Harlowe’s Curse – Chapter 13

DAMARA

Disappointment and sorrow crash through my body like a merciless wave. This was probably my only chance at getting the necklace. There’s no way Clare will let me out of this garage now. I glare at Norma—the foolish human girl. She stares at her shoes.

Before I can find my voice, Peverell and Jaden enter the garage. Everybody comes up to the mezzanine as I try not to let my panic show too much. Jaden and Norma lean against a wall in the corner of the room, Clare stands by the stairs blocking the way out, and Peverell smiles and replaces the empty tray on my desk with another one filled with waffles and bananas.

“Good morning, dear,” he says. “Did you like the zoodles?”

Depleted, I sag on the bed. “Delicious,” I mutter in an awkward tone.

“Good, good. And did you sleep well?”

“Skip the pleasantries, Peverell,” Clare snaps. “She lied. She remembers more than she let on, and she wanted Norma to go fetch her necklace for her. Blood stone.”

Peverell’s eyes crinkle with interest. “Another? Wonderful. They’re so rare.”

“Wonderful?” Clare sighs. “Peverell.”

“What? We only know of the existence of very few Blood stones, including yours. It’s always great to hear the Crafts of another Blood witch lineage survived the wars.”

“Blood witches are one of the four kinds of witches,” Jaden whispers to Norma. “We need our blood to perform magic. Except when it comes to our personal Crafts, that we can access anytime. When a Blood witch dies, their family’s Blood stone—if there’s one—automatically absorbs their Craft for an heir to use.”

“Cool,” Norma replies, but it’s obvious from her expression that she’s about to lose it.

Five minutes ago, I would’ve found her adorable and said something comforting, but right now, I really don’t care if she ends up with some sort of trauma from this ordeal.

“Look,” Clare says in this no-nonsense voice. “You’re trapped in my daughter’s body, so whether you like it or not, this concerns you too. Telling us what you know might end up helping you in the end.”

“Yes,” Peverell says. “Maybe there’s a way to redirect your soul, which is obviously still intact, in another body. What if your death wasn’t the end of you?”

“But I don’t know anything about your daughter. I meant that,” I assure, hoping they believe me because it’s true. “I just wanted to keep my memories to myself. They’re all I have.”

“There must be a reason why Saleali picked you for this curse. Don’t you want to understand why this all happened?”

I shake my head. “I just want to go.” I curl up, tucking my legs in and holding them with both arms, chin on my knees. “Please, let me go.”

Clare tsks, and I know I said the wrong thing. “If you’d been honest with me, that could’ve happened,” she says, calmer than I’ve ever seen her so far. “Unfortunately, you lied. And I really despise being misinformed.”

She flicks one of her many rings around a finger and a drop of blood pearls on her knuckle, then she raises her hand in my direction. “Nescius,” she says, and my body goes limp. I roll over the bed and before my head even hits the floor, darkness swallows me whole.

The dreams are even more vivid. Too real.

Saleali is there again, chipped nails digging through my skin. They twist their fingers around my lungs ruthlessly, they tell me to stay still, that it will only take a minute.

I wake in another nightmare, where I die once again at the hands of the Sight witch. But I know it’s not the truth. It’s just a feverish version of it. It’s not what actually happened to me.

But they kill me in my subconscious a million times over and I let them, because reliving how I really died is worse than any pain they can possibly inflict on me.

The second nightmare is brief though excruciating, because it’s a real memory. Only it’s blurred at the corners and from another angle, as if I’m watching from above the floating flames illuminating the grotto and the eager faces of the entire coven. Blood pours out of me, my strength and powers along with it.

She’s here—the one who killed me. The head of the coven.

Watching intently and kneeling near my body, but that woman kneels for no one, so I know my imagination or own desires must be altering the memory, even though the lingering feeling of being used rings true.

She lights the match as tears run down her cheeks and I’m not sure if those are tears of sorrow or joy.

My last thought is loud and unsettling.

Are you happy now?

The last nightmare feels so real I think I traveled back in time. I’m not watching from above this time, and when I look at my hands, they’re mine, but much younger. I can’t be older than six.

Grey mist wraps around the world like a shroud, nothing but the sound of the angry waves hinting that I’m near the cliff, the ocean calling for me. My mother stands in front of me, a blade against her palm. She cuts the skin under her thumb and lets a drop fall into mine. The mist turns red.

“We’re Blood witches, Damara,” she tells me, her voice loud, so loud, ringing in my skull.

I crash to my knees, hands on my ears. The nightmare is winning over the memory.

“One day, you’ll inherit your father’s necklace, the Blood of your ancestors, and you’ll continue our fight against the Marshes. Your Craft is a blessing, daughter. You will be a significant asset to our cause.”

