To celebrate the launch of CURSED, here are some sample chapters… I hope you enjoy them!

CB

Chapter One

My black cat, Lucy, tiptoed across the roof. I paused from hammering and gave her a hopeful smile. “Hello, there. You here to keep me company?”

Lucy shivered and leaped away. I frowned. Lucy’s not afraid of me, too, is she?

I leaned over the edge of the farmhouse. Below me, Lucy stalked past the front porch, her long tail flicking. “You don’t think I’m scary, do you?”

Lucy looked up, bared her teeth, and hissed.

That’s my answer, I suppose.

I was eighteen years old, owned my own farm, and could cast a little magick. Everyone I knew found that frightening. Well, everyone except Tristan, but he was away at sea right now. It felt like forever until I’d see my only friend again.

Don’t think about it. There’s too much work to do.

To keep my mind off my worries, I soaked in the view from my roof. An oak forest towered to my right, the leaves gleaming like they’d been dipped in emeralds. To my left, acres of golden barley rustled in the breeze. A broad road cut between the two sides—I’d widened that myself last month. I sighed.

I love this place.

At least, I did until I saw what was coming.

A wagon lumbered up the road. It had an open back for hauling crops, but the cart was painted yellow, with tall red wheels. Fancy. A man in a straw hat flicked the reins of two gray chargers. With a ride like that, he could only be one thing.

Another suitor.

That made the third one this week. It was getting ridiculous.

Ever since the courts had confirmed that Braddock Farm was mine, men suddenly saw me as marriage material. It was doubly annoying because of all the years I’d spent as a social pariah. But now that I owned Braddock Farm outright, the law would give any man I married half my land.

No doubt, whoever was driving was well aware of that.

Too bad for him, I knew exactly how to deal with unwelcome visitors. I still had some planks that needed breaking down, and splitting rails would mean using my Necromancer magick. That always frightened the locals silly.

Not that I made it a habit to scare them. As a rule, I rarely used my Necromancer power. And I certainly had no desire to join a cloister for real training. What was the point of learning how to conjure skeletons and ghosts? Over the years, I’d just figured out a trick or two that made chores easier.

After I slipped off the roof, I stepped up behind the barn, lined up some planks, jammed iron wedges into each one, and hefted a mallet onto my shoulder.

Here we go.

I closed my eyes and reached out with my mage senses. Ghostly energy was everywhere, if you knew what to feel for. The echoes of things done in the past were all around us. Kisses, fights, birdsong… It never went away, really. Necromancers could pull that power into our bodies and transform it into other kinds of energy.

I summoned magick into me. The power worked the best when I focused it all into my left arm, but it came in through each pore and kicked its way through every vein. Power hurtled through my limbs. I gritted my teeth and kept up my concentration. Conjuring magick reminded me of riding a spooked horse—you needed just the right mix of firm grip and loose spine. If I lost control, I’d shake until I passed out.

Within seconds, the bones of my left hand glowed blue. Magickal strength flowed through my muscles. Now, holding the heavy mallet was no more difficult than lifting a teaspoon. I picked up the mallet and slammed it down with supernatural force.

Thud.

The first plank cracked just as my would-be suitor stepped around the barn.

I couldn’t believe it. Of all people, Wyatt was here… The very man who’d complained to the courts that I was using my rogue magick to summon storms and destroy crops. Never mind that Necromancers didn’t control the weather. And never mind that my crops always got hit by the same storms.

When he’d last visited, Wyatt had been dressed in black from head to toe. His shirt had even been embroidered with pentagrams to deflect my evil eye. Now, he was dressed quite differently. His too-tight pants were tucked into his work boots and his white shirt was unlaced, showing off his firm chest. Clearly, he thought I was shallow enough to fall for a few muscles. What a horse’s arse.

“Hello, girlie.” Wyatt took a half-step closer, his gaze locked onto my breasts. I had the sudden urge to vomit.

I hefted my mallet again, hoping he’d take the hint not to come any nearer. “Elea. My name’s Elea.”

“Didn’t I say that?”

“Nope.” I adjusted my grip to show my glowing bones. “Why are you here?”

“Some monk had a letter for you. Thought I’d help out.” He slipped an envelope from his pocket. I recognized the seal—it was from the monastery where Tristan had trained as Necromancer. He’d given up the faith to become a merchant. Why would the monks write me of all people?

“Thank you.” I reached for the letter, but Wyatt pulled it away. “Not so quickly. I want to talk.”

Now, we get to it.

“So talk.” My bones glowed more brightly as my swing took on extra power.

Thud.

Wyatt jumped when the hammer hit. I grinned.

“You’ve grown into a lovely young woman, Elea. Eighteen years old is only a decade younger than me.” Wyatt clutched his hand to his chest the way that characters did in badly drawn illustrations of courtly love. “You’re tall and fit with hair black as a raven’s wing, smooth olive skin, and whiskey-colored eyes. A man could spend a lifetime looking at your sweet face.”

I stared at him, slack jawed. Whiskey-colored? Did he really say that?

Wyatt’s blue eyes narrowed slightly and he pursed his lips as if ready for my kiss.

Oh, no.

“Come now, Wyatt. Ever since the courts ruled in my favor, I’ve had suitors darkening my door day and night.”

