Cursed: Beholder, #1

1

My black cat, Lucy, tiptoed across the roof. I paused from hammering and gave her a hopeful smile. Hello there. You here to keep me company?

Lucy shivered and leaped away. I frowned. Lucy’s not afraid of me, too, is she?

I leaned over the edge of the farmhouse. Below me, Lucy stalked past the front porch, her long tail flicking. You don’t think I’m scary, do you?

Lucy looked up, bared her teeth, and hissed.

That’s my answer, I suppose.

I was eighteen years old, owned my own farm, and could cast a little magick. Everyone I knew found that frightening. Well, everyone except Tristan, but he was away at sea right now. It felt like forever until I’d see my only friend again.

Don’t think about it. There’s too much work to do.

To keep my mind off my worries, I soaked in the view from my roof. An oak forest towered to my right, the leaves gleaming like they’d been dipped in emeralds. To my left, acres of golden barley rustled in the breeze. A broad road cut between the two sides—I’d widened that myself last month. I sighed.

I love this place.

At least, I did until I saw what was coming.

A wagon lumbered up the road. It had an open back for hauling crops, yet the cart was painted yellow and had tall red wheels. Fancy. A man in a straw hat flicked the reins of two gray chargers. With a ride like that, he could only be one thing.

Another suitor.

That made the third one this week. It was getting ridiculous.

Ever since the courts had confirmed that Braddock Farm was mine, men suddenly saw me as marriage material. It was doubly annoying because of all the years I’d spent as a social pariah. But now that I owned my farm outright, the law would give any man I married half my land.

No doubt, whoever was driving was well aware of that.

Too bad for him, I knew exactly how to deal with unwelcome visitors. I had some planks that needed breaking down, and splitting rails would mean using my Necromancer magick. That always frightened the locals silly.

Not that I made it a habit of scaring them. As a rule, I rarely used my Necromancer power. And I certainly had no desire to join a cloister for real training. What was the point of learning how to conjure skeletons and ghosts? Over the years, I’d just figured out a trick or two that made chores easier.

After I slipped off the roof, I stepped up behind the barn, lined up some planks, jammed iron wedges into each one, and hefted a mallet onto my shoulder.

Here we go.

I closed my eyes and reached out with my mage senses. The ghostly energy was everywhere, if you knew what to feel for. The echoes of things done in the past were all around us. Kisses, fights, birdsong… It never went away, really. Necromancers could pull that power into our bodies and transform it into other kinds of energy.

I summoned magick into me. The power worked the best when I focused it all into my left arm. Still, it came in through each pore and kicked its way through every vein. Power hurtled through my limbs. I gritted my teeth and kept up my concentration. Conjuring magick reminded me of riding a spooked horse—you needed just the right mix of firm grip and loose spine. If I lost control, I’d shake until I passed out.

Within seconds, the bones of my left hand glowed blue. Magickal strength flowed through my muscles. Now, hauling up the heavy mallet was no harder than lifting a teaspoon. I raised it high above my shoulders and then slammed it down with supernatural force.

Thud.

The first plank cracked just as my would-be suitor stepped around the barn.

I couldn’t believe it. Of all people, Wyatt was here.

The very man who’d complained to the courts that I was using my rogue magick to summon storms and destroy crops. Never mind that Necromancers didn’t control the weather. And never mind that my crops always got hit by the same storms.

When he’d last visited, Wyatt had been dressed in black from head to toe. His shirt had even been embroidered with pentagrams to deflect my evil eye. This time, he was dressed quite differently. His too-tight pants were tucked into his work boots and his white shirt was unlaced, showing off his firm chest. Clearly, he thought I was shallow enough to fall for a few muscles. What a horse’s arse.

Hello, girlie. Wyatt took a half-step closer, his gaze locked on my breasts. I had the sudden urge to vomit.

I hefted my mallet again, hoping he’d take the hint not to come any nearer. Elea. My name’s Elea.

Didn’t I say that?

Nope. I adjusted my grip to show my glowing bones. Why are you here?