The necklace dangles on her chest like the chain of a hypnotizer, and I think about how strange it is that she wears it even though she can’t use its magic, since it belonged to my father’s elders, not hers. Now that he’s gone, I’m the only heir alive, the only one who can use the Crafts bequeathed inside. But when I reach for the necklace, it bursts into a million pieces, red light blinding me. I turn my head away to protect my eyes, the lethal cry of a beast ripping the air so violently the ground quivers under my knees. I dare a glance at the light. My mother has disappeared.

I jump to my feet. “Mother!” My scream is barely audible over the beast’s cry.

I feel them before I see them, the talons of black smoke curling around my ankles. They pull before I get a chance to shriek.

A creature wails as it hauls me toward the marshland, scarlet mist turning a gloomy shade of grey. The cliffs disappear, replaced by nothing but the swamps and the abandoned house at the end of a shabby deck where my friends and I used to dare one another to enter as kids, laughing if any of us yelped.

I’m not laughing now. Just yelling as I sink deep into the dark, murky water, waves oppressing me, allying with the shadows. Liquid replaces the air in my lungs, and I start to cough. Then the current around me morphs into a figure.

Saleali.

They shove their hand inside my chest to rip my heart out in one, remorse-free gesture. Pain radiates through me as Saleali throws my bleeding organ inside a little copper box. They seal it with a spell, ropes of shadows tying around the small trunk. Then they throw it in a bigger coffer, dark algae and sand winding around it all as I cry, a hand on my hollowed chest.

Below, the bottom of the marshes opens up in a terrible grumble, and the monster cackles around us, blending with the dark waters. Saleali kicks the coffer into the new opening. I watch, helpless, as my heart tumbles down the depths of the Earth.

And then it all disappears.

Saleali, the marshland, the giant hole.

Only darkness.

And the distant sound of my heart beating.

Thump.

Utterly alone.

My mind awakes before my body does. I stay paralyzed with my eyes shut. My hearing is a little stuffy, but I easily recognize Peverell’s voice near me.

“Here, here,” he whispers.

I feel him readjusting the pillows behind my head. He must’ve put me back on the bed, but I can barely feel the mat under me. All I know is that I’m freezing.

Clare groans further in the room. “There’s something I’m missing,” she mutters. “I know most of the spells by heart, and the curses, too. I’m sure of it. This just doesn’t add up. I need to know what I’m missing.”

“We’ll figure it out together, Clare. We’ll ask her the right questions.”

“But maybe Norma forgot a detail. I’ll call Jaden, tell him to bring her back.”

Peverell must’ve moved toward her, because his voice isn’t as close when he says, “It was a troublesome night for her, to say the least. Give her some time.”

“Don’t talk to me with that tone, Peverell.”

“What tone?”

“That condescending I’m-always-calm tone. I hate it, you know I hate it.”

“This has always been my tone,” he says in the exact same unperturbed voice. “It didn’t use to bother you.”

“Well, it bothers me now!”

“Fine. I won’t talk.”

Footsteps. A hand against my forehead. Blankets readjusting. I’m still unable to budge.

“Leave the goddamn witch alone. She doesn’t deserve such kindness.”

“Everybody deserves kindness.”

A sigh. “I need some fucking air.”

I hear Clare walking away, and then the garage door slams shut below.

“The air deserves our kindness too, Clare,” Peverell whispers under his breath, so low that I wouldn’t have heard it were it not so quiet.

It takes me another full minute, but I finally manage to pull myself out of the sleep paralysis. I gasp for air, clutching my chest where my heart is beating fast, so fast.

“There you are,” Peverell says. “I’m sorry about what happened. My wife is very protective of our children. I am too, just … in my own way.”

I catch my breath, bringing the blanket up to my chin. When I finally find my voice, I say, “I think I’m going to be sick.” I’m about to get out of bed, but my feet won’t respond.

I look down at the edge of the bed and see the roots trapping my entire legs over the blanket. “No,” I whimper.

Peverell gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. We need you to tell us what you know.” He grabs the little trashcan under the desk. “If you feel the need, just use this. It will clean on its own.”

He smiles, like this fact should please me. But I have been made an official prisoner, and not only to this garage, but to this bed. Right now, I want to rip his stupid smile off his face. As I prepare to scream my rage, the nausea comes back full force. I grip the trashcan and empty my stomach for a good minute.

The smell gets so bad Peverell does a quick spell to air the room. When at last my stomach settles, I lie back on the bed, wiping the sweat off my forehead.

“I don’t know where your daughter is,” I say, voice weak.

But the last person I thought could care about me enough to help walks away, abandoning me with legs that aren’t even mine bound to the bed.

“You can’t keep me here forever!” I call out after him, desperation making my voice higher.

Peverell stops at the top of the stairs to give me a pitiful look.

“You’re weak,” he says. “The blood running through your veins is foreign, you don’t have your necklace and even if you did, who’s to say it would recognize you? I’m sorry to break this to you, dear, but we Wickens are a family of powerful Blood witches, and if we desire, we absolutely can keep you here forever.”

And with that, he walks out.

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