Dance of the Cursed

Alister

George is a great guy to work with. He doesn't ask too many questions. Doesn't try to bargain for more money, unlike Lily. Isn't annoying or always looking for some deeper meaning behind what I'm doing. He just takes the job and does it right. The only time we ever talk is when I need him to do something.

Or when he needs to inform me that the job is done. Just like now as I stare down at his text that tells me the video Clara had on her phone and account has been successfully deleted after hacking.

"You can't ignore me forever, you know."

I look sideways at the passenger seat.

She sits there with that same knowing smirk playing on her cherry-red lips. White hair reaching just below her chin. And her eyes—glowing crimson—lock onto mine.

I drive in silence, not wanting to entertain her any longer.

Admittedly, I was afraid of her at first. How could you not when you suddenly see someone who died in front of you appear out of nowhere?

But then I realized that it's the gems doing. It's making me see things. What I'm not sure of, is whether it's a figment of my imagination or an actual spirit-type thing taking the form of someone dear to me.

I honestly don't know who this woman is. Nor does she, apparently.

She has no memories of who she was before. She told me she woke up two days ago—around midnight. The night after Clara's party. Whatever this curse is, I'm guessing it activated that night. And she's been with me ever since. Watching. Following. But I couldn't see her then.

If I'm seeing her now… talking to her now, that means the curse is getting worse.

The reason she looks like this—why she's wearing her face—is because, according to her, she could sense that this was the person I was closest to. The one with the biggest hold on my mind. Which led me to test the theory of whether or not she can read my mind and see through my memories.

She couldn't. Which means either it's more complicated than I thought or...she's lying. I'm leaning towards the latter.

She doesn't remember what she really looked like. Just that her name is Helena.

I tighten my grip on the wheel. It could probably be just something my mind is making up. I just have to pretend she's not here. It's simple.

But she doesn't stop taking. I can't seem to get rid of her. The only way I've found till now is by sleeping. I slept like a baby after coming home from the club yesterday. But I woke up later and couldn't sleep anymore. She kept talking to me, and I had to take some sleeping pills at the end.

"You know, I'm kind of disappointed in you. That whole 'let's trust each other' nonsense. I didn't expect you to be so naive and stupid." She says calmly.

As if I'd ever be idiotic enough to trust someone placing a tracker on my car. It's almost offensive how Clara thinks she can easily fool me with an innocent smile and flowery words. Hope she has fun tracking that truck now.

I know she won't sit down quietly either. Hopefully she's verbal about her nefarious plans; otherwise, the recorder I had Lily place in Clara's room would be useless.

"She really thinks—"

"Why can't you just leave me alone? What do I have to do to get rid of you?" I cut her off. I look at the rearview mirror and notice a grey car behind me. I press the indicator and make a turn.

She shrugs. "Kill Clara. I don't like her. She is like a bomb waiting to blow up."

I scoff. "You'll have to give me a better reason than that"

"I only want to help you. I can tell you you really hate her."

"That is none of your business." I answer as I try to focus on the road. Refusing to even look at her.

The woman tilts her head, the soft, almost imperceptible motion unnerving in its stillness. Her eyes stay locked on me.

"Who is she, by the way?" She asks, curiously, "The woman whose face I wear."

"No one." I murmur, keeping my voice flat, hoping she'll drop it. "Just someone from the past."

But she isn't buying it. Her lips curl into a faint smile. "Doesn't seem like shes no one."

I grit my teeth. "She was my savior." I finally admit, my words reluctant to give away more than necessary. I feel a brief rush of guilt, like I've let something slip that I shouldn't have. But the ghost, or rather the woman wearing her face, seems to soften at my admission.

I look at the rearview mirror again, and oddly, I see that grey car again. Do they live in my neighborhood too?

There's a silence before she speaks again, quieter this time. "And now she's gone?"

"Yeah...Gone."

"And do you—"

"Stop for a second," I cut her off, my eyes flickering to the rearview mirror again.

"What?" She inquires, utterly irritated.

"This grey car...I was suspicious of it for a while. I made a few extra turns and roamed around the neighborhood a little, and now, I can confirm it's following me."

I start to drive away from my area while she looks out the window and towards the main road, while keeping an eye on the car.

A shiver runs down my spine as realization dawns on me, but I don't feel afraid. Instead, I feel a thrill of excitement mixed with a dash of anger.

A chuckle escapes my throat, and I run a hand through my hair, the tension in my muscles finally snapping.