Some monk had a letter for you. Thought I’d help out. He slipped an envelope from his pocket. I recognized the seal—it was from the monastery where Tristan had trained as Necromancer. He’d given up the faith to become a merchant. Why would the monks write me of all people?

Thank you. I reached for the letter, but Wyatt pulled it away. Not so quickly. I want to talk.

Now, we get to it.

So talk. My bones glowed more brightly as my swing took on extra power.

Thud.

Wyatt jumped when the hammer hit. I grinned.

You’ve grown into a lovely young woman, Elea. Eighteen years old is only a decade younger than me. Wyatt clutched his hand to his chest the way that characters did in badly drawn illustrations of courtly love. You’re tall and fit with hair black as a raven’s wing, smooth olive skin, and whiskey-colored eyes. A man could spend a lifetime looking at your sweet face.

I stared at him, slack jawed. Whiskey-colored? Did he really say that?

Wyatt’s blue eyes narrowed slightly and he pursed his lips as if ready for my kiss.

Oh, no.

Please, Wyatt. Ever since the courts ruled in my favor, I’ve had suitors darkening my door day and night.

Wyatt shook his head in surprise. He was really playing this up. The finding of the court is merely a coincidence. You’re a lovely maiden. I’ve been hoping to be sweethearts for ages.

Sweethearts. Truly. I smacked my lips. For ages.

Of course.

I gripped my mallet tighter and imagined it was his neck. When my parents bought Braddock Farm, you painted ‘Death to Necromancers’ on the side of the barn. Rosie told me all about it.

He waved his hand dismissively. I was ten at the time. It was a joke.

It wasn’t funny. My parents died of the plague soon after that.

I’m sorry for your loss.

Now you are, perhaps, because you want something. But you weren’t sorry back then. And you weren’t sorry when my guardian, Rosie, died, either. I was fifteen and alone, and you petitioned the court to take the land away from me because I was a minor and rogue Necromancer.

Mine was one of twelve families who signed the petition. Wyatt’s shoulders slumped with sadness. With that, he switched from playing the handsome suitor to the mistreated man. You must understand—

I’ve run this place for three long years, I said, cutting him off. If Rosie hadn’t left me the coin to pay servants, I’d have been lost. But lo and behold, as soon as I’m named the rightful owner, I’m overwhelmed with offers of love and friendship? Not likely. I hefted the mallet again and imagined Wyatt’s face in the middle of the nearest plank.

Thud.

That was satisfying.

Wyatt pinched the bridge of his nose. Fine, you win. I admit that I behaved poorly.

Poorly? This was beyond belief.

A muscle ticked on his jawline. Terribly, then. Now, hat do you say to courting?

Even on my best days, I was quick to anger. Today wasn’t one of my best days. I lifted the hammer once more.

Thud. Not a chance.

Why? He paced a line beside me. That Necromancer sailor’s already courting you, isn’t he?

Necromancer sailor? I pointed the mallet straight at his nose. You mean merchant captain, right? Tristan had trained as a Necromancer. That was a long time ago, though. I looked longingly at the letter Wyatt still gripped. It had to have something to do with my friend.

So, are you courting or not?

My cheeks flared red. No, it’s not like that between us. Tristan wanted more. I just didn’t feel that way about him. We could talk for hours about my books and his travels, but it didn’t go farther than that for me. There was just no spark.

Wyatt exhaled. Then, you’ll consider my courtship?

Tristan would tease me to no end if he knew Wyatt were here. Thinking about Tristan calmed me a little. When I spoke again, my voice was surprisingly gentle. Wyatt, I appreciate your interest. The answer is no. I stretched out my palm once more. Give me my letter and leave.

Any other woman would be honored to have me. Little bits of spittle flew out of his mouth when he talked. Necromancers had no right buying land in our shire. Your family wasn’t here a month before the plague struck them down. That was the judgment of the gods, Elea. You risk their anger merely by being here.

Rage had me seeing red. The only thing I had from my parents—outside of a few hazy memories from Rosie—was Braddock Farm. I risk the anger of the gods by working my birthright? And why is that?

