Dark Curse Read online

  The fine strands, like silky spider webs splayed across my skin, are making their existence known. I cringe. I have known about them for months, using the advantages of winter to hide beneath layers of cloth. I will not be able to do this in the spring and summer, but part of me thinks that does not matter. I will not make it that long anyway. Not with the hex underway. Not with the madness of Mamá’s curse slowly stealing my sanity.

  I try to convince myself I must come to terms with my fate. This was the only way I could ensure my coven simply let us be. Together, we live out our final days, sinking deeper and deeper into this wretched void. The curse the witches cast upon themselves the moment they dabbled in the black arts has its hold on us, and each second, it grows stronger as we become weaker.

  I tell myself I am not simply giving up. I was the sacrificial lamb in the midst of hungry wolves. This fate is my atonement for all my misdeeds and bad judgments, for all the mistakes I made along the way. If I can die in place of the vampires, well, I figure that is a pretty good way to go. I just wish it didn’t take so long. The worst thing about dying is knowing I am trudging closer to the edge, and all I can do is wait for the fall.

  My expression sours, and I chastise myself for thinking like that. Every day I am granted to spend with the vampires is another day to be grateful for. I must remember that.

  This does not have to be the end. Holland is certain he and Will are close to discovering a way to sever my magical link to the coven, and if it works, I will be released from the aftereffects of the hex I cast. I try to remain hopeful and optimistic, even when all I want to do is hide under my covers and cry.

  I thought the worst part of my situation is my eventual demise, but maybe the disaster is losing myself in these erratic emotions. Just when I was finally getting a handle over them as a hybrid, the vampire was ripped from my very soul. And when she left, the void created in her absence has been nothing but a nightmare.

  Sighing, I pull open my vanity drawer a little too aggressively. The many bottles of various makeup products I have accumulated over the weeks since I cast my spell slide forward in unison. They rattle in the drawer and slam against the wooden side. An eruption of glass clanking together tears through the silent room, but nothing breaks. Still, I freeze and wait.

  A quick knock on the bathroom door alerts me to his presence.

  “Ava? Are you okay?” Jasik asks. I imagine his hand is grasping the knob, wondering if he should enter or wait for my response. Even though I locked the door, I know he can break in if he really wants to. The solid wood is no match for a vampire’s strength.

  Suddenly, I am damp, and I whisk away the sweat beading at my temple. My voice squeaks when I try to speak, and I curse inwardly. I need to be convincing, or he really will charge inside.

  “Yes! Sorry. I just dropped something,” I lie.

  I wait, listening as the floor creaks. Only when I am certain he has left the doorway do I release the breath I was holding. I exhale as quietly as I can, but my breath is ragged. If Jasik is still outside the door, he will definitely hear my panic, and he will wonder why I am so nervous.

  My heart is hammering in my chest, my vision is hazy, my throat is dry. I am absolutely terrified that Jasik will discover I have been hiding my condition. I do not want him to find out like this. If he needs to know, I want to be the one to tell him. I do not want his discovery of my secrets to be when he slams against the door, breaking it from its hinges, because he fears for my safety—only to discover my once smooth, perfect skin is now smeared with tiny black veins, stretching from my toes all the way to my neck.

  Still shaking, I grab a bottle of concealer. I dab some on my neck and smudge the color with my fingertips, badly covering the black lines with a shade of makeup foundation that does not match my now-pale complexion. I exhale sharply as I examine my work. Unsatisfied, I apply more. I do this over and over again, wondering if I have been in the bathroom for an unreasonable amount of time. I worry Jasik might really come barging in to see what is taking so long.

  Abandoning my mission, I toss the bottle of useless concealer in the drawer, not caring that it smacks against my other products. It makes a loud noise, and I wince as if it shattered. I live this same routine day after day, still surprised by my lack of satisfaction after I apply my products.