Wyatt shook his head in surprise. He was really playing this up. “The finding of the court is merely a coincidence. You’re a lovely maiden. I’ve been hoping to be sweethearts for ages.”

“Sweethearts. Truly.” I smacked my lips. “For ages.”

“Of course.”

I gripped my mallet tighter and imagined it was his neck. “When my parents bought Braddock Farm, you painted ‘Death to Necromancers’ on the side of the barn. Rosie told me all about it.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I was ten at the time. It was a joke.”

“It wasn’t funny. My parents died of the plague soon after that.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Now you are, perhaps, because you want something. But you weren’t sorry back then. And you weren’t sorry when my guardian Rosie died, either. I was fifteen and alone, and you petitioned the court to take the land away from me because I was a minor and rogue Necromancer.”

“Mine was one of twelve families who signed the petition.” Wyatt’s shoulders slumped with sadness. With that, he switched from playing the handsome suitor to the mistreated man. “Now, you must understand—”

“I’ve run this place for three long years,” I said, cutting him off. “If Rosie hadn’t left me coin to pay servants, I’d have been lost. But lo and behold, as soon as I’m named the rightful owner, I’m overwhelmed with offers of love and friendship? Not likely.” I hefted the mallet again and imagined Wyatt’s face in the middle of the nearest plank.

Thud.

That was satisfying.

Wyatt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, you win. I admit that I behaved poorly.”

“Poorly?” This was beyond belief.

A muscle ticked on his jawline. “Terribly, then. Now, what do you say to courting?”

Even on my best days, I was quick to anger. Today wasn’t one of my best days. I lifted the hammer once more.

Thud. “Not a chance.”

“Why?” He paced a line beside me. “That Necromancer sailor’s already courting you, isn’t he?”

“Necromancer sailor?” I pointed the mallet straight at his nose. “You mean merchant captain, right?” Tristan had trained as a Necromancer, but that was a long time ago. I looked longingly at the letter Wyatt still gripped. It had to have something to do with my friend.

“So, are you courting or not?”

My cheeks flared red. “No, it’s not like that between us.” Tristan wanted more, but I just didn’t feel that way about him. We could talk for hours about my books and his travels, but it didn’t go farther than that for me. There was just no spark.

Wyatt exhaled. “Then, you’ll consider my courtship?”

Tristan would tease me to no end if he knew Wyatt were here. Thinking about Tristan calmed me a little. When I spoke again, my voice was surprisingly gentle. “Wyatt, I appreciate your interest, but the answer is no.” I stretched out my palm once more. “Now, give me my letter and leave.”

“Any other woman would be honored to have me.” Little bits of spittle flew out of his mouth when he talked. “Necromancers had no right buying land in our shire. Your family wasn’t here a month before the plague struck them down. That was the judgment of the gods, Elea. Even now, you risk their anger merely by being here.”

Rage had me seeing red. The only thing I had from my parents—outside of a few hazy memories from Rosie—was Braddock Farm. “I risk the anger of the gods by working my birthright? And why is that?”

“Be reasonable. As it is, you’re a risk to good society. What if you marry another of your kind? We all saw the judgment of the gods last time. Your only chance is to choose someone like me. That way, you might even have normal children. Besides, I’m the largest landowner in the shire.”

That did it.

“How about you give me my letter, oh largest landowner, and return to your wagon?” I raised my left arm, making my bones glow the brightest shade of blue yet. “Or, if you prefer, I’ll rip out your spine where you stand. Your choice.”

In truth, I had no idea if spine-ripping was something I could manage. But the threat sounded good, and if it got Wyatt off my farm, then I was willing to improvise.

“Your loss.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “I’ll marry one of the county girls.”

I whipped the letter from his palm. “Good luck to you both.” Mostly her. I gestured in the general direction of his wagon. “The road is that way.”

Wyatt stomped off through the mud. I was never happier to see someone leave. Once he was well and gone, I tore open the envelope.

Dear Elea,

Come to the Bell in Hand tavern right away. Tristan needs you.

Quinn

My stomach sank to my toes. Quinn was Tristan’s dyad, the monk who’d trained with him at the monastery. The pair had stayed close even after Tristan left the order. Quinn had never written to me before, though.

I rubbed my chin and thought. Tristan always stayed at the Bell in Hand when he was at port, so that was to be expected. But his voyage wasn’t supposed to end for months. And Tristan never cut a trip short, especially when he was making a delivery to Tsar Dmitri, the ruler of the Necromancers. The two were good friends.

What if Tristan was sick? Or injured?

My body went numb. There were so many ways a sailor could get hurt. When storms hit, they could get washed overboard or caught in the rigging. The lucky ones escaped at the cost of an eye or a leg. And if pirates were the problem, then things got far worse. Those fiends always targeted the captain for extra torture. Some disemboweled their victims alive. My chest tightened with panic.

I have to get to Tristan. Now.

Turning on my heel, I rushed into the barn and saddled Smoke, my fastest mare. Normally, I’d pack along some hard tack and a change of clothes, but there was no time to waste. If I left now, I could be at the Bell in Hand by sunset.

As I galloped away, images of Tristan flickered through my mind. The two of us sitting in the tavern common room, playing chess and chatting about politics in the Tsar’s entourage. Long days spent walking my fields, discussing books he’d brought from overseas. Mornings laughing in the barn while he tried to feed the baby goats.

