Curse Painter (Art Mages of Lure Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  Her jars of spare linseed oil ignited, and smoke began to fill the cottage. The flames spread fast, drinking up the oil, licking at the quilt on her bed, rising toward the thatched roof. She gasped, choking on smoke, and scrambled back from the blaze.

  Mage Radner remained calm. He didn’t laugh as she crawled away from him. Some mages gloried in their power. They would have loved dominating an injured curse painter as she made her last desperate effort to survive, but this mage was composed, calculating. He terrified her—but she wouldn’t let him beat her.

  Sheriff Flynn had gone back outside, giving the mage space to work. Winton was laughing in the darkness behind him. Briar crouched by her table, much too far from the door, and faced Mage Radner across the paint-spattered floor. His cloak billowed around him like a storm cloud. She tried to predict which way he’d shout his next spell. Left, right, straight at her heart?

  He feinted right, barking a quick syllable, then he shouted directly at her. She rolled forward, the curse singeing her hair as it passed. She scrambled toward him, picking up more paint on her hands, her knees, her skirt. Glass from the broken jars stuck in her palms, and her injured wrist screamed from the effort.

  She ducked another curse, still barreling forward, and her fingers closed on the hem of the mage’s dark cloak. She began to scrawl a rough image on the fabric with the paint on her hands. Blood mixed with the shades of green and ochre. She had to get the strokes right.

  One. Two.

  She lurched to the side as the mage kicked at her, forgetting his voice for a moment. She seized the cloak again.

  Three. Four.

  Radner tried to pull his cloak out of her grasp, dragging her across the floor, coughing at the thickening smoke. She thrust her fingers into a slick of verdigris paint and reached for the cloak.

  Five. Six.

  It was the ugliest curse she had ever made, and she’d painted some fiends, but it was enough.

  Seven.

  “What in the—”

  The mage’s cloak flew upward, hauling him off his feet. He soared toward the thatched roof and banged his head on the exposed rafters. The painted edge of the cloak burrowed into the thatch. Left unchecked, that cloak would continue shooting straight up until it reached the stars. The mage, half-strangled by the smoke, spoke a few gruff words to halt its ascent. The distraction gave Briar just enough time to slip past him. She hurtled out the cottage door, darting past the sheriff, the blacksmith, and the spitting-mad Winton—and kept running.

  Paint, splinters, and ash covered Briar from head to foot. Behind her, the cozy little cottage was burning. The thatch caught fire in earnest, fueled by the paints as well as the lingering echoes of the mage’s power. The dry crackle of burning straw filled the night. Briar felt as if her heart were being seared in a frying pan as the roaring inferno consumed her home.

  She chanced a look back. Mage Radner was outlined in the doorway, stalking slowly out of the blaze, his cursed cloak still twitching. She had no time to worry about the dark, menacing figure. Sheriff Flynn and his companions were untying their horses from the woodpile. She had a head start, but she was on foot, and they were mounting up, preparing to run her down.

  Briar flew down the path, gasping, her lungs clouded with smoke. She didn’t know if she should run into the woods or try to cross the Brittlewyn. In the woods, she could end up trapped against the curve of the river, whereas she could hide in the village across the bridge. But could she trust anyone to shelter her? She had deliberately kept people at arm’s length. And if the blacksmith would betray her, could she trust any of the others who had treated her with apparent kindness?

  Hooves beat a thunderous warning on the road behind her. Shouts chased her through the dark. She ran, heart thrashing like a panicked hummingbird. Woods or village? She had nothing, no money, no food. She wouldn’t survive the forest for long. The paint covering her clothes was soaking in, drying fast. She wasn’t sure she could paint so much as a headache curse with what she had left.

  Her pursuers were getting closer. She was powerless against them now. They would trample her into the dirt and leave her to die. All over a stupid mistake.

