You're Cursed

by Kat Quinn

  Miss Fern’s voice raises slightly, trying to assert its dominance without sounding totally domineering. “Like heck you are, young missy! You know darn well we’re waiting on some very important guests, and I will not have our name besmirched by the complete absence of hospitality! We can not have failed to greet them, or do you really want to break the necessary chain of events like a stupid, naive, idiotic ninny?”

  Lilly’s nostrils flare as she goes all-in on shouting, cutting to the chase even though the chase barely just started. “THEN WHY DON’T YOU STAY HERE AND I’LL GO INSTEAD?!?”

  “BECAUSE I’M THE ONE WHO GOES!” Miss Fern shouts right back. “YOU WILL NOT DEFY OUR WISHES, YOU UNGRATEFUL CHILD!” Miss Fern does not take lightly to Lilly’s disrespect; eyes wild and vicious, she openly berates the much younger woman. “I WILL NOT BE DISRESPECTED SO PUBLICLY IN MY OWN HOME, YOU PETULANT LITTLE BRAT!”

  Lilly lets out a frustrated, wordless shriek, both hands digging deep into the scalp beneath her flowing silver hair. “You’re 78 goddamned years old, Grams! You shouldn’t be going out on trips like this any more—you promised!”

  Clearly offended at the blatant ageism, Miss Fern fires back defensively. “I’m not so old I can’t still whoop your ass if I need to, young lady, now zip it up before I zip it up for you!” Miss Fern brandishes her sticky fork threateningly, the comical object somehow actually resembling a weapon with the older woman’s posture.

  “YOU’RE A FUCKING PAIN IN MY ASS, GRAMS! YOU KNOW THAT?!?! I’M NOT A GODDAMNED CHILD ANY MORE, YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME IN THE DARK ALL THE TIME AND JUST THROW A TANTRUM UNTIL YOU GET YOUR WAY!”

  “IF YOU’RE NOT A CHILD THEN WHY DON’T YOU STOP ACTING LIKE ONE?!” Miss Fern screams right on back.

  Lilly stomps her foot, points at herself, then at Miss Fern while opening and closing her mouth. Eventually, she lands on a high-pitched growl/shriek combo, paired with a screaming “NO, YOU!” Before turning on her heel and storming loudly up the steps. More than one door is slammed on the way.

  Miss Fern shrugs nonchalantly, replacing the fork onto her plate. “Had to be done,” She says, as if screaming matches and hurled insults are just the norm. “Now, where were we?” She claps her hands together, rubbing them up and down. “Ah, yes, how to up and save that sweet young man you lot are missing.”

  55. Zeke

  Alone in the green-colored guest room, I seek out the bag that was fortunately packed before our encounter. Carefully, I remove the tattoo machine from its box and inspect it for damage. It is lucky our vehicle remained unharmed in the trip.

  “I’ve… got some extra juice, if you need a recharge,” Monty offers in a low voice, head looking downwards and away, arms crossed as he leans against the door frame. Barely above a whisper, “I took too much.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, removing the rings I’d drained in our recent confrontation. “These chakrams are useful.”

  Monty accepts the rings with an open hand, eyes closing as his dark fingers wrap around the polished metal. There is an unease in his posture, a foreign expression on his face unlike the ones of his I’ve already catalogued.

  With a shaky arm, Monty returns the rings. “Here you go, Z, should be good.” His deep voice is even, missing the peaks and valleys of pitches each of his phrases usually traverse.

  My brows gather at the center. I halt my inspection of the machine. “Something is wrong.” The advantage of having Dizzy’s voice in my head is the lack of ambiguity when it comes to her thoughts, wild and unpredictable as they are. I am not afforded such an advantage with the others in our group, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely blind to their changes.

  Monty scrubs a hand over his face, then drags both through the length of his loose dreadlocks. “Yeah, you could say that.”

  With a head slightly cocked to the side, I watch him. His gaze shifts around the room. Monty bites the inside of his cheek. Flicks the end of one of his dreadlocks, adjusts his stance, clears his throat, grinds the toe of his sock against the plush, chartreuse carpet.

