Cursed

Copyright © 2019 Michele Lee Freel

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ebook ISBN: 9780463849996

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DEDICATION

 For Steve. We miss you, brother.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book wouldn't be possible without my dearly missed friend, Steve Barbour, who inspired the whole thing, or without my daughter, Amber, who, in many ways, is the real life Ivy.

Also, a very loving and appreciative shout out to K.H. Koehler, my long-time editor, and more importantly, my friend (and an amazing author in her own right.)

-One-

The only thing worse than waking up in the middle of the night and realizing someone is leaning directly over you, is realizing that that someone isn't human.

The tentacles were a dead giveaway. By the faint back light of a street lamp slicing through my blinds I could make out a body more circular than human-esque. Of course, the definition of human had changed quite a bit in recent years since the Rip. Every time I think I've adjusted, I get mugged by an orc, or I wake up with a giant fleshy beach ball with tentacles hovering over my bed.

My dagger flared to fiery life as soon as I pulled it out from under the pillow. It cast a flickering light on the creature above me and I immediately regretted buying the flaming dagger. When a six-year-old puts a flashlight to their chin, it's a little bit creepy. When it's a flesh-dripping extradimensional being, well, some things cannot be unseen. Cast in the dagger's light, the beast was all sick, dead-colored flesh, and meat still retaining the blush of life marbled together with saggy, bulbous flaps. It had one huge, bloodshot eye—if its blood was black—and its tentacles terminated in an assortment of extra parts, clearly stolen from many kinds of creatures. Three fleshy strands ended in more eyes, and at least two ended in leech-like mouths. I spotted two hands and way too many tentacles tipped in bone-like barbs.

Before What the fuck? could slip out of my lips, I jerked forward and sheathed my dagger in the sucker's huge main eye. The flame seared the wound closed around it, sizzled, then sputtered out. The tentacle thing screamed shrilly, but more like a squeaky exhale of air than a full vocal release. I could only imagine the kind of voice it would have if it could speak. I was surprised it hadn't stolen some poor schmuck's vocal chords, too. I heard a soft whumph of magic being dispelled, followed by a sharp electrical feel, like when sparks from a sparkler fall on your skin. Then the creature, shaking and shuddering, backed away, and my dagger—the cheap POS--snapped off, the blade going with the thing across the room. Plenty of eye gunk, or flesh gunk--it was hard to tell in the dark room--sloshed onto my carpet, and probably my blankets, too. I was alone in my bed with a useless hilt and an injured, but not dead, monster. 

I started looking for something else I could use as a weapon. A light source would help too, so I flipped on my bedside light when what I really wanted to do was yank it from the wall and use it to pummel the monster if it came after me again. But the lamp was cheap plastic and not likely to help at all. Note to self: Get more weapon-y decorations for my bedroom.

My bedroom door flew open. Grab the girl and let's go.

The speaker who leaned in was drop dead gorgeous, his face a sculpture of delightfully male features. And absolutely dangerous. He wore black body armor over his chest and torso and down his right arm. His left was bare save for a black armlet across his bicep. Built large and wide, his musculature was lean and sculpted, rather than monstrously thick. A silver diadem pulled his long black hair from his face. At its center, over his forehead, sat an oval gem that shimmered and glowed as if filled with liquid silver. Warning instincts went off in my head only slightly stronger than my libido, which was warming other bits. See, bad boy. Totally dangerous.

Before he could move away, I hit him in the face with my alarm clock. He fell flat on his back through the doorway into my living room and didn't move. My whole arm tingled with the force of the blow. I hadn't expected it to be that easy. The tentacle monster made a noise from deeper in the bedroom, another weak sound that made me wonder how large its lungs were under all that. Or were those borrowed too?

My knife was useless, and I sure as hell didn't want to touch the thing with my bare hands, so I snatched up a heavy, glass-encased candle my mother had bought me for Christmas from my dresser and hurled it. Not willing to give up my lucky advantage, I charged after it, back from the door blocked by the unconscious knight-wanna-be and toward my poor bed. The candle smashed into the creature's already injured eye with a wet squooshing sound. The eye surrendered, leaving more black liquid stains in great, nasty dribbles all over my tawny carpet and the thing itself.

It was scary, gross, and it stank like rotten egg and sour stomach burps. I was beginning to think the creature was just some kind of murderous, living balloon. Which didn't explain why it had appeared in my bedroom in the first place.

The still-whining, injured creature collapsed against my bed. I was not an idiot. An unconscious man beat an injured, raging monster of unknown biology any day. I bolted, jumping the body just outside the doorway, slamming the door closed behind me, then went for my cell phone, sitting so patiently in its charging dock atop my TV. The handsome man on the floor began to stir. As my hands moved to dial 911, his hand caught my leg. A shudder went down me, that same magic-dispelling feeling I'd felt when my dagger failed, only more so. Bigger. It came in waves, not a sudden shock like before. One moment I was overcome with oozing, insidious magic, and the next with the pop of the pressure in my ears clearing it pulled away and I could breathe again.