  The bridge loomed over the river ahead. They would catch her before she reached it. A howl sounded in the night, as if the dogs of the lower realms had come for her. The horses’ hooves tolled a death knell behind her. She wasn’t even close to making up for what she had done, the damage she had caused. All she had wanted was another chance, a fresh start, a little cottage in the woods that smelled of thatch and oil paint.

  Suddenly, a dark shape reared up directly in her path. She gave a strangled cry, looking square into the rolling eyes of a massive horse. They had caught her. She tried to evade the horse’s churning hooves as it snorted and pranced before her.

  Then a hand reached out of the darkness, seized her arm roughly, and hauled her off her feet. She clawed at the person trying to lift her onto the horse, scratched, twisted. Her arm was being wrenched out of its socket.

  “This’ll be easier on both of us if you help, Miss Painter.”

  Briar gasped in recognition and stopped fighting. She clutched reflexively at a familiar indigo sleeve and managed to swing her leg up over the horse’s back.

  “Looks like your life here is more exciting than I gave you credit for,” Archer called over his shoulder.

  “They have a voice mage,” Briar rasped.

  “Say no more.” Archer kicked his heels, and she flung her arms around his waist as his horse took off, thundering toward the bridge and over the Brittlewyn.

  “Wait!” Briar shouted.

  He pulled up sharply, and Briar swung down to scrawl a tiny mark on the bridge with the last dregs of paint skimmed from her clothes and hands.

  “That won’t keep them for long.”

  “They can’t catch me,” Archer said. “Now hold on tight!”

  Chapter 4

  Smoke and fury filled the night as they galloped down the path to the village. Archer’s heart pounded in time with the hoofbeats as he leaned forward over the neck of his horse.

  Well, it wasn’t technically his horse. He had borrowed it for the occasion. The leggy, spirited animal was already outpacing the sheriff and his goons. Archer hadn’t had that much fun in ages.

  “What did you do to the bridge?” he called over his shoulder.

  “It’s an illusion,” Briar said in his ear. “The bridge will look like it’s washed out. I didn’t have time to destroy it.”

  “Won’t the mage see through that?”

  “He’ll have to break the curse first.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Don’t slow down.”

  Archer winced. He’d had more than his fair share of run-ins with licensed voice mages. They were a cantankerous bunch. “Some night, eh?”

  The curse painter didn’t answer. She clung to Archer’s coat, her hands smudged with dark paint. She seemed calm, all things considered. Cursing the bridge had taken quick thinking. It was good to know she performed well under pressure.

  She had looked afraid when she’d fled the burning cottage, though, eyes wide and rolling. Archer had intended to demand she commit to the mission before he saved her, but he couldn’t go through with it when he saw her terror. He’d hauled her onto his horse—well, the one he had stolen—and for a minute there, he’d felt like a hero from a story. It had been a long time since he’d felt like that.

  But he had a mission, and he was still a thief—and a leader of thieves. Despite her fear, Briar had kept her head. That told him all he needed to know.

  Archer twitched the reins as they passed the first houses in Sparrow Village, and the stolen horse responded eagerly to his guidance. It wasn’t long after dark, and people milled in the streets with flowers in their hair, laughing and chatting about the summer fair. Archer galloped the horse up and down and across several of the busier lanes, forcing the villagers to dive out of his way with indignant squawks. No one
would be able to tell exactly which direction he had gone when the sheriff questioned them later. He considered retreating to the village’s only inn, where he’d taken a room, but they were already pressed for time, and he couldn’t risk Briar leaving before morning. He would introduce her to the team and confirm the deal that very night.

  After sufficiently muddling their trail, Archer directed the horse toward an overgrown path leading into the woods. Briar didn’t ask where they were going. She must have sensed she was safe with Archer for now. They didn’t speak as they left the lights and noise of the village behind.

  The foliage thickened around them, hiding them from anyone who might try to follow, choking out the starlight. Then it was just Archer and the darkness and the warm figure of the girl pressed against his back. Her hair tickled his neck, and she smelled of linseed oil and ash. Archer couldn’t quite relax with her arms around his waist. She had accepted his help when she had no other choice, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to blow his hands off again. He’d seen what she could do.

