Cursed: A Spellbound Regency Novel

by Lucy Leroux

Her brow creased and her shoulders slumped. She looked so exhausted. “No.”

  He began to argue with her, but she forestalled him with a hand, her injured one. “No. It is not time for you to die. I'm not ready to give up—and you didn't kill Ottavio. I did.”

  Dropping to one knee he took her hand. “Isabella, you don't have to lie to spare my feelings. I remember everything I did. This time the memories are as clear as if they were my own.”

  Her hazel eyes stared at him seriously. “I know that, but you failed to grasp one important detail. The man you pulled off me and beat until his head split open was already dead.” She looked away. “I guess I learned from my experience with your demon. I didn't mean to kill him. Not at first.”

  He wasn't aware that he was gaping at her until she leaned over and pushed his mouth closed with a delicate white finger under his chin.

  "Are you sure?" he whispered.

  "Yes," she nodded slowly and reached for his hand. “Come lie down with me. I want you to hold me.”

  He bowed his head, his forehead touching hers. How is it she always managed to undo him so easily?

  “Anything. Anything you want.”

  With a hand on his cheek, she drew away from him and gave him a small sad smile. “I want you to live.”

  Her words hit him like a body blow, making it hard to catch his breath. But his witch didn't give him time to dwell. She took his arm and led him to the bed. They lay down together, and she curled against his chest. There was nothing sexual about their embrace this time. It was about comfort.

  “It was awful, what it did,” she said eventually.

  “What I did.”

  “No, what it did. I—I may have found a way to be rid of it. Possibly. I've been improvising, adapting a ritual that will cure you. It involves a purge and a cleansing fire. The curse needs to be burned away at the root and your aura sealed so nothing gets back in."

  Matteo tensed. Isobel peeked up at him from underneath her lashes, her skin almost luminescent in the afternoon light. Slowly she stroked his chest with her pale white fingers.

  "That's wonderful news mi tesoro."

  Her hand fisted in his shirt. "It will be very painful. More painful than you can possibly imagine. And if I do it wrong, you may not survive.” She snorted slightly. “I do want you to live, more than anything. But I might be the one killing you after all.”

  He squeezed her tighter. “If that's my fate, I accept it. I'll never be anything but grateful to you.”

  Isobel rested her head on his chest. “I don't want your gratitude. I just want you.”

  Despite everything that had just occurred, the world was suddenly a bit brighter.

  “Well, thank you anyway...for letting me love you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

  ****

  Being secretive was becoming second nature to Isobel.

  She kept Matteo out of the ritual preparation, despite his insistence on helping. Though she believed that the demon couldn't know what it didn't witness, the deeper integration of the incubus into the fabric of his being was worrisome. She had no way of knowing how intelligent it was and didn't want to take any chances on alerting it to their plans. It knew too much already.

  But she now knew something about it too. While it enjoyed her body, it abhorred her blood. It had reacted badly when it came into contact with a few drops after the attack in the conservatory. Either it had been driven away by some property in the blood, or the blood had hurt it in some way.

  Which was why she was altering the ritual and not telling Matteo. If he knew the true extent of the danger, he would never cooperate.

  It was something her grandmother had told her once. Blood magic meant sacrifice, sometimes your own. Adding her blood to the ritual tied her to it inextricably. If she couldn't control the fire in the purge, it wouldn't just consume Matteo. It would claim her too…

  The Conte was being kept in the dark, as well. Matteo was his only heir and in spite of his pompousness and selfishness, the man did love his son.

  If Aldo saw Matteo in pain, he would interfere and jeopardize all of their work. For this reason, Isobel decided not to confide in Nino either, even though she would have appreciated his assistance. However, when it came right down to it, she didn't know if his regard for her was enough to overcome his loyalty to his employer.

  She was alone in this.

  At least that's something you're used to.

  Chapter 26

  A hand on Matteo's forehead roused him from a deep sleep. It always took him so long to wake, even though he knew it was Isobel doing the waking. It was always her. No one else ever dared to touch him.

  Surfacing from sleep, he looked up at her. She was wearing his favorite day dress, a green muslin that matched the color of her eyes. It was a simple gown, modestly cut, and it always made him want to make love to her. Not the frenzied intercourse when the demon was in control, but a slow sweet joining. Something human. That wasn't possible anymore.

  If he wanted Isobel, it always came, eager to touch her too. Even now that he was starting to remember the experiences, to feel them as his own, it was like he was spinning out of control—a mere observer of the play. So he'd stopped asking Isobel for his husbandly rights. It wasn't fair to her when the demon already demanded so much.

  His wife leaned over him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. She never did that.

  “What's wrong?” he asked, sitting up.

  The tiniest smirk betrayed her before her countenance sobered.

  “It's time, Matteo.”

  “Oh.” His head suddenly felt like it was filling with air. He gave himself a hard shake before following her out of bed. Regaining his equilibrium, he put on his boots. “I had no idea that you were so close to being ready.”

  “I thought it better to surprise you, in case...”

  She didn't need to finish.

  Nodding, he followed her out of the room. Once in the hallway, she gestured for him to head down the stairs. On the other side of the windows the light was already fading, which meant he'd slept most of the day away. Again.

