The Connelly Curse

by Lily Velez

  I clenched my teeth. When the townspeople had come for Elizabeth, dragging her out of her home as if she were some common thief, Abigail had been nowhere in sight. She’d hid for three days under the floorboards of the cottage, subsisting on food and water that her mother had left for her there.

  We assumed the plan was that Abigail was to flee Rosalyn Bay once the townspeople stopped searching the neighboring woods, going as far as her small feet would take her. Perhaps there were even witches waiting for her somewhere, ready to whisk her away to safety.

  Unfortunately, the poor girl’s kind heart is what ultimately did her in. As the story went, from under the floorboards, she’d heard a mewing cat on the third night, and fearing the creature was starving, she’d emerged from her hiding place, hurrying outside to share her food with it. The townspeople were just returning from another broad search of the woods. Spotting her, they put her in irons at once. The cat, they killed, deeming it a familiar straight from the devil’s lair.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Abigail whined, burying her face into her mother’s chest.

  Elizabeth’s eyes shined with tears, and she wrapped her daughter in her arms. “I know, little dove. But one day, we’ll be together again, all of us. I promise you that.”

  And on that promise, the Echo flickered out, leaving only darkness behind.

  “What do you think that all meant?” Lucas asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said, but inside, I had a feeling it was nothing good.

  35

  Connor

  Before Lucas returned to St. Andrew’s, I had him wayfare me to Crowmarsh.

  “Do you want me to wait?” he’d asked.

  I told him I’d probably be a while. Assuming I meant to keep vigil over our mother, he left it at that and took leave. I did plan on seeing how our mother was doing, but first, there was something more pressing that I needed to get to the bottom of.

  The thing was I’d lied to Scarlet. Last week, when I’d told her I hadn’t seen anything in Jack’s mind, that hadn’t entirely been the truth. Though he had locks on his thoughts the likes of a Swiss bank, I’d caught an image as brief as a camera flash when I’d clapped a hand to his back earlier last week, so brief I wouldn’t have been able to make sense of it if I hadn’t recognized what it was.

  An old tool shed buried deep in the woods at Crowmarsh.

  I’d almost forgotten it existed. We’d found it as kids, shortly after we’d moved in with Maurice. With nothing better to do in the mausoleum of an estate, the four of us had ventured outside to explore the property, and that’s when we’d happened upon the shed.

  It became our hideout, our headquarters. We spent hours there every day, sometimes to practice magic, other times to simply seal ourselves away from the real world, a world that our father was no longer a part of and that our mother didn’t wish to live in.

  I remembered one rainy day in particular. It was absolutely lashing, and I thought the forest would just about flood, that some angry current would carry the shed away with all of us still inside. We were each engaged in our own activity of choice. Jack was knitting his brow at a grimoire, trying to make sense of a spell. I was listening to music off my phone, Lucas was practicing a card trick, and Rory was sketching.

  I remembered thinking that that was all we had left now, the four of us. I remembered thinking that even if that flood should tear us away from Crowmarsh, at least we had each other. I remembered thinking I would never let anything destroy that.

  So under the light of a full moon later that night, I pledged that I would do everything in my power to keep us together. I pledged that I would be my brothers’ keeper and look after them always no matter what. I prayed to the gods that this new incarnation of our lives would be a better one.

  Eventually, the shed was forgotten. One by one, we matriculated at St. Andrew’s, where we were truly on our own for the first time. The greenhouse we’d built on the school’s rooftop effectively replaced the shed, reducing it to no more than a childhood memory.

  Which begged the question: why on earth would it be at the forefront of Jack’s mind so many years later?

  The question nagged me without end as I trudged through the soggy forests of Crowmarsh. The shed was still standing, though the years hadn’t been kind to it. The structure slanted slightly to the left, clearly on its last nails. Its roof shingles were buried under piles of wet, dead leaves, and with every wind, it creaked and moaned as if it just wanted to be put out of its misery already.