Clara thinks she's so clever, doesn't she? I knew she'd get mad when she finds out what I have done, but to retort this quickly? She must be fuming.

As I pull up to the traffic, I try to quietly observe the grey car behind me. From what I see, there are only five people. And none of them look remotely like a fighter.

"Where are we going?" The woman asks as she looks at me with curiosity. when I press down on the accelerator, the engine purrs smoothly, and the speedometer climbs.

"The gentlemen obviously came for a show. It would be rude not to entertain them. I say we go someplace a bit...private." I say, grinning, making sure they're following me.

As we drive into the less populated area of town, the scenery shifts from bustling streets to a more desolate landscape. The buildings become fewer and farther between, replaced by vast expanses of empty lots and construction sites. We pass by half-built houses, their steel beams and concrete pillars reaching towards the dark sky. The streets are wider here, with fewer cars and more trucks hauling materials to and from the construction sites. Driving deeper into the area, the buildings become more sparse, and the empty lots stretch out like vast, barren landscapes.

"Uh...hey kid?" She calls, staring out the window, and I follow her gaze. Not only did the area give them the chance to get closer, but a man with a black bandana peeked out of the backseat window, holding out a pistol and aiming down at my car.

I click my tongue. I'm in no mood to change tires again or crash my car in this area.

I slam on the brakes as the gunman's pistol fires, a loud, sharp bang that splits the air. The sudden stop had thrown off the man's focus, and his aim got disrupted. Thankfully, the bullet missed the tires and the car itself.

As my car stops, the chasing car hurtles past us, and the driver hits the brakes too. Its momentum carries it a few feet ahead before it slowly starts to come to a stop.

I open the glove compartment and wear my fresh new vinyl gloves. After that, my eyes scan the rows of knives strapped to the fabric inside my jacket.

Five men are standing next to their car when I step out. None of them are carrying weapons. Not a single one. Their eyes meet mine with expressions that range from confusion to curiosity.

My hand instinctively goes to the knife in my pocket, but I don't pull it out. Not yet. One of them, the tallest of the group, steps forward slightly, his long ponytail swaying behind him. He's the first to speak: "Is this the kid?"

The others exchange glances. I catch a glimpse of their confusion before one of them—the one with glasses and scruffy hair—reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small brass compass from his purple jersey, its surface worn and tarnished with age. He holds it up, watching it intently. I assume it's pointing at me, seeing as how his gaze flicks up at me, and a small, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah," he says, "the compass points to him."

Another one, a younger guy with a lean build, raises a brow. "But it only works once in two weeks. Why would it do that twice today?"

"Alister..." Helena says as she looks at them, eyes like saucers. "Run. I have a bad feeling about this. You need to leave."

The longer I stand there, the more questions flood my mind. I thought I was going to face some kind of attack—Clara's hired goons coming to kill me. But this? This is something entirely different.

Who the heck are these people?

The one with the compass clears his throat and asks, "Boy, do you have a magical artifact on you?"

My fingers twitch at my side, hovering near the handle of my knife. "What?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. "Who are you people?"

He doesn't respond. Instead, his smirk fades slightly, and he gestures toward me with a slight nod. "Answer the question first."

I don't like this. Not one bit. But something about this whole situation is clicking into place.

Slowly, I reach up and tug down the collar of my shirt, exposing the gemstone embedded in my chest. The cursed thing gleams in the dim streetlights, its eerie glow pulsing faintly.

"You mean something like this?" I ask, carefully watching their faces. "You can see it?"

Their reactions confirm it instantly. A flicker of recognition flashes in their eyes. They can see it. They know exactly what this is.

I feel the smallest, most dangerous shred of hope. Could they help us get rid of these gems? Have we finally found a way out?

But before I can voice the thought, one of them—a lanky man with a scar along his jaw—lets out a heavy sigh. "So he's an object-bound. Just great."

The one with the compass clicks it shut. "Well, Doesn't matter what he is. Let's just take him."

That shred of hope dies a quick death.

The youngest-looking of the group frowns. "Still, the compass activating twice in a single day… There's definitely something weird about this one."

I raise my hands slightly, palms open in mock surrender. "Look. I don't know what's going on, who you are, or what your goal is. But it seems like you might know how to get rid of this thing." I tap on the gemstone. "I'm willing to come along if you agree to help me with it."