  I wait.

  “It felt wrong,” Monty finally relents. “…Un-healing, what I basically did. The exact opposite of how my power normally works; instead of sending my energy into them, I took theirs into me. I killed them.” He angles away, back against the door frame as he looks upward. “But it also felt… good. Having all that extra, until it was more than I could carry. But for a little while, it was almost like I was invincible—supercharged—and I hate that I liked it. I hate that I only feel bad about it because I know I should, not because I actually do. It’s not… normal. What I did was twisted, and dirty, and wrong. A bastardization of everything I stand for.”

  Slowly, he sinks to the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, back still against the door frame.

  “What you did kept us safe,” I state. “We all acted outside of the norm, because the situation was outside of the norm. There is no shame in utilizing every tool at your disposal in order to ensure our survival.”

  Monty barks a bitter chuckle, banging the back of his head against the door frame with a painful thunk. “Yeah, and it still wasn’t enough, so was it even worth it in the first place? My brother’s still who-knows-where being put through who-knows-what by who-knows-who.”

  “We do not and can not know how things would have gone had we acted differently. Perhaps if you had not adapted and improvised, we all would have been dead. Perhaps if we had not stopped at the house, we would not have been ambushed.” Holding up my right arm, displaying the faint brown imprint of the spell that unintentionally bound us all together, “Perhaps if I had not tested these bracelets on that exact date and time in exactly the place that Dizzy happened to be, we wouldn’t even find ourselves in this conversation.” Closing the case to the tattoo machine, I step towards Monty and kneel down to his level. “There are many variables that we could have controlled, but it is still possible that others would have concluded in the same results. Regardless, we are here now, and we must use what we do know to achieve the solution we desire. We must also decide what costs we are willing to pay to meet those goals.”

  Monty pointedly looks off into the middle-distance, avoiding my rapt attention.

  “Do you doubt our capabilities?” I inquire.

  Hesitantly, Monty shamefully whispers. “Yes.”

  Unaffected, I stand and reach out my free hand towards him. “I do not.” A few beats pause, Monty pointedly avoiding accepting my assistance. I turn and gently place my case on a nearby chair. Firmly, I grasp the sulking man by both shoulders and yank him to a standing position against his will, “I do not,” I repeat, unrelentingly glaring into his wavering gaze, holding tightly to his arms. My conviction is genuine. We are a capable group with a wide range of skills, and advantages that seem to uncover themselves when we most need them. There is no die trying option, only success by any means possible, and I am certain of our means.

  A transformation takes place. The limp man whose back and shoulders slump while trying desperately to avoid looking at me, eventually can not stop himself from the occasional glance. My surety does not change between glimpses, each quick trail of his jittering eyes along mine steadily slows until they eventually stop and hold. As he sees the truth in my confidence, his quivering brows begin to harden, spine strengthening until he stands straight on his own.

  Monty’s limp arms flex, strong hands grasping my own shoulders firmly with a stern nod.

  I nod back, releasing my hold on him. “Good.” Turning to pick up the tattoo case, “Now, come.”

  56. Dizzy

  “See, nothin’ to it, Diz. Just lay back and relax and let Z work his magic.” Monty says with a smirk and a twinkling eye, carefully sliding his pineapple pizza-pattered polo back on over a bicep ringed with rapidly scabbing tattoos. Being a healer is totally cheating, bet he didn’t even feel the darn thing!

  “Technically, it is your magic I’m working,” Zeke replies, eyes focused on replacing the needle in his machine
and re-sanitizing his entire kit. “Or Kieran’s. You’re my primary donors.” Satisfied with his work, Zeke looks expectantly towards me while gesturing at the plush, lavender recliner we’ve abducted for our own purposes.

  Lin’s unmistakably flirty fingers trail down my back, pushing in Zeke’s direction. Of course, he can’t help but give my rump a firm squeeze and soft thwack once his hand gets there. “Come now, brave, beautiful girl. Let me distract you for a spell while the big mean brute tickles your skin.” Looking over my shoulder, he treats me with a wink and salacious smile.

