Page 28 of Cursed (Wicked Heirs #2)

Initiation.

Confusion and fear streaked through me like lightning.

Lucian’s fingers were ice cold on my shoulders, his fingertips dug into my skin and I knew they would leave bruises.

Expectant faces stared up at me—the Black Council.

Lucian’s loyal followers.

They had watched my father die.

Probably in this very chamber, the grimoire whispered in my mind.

Titus, Valen, and Bastian stood at the back of the room. They leaned casually against the stone wall, gloating.

No.

No—Valen’s jaw was clenched. Bastian’s fists were tight at his sides, and Titus— Titus’ dark eyes glowed with anger.

I forced myself to lift my chin and blinked away the tears that stung my lashes.

“I asked you a question, my dear.” Lucian’s voice wound through my thoughts like a viper. “Do you recognize her?”

I did.

The young woman at the center of the circle, bound and on her knees, was a ghost from my past. A nightmare I had hoped to forget. Her long, pale hair fell in tangled waves around her shoulders, framing a face I could only remember being twisted with cruel laughter.

Clara Duvall.

A name I’d whispered in secret, a name that had set my heart racing with fear back at the Academy. She had delighted in tormenting me, and she had been far too adept at twisting every single insecurity I had into a weapon.

Even now, bound by dark magic, she glared at me with resentment and hatred in her cold blue eyes. But there was something else—fear. It flickered beneath her bravado, and for a moment, I felt a sickening rush of justification. Maybe this was justice. She had tormented me, shamed me, bullied me for my magic—and now it was my turn to wield power.

But— I couldn’t.

I wasn’t like her. I couldn’t become her.

“Well?”

Lucian’s voice was smooth and dark in my ear, and I realized that everyone in the chamber was looking at me.

“Yes,” I managed.

Lucian’s fingers squeezed my shoulders, and I wanted to twist out of his grasp. “What did she do to you?”

“She— It doesn’t matter,” I whispered.

“It does matter,” Lucian hissed. “She humiliated you, taunted you—abused you in ways you can’t even talk about… didn’t she?”

Clara’s eyes widened as I stared down at her. She could hear every word Lucian was saying, and the whispers in my mind clawed at my senses.

She had hurt me.

In countless ways.

“Don’t you want to punish her? She could have stopped anytime— but she didn’t.”

“No—” I whispered. “I don’t—”

But I did.

The grimoire’s whispers wrapped around my thoughts and twisted them toward Lucian’s words.

Revenge.

Jusssstiiiice—

Clara’s once haughty expression had twisted into a grotesque mask of fear. Her lush hair—hair that I’d been so jealous of—was snarled and full of tiny sticks and fragments of dead leaves. Mud and grass stained her nightgown.

Pathetic. Weak.

Every word she had once used to describe me.

My memories of Messana Academy were filled with her cruelties… But despite everything she had done, every humiliation she had inflicted on me…

“No,” I said firmly. “I won’t.”

A thunderous silence echoed through the chamber as the council members exchanged uneasy glances amongst themselves. Clara’s mother let out a shaking sob and then clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Lucian’s hand tightened around my shoulder, his nails biting into my skin like talons. “Are you rejecting my gift?”

Oh, gods.

His words hung heavily in the air, cloaked with an unspoken threat.

If I didn’t do as he asked—would I be sacrificed in her place?

Against the wall, Valen stepped forward, but Bastian held him back with a subtle motion.

“She thinks you’re weak ,” the whispers said.

Maybe I was.

After all the power I had taken—after all the risks, and all the blood I had shed—maybe I was still weak.

“No,” I replied, but my voice sounded small and frail.

“Good girl,” Lucian breathed. He lifted his hands from my shoulders and I could finally take a full breath. But his body still pressed against my back, hips and thighs and—

“Take off your gloves, Avril—” he commanded.

My hands shook as I tugged at my gloves and dropped them to the stone floor. They fell like pale gray spiderwebs, and the crystals sewn into the material sparkled strangely.

Nothing seemed real anymore.

“Hold out your hands,” he urged.

