for you to believe as well, you can trust me.”
Though she appreciated the generous words and even more generous sentiment, Eleanor believed Dr. Ruttan didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. She smiled at him. Kindness went a long way. Not far enough, but a long way, indeed.
Prestige turned out to be pretty for a mental health institution. Someone had spent some time decorating it. There were pictures on the wall and fountains with water dripping or spraying in various places. Everyone wore the same outfit—a pair of khaki pants with a loose drawstring around the waist and a black, loose t-shirt on top. In her slippers, Eleanor strolled the hallways, stopping to examine each picture she encountered. Why had they put the picture of the dog next to the picture of the woman in a yellow sundress? Did someone think this was calming?
“Yes, thank you.” The deep sound of a man’s voice had her turning around to see who spoke. The room behind her was crowded, everyone waiting for their food. It took her a second to identify the person matching the timbre she’d heard. She’d only managed when he once again addressed the server to thank her for giving him more water.
Life was really not fair. When the universe dished out the incredible, bass of a voice that could probably sway people to listen to every word, they’d also attached it to possibly the best looking man Eleanor had ever seen in real life.
The owner of the voice seemed relaxed as he stayed seated in his chair. Eleanor couldn’t tell how tall the owner of the sexy voice was, but she could certainly make out the fine outline of his chest and arm muscles from across the room. He filled out his black shirt much better than the rest of the residents. His face was long and perfectly angular. His nose was neither too long nor too short, fitting perfectly in between his brown eyes with gray in them. Dark, thick eyebrows sloped downward while he examined the menu placed in front of him. He hadn’t shaved that day, unless his facial hair grew that fast. Brown whiskers completed the intensely handsome presentation this stranger presented even though he was stuck in the same institutional outfit as the rest of them. His brown hair matched his whiskers and eyebrows except for the small streaks of blond. It curled just a little on the top of his otherwise short locks.
She bet if he let it grow, he’d have very curly, bushy hair. Probably why he didn’t. Men like him were a rarity in places like this. Stereotype or not, it was the truth in her experience. Most witches managed their emotional and mental health issues outside of institutions with the help of healers. To end up in here, something awful must have happened to him.
Eleanor strode across the room, plopping down directly in front of him. One of the benefits of being deemed not mentally sound was she didn’t concern herself with manners. She could wait to be introduced or she could do it herself.
Life was short, and who knew if she’d see him again? He might be leaving tomorrow.
“Hello.” She smiled at him.
He blinked rapidly before he cleared his throat. “Ah, hello.”
“So, I have to know, because as I was standing over there I couldn’t help wondering, what did you do to get thrown in here?”
Those dark eyebrows shot skyward. “Pardon me?”
“Sorry, sometimes I’m not clear. I’m crazy, after all. What did you do to get thrown in here? You don’t look like you belong.”
Her dinner partner steepled his fingers together. “Wow. You did just come right out and ask. How… different and refreshing. What did you do to get thrown in here? You don’t look like you belong here, either. Whatever that means. There are lots of different kinds of people in here, after all.”
The server came by and placed water in front of her. She turned from examining the man, who answered questions with questions, and looked at the waiter. “Thank you.”
The blond, older gentleman nodded before scampering away. It couldn’t be easy to work here.
“I told you.” Eleanor grinned, settling to face him once more. “I’m crazy.”
He shook his head. “Not an okay description. But I suppose technically accurate for all of us. I’m also crazy.”
All right, so he wasn’t going to tell her just because she asked, rudely. She couldn’t blame him. “I’m in here because I get lost in my head—go somewhere—and I do things when that happens. Things I can’t explain after the fact.”
He furrowed his eyebrows. They were very expressive. She’d bet he was a terrible card player. Every thought was written on his face. Currently, he was trying to work out the puzzle of what she’d told him. He wouldn’t. No one could. Not as long as she never told anyone the rest of it, which she could never do.
“And you’re not cursed? Or hexed? There are lots of examples of people losing time. Sometimes lots of it during those episodes.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been examined by every hex and curse expert in the world. I am not spelled.” Then she shrugged. “Besides, it’s more than likely a problem from my birth. I’m a half-breed. You know how we go crazy. That’s why it’s not a good idea to procreate outside of one’s own kind.”
The eyebrows twitched again. “That’s an antiquated belief that most people know better than to give credence anymore. While most witches don’t have babies with non-witches it has more to do with a, the desire not to dilute the power stream which can happen when one’s child isn’t full witch, but that’s not even a guarantee, and b, the fact witches mate with witches because of the soul bonding is why mo
re witches stay with witches instead of going elsewhere.”
He was cute. No one ever talked to her like this. She read a lot of books when they let her, but to actually engage in a back and forth with someone who didn’t possess a magical medical license? Fun. “Maybe where you’re from, but in my family it’s absolutely unheard of because of the potential to give birth to, say, me.”
The scampering waiter set a plate in front of Mitchell before running away again. Her dinner partner didn’t move to touch the food. “You should order before they stop taking them so you can eat.” He motioned toward the menu on the table. Eleanor picked it up, but she didn’t intend to order anything. Sometimes she was ravenously hungry and other times she couldn’t stand the thought of food. This was the latter. She sipped her water instead.
“Thanks.” She did have some manners, even if sometimes she neglected to use them. “I don’t think things have changed that much. I’ve been in and out of places like this for the better part of a decade, but every time I go home, it seems like it’s pretty much as it has always been in the St. Vincent household. They still think the same way, and I continue to fuel their belief systems since it proved to be so darn true with me.”
He nodded. “St. Vincent. Your family deals in spices, right? They are the biggest distributor of herbs and spices out of the Middle East, Europe, Asia, and Central America.”
So, he knew stuff. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you in here?”
He pointed to her wrist instead. “That symbol on your wrist. It’s ancient. Alurmic, I think. Before Common Era.”
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