The Night Curse (Book one)

Walnut irises lit with starlight are the first thing that I see, and I almost jump out of my skin. Clemmy lurks over me, radiating with anger.

“What did you tell Mother?” she scorns, then rips away her body and steers towards the mantel by the fireplace. Obviously, mother had told Clemmy of my findings about the Marquess and had relayed them to her.

“This is bigger than you, sister. Elliot is conspiring against us. We are under threat. I had to tell her.”

She snorts an ugly, unbecoming noise, so at odds with her ladylike appearance. “Us or you?”

She’s right, yet her words still cut me. Is it the love that she has for Elliot that blinds her so? The spell I’d so carelessly bestowed. “You’re right. Elliot is conspiring against me, and that eye we’ve been seeing brands him a Dreamwalker Hunter. He’s employed to slay me.”

Fright sweeps into her glare, banishing the hardened orbs. “How do you know such things?”

Where to begin and how much to reveal? I know that of the few people in my life, Clemmy is the one that I trust the most. Even above Harlow. “I went to Harlow, in his dream. He told me that he is—was one. That’s why he was working for us. He believes that Elliot saw us together, possibly at the ball, and informed the rest of his peers. It’s what landed Harlow in prison.”

“Believes,” she whispers.

I peer up at her, my brows folding. “What?”

“You said that Harlow believes that Elliot informed the Dreamwalker Hunters, so he doesn’t have actual evidence.”

She speaks the words like a statement as opposed to a question, and I see the cogs turning over in her mind as she begins to walk in circles.

“Clemmy, the eye is evidence. It shows that he is a hunter. He is a danger to our family. Make no mistake about that.”

“And what of Harlow? He’s a hunter, is he a risk to our family?” She barks so loudly that my muscles shudder despite the warming flames.

“He may have started that way, but he isn’t one anymore.” Even as the words tumble out of my mouth, I understand just how foolish they sound.

“Maybe Elliot can change, could he not? Why must only your beloved be entrusted? Do you so badly want to see your sister unhappy?”

Blood thuds in my ears, and I dig my nails into my palms, attempting to stay calm amid the pressure rising in my chest. “Because I made you love him.”

Clemmy’s expression morphs once more. This time, she is a fallen doe, glancing back at me like I’ve struck her down, crossbow in hand. “I’m sorry, Clemmy, I know that I said I wouldn’t alter your dreams without permission but—”

“You didn’t just alter my dream, Mia, you altered me,” she cries, and I immediately regret my admission. I regret all of it.

“I know. I’m so sorry. I just wanted you to find love. To stop worrying about me and follow your heart.”

“Except, I’ll never know now will I? If I am following my heart or yours thanks to your meddling.”

Clemmy storms for the door, and I scour my mind for something to say, something to bring her back to me and erase all the misery I’ve caused, but my mind is chaos, my lips silent. The only sound is the slam of the door as she fades into the hallway.

Without Clemmy’s help, it takes me almost an hour to prepare the horse for riding. The mask hides my identity from the world, and yet, I sense danger lurking close by. Following me as I ride into the quiet night. Every minute has me glancing over my shoulder, craning to spot the threat between the trees, the hills, the fences, and the walls.

I find nothing.

Nothing apparent anyway.

The farm emerges overhead, and suddenly, the threat is very real. If Frederick catches me here, if anyone catches me here, I’m dead.

Just like before, the homestead is shrouded in darkness. No light or movement signals people are inside, but it is late. If anyone is inside, they likely reside in their beds, only privy to the visions behind their lids.

I lower myself carefully off the horse and take my time knotting her reins around a metal fence. Maintaining a steady breath, I attempt to blend into the shadows and stay close to the walls. I peer into each window that I pass and see no one asleep in bed or peering back at me. Eventually, I reach the front door and try the handle. It’s unlocked.

Is that normal?

I push open the door, cringing as it creaks wide. My feet tiptoe through the kitchen towards the back of the house. I remember the bedrooms that I had pursued last time I was here. Austin’s upturned room…Harlow’s cosey bed, and Frederick’s occupancy, to the right of the corridor. Every door is closed, except Frederick’s—as if he’s inviting me in or luring me into a ruse.

Upon inspection, Frederick’s bed is empty. I take the opportunity to riffle through his drawers, as quietly as my hands will allow. I open the desk drawer closest to his bed and grin at the black purse staring back. With a tug on the string, the purse entrance widens and inside, a circular, gold band gleams back at me.

