Dance of the Cursed

Clara

The city looks like a mesmerizing puzzle of lights and shadows. The sky is a deep blue, almost purple, and the stars are struggling to shine through the glow of the city below. The streets are alive with energy, pulsing with the sounds of traffic and chatter.

I watch it all as my body plummets downwards, falling off the roof of the building.

How did I get here? I'm...I'm going to die!!!

A girl in a white blouse is falling beside me, her short brown hair ruffled by the wind. Her eyes are wide with fear as she stares at me.

My mind races to make sense of the situation. "This can't be real," I tell myself. "I must be dreaming."

I try to recall the events leading up to this moment, but my memories seem hazy and distant.

Without thinking, I stretch out my hand further, my fingers straining towards hers. I grab her hand, my fingers intertwining with hers in a desperate bid to hold on.

"WHO ARE YOU?" I shout above the wind, my voice hoarse with fear.

Her mouth moves, but I can't hear a word.

I stare at her in confusion, wondering if I misheard her because of the wind.

As we hurtle towards the ground, I can feel my heart racing and my grip on the girl's hand tightening. People on the street below stop and stare, their mouths agape, their phones held up to record our terrifying descent.

"Who are you?!" I yell again at her but get no response. She just stares at me blankly.

In a desperate bid to comfort myself, I pull her close and hug her tightly. I close my eyes, bracing myself for the impact, and prepare for the worst.

"Suzie McLean"

A rough shake jolts me awake, and I blink rapidly. My entire body is covered in a thin layer of sweat. The weight of the dream—no, the nightmare—still lingers in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Hey," a voice mutters, hesitant. "You okay?"

I turn my head and see my little brother, James, standing beside my bed, his blonde hair messy from sleep. His arms are crossed across his orange pajamas, a color that never suits him, but there's something uneasy in his stance, like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

"I could hear you all the way from my room," he says, frowning. "You were freaking out or something."

Still shaken, I don't answer right away. Instead, I reach for him, wrapping my arms around him in a hug. He stiffens immediately.

"Uh—what the hell?" He asks, but he doesn't pull away.

I hold on for just a second longer, needing something real to anchor me, something to remind me I'm not still plummeting through that endless fall. Then, feeling awkward, I let go. He steps back, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.

"Bad dream," I mutter, wiping at my sweaty face.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking at anything but me. "You, uh… good now?"

I nod, resting my head on my knees and hiding my arms under the blanket so he wouldn't notice the marks.

He exhales sharply, already walking towards the door. "Well, you woke me up, so… great."

I watch him, trying to read something—anything—in his expression that says he was genuinely concerned. But I know better. James hasn't cared in a long time. Not since I told Mom and Dad about his fight over that stupid skating contest. It was the first time I ever saw them truly mad at him and saw him get the kind of punishment I was used to. He hated me for it. Still does. We barely talk now, unless we have to.

And yet… he came tonight.

"Goodnight, James,"

He stops at the door and glances back at me with a confused frown.

"It's morning," he says, like it should be obvious. "Breakfast is in half an hour, so you better start getting ready. Unless you want to be embarrassed again."

I blink, my mind struggling to catch up. I turn my head toward the window. The heavy curtains are drawn, but the edges glow with soft golden light, creeping into my room, spilling onto the floor like a quiet reminder that the world kept turning while I was trapped in my nightmares.

Once he's gone, I sit there for a long moment. My hands grip the blanket tightly, as if letting go would send me tumbling back into that endless drop.

With a heavy sigh, I get up and walk to the bathroom.

Ever since Alister kidnapped me, I've had a total of 32 nightmares.

That means I've died 32 times.

In 32 different ways—sometimes different, sometimes eerily similar. Hanging, Burning, drowning, being stabbed, poisoned, crushed, suffocated. Falling. Always falling. And each time, I try to take control, try to realize it's just a dream. Try to force myself awake. Try to Lucid dream.

And every time, I fail. I barely remember what it feels like to sleep without fear.

I'd stay up for hours after a nightmare, afraid to close my eyes, afraid to let my mind drag me back into whatever twisted horrors it had planned next. But exhaustion always wins. Sleep always comes. And when it does, it's never restful. The weight of them, like invisible bruises left behind on my soul.

The nightmares have seeped into my waking life now. My body flinches at sudden movements, and my heart kicks up at the smallest things—bright flashes or loud noises.

I shake my head and try to focus on the only thing I've managed to find out.

