A Cursed Kiss (Myths of Airren Book 1) Read online

  A chill slithered down my back. She’d met a witch. A real witch.

  I stopped at the other side of Edward’s grave, accidentally knocking a clump of dirt over the edge. It landed with a hollow thump against the casket at the bottom. “And where does this witch live?”

  Sylvia and her friend exchanged worried glances. If word got out that either of them had conferred with a witch, they could lose their jobs. But if this witch found out they were speaking ill of her, they could lose their lives.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I assured them. “I promise.”

  The other woman settled a hand on Sylvia’s slight shoulder and said, “Fiadh lives in a small cottage in the forest north of Graystones.”

  The witch hadn’t helped Sylvia, but would she help me?

  There was only one way to find out.

  I thanked them and spun on my heel, hurrying to where Padraig waited on the bench at the front of the carriage. When he saw me, he dropped the reins and made to climb down.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” I said, waving him back to his perch, “I can open my own door.”

  His wool flat cap slipped when he bobbed his head. “Thank ye, milady. These old bones aren’t what they used to be.” He settled himself back onto the seat and reached for the whip. The horses shook their massive heads and stamped their hooves in the mud, anxious to be on the way. “Will I bring ye to yer father’s estate or the townhouse?”

  “Neither,” I said, throwing open the carriage door, a new sense of purpose filling my cold soul. “Take me to the north woods.”

  The witch’s stacked stone cottage sat at the end of a lonely road cutting through a forest of twisted trees. A cow lazily munched a path through the overgrown lawn, staring vacantly toward a rusted iron gate sagging on its hinges.

  Gnarled brown vines from barren ivy forced their way between the beige and brown stones. Green smoke lifting from the chimney in the center of the slate roof was the only indication that the cottage wasn’t abandoned.

  I had been taught that magic was darkness.

  But I was already in the dark.

  The creatures who wielded it couldn’t be trusted.

  But at this point, I didn’t have much of a choice.

  My clenched fist connected with the arched black door. The light breeze rustling the overgrown grass stilled, and the door creaked open.

  Hollow bits of bronze dangling from the interior handle jingled as I pushed the door aside. Stepping across the threshold, I ducked beneath bundles of drying herbs hanging from the low ceiling beams.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” The curtains were drawn so tightly, the only light in the room came from the open doorway and a mass of black candles flickering on a crude wooden table.

  Long shelves lined the back walls, containing fluted glasses labeled “dreams” in warm, honeyed hues with cork stoppers. Jars of swirling black marked “nightmares” bore tin lids weighted down with large stones.

  Bile rose in my throat when I found glasses of what looked like entrails displayed on a knotted wood mantle across a wide fireplace. I quickly looked away, focusing instead on a copper cauldron steaming over an empty fire grate.

  “I’m looking for Fiadh.” My voice echoed like the shadows were whispering back. Fee-ah. Fee-ah. Fee-ah. “I was told this was where she lived.”

  A rusty nail jutting from the uneven plank floor snagged the hem of my skirt. I bent to free myself, carefully so as not to damage the cloth. It wasn’t that I had any particular fondness for the dress. But of all my mourning attire, this one was the least hideous.

  I called for her once more.

  The only response was the slight jangle of the chimes from an errant breeze

  With hope leaking from my chest, I turned back to the door. The witch probably wouldn’t have helped me anyway.

  Tap

  Tap

  Tap

  My legs locked into place, refusing to budge. My mind could’ve been playing tricks on me, but I swore I heard—

  Tap

  Tap

  There it was again. Short and shrill like nails on glass.

  Someone—or something—was here with me.

  The hairs on my arms stood on end. My heart threatened to burst from my chest and land in one of the empty jars.

  “There once was a girl from Graystones, seeking a cure for death. She met a witch and begged for help but instead drew her last breath.”

  The high, sing-song voice appeared to be coming from the trembling shadows. “H-how do you know what I want?” I asked, backing toward the exit.