  I pushed my way in, the door hinges screeching in protest. Inside, it smelled like earth and decaying wood. I snapped a finger, and old pillar candles covered in veins of wax snapped to life, their flames crackling.

  I had to pause because for a moment, it was like stepping back in time. Everything was as we’d left it. There was the desk Jack would diligently study at. There were the burn marks and charred furniture pieces from spells gone awry. There was the dart board I’d often take my frustration out on. There were the shelves where we’d stored glass jars filled with herbs, spices, bark, and other findings from nature.

  I took it all in, trying to understand why Jack would’ve been thinking of the shed that day. Was it mere nostalgia? Did he long for the years of his adolescence when the weight of the world wasn’t yet fully on his shoulders, when he hadn’t yet sealed his fate by using up all the wishes of his demon’s mark?

  Things admittedly had been simpler back then. Still difficult to an extent. We’d been born into strife from the start. But there weren’t nearly as many demons haunting us back then. Both the figurative and the literal kind.

  My eyes landed back on Jack’s desk.

  A conflict surged in me.

  Get out of here, a part of me warned. If I left now, I could pretend I’d never come here. I could continue believing whatever I wanted to believe about Jack. I could fall back into blissful ignorance and go on with this charade that everything was all right.

  I almost did leave.

  But you couldn’t fight your demons if you didn’t acknowledge they existed in the first place.

  At Jack’s desk, I grabbed the gold handles of the single drawer. I didn’t immediately yank it open. I wasn’t the hesitating type, but judging by the sickening feeling that unwound in my stomach, I had the sense I wasn’t going to like whatever I discovered tonight.

  I clenched my jaw and pulled the drawer open.

  The contents inside clinked against each other. I had to grab a candle and cast its light upon the drawer to understand what I was looking at. After a few puzzling seconds, the pieces came together.

  The drawer held glass vials.

  I took one out, frowning at the near-black liquid inside. It was thick, but once I gave it a quick shake, the liquid swirled around and loosened.

  Blood.

  More specifically, demon blood.

  And there were at least two dozen vials in the drawer.

  Heat flushed through my body as a vein in my neck started to twitch.

  My eyes scanned the space of the shed until they landed on a sigil drawn on the floor near the back. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been looking closely. It sat just outside the flickering light of the candles.

  I approached its edges, grinding my teeth at the familiar runes and shapes inside its circular frame. Witches learned all the basic sigils during adolescence. Sigils to imbue a home with peace, sigils to protect a person from harm, sigils to receive knowledge through your dreams.

  There were sigils to summon creatures from the Otherworld as well, but they only called forth the lowliest of demons. To summon anything beyond that was considered dark magic, the sigils locked away Elsewhere along with the Forbidden Spells—or at least they had been before Seamus had gotten his hands on them.

  The sigil before me definitely didn’t belong to a lesser demon. Jack had summoned something far more powerful, trapping it within this sigil until he’d gotten a robust supply of blood out of it.
r />   I cursed under my breath. All those times he’d disappeared while we’d searched for answers about the sluagh and the Reaper, this is where he’d come. The uncontrollable power he’d displayed when casting runes among the remains of The Wise Ones, when he’d nearly cracked the underground library in Dublin in half…it was all because he’d had a fix of demon blood shortly beforehand.

  How many other fixes had there been that I didn’t even know about? How many more fixes were to come? If I’d seen the shed in his mind, it was because he’d been actively thinking of it in that moment, a moment of weakness when some darker part of him had offered a viable solution.

  There was no way to know if he’d given into the darkness that day. He might’ve stayed at Crowmarsh for hours afterward as he experienced his kickback. He’d gotten too good at hiding his problems. At hiding what I so clearly understood now was most likely an addiction to dark magic.

  My blood seethed past its boiling point. I nearly set fire to the entire shed, wanting to destroy the vials, the sigil, all of it. Somehow, I managed to stop myself. But not because I felt bad for snooping through Jack’s things. It was because I wanted him to be the one to do the destroying.