Suzie McLean.

The name lingers in my head, taunting me.

As soon as I change into my sportswear, a cyan long-sleeved shirt and purple tights, I hop onto my couch and turn on my laptop. I have no intention of exercising, but at least seeing me in these clothes will be enough to fool them.

I quickly type in the name and surely...there it is.

The results appear. My eyes scan the page, and my heart skips a beat as I see the words "Suzie McLean" followed by "suicide."

It's...real? Her death...and all those other ones....they actually happened to those girls?

But...this Suzie McLean—the one in the article I just clicked—she's not the girl from my dream.

The photo shows a blonde girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with hazel eyes and a smile that's too wide. She looks like the kind of girl who would've been surrounded by friends, who had a life full of promise ahead of her. But the headline tells a different story.

"Teen Jumps from Cruise Ship: The Tragic Story of Suzie McLean, Gone Too Soon."

This isn't right.

I keep scrolling, my pulse pounding in my ears. There's no city skyline, no rooftop, no terrifying freefall I experienced in my nightmare. No brown-haired girl with wide, empty eyes. Just this—this girl I've never seen before, who died in a completely different way.

But as I keep searching, I finally reach the part about her friends and family. And there's the face I was looking for. Going by the name Morvan.

The girl had died five years before Suzie by jumping off a building. The article mentions her as a straight-A student and a talented athlete. A girl who seized life with both hands.

And yet… she jumped.

Something is wrong. Two suicides, years apart. Was there a connection between them other than the fact they were friends? Or was it just a coincidence?

Then, another memory slams into me.

The dream before the rooftop one.

The suffocating darkness of a small room. A rope biting into my neck. A pigtailed girl beside me, her face pale and her body limp.

I shudder and lean forward, frantically searching for more information. If Morven and Suzie are linked, maybe others are too. Maybe this is part of something bigger, a pattern hidden beneath years of tragedy.

But no matter how much I search about Morven and about the people around her, I find nothing. I don't see any pigtailed girl in her life.

I slump back into the couch, pressing my fingers against my temples. I feel like I'm looking at a puzzle with more than half the pieces missing.

Where do the gems come into this?

I didn't see one on Morven. Not on Suzie, either. There was no mention of jewelry, no strange heirlooms, and no mysterious trinkets.

But if these deaths are part of some chain, does that mean...I'm part of it too now? Will the nightmares make me go mad and force me to kill myself?

A slow, creeping dread coils in my stomach. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to focus.

The girl in my dream. Why did she tell me her name was Suzie when she was really Morven?

Was it an accident? A trick? A warning?

I let out a frustrated groan and snap my laptop shut. I don't have all the answers. But I know one thing for sure.

Alister might.

Even the thought of speaking to him makes my skin crawl, but if he knows something—and I have a strong feeling he does—then I can't afford to let my pride get in the way. Especially when he found out about my tracker and made me waste 30 minutes until I realized I was keeping an eye on a random car going to a mall. I need to drag out even a single piece of this puzzle he's hiding from me.

No matter what it takes.

The door creaks open, and Lily pokes her head in. Her sharp eyes sweep over me, taking in my curled-up position on the couch.

"Have you finished exercising?" She asks, "Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes. You should come down soon."

"Perfect timing." I say as I cross my arms "Lily, come sit for a moment."

I need to nip this problem in the bud before it gets out of hand.

She shifts awkwardly. "I'd like to, but I was helping in—"

"Sit. Down."

I lace my words with steel, narrowing my eyes just enough to make it clear this isn't a request.

From what I've seen of Alister when we were at the antique shop, he doesn't ask for things—he demands them. He looms, he threatens, and he makes people know that defying him isn't an option. He has this intimidating presence that makes people fold. But I'm not him. I don't have his intense looks or the subtle authoritative and slightly alluring command in his voice. But I could try. Pretend to be all that and worse.

If he's been using Lily as a spy, then I need to show her that I'm more intimidating than him. And remind her how much more dangerous I am since I have all the power.

Finally, she moves, reluctantly sitting on the edge of the couch. There's a stiffness in her posture, as though she's ready to jump up at the first sign of trouble. But she stays seated, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"So," I start, "why don't you tell me why you're working for Alister?" I cut straight to the chase.

The color drains from her face and I watch her lips part. "I… I don't understand what you're talking about," she stammers, panic creeping in.

"I know you're his spy. I know you've been feeding him information about my family."