They pause. Blinking at me, momentarily thrown off. Then, as if on cue, they exchange glances, and I see it—the slight twitch of their lips, the way their shoulders shift, like they're holding back laughter.

The one with the compass shakes his head with amusement. "Do you hear that? He wants our help."

The youngest one rubs the back of his neck, a smirk creeping across his face. "I mean… yeah, we could help you," he says lightly, tilting his head. "No problem, kid."

I let out a slow, uneasy breath, forcing my shoulders to relax. My eyes dart between them, making sure to keep the tension in my body visible—hesitant, nervous, and helpless.

They watch me like a pack of wolves as I start to walk towards them. None of them trust me, but they don't see me as a threat either.

"It just… appeared two days ago," I murmur, stepping closer. "It won't come off. No matter what I do."

I shift my weight awkwardly as I stand before the largest man in the group, the one with the bandana. His arms remain crossed over his broad chest, but there's a flicker of curiosity in his otherwise cold eyes.

"And now I think…I think it's spreading."

That gets their attention. The youngest steps forward. "Spreading?"

I nod quickly, like I'm relieved they're listening. "Yeah. It feels like it's… growing inside me. Like veins, creeping deeper under my skin. And sometimes, I swear I can feel it pulsing. With my heartbeat."

"Boy, what's your ability?" The ponytail guy asks.

"Ability?" I tilt my head, genuinely confused.

The big guy in front of me snorts, "He doesn't even know that, huh?" He narrows his eyes at the gem and leans closer. "Let me see." He peers at the gemstone, tilting his head slightly as if trying to catch some subtle shift in its appearance.

"Well, he did say it appeared two days ago so—" the compass man begins to say until his eyes widen when he sees me move. Watching in horror as I rip the knife free from its hiding place and drive it deep into the big man's throat.

The steel sinks in clean, all the way to the hilt.

His eyes go wide with the look of horror etched on his face. He stares at me with those bulging eyes as I twist the knife and pull it out while he throws up blood.

I kick him in the stomach, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground as everyone watches, frozen in shock. I smile as I look down at the withering man as he clutches his neck tightly, blood pouring out like a broken dam, forming a pool around him.

The jugular vein is an ultimate kill spot, you know. A precise slice can unleash copious amounts of blood and silence anyone instantly. Go for that when in a hurry.

Her words echo in my mind as I feel the other move. Finally snapping out of their shock.

I don't waste time.

My hand tightens around the blood-slicked knife as I whip around, spotting the guy with the scar reaching into his pocket.

Something small and metallic. I don't let him pull it out.

With a sharp inhale, I pivot on my heel and hurl the knife straight at him. The steel spins through the air in a deadly arc—he barely has time to react before it buries itself in his throat.

His mouth opens in a silent gasp as he staggers back. The object in his hand—a long, thin nail—slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground.

"Fred!" the compass guy yells, stepping back in alarm.

"Okay, okay!" Ponytail guy barks, pulling out a flute from his side, and begins chanting something. I spin, knife in hand, and fling it at the youngest-looking one—the one holding a strange paper talisman, mumbling something.

It should have been a perfect throw.

But the moment the knife reaches him, it stops mid-air—clinking off something unseen, as if I had thrown it against a solid wall.

What—?

The younger man's fingers tighten around the talisman, his face set in concentration. Before I can process what just happened, something tightens around my foot.

A chain of dust twisting up from the ground and wrapping tightly around my ankle.

Then, I hear it. A soft, eerie melody.

I snap my gaze to the ponytail guy as he glares at me with sharp eyes. His lips pressed to a wooden flute. His fingers move fluidly over the instrument, and with every note.

The dirt around me moves. Long, whip-like tendrils of soil surge up from the ground, twisting and snapping like living things. One lashes around my throat, tightening, trying to drag me down.

I refuse to go down like this. I reach for another knife—

But before I can so much as flick my wrist, another chain surges from the earth and coils around my wrist with brutal force, wrenching my arm back. The knife slips from my grasp, clattering uselessly on the ground.

I don't even get a second to react before the choking tendril around my neck tightens, yanking me downward. My knees slam into the ground, a sharp jolt of pain shooting up my legs.

I claw at the dirt constricting my throat, nails scraping against the rough, shifting texture, but it's like trying to rip apart steel cables. My lungs burn, each breath shallower than the last.

The compass guy exhales, rolling his shoulders as if this is nothing more than an inconvenience. "So, what do we do with him?"

