Dance of the Cursed

Alister

During class, while I try to focus on the professor's words, a strange feeling crawls up my spine.

Someone's watching me.

I glance around the lecture hall, my eyes sweeping across the students, but no one's looking my way. Everyone's heads are buried in their books, absorbed in the lesson. Everyone, except Clara. And Stephanie too, as she uses her book as a pillow to sleep at the back of the class. When you have some dangerous rumors surrounding you, even the professors would rather leave you alone. Clara's gaze is fixed on Zach's back as she sits behind him. Zach, oblivious as ever, is entirely absorbed in the lesson, completely unaware of her silent attention.

I try to shake off the feeling and pay attention to my notes, twisting the metallic ring around my finger.

Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Clara. I glance at her, catching her immediately looking away, gaze quickly shifting ahead while her hand fidget with a pen.

Meet me in the music room at 4pm.

My brow furrows as I read the message again, suspicion bubbling up inside me. 4pm? After classes end? What's she planning?

I don't bother texting her back. Instead, I shut off my phone completely, deciding to focus on the lesson. But I can feel her glare burning into me the entire time, as if she's hoping I'll crack and give her a response.

The day drags on, and as the hours go by, each class feels longer than the last. Despite my efforts to focus, my mind keeps drifting back to her. The strange text she sent me earlier, the request to meet in the music room, echoes in my thoughts. It doesn't make sense. Why would she want to meet me? What does she have to say? Every time I look up, I catch her staring at the clock, as if she's counting down the minutes. Her eyes flicker back and forth between the professor and the ticking clock. What is she waiting for?

When the last class is over and our professor finally leaves, the students begin packing up. But Clara is already on her feet, gathering her things in a hurry.

Her doe eyes dart over to me and, without a word, she tilts her head toward the door, a silent command for me to follow.

Her friends surround her with cheery smiles, and Sophia even embraces her happily. It's funny. She looks so different from how frustrated she was at the restaurant. I guess they made up.

I hear them wanting to go somewhere together, probably expensive, but Clara refuses politely and walks away. I see them exchanging annoyed looks. 

Their whole friend group is the same. They like having Clara around because she makes them look good—because her money makes their lives thrilling. They butter her up and use her when it's convenient or guilt-trip her into doing things for them. Like about the party last night. I don't know if Clara sees it. Maybe she does, and she just lets it happen anyway. Which would be very pathetic.

I watch as she stands at the door, turns to glance at me, and without breaking her gaze, she tilts her head again, urging me to follow. I take in the way her posture is straight and her expression set. It's almost as if she's forcing herself to be confident.

I let out a quiet sigh, irritation building inside me for being told what to do. I gather my things and follow her out of the room.

We slip into the quiet music room on the second floor, the silence inside a stark contrast to the usual buzz of students in the hallways. The door clicks softly as Clara closes it behind us, and for a brief moment, there's nothing but the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the stillness that surrounds us.

After taking a few steps into the center of the room, I turn to face Clara, my brow raised in silent question.

"So," she begins, her voice steady, though I can detect a slight tremor, "let's finally talk about this."

My mind spins with confusion and my jaw drops as she steps forward, fingers moving toward the top button of her dress.

"STOP! Just what do you think you're doing!?" My stomach lurches in panic as I take a step back. The speed with which my eyes dart away, locking onto the window, almost makes me worry they will roll out of their sockets. She's blocking the door, and we're on the second floor. If I were to jump out of that window, it would be painful—probably end in a few fractures—but at least I'd avoid whatever scandal she's trying to drag me into.

"What do you mean?" She asks innocently, confused. I cautiously glance at her from the corner of my eye. "I'm talking about the gems."

Gems? My brain goes into overdrive as I slowly turn to face her fully. That's when I notice it—the white gemstone embedded in her chest, below her collarbone.

That's...the gemstone I gifted her.

Clara lets out a sigh, her shoulders loosening just a bit. "Thank goodness. At least you can see it."

Her words pull me further into confusion, and before I can even ask what she means, she adds, "I guessed as much since I could see yours too."