Her eyes widen, and breath catches in her throat. The dread is all over her face now as her fingers clench tighter in her lap, like she's trying to hold herself together.

"I… I—I'm sorry, I didn't—please, I never meant—" She cries, her voice quivering with fear. "I was forced to do it, I swear. I didn't think—"

I hold up a hand, cutting her off. The last thing I need is a blubbering mess in front of me. "Calm down," I command, my tone still hard but not unkind. "I'm not going to expose you. I'm not going to hand you over to the police, or even get you fired for that matter. But…" I pause, letting her process the words, her anxiety starting to subside slightly as she begins to understand. "You just need to answer my questions honestly."

With a deep breath to calm herself, she looks down at her hands, still clasped tightly together, as if searching for the right words. Her voice shakes when she finally speaks.

"I have two younger siblings," she admits, her eyes finding mine, avoiding the tension in the room for just a moment. "I'm the one who supports them. I... I don't have any choice. I had to do it."

Her words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of desperation. I wait for her to continue.

"I was desperate. Alister offered me a way out—an arrangement. He pays me well for what I do," she adds, her voice softening with a tinge of relief. "That's it. That's all there is to it. He gives me money, and I give him information."

So, she's doing this for money, pure and simple. No high ideals like Alister. Just survival.

Her shoulders seem to ease, though there's still that nervous energy radiating off her, the kind that tells me she's aware this could go south for her in a second.

"How loyal are you to him?" I ask, keeping my gaze on her.

She stares at me for a moment, and then, to my surprise, a small smile plays at the corners of her lips. It's not an easy one, more of a resigned grin as though she's not afraid anymore. "If you're trying to make me switch sides," she says, her voice steady now, "will you pay me double the amount he pays me?"

I raise an eyebrow, impressed by her boldness. She's no fool. She's seen through the layers of what I'm offering. She knows what I want from her.

I lean back slightly, my lips curling into a smile. "Triple," I say, "I'll pay you triple if you feed him false information."

The offer's big enough to make her pause, and she doesn't hide the excitement that flares in her chest. It's all about the money for her. I can see that now, clearer than ever.

But I'm not done yet.

"Now, I need you to tell me something else," I continue. "How many listening devices are hidden around the house, and where are they?"

"...There are 12," she says, carefully. "In the main rooms. The ones where your father spends most of his time."

I'm already processing that information, but there's one more question I need to ask, one that's been gnawing at me ever since I started this conversation.

"Are there...any in my room?" I ask, the dread creeping in as I imagine the worst.

She shakes her head, a little too quickly. No," she says, but there's something in her smile—something that twitches at the edges of her lips—that doesn't sit right with me.

"Tell me the truth."

She swallows. "There's none in your room," she repeats, but her voice cracks just a little.

I glare at her, not buying it for a second. "I'll increase your fee by 10% if you just—"

"There's only one." she interrupts and points directly to an abstract painting on the wall beside my bed, eyes lighting up at the mention of more money, a glint of greed flashing across her features.

As if she's been waiting for me to offer her more money before she'd finally admit it.

But I'm no longer paying much attention to it. The words are just sounds, muffled by the thudding of my heart.

Does that mean...he heard everything?

About what happened last night with Daniel, the beatings, me letting him do it, our deal, and, to my utter horror, the truth about me.

He knows everything. He was an audience to it.

I reach for my waist, where the pain from his kicks still lingers. A wave of nausea washes over me. The marks from Daniel's hands are still there, hidden beneath my clothes. The places he hit me, places I've carefully kept hidden in urgency—suddenly they feel like they're burning.

I force myself to breathe, to focus, to keep my composure. But I can't shake the fear. The rage.

"Do you have access to all the recordings?" I ask, my voice tight with restraint, though the question burns in my throat.

Lily stares at me, her smile gone, and I wonder what kind of expression I'm making right now. There's something different about the way she's looking at me, but she answers simply, truthfully. "N-No. He has them."

I force myself to look away from her, my gaze dropping to the ground. I can feel the anger pooling in my chest, ready to explode. The fury inside me is boiling.

"Get out."

♡........💙........♡

I walk ahead, hearing his footsteps follow behind me.

I didn't need to drag him out. Today, he agreed to talk on his own. Which is great because I don't have the patience to deal with his indifference right now.

The empty lecture hall greets us with nothing but rows of chairs and tables, bathed in the dim glow of light sneaking through the dusty windows. I step inside, shutting the door behind me and locking it.