As much as I loved Braddock Farm, it was a lonely life. After Rosie died, Tristan had become my sole company. When the locals saw me coming, they crossed to the other side of the street. Even my servants looked upon me with dismay. And now, I had false suitors trying to flatter me with lies. In some ways, that was worse than open terror, because I knew the fear remained, bubbling under the surface. Every day, I sensed dread pressing in around me like a vise. Then, I’d see Tristan and the world would become friendly again.

Please, let him be all right.

Smoke and I galloped around the final turn to the Bell in Hand. The rickety wooden building bowed out at an odd angle. A square placard hung from the corner, showing a man’s hand ringing a bell. Bands of anxiety tightened around my throat.

Tristan is in there.

I slid off Smoke, tied her to the nearest hitching post, and rushed inside. The tavern was packed with bodies, loud voices, and the stench of burned meat. I pressed through the crowd and toward the back staircase. Tristan always stayed in the same room.

Second floor, last door on the right.

I sped up the narrow stairway to an upper hall that was thick with shadows. A single window cast a sickly beam of moonlight onto the warped wooden floor. I sped to the last door and whipped it open.

“Tristan?” My pulse beat so hard, my heart thudded in my ears.

The darkened room held little more than a tiny cot. A candle flickered atop a bedside table, alongside a washbasin. Tristan lay asleep, his features drawn and skin pale. I hurried to kneel at his side.

I hurried to kneel at his side. “Tristan? It’s Elea.”

Tristan half opened his eyes. “You…”

I brushed the backs of my fingers against his soft cheek. Tristan was normally all high cheekbones, and long, jet-black hair. Now, his face had hollowed out, his skin looked so pale it was colorless, and his dark hair was almost gray.

“You…” Tristan let out a dramatic sigh. “Smell like a barn.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I work in one every day, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I had.” He choked back a cough. “Let’s discuss the finer points of mating mules and mares—”

“Tristan.” I knew what he was trying to do, and I wouldn’t allow it. My friend looked too ill to pretend that everything was fine.

“It can be a rather lopsided business if the mule is too small—”

“Tristan!”

“What is it?” Tristan wheezed out a rough breath. Speckles of blood flared on his white pillow. Oh, no.

I yanked down my sleeve and used it to dab his chin clean. “You always try to soften the blow when things are serious. Don’t.” My voice hitched. “Just say it.”

Tristan leaned back into his pillows. The shadows in his cheeks deepened until his face resembled a skull. “I’m dying, Elea.”

The world seemed to freeze for a moment. Tristan is dying. That couldn’t be true. I wouldn’t let that be true. I’d fought for the farm when everyone said it was impossible. I could find help for Tristan. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m cursed.”

My skin prickled with alarm. “Who cast it?” If an Apprentice or Master Necromancer were behind this, then there was a good chance the spell could be broken.

Tristan’s brown eyes dimmed. “It was the work of a Grand Master. The best I’ve ever seen.”

A chill crept along my scalp. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

He nodded slowly, as if each movement of his head was painful. “My last voyage was to Tsar Dmitri. He’s dead. Viktor killed him.”

The words made no sense. I knew all the players in the Tsar’s entourage. “Viktor? I thought he was harmless.”

“We all did. Turns out, the man’s a Grand Master Necromancer. He took down the entire Imperial Guard with skull seekers.”

Not good. Skull seekers combined the worst of a hungry ghost and a speedy will-o-the-wisp. They were whip-fast and their teeth could bite through almost anything. “Were you there? Is that what hurt you?”

“I was there, but no, the seekers didn’t injure me.” Tristan’s breathing turned rough. Bits of white phlegm congealed at the corners of his mouth. “After Viktor proclaimed himself Tsar, he cursed anyone who didn’t pledge fealty to him on the spot.”

Cursed. Seconds ticked by before I could force the words from my mouth. “You didn’t pledge fealty to Viktor, did you?”

“No.” Bit by bit, Tristan pulled back his blanket. His muscular torso was ripped open. The white bones of his ribs poked through bloody organs. By the gods. Bile crept up my throat. Tristan spoke in a rough whisper. “The moment I got back to port, these wounds appeared. They’re laced with magick.” His arm flopped down with the blanket, covering his injuries again. “I’m so sorry.” His gaze locked with mine, and all the regret in the world hung in his eyes. “You’re next.”

I must have heard him wrong. “What?”

“The curse will kill you, five years from this very day. The spell goes after whoever I love the most.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to marry you, Elea. Now, this is my legacy.”

I clutched my stomach. How could this be happening? My entire body trembled with fear. I latched onto the one possible bit of good news. “But you still have some time, right? And if we kill the caster, we kill the spell. It’s the oldest rule of Necromancy. I’ll find some mage to help. We can get out of this, I know it.”

“If we had more time and someone willing, the curse could be moved to another person.”

I shrank back. “I could never ask that of anyone.”

“My good-hearted Elea.” He sighed. “I knew you’d say that.” Blood seeped through the heavy blanket. A coppery tang filled the air. “There’s something else—” His bloodied hand slipped from under the coverlet. A small silver band rested on his palm. “Dying would be less painful if I knew my band was on your finger.”

