The Curse

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Book excerpt

Chapter One - The Secret 

Yoncey Fosch was a cunning man. He was a Fee—or a Dhiultadh—a half one, since his mother had been a notorious Earth witch. He was a man of many qualities, excellent attributes. He was rich, having had centuries of accumulated wealth bestowed upon him by his grandfather, his father, and his late mother. He was ridiculously handsome, having inherited the charms of his pure-blooded father and his beautiful gypsy mother. He had dark hair that brushed soft waves about his shoulders, dark eyes surrounded by thick lashes, giving him a dreamy, romantic look. He had a poet’s nose and a sculpted mouth. He was tall, broad, sharp. An undefeatable sword master. Remarkably accurate with a crossbow. The clan’s champion with bow and arrow, having won fifty archery competitions in the past two decades. He was a master in martial arts, the head sensei for the scions in his clan. He was even handy with the more modern weapons, though he had no taste for guns.

From his Earth witch mother, he had inherited the ability to power runes, sigils, and glyphs. He learned to control them, to imbue them on living and dead things, to keep them hidden from clever eyes. From his father he learned to hunt, shift, fly, and to rule. His wisdom came from his parents and the long life he’d led. All in all, Yoncey Fosch not only was a blessed being and a product of good genes, but a power to be reckoned with.

He had a younger sister who no one remembered, and whose circumstance had kept him away from, a half-brother and half-sister on his father’s side, along with a stepsister from his father’s third marriage, and a half-aunt from his mother’s side.

He was clan leader of the Unseelie Dhiultadh, where he ruled with an iron fist and a warm heart. He was loved by everyone and everything, including the trees and animals. He was a charismatic man of few words and many wisdoms. But in the spring of 1822, Yoncey Fosch was anything but smart. On the contrary, he was a desperate, grieving man.

He hurried through the Sidhe land, the forbidden land, with a heavy heart and a frantic need. The giant billowing trees rustled and whispered words he didn’t care to hear. He had a purpose, a fool’s errand. Yes, he was aware of the horrendous mistake he was about to commit. Were his mother alive, he would never need such an atrocious favor.

The animals of this land knew him, recognized a native, though this was no longer his world. Two-headed creatures curiously watched his progress. Rabbit-like hoppers moved along with him, their tails long, reptilian things that helped them jump to the high branches and move through the canopies with ease. His familiar, a young shadow he had fed a traitor once upon a time, stirred, unseen in his higher dimension. Fosch sensed his unease, wanted to reassure his long-time companion, but he was too sick to his stomach, even though he was determined to carry this mission through.

A bird of disproportional size sang a sweet song high above the green, quickly joined by other birds. Fosch barely paid attention, his eyes fixed on the clearing he could make up ahead. It was a secret meeting, a condition both parties had agreed upon. Already, he could make out the silhouette of the man standing in the middle of the clearing, watching some unseen bird or just the beautiful sky. The clearing, a place for peace counseling, was warded against dimensional hops, as safe as the Seelie Castle itself from intruders or direct attacks.

Fosch emerged into the clearing with a sure step, a warrior leader confident of his place, aware that none of the anxiety and turmoil he felt showed through. The sky was a vivid blue bowl, like nothing he had seen in any other world. Had it not been for the grim moment and the high Fee royalty standing with arms crossed a few feet away, Fosch would’ve stopped to admire the beauty of the sky and land. He was unarmed, also a condition, one he met with honor. He didn’t consider Gongo, his familiar, a weapon but a friend. One he knew Oberon was aware of.

Fosch paused four feet away from the Seelie consort. Anything closer would be construed as an insult, and Fosch hadn’t asked for this meeting to quarrel.

Oberon raised his arrogant chin. “Fosch.”

Fosch returned the chin raise. “Oberon.”

Though the Fee royalty looked like an ordinary man of medium size and average stature, Oberon was anything but. A truth that could be gleaned by his straight posture, agility, and the cunning in his deep brown eyes. Or by the sword, for Oberon’s swordsmanship was beyond excellent. He was a champion among the best. Fosch had once sparred with him in a duel for the best swordsman, and hours later they had to call it off because both men had duties to attend.

“Let us walk.” Oberon turned and moved toward the tree line, hands clasped behind his back.

Fosch stepped beside him, shortening his steps to accommodate Oberon’s shorter legs. Both men strolled silently, their faces masks of calm quiet. They looked like two colleagues taking a walk through the woods.

They entered the woods once again, traveled more than a mile through the peaceful, green twilight before emerging atop a sloping hill where the trees ended. Both men regarded the land like the finest of arts. The grass was crisp, crunching underneath their weight. A lonely cloud hung, white and heavy, while the sun shone brightly, cooled by a fragrant breeze.