"Kill him, of course." The youngest one crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze flicking briefly to the corpse of their fallen companion, to the knife still buried in his throat. "Forget about the artifact. He's already a problem. No one would know about it."

As I look up at them, my mind drifts back to that moment, like it's been branded into me.

A normal day. Nothing special, nothing that made it stand out. I don't remember when it was or what year of elementary school it was, or anything specific like that.

What I do remember is the cold, hard wooden floor beneath me.

I remember the metallic taste of blood as it dripped out from the corner of my mouth to the floor.

I remember the stinging and throbbing pain in my arms and legs as I tried to move even a little. Eventually giving up and just staying there in the corner of the room until the pain eases up.

I remember hearing the laugh and chatter of the class. Some girls discussing a boy band they like coming to town. Some groups coping each other's homework. Some laughing loudly at a joke.

I remember the view from the ground as I looked up at everyone. A girl accidentally meets my eyes, and she quickly looks away, continuing her conversation with her friends.

I was invisible to everyone.

...and it was all because the kid who did that to me was powerful. Give a gun to a kid, and he'll want to shoot. And Kyle Jefferson would shoot you twice.

No...stop thinking about that...

This is different.

I'm not helpless. I'm not pathetic.

With the last bit of strength I can muster, I reach under my jacket. Another whip of dirt snaps around my wrist just as I pull the gun out. It tightens, digging into my skin, cutting off circulation. But it's too late.

My finger finds the trigger, and I don't hesitate. The shot cracks through the air like a lightning strike.

The ponytail guy jerks, his eyes going wide in stunned disbelief. A dark bloom spreads across his chest. His fingers slip from the flute. The melody stops. A final note wails, unfinished.

Then the dirt tendrils lose their form, disintegrating into lifeless sand as his body collapses.

I suck in a ragged breath, the sudden release making my lungs burn as I stagger back to my feet.

The compass guy's expression darkens, his jaw tightening as he glances to the big man's corpse. To the gun strapped to his side.

I see it the moment he makes his decision. In one swift motion, he lunges. Grabbing the younger man's arm and yanking him forward as he reaches for the weapon.

I fire.

Two shots. The bullets slam into the invisible barrier around them, bouncing off wildly in random directions, kicking up dust where they land.

My stomach sinks. That talisman. It doesn't just protect him—it protects whoever he's touching.

I don't wait for him. I move. Not back—not away—toward.

My boots tear through the loose sand as I bolt for the fallen flute.

There's only one thing left to do.

As soon as my fingers close around the instrument, I don't waste a second and throw myself behind their car just as the gunshots ring out, bullets slamming into the dirt where I stood moments ago. I press my back against the vehicle, heart hammering against my ribs.

I look down at the pipe in my hands.

How did that guy control the sand? Was it just the instrument? Or something else?

Either way, I don't have time to wonder.

I hear their footsteps. They're advancing, cautious but closing in fast.

"You know how to play?" The woman suddenly appears in front of me, almost making me jump out of my skin.

I nod. I know how to play almost all instruments.

I take a moment to calm myself and mumble the words the man uttered before he played it. Listening to the faint echo of their footsteps—closer now—I press the flute to my lips and close my eyes.

The sound vibrates the air, humming around me, sending a ripple through the ground. I focus on the dirt beneath them, imagining it shifting, moving like liquid. I picture the sand crawling up their legs, winding around them like serpents, constricting, holding them in place.

Then, I hear them—their voices crackling in the distance, barely audible over the sounds of the flute's haunting song.

I rise from my position, still playing, and peer around the car.

The sand has come alive. It coils around their legs, wrapping tightly like chains, pulling them together. The dirt snakes up their bodies, winding around their torsos and chest. Their movements turn stiff and jerky, as the grains climb higher up their bodies, locking their arms in place.

Compass guy grits his teeth, struggling, while the younger one lets out a strangled noise, his free hand still clutching the talisman.

I focus again, this time altering the tone slightly. The vibrations shift, and the sand makes the gun in Compass guy's hand to fall. It tumbles to the earth, before grains of sand lift it and bring it towards me.

It looks as though it's being carried by ants.

I try once more, and the sand writhes, crawling toward the younger man's outstretched arm. His eyes widen, terror flooding his features.

"No!" he cries, his voice breaking, but the grains are already winding around his arm. His fingers, still clutching the talisman, are pried open by the ever-tightening coil. A strangled gasp escapes his lips as the sand forces his fingers apart, the talisman slipping free.

