Page 40 of Cursed

The grimoire sat on the vanity in front of me, and its whispers were loud in my ears.

I stared at the pages and tried desperately to make sense of the swirling glyphs and markings—but as I strained to decipher them; they began to fade from the page.

“No—”

I rubbed at the ancient pages with my fingertips, and begged the symbols to return, but the pages seemed to absorb them and the markings faded away and left the original writings instead. And they made even less sense—

I didn’t want Bastian’s help.

I didn’t want to beg him again… I bit down hard on my cheek and tasted blood as the memory of how he had used his magic on me flooded through my body. I squeezed my thighs together and tried to focus on anything but the ache that thrummed through me.

I shouldn’t have given in to what he’d asked—but I wanted to know more about the grimoire. And that had been his price.

What would he demand if I begged for his help again?

But what was I supposed to do now?

The intricate symbols and drawings had faded away… as though they’d never existed. But I hadn’t imagined them. They had been right there—hidden within the fibres of the parchment.

The dagger Bastian had drawn from the grimoire’s spine lay on the vanity at my left hand.

I had avoided looking at it for as long as possible, but I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Not if I wanted to unlock the secrets contained deep within the ancient pages.

I picked up the dagger and examined it carefully.

Its blade is slender and wickedly sharp, etched with runes that seem to shimmer faintly, the blackened silver hilt pulsed against my palm, and I marveled at the way it seemed to mimic my heartbeat. How many hands had wielded this blade? How much blood had soaked into these pages?

Bastian had been familiar with it—too familiar—

Had all three of Lucian’s sons unlocked the secrets of this ancient tome?

The blade gleamed as I tightened my grip on the hilt and held it against the side of my hand over the open pages of the grimoire. I sucked in a quick breath as a flare of pain rippled up my arm.

A moment of courage.

The grimoire’s whispers buzzed in my ears like angry hornets as I gritted my teeth as I pressed the edge of the dagger against my flesh. It bit into my hand and I let out a strangled gasp at the shock of the cold metal and the hot swell of my blood as it spilled over the blade.

Dark droplets fell onto the paper with wet splats that made me flinch, and the grimoire’s whispers stilled—but only for a moment. Before my eyes, new glyphs and symbols bloomed across the pages.

The pain twisted up my arm and caused my vision to swim.

Despite this, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the spectacle that unfolded in front of me.

The once indecipherable pages were now filled with dark symbols and intricate lines, all interweaved within each other in a chaotic yet beautiful artwork. The whispers surged louder and pressed against my eardrums in an echoing drumbeat that matched the throbbing pain in my hand.

Each drop of blood that fell from the cut on my hand seemed to pull the whispers from the pages, releasing them into the air as swirling threads of energy. Fear thrummed through me and rippled over my skin, but underneath it was an undeniable surge of power and knowledge.

The symbols that had adorned these pages only a moment ago had been indecipherable—written in a language that I could never hope to understand.

But these—I could read these symbols. I could understand the dark poetry.

Was it like this for anyone who possessed the grimoire?

I set the dagger down and pressed the side of my hand against the pages of the book. The smear of blood it left behind stayed on the page for only a moment before it was absorbed. I turned the page and marveled at the spells, incantations, and alchemical recipes that were revealed.

Detailed, disturbing illustrations of human and creature anatomy that highlighted bones, muscles, and vital points—but for what purpose?

My breath caught at the diagrams—detailed patterns for creating… abominations.

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