Chapter 49
A SEMI PLAN
It started with the portrait.
That’s what brought us together. Jude and I were looking for answers because it was an irresistible mystery. But Jude isn’t just curious anymore. He’s compelled. Possessed. Unable to sleep. Scrambling for answers in a desperate race against time.
On Sunday, he studies blueprints for secret rooms and takes apart desks in search of hidden compartments like the curse’s antidote might be hidden somewhere in the manor. He returns to the crypt and scours every inch of it, examining the walls, the floors, even pulling up loose stones.
That night, we give Rafe the gemstones.
Jude skips school on Monday, and somehow convinces Twig, who’s never played hooky a day in his life, to do the same. They pore over ancient texts in the library—theological and philosophical. They sink deep into angelology and the Apocrypha. Anything that might provide some insight.
About angels.
Seraphina.
The curse.
And maybe, just maybe, a loophole.
Meanwhile, I take to Google.
How do you break a curse?
The answer is surprisingly thorough, and very unhelpful. Still, I try a few suggestions. Like renouncing the curse and declaring my freedom. I say it out loud, word for word, in the shower on Monday morning.
“I renounce this curse and declare my freedom!”
The mark remains.
I study the portrait for clues.
I fixate on the locket, which I can’t pry open. Not with my fingers. Not with a tiny screwdriver. I try a hammer only to wake up on the floor a full two minutes later with a goose egg on the back of my head.
By Monday afternoon, Twig has utilized two years’ worth of connections forged doing research for Accounts of the Uncanny.
He and Jude visit every fringe group, every niche chatroom, follow every wild conspiracy to its bitter end.
Until finally, they find a lead on a message board buried three layers deep where ghost hunters and theologians argue about the spiritual realm.
A user named PaleScript mentioned a monk who was cast out for translating forbidden texts—a Benedictine archivist with several published articles about the Watchers and their influence over human bloodlines.
Twig finds his last known location. And by Monday evening, Jude is airborne. Off on a private jet, making his way to the French Alps.
On Tuesday, Twig and I carve pumpkins with his family and my dad. The annual tradition cannot be skipped, and surprisingly, it serves as a welcome distraction.
Now it’s Wednesday. Just after lunch. I’m home from school trying and failing to get warm.
No matter how many layers of blankets I burrow beneath, the cold will not relent.
It has settled in my bones, and a feeling of heaviness sits on my chest. I can’t tell if it’s the curse … or if it’s just me, missing Jude.
The ache of his absence feels urgent.
Like he is water in the desert.
Warmth in the winter.
A match in the dark.
Halloween creeps closer.
Time is slipping away.
And Jude is gone.
We’re spending what could be our final days apart.
My teeth chatter as I flip through the no-longer-locked tome. I study the stained glass illustrations, looking for patterns and symbols. There are several repetitive themes, but blood is predominate. A force of life, power, and sacrifice.
My phone rings.
Jude’s number appears on the screen.
I answer it eagerly.
“Hey,” he says. His voice, even travel-worn and tired, brings the first real warmth I’ve felt all day. “Just checking in. Wanted to make sure you were—”
“Still alive?”
“That isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little bit funny,” I reply, my jaw tense to keep the shivering at bay. “Are you on your way back?”
“Already on U.S. soil.”
A thrill of delight zips through my body.
“Are you home?” he asks.
I consider lying. I don’t want him to worry more than he already is. Me at home in the middle of a school day will definitely make him worry.
“Because if you aren’t,” he says, “you’re not paying much attention to your carbon footprint.”
I sit upright.
“Several lights are on, and your dad’s working in the front garden. I’m a little concerned he might think I’m a stalker.”
I smile. “You’re here.”
“On your front porch. Looking at a very strange jack-o-lantern. I think it might be a cowboy hat attached to a jellybean with legs?”
“It’s a UFO beaming up a cow.”
A low chuckle rumbles in my ear.
Ten seconds later, he’s rapping on my bedroom door. He pokes his head inside—his hair tousled, his eyes shadowed—and my intuition was right. Clearly, the sight of me in bed under all these covers in the middle of the day worries him immensely.
He crosses the room in two easy strides and sits beside me, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You’re sick?”
“I feel fine.” The words aren’t even a lie, because right now, with him here, I do feel fine.
More than fine, actually. I cross my legs beneath the covers.
It takes significant restraint not to grab his hand and pull it into my lap.
Instead, I tuck my hair behind my ears and tug at my sleeves.
“So, did he tell you anything helpful—the monk guy? Was it worth the trip?”
“I’m going to tell Rafe we’re on his side.”
I blink several times, positive I misheard.
“We’ll open the tomb in exchange for Seraphina undoing the curse.”
“Jude, Seraphina isn’t going to—”
“I know she isn’t. But we don’t need her to undo anything.
” He reaches inside his coat pocket and removes a small notepad.
“Father Odo might be the strangest person I’ve ever met.
He wouldn’t let me take photographs or make copies of anything.
But he knew his stuff, and he had a lot to say.
I planned to write everything down once I left. But really, it all boils down to this.”
