Page 1 of The Cursed and the Broken
BEFORE
Death always knocked on ourdoors on the Day of the Cursed. The doorknob would curl, the wooden slats would rattle, and the scraping of his claws would sound as he circled our homes, hungry for the souls of the innocent.
In the end, it was always blood that saved us. We would smear it across the threshold, along with murmured whispers of protection. Spells to hide us from his sight, to seal us from his sense of smell. For he could scent the blood of witches.
Our blood.
I flinched as the wind shrieked outside, the howling force sending tree branches shivering against windows and the thatched roof above. Our livestock bleated their protest too, the faint tinkle of their collared bells jangling from the barn by our home.
A bang ruptured the night and Eszter screamed, clutching my arm so tight her knuckles turned white. Burying her head in my shoulder, I swept my fingers over her curly hair, smoothing out the knots, trying to ease the trembling of my bones.
“Be still, girls,” Mama said sharply from her perch by the fire, sewing needle and cloth clenched between her deft fingers. Eszter lifted her head, and Mama’s brown eyes swept over us, softening upon seeing her fear.
She beckoned with a crooked finger, and we scooted to her feet, Eszter nestling into her skirts. “Do you remember why Death comes for our coven on theElátkozottak Napja?”
How could we forget? Mama would tell the same story on the same day every year.The Day of the Cursed.She had drilled it into our brains since we were children, and even though I was eighteen, it was a tradition she held. My mother respected our history and insisted knowledge, before our magic, was the first power we should turn to.
Hugging my knees to my chest, I stared into the crackling fire, yearning for the warmth to seep into my veins. But my blood ran cold as winter frost tonight—nothing would alter that. It was the same for all the witches in my coven, and it was all because ofher. Sylvie Morici, otherwise referred to as the Dark Queen.
“The first boszorkányok were cruel,” Eszter recited dutifully. She was four years younger than me, still eager to please Mama and innocent in the ways of witches. “They abused their power and channelled into demonic arts.”
Mama frowned, her lips twisting with disdain. “Not at first, child. Witches were peaceful beings upon the dawn, eager to help and heal those in need. But over time, the humans grew distrusting of their gifts, enraged by fear and greed. They commandeered witch hunts, oppressing and murdering those who had only ever helped them. That’s when the Dark Queen stepped in, twisting our lore, corrupting our spiritual beliefs into cultlike factions of dark magic. The witches hexed freely, destroyed crops, livestock, families.”
She shook her head, her curly brown hair bouncing with the movement. “Witches became wicked, and their wretched ways brought us only ruination. It was the most powerful of the first witches, Sylvie Morici, that tethered our world to the hell realm. Her spells called upon Death … and he answered.”
Eszter’s wide brown eyes blinked at me before gazing up at our mother, who tenderly laid a hand on my sister’s cheek and shook her head. “She tried to bend him to her will, steal his power to destroy all in her path, and, furious with her boldness, he cursed us forevermore, vowing to take the lives of any witches without protection. For a long time, many witches fell to his thrall, taken in their prime, either on the run from humans or on the move to resettle in safe havens. Eventually, the covens came together to lay the foundations which would prevent this threat from taking more of our kind. Thus, we must ask penance and prepare ourselves on theElátkozottak Napja.”
Bumps broke out over my flesh as I imagined the reaper himself tilling witches like wheat fields, scythe in hand and hood covering his skeletal face. Of course, no one really knew what Death looked like, and those who did were dead or weren’t long for our world.
Unfortunately, the spell wasn’t a complete failsafe. Somehow, witches still succumbed to his call despite our spells and precautions. Those whose power had awakened upon their eighteenth birthday, whose magic thrummed deeper and sung sweet harmonies to spirits both evil and benign. Witches like me.
As if reading my thoughts, Mama pursed her plump lips and pottered to the stone hearth to boil some tea, scowling at the boarded window as if her rankled mood would repel foul spirits. The blustery night only rattled the shutters harder and I, too, glared at the window.
A dark shadow swept past the cracks, and my stomach plummeted in fear. Mama turned to us both, a finger raised to her white lips, a fear in her eyes I’d never seen before. Perhaps the threat was higher now that I was of age, for she was a lion among lambs, and she did not scare easy.
Eszter made to dart to her, but I grabbed her bony shoulders tight and pulled her to my chest, clutching my sister in protective arms.
“Don’t move,” I whispered in her ear, my breath pluming against her cheek. A foggy draft spilled into the room from under the front door, a coldness pooling before our feet known only to the dead. Eszter whimpered, and I clamped a hand to her lips, stifling the sound of life. Hoping Death would continue his hunt elsewhere.
The door was locked but not barred. He could touch the threshold, but he couldn’t enter?not without becoming trapped in the pentagram drawn one step inside the home. I drew ours with chalk provided by the Barna family, who owned the most wheat fields in our village. Never had I been more thankful for shrewd old Marta.
Three thumps sounded on the wood, then the gouging of claws swept down the grain. We all held our breath, not uttering a sound as Death lingered at the threshold but, sure enough, the cold abated and the darkness lightened just a little, signalling his passing.
We were safe. Well, those of us in the main house.
The terrified bleats and whinnies of our sheep and horse sounded from the barn nearby, and my heart filled with dismay. My gaze darted to Mama, the words tumbling from my mouth. “I thought he was only interested in the souls of witches.”
Her silence spoke volumes, even if confusion distorted her features.
My breath caught in my throat as I clutched Eszter and closed my eyes, as if shutting out the world would prevent such terrible things from happening. Those poor animals. And it wasn’t just their lives at stake, it was ours, too. Our livelihood.
I snapped my eyes open again, but Mama only shook her head firmly, knowing my impulsiveness, the look in my steely gaze. I wilted against Eszter, the curve of her back pressed against my chest, her form trembling against my grip. She was crying. Not for us, but for the animals. Her heart was as tender as they come.
Which is why I should have known better. She wriggled from my clutches and made for the door on agile feet. She was a skinny slip of a thing, and I cursed the lack of a bruising grip that might otherwise have detained her. Rising from my perch on the floor, I stumbled after her, my socks slipping on the cold stone as my hand snatched at her dressing gown.
Too late. She ran out the door and into the unforgiving night. Mama shrieked, moving faster than I’d ever seen her. But I was quicker.
I wasted no time in snatching a knife from the kitchen bench. If I could catch my little rabbit of a sister before she found herself trapped in the hunter’s claws, all might be well.
