Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
My head felt like it was packed with damp leaves. The dull, lingering cloudiness was most definitely a residual effect of the time I spent crying into Tol’s chest.
I rolled onto my back, squeezing my swollen eyes shut and stretching my hands above my head.
Spirits, everything was stiff—likely a result of training my rusty spearwork.
That pulse beneath my skin had not calmed overnight either.
It centralized in a burning sensation in my right wrist, spreading throughout my forearm.
Maybe I had not been quite as flawless with that weapon as I thought.
Training this morning would be a challenge if I’d injured myself, but I didn’t care.
Still, the pain did not feel like bone or muscle. It went deeper—starting at the surface and sinking into me.
Reluctantly, I sat up in my four-poster bed, rubbing circles against my temples. Once the pressure eased, I sighed and opened my eyes. Dull purple light peeked through my cream curtains, illuminating the dresses, books, and scrolls I had left on the floor in the past week.
There was no fire in the grate this morning, the air streaming through the open window pleasant enough on its own.
I scooted out of bed and reached to pull up the covers, but when I extended my arm, I saw it.
It was not a training sprain.
It was not a stiff muscle.
It was a delicate patch of green-and-gray webbing, starting in the veins of my wrist and working outward.
The visible progress was subtle, isolating itself to the wrist for now, but it was digging deeper.
It seeped into my body, my blood. Contaminating it.
A slow crawl through my veins as it ripped apart what was most precious.
The Curse.
I stumbled against the bed, my legs no longer able to support my weight.
Everything around me disappeared. The only sound was panicked blood rushing through my ears.
A clammy sweat broke out on my forehead.
My body seized and trembled in waves as it fought to understand the foreign agent that had somehow found its way into my skin.
“How?” I exhaled, the word barely distinguishable between my panting breaths.
The plague of our people was gone. It had disappeared two years ago when the end of the war was negotiated. The Engrossians had the sorcia who had cast the Curse remove it.
Maybe they fed us false information, I said to myself, horrified at the possibility of this disease lurking through our territory unexpectedly for the past two years.
But no. I quickly realized that couldn’t be. Even if they had lied, not one case of the Curse had been reported in two years. Someone would have known if this disease was still infecting our people.
How is it now embedded on my skin?
My stomach clenched, but not from pain. It was uncertainty. Fear.
I struggled to breathe deeply. How would an ascended Mystique Warrior approach this threat? I asked myself.
The obvious answer was to fight. And the first step of any battle: strategize.
My heart beat faster as I fought through the fog still clouding my head, attempting to organize the information I knew to be true.
I stood from the bed and paced my messy bedroom, the cool floorboards a steady constant beneath my feet.
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.
“Good morning, Father,” I said, stepping into the office and toward the desk. I needed to get closer to be sure.
“What can I do for you?” he asked formally.
My head spun with the questions I needed answered but couldn’t ask. “What are you reading?” I inquired.