  As they got farther from the village, the only sounds were the rustle of branches, the thud of their mount’s hooves, and the occasional hoot of an owl. The night deepened, the woods wrapping Archer in a familiar embrace. He had spent happy days in Mere Woods, once upon a time.

  He slowed the horse to a walk as they neared the hideout so as not to alarm the rest of the team. They had been camped outside Sparrow Village for nearly two weeks while they’d prepared for the mission. No one had ever disturbed that particular hiding place, but they were always ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

  Suddenly, Briar spoke. “What happened to your dog?”

  “He’ll find us,” Archer said. “He probably appreciates that you hid the bridge instead of destroying it. He hates swimming.”

  “Destroying it would have been terrible for the village.”

  “The look on Sheriff Flynn’s face would be spectacular, though.”

  “Yes … I guess it would.” She loosened her grip on his coat since they were no longer galloping for their lives and put as much space between them as the saddle allowed. “You didn’t send those men after me, did you?”

  Archer hesitated. Would she believe him after the threats he’d made? “Didn’t have time,” he said airily. “They didn’t wait long to start burning things, and here I thought Flynn was all bark and no bite.”

  “That cottage was all I had.” Her soft voice was almost lost in the nighttime rustle of the forest.

  “You can buy a new one.” Archer glanced back at her. “I happen to know a fellow looking to pay a curse painter for a job.”

  She didn’t answer, and the darkness hid her expression. Did she really think he sent those men after her? The loss of the tumbledown cottage appeared to bother her more than he would have expected. He had learned through a few discreet inquiries at her neighbors’—where he had stolen the horse—that she was renting the place and she had only lived there since the end of winter. No one could say where she had come from or if Briar was even her real name.

  Archer knew a thing or two about fake names and secret pasts. He was more interested in her future, though. “Look, why don’t you meet the team at least? Hear what we have in mind.”

  “The team?”

  “They’re a sorry bunch of lowlifes, but they get the job done.”

  “Who you calling lowlifes?”

  Someone spoke in the darkness, and Archer grinned. They were home.

  “Only the finest bunch of larcenists and arsonists I ever met,” Archer called.

  “It’s about time you got back.” A burly middle-aged man stepped out of the woods, uncovering a lantern. The light revealed his big red beard and curly hair. A coarse brown vest strained over his broad chest. “My wife was about to march into town to start busting heads.”

  “I have returned unscathed, and I brought a friend.”

  The curse painter shifted against Archer’s back, peeking out at the newcomer.

  “Briar, the curse painter, meet Lew of Twickenridge. He’s the brawn of this operation.”

  “A bruiser with a poet’s soul.” Lew bowed, putting a large freckled hand over his heart.

  “I told you I’m supposed to be the brawn.” Another figure appeared in the circle of lantern light. Younger even than Archer, the lad was well on the way to being as burly as Lew, but his big shoulders and round face still carried plenty of baby fat. His patchwork coat looked decidedly rumpled.

  “This is Nat. Errand boy, all-purpose foot soldier, and yes, future brawn.”

  “Are you supposed to be the brain?” Briar asked Archer dryly.

  “That would be Lew’s wife, Jemma,” Archer said. “She planned our little quest. I’m the charm.”

  Nat snickered and whispered something to Lew behind his pudgy hand. The older man chuckled, making the lantern shake.

  “About this quest,” Briar said. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

  “You have anywhere else to be?” Archer asked. “Some other hovel to attend to?”

  Briar stiffened. Then she swung down from the horse, straightened her skirt, and turned deliberately into the woods.

  “I meant no offense,” Archer called, dismounting too. He’d thought they’d started to build a rapport on their ride through the woods, but apparently the loss of everything she had in the world still smarted.

  “I thought you were supposed to be the charm,” Nat muttered then ducked the loose fist Archer swung at him.