  If Jasik enters the bathroom now, he either will not notice my makeup hack job, or he will pretend he does not notice the difference in color between my face and my neck. For weeks, I have been applying concealer to any skin I worry might be exposed—from my neck and chest to my hands and arms, and at some point, I am sure he has noticed my newfound interest in cosmetics, especially since I rarely wore makeup before.

  I examine my neck. I want so badly to keep applying more concealer until I am bathed in the liquid, but I do not. It does not matter how much I cake on my skin, the faint discoloration from the black veins is still there, subtle but true. If I notice them, Jasik must be able to. Yet he never says anything, and I never catch him peering at me peculiarly. I am grateful he cares about me enough not to force my admission.

  I eye the open drawer, tossing barely used products aside as I search for what I know is not there. This crappy concealer is all I have, because I never leave the manor, not even to replace my products or to find shades of makeup that actually match my color.

  The only reason I have as many products as I have is courtesy of Hikari. I confided in her my desire for cosmetics, and she did the best she could to pick up the correct products for my skin type and complexion.

  Unfortunately, every day, as the darkness within me feeds on my life force, I lose more of my natural color. Soon, I am certain I will be nothing but a pile of bones encased in a leathery, lifeless, blanched shell. I shiver at the thought.

  Deciding against mixing concealer and foundation together to create some makeshift formula that likely will not work anyway, I push the drawer closed and return my gaze to my reflection. I grimace at my work, the sight of me leaving a bad taste in my mouth. The splotch of makeup applied to my neck looks even more noticeable than yesterday. I sigh, wondering if it is even possible to become pastier than I already am. Pretty soon, I will be see-through. Then I will definitely have to reveal my magical afflictions to the vampires.

  The floor creaks outside the bathroom door, and I know Jasik is there, directly outside the door. He always waits for me, and we walk down to breakfast together. Without my heightened senses, I no longer hear the house come alive, and it always feels eerily quiet. Everything about this magicless life feels…lonely.

  But I know the vampires are still here, and I trust they will never leave my side. Now, since the sun has set and the moon shines down upon Darkhaven, they awaken. I bet most are already downstairs, devouring mugs of blood while laughing, talking, enjoying the eternity they have been granted on this earth.

  I snort when I think about how eternity on this planet once felt smothering, as if too much time were just as bad as not having enough. Now I know that was yet another lie I told myself.

  Before, I would look into the future, knowing the vast, endless expanse of time before me is simply waiting for memories, and that feeling is nothing like knowing I have too few days left.

  I hide my condition from the vampires. Not because I am afraid they will be angry at my lies or because I am ashamed of the link formed between the witches and me, but because there is no way to explain how it feels to know you should have your whole life ahead of you while waiting for your internal fire to be extinguished by forces utterly out of your control.

  I pick at my cuticle, pulling the skin until I bleed. I wince as a surge of pain rushes over me.

  When my mother cursed me by linking our souls, she damned my emotions and muted my senses. But my ability to feel pain and fear has never been so sharp.

  I dab my tongue against my fingernail, letting the blood drip into my mouth. When it stops bleeding, I pull down the sleeves of my sweater and slide my thumb through the
makeshift holes I cut near the bottom hem.

  I started altering my tops by cutting thumb-holes into my long-sleeve T-shirts and sweaters after I thoughtlessly pushed up my sleeves one afternoon while researching my condition with Holland. Luckily, he was invested in the book he was reading and did not notice the veins that have threaded their way through my entire body.

  My skin is coated with them now. They are scattered along every curve like tattoos, and they feel just as permanent.

  Holland never knew he was one blink away from realizing how desperate my situation has become. And just like with Jasik, I do not want him to know. I am dooming myself to mourn my life in silence, accepting my fate as one of the few things I chose.

  Terrified Holland might find out the truth because I carelessly pushed up my sleeves, I cut up my clothes, ensuring to never again make that mistake.