When I turn, he's already folding his arms, tilting his head like he's unimpressed. "So, what is it, stalker?" he asks, his tone flat, almost bored.

Ignoring his remark, I throw the small broken device at him. He catches it with ease, glancing down to see it in his hands.

I can see the realization in his eyes and waste no time in stepping towards him, hoping I look as intimidating and angry as I feel.

"How much did you hear?"

He doesn't answer right away, just looks at me with an unreadable expression. And then, slowly, his lips curve into something that isn't quite a smirk but isn't far from it either.

"Just enough to realize you're more pathetic than I gave you credit for."

I lunge.

The instant my fingers clench around the collar of his grey jacket, his body tenses. His smirk falters, surprise flashing in his eyes, right before I slam him into the wall.

"You have no idea what I've been through. No idea how much I had to struggle. How much I mean to my family. You know nothing about me, you disgusting psycho!" I hiss, my glare meeting his as I pin him in place. I know he can easily shove me off, but I don't care.

He tries not to show it, but I see the way his pupils have dilated and the way his breath has turned slightly sharp. Even his pulse seems erratic beneath my hands.

He's uncomfortable. He hates it when people touch him or invade his personal space. And I love it.

He tilts his chin up, refusing to let me see how much the proximity bothers him.

"I do know you." His voice is smooth, casual. "I know you're desperate, little pet. Enough to let someone like him get away with doing that to you."

His lips curve as he continues, "Enough that you'd even get on your knees. Cry and beg me to keep this secret."

I glance down at my hands.

I could. I could drop right now, swallow my pride, and let him have his moment. Let him feel powerful; let him feel right. Because if word gets out—if he tells anyone—it will be all over for me.

Get it over with. If that's another price for silence, then I should just—

But then I look at him.

There's something expectant in his eyes. Not enjoyment, not amusement, but something quieter. Something testing. Like he's waiting to see just how far I'll break.

No. No, I won't give him that.

My right hand flies from his jacket, curling into a tight fist as I swing. But he's fast. His fingers close around my wrist, stopping the punch mid-air. Before I can yank away, he shifts. Bending slightly, his leg sweeping outward in a calculated arc and pulling my feet out from under me.

My leg is swept upward, the world tilts, and I brace for the inevitable impact of the cold, hard ground.

But it doesn't come.

I'm hanging, my body suspended inches above the floor. His grip on my wrist is firm, keeping me from crashing down. He gently lowers me to the dirty floor, and a sharp jolt of frustration burns through me.

As he straightens his jacket, I can feel his gaze on me. "First of all, never try that again. And second—" He bends down slightly, looking at me with that same infuriating expression. I hope I get to watch him die someday. "—I have no interest in your family drama, nor am I going to tell anyone. For now, that is. We've got bigger things to worry about."

He turns on his heel and heads to the door.

"Where are you going?" I snap. As much as I hate to admit it, he's right. At least it doesn't seem like he cares about my secret right now. But then why toy with me like that instead of making it clear from the start?

"That gas station, of course." He throws the words over his shoulder. "Come on, I'll tell you an interesting story on the way there. About what happened last night."

I scoff, staring up at the ceiling. "Really? You feel like bragging about who you killed yesterday and whatever twisted reason you had for it?"

"We'll get to that too if we have the time. But it's something about the gems. Get up already, or I'm leaving without you."

I close my eyes, biting back a groan as I push myself up. So he did kill someone last night. That explains the mark on his neck, the one his turtleneck doesn't completely hide.

"I hate you so much."

♡........💙........♡

The highway stretches endlessly before us, a blur of gray asphalt and distant trees, but I barely see any of it. My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, my thoughts a tangled mess I can't quite unravel. I lean against the window, pressing my forehead against it in an attempt to ease the dull throb forming behind my eyes. 

People hunting artifact users. Object-bound ones. A fight in the dead of night, magic and blood staining the pavement. And no answer about removing the gems from our chests.

Alister's voice still lingers in my head, every word hammering into place like pieces of a puzzle I don't want to solve.

"So, let me get this straight," I say, staring up at the car's ceiling. "There are people who hunt artifacts. Some of them have trinkets that give them abilities. They can see the gems, and on top of that, there's something called 'object-bound ones,' which is what we are."

"Pretty much." He sighs, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

This is bad. Worse than bad. It was already hard dealing with this curse, but now we're being hunted by people who might want to either use us or kill us.