I did as he commanded and my hands shook as I lifted them in front of me, palms up.

My eyes widened as the assembled members of the Council let out a collective sigh as Lucian brought a velvet-wrapped object into my line of sight.

He laid it upon my hands and my jaw clenched at the weight of it.

I knew what it was.

I knew what he wanted me to do.

His long fingers tugged at the fabric that concealed the weapon from my sight and my throat constricted as a long, black blade made of polished stone was revealed.

Lucian pulled the wrapping away and laid a hand on my shoulder once more. Comforting and threatening at the same time.

“Take her life,” he murmured. “Take her power. And then you can take your place among the Necromi—”

“As your mother did ,” the whispers said. “Willingly. Eagerly.”

Horror knotted in my chest.

I wasn’t like her.

I wasn’t—

The image of my mother’s rotting, vengeful corpse careened into my thoughts and I sucked in a breath.

Initiation.

To take someone’s power—to take their life—

“You know the spell, Avril,” Lucian said. “I know you do—”

I swallowed hard.

“Yes,” I whispered. The black blade shimmered in the torchlight, reflecting my eyes in its dark surface—but I barely recognized them.

“Good—”

The ritual circle pulsed like a heartbeat, and I noticed with a start that various stones set into the floor, in the walls, and in the archways of the chamber had been etched with ancient sigils that glimmered ominously in the dim light. Could everyone see them? Or was it just me?

“Just you,” the grimoire whispered. Its voice was a gleeful shadow that danced in my thoughts and tugged me forward.

It was hungry—for Clara’s sacrifice—and, like Lucian, it was eager for my descent into darkness.

If I gave in—

Shadows danced on the walls of the chamber, writhing and twisting with a life of their own. The air crackled with a dark energy that wrapped around me and settled over my shoulders. The metallic tang of magic clung to my tongue. Its bitter edge suffocated me as it crawled down my throat and wound tight in my chest as I took a shaking step—and then another. Down the two stairs that raised Lucian’s altar above his followers. I felt so much smaller now—and the cloaked shapes of the Black Council’s members rose around me like blackened trees in a burnt forest.

My fingers trembling as uncertainty and fear coursed through me. My hand shook, and I tightened my grip on the dagger.

Clara’s eyes were wide as she stared at me—her face full of fear and disbelief.

As I walked toward her, memories flooded back: her laughter, cruel and mocking, as it rang through the halls of Messana Academy. She had reveled in my vulnerability. The shame of my bloodline. She had been the first one to call me a traitor.

“Do it,” Lucian urged again, and there was impatience in his tone. I took another step forward, but each movement was slow and agonizing, as if I were wading through thick mud.

The black dagger—sharpened stone with a wicked edge that was almost transparent—was heavy in my hand. My heart beat faster as I drew near, the oppressive atmosphere closing in around me, nearly suffocating. A flicker of satisfaction sparked in my chest, a grim justification for what I was about to do.

Clara deserved this, didn’t she?

I deserved justice.

Retribution.

But another part, the soft, innocent part of me, recoiled in horror at the thought of spilling blood—even hers.

Only a few steps away, Clara glared up at me and fought against the grip of the guards who held her. “You can’t— You can’t do this! Do you know who my father is?”

Yes, I did.

I remembered her telling me exactly who her father was while she mocked me for not having one.

While she taunted me with details of my father’s death… I’d thought she was lying. All those years ago. I hadn’t believed her.

But I should have.

She had been telling the truth.

“Avril—” Lucian’s voice was a warning.

“Hurry,” the grimoire whispered.

What would happen if I refused? What would happen if I— if I made a mistake?

Death.

My death.

“Choose,” the grimoire’s whispers taunted me. “You must choose!”

I closed my eyes and took a breath—slow—calming—but all it did was bring into focus how hard my heart was beating, and how desperately I wanted to escape this place.

There was no going back now.

Two more steps brought me to Clara.

The guards had concealed their faces, but I could sense every eye in the room upon me. Including theirs.