After making the sand bring it closer to me, I crouch down, pulling the flute away from my lips. When I tear it apart, the glowing magical symbols crumble into nothing but ordinary ink.

Since the melody had stopped, the sand around them lost its hold. The two men, freed from their immobile state, break into a sprint, away from me.

The air shimmers, and she appears in front of me, arms crossed, expression unimpressed.

"You're just letting them run?" she asks.

I snort, already lifting the gun. "They're not running. They're just making my job easier."

I shoot the younger one, and he stumbles mid-step before falling face-first into the dirt. Blood blossoming from the gun wound on his back.

Compass guy barely has time to react before my knife spins through the air, burying itself deep in his calf. He lets out a strangled cry, his leg buckling beneath him as he crashes onto his hands and knees.

I stride over, watching as he struggles, then drive another blade into his other leg.

He screams, the sound sharp and raw, echoing into the night. I kick him in the stomach and then again, on his his face. His nose bursts open, dark blood spilling freely from the wound, staining his face.

Swiftly, I twist my foot and flip him onto his back, his body giving way with a pathetic, pitiful sound.

I reach for the compass at his side. The needle points directly at me, unwavering, just like they said.

I crouch down beside him. "Alright," I say, twirling my blade. "Now it's your turn to answer my questions."

He glares up at me, his face twisted in defiance, blood trickling from his broken nose. He spits, the sound sharp and spiteful. "Screw you," he snarls.

I ignore him and lean in closer, just enough so he can hear me clearly. "What I've gathered so far is that people like you—people with these magical artifacts— collect these things. And that you don't exactly treat others like me too kindly. You called me an object bound. From your reactions, I'm guessing there are others in similar situations, cursed by objects like this, bound to them, trapped. Am I right?"

He says nothing, but his eyes betray his discomfort, flicking to the blood-soaked ground beneath him, then back to the compass in my hand.

I press on. "You tried to kidnap me, which tells me one thing: that's how you operate. You capture, you control. You collect."

His lips tighten, but he doesn't speak.

"Now tell me," I continue, taking the compass and holding it closer to his face, "what does this thing actually do?"

He doesn't budge, so I pull a knife and hold it to his throat. His eyes widen as he feels the sharp point against his neck.

"Talk," I growl. "Or this gets more uncomfortable."

He swallows hard. "It points to artifact users... once every 14 days."

I hum, my mind processing. "You said it did it twice today. That doesn't sound like how it's supposed to work."

His eyes narrow. "There's... something strange about that gem of yours," he mutters. "It's not normal."

I lean back slightly. "Is there any way to get rid of it?"

A smirk curls at his bloodied lips, and for the first time, he seems to relax. "Either just break it or...die!" In a flash, he flings his hand forward, scattering sand directly into my face. The gritty particles bite into my eyes, and for a moment, everything blurs. Pain flares as the sand sears its way across my skin, and my vision is nothing but a haze of darkness and motion.

I stagger back instinctively, blinking furiously, but it's too late. He lunges, his hand reaching for the knife still pressed against his chest.

His fingers graze the hilt, desperate to pry it from my grip, but I don't let go.

Swiftly, I pull out another blade using my other hand and slash across his neck. The sound of metal slicing through flesh is followed by a sickening gurgle, and blood spurts in a hot, crimson arc.

I click my tongue as I stand up. Just when I was closer to answers.

I move toward the car, trying to push aside the nagging feeling in my chest. I need more. I can't let this go, not now. The interior of the car is sparse—nothing of note. A sudden noise catches my ear. A muffled sound from the trunk.

I move quickly to the back of the car, my hand pulling the trunk open.

A young girl, dressed in a red tank top and denim pants, laying on her side, with her hands and feet bound tightly. Her hair is tangled, a dark brown mess of strands falling haphazardly around her face, which is streaked with tears. Her green eyes are wide with terror as she stares at me.

I undo the gag from her mouth quickly. She gasps for air, sucking in deep, desperate breaths like she's been holding them forever. Her voice comes out broken and shaky as she starts speaking. "Please... please, help me."

I start cutting the ropes binding her hands, her wrists red and raw from the tight ties.

She cries and reaches out to me when I've finished untying. "Thank you... thank you... I thought they were going to..."

I step back, away from her grip. I don't do well with this, with people invading my space. "I don't like being touched."