I blink, my body tensing at her statement. Mine? My eyes drop immediately, and sure enough, just below the neckline of my shirt, the tip of a gemstone peeks out.

A strange chill creeps up my spine as I stretch the fabric to get a better look. The gem is embedded deep into my chest, just like Clara's.

I barely have a second to process it before I hear a muffled snort. I look up to find her covering her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. "You seriously didn't notice? It was right there in infront of you, sticking out of your chest."

I can feel the embarrassment creeping in. How the hell did I not notice this thing? Or feel it on me? I clear my throat, straightening up as if that'll somehow salvage my dignity. "I was just… preoccupied with things."

She gives me a long look, then hesitates before muttering, "Right."

There's something in her tone, something unreadable, but I don't have time to dissect it. "What the heck is this?"

Clara scoffs, crossing her arms. "You tell me. It was your gift, after all."

I press my fingers against it, feeling the smooth, cool surface. Then, with growing urgency, I start scratching at it, dragging my nails over the edges, hoping it'll budge. But it doesn't. It doesn't even shift.

Clara leans against the desk behind her, arms crossed, watching me with a bored look. "Yeah, that's not going to work."

I scowl but stop my useless attempt. "I don't get it. I just bought these things at an antique shop." My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to try scratching it off again. "There were two of them. I figured I'd keep one and—" I wave a hand toward her "—gift the other to you."

Clara raises an eyebrow; her long hair falls over her shoulder as she shifts her weight to one leg. "And the owner didn't say anything about them?"

"Just that they might have some mystical properties." I shrug.

"…What?" She gapes.

I frown. "What?"

"Why would you buy something like that!?"

I stare at her, baffled. "I'm not five, Austin. You really think I actually believed any of that?"

Slowly, she drags a hand down her face, exhaling a long, tired sigh. "Well, believe it now, genius." She drops her hand and levels me with a pointed stare. "Because we're stuck like this."

I open my mouth, but she cuts me off, voice firm. "No one else can see them. And no matter what you do, they won't come off."

The weight of her words sinks in, and I glance down at the gem again. Whatever this is, it definitely isn't normal. I almost feel childish for thinking there's something supernatural about it, but it's the only way this makes sense. Why can only we see these things and not others? Why they are stuck inside us. It seems like it happened sometime at night? I do remember myself staying awake till 11am, studying. Must have occurred at 12 o'clock then. Why? Was there some type of trigger?

Whatever it was, I don't think it'll come off easily.

I glance at Clara's gem. It doesn't look like she tried cutting it out of her skin. I doubt she tried everything to get it off. There are no signs of tampering. No bandages, scars, or bruises. Perhaps carving it might do the trick. Or even shattering it while it's attached.

Suddenly her hand flies to her chest, covering the gem. I don't miss the way her cheeks flush pink as she angles her body away, eyes narrowing. "Seriously?" She snaps. "Can you not stare?"

I roll my eyes, ignoring her remarks. "Listen, let's just go to the antique seller. Maybe he knows more than he lets on."

Clara exhales, some of the tension in her posture easing. "Fine."

"Let me check what the name was." I say as I take out my phone and pretend to search it. "Ah, here it is. Curios and Relics."

I move to the door, resting my hand on the handle. "Come on." For a brief second, I swear I see her hold her breath, but she quickly recovers. Pretending not to notice, I crack the door open, then reach out and casually place a hand on her back. "It's not that far from here."

She flinches as I nudge her through the doorway before she can question it. She stumbled slightly, just a half-step, but regained her footing in the hallway. I follow after, letting the door fall shut behind us.

She keeps her head down and walks beside me with a blank face. Like someone trying very hard not to think about something. Or maybe trying too hard not to show that she is.

The heat outside hits us as we push through the building's doors, and the parking lot stretches out in front. The silence lasts all of five seconds.

"Hey!" she shouts. She's staring down at her car—and it doesn't take long to see why.

The front tire's a ragged mess of rubber and slashes. So is the rear. And it's not just hers—three cars near it show the same treatment. Jagged, messy cuts, like someone had taken a knife and gone to town.