  At the foyer, he hesitated. Had she prepared the ritual in the library or the conservatory? It made more sense to use the conservatory since the ritual was supposed to use fire, but he hated going in there now, and Isobel must despise it.

  “Where are we going?” he asked when Isobel led him past the entrance to the library and down the hallway to the kitchen.

  There was no one there. They didn't have many staff, but the few they did have always congregated in the kitchen. If nothing else, Cook was a fixture there. But the kitchen was still and dark, the hearth cold. He found it disquieting.

  “I gave the entire staff the night off,” she said belatedly before opening the back door.

  A blast of icy wind greeted them. It was bitingly cold outside, and Isobel was only wearing a light dress.

  “I think you need your pelisse. Have you chosen the woods as our venue?”

  “No, and don't worry. It's not far.” She pointed at the external greenhouse.

  Of course, he should have realized. They had never used it, but he'd been assured by his agent that it was in good working order. Since the conservatory had been more convenient for their use, he'd never even bothered to go inside. As far as he knew no one else did either. Isobel had chosen well.

  The inside of the greenhouse was a large rectangular space. Old work benches and tables lined the walls, leaving a cleared area in the center. Grooves in the dirt showed that Isobel must have recently moved the tables herself. Other miscellaneous garden tools and supplies were stacked in the corner nearest the door.

  The cleared space wasn't empty. A large circle, bisected in half, had been drawn in white in the dirt. It was surrounded by a few crates filled with small boxes and little bottles. A larger dark brown glass bottle stoppered with cork and wax was set in front of the boxes. On the other side of the circle rested a
small stack of kindling. There was an unlit lantern next to it.

  “You've been busy. I'm sorry you had to do all of this on your own,” he observed.

  “It wasn't all that much work,” she said dismissively, but the tension in her posture was obvious.

  Now that they were in the greenhouse she was moving stiffly, the line of her shoulders unnaturally straight. He wanted to reassure her, but his own anxiety was eating at him.

  Watching with interest, his eyes tracked her as she reached into the crate for a small box and began pouring more white powder on the circle's diameter. It glittered oddly.

  “I thought that was chalk, but it's something else isn't it? Some sort of mineral? Powdered quartz or some other semi-precious stone?”

  Isobel smiled as she lit the lamp, the light casting a golden glow on her face. She had never looked more beautiful. But then again, he thought that every time he saw her.

  “It's salt, actually.”

  That wasn't what he'd been expecting. “Salt?”

  “A substance of vastly underestimated properties.”

  He snorted slightly. “A bit like governesses.”

  Her eyes glowed in the lamplight, but she didn't reply. “You should take off your shirt for this. I think direct contact with your skin will help,” she said with a duck of her head and a trace of apology in her voice.

  Feeling a bit more like his old self, he gave her a teasing smile.

  “If you wanted to see my bare chest, there's no need to make excuses,” he said as he pulled off his waistcoat and thick cotton shirt. “All you ever need to do is ask.”

  She didn't smile back. “Unfortunately, direct contact with your skin means a greater likelihood of sustaining burns. In this case, they would be to your chest, just here,” she said, placing her hand high on her stomach.

  “Why there? Wouldn't over my head be a more likely choice?”

  Isobel fiddled with a piece of kindling. “I've no wish to burn your face off, my lord. I've grown quite fond of it. And the choice is significant. It's something my grandmother taught me that I've been able to confirm with my reading. There are centers of power in the body, sort of like openings. A trained practitioner can access some of these with their healing if they're skilled enough or...”

  “Or open a gateway to curse someone,” he said heavily.

  She nodded. “Their number varies depending on the culture of the person writing the account. On average there are seven. I had initially thought to choose the one just below,” she said, moving her hand down her stomach with a tightening of her cheeks. “It's the one usually associated with sexual release, but after doing more reading, I decided the one above it would suit us better.”

  She turned away hastily to organize a few things around the circle, a series of flat white stones. Once they were in position, she grabbed another box with a fine grey powder and drew lines between the stones.

  “Are you sure? The one associated with...being amorous certainly sounds like a fine candidate,” he said awkwardly.

  Turning back toward him, she nodded quickly. “I thought so too at first, but the one above is tied to your personal will, and yours has been overpowered by this other being. I believe it will serve us better. Besides, we don't want to damage you…lower. I'm still hoping to have a family someday.”

  The last was said in a lighthearted tone, but it made his throat tighten. “I'd like that, too.”

  It was hard to stifle the rush of warm optimism that was running through him now. His wife was a brilliant woman, who possessed a great deal of raw talent and power. If anyone could get him through this, it was her. And he would spend the rest of his life thanking her for it.

  “You sit here, but don't disturb the salt. We can't break the circle,” she instructed, gesturing to it with a sweep of her hand.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped carefully over the line of salt and lowered himself into a seated position. Isobel did the same, taking extra care with her skirts. She reached for the brown bottle.

  “You have to drink this.” She handed him the bottle, her face pale. “Don't do so until I say, and then brace yourself because it will cause a lot of pain. You must take care to bear it as best you can. The circle must not be disturbed, so you mustn't move, at least not overmuch.”