She looks at me, a bit confused, but pulls back. "Sorry," she mutters, "I just—" She breaks off, her voice thick with emotion.

"Forget about it," I say quickly, cutting her off. "Tell me, why did they kidnap you?"

If I'm guessing correctly, she might be an artifact user too. Those guys said the compass activated twice today. Meaning she must be the first target.

Her eyes flicker up to meet mine, the fear still evident but now tempered with something else—reluctance, perhaps. Then, she lifts her hand, pointing to a necklace that sits around her neck. A silver star-shaped pendant.

"Let me guess," I start, pointing at the necklace. "This thing… it's not just any necklace, is it?"

She hesitates, nodding slowly. "It's… a secret," she admits, almost as if she's ashamed to reveal it. "I'm horrible with directions. Always have been. But this… this has always helped me. Whenever I get lost, it guides me. It shows me the way."

She gives it to me, and I study it for a second.

"It doesn't work for anyone else. Only my family," she adds, and I narrow my eyes at her.

I understand why they were kidnapping her and not just taking the necklace. It only works for the user. It sounds a bit like an object bound.

This is bigger than just some band of thugs. These people, these artifact hunters, are after more than just physical objects. They're after us too. Those people specific items. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that I've been walking a very fine line, one where every step could drag me deeper into something I don't fully understand yet.

Whatever this is, Clara and I need to stay as far away as possible from it.

I look at the necklace in my hand. I grip the pendant tightly and snap it. The girl gasps, her hands reaching for it instinctively.

"No!" she cries, her voice thick with panic. "That was my family's heirloom!"

I stare at the broken pendant, its pieces now lying useless in my palm. "If you don't want to be kidnapped again, you need to get rid of it."

She watches, horrified, but she says nothing more.

"Come on," I say as I start making my way over to the men's belongings, searching through their scattered things. "We're not done here." I find the compass, the flute, and other things that I collect.

"What's your name? Did they take you from your home?" I ask as I break a final artifact in half.

She nods, her eyes downcast. "Sasha"

I frown, already knowing the answer. "And do you live alone?"

She nods again, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't have anyone else."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "You shouldn't stay there. Not unless you want to get taken again. I know someone who can arrange a place for you."

It's not that I particularly care what happens to her, but she has seen my face. If more of these people go after her, they might interrogate her about the muders.

◇......🗡......◇

Grunting in frustration, I lean back on the couch and toss the metallic nail on the table.

It rolls right next to the now broken pieces of the artifacts I had taken with me. Junk is a better word for it since it doesn't contain an ounce of magic anymore. Perhaps it's the fact that they have a particular chant for each item. Because the one that worked on the flute didn't work on others. Sasha, the girl I dropped off before coming here, did mention that some words were spoken to activate her item.

Nevertheless, once I broke the flute and tried to fix it, it was back to being an ordinary flute.

"Giving up, huh?"

I glance sideways at the woman, wearing her usual knowing grin.

"Not all experiments lead to success. But at least you learn something out of it."

I stare at the knife on the table and then at the door to my apartment while sensing Finch slither around my leg.

Those people...They snatched that Sasha from her home, even though, from what I saw, it wasn't a quiet neighborhood and there were cameras in the area. They might be good at this. It wouldn't be wise to not stay cautious and be prepared if they found me and broke into my house too. I don't know how many of them there are. I wanted to take one of their phones but decided against it. I don't want anything to be tracked back to me. But if they do end up finding me, I'm not letting them walk away again. This time, I'll capture one of them. I'll find out who they work for, what they know. Maybe even... how to get rid of this curse.

"You think they might go after Clara too?" Helena says, looking at the door too.

The thought of her twists something in my chest. It's not the kind of twist that comes from anger or resentment. No, it's far more unsettling. It's something that's too deep to name, too complicated to untangle. And it's highly uncomfortable.

"Maybe not." I reply as I pick up my phone, pretending the motion is an unconscious one, and scroll through it quickly. I need to fill the silence, drown out the thoughts I don't want. My fingers swipe over the screen, tapping play on a recording.

The recording crackles softly in my ear, the faint hum of dead air filling the silence. It's empty.

I let it play anyway.

I shouldn't even care anymore about what she might be planning. There are bigger concerns now, things that make whatever schemes she had irrelevant. And yet, here I am, listening.

I skip ahead. More silence.

A camera would've been easier. More efficient. I wouldn't have to sit here sifting through dead air—I could just see what she was doing. Monitor every movement, every subtle change in expression, every flicker of intent before it is fully formed.