I watch him turn his head slightly, gaze flickering to the empty passenger seat before returning to the road.

"They asked about your abilities," I murmur, more to myself than him. "That could mean these gems grant us some kind of power…"

He doesn't respond, as if deep in thought. I sigh, leaning my head back against the seat. After a moment, I finally decide to tell him about the nightmares.

I keep it simple at first—just the numbers. Thirty-two nightmares. Thirty-two deaths. Each one brutal, relentless. I see his hands tighten on the wheel when I mention the ways I've died. I tell him about the rooftop, the girl who finally spoke to me, and the name she gave. The real Suzie McLean and the one from my dreams. The articles. The inconsistencies.

Through it all, he listens in silence. I can tell he's taking in every word, absorbing the details. "So," he says, once I finish, "you might be seeing real deaths."

A chill runs down my spine. "Yeah. But here's the thing. I never once saw the gems on any of the girls."

His lips press into a thin line before he finally says it.

"Just because you didn't see it on them, doesn't mean they might not have had them."

He exhales through his nose, the rhythm of his fingers tapping against the wheel the only sound in the car for a moment. Then, he speaks.

"If I understand correctly," he says. "Your next dream—it's going to be about the cruise. The one from the article."

"Yeah." I say as I take a bitter sip of my coffee. Anything to keep my brain from shutting down, because it's ready to crash at any moment. "For now, we'll just keep investigating and find out where these things came from."

Sliding down, I stretch out across the entire backseat, staring up at the dark ceiling. The hum of the car fills the silence, a steady background noise to the storm in my head.

A flute that manipulates sand, A talisman that stops bullets, even a necklace that guides you. But then—how do the gems fit into all of this? What abilities do they have? Does having nightmares count as an ability?

For a pair of gemstones, I figured it'd be something that happened to both of us.

I glance at Alister, my eyes tracing the back of his head. The way his raven hair tumbles around his ears, curling slightly at the ends. A few stray strands brush against the side of his glasses and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. The way the late afternoon light catches on his skin, turning it to something pale and luminous, like a sliver of moonlight carved into form.

He exists the way a storm does before it breaks—calm, contained, yet brimming with something just beneath the surface.

I narrow my eyes at him as I pull myself up and lean forward between the front seats.

I'm done with his silence.

Without warning, I press the empty coffee cup against his cheek.

He flinches, his shoulders jerking slightly, his grip tightening on the wheel for just a fraction of a second before he schools his reaction.

"What are you doing?" His dark eyes cut toward me, irritation flickering beneath the surface. "I told you never to touch me."

I arch a brow, unimpressed by the glare he throws my way. "You still haven't told me what your gem does to you."

He rolls his eyes as his gaze goes back to the road. "...I see things,"

I frown. "What things?"

"Just… random things from my past." His tone is dismissive, as if that alone makes it irrelevant. "Nothing that will help us. Mine isn't as informative as yours."

That doesn't sit right with me. I shift forward again, resting my elbows on the center console. "Like what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Are you seeing anything now?"

There's a brief pause before he answers, as if debating whether to tell me at all. "A woman."

My curiosity sharpens. "Who?"

He doesn't answer right away, and I catch the way his fingers twitch against the wheel before he forces them still.

"She's of no help. I'm not sure if it's a hallucination or not, but she never says anything useful," he says flatly, as if that should be the end of it.

While I'm still curious, to say that I'm disappointed is an understatement. He created such suspense about it by not telling me, and now it turns out it's just a hallucination.

I rub at my eyes, trying to push the sleep away, but it clings to me stubbornly. I suck in whatever liquid is left in my empty cup, but the caffeine has lost its edge.

"Is there a limit to how much coffee a person can consume before it becomes a medical emergency?"

I blink, then glance toward the front. He doesn't look back—just keeps his eyes on the road, one hand draped lazily over the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift.

"I don't have a problem," I mumble, dragging my fingers down my face. "I have a coping mechanism."

"That's exactly what someone with a problem would say."

"Shut up." I flop more into the backseat, letting my arm drape over my eyes. "Coffee is like a warm hug in a world full of knives. It makes things better. Mornings. Conversations. Awkward silences...Your face."

I peek out from under my arm, when I hear him huff. It might be my fatigue taking it's toll but I almost thought I heard him stifle a laugh.

That just sounds absurd. Me, managing to make him laugh. Yet, just the thought of it, makes me smile too.