She rushes forward, her heels clacking unevenly against the asphalt, and crouches down beside the damaged tire.

I walk over, scanning the area. No shattered glass. No obvious tools left behind. Just vandalism done with carelessness.

"That looks bad," I murmur, hands in my pockets. "Zach did mention someone's been slashing tires on campus lately."

She spins to look at me. Her face is pale now—drained of its usual defiance—and her eyes latch onto mine, searching. Not with curiosity. With suspicion.

"Did...did you—?" She begins, voice low and cautious.

I arch a brow. "What?"

She stares at me for a long moment, fists curling at her sides. Then she looks away, massaging her temples. "Nothing."

Of course it's nothing. She can't blame this on me—not when she's been watching me this whole time. And she sure as heck can't afford to make me suspicious.

"Well," I say, glancing at the car, then at her, "looks like we're taking mine then."

She doesn't reply but instead stands slowly. She brushes imaginary dust off her navy dress and gathers herself like someone trying to appear unaffected.

"I'm going to take a taxi. Send me the location." A bit too quick. Too eager to be anywhere else but with me.

I take a step toward her. Watching the twitch of her jaw. "Austin…" I say casually, "Why do I get the feeling you're trying hard to avoid me? More than usual."

She freezes.

I tilt my head, eyes narrowing just slightly. "You've been acting strange all day. Jumpier than usual. And you have a guarded look on your face." I push, enjoying the small tremor in her resolve.

She forces herself to maintain eye contact as she smirks and shrugs lightly. "You're overthinking things. Fine. If you're that desperate, I'll come with you." Her words were slightly slurred, her movements a beat slower.

I turn around before she can see the smirk on my face. My car's always parked at the back of the campus building, tucked away where the shadows fall longer and no one really bothers to look. Quiet. Out of sight. For... my own reasons.

Clara's voice cuts through the silence behind me. "I should text my family. Let them know I'll be coming home late."

She pauses, then adds with emphasis, "And who I'm with. So they won't worry about me."

I don't answer. Just keep walking. I reach the car first, unlocking it and swing open the passenger-side door for her.

She stares at it. Rapidly blinking eyes scanning the interior like she's half-expecting something to leap out at her. Instead of stepping in, she reaches for the backseat handle, pulls it open, and slides in without a word. She slams the door shut behind her—hard enough to make the frame shudder. As if she knows how much I hate it when people do that to my car.

As soon as I slide into the driver's seat, I start the engine and pull out of the lot. No music. No conversation. Just the low rumble of tires and the occasional bump of gravel under the wheels.

In the rearview mirror, I catch sight of her. At first, she's still—rigid, silent, arms folded, and looking as guarded as ever. But I notice the way her breathing has gone shallow.

Her shoulders twitch once. Her eyes flutter closed for a second longer than a blink. Sweat begins to bead along her brow, collecting at her temples and sliding down to her jawline. She lets one hand grip the edge of the seat, knuckles pale.

She catches my eye, and I quickly look away, staring back at the road ahead.

"What…" Her voice is slow and foggy, like she's waking from a heavy sleep. "What did you...do to me?"

"Austin," I begin, "has anyone ever told you that you wear too much of your favorite perfume? And how...expressive your eyes are."

I hear the shuffle of movement behind me—her reaching for her bag. My arm shoots back, fingers closing around the strap. In one smooth motion, I yank it forward and toss it down by my feet, shoving it under the seat. She gasps, and I hear her body shift again, like she's trying to force herself upright.

I twist the ring on my finger again. All I needed was one touch, and the sedative from the needle is working perfectly.

My suspicions were further confirmed when I asked Lily for Clara's activity in the morning and at what time she left. Strangely, she hasn't informed the police about me yet and even showed up to class. It might be possible she had no evidence that would back her claim, and raising the issue might have made her look like she was falsely accusing someone with no proof. Although, if she tried, she could have used her money to make people act the way she wanted.

But she hadn't done that.

