Page 14 of The Curse of Ophelia

I inclined my head toward her, and her face softened, the lines in her forehead and mouth loosening. When I grabbed her hand and squeezed tightly, a wave of agreement passed between us.

“I will celebrate,” I confirmed, though the excitement in my voice was false.

My grandmother’s gold eyes glowed against her light brown skin as she leaned forward and placed a kiss on my cheek. Her two long braids brushed against our clasped hands as she whispered, “This year brings you promises of fortune, you will see.”

The older my grandmother got, the more her predictions as a Soulguider went unmet, but this one sent a shiver down my spine.

My mother’s expression brightened, and for a moment, she looked so like Jezebel. Though we’d both inherited my father’s coloring, it was her heart-shaped face, full lips, and slight nose that we bore. Seeing that light in her eyes, guilt swished through my stomach.

I almost apologized, but my grandmother’s hand tightened on mine. When I looked to her, her gaze swallowed me whole, drowning out the noise in the kitchen as it burrowed within me. She called on the magic that guided her and saw into my soul.

A peaceful glaze passed over her face. Though weathered with centuries of experience, she looked more alive than before. Younger, untouched by the hardships of her life.

She blinked and the fog cleared, releasing me from my trance.

“Have a cookie, dear.” She passed me the plate stacked with my favorite lemon cookies. She’d baked them for me this morning. A satisfied sigh left me as I bit into one and shook away whatever had passed between us.

For the next hour, I tried to mimic the skilled manner with which my sister worked. As I struggled through tasks, her hands flew across a chopping block, sending perfect circles of produce into the boiling water before moving to scrub dishes. Jezebel didn’t bat an eye as she worked beside my mother, their brains one.

“Jezzie, can you pass me the wooden spoon and the thyme?”

Jezebel had the spoon extended before my mother finished her request. “Rosemary will complement it better,” she said, offering my mother a small jar.

The effortless manner in which they communicated the running of our household and their skills in the kitchen were all a mystery to me. I had no interest in chores, but still I gawked at my flawless sister, trying to find any similarity between the fighter I trained with and the woman before me.

She was both insightful and strong. Soft, yet fierce. Where I was made entirely of the rough edges and honed minds of Mystique Warriors, Jezebel Alabath truly was the daughter of two bloodlines.

Her dress, a weightless, pale pink fabric with two layers of skirts and a tightly drawn corset up the back, swished about her as she spun through the kitchen faster than my eyes could register. The pale-yellow sunlight streaking through the window picked up the subtle iridescence of the top layer of skirts and danced across her tanned skin. She kept her cropped hair behind her ears, and a golden chain hung around her neck, a crescent moon pendant and amethyst glittering in the light.

When I finished preparing the final ear of corn in my pile, I pushed back from the table. Scraps fell from where they had piled in the skirts of my olive-green dress. Something heavy weighted down my pocket.

“Jezebel?” I asked, my tone as light and innocent as possible. “Care for a walk?” I wiggled my eyebrows tauntingly.

Jezzie turned toward my mother, questioning if she required any more help. When my mother shook her head no, Jezebel followed me from the kitchen.

“Only if we practice spearwork,” she whispered.

As we exited through the front door, the thrum within my blood increased, until it reached a crescendo of excited beats in my ears.

“That’s exactly as I hoped.”

*

Twenty minutes later I was in the weapons shed, strapped into my leather training gear, the worn material molding to the curves of my body. It flexed and contracted where my muscles moved like a second skin. I stretched and practiced a few gentle kicks and punches to warm up, relishing the freedom of the leathers compared to the binding of my dress.

It was reckless to train in the middle of the day, but I thought of the spear and that thing pounding beneath my skin—and I didn’t care.

Jezebel finished tightening metal guards around her wrists, neck, and ankles, the places deemed her weaknesses. The places I always struck. My own guards shone from around my neck and shoulders, but I had long ago abandoned the ankle and wrist braces. The longer you trained, the less guarded you became, until one day your instincts acted as your shields entirely. In proper battles, armor could be worn, but the goal of our exercises was to teach us to not rely on those protections, but on our own strength and speed.

I buckled Starfire’s sheath to my waist, strapped daggers around my thigh, and looked to my sister. She raised her brows at me.

“I—” I fidgeted with my belt, unsure how to explain the spear. How to explain anything I experienced last night.

“You?” she asked. Sunlight streamed in through the open door, outlining her frame.

My pulse and the new essence within my blood hammered. Last night felt so intimate. The experience held so many unexplained truths, folded within layers of pain, that I was frightened to share the memory with my sister. But the heat of the spear still lingered against my flesh, and I knew I had to dissect it. I couldn’t do that without a partner to fight against.

Jezebel had always been my confidant, even before Malakai left. Though she antagonized me to the Spirit Realm and back, the bond between sisters was unique and impenetrable.

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