  If he was going to beat this, then he damn well needed to start trying.

  He needed to start trying, and he needed to stop keeping secrets from us.

  I was done with secrets. I was going to pull every last one in this family out like a weed. If I didn’t, I knew it’d be the end of us.

  I returned the vial to the drawer but stood over Jack’s collection for a few moments, staring down at all that demon blood. I tried to ignore the guilt that chewed at me, but I couldn’t. The fact of the matter was Jack had only ever fallen into dark magic because of me. If he hadn’t used that first wish, I wouldn’t be here, but he also would’ve never fallen onto that dark path.

  I knew he wouldn’t change a thing, though, if he could go back in time. He’d still choose to revive me. He’d still put someone he loved before himself. Like he always did.

  I slammed the drawer shut. Then I opened it just to slam it again. And again and again and again. But no matter how many times I railed against the desk, it didn’t change the past. Nothing ever could.

  Later, inside Crowmarsh, after spending an hour at my mother’s bedside, I was ready to collapse into my bed. I spent an eternity under a steaming hot shower until my skin was red all over and then padded into my room to throw on clothes and shove my glasses onto my face.

  I sank against my pillows with a Dostoevsky novel, but I hadn’t gotten past the first page when a square of parchment materialized above my head in a shower of sparks. I snatched it out of the air and turned it over. It bore the insignia of The Council of Elders.

  Breaking open the seal, I read the missive.

  It was a Summons.

  For Rory.

  36

  Jack

  There was a painful thrumming inside my head, every beat of my pulse like a hammer against my temples. Wincing, I sat up, the earth seesawing for several moments. When my vision came into focus, the first thing I saw were bars, an entire legion of them.

  I was in a cage. To be more exact, I was in a cage of spelled iron.

  Beyond the cage, the Marauder camp was a nest of chaos as the barbaric creatures danced around a boar roast. Though they were clad in restricting animal hides and rags, their bodies moved lithely to the quick-tempo beat of numerous tribal drums. Arms outstretched, heads thrown back, feet stomping along with the rhythm, they were lost in another world as they gave thanks to whatever gods they worshipped for the feast they were about to devour. And for leading them to my whereabouts no doubt.

  Marauders, though a lawless and savage race, were exceptional hunters when it came to collecting bounties within the Otherworld. Usually, they pursued spirits of the damned that had fled the forsaken lands in hopes of infiltrating the Land of Youth. Many stories told of hunts for exiled gods who’d fallen out of favor too, however, or for rare creatures with powerful magic in their blood. As long as the reward was substantial enough, Marauders were willing to track down anything.

  I wondered at the bounty set for my capture. There was obviously no point in bargaining with the Marauders. Whatever the Dark Lord had offered them, I already knew I couldn’t top it. Not when he had kingdoms and vast treasures at his disposal. Not when he thought himself on the verge of reigning over the world of mortals.

  My eyes combed over the camp as I quickly tallied up the number of Marauders. There were nearly five dozen of them. The majority were male, their scarred, solid builds a testament to years of combat. The majority were also armed with all manner of weapons: swords, spears, and scythes the most common.

  My cage was situated a ways from the roast, guarded by a barrel-chested Marauder whose back faced me as he stood at attention. It was strange how easy it was to mistake Marauders for humans. Assuming you paid no mind to the crimson eyes, of course. It was said they’d assumed this form long ago, when the very first mortals had wandered into the Otherworld. Ironic that they should find my kind so fascinating and yet be no less compelled to cage me like an animal for the highest bidder.

  Through the bars that surrounded me, I looked up at the sky. It was still night, but the canvas overhead was already lightening, which meant one thing. Scarlet’s time was nearly up.

  I needed to act quickly.