This is really happening. Tristan is dying. My eyes pricked with tears.

Years stretched before me, a never-ending string of lonely days without my friend. “Yes, of course.” I lifted the band and slipped it on. The ring glowed with a flash of blue. Magick had been cast. “What spell is it?”

“Joy. I spent the last hour casting it. Do you feel happier?”

In truth, I felt nothing, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Tristan that. Clearly, he was in no frame of mind to cast decent magick. “It’s beautiful, Tristan. That’s what’s important.” My hand shook as I eyed the blood-covered ring. “A perfect fit.”

Suddenly, magickal energy charged the air, like the tingle of power before a lightning storm, only far more intense. Every inch of my body went on alert. Was this the curse?

Tristan’s sickbed burst into angry flames. The power exploded, slamming me backward onto the floor. Panic sped through me. Heat pierced my body.

No, no, no!

The mattress burned bright as coals while Tristan writhed under the covers in agony. Great shafts of fire licked around him and speared into the ceiling. Black smoke and flame billowed into my face. His pale skin puckered over in angry red boils. I gasped.

“Tristan!” I picked up the washbasin and tossed water into the flames. It had no effect. Gods-damned magick.

Tristan’s flesh darkened and curled. I leaped forward, slapping at the fire with my bare hands. Agony burned into my palms while the flames climbed. Tristan screamed, a sound that pierced my ears and shattered my heart. Edges of bone jutted out from the fresh burn holes in his flesh.

Not my Tristan. Not like this.

The fire stopped as quickly as it had started. I panted, waiting for another onslaught.

Nothing happened.

The room showed no sign of flame or smoke. The charge of magick drained from the air. The spell was finished.

I knelt next to Tristan again. His body carried no mark of fire. My hands were free from burns and pain as well. Was he still alive somehow? I leaned in closer.

Tristan lay on his side, his body frozen in his last thrash of agony. His brown, bloodshot eyes stared emptily into mine. He was dead. I sobbed so hard, I couldn’t pull enough air into my lungs. I fell into a heap on the floor, gasping, weeping, and hopeless.

The room seemed to spin beneath me. My vision collapsed until I could only see Tristan. His lifeless face was frozen in horror. My insides twisted with grief. I wasn’t sure how long I stayed locked in his dead gaze. At some point, Quinn appeared at my side. He gently touched my shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” Quinn stood tall and silent in his black Necromancer robes. He was rail-thin, bald, and with a face crisscrossed in scars. His voice was deep and almost without inflection. “I was surprised when Tristan told me the curse struck you. I thought his feelings for you were more infatuation than love. It’s unfortunate that you were drawn into this mess.”

I slowed my breathing and wiped my face with my sleeve. “What does the curse do?”

“Our friend still burns.”

My skin chilled over with shock. “So the fire followed Tristan into his next life?” Where he’ll burn for eternity… As I will, too. “We need to stop this curse. Will you help me?”

Quinn stayed still as a statue. If any of this him, he didn’t show it. That was all part of Necromancer training, but it still seemed cruel. “There is nothing to be done… For him, or for you.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Nothing? We can get rid of the new Tsar, that’s what we can do. Kill the mage, kill the spell.”

“Viktor’s a Grand Master. There are few at that level of power, and those who are will never come to your aid. Word of the curse had spread. Too many of my brothers have died already. All the cloisters and monasteries are pledging fealty to the Tsar. Anyone with power and training is being asked to join him. I’m getting his mark, too.”

Rage spiraled through my limbs. How could Quinn be so resigned? I hopped to my feet. “Viktor killed Tristan. You’re going to leave your dyad to suffer in fire?”

“And protect the one I love most from this curse? Yes.” Quinn sighed. It was the first time he’d showed any real emotion. “Tristan was—” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Unwise to deny the new Tsar. When you pledge fealty, Viktor merely gives you a mark on your left shoulder. It’s not so great a burden.”

I opened my mouth, ready to argue the point. That mark was undoubtedly laced with evil magick. But the steely look on Quinn’s face made me stop. There was no way I’d change his mind. And there was still a curse to end.

I laced my fingers behind my neck and tried to think. My legs shook with shock. If I couldn’t rely on Quinn and his monastery, then I’d need to find someone else. Tristan always said I had the most raw power he’d ever seen in a Necromancer.

By the gods, I could get trained. “Do you know of anyone who’s refused the mark? Anywhere I could learn to become a Necromancer?”

Quinn’s still features melted into a placating look. “You’d need to reach the Grand Mistress level. That’s years of grueling study. Few make it after a lifetime and you only have five years. I say live them to the fullest. Enjoy your farm. Think on your good memories of Tristan.”

I set my fist on my hip. “If I were the type of person who gave up, I wouldn’t have a farm in the first place. Now, do you know where I can get trained or don’t you?”

Quinn looked to the ceiling, as if imploring the gods for patience. I was starting to really dislike him. “The Zelle Cloister sits isolated in the mountains. Its sisters are elderly and weak. The Tsar isn’t bothering to ask for their fealty. Maybe they could train you… If that’s what you truly wish to do.”

I paced the floor. My life teetered on a precipice. On one side was the life I’d carved out for myself. Braddock Farm was my legacy and first love. Maybe the Tsar would die of natural causes before my time was up.