  He nodded and took the brown bottle.

  “Not yet,” she admonished with a finger before reaching out for a large piece of wood from the kindling.

  Next she placed her hand on the lantern and closed her eyes. It sounded like she was whispering, soft words he couldn't make out but sounded vaguely like Latin. With a spill of bright sparks, the length of wood began to smoke and then flared into a blazing orange flame.

  He swore. It was the damnedest thing he'd ever seen. Peeking from behind her lashes, Isobel squinted at the torch before relaxing and smiling at him.

  “I've been practicing,” she said with a nod at the flame. “It won’t go out until it’s over. It’s charmed.”

  “Impressive, bella mia,” he said, slightly out of breath.

  “Don't compliment me yet.” She sighed, almost vibrating with tension.

  “It's going to be all right, mi amore.”

  “I'm supposed to be telling you that.”

  Time seemed to stand still for a moment. She gave him another anxious glance, then nodded at the bottle.

  He looked down at it, breaking the seal of the wax stopper with a twist. The smell of the liquid inside was overpowering, a strange mixture of metal, earth, and cloves. Coughing slightly, he raised the bottle in a toast before downing the contents in a quick pull.

  For a long moment nothing happened. He parted his lips to ask Isobel if something had gone wrong. The blinding wave of pain took him by surprise. It rolled through his abdomen, burning like acid as it went. In seconds the pain radiated to his extremities.

  It was as if he was already on fire. Every single part of his body was crying out. He could feel a fierce shaking and knew he was having convulsions. Opening his eyes with effort, he checked the line of salt around him to make sure he hadn't broken the barrier.

  He'd managed—only just—to stay in his half of the circle. Catching a glimpse of his love through watery eyes, he saw her face was deathly white.

  “Matteo, I'm going to begin now. Please try to hold on!”

  She was barely beginning now?

  Marshaling all his strength, he nodded, his neck rigid. The movement was a mistake. It was as if his head was going to snap off. He didn't attempt it again, focusing his concentration was on staying as still as possible. Then his beautiful wife made everything a thousand times worse.

  Heat. Excruciating. Unbearable. All of it was focused on his torso, the space directly above his stomach. He looked down, expecting to see a mass of blistering burning flesh—or a gaping hole—where his chest used to be. But his skin was intact. Terribly red, but otherwise normal.

  Isobel was holding the torch against his middle, but the flame wasn't touching him. And it should have been.

  There was a hairsbreadth of space between him at the fire. But the flame was kept from direct contact with his skin by an invisible wall. It shaped the fire into a near perfect circle. As he trembled and jerked closer to her, the unseen barrier adjusted, following his movements.

  There was something else too. A crawling sensation in his veins, like mercury running through them. It circled through his body like a rat trying to escape a flood.

  It was the demon.

  Aware of soft murmuring, he squinted at Isobel. She was saying something, more Latin words. He didn't try to understand what they were. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth, trying not to crush them with the force he was exerting, trying to keep his body from flying apart.

  Through all the chaos, a new sensation became apparent. It was as if something was pulling at his core, drawing on him like a sucking leech.

  And then all hell broke loose.
/>   Chapter 27

  “What the hell is this?” Aldo Garibaldi roared.

  Isobel's head flew up, her concentration breaking. The fire made contact with Matteo's skin. His skin blistered and the hair on his chest begin to burn. Pulling the torch back, she turned to the Conte.

  “No! Stay where you are!” she yelled, fighting the urge to jump up to slap him. “You'll ruin everything.”

  The Conte walked closer to the circle. “What are you doing?”

  “What you wanted me to do,” she hissed. “Stay there. Don't move and be quiet!”

  Aldo's face contorted at the sight of Matteo, who'd crumpled over on his side. “You will release my son. You're killing him!”

  Bloody stupid idiot.

  “I'm trying to save him,” she said in shocked disbelief as the Conte raged at her. “And don't you dare breach this circle!” She scrambled to her knees to grab a second piece of kindling, brandishing it in the count's direction.

  “I know you're trying to kill him. Nino told me everything.”

  What fresh hell was this? “He was wrong. Now shut up and stay away.”

  “Don't tell—”

  “Father, stay away.”

  Isobel gasped, turning back to her husband. Matteo's voice was low and raspy, strained beyond all reason. She didn't know how he had managed to speak. His body was being wracked by deep bone-shaking tremors and his face was nearly purple.

  Tears running freely down her cheeks, she reached out to touch him again.

  “Matteo my love, please hold on,” she cried, sitting back down. “We can still do this. Don't move!”

  “No, you can't!”

  Dizzily, Isobel twisted her head to the door. The last had been yelled by someone else. Another man had intruded on her ritual. He had to step closer to the lantern light for her to recognize him. And the gun he was holding.

  “Nino, what the bloody hell is going on?” the Conte yelled. “You said she was going to kill my son, that she was planning on running away with all of his money. My money.”

  Nino advanced, completely ignoring the count. The gun was pointed directly at her. “You weren't supposed to get this far. You weren't supposed to be here at all,” he said hoarsely.