But I didn't.

Not because of some moral hesitation. If I needed to, I would. Surveillance is a tool, and I use the tools available to me.

No, A camera would be a liability. It would shift my focus from what matters to something... irrelevant. It would be a distraction. A waste of my attention.

Then there's a sound so faint I almost miss it. Sobbing.

This causes me to raise a brow.

She didn't cry before. Not when she was hurling sharp insults at me the last time we spoke. Not when I had her bound, staring up at me with that defiant glare. Even then, she didn't waver.

I'm not sure whether to feel insulted that I wasn't capable enough of breaking down a strong person like her or enjoy the sounds of my nemesis finally showing weakness.

Still, I push forward, skipping through more of the recording, which then gets quieter, perhaps indicating she's asleep. Until moments later, the sudden sound of a slap makes me stop. It cracks through the Airpods like a gunshot.

A slow shuffle follows, the sound of fabric dragging against the floor and a stagger. Then, I hear the voice of a man.

"She really tore into you, huh? Bet you wish you'd kept to the rules like a good little girl."

The next hit comes. Not a slap this time—something heavier. A fist, maybe. There's a muffled grunt, the sound of Clara stumbling and the scrape of her shoes against the floor.

He speaks again, his voice full of that sick amusement. "I saw you glaring at me. Such hatred. What, you don't think I should find an entertaining show enjoyable?"

There's a pause as if she's bracing herself.

"Well?" He presses. "Answer me."

"...Yes."

There was an edge in her voice. It's like she's daring him to hurt her more. A dare that almost pisses me off for some reason.

Another hit follows. This one feels heavier than the last. But there's no sound of a cry. Not even a whimper. I recall the peaceful expression she had when she was outside the cabin. How for a moment, it seemed like she wanted to stay there instead of going home.

"It's been a while since we met, but it seems you've gotten somewhat ignorant, haven't you?" He continues, "Forgotten your place."

What is all this? I haven't a clue why she's being beaten up or why she is simply letting him. The latter of which infuriates me to no end.

"You think you're better than everyone, huh?" He barks through his teeth. "You can act all high and mighty, wear your fancy dresses, and flaunt the precious family name, like it's actually yours. Like it'll make you someone. But it won't change the fact that you're just a stray—a mistake they picked up in desperation."

I go still as his words coil in my head, settling deep into the cracks where realization blooms.

A stray. A mistake they picked up in desperation.

My fingers tighten around the phone as the meaning begins to take shape. Clara is adopted.

Interesting. The way he is saying it. He's not just here to beat her—he's here to remind her.

His laugh slithers through the speakers, smug and sick with amusement. "You want to fight back, don't you?" He says it like he already knows the answer, like he's enjoying the idea of her seething beneath the surface. "I can see it. That anger. Go on," he coaxes. "I'll let you."

There's a beat of silence. "You're telling me you don't want to hit me?" He's taunting her now, practically tasting the words. "You're not angry?"

"No." I hear the rustle of fabric as she groans and catches herself before falling completely.

I hear the creak of the floorboards beneath his weight as he steps away. "At least you remember that part of the deal."

The door opens. His voice is light, almost casual, but there's a cruel edge to it. "Buying my silence was never going be that easy, was it?" He calls out. "Sweet dreams, dear cousin. It's good to be back."

I don't wait to hear what comes next. If she cries, if she picks herself up, if she just sits on the floor, fists clenched, swallowing the pain in silence—I don't let myself linger on it.

My fingers are already moving, scrolling through contacts, finding Lily's name. I press call and lift it to my ear.

She picks up on the sixth ring, voice thick with sleep. "Do you know what time it is?"

"It's eleven," I say flatly. "Look, for now, stop looking into the father."

She's silent for a beat, probably trying to shake off the drowsiness. "What?"

I don't answer that. I don't have the patience to explain. "I want details on the cousin. Everything you've got. What he does. What he hides in his room. What time he leaves his house and for how long. I want it all."

Lily hesitates. I can hear the shift in her breathing, the way she's piecing together that something's off. "Alister—"

"Just do it."

A pause. Then, finally— "Fine."

The call ends, and I drop the phone onto the table, my fingers raising to pinch the bridge of my nose.

Since I heard something delightfully interesting that I shouldn't have, there's no way I can't get involved. Another problem. Another mess to sort through.

I should start making a to-do list for all the tiresome work piling up.