On the other side, there was a chance to save Tristan. And myself. I could choose a new existence as a sister in a cloister for Necromancy. Becoming a Grand Mistress Necromancer meant years of mind-bending work for possibly no reward. And I’d have to leave Braddock Farm behind, maybe to never see it again.

I ran my fingertips along Tristan’s jawline. Images of his suffering flickered through my mind. His pale skin blackening with char. The mass of gore that was once his firm chest. His horrible screams. That was Tristan’s existence now and for all eternity, and it could be mine as well. Unless I did something.

There really was no choice. “I’m positive. You can be on your way now.”

“Are you sure you don’t want my help for the journey?” It was hard to tell if he felt anything, but I thought I saw a flicker of worry on his face.

“No, you’ve fealty to pledge and no time to waste. Besides, there’s a Cloister agent in town. She can take me.” Most towns had a recruiting agent for Necromancers. They were always someone who’d left the order but still had contacts. The one for my Shire had been trying to get me to join up for years. She’d be thrilled when I stopped by. “Please. I’ve kept you long enough as it is.”

“Best of luck to you, then.”

“And you as well.”

Quinn stepped away and closed the door behind him. I moved back to Tristan and gripped his hand. Already, the flesh was ice cold. My friend was gone, but still suffering. “Don’t worry, Tristan. I’ll try with everything I am. For both of us.”

And I meant it.

Chapter Two

Almost five years later

I leaned against a wall in the Zelle Cloister library and tried to hold back my temper. Good Necromancers always controlled their emotions. And now that I’d attained the level of Grand Mistress Necromancer? I shouldn’t let anything upset me. Still, I wanted to tear every book in this library to shreds.

I couldn’t find the Master Atlas of Magick, and that was thwarting all my plans.

After nearly five years of hard work, I’d finally tracked down the elusive Tsar. Viktor would visit the Midnight Cloister on Sunday.

The same day my curse ran out. I brushed my hand over my queasy stomach. In one week, my torso would get torn wide open, followed by fires that would consume me for all eternity. Panic tightened up my spine as I thought how hopeless my mission really was. Then, the words of my Mother Superior rang through my mind. She could always sense when my resolve was fraying.

Focus on what you can do. Not the curse.

I inhaled some calming breaths and tried to regain control. After all, I should be thankful for any chance to kill Victor and end my curse. No one thought I’d become a Grand Mistress, let alone track down the mysterious Tsar. Those thoughts didn’t help for long, though.

That gods-damned atlas still stood in my way.

Why couldn’t the Tsar be at a sanctuary fair or visiting some open city? Of all the places to find him, a cloister was the worst. Years ago, Viktor had magickally cloaked every cloister and monastery that had pledged fealty to him. As a result, you wouldn’t know the places existed, even if you were standing at the front gates. He also put hexes on any books that could unhide those spots. To see and enter the Midnight Cloister, I needed an incantation from the Master Atlas of Magick. Trouble was, Viktor’s hex kicked in whenever I cast a finder spell to locate it.

Today alone, I’d tried seventeen finder spells. I wanted to scream. Too bad that would wake up the entire cloister.

I twisted the totem rings on my left hand. I’d carefully loaded each one of them with spells to kill Viktor. My plan was simple. I’d swamp the man with so much magick, so quickly, that he wouldn’t know how to retaliate. That was the idea, anyway… If I could get to the Midnight Cloister by Sunday. My shoulders shook with rage.

I hated Viktor.

I hated that it had taken me so long to discover where he’d be.

And I really hated how he’d put a hex on that atlas.

But most of all, I hated that he was right. I’d finally pinpointed where the tyrant would appear. My kill spells were loaded and ready. So, Viktor was clever to hex the damned Atlas and its incantations. I kicked the floor with my sandal. Every time I thought I got a step ahead of Viktor, I’d find out I was wrong.

Think, Elea. There must be some way to break that hex.

I stepped around the library, hoping the movement would clear my head. This library was always my favorite place to think. The rest of the Zelle was hand-hewn out of a mountainside. The other rooms were so small, you’d clunk your head if you weren’t careful. But the library? It was nothing but natural caves, starting with the massive one that I stood in. Brown rock towered above me, the jagged stone looking like the majestic columns of a cathedral. Niches had been lovingly carved in the walls and filled with rare books. Even better, this cavern was only the first in a long line of caves that wound for leagues.

So many books.

So much beauty.

Such a hike to find anything, even if it didn’t have a hex.

My footsteps kicked up to an anxious pace. Time was running out. I brushed my finger along the only band I wore on my right hand. Tristan’s betrothal ring. He suffered in fire. My turn was next.

I needed to find that book.

A Sentinel spirit hovered nearby. These were sisters who’d tied some of their life force to the Zelle, hoping to serve through eternity. Faith was our library Sentinel, and she was pretty intense for a ghost. Most Sentinels floated peacefully, but Faith darted around, her wrinkled features always pinched with worry. She floated directly into my line of vision and pointed anxiously at my mouth. Sentinels couldn’t make sounds unless they were singing hymns, so this was Faith’s way of asking me to eat something. I shook my head.

Then, the idea appeared.

I motioned to Faith. “What if I let loose with everything I had? Pumped it all into the finder spell?”

