Page 66 of Cursed

Not until she came to me for help.

And she will.

That thought wasn’t reassuring, but it had to be enough.

My chest heaved,and I stared at my hands in disbelief.

I’d slammed the door shut.

I’d done it.

My fingers tingled with the force of my magic and a smile crept over my lips.

The grimoire—all the time I’d spent reading it and studying its pages… Maybe it was finally rubbing off on me.

It had to be.

Was that why Lucian had given it to me?

I waited, trying to breathe normally, for Valen to make a decision.

I knew he was outside the door… would he try to come back in?

Minutes passed, and then my awareness of his presence faded—

Good.

Behind me, the grimoire pulsed—I could feel its pull and the cuts on my arms throbbed in response.

I turned toward my vanity and sucked in a deep breath as I walked toward it.

The vision that had assaulted my senses in the garden, the apparition I’d seen in the bathroom. My mother was trying to speak to me. She was trying to tell me something.

I’d read about spectres of the dead—shades who sought to frighten those who could see them. But the initial fright was meant to shield them from revealing the truth—a message for the seer.

My mother had a message for me—why else would she appear in such a way?

I stopped in front of the vanity and extended my hand over the book.

The grimoire responded with a shiver and a low hum vibrated against my palm. A shiver rippled up my arm and as a chill enveloped my hand.

What if the grimoire contained a spell to bring her shade back—so I could speak to her.

One last time.

My fingers brushed against the cool, unsettling leather. It felt wrong, like touching the carcass of something long-dead. The grimoire’s whispers grew louder in my mind and rose to a frenzied chorus that beckoned me onward.

I hesitated, but only for a moment. Then, with a sudden rush of courage—or perhaps madness—I snatched the blackened silver dagger from the grimoire’s spine and pushed back my sleeve to expose my arm.

Running out of space.

I bit down on my tongue as I pressed the blade against my wrist, sharp and unforgiving, and sighed as crimson droplets fell onto the dark metal clasp. I barely noticed the pain and smiled as the clasp fell open with a softclick.

The spine creaked as I opened the book and the pages crackled in response, releasing a gust of cold air that seemed to wrap around me like an embrace from the grave. They fluttered restlessly, eager to expose their secrets, and I pressed the blade harder against my flesh. Dark droplets fell onto the ancient pages, and a smile twisted across my lips as the arcane symbols twisted and turned over the pages, inked in my blood.

“Show me the spell I need,” I demanded.

The drawings were horrific and nightmarishly detailed, and each illustration sent a chill coursing through my veins, yet I couldn’t look away.

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