  I checked my pocket for The Goddess’s Pearl, letting go of a relieved breath when I found it was still there. My eyes scanned the frame of the guard next, taking note of his weapons. Like many of his brethren, he wielded a sword. There was also a dagger attached to his hip, its hilt silver and ornamented with gems.

  Suddenly, from somewhere in the camp, a shofar bellowed, as if we were preparing to march into battle. At the horn’s summons, a beast of a Marauder emerged from the largest tent in the camp. The others instantly silenced themselves in his presence, falling to their knees to display respect. This had to be the chieftain of the group.

  Once he assumed a seat that overlooked the revelry and gestured with a single, meaty hand, the others resumed with the celebration. The chieftain, however, remained motionless upon his would-be throne. He donned a headdress made from the skull of a carnivorous predator and held a staff that towered over him. Atop it sat a large amethyst secured to the staff with leather cords.

  I paused, my thoughts catching on the sight of it.

  I drew as close to the iron bars as I dared and looked harder. The staff the Marauder chieftain held was fashioned from a strange kind of wood, its iridescent glow changing hues from one moment to the next. I’d never seen anything like it before.

  A rare tree…

  Weaving around the staff were amber-colored stones of various sizes.

  Veined with honey…

  And of all possible cuts, the amethyst topping the staff was pear-shaped.

  A purple-skinned fruit…

  The Violet Jewel.

  How like the deities of the Otherworld to speak in double meanings. Morrígan had purposely misdirected us, setting our sights on a literal fruit. All this time, the truth of what we sought had been in the item’s very name.

  Seeing The Violet Jewel bolstered my resolve. The key to completing the second trial was only a short distance away. Once I recovered it, and once I returned to Scarlet with The Goddess’s Pearl, we could be done with enchanted forests and Warglings and terror-filled seas for good.

  I scanned the Marauder camp in a slow, steady sweep from one end to the other. Everyone was consumed with drinking and dancing, some sating other appetites altogether around the fire, doing so ravenously and unapologetically.

  I covered my demon’s mark with my fingers. Kai, I called in my mind. Spelled iron rendered a witch powerless, but it’s not that our magic was taken away. It was only trapped inside our bodies. My link with Kai wouldn’t be affected. He needed only feel the summons, and sensing the magic on the other end of the line, he’d recognize it was me.
/>   I waited.

  Nothing.

  Kai, I called louder. I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t answer. For a moment, I considered that he and Scarlet were in some kind of trouble, fending off Warglings perhaps. If that were the case, however, he would at least say something back to me, as he’d done so many other times in the past.

  Again and again, I called for him, and again and again, he offered no response.

  Trickery and deceit didn’t occur to me. Despite everything, I had known Kai for far too long, which was to say I was more or less fluent in his ways. Nothing about our last interaction had even remotely suggested that he meant to betray me. There had to be another explanation.

  I checked my person. Nothing. I scanned the guard once more but couldn’t detect anything that might counteract my link with Kai. I studied the iron bars next. When I did, there was a kick in my chest.

  This wasn’t the ordinary spelled iron made popular by The Black Hand. This was something else altogether. Tiny runes were engraved into the bars, demonic in nature. They had to be what was disrupting the magical signal between me and Kai.

  It made sense. The Marauders would’ve either already known I had a demon’s mark, or they would’ve found it after striking me unconscious in the net. They weren’t taking any chances with their prized catch.

  You know what you have to do now. You have no other choice.

  I tamped down the voice, not wanting to hear the arguments. Perhaps because I knew the voice spoke truth. As I stalked back and forth within the cage like a captive animal, I saw no other alternative.

  I shoved my fingers through my hair. No, there had to be another path. I ran through possible scenarios in my head, but the only way to regain use of my magic was to escape this cage, and even if I should disarm the guard and hold his dagger to his neck, there was no guarantee he’d spring me free. He’d only shout for aid with his last breath and willingly die for the cause. Marauders were fiercely loyal to the greater whole, often laying down their lives if it meant the survival of their tribe.