Page 114 of Cursed

“We have much to discuss,” Lucian called out. As the members of the Council followed Lucian into another secret chamber, Bastian, Valen, and I were left alone in the chamber with Elder Craster’s pale corpse.

“Fuck,” Bastian whispered.

“Fuck,” I agreed.

I stoodover the lifeless body of the Sage, but I wasn’t looking at him. I was staring at my own hands.

How had my magic failed?

Why?

The stench of spilled blood clung to the air like a sinister perfume and mingled with the scent of damp stone.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Lift him,” Titus commanded. His voice was cold and sharp—as chilling as Lucian’s—and it knocked me out of my trance.

There was no room for hesitation.

Bastian and I exchanged glances, but we bent in unison to grasp the corpse’s cold limbs. Together, we maneuvered the Elder’s corpse, lighter than I’d expected, back through the catacomb, up the stone stairs, and through the graveyard.

Titus strode ahead of us and opened the back of the SUV. He pulled a tarp from the bag he’d packed and spread it over the carpet.

“Hurry up,” he snapped.

Bastian grunted as he shifted the weight in his hands, his youthful face drawn tight with exertion. “Are you even lifting?” he grunted. “The old man was lighter in the catacombs.”

“Quit complaining,” I shot back. We heaved the corpse into the back of the SUV in an ungraceful tumble of limbs. Titus watched without lifting a finger to help.

“Why do we get stuck with all the hard work?” Bastian complained as he wiped his hands on his jeans. His pale eyes seemed paler in the early dawn light.

“What now?” I asked. “Are we just going to dump him at sea?”

“Do you have a better plan?” Titus snapped. He slammed the trunk closed, and the thud echoed through the graveyard.

Discomfort blossomed in my chest. “What if someone finds him?”

“They won’t,” Titus assured me, and a predator’s grin framed his words. “And if they do...well, let’s just say that a discovery such as a dead Elder washed up on shore would send quite a message.”

“We have enough eyes on the harbor,” Bastian sniffed. “No one will say anything. Besides, no one would believe it. The old man had enemies—”

“Are you sure about that?” I asked.

Bastian shrugged. “Like I give a shit.”

“We’re wasting time,” Titus growled. “Get on your bikes. Meet me at the harbor.”

I frowned at the dawn light. “We’re running out of time.”

Titus walked toward the front of the SUV. “Because you won’t shut up,” he said without looking back.

Bastian laughed and loped over to his motorcycle. He threw his leg over the black beast and grinned at me before shoving his helmet over his blond curls. I hated Titus for the way he insulted us—me, in particular—but he was right. We were short on time.

The engines of our motorcycles roared to life and shredded the silence of the graveyard. The SUV kicked up gravel as it accelerated out of the parking lot and I shoved my helmet down onto my head. I kicked off the pavement and revved hard, shooting ahead of Bastian, who cursed and gunned to keep up. Our convoy plummeted through the waking streets of Messana, and the shadow-lit cobblestones hummed under our wheels.

Bastian and I made it to the pier minutes behind Titus, but he was already out of the SUV and strode purposefully towards us. His icy eyes met mine. “Get the body,” he ordered.

With another round of shared glances, Bastian and I complied.

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