He hands me the notepad. Two lines have been written on the page in his familiar, controlled handwriting:
A curse of a fallen one may linger upon the mortal soul, but its roots die when the caster falls. From the Thirteenth Epistle.
“What’s the Thirteenth Epistle?”
“A letter. Part of a collection he called Scriptura Obscura. Its origins trace back to a secret order in Rome from the seventh century.”
I read it again, slower this time. “So if Seraphina dies … the curse dies with her?”
Jude nods.
“Your plan is to kill her?”
The fact that he doesn’t laugh or scoff at the absurdity unnerves me.
I shift in bed. “Ezra made it sound like that can only be done through supernatural means.”
“Father Odo confirmed as much.”
“We don’t have supernatural means. Unless Father Odo gave you some sort of weapon I don’t know about.”
His gaze dips to my clavicle, where the mark hides beneath my oversized flannel. “I re-listened to some podcast episodes on my way home.”
It takes me a second to realize he means my podcast. And he used the word re-listened. Which means he’s already listened once before. I picture him in class with his AirPods in. Was it my voice in his ear all along?
The idea makes me flush.
The warmth of it feels nice.
“Which ones?” I ask, picking at a loose thread on my comforter.
“Your mini-series on religion.”
Through the ages.
Episodes three and four of season two. We covered everything from Greek Mythology to Scientology and their unique beliefs in the supernatural.
“I ended up watching Clash of the Titans,” he says.
My jaw drops with delighted surprise.
“It was a long flight,” he adds ruefully.
“Did you watch the 1981 version or the pathetic attempt at a remake in 2010?”
“You made it very clear the 1981 version was the only version worth watching.”
I smile. Clash of the Titans is one of my all-time favorites, which is probably why I spent so much of episode three raving about it. “What did you think?”
“The eyeless witches were terrifying.”
“And Medusa?”
“Equally terrifying.”
“Here’s a fun fact. In the movie, her blood is only good for destroying things, but in actual Greek Mythology, it has the power to poison or heal. Depending on which side of the body it comes from.”
“Selah.”
I look at him.
“I didn’t come here to analyze Clash of the Titans. Or discuss Greek Mythology.” He’s fighting a grin though, his dimple coming out to play, his hand sliding closer to my knee. “I want to talk about episode four, and the Watchers.”
I nod, eager to hear what he has to say.
Episode four focused on Christianity and Judaism, particularly their beliefs surrounding angels, demons, and spiritual warfare.
The Watchers were angels tasked with protecting humanity.
They broke their vows by loving mortal women and fathered the Nephilim—powerful, unnatural hybrids.
“Father Odo has studied them extensively,” Jude says. “He’s spent years digging through the Book of Enoch, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the sixth chapter of Genesis. He believes descendants of Nephilim carry traces of supernatural power.”
I think about Ezekiel Cotton and his first claim—descendants of angels have a strong connection to the supernatural realm. Father Odo has taken that concept and upped the ante.
I look at Jude, whose eyes are aglow with hope, like he thinks he can destroy Seraphina. And the cold in my bones seeps into my heart.
“Jude,” I say with caution, “if Ezra couldn’t destroy Seraphina back then, how are you supposed to do it now?”
To this, he has no answer.
“Did Father Odo have anything to say about that?” I press.
He expels a frustrated breath. “No. But Twig found another lead. A retired professor who taught in Ohio University’s anthropology department. She specialized in folkloric studies, and piloted a class called Curse Lore and Ritual Structure. She published several articles about the topic.”
“A curse expert.”
“She might know something. I’ve reached out several times, but she hasn’t replied.” He glances at my bedside clock. “She lives in Athens, Ohio. If I don’t hear back from her by the end of tonight, I’m heading there first thing in the morning.”
Thursday.
The eve of Halloween.
One day before Dante’s comet will blaze brightest in the sky.
Quite possibly our last day together.
I shove the disturbing thought away. And the dread that comes with it. Jude is worried for my life, but I’m worried for his. Especially if he thinks he can take on Seraphina.
My teeth begin to chatter.
He slides his hand over my knee.
The touch makes my breath catch.
“You’re freezing,” he says, shadow falling across his face. It’s as if my cold temperature, or maybe his words, cause him physical pain. “I’ll never forgive myself for being so weak.”
I shake my head adamantly, because love isn’t weak. No immortal ancestors or fallen angels or terrible curses will convince me otherwise. I slip my hand beneath his, palm to palm, finger to finger.
My breath trembles.
He lifts his thumb and traces my lines like a palm reader. Then he brushes aside the collar of my flannel, and ever so gently, he lowers his mouth to the mark.
My pulse throbs.
I lean toward him, my heart drumming wildly, pleasure coiling in my abdomen. Then his lips move to my throat and my fingers curl into his hair.
He pulls back, his eyes dark with desire and determination. “I’ll tell Rafe tonight.”
I can’t speak.
I can hardly breathe.
All I can do is nod.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you,” he whispers against my neck.
Death has become a storm cloud hovering above us. And yet, I’ve never felt more alive than I do right now.