I regained focus as the phone started screaming the left-off-the-hook noise. Somehow I'd ended up on the floor. The terrible, handsome man was holding me, panic on his face. Had I passed out in the middle of defending myself from murder? Bad form, for sure. His diadem was gone from his head, the gem in it shattered into little glittering pieces next to the twist of metal on the floor, laying strewn on a nasty-looking machete. It hadn't fallen off, I guessed by the long pieces of black hair tangled into the chain. And, based on the dots of blood on his forehead, I began wondering if he'd worn it willingly in the first place. He'd ripped it off, and now it looked like Dr. Jekyll was here to help me where Mr. Hyde had stood before. The change in his face...those dark eyes were liquid with concern and compassion instead of hate and cruelty.

It was a lie. It had to be a lie.

He looked barely able to walk, teetering on his feet, the will to stay standing there even if the ability had fled. I didn't blame him—I was feeling pretty shaky myself—but I didn't have time to sit down and talk all this out with him and come up with a plan or the like.

He opened his mouth, but a crash came from my bedroom. I pulled myself from him and looked around for a weapon. The room gave me nothing, not a bat, not a two-by-four, not even a vacuum hose. There was the knight's weapon, but with everything else that had been magic before, and the ache still spreading over me from touching them, I didn't want to risk passing out again. With a resolved sigh, I grabbed another candle from my entertainment center and prepared to salvage my security deposit.

Movement provoked me to turn automatically, not to the bedroom door, where I expected the attack, but to the front door of my apartment. My landlord, standing in the doorway, and I just looked at each other startled for a moment. Then the surprise flickered into a narrow-eyed look of resigned determination. The bedroom door crunched and split open.

Duck, he said. His voice carried when it shouldn't have, but Tarik is like that. A gout of flame erupted from my landlord. The smell of scorched skin filled the air.

Stay down, he commanded. 

Enraged, the monster darted away from the heat of the flame—towards me.

The second time, instead of flame, a shimmer exuded from Tarik. There was no other word for it, reality morphed around us, and the air wavered, glittering faintly in the light from the hallway before it enveloped the tentacled monster. A moment later, the creature simply vanished.

Tarik and I were left staring at each other over the mess that my living room had become.  He looked like a kid with an old man's face. What hair he had left was frizzy and gray and wrapped around his bald spot like a thick scarf. Firmly into his fifties, he had a face like ice cream beginning to go gloopy. But he'd stepped in and wielded reality-twisting spellwork like it was as boring as dusting or sweeping. He wore a powder blue T-shirt, three sizes too large, and a pair of navy sweat pants cut off into shorts at his knee. He was barefoot, and sleepiness washed over his face as he took in the scene. I watched my security deposit drain away in his expression.

Is it gone? I asked, at last.

Banished, Tarik said with a nod. To the Abyssal Plains. It won't be back anytime soon.

Or likely at all. I don't know what Tarik thought the Abyssal Plains were, but before the Rip, they'd been underwater, some of the deepest parts of our oceans.

Four years ago the world changed in one violent, magical invasion. Two worlds collided into one, though no one knew why. Our world and their world became one, and neither had been the same since. One of my coworkers jokingly said the Pants Legs of Time had suddenly become the Skirt of Time. There were more technical, scientific terms (though science was struggling with the whole magic thing), but I was in favor of an explanation that made me giggle a little every time. 

Fantastic. Before I could say more, the man behind me reached forward and gripped my wrist. He pulled me behind him and did an impressive (impressive to look at, at least, not that I was looking at his arms or butt) job of filling the space between Tarik and I. I wasn't sure if Tarik noticed, but I saw Mr. Jekyll's hand inching toward an empty sheath on his thigh.

Tarik was a wizard. A real life, magic-flinging, dragon-taming wizard. He'd lived most of his life in the sister realm, then, after the Rip, he'd declared things were getting too strange even for him and retired to be a landlord. I suspect indoor plumbing and electricity had more to do with it than any strangeness. He raised an eyebrow at the mysterious maybe-kidnapper-in-black, not looking very happy. What happened? he said to me.

I woke up and that thing was attacking me, then the Dark Knight here comes in. I pulled my arm from Mr. Jekyll's grip and gave him a glare, not that he had eyes in the back of his head to see me. He had a very different look on his face, a fierce mask, the kind you see movie heroes put on when they're about to waltz in and save the heroine. Fantastic, I'd been joking about the Jekyll and Hyde thing, but it looked like my mystery man wasn't.

Good God, woman, you know how to land in the thick of things. Tarik shot me an exasperated look, which just caused a spike of irritation in me.

