Chapter 17
On Monday, Riya dragged herself back to the library, pried open her laptop, and braced herself. Two more comments had appeared
on her anonymous peri message board.
The first suggested she return to the cemetery where she’d cast the curse—“And drink a vial of his love-cursed tears, to take in his heartache and make it your own.”
When Riya imagined casually taking a swig of Kian’s fresh tears like a shot of wheatgrass juice, she nearly Frisbee’d her
laptop across the table.
The second was spam: fifteen percent off some erectile dysfunction pills.
“I give up,” she muttered, slamming the laptop shut. Expecting real help from an anonymous board had been foolish. Half the commenters
probably weren’t even peris—just trolls cosplaying as experts.
But she couldn’t afford to give up. Not after Kian had sung her name to a stadium of five thousand people like a man possessed.
And thanks to his little stunt, the halls of Abbersett High buzzed with whispers. From students. Teachers. Even Mr. Petrov,
the janitor whose keys she borrowed.
“Aw, come on, Riya!” another student pleaded, bouncing into step beside her.
Lauren Ashburn. Riya had once caught her recording a “How to Curl Your Hair” tutorial in the school bathroom during an assembly about phone addiction.
“You can tell us!”
Riya tightened her grip on her backpack strap.
“Tell you what?” she asked, deadpan. But her tone only made Lauren giggle, as if they were sharing a private joke.
Before she could brush her off, Peter Chen materialized like a shark smelling blood. He was a senior editor for the Abbersett Post, and apparently now a tabloid reporter.
“We’re just curious,” he said, too casually, as if they were old friends instead of classmates who’d exchanged maybe five
words in four years. “You and Kian Kho—are you guys even in any classes together? Is he, like, secretly a sweetheart? Because
I’ve heard he’s—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Riya cut in.
But the hallway had already shifted around her. Heads turning. Air sharpening. A collective, unspoken watching.
She spotted salvation: a group near the cafeteria, posing for yearbook photos.
“Oh look,” she said brightly, “the Yearbook Committee’s here.”
Lauren and Peter spun toward the commotion.
“Where?!” Lauren gasped, standing on tiptoe.
Peter groaned, “Ugh, I look like shit today.”
Riya didn’t wait. She speed-walked toward her AP US History class like it was a bunker in a war zone.
Now, back in the library, Riya flipped open a textbook and tried to lose herself in research.
Focus, she ordered herself. Focus.
But her mind kept sliding backward—to the guitar, the crackling speakers, the way the crowd had laughed and cheered.
And Kian, smiling through it all.
Had the curse scrambled his brain that badly? Or was that just what love did—short-circuited a person’s common sense?
She pressed the heel of her hand into her forehead. Enough moping.
She bent over her notes, clicking her pen open. The library’s steady buzz—pages turning, keyboards tapping—wrapped around
her like a balm. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend everything was normal.
At least until she opened them again and caught Akash Kumar two tables over, waggling his eyebrows her way.
Riya shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood, and he fled.
Minutes later, another presence broke her peace:
“Hey.”
Riya didn’t bother looking up as she sighed.
“Hello, Kian.” She kept her eyes fixed on Long’s Histories of Magicks, which offered nothing but fevered nonsense.
After a beat, she gestured at the empty chair.
Kian slid in, cautious. He pushed something across the table: a carton of iced tea.
“In case you needed a pick-me-up,” he said.
Riya stared at it. Still cold. Beads of condensation clinging to the sides.
She nudged it aside with two fingers and flipped a page.
“I—” Kian started, then faltered. “I don’t want to make you upset again.”
Finally, slowly, Riya met his eyes.
It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to approach her today. Earlier, in the hallway, she’d caught him staring as she was talking
to Mrs. Kang, their Student Council adviser, about setting up a new suggestion box by the office. But the moment she caught
him, his eyes watered and he fled.
Up close, the shadows under his sunken eyes were deeper, and his hoodie hung loose, like he was retreating inside it.
Guilt flickered in her chest.
“You look awful,” she said, not unkindly.
He laughed once, brittle. “Thanks. Haven’t slept much. Probably doesn’t help that I have detention for the next two weeks.”
Riya lowered her pen. Given what he’d pulled, he was lucky it wasn’t worse.
“Thank you for the iced tea. But you didn’t need to bring me anything.”
He shrugged. “I wanted to.”
Silence fell. Riya clicked her pen against the table, restless.
“You shouldn’t want to,” she said finally. “You still don’t know me. You just like the idea of me that the curse gave you. It’s probably why you keep trying these . . . grand gestures. Things
you’d never try if you actually knew me.”
Kian looked down, biting his lip.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I just—I can’t help it. I want to try. Everything. Anything.”
“That’s a terribly inefficient strategy,” she muttered. “Trial-and-error approaches have one of the highest failure rates
in systems testing.”
Kian blinked.
“But I guess that’s not the point. With feelings.”
“No.” He smiled, his gaze steady on her. “And I know you’ll say it’s all the curse. But even so—I like how I feel when I’m around you. The noise in my head finally gets quiet. And I don’t want to go back to how things were.”
Riya’s hands stilled on the table. She wanted to argue. To tell him he was wrong, wrong, wrong. But the words felt tired in
her mouth.
He leaned back, rubbing his face. “Honestly, even if it’s fake, it’s still better than being . . . alone.”
Alone.
Was that why he acted like he didn’t care to break the curse?
Riya liked being alone—her fortress of solitude was warm and curated and entirely her own. But maybe that was the difference.
She chose solitude. Kian’s was forced.
She thought back to what Mel had said: how Kian had been suspended in eighth grade. How he’d showed up again with a shaved
head and a chip on his shoulder. If he’d had friends back then, he clearly didn’t now—he’d said it himself.
Maybe the curse hadn’t changed him so much as it had just cracked something open. Not obsession. Not magic-induced delusion.
But loneliness.
Riya shifted, unsettled. For all her complaints about how little he knew her, she hadn’t exactly done anything to remedy it.
And now, with them being almost halfway through October, time was running out.
Tactically, keeping him close was the best remaining option. He needed someone. She needed assistance. It didn’t mean trusting
him. It just meant increasing her odds.
“Given the circumstances,” Riya said softly, “I guess it would be . . . mean to keep expecting you to stay away.”
Kian stared. “Wait—are you saying—?”
“You can help me find a way to break the curse,” she said evenly. “The faster we undo it, the faster we can test the veracity
of your feelings.”
“Test the—Okay. Yes.” Kian’s eyes widened. “You’ll actually let me help?”
“Only if you promise to actually help. No sabotaging my notes. No weird romantic nonsense.”
“Yes! Okay! I promise!” He pumped his fist softly, like he was afraid to scare her off. “Aw, man, this is going to be awesome. Should I call you Professor?”
“Unnecessary.”
“Professor it is.” He fished out the green notebook—the one she’d seen before—from his backpack, practically vibrating. “And I’ve already got some ideas, too. Maybe we switch up the scenery. Go to a café. Or maybe my place! I can make you dinner and—”
Riya dropped Mythological Beings and Forgotten Lore on the table with a thud.
“Start with this. Write down anything even remotely useful about peri spells and curses. Scan everything twice.”
Kian nodded, scrambling for a pen. “God, you’re so cool. Who even says ‘veracity’ in normal conversation?”
“Get to work.”
“Yes, Professor.”
But for the first time in days, the knot in Riya’s chest loosened—just a little.