THE CURSEPRICE
* * *
Forged in heartbreak, set in bone, cast in blood, carved in stone. A thousand years will my curse reign, unless I have these six things:
* * *
The tears of a fairy from a wood so deep.
The fig of a vorgrath from his mate’s keep.
The scale of a selkie burnished gold.
The bone of a wood witch a century old.
The midnight sliver of a Shade Queen’s horn.
The sacrifice of two lovers torn.
For the first time in years, Haven was lost. The vorgrath tracks she’d spotted hours ago now seemed an illusion, the musky scent the creature used to mark its territory a figment of her mind.
And yet, she could still smell the foul odor on her finger, swiped from a mossy tree not too far from here.
She spun around, her boots slipping against mud, breath loud in her ears as she searched the treetops for a break in the heavy foliage that veiled the sky. If only she could see the sun’s position, she could determine what direction she was heading.
Usually the woods gave her answers—the side of a boulder where moss grew, the direction the clouds were moving; even where a spider hung its web could tell her north from south.
But the dark magick in these woods turned everything she knew about the forest on its head. Massive silver webs of arachnids she prayed never to meet shimmered from high branches on both sides. Moss carpeted everything.
Shifting her newly invoked pack across her shoulders, she ducked under the roots of a huge oak, grimacing as pearl-white larvae dropped onto her head.
She’d crouched beneath the same tree an hour ago, she was sure of it. Only now, instead of one fallen tree blocking her path, three twisting alders sprouted from the ground.
If she’d truly walked here before, there were no tracks. Either the forest was constantly changing, or she was losing her mind.
Oh, Bell. You would love to study this place. She could hear him prattling on about the magickal properties, see him studiously writing it all down. Goddess Above, I miss you.
Now that she was alone without the band of Solis constantly distracting her, she had time to consider the hole her best friend left with his absence—his beaming smile, his teasing laugh.
He’s why you’re doing all of this, she reminded herself. Don’t let him down.
Thinking about the Penrythian Prince made her redouble her efforts to find the vorgrath. Not only did she need a fig from its keep to satisfy the Curseprice, but if she didn’t somehow collect a few drops of venom from one of its famously long incisors, Rook would die.
“No pressure,” she muttered, stomping through the brackish waters of a swamp. Mud clung to her boots and made her legs feel heavy while the stench of rancid water filled her nose. Creatures floated along the surface, some type of reptiles with plates of armor jutting from their spines, only the tallest points of their backs and eyes showing.
Fighting the urge to retch, she wiped her forehead, collecting sweat and depositing moss and mud over her skin.
Blasted water! She’d never hated it more. It dampened the air and filled her lungs, making every inhalation a chore. What she wouldn’t give for a bath—or ten.
Her eyes strained from searching the boggy soil for the triangular, three-toed tracks left by the vorgrath. As she looked, her mind replayed the second piece of the Curseprice.
The fig of a vorgrath from his mate’s keep.
Experience taught her that the male vorgrath was never very far from his mate’s keep, guarding the fig trees day and night for his partner. The male vorgrath would kill any creature that came too close, especially during mating season.
Last summer, when she nearly snared the vorgrath terrorizing the Muirwood, she’d counted almost fifty woodland creatures slaughtered within a half mile radius from its keep.
Most of the victims were nocturnal animals, which told her the vorgrath was probably less active during the day. Perhaps it even slept for a few hours—if she was lucky.
By the time she’d found the vorgrath’s treasure, a young fig tree hidden near a ravine, orange rays of dusk filled the Muirwood, and she decided to leave and come back in daylight.
When she returned the following day, the fig tree had been stripped of its fruit, and the male vorgrath lay dead on the ground. Killed by its mate, probably after the female smelled Haven’s scent so close to her keep.
Apparently, female vorgraths were not the forgiving kind.
Whatever happened now, she couldn’t forget that even if she somehow got the fig from a vorgrath’s keep, and somehow collected its venom without dying, and somehow got away, the female would be close.
Haven discovered more vorgrath tracks near a bog. The day was fading, steeping the woods in deep shadows, a few coral rays of light retreating with every crushing throb of her heart. Here and there, bare patches mottled the trees where something had rubbed away the bark.
Strange, high-pitched shrieks pierced the heavy air along with exotic noises she couldn’t place from creatures she would rather not encounter. But the further west she walked, the quieter the forest became.
Most people thought silence in the woods was a good thing, but Haven knew better.
She was now officially in vorgrath territory.
She crept through the latticework of tree-roots and vines, careful to avoid the water-filled footprints she followed. By the depth of the tracks and the length of the toes, this vorgrath was much larger and older than the one from the Muirwood.
And cleverer—it had tracked through streams and doubled back more than once.
Wonderful. Just her luck she’d found a mature, established vorgrath, which meant it would be large, smarter than most, and overly protective of its lair.
How was she supposed to not kill it?
But according to Stolas, killing it would doom her. “Don’t kill the vorgrath,” she mocked, making her voice low and taunting to sound like the Shade Lord’s, “unless you want its mate to hunt you to the ends of the earth.”
Kicking the worm-eaten stump of a tree, she rolled her eyes. “How does that help me if I’m dead?”
For a breath, the forest stirred, and she could swear an annoyed chuckle trickled from above.
Shadeling’s shadow, this place was getting to her. If only Surai were here to complain to. She imagined Rook scoffing as the two tried to find their way through the tangle of woods, Archeron stalking ahead, annoyed at something Haven said or did—like breathing or simply existing.
Still . . . she missed them. All of them.
She would have never admitted such a thing a few hours earlier . . . but something about trudging through hideously overgrown forests alone made one appreciate the value of companionship, and there was no denying the truth.
The Solis had grown on her.
Even if they made fun of her and treated her like a pet, even if Archeron had a habit of restraining and taunting her, being around them felt normal. Safe.
Going soft, Ashwood.
Pushing thoughts of the Solis away, she pressed deeper into the overgrowth, growling under her breath as the shadows between the trees seemed to elongate and darken before her eyes.
Tension danced over her sweaty skin, drawing gooseflesh over her arms. She slipped out the dagger generously loaned to her by the Shade Lord. The weapon was heavier than she preferred, weighted down with an intricate gold handle, the onyx hilt a set of raven’s wings. Rubies and black diamonds swirled around the handle, tossing stupid sparkles into her eyes.