Me? I didn't do anything! 

I pushed past Dr. Jekyll while he stood, trying to figure us all out, and, for the first time, got a good look at the mess that had become my bedroom. I was screwed. Out of everything broken, smeared with goop, or faintly smoldering, a picture frame stood out the most. The picture was unharmed, but the glass was shattered, and one side of the silver frame stuck out from the rest. Tears welled up in my eyes, and, as always, when I got stressed, I thumbed the gold ring on my middle finger, twisting it. Nervous habit, but one that didn't go unnoticed. Jekyll's hand settled onto my shoulder like the comforting touch of a friend. 

A big part of me wanted to fall against another human body, any human body, and be held while I cried.

I pulled away, tossing the picture onto my bed. I wasn't putting any stock in his supposed humanity, even if he did try to fearlessly defend me from my aging, ex-sorcerer landlord.

Tarik gave us a long, slow look. Most of it went right past me and to the man behind me. I'll be back. I'm going to activate the building's wards.

What am I supposed to do?

Tarik shrugged. I'm sure you can think of something. Did you call the cops?

I didn't get around to it.

Good, Tarik said. That'll give us less headaches to deal with.

I glared at the door after he left. I wasn't sure if he was right, but I did know I was lucky enough to be living in a city where magic crimes were treated specially—as in It's your fault for messing around with the arcane in the first place. The room stank of magic and rot. The damage wasn't insurmountable, but it was going to make for a long night—not that I was going to be able to sleep after this.

I spun on my dark knight/would be protector. Who the hell are you, and why are you here? Why are you bringing big, flesh balloon monsters into girls' bedrooms and attacking them?

I...didn't do this. 

He spoke with the clarity and practiced pace of a person who didn't speak English as a first language. Dammit, his voice was completely different than it had been before, too. The growly, nasty tone that set off all the klaxons in my head was gone. Underneath it was something...nice. A confused, lost little boy defensiveness. Bloody hell.

I woke up to a monster in my bed. When I resisted its attempt to...do whatever, you popped your head in and told it to hurry up. You did do this. You came here

His mouth opened. His gaze drifted to the twisted diadem on the floor.Was that...thing, on me?

I studied the man, my would-be kidnapper and would-be savior rolled into one. The way I'd first seen him, he could have been his own evil twin. Now there was some element of danger that had simply vanished. It was the cruel glint in his eyes. He held no more malice, and it entirely changed his hardness into something else. I didn't trust him, but it was clear he didn't mean me harm right now, and that he was just as confused as I was. Gods, he looked like...and I was a sad, sappy, sucker for a handsome man in black.

I refused to look at the broken picture next to me.

He grabbed the diadem from the floor and held it pinched between two fingers. The part of the diadem that had lain against his skin was not smooth. I'd been right about the dots of blood on his forehead. It looked like the diadem had been literally rooted into his skin. I felt sick.

Yes. Do you know what it is?

Unfortunately. He took two big steps, then paused. That mask was back up on his face again, the brave warrior face that hid whatever emotions were coursing through him. Did I...harm you?

No.

He let out a noticeable breath. I let out a noticeable breath.

I, um, hit you in the head with my alarm clock.

You broke the gem?

The silver opal in your headband? Yeah. Then you passed out and I went mano a mano with big, bulbous, and ugly.

And the wizard?

My landlord. And who are you?

He hesitated. My name is Ayrin Blackfang.

He had to be from the other world. No one here really had a name like that. From the look of things, he’d taken to the Rip quicker than many of his fellows. The armor he wore was Kevlar, not leather or mail. Five years ago, he hadn't even existed, not in my world, anyway, and now I half-expected him to pull out an Uzi and mow me down. That thing is a diadem of mind control.

Of course it was. Of course it is. That explains the Jekyll and Hyde impersonation.

He smiled and it nearly killed me.  Which one do you think I am?

I looked away. I couldn't help smiling a little. I hadn’t expected him to get the reference and felt pleased that he had. My smile widened. Apparently I'd faced the monster and rescued the...prince. The Rip made fairy tales come true. Too bad when you tried to hide from magic it brought the story right into your bedroom.

May I sit?

Do you bite? I countered. I tried to clamp my lips around those words, but I was too late.

No.

Shame. It slipped out before I could stop it. I'm Ivy.

Ayrin.

I remember.

Well, it's nice to meet you properly, and I'm sorry... For hitting him on the head? But I wasn't. Not even a little bit.

We both sat on my sad, secondhand, ridiculously flowery couch.

What do you remember? I asked.

I was working in my garden. Then I woke up to you passing out above me in a dark room.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know if there was anything to say. All I had was questions, and he had no answers for himself, much less me.

