Page 27 of Heirs of the Cursed

“You have five minutes to get ready and perform, Ndiaye!” He spat her last name in disgust. “I must share a few words with my dear sister first.”

He closed the door and Darcia sinned once again.

As soon as Conrad spun around, she slapped him across the face.

“Don’t you ever touch her again or I swear . . .”

Conrad’s hand rose ominously, like the claw of a predator stalking its prey. He closed it around Darcia’s delicate throat, his unrelenting strength squeezing her to the edge of suffocation. In that desperate moment, the world around her stopped and she was caught in a whirlwind of terror and agony.

Every second was an eternity of suffering as she struggled to free herself from the iron grip that threatened to snatch her life away. Her trembling fingers tried desperately to undo the knot of oppression, but Conrad’s strength was like an impassable wall.

“It seems that someone needs to teach you some manners.”

He threw her against the armchair and Darcia’s back cracked under the impact. She didn’t scream, nor cry, even though the pain in her spine immobilized her for a few seconds. As she sat upright, a slap crossed her face.

“Stand up.”

Darcia didn’t move.

“On your feet, now!”

Her legs barely obeyed. Conrad took her arm and pushed her against the dresser, sending her jewelry crashing to the floor. All Darcia could see was his reflection in the mirror; the reflection of ademon—one she’d never get rid of, because fate had made them family.

All hope vanished from her face when she saw her stepbrother take one of the whips she occasionally used for a performance.

“You will learn how to behave, one way or another.”

And so the whip fell upon her.

The pain of the first lash was excruciating. Her back burned and tears slipped down her cheeks. Darcia kept her lips closed, but when the whip descended once again, she couldn’t hold backthe scream. The leather pierced her skin and the scars that had already healed, opening a new wound that she’d have to wear with shame.

The next two were just as hard. Darcia bit her tongue, new tears rolling down her cheeks. She wouldn’t scream again, because to do so would mean giving Conrad the satisfaction he craved, and she’d never again give in to him.

Four, five, six.

The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. She could barely feel her legs and arms, and the blood trickling down her back was a phantom caress. Her body trembled in response to the whipping, and the adrenaline coursing through her veins was the only thing keeping her conscious.

Seven, eight.

Pain became a relentless ache throughout her body, but after the tenth lash, Darcia slipped off the dressing table and fell limply to the floor.

She didn’t need to look at Conrad to know he was admiring the blood that stained the whip and the crimson drops trickling down his forearm. It was the only reward that satisfied him, a sign that he was succeeding in breaking her and that Darcia had no escape.

She wanted to stop crying, but she couldn’t.

“You’re nothing but trash we picked up off the street,” Conrad reminded her, smiling defiantly. “Without me, you’d be dead. Without me, you would be nothing. You owe me your life, and at some point I swear I’ll collect it.”

Darcia closed her eyes and begged herself to be strong, to not let Conrad win another battle. She didn’t think about the bloodstained dress, nor about her emaciated and exhausted body . . .

She just faced her stepbrother with a dark stare.

“I’ll be waiting for it.”

Conrad dropped the whip and gave her a look of hatred that hid an eternal promise: she would never be free. Fate had been cruel enough to put Darcia in the hands of that savage and, as much as she wanted to run away and find her place in the world, she wouldn’t succeed as long as he were alive.

When her stepbrother walked out of the dressing room, leaving her lying in her own pool of blood, Darcia allowed herself to be weak. She collapsed and choked back a cry of pain that made her lungs burn, sinking her head in her arms. Her head ached, her back stung . . . She was so tired and lost.

She lay on the floor for a few minutes, crying from helplessness and anger. Little by little, the young illusionist let the pain creep into her, embracing her soul until it became a part of her.

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