  Coming here had been a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.

  One of the stones on top of the nightmares rattled against the metal lid. The black liquid sparked as it spun faster and faster. The stone vibrated to the edge. Dropped onto the floor. Rolled toward my boot. And stopped.

  Glass exploded. A black cloud shot toward me.

  I clambered for the door.

  It swung shut with a bang.

  The candles on the table shuddered and went out.

  Engulfed in darkness, I felt for the handle, praying it wasn’t locked. The cloying scent of magic filled my nostrils. When I gasped, sickeningly sweet air slipped past my lips, flooding my throat with the force of a rushing river. My lungs burned as they expanded and I slumped to the floor.

  Then a voice whispered in my ear, “I know what everyone wants.”

  Eyes, hundreds of them, glowing and green, appeared in the darkness.

  Surrounding me on all sides.

  Waiting. Watching.

  I screwed my eyes shut, praying the monsters would go away.

  When I opened them again, the monsters had been replaced by something far worse.

  It was a vision of my sister sitting on that bench in our garden, beneath the fuchsia she loved so much.

  Panic raked its claws across my chest, dragging me down down down.

  “Please.” I scrubbed at my chest in vain. The pressure was unbearable. “Help me.”

  A frigid breeze swirled around me, tearing at my hair, freeing it from its pins, whipping the dark strands across my cheeks. I made one final grab for the handle, and my fingers met cold brass. The chimes clanged when I threw open the door. I sucked in a ragged breath, and another.

  Cloud-filtered sunlight drove the nightmare into the shadowy recesses beneath the table. Before me now stood a striking woman in a flowing green dress with an open jar in her hand.

  My likeness reflected in the hellish depths of her obsidian eyes. A paltry human, powerless, cowering on the floor.

  Her raven hair, snagged with leaves and twigs, dragged along the wooden planks as she stepped toward me, muttering in a strange language. The nightmare flew from its hiding place and into the jar. With a wave of her hand, the caged terror disappeared.

  “You’re sure it was him?” she asked in a voice as sultry as her full, bloodred lips.

  “What do you mean?” I hated the tremor distorting my words. Hated that my fear was so obvious. Hated that all it would take for her to end my life was a wave of her cursed hand.

  The witch dropped to her knees and grabbed me, her sharp nails cutting into the flesh at my wrist. “The Gancanagh,” she hissed, eyes wide, searching. “Are you certain the Prince of Seduction claimed her life?”

  The Gancanagh wasn’t a bloody prince of anything. He was a monster.

  “I saw him.”

  As quickly as she had grabbed me, she let go and shot to her feet. “What would you give in exchange for her resurrection?” Her head tilted at an inhuman angle, like a bird’s, as she watched me push away from the door and stand on unsteady legs.

  What would anyone give to bring back the person she loved most in the world?

  “Anything.” All Fiadh had to do was say the word, and it was hers. If my purse full of silver wasn’t enough, I would go to my father for a loan. I would sell everything I owned; I would sell my shattered soul . . .

  The witch paced between t
he fireplace and the door, tapping a pointed black nail against her lips. “The universe will demand balance. A life for a life.”

  A life for a life.

  “Whose life?” I didn’t want to die. Surely she had a spell or potion that could bring Aveen back to this world without ending my own.

  “A true immortal’s.”

  “True immortals cannot be killed.” Creatures could live for centuries, but true immortals lived forever. It was an impossible task befitting an impossible reward.

  Fiadh’s dark eyebrows arched toward her peaked hairline. “Anyone can be killed”—the witch withdrew a small silver dagger from a sheath at her waist—“if you have an enchanted blade.”

  The large emerald in its hilt glowed in the dim light.

  I took a halting step closer. It was like staring into the canopy of an endless forest in the height of summer.

  The witch tapped a black nail against the jewel. There was no way I could afford such a weapon.

  “Once you slay the Gancanagh . . .”

  The words rattled through my head.

  Slay the Gancanagh?