She frowned, titled her head, and pretended to sleep.

Faith had a point. The other sisters could sense my magick, and if I used that much power, I could wake them up. Outside of myself, the youngest sister here was ninety-three. They all needed their rest.

“How about if I cast a regular finder spell, and then pushed more energy in? That shouldn’t bother anyone.”

Faith tapped her thin chin for a moment before nodding.

I exhaled. Good, I had a plan.

Raising my left arm, I focused all my energy. Power tore through my body. When I’d started training, the sensation would get so intense, I’d convulse. Now, after years of practice, it only tickled. My powers were no longer a wild animal that I simply tried to ride. Now, I could focus a droplet of energy onto the tip of my pinky, or set loose a torrent of magick from my palm. Within a few seconds, the bones in my left hand glowed with sapphire light, casting eerie shadows inside my flesh. I began the words for a finder spell.

Dust and bone, skull and stone, locate what I seek.

Dark from light, morn from night, strength from the words I speak.

Instead of giving my muscles power, the energy whizzed out from my left hand. The air became charged, reminding me of the promise of lightning before a storm. My magick grew heavier until an azure-colored mist appeared by the floor. I focused the flow of my power and the haze solidified into the shape of a skeleton that was covered in sparkling blue sapphires. What beautiful sight. So far, the spell was working.

“I summoned you,” I said. “Get me the Master Atlas of Magick.”

The finder skeleton didn’t move. Instead, its eyeholes flared with brightness as it inspected me from head to toe. Seconds passed. The skeleton should have responded by now. That urge to scream came back with a vengeance.

This was where all the other spells had gone wrong, too.

The sapphires on the skeleton’s body began to blacken. Its bones clattered and wobbled as more of the blue gems disappeared.

Damn, the Tsar’s hex was kicking in.

Faith waved her translucent arms at me in a gesture that said ‘now!’

“I agree, Faith.” I drove fresh power into my finder spell, more than I ever had before. A tidal wave of energy washed out of me and into the skeleton. My body became drained and numb. The skeleton turned bright with blue sapphires once more. Excitement skittered across my skin. The spell was in action.

“I summoned you. Get me the Master Atlas.”

“I heed you, Grand Mistress.” The skeleton’s teeth clacked as it spoke.

I bobbed a little on the balls of my feet. I’m one step closer, Viktor.

The skeleton turned on its heel and began scaling the cave wall.

Faith gestured wildly to the finder skeleton. It was clinging by one hand to the ceiling, like a monkey. With its free arm, it jammed its hand inside a deep niche.

I never would’ve looked in there.

The skeleton’s legs swung beneath while its arm dug around the hole. Anxiety tightened across my chest. This has to work.

The skeleton dropped to the floor with a rattle and thud. The Master Atlas was in its hand. Thank the Sire of Souls. The skeleton offered me the volume. “As you requested, Grand Mistress.”

“Thank you.” I reverently slipped the atlas from his fingers. “You may go now.”

The skeleton vanished. My knees turned rubbery with relief. The Master Atlas was mine.

I quickly flipped through the pages. The book began with maps of Nyumbani, the far-off continent where Creation Casters dwelled. While Necromancers controlled spirit and stone, Creation Casters wielded magick over nature. I kept going.

Next, came Ausdauer, the continent that was my home. Here the maps began with the Eastern side. These lands were home to the Forgotten, which was what we called men and women who didn’t have magick. There were two kinds of Forgotten, and they lived in different types of places. Commoners held most of the small farms, while Royals ruled them from their vast estates.

I turned another page and there it was. The Midnight Cloister. It sat in the center of a vast desert called the Endlos. I tapped the spot with my fingertip. The words for a transport spell were clearly marked. After such a long search, it hardly seemed real to be this close. I quickly committed the incantation to memory.

Across the library, uneven footsteps sounded on the stone floor. Petra, my Mother Superior, hobbled into view. She was a tall and wiry woman whose dark mage robes contrasted with her pale, lined face, and long white hair.

“Greetings, Elea.” Her features were perfectly unreadable. Necromancers never showed emotion. Petra was so good at it, I sometimes wondered if she was human.

“Greetings, Mother. Sorry if I woke you.” They’d done so much for me already, I hated to take their sleep as well.

“I was already awake when I sensed your spell.” Her voice was so controlled, it was almost a monotone. “No one else noticed, I’m sure.” Her mouth thinned. “You worry far too much about your sisters. They’re tougher than they look.”

“Yes, Mother.” Petra was always warning me against emotional attachment. It wasn’t easy. After Rosie and Tristan died, the sisters at the Zelle became my second family.

“I came because I couldn’t help wondering what you were casting.” Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before her face returned to its regular stony look. “Is that the Master Atlas?”

I handed it to her, pride swelling through me. “Yes. I finally found it.”

“Excellent work. You may just be the one to free us from Viktor.” As she said Viktor’s name, the rare spark of hatred gleamed in her features. Petra loathed the Tsar almost as much as I did.

“I plan to, Mother.” Her faith in me meant the world.

“You’ve been working on that spell for a week.” Petra sent a quizzical look to the Sentinel spirit. “Faith, has she been eating and sleeping?”

I stepped between Petra and the Sentinel. “I’m fine,” I lied.