“Rosalinda passed away last night,” Fosch said, words of grief in a land of beauty and serenity. It was almost like blasphemy, to mar the air with words of sadness.

No doubt catching on the note of grief, Oberon tilted his head, focused at a point far in the horizon. “A Clan subject? Merely not just so.”

Rosalinda wasn’t just a member of the Clan. She was the half-aunt nobody could know, so Fosch merely shrugged. His mission would reveal more than he was comfortable with, anyway.

A two-headed animal darted by, close enough for Oberon to touch. He followed the animal’s progress down the hill with his gaze, giving Fosch time to compose his request. He was shorter than Fosch by at least a foot, leaner by at least fifty pounds, but lacked none of the presence or charisma.

“The plague?” Oberon prompted.

Had it been any other Dhiultadh, Oberon would’ve walked away, considered his precious time not worth the Dhiultadh’s comfort. But Fosch was a man of his word, loyal and honest to a fault, considerate and yet a fearsome ruler, qualities not easily found in such position of power. One or two, perhaps, but not all of them at once, as Oberon had witnessed many rulers who had once been loyal and fair, become corrupted by their position of power. But Fosch had been a leader for many centuries now, and his qualities remained. Had he not been a Dhiultadh, Oberon would’ve admired him. Moreover, he was an excellent opponent, one Oberon enjoyed. If it weren’t for Fosch’s heritage, Oberon could’ve called him a friend. But he was a Dhiultadh, rejected from the Sidhe land, once half-Seelie, half-Unseelie. Or a quarter of each, considering part of him was an Earth witch.

Oberon had grieved over Fosch’s mother, Odra, and her tragic death, felt the loss of a good spirit pass by. He had offered his condolences, and his queen’s, in person to Fosch.

“Ay, the plague,” Fosch grunted.

It was a mysterious disease, its symptoms manifesting gradually, making it hard to identify until it was too late. A shiver, a scratch, a choking cough that cut off as abruptly as it started. A half-hour of extra sleep, an extra glass of water. Then there was the rage. First, just snappish remarks. Then arguments that made no sense. The need to take unnecessary risks. Then the killing spree no one could calm without cutting off the head. So far, Fosch had lost eleven members.

“Gerome,” Fosch said.

“Ah. You’re sure?” Oberon glanced at Fosch for the first time.

“He slept in yesterday. Snapped mad when I asked about it.”

“Ah.” Oberon’s word carried a world of understanding.

Gerome Archer, Fosch’s half-brother.

Both men returned their gazes to the blue sky, contemplating what their short exchange meant in a bigger scheme.

“What is it you want?” Oberon asked.

“The binding stones.”

Now Oberon turned to face him. “You wish to banish the plague?”

Fosch shrugged.

He was reaching, but he had to do something. And his year of research had brought forth no fruit.

“The plague is a force, an external one,” Fosch said. “My mother has taught me enough to give me a rudimentary understanding of the binding stones.” Not a lie, but not the entire truth either. Oberon didn’t need to know how much Fosch had been taught. “I will use it in reverse, bind his inner strength to him, banish whatever is left.”

Oberon was silent for a few moments. Fosch let him be, aware he’d need to convince him one way or another. He would give anything for a chance to save his younger brother. Torture, a limb, servitude. He’d give his own life for his brothers, particularly Gerome, but his life was something he’d give to a number of people.

“The binding stones may or may not work,” Oberon cautioned.

Fosch let out a sigh. “It’s the only choice I have. I welcome any suggestions.”

“I have none. My people suffer no mortal disease.” It was a condescending rebuke, one given without any heat or mockery.

Oberon studied Fosch’s face, the strong set of his jaws, the clear, steady gaze, found no uncertainty, but he hadn’t expected any.

“There will be a price, Yoncey Fosch, son of Dhiultadh Bran Fosch. Are you willing to pay?”

Though his stomach jumped in agitated anxiety, Fosch nodded. It went against his better judgment to bargain with a royal Fee, with Queen Titania’s consort, no less.

“Then, Dhiultadh Yoncey Fosch, we will meet again in the stone circle, when the sun touches the horizon with gold and red hues.”

Both men glanced at the sky, the sun already descending to the other side. Fosch calculated a few hours, at best.

Without a word, both men turned in different directions. Now, Fosch had to go pour over his mother’s journals and find the right sigils and runes to use. Perhaps a few glyphs to ground the work. Even though he already had an idea of the ritual he was going to perform, including the herbs and roots he would need, he would go read his mother’s journals once more to make sure he didn’t miss a step.

By god, he would do this right, no matter what it cost him.