  “You expect me to kill the Gancanagh?” The only thing I had ever murdered before was my own embroidery.

  She jerked forward, and I could feel the sting of her sweet breath against my cheek when she asked, “Don’t you want revenge? Don’t you want him to pay for what he’s stolen from you? Don’t you want justice?”

  I wanted all of those things. But this monster had been killing women for centuries.

  “An immortal’s life force is eternal,” she explained, turning the hilt over and over in her hand. “With the Gancanagh’s blood on the blade and his life force trapped in the jewel, you can transfer it with a simple prick.” She pressed the tip to her finger, drawing a bead of deep red.

  Was it true?

  Creatures like this witch were born liars. Still, what had been the point of coming here if I wasn’t going to believe her?

  This was Aveen. If I had a chance to resurrect her, I’d be a fool to pass it up.

  “If I decide to do this, how will I lure him close enough to kill him?”

  It was rumored that the Gancanagh’s castle was on the other side of the island, guarded by creatures, protected by ancient wards. Even if I made it past all the obstacles, what would draw the monster to me?

  The witch’s skirts swirled as she spun toward the shelves to collect a small black box with a dusty lid. Inside was an emerald set in a knotted gold band.

  “Once he learns you have this, he will find you.” The ring disappeared in her clenched fist. “Trust no one and guard this with your life. Do you hear me? Your life.”

  The witch was willing to hand over the dagger and the ring?

  None of this fit with what I knew about witches. They never did something out of the goodness of their hearts—they had no hearts.

  “How much do you want for both?” Despite the fear churning in my stomach, darkness swelled within me, reveling in the idea of bringing the villain to justice. Even if the witch was lying, if I couldn’t bring Aveen back, at least the vile monster would be no more. “I have some silver,” I said, reaching for the purse beneath my cloak.

  “I don’t want your coins,” she sneered, knocking my hand away. “I want your lies.”

  She was turning down money for lies? “What does that mean?”

  “Once our bargain is struck, you’ll only be able to tell the truth. It’s an insurance policy of sorts.” The strained smile she gave me didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of liars through the years and want to ensure you’ll do as you say.” She opened her fingers; the ring trembled in her palm.

  It seemed a small price to pay for a chance to bring back Aveen. “Then we have a bargain,” I said, offering a hand to seal our agreement. “You give me what I need, and I’ll kill the Gancanagh to resurrect my sister.”

  Her cold palm struck my lips. Magic forced its way into my nostrils, cutting off the air. I didn’t want to breathe but my lungs were burning burning burning.

  “Don’t fight it,” she crooned. “Accept the curse.”

  Curse? What curse? I hadn’t agreed to a bloody curse.

  The moment I inhaled, my lips felt like they’d been melted with a branding iron.

  The witch removed her hand and passed me the dagger, her lips lifting into a mocking smile. “It’s time for you to slay a monster.”

  3

  Keeping to the shadows, I searched the rows of buildings on either side of a dark, empty street. The place had to be here somewhere. It had been two days since I’d met with Fiadh, and my lips still ached. Instead of wallowing in self-pity over what could’ve been the biggest mistake of my life, I’d thrown myself into devising a plan to complete the monumental task in front of me.

  A plan that led me to Dreadshire, a village crawling with unseemly characters.

  The innkeeper living on the outskirts of the village had been hesitant to give me directions to what he called, “a den of vipers.” Once he realized my mind couldn’t be changed, he’d reluctantly told me what I needed to know. Padraig was busy in the stables, so he hadn’t noticed me slip away.

  If only I could find the blasted—

  There. Up ahead was a wooden sign with a snake scorched into the plank.

  The Green Serpent looked the same as every other seedy pub on this side of the village: grime-blackened stone walls, a moldy thatched roof, a crooked chimney releasing smoke into ever-damp air. Two lanterns bolted on either side of a black door flickered in the darkness.

  Beside me, the river carried away the filth leaking from the cobbled streets. Clutching my wool cape closed over my mourning dress, I reached for the dented brass knob.

