Page 142 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
“I need to get close to him,” I said.
Mariana ducked and rolled out the way of Noble’s onslaught, his claws just barely missing her face. “Good luck with that,” she said, her words ending in a grunt as she swung her sword in an arc of blue flame.
I hugged the pitcher of potion against my body with my bad arm and came out from behind my table, scurrying along the perimeter of the clearing. “Can you lure him closer?” I shouted.
“Little busy!” Mariana leaped to the side, barely evading a wild swipe of claws.
With this latest move, Noble was now between us: me on one side of the clearing, Mariana on the other, Noble in the center. His back was to me, unaware of my presence as he crept toward the Valiant Knight.
Numerous tents were fully engulfed, now, spilling golden firelight onto the scene. Mariana had a scratch on her cheek and welts on her arms where Noble’s blood had splattered and burned her. Her breastplate was dented. Her hair was mussed. She looked tired, but she also looked fierce. The living embodiment of her Order’s name.
Seeing her like this—it made me feel all the more feeble and unprepared.
“Fates, help me,” I whispered as I approached Noble from behind.
The earth was slick with blood, the ground spongey beneath my feet. I tried not to think of it—tried not to wretch—as I carefully picked my way closer, weaving around the abandoned weapons and dismembered bodies.
As I walked, the potion sloshed in its pitcher, humming with each jostle, its power palpable. I could taste it in the air, its strange potency and potential. Memories of experiments gone wrong filled my mind’s eye: smoking, separating, bubbling, boiling. There was a very real chance that this so-called “cure” could kill Noble—if he wasn’t lost to his curse already.
Mariana and Noble were in a quiet sort of standoff: stances wide, arms outstretched, taking each other in, daring the other to make the first move. With Noble distracted, this might be my only chance. I was within six feet of him now, my limbs shaking, but my courage holding firm. I could do this, I could—
Mariana’s attention flicked to me, her eyes widening. “Hattie, what are you—?”
I shook my head, hoping she understood that I needed her to hold her ground. But the exchange distracted me, and my foot caught on something—the arm of a fallen soldier—and I stumbled.
The ground was too slick for me to regain my footing. I skidded and toppled forward, barely catching my fall with my good arm. The potion sloshed, spilling on my dress and stinging the cuts on my neck as I went down. I landed on my knees in the blood-soaked grass, the pitcher toppling.
“No,” I whispered, scrambling to set the glass upright. Only a dribble remained in the bottom. “No, no, no.”
At the sound of my peril, Noble turned, red eyes zeroing in on me.
“Hey! Hey!” Mariana called, trying to capture his attention, but his focus was singular, now.
Noble crept toward me, lips curled in a snarl. There were far too many teeth crowding his gums, needle-like and razor-sharp.
My blood went cold. I struggled to stand, but the ground was too slippery.
Noble inched closer, dark drool sliding out of the side of his mouth. He barely looked like himself anymore; the monster had taken over, corrupting his features into something vicious and terrible.
“Noble,” I said, scooting backward on my bum. “Noble, it’s me, Hattie.”
His glowing red eyes narrowed, tongue darting out to lick the points of his teeth.
I kicked my feet, but I didn’t have any traction on the blood-slicked ground. My dress was soaked with mud and gore and the spilled hope of his possible cure.
“Noble,” I pleaded. Hot tears streamed down my face. “Noble, please.”
He took another step. Another. Ferocious. Predatory.
Then he was hovering over me on all fours, looming so close that our faces were only inches apart. Still hugging the pitcher with the remaining drops of potion to my side, I leaned back on my elbows, cowering in the face of death. My cursed lover.
A droplet of drool landed on my sternum, stinging like hot oil. I winced, but kept my eyes trained on his, searching for even a flicker of green among the glowing red.
“Noble, it’sme. It’s Hattie. It’s your Peach.”
At the sound of my nickname, his eyes widened slightly, a flash of recognition.
“It’s Peach,” I repeated, fumbling with my right hand to reach my pocket.