  Chapter Two

  I stare at him just over the top of the leather-bound book I have been thumbing through for the last hour—to no avail. Lately, I do not have the luxury of reading for pleasure. Instead, I am doomed to skim these musty pages until something sticks out as a feasible option.

  Streams of words formed by some archaic language no one speaks anymore loop endlessly in my mind, and I wonder if I have been wrong all this time. Maybe this—the inability to comprehend my terminal fate—is hell.

  In these moments, when the darkness is heavy on my heart, and it is so loud, doubt becomes all I can hear, I like to believe that death offers peace life can never grant me. That thought crosses my mind now, and something settles over me. It feels…weighty and formidable, embracing me until I submit to it.

  I shake away those dark thoughts, that ominous feeling. Every day, I struggle to remain hopeful and optimistic that Holland is both smart enough and strong enough to fix me. I am constantly combating my desire to accept my fate and my need to fight it.

  In these times of severe doubt, when I just want to give up and enjoy what little time I have left, I forget who I am. I must never forget that I am a fighter. I am a warrior. I am strong enough to withstand any fate, even one brought on by my doing. Sometimes, I bring myself back to reality, but other times, my words are not enough to keep me sane, happy. It is a daily struggle, a constant teeter of emotional whiplash. And I am getting tired of it.

  I watch as Holland makes his way through piles of research books long before I finish even one. I wonder if he knows he is trying harder than me. Can he tell I am slowly losing hope? Is it obvious to everyone in this house?

  Holland scrunches his face at something he is reading, and I squint, trying to see him more clearly. Ever since I cast the spell, damning my body to live out a mortal life, my vision has worsened. Not only do I not have heightened senses, but I barely have basic vision at this point.

  I do not understand how some people open their eyes and simply cannot see. Requiring contact lenses or glasses just to notice your surroundings is a form of cruel and unusual punishment.

  Holland groans, mumbling under his breath. He twists in his seat and scribbles something on the notepad beside him. He presses too hard, and the pencil tip snaps. He curses and throws his writing utensil on the floor. It smacks against the hardwood, bouncing several times before it slides to a stop at the other side of the room. It seems my situation is taking a toll on everyone.

  Holland peers at me, his brown eyes wide, as if he is embarrassed I witnessed his breakdown. I smile, hoping it seems genuine and speaks volumes to our situation. I want to pull him into a hug and tell him it is okay. We all have these moments. If only he knew how emotionally unstable I am right now, he would not feel so awkward. He would laugh it off, pick up his broken pencil, and start over. I envy him in this moment. My situation is not as easily remedied.

  Holland’s lids are heavy. Dark circles under his eyes are overemphasized by his pale skin. He apologizes for his outburst and runs a hand through his already-sloppy hair. His fingers get tangled in the mess, so he leaves it in a heap atop his head and drops his arm to his side. He thumbs the edge of the sofa awkwardly, peering up to meet my gaze.

  I smile at him, conveying with my eyes that it is okay. I wish he did not take this so seriously. Sure, I want to find a way to sever this link as much as he does, but I hate that Holland is sacrificing his own health to save me.

  Everyone is surrendering their lives and their time to this cause—except for me. I am deemed too weak to assist. So I just sit here with my books and my doubt, sinking further into the quicksand, the barren abyss my world has become. As they walk around me, frantically trying to find a magical situation to break a curse gone wrong, no one even notices that I am disappearing.

  Soon, I fear I will be rooted so deeply, with the sand all around, I will not be able to breathe. I worry no one will see, no one will notice. I will just be…gone. And they will still be searching for a cure.

  I continue to smile at Holland, and he returns the gesture, laughing off his tantrum all while these thoughts rush through my mind. My mouth mute, my tongue a useless husk, Holland never notices.

  And I sink a little deeper.

  Breaking my gaze, Holland snaps the book shut, and a plume of dust erupts in the air. He does not seem to notice that either. He tosses the tome on the open seat beside him and walks across the room to pick up the pencil. After wiping it off, he returns to the couch, never meeting my gaze.