Be reasonable. As it is, you’re a risk to good society. What if you marry another of your kind? We all saw the judgment of the gods last time. Your only chance is to choose someone like me. That way, you might even have normal children. Besides, I’m the largest landowner in the shire.

That did it.

How about you give me my letter, oh largest landowner, and return to your wagon? I raised my left arm, making my bones glow the brightest shade of blue yet. Or, if you prefer, I’ll rip out your spine where you stand. Your choice.

In truth, I had no idea if spine-ripping was something I could manage. But the threat sounded good, and if it got Wyatt off my farm, then I was willing to improvise.

Your loss. He lifted his chin defiantly. I’ll marry one of the county girls.

I whipped the letter from his palm. Good luck to you both. Mostly her. I gestured in the general direction of his wagon. The road is that way.

Wyatt stomped off through the mud. I was never happier to see someone leave. Once he was well and gone, I tore open the envelope.

Dear Elea,

Come to the Bell in Hand tavern right away. Tristan needs you.

Quinn

My stomach sank to my toes. Quinn was Tristan’s dyad, the monk who’d trained with him at the monastery. The pair had stayed close even after Tristan left the order. Quinn had never written to me before, though.

I rubbed my chin and thought. Tristan always stayed at the Bell in Hand when he was at port, so that was to be expected. But his voyage wasn’t supposed to end for months. And Tristan never cut a trip short, especially when he was making a delivery to Tsar Dmitri, the ruler of the Necromancers. The two were good friends.

What if Tristan was sick? Or injured?

My body went numb. There were so many ways a sailor could get hurt. When storms hit, they could get washed overboard or caught in the rigging. The lucky ones escaped at the cost of an eye or a leg. And if pirates were the problem, then things got far worse. Those fiends always targeted the captain for extra torture. Some disemboweled their victims alive. My chest tightened with panic.

I have to get to Tristan. Now.

Turning on my heel, I rushed into the barn and saddled Smoke, my fastest mare. Normally, I’d pack food and a change of clothes, but there was no time to waste. If I left right away, I could be at the Bell in Hand by sunset.

As I galloped away, images of Tristan flickered through my mind. The two of us sitting in the tavern common room, playing chess and chatting about politics in the Tsar’s entourage. Long days spent walking my fields, discussing books he’d brought from overseas. Mornings laughing in the barn while he tried to feed the baby goats.

As much as I loved Braddock Farm, it was a lonely life. After Rosie died, Tristan had become my sole company. When the locals saw me coming, they crossed to the other side of the street. Even my servants looked upon me with dismay. And now, I had false suitors trying to flatter me with lies. In some ways, that was worse than open terror, because I knew the fear remained, bubbling under the surface. Every day, I sensed dread pressing in around me like a vise. Then, I’d see Tristan and the world became friendly again.

Please, let him be all right.

Smoke and I galloped around the final turn to the Bell in Hand. The rickety wooden building bowed out at an odd angle. A square placard hung from the corner, showing a man’s hand ringing a bell. Bands of anxiety tightened around my throat.

Tristan is in there.

I slid off Smoke, tied her to the nearest hitching post, and rushed inside. The tavern was packed with bodies, loud voices, and the stench of burned meat. I pressed through the crowd and toward the back staircase. Tristan always stayed in the same room.

Second floor, last door on the right.

I sped up the narrow stairway to an upper hall that was thick with shadows. A single window cast a sickly beam of moonlight onto the warped wooden floor. I sped to the last door and whipped it open.

Tristan? My pulse beat so hard my heart thudded in my ears.

The darkened room held little more than a tiny cot. A candle flickered atop a bedside table alongside a washbasin. Tristan lay asleep, his features drawn and skin pale. I hurried to kneel at his side.

I hurried to kneel at his side. Tristan? It’s Elea.

Tristan half opened his eyes. You…

I brushed the backs of my fingers against his soft cheek. Tristan was normally all high cheekbones, and long, jet-black hair. Now, his face had hollowed out, his skin looked so pale it was colorless, and his dark hair was almost gray.