  Briar paused where the pool of lantern light met the trees. “I’m already on the wrong side of the law. I can’t afford to fall in with a bunch of criminals. Unless you intend to keep me here against my will?”

  Lew bristled at the implication, and Archer raised a soothing hand toward the girl, as if she were a skittish woodland creature. He knew what she was capable of when threatened.

  “Of course not, but if you want to leave, you might as well do it with a full belly and sunny skies.”

  “It’s not easy getting back to town in the dark,” Nat said. “I twisted my ankle last time I tried it.”

  Lew snorted. “That’s because you’re a lubber.”

  “Yes, but he’s a brawny lubber,” Archer said. He took a slow step toward the curse painter. “Won’t you hear us out at least?”

  Briar hesitated, the lantern light flickering in her eyes. Archer feared she would march into the darkness and disappear forever, but she looked at the dry paint on her hands and clothes, useless now, and her shoulders slumped.

  “I don’t think I’d be welcomed back to this village anyway.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Archer said. “You’ll eat a hot meal and listen to our plan, and if you don’t take the job, you’ll be free to go. I’ll even give you my horse come morning.”

  Briar nodded, and Archer felt a surprisingly powerful surge of relief.

  He gestured to the path ahead with a flourish. “Shall we?”

  The four made their way deeper into the woods, relying on Lew’s lantern to avoid the roots choking the path. Branches crackled under their feet, and a sudden rustle suggested they’d startled a deer from its hiding place. The stolen horse snorted contemptuously. Soon they reached a dense thicket, where blackberry bushes grew taller than a man. Two sycamore trees leaned toward each other, marking the spot and creating a spooky, tangled canopy.

  Nat hurried forward to pull aside the bundle of branches serving as a door and revealed a tunnel opening directly into the mass of thorny bushes.

  “Welcome home,” the boy said to the curse painter, attempting a flourish that looked suspiciously like Archer’s. An eager smile split his round face, ruining the effect.

  Briar glanced at Archer, her expression unreadable, before following Nat into the tunnel.

  “Any trouble today?” Archer asked Lew quietly as they walked beneath the sycamore trees, drawing the stolen horse behind them.

  The older man shook his head. “A few hunters passed near
by yesterday, but Nat lured them away before they got too near the hideout. The lad can do quite the pheasant impression.”

  “Excellent.”

  This was one of their favorite lairs whenever they were in Barden County, and no one but squirrels had ever found it. Archer needed their lucky streak to last just a little while longer.

  The smell of burnt stew reached them a second before they exited the tunnel. A blazing campfire, a patch of bare earth, and a dozen horses awaited them at the center of what would look like an impenetrable mass of thorns and brambles to passersby. They’d made a fair bit of noise on their way through the thicket, especially with the horse in tow, and the last two members of Archer’s team were expecting them.

  “It’s about time.” Lew’s wife, Jemma, faced them across the campfire with her hands on her hips. A red shawl was folded across her chest, and her golden hair threaded with gray was coming loose from her braid in wisps. “I’d need a whole new plan if you got yourself captured again.”

  “Aw, you’d have rescued me, Jem,” Archer said. “Lew says so.”

  “I have my hands full with one rescue mission as it is.” Jemma shot a glance at her husband, who shrugged his burly shoulders. “Stealing gold is a lot easier than stealing people.”

  “The gold from the reward is ten times our best haul,” Archer said. “It’ll be worth the extra trouble.”

  “Plus the bonus,” called Nat. The boy sprawled in front of the fire and kicked off his dirty boots.

  “You got that right,” Archer said.

  Lew grimaced as Nat began picking at his patched woolen socks. “Do you have to do that by the food?”

  Nat shrugged and reached for his boots again.

  Lew sighed and took the reins of Archer’s new horse. He nodded to Briar and went to tie up the stallion near the other horses.

  Archer turned back to Jemma, who was still glowering at him across the fire. “I’ve brought you a new secret weapon.” He tried to usher the curse painter forward with a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off. He raised his hands apologetically. “Briar, Jemma. Jemma, Briar.”