Worst-case scenario, she heard the phone call too. And connected the dots. While that would explain her hesitation on getting the authorities involved, as I might know her family secrets, it also raises more questions. Why hasn't she fired Lily yet? Why hadn't she gotten the family involved? Just what is she plotting? Her inaction... it made no sense. But I knew my main goal should be kidnapping her first. I spent the whole day trying to come up with ways to use the ring on Clara and capture her. Who knew she'd present me with the opportunity herself.

Suddenly, something yanks me back—hard. A thick navy cloth whips around my neck, jerking my head against the headrest.

"What the—?!"

My breath rips out of my lungs as the fabric cinches tight. Her belt. She's got it wrapped tight. My fingers shoot up instinctively, clawing at the loop digging into my skin. But she pulls again—harder this time.

Through gritted teeth she screams, "When...did you drug me, you murderer?!" She's shaking—angry, terrified, sweating—but still fighting. Still conscious. Still resisting.

The car veers right, slamming over the lane marker. I twist the steering wheel just in time to avoid a light pole—tires biting into the edge of the curb before bouncing back onto the road.

I'm thankful for the tinted windows as horn blasts echo from a passing car. My lungs convulse, fighting for air that won't come. My other hand reaches back, trying to tear away at the belt, wedged between the headrest bars—anchored by her full body weight.

I grip the wheel tighter as it jerks left, the whole car skimming too close to the lane divider. "Are you...crazy?! You'll...kill us both!" I manage to let out.

Her hands don't loosen. "Maybe that's the point!"

I twist the wheel, nearly swerving into oncoming traffic. Clara jerks the belt again, and for a second the world tilts sideways. I turn the wheel toward a quieter road—residential, empty—where I spot a narrow gravel shoulder.

After a crunching halt on safe uneven ground, I finally wedge two fingers between the cloth and my skin. With a yank, I dislodge the belt, gulping in a rush of air so sharp it burns.

Coughing, eyes stinging, I finally turn to face the backseat. Clara's there, hands gripping the back of the driver's seat, eyes wild and furious despite the sedatives dulling her movements.

Did she think she had a better chance of surviving a car crash than me?

Her lips tremble as she mutters, "No… no…" barely audible, like she's trying to deny what's happening even to herself. Slowly, she slumps awkwardly on the backseat. One arm dangles, the other curled tight against her chest. She blinks, long and sluggish, before her blue eyes find mine.

"You… won't get away with this. It's...over for you," she slurs as her gaze softens. Her lashes flutter once, and she goes still.

I sigh and rest my head on the steering wheel.

For someone so infuriating when awake, she looks almost...serene now. For once, she wasn't smirking, wasn't barking orders, or aiming barbed words in my direction. No upturned chin daring me to challenge her. As the sunlight pours in over her through the window, making her golden hair glow, I see how the heavy layers of makeup masked what didn't need to be hidden. Underneath it all, she had naturally striking features, but she buried them—just like everything else about her.

"Why did you have to meddle?" I murmured, almost to myself, the frustration escaping before I could stop it. It wasn't just the inconvenience of it all—it was her persistence, her need to always be involved in things that didn't concern her.

My gaze fell to her arm, and I squinted when something caught my eye. With the sleeve of her dress bunched up, I finally notice the faint scars on her pale skin.

I blink, sitting up straighter.

Now that I think about it, she's always wearing clothes with long sleeves and high collars. Is this why she didn't seem that bothered that she could have died in a car crash?

I shake my head, pushing the thoughts away as I look forward.

It doesn't matter. So what if she cuts herself? It's none of my concern. Especially since I'm going to kill her anyways. Give her what she wants.

"Can't you see me yet?"

The hairs on the back of my neck rose instantly. My breath catches in my throat as my head snaps back to Clara.

She's still unconscious. And...the voice didn't sound like it belonged to her.

My fingers flex on the wheel as I look around. The passenger seat, rearview mirror, and even outside the car. But there's no movement. No one outside. Nothing.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax. Get it together. I probably just imagined it.

My fingers twitch, almost on their own, and they move to the gem on my chest. I don't know why, but it's like a compulsion—like something is drawing me to it. And for a brief moment, I could've sworn the gem pulsed—just once—beneath my fingers. A subtle, almost imperceptible throb, as though it had a life of its own.