  “That would be unwise,” Zeke states. “The more accurate my marks, the more effective the spells lain in them. If I could fuck her while working the tattoo, I would.” He pauses, eyes squinting in consideration for a moment before shaking his head dismissively. “Attempt to keep your movements to a minimum,” he directs at me. “Please.”

  For a moment, I forget myself, part basking in and part attempting to hide the soft warming of my cheeks. Then I remember why I’m doing this stupid needle-nonsense in the first place: Connor. With a firm nod, I lower myself into the recliner, hands gripping the arm rests like this is the last, floating, wooden door in a freezing ocean and I need to stay stuck to it or risk sinking like a statue to the bottom of the sea.

  As I wiggle uncomfortably in the honestly comfy armchair, Zeke inspects my right arm, removing the remaining hag stone bracelets on it and transferring them to my left wrist. With great care and thorough attention, he wipes my skin down with a damp cloth of some sort, both before and after using a razor to softly scrape away nearly-invisible hairs.

  “So, Love, what shall I capture all your fancy with while our exceptionally eloquent mad scientist tends to your supple flesh?” Zeke grunts at Lin’s gentle mockery, fully more comfortable with keeping his words to an efficient minimum. “Perhaps I shall regale you with tales of daring debauchery? Or invent princesses in castles who end up saving foolhardy princes on the ground? Or I could play you your very own solo concert, should you wish.”

  Resisting the urge to shrug, I instead clench my eyes closed as tightly as possible while a mechanical buzzing starts up from Zeke’s direction. “I dunno, anything, like where’d you learn the violin, or why’d Kieran donate magic to Zeke, or what’s the best recipe for the greatest thing ever cooked? Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care!” Internally, I begin to squeal, opening my left hand upwards until someone places theirs in it, letting me crush their bones tightly.

  Like, if I was at a serious business meeting against some professional wrestlers that were also professional business people, I’d be proving I’m the true champion of shiny metal wrestling belts via this crushing handshake right now. They’d be forced to give me any deal I asked for, as that’s the law; if you win the handshake, you win the meeting, obviously.

  “Mmm, well, I learned the violin as a child,” Lin says. Very obviously, his fingers dance soothingly along my upper arm, occasionally somehow able to smooth through my tangle of hair without snagging. “My parents were quite traditional in their hopes for my accomplishments, and encouraged my participation in multiple craft disciplines. Music has always accompanied me throughout the various stages of my life, and as I had no other aspirations of my own at the time? It seemed right to continue the study until I found myself in The Grand East Orchestra, an honorable accomplishment to be certain. Though my heart barely beat for the company itself, and nearly came to a halt towards the end.” His fingertips strum a playful rhythm along my shoulder, tapping like a line of dancers to their choreographed tune. “Truthfully, I’ve never had my own plan to follow, just went the course plotted out for me. Aside from opening locked doors and occasionally clearing a clouded mind, my powers haven’t been particularly in high demand, so I’ve always needed to rely on traditional skills.”

  “You don’t even like playing the violin?!” I blindly squeeze the crushed hand even tighter, shocked but not fully distracted from the needle’s anxiety. “But you’re so good!”

  “Oh, yes, I’m quite good, Love. Masterful, even. But that is not a skill borne from passion so much as out of a lack of passion for anything else. Though the instrument has been calling to me as of late, an unexpectedly welcome reunion.” Lin’s voice peters off, somewhat thoughtfully. “Perhaps I just needed distance to remember the love I had for its notes when it first piqued my interest.” All but one of his fingers stills on my skin, the last one just tapping out a single, even beat; no longer following a song audible only to them.

  Unfortunately, Lin’s choice to whimsically follow his own thoughts means I tune back in to the buzz buzz buzz against my wrist, zillions of bees pricking the flesh and digging their stingers deep down, burrowing into my veins. Soon, my circulatory system will be filled with pudgy, striped bodies and tiny flitting wings tickling the walls of my blood vessels. If I’m lucky, they’ll head straight to my brain and knock me out before taking control of my body and piloting me like a giant, mechanical, Dizzy-shaped suit; otherwise I’ll have to be awake and feel every pinprick of their butts as they scrabble all around my insides, scrambling them up.