You… Tristan let out a dramatic sigh. Smell like a barn.

I couldn’t help but smile. I work in one every day, in case you hadn’t noticed.

I had. He choked back a cough. Let’s discuss the finer points of mating mules and mares—

Tristan. I knew what he was trying to do, and I wouldn’t allow it. My friend looked too ill to pretend that everything was fine.

It can be a rather lopsided business if the mule is too small—

Tristan!

What is it? Tristan wheezed out a rough breath. Speckles of blood flared on his white pillow. Oh, no.

I yanked down my sleeve and used it to dab his chin clean. You always try to soften the blow when things are serious. Don’t. My voice hitched. Just say it.

Tristan leaned back into his pillows. The shadows in his cheeks deepened until his face resembled a skull. I’m dying, Elea.

The world seemed to freeze for a moment. Tristan is dying. That couldn’t be true. I wouldn’t let that be true. I’d fought for the farm when everyone said it was impossible. I could find help for Tristan. What’s wrong?

I’m cursed.

My skin prickled with alarm. Who cast it? If an Apprentice or Master Necromancer were behind this, then there was a good chance the spell could be broken.

Tristan’s brown eyes dimmed. It was the work of a Grand Master. The best I’ve ever seen.

A chill crept along my scalp. Tell me exactly what happened.

He nodded slowly, as if each movement of his head was painful. My last voyage was to Tsar Dmitri. He’s dead. Viktor killed him.

The words made no sense. I knew all the players in the Tsar’s entourage. Viktor? I thought he was harmless.

We all did. Turns out, the man’s a Grand Master Necromancer. He took down the entire Imperial Guard with skull seekers.

Not good. Skull seekers combined the worst of a hungry ghost and a speedy will-o-the-wisp. They were whip-fast and their teeth could bite through almost anything. Were you there? Is that what hurt you?

I was there, but no, the seekers didn’t injure me. Tristan’s breathing turned rough. Bits of white phlegm congealed at the corners of his mouth. After Viktor proclaimed himself Tsar, he cursed anyone who didn’t pledge fealty to him on the spot.

Cursed. Seconds ticked by before I could force the words from my mouth. You didn’t pledge fealty to Viktor, did you?

No. Bit by bit, Tristan pulled back his blanket. His muscular torso was ripped open. The white bones of his ribs poked through bloody organs. By the gods. Bile crept up my throat. Tristan spoke in a rough whisper. The moment I got back to port, these wounds appeared. They’re laced with magick. His arm flopped down with the blanket, covering his injuries again. I’m so sorry. His gaze locked with mine, and all the regret in the world hung in his eyes. You’re next.

I must have heard him wrong. What?

The curse will kill you, five years from this very day. The spell goes after whoever I love the most. His voice broke. I’m so sorry. I wanted to marry you, Elea. Now, this is my legacy.

I clutched my stomach. How could this be happening? My entire body trembled with fear. I latched onto the one possible bit of good news. But you still have some time, right? And if we kill the mage, we kill the spell. It’s the oldest rule of Necromancy. I’ll find some mage to help. We can get out of this, I know it.

If we had more time and someone willing, the curse could be moved to another person.

I shrank back. I could never ask that of anyone.

My good-hearted Elea. He sighed. I knew you’d say that. Blood seeped through the heavy blanket. A coppery tang filled the air. There’s something else— His bloodied hand slipped from under the coverlet. A small silver band rested on his palm. Dying would be less painful if I knew my band was on your finger.

This is really happening. Tristan is dying. My eyes pricked with tears.

Years stretched before me, a never-ending string of lonely days without my friend. Yes, of course. I lifted the band and slipped it on. The ring glowed with a flash of blue. Magick had been cast. What spell is it?

Joy. I spent the last hour casting it. Do you feel happier?

In truth, I felt nothing, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Tristan that. Clearly, he was in no frame of mind to cast decent magick. It’s beautiful, Tristan. That’s what’s important. My hand shook as I eyed the blood-covered ring. A perfect fit.