How had that monster gotten into the building without alerting anyone else? How had Tarik known I needed help? (Well, that one was easy to answer. He monitored the building magically for suspicious activity. I'd signed a consent form about it when I moved in.) How was I supposed to replace my dresser and bed? How do you get the stink of ichor out of carpet?

And what was I supposed to do with Ayrin now?

I am in your debt.

I got the feeling, from the inflection in his voice, that under normal circumstances, he would have bowed and kissed my hand, or done something else just as embarrassing. Instead, he pulled himself to a stand and stretched before studying himself.

No, not really, I said at last.

Yes, I am. What do you know of magic?

It exists. I shrugged.

You know a wizard, though?

Yeah, he's retired. We're not, like, close or anything. But I know a little bit.

Then you should know a diadem of this nature is not commonplace. If the beast and I were sent after you, then a wizard of considerable strength has targeted you for some reason.

Goddammit. I had avoided even thinking that question. Why me?

I was hoping it was just a random encounter...in my bedroom. In the middle of night. Okay, okay. Yeah, it had occurred to me that something was wrong.

You freed me from its control, and for that I owe you. I cannot, in good conscience, leave you to deal with this alone. At least allow me to help you clean up this mess.

I wanted to argue--very badly--but I couldn't. I didn't trust him, but I did know I was shaken. I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to think of what I'd see if I fell asleep again, or what I'd wake up to. And...I didn't want to be alone.

Give me whatever weapons you're carrying, I demanded. 

Ayrin didn't hesitate to check himself over, unbuckling the sheath on his thigh and sliding the machete back into it, ferreting another knife from his boot, and giving both to me. He untied his shoes and kicked them off, standing dangerously close to a puddle of muck in bare feet. He pulled the armor off, as well, the vest pulling his undershirt across the flat plane of his abdomen and baring a little hint of skin as he did so. Dammit.

My sword? 

I shook my head. You didn't have one. Just that, and the monster with you.

What did it look like?

I described it. Ayrin nodded and said a name like duck, but with more consonants. Some terms from their languages didn't translate well. Others translated literally, leading to some really weird communication issues. Anytime I thought local dialects were weird, someone spoke Elven to me.

My vision blurred. My adrenaline rush was definitely over. I missed something Ayrin said, then forgot to answer.

Forgive me, he said. You are clearly exhausted. You should sleep.

Yeah, right. I'm sure not tired anymore.

You should try, at least, he said.

Yeah. But you're here, I wanted to say. How was I supposed to trust him? Magic works funny, though, and if he was a victim of a magical attack himself, kicking him out could put him right back into the hands of the people who’d attacked me. Maybe we would be safer together.

You should shower first. At least, let me clean some of this up, then we can argue more. He gestured down at my arm where a crust of black blood and rot had started drying on my skin. My ability to cope left me. I barely made it to the bathroom before I was sick.

-Two-

I'd long ago decided that the way to tell if a person really loves you is if they’ll hold your hair and help you clean up when you vomit. Ayrin did both when we'd barely just met. Hell, my mom had stopped doing that for me when I was, like, ten.

I was exhausted, steps away from hysterical. He was soft and gentle, helping me into the shower, where I let the spray soak my clothes and chip away at the blood and other things that had been left behind. Ayrin asked me to hand my clothes out to him. When the hot water had run out and I was finally forced to exit the shower, I found the clothes soaking in the sink, and a towel, a pair of sweat pants, and a T-shirt on the toilet. His weapons and armor were where I'd thrown them on the shelf over my toilet.

I saw the sweat pants and T-shirt and ended up sitting, dripping wet, on the edge of the towel, crying. They weren't mine. They'd been my fiance's, but I could hardly expect Ayrin to know that. In my emotional state, knowing that he'd probably just tried to pick out something comforting and fully-covering couldn't compete with all the crap I was still carrying around over Benjamin.

Ayrin let me cry in peace, or maybe he was busy trying to kidnap someone else and didn't even notice.

I made some attempts at hiding my red, puffy eyes before I finally left the bathroom. Outside, I discovered Ayrin's headband of mind control had apparently suppressed his appetite and his sense of smell, as well as his will. He smelled like the flesh ball that had attacked me. He'd found leftovers in my fridge to savage instead of me. A completely uncomfortable silence came between us, and I expected him to say Psych! and attack me again. Instead, he ate with the fervor of a starved man. I could have made him something more appetizing than mixed Chinese and Thai leftovers.

So now what? I asked after he'd finished eating, put the dish on my coffee table, and leaned back against the couch. He looked around slowly. My apartment wasn't state of the art, but it was modern, compared to most of the Otherland areas I'd seen. I had cable, a DVD player, and a stereo. But it was the photos that caught Ayrin's eyes. Funny how I'd tried not to look at them for months now, but hadn't wanted to take them down, either. Benjamin deserved a place in my life,