Gradually, I tiptoe out of the room, and before I can turn to leave, something pulls me back. At the end of the corridor, Harlow’s room beckons. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow the feeling until my hand is pushing against his door and my feet are crossing the boundary.

I halt.

His bed is not empty.

A mound ebbs and flows with sleepy breaths under the sheets. The man underneath is out cold. A near-empty bottle of liquor stands on the wooden floor, revealing the nature of his deep slumber. I backtrack slowly, attempting to keep my treads light.

This could be advantageous, I realise.

I slip the gold ring onto my finger and head for Frederick’s vacant bed. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I curl my eyes back into my head and begin my descent into Frederick’s dream.

He’s dreaming of Harlow and Austin, as young boys, play-fighting on the fields.

I’m almost reluctant to change the dream and spoil the memory, considering the circumstances, but Harlow needs me. And I need him.

I rummage in Frederick’s mind, searching for the memory of Evelyn’s death, Harlow’s birth, and find it quickly given the sheer weight and size of it. I crack open the stone and the memory leaks out, filling Frederick’s dreamscape and playing out for me with startling rendition.

Evelyn’s painful screams reverberate through me. A doctor and nurse are frantic. There is too much blood seeping from the mother’s core. Frederick looks on in dismay, squeezing his wife’s hand and pleading for her to stay with him. The doctor leans into the nurse’s ear and says something that I can’t decipher. Her face becomes solemn, and she hands the doctor a metal tool that reminds me of a clamp. He uses that too-big device to open Evelyn’s cervix and the cry that erupts from her is so torturous that I momentarily turn away. When I look back, a tiny baby is being extracted from Evelyn. But there is no joy in his delivery. The screams subside and even the baby does not squeal awake. The nurse bundles the boy into a blanket and begins clearing his airways. Evelyn is drained of colour, blood still oozing from her centre. The doctor shakes his head at Frederick, who drops to his knees at the sight of his wife. I watch as the life slips from Evelyn’s eyes. She’d never even held him. And there is no Dreamwalker to be seen. She died in childbirth. Not at the hands of another. Why did Frederick lie?

And then…screams fill the air again. Frederick whips his head to the baby who now wails in the nurse’s arms. She passes the baby to him, a small smile on her face. Something warm spreads through me as Frederick takes his boy into his arms and plants a trembling kiss upon his forehead. I lean nearer, wanting to see up close Harlow as an infant child. As I do, I see Frederick’s beam evaporate. He stares into Harlow’s eyes, his own widening in horror, for the two, shining eyes that have opened are vibrant marbles of purple.

Before I can register what is going on, the dream collapses and reforms. Damp moss and earthy pine inform me of where we are before I see the change in our environment.

A forest now surrounds Frederick and the boy nestled against his chest. He babbles and murmurs as Frederick strides deeper into the woodland, something like desperation etched onto his face. His feet weave purposefully between the trees towards a cave. It is marked with shapes carved into the outer stone and the soil at its entrance. Strange creations and ornaments dangle from the ceiling, reminding me of meat drying or animals waiting to be butchered. They clang and rattle as they knock together in the light breeze, as if warning the resident that lies in wait of Frederick’s arrival.

Sensing him, a figure emerges, hunched over and weary. The old lady, covered in wrinkles and greying hair, greets Frederick and the boy with a dark and ominous glare.

Within seconds, the dream changes once again to inside the cave.

More decorations swig from the ceiling, with feathers, rope, and bones. A large, iron pot takes up most of the space. No fire spurts from underneath, but there is some type of murky liquid bubbling within.

Frederick hands over the baby in his arms and gives him to the stranger. Her crepey, scrawny hands grip the bundle of life, and she appears to take no interest in the violet rings that peer up at her.

Instead the witch takes the baby across the cave-dwelling and… no, no!

Frederick doesn’t even flinch as she plunges Harlow into the pot and watches as the iridescent, dark water consumes him. She holds him under that water, as it thrashes and spills, the baby fighting for air, and doesn’t so much as blink.

Only when Harlow stops moving and the liquid settles into an eerie calm does she nod her head at Frederick and yank him to the surface. The water clings to him like oil, smearing his body in grey tar. With the hem of her tatty dress, she wipes his face. When Harlow takes his first inhale of air, I nearly buckle with relief. That is until Harlow’s eyes flash open. No more does purple encircle his pupils. Instead, crystal blue blazes outwards as icy and cold as the blood running through my veins.