Clara’s indignation and terror burned in her blue eyes—her perfect porcelain doll face—a face I had envied and hated at the same time. A face that had haunted my nightmares for too many years.

A moment’s courage.

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

Clara’s mouth twisted. “What?”

“Why did you do it?” I repeated. “Why did you— why did you destroy my life? What had I ever done to you?”

Clara’s lip curled. “You? You didn’t have to do anything— You shouldn’t have been there. You didn’t belong there—”

“But what did I do to you? Why did I matter so much to you?”

Clara let out a short laugh and a shiver of memory brought back every taunt, every hurt she had ever inflicted on me.

“You didn’t matter,” Clara replied. “And you don’t matter now. If you think—”

Her words were cut off as one of the guards struck her with the back of his hand.

Clara’s head rocked back with the blow, and someone in the crowd let out a moan.

I laid the dagger against my palm and closed my hand around it. The blade was so sharp that I barely felt it until the blood began to flow. I pulled the dagger away and flexed my wounded hand. Without hesitation, I reached out and cupped Clara’s cheek with my bloodied hand.

The Council members closest to us let out gasps of surprise, as though they hadn’t expected me to know what to do—

“They wanted you to fail,” the whispers in my mind said.

Her eyes were unfocused, but then she stared back at me and her gaze was full of anger.

Clara’s nose was bloody, but I didn’t care. She had deserved that. “You can’t—”

With a motion that didn’t feel like my own, I pressed the blade of the knife against Clara’s arm and she let out a choked gasp and tried to twist away as the impossibly sharp edge bit into her skin.

Time slowed—seconds stretched impossibly long—as the world faded away, leaving only the two of us suspended in this grotesque moment.

“Please,” Clara whimpered, but I couldn’t let myself falter.

I gritted my teeth and drew the dagger down Clara’s arm. Dark blood welled up around the blade and dripped down her elbow to spatter on the cold stone floor, where it pooled like dark jewels beneath us. It soaked into her filthy nightgown and stained the silk heels I wore, but I couldn’t stop.

It was wrong, so deeply wrong.

“Avril—” Clara moaned.

“By blood unbound and power’s rift,” I murmured. “I drink your breath, and take your gift—”

I moved closer and pressed my wounded hand against her arm. Clara stiffened and let out a sharp cry as an unbearable heat flared between us, but I couldn’t pull my hand away.

Her blood-streaked face was a mask of terror—as though she couldn’t believe that I would dare such a thing.

But I was.

And I did.

I did dare.

I crouched in front of her and looked directly into her eyes.

“Heart to shadow. Soul to bone. Your strength is mine—your life is gone.”

Clara’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly as she gasped for air.

Her power flowed into me like a river—more intense than anything I’d ever experienced.

I felt her magic slithering in my veins, dark and thick, filling the hollow spaces in my soul.

A part of me reveled in this newfound strength, while another screamed in agony—

“Yessss,” the grimoire purred.

She was close—drained.

I tightened my grip on the knife. I knew what was required now.

Without thinking, I pushed my face forward and pressed my lips to Clara’s.

She tried to turn away, but she was too weak.

Her power was mine.

Her life was mine.

I drove the dagger into her ribs, up and into her heart. Hot blood gushed over my hand and down the front of Clara’s filthy nightgown.

She stiffened and let out a choked gasp against my lips and I dragged my mouth away from hers just as she reeled back and let out a strangled cry—or was that her mother?

A dark clot of blood burst from Clara’s lips and smeared her chin as the guards let her fall.

I straightened and wiped my mouth with the back of my wounded hand.

It throbbed painfully, and I looked down at it in disbelief and flexed my fingers as the wound closed over—slowly at first, and then all at once. My fingertips tingled and my legs were unsteady.

I glanced down at Clara’s body, slumped on the floor. Blood pooled around her, shifting from red to an inky black. Each drop that fell seemed to absorb the dim light of the chamber, as if the darkness itself was fed by her despair. I stood there, frozen, torn between the exhilarating power that coursed through my veins, and the horror of what I had done.

A mournful wail pierced the silence, but the rising sound of rushing water drowned it out.

No. Not water.