  Inside, heat from the turf fire beckoned for me to remove my cloak. But the stench of sweat, body odor, and stale alcohol from the scarred men bent over their flagons forced me deeper into the lavender-scented material.

  The mumbled conversations in the room fell silent. All eyes—and a few eye-patches—were trained on me.

  My heart thudded against my ribs.

  RunRun

  RunRun

  RunRun

  Adrenaline surged, hot and chaotic, as I continued toward the rows of dark liquor bottles on the back wall. A table of men with braids and beads woven into their scraggly beards placed coins next to a pile of severed claws. My stomach twisted at the sight of yellowed tendons and blood.

  I shouldn’t have eaten that fish pie for dinner.

  These were exactly the types of men I knew I’d be dealing with. Mercenaries. Killers for hire. The scum of the earth, willing to trade their skills and knowledge of Airren’s dark underbelly for coin.

  Humans with no qualms when it came to murder.

  Hunters and slayers of monsters.

  Something grazed my backside and squeezed.

  I stumbled out of reach and twisted to find a man with a gold tooth smirking from his stool. He gestured toward his breeches and spat an offer that left my face burning.

  Men could touch what they wanted—take what they wanted—and never taste the bitterness of consequences. If I spoke up, it would be my fault. I was the one who had walked in here wearing a skirt. I was the one who had been born a woman.

  I kept my mouth shut like a proper lady and continued through a gauntlet of catcalls and greedy, grimy hands.

  A wooden bar carved with profanity and male genitalia separated the liquor from the questionable clientele. An elderly woman with deep wrinkles and a scar across her sunken left eye emerged from a door at the back. When she saw me, her eye widened.

  “I wonder if you might be able to help me,” I said, resting my elbows on the bar and forcing a smile. “You see, I’m looking for a man—”

  “Pet, I’ve been lookin’ fer a man in this pub fer forty years,” she drawled, hobbling closer and snagging a rag from a bucket, “and haven’t found an honest one yet.”

  It was a good thing the man I sought wasn’
t the honest sort.

  “A man to help me get to Tearmann,” I finished.

  The scar across her eye pulled when her eyebrows lifted. She made no attempt to hide her perusal from my hood to my trembling hands. “Why would someone like ye want to go there?”

  There would be no point lying, even if the witch’s curse weren’t forcing me to tell the truth. The person I hired needed to have no qualms about traveling to the north to find the monstrous “Prince.”

  “I need to find the Gancanagh.”

  The woman’s black-toothed smile shifted to a grimace as she began to scrub the stains from the bar. “These men will rob ye blind,” she ground out. “Best be gone with ye and get the foolish notion of findin’ the Gancanagh outta yer ‘ead.” Her eye flicked nervously toward a table of three men in the corner.

  The first man had thinning gray hair, a snout-shaped nose, and drink-swollen cheeks swallowing his dark, beady eyes. To his left was a white-haired man face-down on the table.

  The third man didn’t look much older than I was, early twenties at most, with unruly dark hair spilling across his forehead. He wore a wrinkled white shirt with no cravat and a dark waistcoat. For some reason, his eyes had been smeared with black, like a badger’s. But the oddest thing about him was that he was reading. In a pub. Filled with murderers.

  “Please,” I said, prepared to beg. “Surely, you can recommend someone. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  A wave of vicious swearing erupted. Two men tumbled across the floor, splintering the wooden tables and stools and shattering glasses as they rolled. The man on top battered the one pinned to the floorboards, splattering blood all over my new boots.

  “Get outside and wait.” The woman jabbed a finger toward the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” I handed her a piece of silver and started for the door.

  The unconscious man lying in a pool of blood looked familiar.

  Hold on.

  He was the fool who had grabbed me.

  I rammed the toe of my boot into his ribs. Twice.

  Cheering exploded as I made my way to the exit. The sweaty smell from inside was replaced by the stench of urine and filth clinging to the street.