Faith started mouthing a tirade while gesturing wildly. Clearly, she didn’t agree. Unfortunately, Petra was excellent at lip reading. “Faith says you’re in desperate need of a meal and sleep.” Faith waved her hand in front of her nose. “Oh, and a bath would be useful, as well.”

Thank you for nothing, Faith. I steeled my features and addressed Petra with my best ‘I’m a tough Necromancer’ face. “I’m ready to go after the Tsar. If I leave right now, I’ll have almost a full week at the Midnight Cloister before he arrives.”

Petra scanned me from head to toe. I knew what she saw. Tired face. Long snarled black hair. And my clothes? Grand Mistress robes were swaths of fabric held together by neatly tying hundreds of tiny ribbons. You were never supposed to have them be anything but perfect. I was a mess. Petra shook her head. “You aren’t leaving now, Elea.”

I glared at the Sentinel. “Faith is over-worrying, I don’t think—”

Petra raised her hand and shot me a warning look. I quickly closed my mouth. “Why, Elea,” she said slowly. “You sounded a little irritated just then.”

When it came to reading my moods, Petra was worse than Rosie, and that woman had raised me until I was fifteen. She was right, of course. I was tired and cranky. “Apologies, Mother.”

“You need to keep a tighter rein on your feelings. I know you weren’t raised to our ways, but emotion is the enemy of a Necromancer. Remember that.”

“I will, Mother.”

Petra slowly lowered herself onto a bench made of rough-hewn wood. I swore, I could hear her bones creak with the movement. “Come here and show me your totem rings.”

I obediently stepped to her and pointed out each ring in turn, beginning with my thumb. “This contains a spell to block Viktor’s magick.” I touched my fingers next. “Protection from harm, strength of stone, skeleton sword, and cluster of fireballs.”

Petra eyed them all carefully. “They look in order. You don’t need me to say this, but guard your totems with your life. If you lose them, they could be used to track you.” Petra drummed her nails on the bench. I hoped that drill time was over, but she kept going. “Recite to me what you know of the Tsar’s approach to battle.”

I straightened my stance. “Viktor doesn’t like to fight. He had a few skirmishes right after he killed Tsar Dmitri. In those, Viktor mostly used skull seeker spells. Since that time, he’s kept legions of guards around, but they’ve never engaged any major enemy. His warriors have no magick, either.”

This was something I hoped to find out more about at the Midnight Cloister. Viktor was oddly close with the Royals and their ruler, the Vicomte. The Royals supplied most of the Tsar’s army, but it was odd for Necromancers to form an alliance with those who didn’t have magick. Most of the Forgotten feared us.

“And those who aren’t in his guard?” asked Petra. “What of the mages who wear his mark?”

“He allows some to roam the continent, but only so they can recruit fresh Necromancers for his monasteries and cloisters. Since those places are magickally hidden, we never see if or how those recruits are trained. There’s no telling how many Necromancers are left, either. After a mage gets a mark, they pretty much disappear.”

It was wise for the Tsar to hide the Monasteries and Cloisters. As much as Commoners feared mages, they’d be enraged if the brothers and sisters were in serious trouble. Mages were the only ones who could tackle tough problems. We ended civil wars and stopped the spread of plagues, but there had always been a love-hate relationship between Necromancers and the Forgotten.

Petra shook her head. “You didn’t mention Viktor and his experimentation.”

Damn, I always forgot that part. Petra was continually going on about it, too. She had all sorts of wild theories, but I’d never run across any evidence to back them up. Mostly, I listed it to keep her happy.

“That’s right, hybrid magick,” I said quickly. “There is some information that the Tsar likes to experiment with mixing Necromancer energy with that of Creation Casters.” I don’t add how that information only comes from Petra. “In early history, there were a few documented cases of mages trying to combine magick, but none of those attempts resulted in anything useful. We don’t know what the Tsar has been able to accomplish.”

Petra sighed. “You always underestimate his obsession with hybrid magick. The mark, the Tsar’s power… Both could flow from combining Caster and Necromancer energy.”

“I’ll try to remember that, truly.” I never really understood her focus on this side of the Tsar. It was never mentioned in any writings on the man. I wasn’t entirely sure that ‘obsession’ was the way to describe his interest. And there was absolutely no evidence to connect hybrid magick to the mark, either.

Petra’s face took on a faraway look. “Since you’re about to leave, I think I need to make that lesson a little clearer.” She started untying the ribbons by her waistline. I couldn’t believe it. Necromancers never exposed their flesh in public.

“You don’t need to do that, Petra.” Whatever ‘that’ is.

“On the contrary, it’s beyond time that I did.” Petra opened her robes and exposed her stomach. My brows drew together as her skin came into focus.

I fought the urge to gasp.

Petra’s skin was pockmarked with scarred-over holes. The burrow-marks wound around her lower ribs as well. “Look on this carefully, Elea. It is Viktor’s handiwork. Before he became Tsar, he was a rogue mage. He abducted me from a sanctuary fair while I was still a novice.”

There were always rogue Necromancers around, even now. My old enemy Wyatt wasn’t wrong to fear them. They traveled with sanctuary fairs, selling their services to anyone with coin. If you wanted to find unusual spellwork, fairs were the place to look. They weren’t places to visit without a good reason, though.

