Page 19 of The Curse of Ophelia

There were two facts of which I was sure.

The first: If I had been Cursed, then my family was wrong in our suspicion that our bloodline had escaped unscathed. That meant that either my father’s or mother’s lines were at risk. Since the Curse manifested in descending age order, one of them must have already been struck.

My chest constricted, but I didn’t have time to panic because the second fact barreled into my mind: I was going to die.

Soon.

Within days I would begin hallucinating, and from there the progression would be quick. Unaware of my surroundings and starved for blood, I would pose a risk to both loved ones and strangers. The only solution, for the safety of those around me, was execution.

I waited for the swoop of terror through my gut, but it didn’t come.

Sliding into the dark embrace of death for the safety of those I loved did not frighten me. Truthfully, I harbored little fear about my death. If I met my fate this way, so be it, but my family did not deserve this doom. It was the thought of the Curse spreading, infecting the innocent around me, and condemning them to an untimely death that had fear gripping my heart.

Bile rose in my throat as the stinging in my wrist deepened. I swallowed it and grabbed a pillow from the bed, pressing my face into it to stop myself from screaming out. Clamping my hand down over the gray webbing, I pulled my wrist to my chest to smother the pain.

It was a tree burrowing its roots, and I was the soil.The endless digging ebbed throughout my wrist, working to corrupt my blood with a gleeful pleasure.

The Curse was like a living thing, latching on to me.

Conceal it, I thought, steadying myself against the pain. That was what I must do. Hide this affliction from everyone I knew until I figured out how far it had stretched. As long as no one came in contact with my blood, those who had not yet been infected would remain safe.

I stormed to my armoire on shaking legs, and wrenched the doors open to reveal an overwhelming assortment of gowns. Trying to make sense of the gossamer, tool, chiffon, and silk of all colors that stared back at me was nearly impossible. Frantically, I ripped dresses from their hangers, cursing myself for insisting on as little material as possible when these were made. Never had I thought that I would be looking for something more modest.

A navy-blue sleeve caught my eye, and I shoved through the collection to grab it. Within seconds, I was struggling to do up my own corset. Dark skirts flowed around me, heavier than I preferred, but it had sleeves. Long and fitted, they extended past my wrists, a soft fabric falling to cover my hands almost completely.

I held my arms out and rotated them, taking care that the Curse was concealed with every movement. A burning twisted around my veins where the webbing lay, as if fighting the cover, but I swallowed my cry of pain.

Once I knew no one could possibly see it, I folded my hands before me and looked at my reflection. My swollen eyes were resuming their usual shape. I wiped a thin sheen of sweat from my forehead and looked otherwise normal. The Curse had not yet caused my skin to pale or my eyes to redden—though I supposed that wouldn’t be too noticeable with their magenta shade, thank the Spirits.

My expression was grim, but that was typical of me nowadays. My heart felt heavier than it had in my lifetime as I imagined what was waiting in my household below. Who may be experiencing the steady pulse of pain that I now endured? Whose breaths may be ticking toward their last? My teeth ground together, heat flushing through my body. They all deserved better than this cruel twist of fate.

With a steadying breath, I shook my long hair behind my shoulders and let it fall to my waist as it pleased, still disarrayed from slumber. I turned from the mirror and left my room to decipher who among my family faced death.

Seconds after the door closed, I met Jezebel on the landing. She took in my heavy dress, her brow furrowing. “What are you—”

“No training today,” I grumbled, pushing past her to descend the stairs, sneaking glances at both of her wrists as I went.

Bare.

Not an inch of gray webbing to be found. Thank the Angels, I thought, a weight lifting from my chest.

Jezebel trailed me down the stairs, clearly afraid to question me too loudly for fear that our parents would hear. Though they turned a blind eye to our training, open discussion of it would not pass their judgment. I felt her shadow following me, laden with unspoken questions.

At the bottom of the staircase, I looked to the stained glass set in the entrance of our home, a depiction of the First Revered Warrior in his Angel form. Would my spirit soon be joining his and the other warriors past? Whatever happens, I will accept it, I reminded myself. For now, find the source.

I paused in the foyer and considered my two options. Did I start right, to the kitchen where my mother was preparing breakfast, or left, to the study where my father spent his mornings?

I went left. My father’s bloodline was stronger, a more useful target for the Curse.

Nerves wracked my body as I raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door. Remain natural, I coached myself. Jezebel’s observant eyes tracked my every movement, making my jaw tick.

I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth and took a deep breath. Behind the door, I heard my father’s low cough followed by the shuffling of papers. The sound of my fist against the door was hollow, little force behind it.

“Come in,” he called.

I entered with as much bravado as I could muster, trying to mimic my usual confident step. The window behind the desk framed the Mystique land, the morning light reflecting off the white bark of cypher trees, draping branches and tall grasses dancing in a light breeze. My father did not appear to notice anything was wrong.

“Ah, girls. You’re here early.” He inclined his head, his golden hair unbound from its usual low bun and falling to his shoulders. He appeared healthy, a glow to his bronzed skin.

---