  “Kieran donates his magic to me because I do not have much of my own,” Zeke says, interrupting the bee story. “Most consider me barely above the level of a blank slate.”

  If it didn’t mean I may accidentally catch a glimpse of a trillion bees attacking my skin, I might crack a suspicious eye at him. The hell he mean he’s basically not a mage?

  “I have no inherent discipline or skill, and a nearly empty source. So much so, I did not qualify to continue schooling with mages after testing, and was not provided a magic-based education. It was not deemed an efficient use of resources to train a mage with no specific discipline whose inherent power was largely only enough to activate stored spells created by others, at the time.” While Zeke’s voice is even, something about the way he speaks holds a bitterness. “They said I was broken. I am not.”

  “But… How?” I question, trying to ask a million things at once. How do you do so many things? How did you learn to use your magic so well if there wasn’t anybody to teach you? How did you figure out what you can do and how to control it? How can you even do anything at all, aren’t people without magic not able to do magic? Isn’t that the whole point? How did you prove them wrong? How were you so sure you were something more than what you were accused of?

  “I utilize what most modern mages would consider primitive magics,” Zeke replies. “They’re skills largely harnessed by Clean Slates before magic became somewhat universally prevalent, pulling from the potential stored within components and patterns all around us. Even those who think themselves powerless are not. We all possess the potential to harness the impossible, as long as you do not accept that it is impossible.”

  “But… How?” I ask again, kind of baffled. It’s not that I wouldn’t know where to begin, it’s that I DIDN’T know where to begin. With my own power, I mean. Clearly, I have magic, but nobody taught me how to use it and now it’s kind of just random. Except for curse-breaking, but it’s hard to not get good at something that’s literally life or death sometimes, and that you get about six buttloads of practice with. Oh, and plant stuff. But I’ve hung out with a lot of plants over the years.

  “Through study, and determination. I researched thousands of different magics and theories across cultures, languages, and time. There are patterns between them, commonalities that slot together nicely to be reformed into something new. It is not difficult to find them, so long as you are already aware of all the possible connections available.”

  “Okay, but, like, that means you know zillions and zillions of spells? Magical theory? You know how stuff works even if you’ve never done it or can’t do it on your own? And in different languages?”

  “Correct.”

  “Woah. You have got to have the biggest, juiciest brain in the world if you can hold on to all of that without going all mushy-mush. My eyes might melt themselves away to try and stop me if I e
ver set out to read all that info. It’s too much!” And how long would it take to even learn half that much stuff?! It sounds like five mountains stacked on top of each other! Multiple lifetimes! We’re both 28 years-old, when did he have the time?!?! Did he unlock some sort of time magic that let him cram all that info into a tiny pellet of bubble gum that got chewed in one day but packed one heck of a flavor-knowledge punch!?

  “I am always learning, even now. You have presented me with a magical topic that I have yet to fully understand, but am enjoying the puzzle of. Learning is not something that has a time constraint, and I find comfort in unlocking new secrets. For instance,” Zeke continues, “I suspect you’ll utilize these tattoos in a different manner than the rest of us. Based on your own descriptions, such as when you ‘asked’ the plants in Monty’s garden if they’d like to grow, it seems that you tap into the potential within something, rather than bending it to your will.

  “The ink used in these designs is laced with power, and the symbols themselves already have inherent capabilities that only need a push to be unlocked. Typically, any of us would give it that push and command it to perform its task exactly as specified, even if we miscalculate the extent of our need. I suspect you’ll find it infinitely simpler to pull on the spells within, coercing them to come out of their own volition to whatever degree they have built within them. Something that may not sound particularly different given the outcome ultimately appears identical, but my suspicion is that such discrepancy is more significant than could be predicted accurately. It’s fascinating.” Zeke rotates my wrist for the umpteenth time. “You are fascinating.”

  My heart flutters for just a second, and I unconsciously loosen my death grip on the championship handshake.

  To my left, Monty very clearly lets out a pained gasp of relief. Can you gasp in relief? Oh gosh, really hope I didn’t hurt him too bad!