Suddenly, magickal energy charged the air, like the tingle of power before a lightning storm, only far more intense. Every inch of my body went on alert. Was this the curse?

Tristan’s sickbed burst into angry flames. The power exploded, slamming me backward onto the floor. Panic sped through me. Heat pierced my body.

No, no, no!

The mattress burned brightly as coals while Tristan writhed under the covers in agony. Great shafts of fire licked around him and speared into the ceiling. Black smoke and flame billowed into my face. His pale skin puckered over in angry red boils. I gasped.

Tristan! I picked up the washbasin and tossed water into the flames. It had no effect. Gods-damned magick.

Tristan’s flesh darkened and curled. I leaped forward, slapping at the fire with my bare hands. Agony burned into my palms while the flames climbed. Tristan screamed, a sound that pierced my ears and shattered my heart. Edges of bone jutted out from the fresh burn holes in his flesh.

Not my Tristan. Not like this.

The fire stopped as quickly as it had started. I panted, waiting for another onslaught.

Nothing happened.

The room showed no sign of flame or smoke. The charge of magick drained from the air. The spell was finished.

I knelt next to Tristan again. His body carried no mark of fire. My hands were free from burns and pain as well. Was he still alive somehow? I leaned in closer.

Tristan lay on his side, his body frozen in his last thrash of agony. His brown, bloodshot eyes stared emptily into mine. He was dead. I sobbed so hard I couldn’t pull enough air into my lungs. I fell in a heap on the floor, gasping, weeping, and hopeless.

The room seemed to spin beneath me. My vision collapsed until I could only see Tristan. His lifeless face was frozen in horror. My insides twisted with grief. I wasn’t sure how long I stayed locked in his dead gaze. At some point, Quinn appeared at my side. He gently touched my shoulder.

I’m sorry. Quinn stood tall and silent in his black Necromancer robes. He was rail-thin, bald, and had a face crisscrossed with scars. His voice was deep and almost without inflection. I was surprised when Tristan told me the curse struck you. I thought his feelings for you were more infatuation than love. It’s unfortunate that you were drawn into this mess.

I slowed my breathing and wiped my face with my sleeve. What does the curse do?

Our friend burns, even now.

My skin chilled over with shock. So the fire followed Tristan into his next life? Where he’ll burn for eternity… As I will, too. We need to stop it. Will you help me?

Quinn stayed as unmoving as a statue. If any of this him, he didn’t show it. That was all part of Necromancer training, but it still seemed cruel. There is nothing to be done… For him, or for you.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Nothing? We can get rid of the new Tsar, that’s what we can do. Kill the mage, kill the spell.

Viktor’s a Grand Master. There are few at that level of power, and those who are will never come to your aid. Word of the curse has spread. Too many of my Brothers have died already. All Necromancers are pledging fealty to the Tsar. Anyone with power and training is being asked to join him. I’m getting his mark, too.

Rage spiraled through my limbs. How could Quinn be so resigned? I hopped to my feet. Viktor killed Tristan. You’re going to leave your dyad to suffer in fire?

"And protect the one I love most from this curse? Yes. Quinn sighed. It was the first time he’d showed any real emotion. Tristan was— He paused, choosing his words carefully. Unwise to deny the new Tsar. When you pledge fealty, Viktor merely gives you a mark on your left shoulder. It’s not so great a burden."

I opened my mouth, ready to argue the point. That mark was undoubtedly laced with evil magick. But the steely look on Quinn’s face made me stop. There was no way I’d change his mind. And there was still a curse to end.

I laced my fingers behind my neck and tried to think. My legs shook with shock. If I couldn’t rely on Quinn and his monastery, then I’d need to find someone else. Tristan always said I had the most raw power he’d ever seen in a Necromancer.

By the gods, I could get trained. Do you know of anyone who’s refused the mark? Anywhere I could learn to become a Necromancer?

Quinn’s still features melted into a placating look. "You’d need to reach the Grand Mistress level. That’s years of grueling study. Few