“This wasn’t supposed to hurt you,” Cleo said. “I didn’t expect this.” Shame flooded her. Ian was hurting, and it was to help her. She desperately wanted the curse lifted, but not like this. Not at Ian’s expense. The cost of his pain was too high.
Ian responded by clumsily knocking the vial of his blood toward her feet. Right. Finish this up. Make it worth it.
Her hand shook a little as she lifted Ian’s vial. She joined the chant, her voice canting strangely against the group’s. Buzzing grew under her skin, nearly unbearable, and she saw the curse again, outlined against her skin.
It had grown thicker since she last saw it. Someone gasped, and Cleo stared dumbly at herself. It looked like a bramble of thorns, sickly black, full of ragged edges and points. They pressed against her, wrapping itself tight against her skin and Cleo forgot to breathe for a moment. She looked at Ian and saw the horror in his eyes. The curse pushed mercilessly against her eyes, and she felt heavy tears fall from her eyes. No, not tears. Blood. Blood slid out from her ears and nose. Blood stained her panties and slid down her throat.
The curse was killing her.
Cleo was determined that this was not how she was going to die. She was full of anger, sharper than the brambles threatening to slice her internal organs. Her anger pushed her arm up, and she tipped Ian’s blood into the cauldron.
Cleo fell to her knees, her hand perilously close to the fire. It was too hot. She felt the burn against her palm, and pulling her hand close to her chest caused her to tip backwards completely. She stared at the sky above her, seeing only the dark between the stars.
Then she closed her eyes and saw nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“C’mon,” Cleo groaned. “Not again.” She lay in her bed, the ceiling stark and white above her. Cleo closed her eyes and tried to stop the spinning. Nope, wishful thinking wasn’t helping. Her limbs felt too heavy, like they were encased with iron. Her lungs struggled to draw air.
Is this what living without the curse felt like? She’d imagined it would feel better. When she indulged in this particular dream, Cleo thought that without the curse, she’d feel weightless, like she’d be able to float. That her head would be clear. That she’d finally be comfortable in her own skin, with her own thoughts. She forced her eyelids open.
“Hey there,” Agnes’ soft voice greeted her. “Welcome back.”
Cleo wrenched her neck towards Agnes. Sweet Moon, this was not good. Agnes looked like shit. Her eyes were tired and her clothes wrinkled. Cleo suspected that Agnes would be pissed if she knew what her hair was doing right now.
Agnes picked up a mason jar full of a grey cream. It had the same disgusting smell of Dante’s cream. Agnes shook it a little and it wobbled dangerously close to the top.
“I need to put more of this on you,” she said. “Do you mind?”
Cleo realized then that she smelled truly awful. Coppery blood and old sweat mingled with the pine, wet fur, and dark smell of the tea-infused cream. She wanted to gag, but just didn’t have the energy.
“Do it,” she told Agnes. Agnes began to smooth it down Cleo’s arm in sure, gentle strokes. It felt good, chilly against Cleo’s overheated skin. Agnes worked in silence, and Cleo was too tired to be embarrassed. Moving was beyond her right now.
When Agnes finished with her arms and legs, she looked at Cleo. “I’m sorry, but we need to do your chest too. Would you like to do that?”
Apparently Cleo had some energy after all. In response, Cleo tipped her palm towards Agnes, who dumped a decent amount of cream into Cleo’s hand.
Cleo reached under her shirt and began rubbing the cream in a circle over her heart. Her hand froze, and she brushed it experimentally over her chest again. Rushing to pull up her shirt caused waves of pain and nausea, but Cleo ignored it.
Over her heart was a black circle, black brambles twisting over and around itself like a wicked crown. It looked like a hyper-realistic tattoo, because where the thorns would’ve pricked her skin, her flesh was reddened and irritated. And since it was nearly all thorns, it was a solid corona of pain.
‘’Yeah,” Agnes said. Cleo hadn’t realized she’d cursed until Agnes replied.
“It didn’t work,” Cleo said dumbly. She stroked near the thorns, every pass painful. The pain sharpened her mind, woke her a little. Cleo couldn’t tell if the tears pricking her eyes were from the pain or the disappointment.
Agnes hesitated. “No,” she said finally.
Cleo sat with that for a while. “Whose idea was the cream?” she asked finally.
“Mine,” Agnes said, “and Dante’s.”
Cleo raised her eyes towards Agnes. Agnes had the grace to flush.
“You passed out and looked,” Agnes waved her hand towards Cleo’s face, “and Ian was half bear and he almost bit Grant when Grant tried to go towards you. Everything was a colossal FUBAR. Sophie talked Ian down, which, by the way, was a damn miracle. Then the markings on your skin started moving and we all collectively freaked out because I think you were dying, Cleo. You were breathing weird and your skin… God, your skin and Ian said that Dante could help. So we called Dante. He helped.” Agnes took a huge breath and buried her face in her hands.
Is the curse worse now? Cleo wanted to ask. What’s happening to me? Where’s Ian? Instead, she asked for water and acetaminophen. Agnes went to the kitchen. Cleo heard low voices, maybe Mari’s, and a lower rumble. Ian.
Agnes returned with a retinue in tow. The coven crowded into the tiny room, and Cleo waved weakly. Ian glowered behind everyone, and pushed his way into the room.
He looked angry, which meant he was scared. And a scared Ian, Cleo figured, was likely