“Viktor put me under a blinding spell and secreted me into his study. He brought out tools…” She shivered. “Bone hooks covered in snake scales. He wanted to see how they affected a Necromancer.”

My eyes widened. “That’s why you fear hybrid magick.” Necromancers used bone hooks to haul around enchanted ice. The instruments were laced through with our power—it should be impossible to layer a Caster skin on them. I tapped my chin and thought through this news. “Viktor might have used hybrid magick to make his mark. But why?”

Petra quickly redid her ties. “He uses that mark to control the Necromancers who pledge fealty to him. Of that I’m certain.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But there are easier ways to control someone. Viktor’s already proven that curses get people to do his bidding. He must be trying to do something that regular spells can’t accomplish.”

“Whatever it is, that’s what you need to discover before you attack on Sunday.”

She was right. I couldn’t fight what I didn’t know. “I’ll use my time before Sunday to investigate. Try to determine what he’s using hybrid magick for.”

“Good.” Petra sighed. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Petra looked so thin and frail on the bench. I had the urge to hug her. She’d worked incredibly hard to get me ready for this moment. All the sisters had. The Tsar had overlooked them as old, weak, and not worth the trouble of threatening into taking his mark. But every one of them was sharp as Petra. They’d trained me well. I took a half step forward and then stopped myself. “Uh, thank you, Petra.”

She kept her features cool and composed, but I didn’t miss the slight hitch in her voice when she spoke. “Viktor will pay.” She pulled a small blue envelope from her pocket. “I brought you a letter of introduction. With any luck, Berta is still Mother Superior at the Midnight Cloister. We exchanged letters as Novices. I wrote in here that you are on a pilgrimage to meet the Tsar and asked for her help. That used to be a very common occurrence. It shouldn’t raise any suspicion.”

No, it shouldn’t. But I didn’t know what truly awaited me in the Midnight Cloister. I took the letter, anyway. There was only so much we could know without any insight into the cloister. “Thank you again. I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

“How about getting a good night’s sleep?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Excellent. Then you won’t summon him?”

‘Him’ as in Tristan. If I spoke Tristan’s name during the day, the curse summoned him into my dreams at night. He was always in flames, tortured, and screaming. It never made for a good rest.

“I have to. I’ve memorized the spell from the atlas. I’m on my way. He needs some hope.”

“I wish you wouldn’t, but I won’t stop you, either. You’re moving beyond my care.” She sighed. “You may leave the cloister at dawn. I’ll ask the sisters to skip our morning casting, so there will be no interference. We don’t want any magick disturbing your transport spell.”

She wasn’t wrong. I’d heard horrible stories of Necromancers transporting themselves into trees or down to the ocean floor. Still, there was no need to disrupt the sisters. “I can step outside the cloister grounds. It’s no problem. Please keep to your schedule. The sisters need their routine.”

“If you insist.”

“I do, and I want you to know… I appreciate you…” I shifted my weight from foot to foot, unable to find the words. “By the Sire, I know I’m not supposed to say these things, but I’ll miss you terribly.”

“And I will you.” She stood quickly and fixed me with a serious look. I’d never seen such raw emotion on her face before. “Promise me one thing.”

“Anything you wish.”

“When you kill that bastard, tell him I trained you.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Consider it done.”

Once I curled into my tiny bed, I expected my dreams to be about Tristan. After all, I’d said his name before I fell asleep. Normally, he and I met in my old farmhouse. Instead, I dreamt that I sprouted wings and flew into the starry sky. Wind flowed over my body, and I hummed with pleasure as the cool air caressed me. A vast and empty desert rolled below, a vista of golden sand that was patterned in delicate ripples.

All of which was very strange.

If my dreams didn’t take me to Tristan, then they usually sent me wandering aimlessly through the Zelle, worrying myself sick over some nonsense question like ‘why did I show up nude to breakfast?’ But tonight, the pull across the desert was so strong it felt like a rope had been tied around me. There would be no meandering, and my nonsense worries were gone as well. I only had a real concern for my friend.

Why wasn’t I with Tristan? Was our bond broken?

My wings kept driving me toward a lone figure crouched before a fire. As I flew in closer, I saw that it was a man dressed in Caster leathers. He was long-limbed with tousled brown hair and broad shoulders. I wanted to touch the ropes of muscle that wound down his arms.

Wait a minute. Where did that thought come from?

Only Necromancers who’d renounced the faith had the desire for a mate and children. Grand Mistresses weren’t supposed to be attracted to the opposite sex at all. I certainly never had been, even before I joined the Zelle.

This man was dangerous. I wanted to fly away from him, but my wings only brought me nearer. Firelight cast deep shadows over the man’s rugged face, highlighting his square jawline, light beard, and bright green eyes. He stared into the fire, repeating the words of an incantation.

“I call upon you,” he said. The rest of his spell was lost on the wind. A haze of red mist swirled around the ground, the unmistakable sign of a Creation Caster spell. One word carried above the noise. “Viktor.”

I gasped. What would this Caster want with the Tsar? The man glanced up, his green eyes looking straight at me.

No, through me.

The man spoke the last words of his incantation—“so mote it be”—and lowered his head once more. The red mist of his spell disappeared.

This ends this sample of CURSED.

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