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.
Haven Ashwood had a horrible habit of flirting with death. Take tonight, for instance. One slip from the giant ash tree she was climbing, one rotten branch or slick patch of bark, and she would plummet a hundred feet to the mossy ground, her bones splintering to shards.
It would take weeks—maybe months—for anyone to discover her broken body.
She grinned darkly at the thought as she shimmied farther up the ancient tree, the assortment of blades strapped to her baldric and leather belt knocking against the soft trunk.
Death by falling. Not how she envisioned going out, but also not terribly surprising when one insisted on climbing dead trees.
Shivering, she wrapped her cloak tighter around her body as she inched toward the end of a wobbling limb. Freezing to death wasn’t any better, but ever since the Curse had reached the outer wall, the warm Penrythian nights had turned cold and harsh.
Prince Bellamy Boteler’s Royal Companion Guard dies of a broken neck and frostbite on the morning of the prince’s Runeday.
Bell would never forgive her for dying so stupidly. Which is why he had absolutely no idea where she was tonight—or where she came most nights she couldn't sleep.
If he knew she snuck into woods infested with Shadowlings, well, he’d probably kill her himself.
“I’m not scared of you,” she taunted the creatures, leaping to the next tree. Her cloak flapped out behind her, the floppy hat she wore threatening to break free as she scrambled for a foothold.
“Apologies,” she murmured to the tree, patting a knobby portion of the trunk that resembled an eye.
Legend claimed that the trees were soldiers from the fallen kingdom of Lorwynfell fleeing the Curse, turned at the very gates of Penryth. Haven wasn’t prone to superstitious talk, but the weeping moans and cries that came from the massive trees were so heartbreaking, so human, that she found herself talking to them sometimes.
Tonight, though, the cries were deeper, more insistent. As if the trees were actually trying to tell her something.
Don’t be silly.
The new branch bowed beneath her weight. She flung out her arms for balance, tightening her core as adrenaline prickled her half-frozen flesh. A quick glance down sent a fresh wave of fire racing along her nerves. The drop was at least seven stories high.
Yes, look down, Ashwood. Wonderful idea.
More rotten branches followed. Each one dipping from her weight and sending a burst of bark raining to the ground.
Her breath spilled out white and thick. She followed it up into the triangle of sky between the gnarled and bent limbs where the full moon sat fat and heavy—a sure sign the Shade Lord’s monsters were coming out to play soon.
Despite what Bell’s father, King Horace, promised his subjects, she knew the hills teemed with the creatures. Watching. Testing. Waiting for the day the runespell cast deep into the great wall would weaken.
Her lips puckered to the side. As long as she stayed high in the trees, she was safe. Unless Shadowlings had recently acquired the skill of climbing.
Sucking in her bottom lip, she leapt to a higher branch, grasping for a handhold. Brittle bark crumbled beneath her palms and sprinkled over her cheeks. Her fingers were numb, her lips and cheeks frozen.
Nearly there.
She scanned the rolling hills of Penryth far below. A thick blanket of fog hung heavy over the land, swelling the valleys and clumping in the woods. The air was moist and moldy, shot through with the faint scent of bergamot, cinnamon, and blood.
A prickle of dread formed between her shoulder blades. Tonight was a Devouring, the magick-laden mist that descended over the countryside. It came randomly, with no rhyme or reason, no pattern that she could tell.
Some said the Curse had to feed on mortal souls to grow stronger. Others said it was slowly stripping the land of its magick.
All Haven knew was once the sun chased away the heavy mist, the land was strewn with villagers left either insane or dead.
“Great night for a forest excursion, Ashwood,” she muttered, picking up her pace.
Her fingers slipped beneath her ruby-red cloak, stroking the runestone sewn into its silk lining. The magick inside that one gem supposedly protected her from the Curse’s dark magick, but the stone had never been tested.
Hopefully, tonight would be no different.
A low snarl rang from the valley, muffled by the trees.
“Hello,” she murmured, rubbing a thumb over the smooth hilt of her runesword, heavy against her hip. “I know you’re here.”
From the time she was a little girl, she’d heard songs and stories about the Shadowlings, the creatures that appeared in the magick hour during full moons, devouring children and light magick before disappearing back into the mist.
The songs also told of the Lord of the Netherworld nearby. As master of all dark creatures, myth said it was he who followed them into the woods at night.
Doubtful. She’d killed dozens of Shadowlings and never once had she run across a Shade Lord.
Although she’d never been in the forest right before a Devouring either . . .
Shaking her head, she leapt onto the final tree that held her treasure, her excitement washing away her fears.
Let this Noctis Shade Lord come. She would be more than happy to introduce him to the sleek bow and iron-tipped arrows strapped to her back. Or the four blades dripping from her person, each one coated with a different runepoison.
Haunting groans whispered through the treetops. She needed to hurry.
Her hat nearly slipped off as she adjusted her position, allowing cold air to slither along the nape of her neck. A sharp limb tore at her cheek.
Shielding her face, she pressed herself deep into the nest of foliage.
There. Just below a crooked branch, the stars wavered inside their indigo patch of sky.
“Gotcha.” But it wasn’t until the invisible runebag she’d tied to the branch nearly a decade ago was nestled in her palm that she felt relief, the tightness in her shoulders easing.
She hardly remembered climbing the ancient ash back then, or carving the protection rune into the gray trunk afterward, a way to both safeguard her treasure and find it later. Not that it needed much protection here.
At the time, she planned to escape King Horace and use the runestones to buy her way across the sea. All her hopes and dreams for finding answers about the family and home she’d been stolen from rested in the bag hanging from her hand.
Another groan drifted through the stillness, its humanlike timbre scraping down her spine and reminding Haven why even the poachers refused to enter Muirwood Forest.
Ignoring her growing unease, she focused on the prize in hand. As soon as she untied the invisible ribbon, the spell released its hold and the faded-green purse formed. Other than three superficial scratches against the leather, the bag appeared untouched.
Thank you, creepy, haunted forest.
She calmed her breathing and slipped a hand inside. The moment her fingertips brushed the velvet cloth surrounding each runestone, a sweet feeling rose in her chest until she could almost taste her need for them. To touch them. Hold them.