  He rarely looks at me now. Only when he needs certain information will he give me his full attention. I think he fears he will not discover a cure, a way to cut the link once and for all, and he does not want me to see that realization in his eyes. So he never meets mine anymore.

  Ever since I returned home, the vampires have acted different. They worry. I catch them staring when they think I do not notice, and I try not to let it bother me. But it does. They all look at me the same way—like I am a victim.

  And I guess I am now. This is a role I have never played, and to be honest, I hate it. I hate that I am no longer comfortable in my own skin. I hate that I must rely on everyone else just to survive the night. I cannot leave the manor, because danger lurks around every corner in Darkhaven, from covens of witches who hate me enough to damn themselves to rogue vampires intent on annihilating the entire population. Even tripping over my own feet can end in disaster.

  I sigh and scan the book I am reading. The words begin to blur together, the ink seeping from the pages and dripping into a pool in my lap. I look away, once again setting my sights on the scene before me rather than the pages that might save me. My mind is too mushy to focus right now anyway.

  I hear everything now. The vampires whisper about my condition, only silencing when they hear my approach. The hunters are better at hiding their concern for my well-being. They pretend nothing has happened, even allowing me to sit in on their meetings to schedule patrols. Each eagerly volunteers for every shift, never allowing a vacant night to go by. It’s not like I could actually sign up for a slot, but still, I appreciate that we all pretend I could.

  Amicia is the only one who does not play games with me. She makes her concern for my condition clear. Daily, she asks me how I am feeling, if I notice any changes, if I seem to be better or worse. She asks me about the darkness, and sometimes, I think she knows I lie to her. But she never questions me further. I know she accepts me as a member of her nest, but her real concern is for her vampires, the ones she sired, the ones she vowed to protect.

  Amicia might not have witnessed firsthand the evil that resides within me courtesy of the black magic used to link my soul to the witches, but she is wise even beyond her many, many years. She knows it is only a matter of time before the darkness eats away at my sanity, making me a danger to her and every vampire in this nest. That is the moment she will no longer tolerate my lies.

  I frown and play with a loose string at my wrist. The thumbhole I cut into this sweater is already unraveling. The threads that once kept this shirt formed are falling away. I will probably only get another night out o
f it before I will be forced to toss it in the garbage. I cannot risk it unraveling in front of the vampires. They cannot discover the truth by mere accident, so I only wear clothes a handful of times before asking Hikari to find me more.

  I think she is getting suspicious. After all, how many clothes does one girl need? Still, she remains silent, agreeing to find me anything I need. I am eternally grateful to her. I could not keep up my ruse without her aid.

  Closing my eyes, I lean back in my chair and inhale deeply. A sharp stabbing pain is becoming more prominent deep within my skull. I finger my temples, applying enough pressure to give me something else to focus on but not enough to make the throbbing inside my head actually fade away. Sudden migraines are swift and daily now. I suppose this is just another perk of being cursed by black magic.

  The book I was failing to comprehend is resting on my lap, and it slips, sliding down my narrow legs and landing in a loud heap on the floor. When I open my eyes, Holland is staring at me. He is frowning, not bothering to hide his concern.

  Expressionless and guarded, he wears a mask when he is around me, and he uses it to hide his emotions. Every day, I fight the urge to ask him if it is exhausting being hyperaware every single day, never wanting to show too much. But I already know the answer, because I too am wearing a mask. I know just how tiring it can be.

  Holland eyes the book now splayed on the floor by my feet and then glances back up at me. I drop my arms, suddenly self-conscious for trying to ease my headache tension.

  “Everything okay?” Holland asks.

  His eyes are dark, almost black, and I swallow hard as I look at them. I do not know if his irises are just their natural brown color or if my mind is playing tricks on me, making me see what is not there. The darkness within me likes to do that. It feeds on my insecurities, on my fear. While I waste away, it is living lavishly.