Applause.

As it enveloped me, I realized that the members of the Black Council were applauding me.

Applauding the murder of one of their own.

“Look at her,” Lucian’s voice sliced through the thick air, smooth as polished stone, drawing my gaze to his shadowed figure. He spread his arms wide. “You’ve done well, my dear.” His pale eyes glinted with satisfaction. A predator admiring the spoils of the hunt. “You are one of us now—and you have taken the first step toward greatness.”

I felt his approval wash over me, an icy wave that chilled my skin. It was heady and terrifying all at once, a reminder of how easily he wielded control over me. There was a cruel delight in his gaze, a twisted admiration for my actions that made my stomach churn. “You have surprised me, Avril,” he said.

In an instant, I worried I had put myself in more danger. Had I wielded the spell with too much ease? Should I have pretended to struggle with it?

“She never stood a chance against you,” he continued. His words dripped with honeyed malice. “And now— Now you are stronger for it, and you may take your place among the Necromi.”

My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I stared down at Clara’s motionless form.

This wasn't a victory.

It wasn’t justice.

She had never apologized.

She would never apologize.

I had created another shade to haunt my nightmares.

The knife slipped from my grasp and dropped to the ground. I winced as the glossy black stone broke apart.

But Lucian didn’t seem to notice.

The members of the enclave stirred, their cloaks fluttering like shadows as they turned away from Clara’s crumpled form. Lucian’s guards threw a length of black material over her body and plucked her from the ground as though she weighed nothing.

Two members of the Council seemed to linger behind—Clara’s parents—maybe? But they, too, turned away.

She had been abandoned.

Lucian had chosen her for me, and they had to comply.

Through the veil of my disbelieving eyes, I watched him stride forward, clapping his long, pale hands slowly. The torches set into the walls illuminated his cruelly handsome face.

“Bravo, Avril,” Lucian praised. He halted before me, his pale eyes all but glowing with an unholy delight. “I had high hopes for you—but you have surpassed them all.”

Disgust roiled within my gut, and rose in my throat, but I swallowed hard against it. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction— But maybe I did.

I staggered just a little.

And Lucian reached out to steady me.

“There now,” he soothed. “You’ve had quite the ordeal—”

“I— I don’t feel well,” I choked out.

“Titus, Bastian—” Lucian barked. “Take her back to Withermarsh.”

The Romano brothers, who moments before had watched from the sidelines with an unsettling silence, came alive at Lucian’s command. Titus, his icy eyes flickering with a cruelty that mirrored his father’s, crossed the room in three long strides, coming to stand alongside Lucian. I could feel the heat of his gaze, but I couldn’t look at him.

Without another word from Lucian, Titus reached for my arm. His grasp was harsh and impersonal; he was carrying out an order. I recoiled instinctively and stumbled back into Valen. His hand brushed against my waist as he steadied me, a fleeting touch that sent shivers prickling up my spine.

Lucian’s hand was cold on my skin, but his touch was a reverent caress that made my skin crawl. His gaze flickered up to his sons, and he looked at each of them in turn.

“Be gentle with my bride,” Lucian warned. “She is more valuable—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but Bastian’s pale eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Lucian dragged his fingers from me and then turned away from us and followed the Black Council deeper into the catacombs.

“What about the body?” Bastian called after him.

Lucian raised a dismissive hand. “It will be dealt with,” he said without looking back. “Do your duty—guard her well.”

I drew in a shaky breath, desperate to ground myself, but the air felt thick and unyielding and pressed against my chest like a vice.

I was only vaguely aware of the hands that held me.

Then came the tremor. It started in my legs, a subtle quaking that quickly escalated into a full-blown earthquake of weakness. The room spun, and the stark colors bled together in a chaotic dance. I stumbled forward, my hands reaching out for something—anything—to steady myself. But the stones beneath my feet were slick with remnants of the ritual—with blood—and my newly stolen strength began to dissipate like smoke in the wind.

The whispers in my mind clawed at my consciousness and overtook my thoughts with alarming speed.

“Help...” The plea slipped from my lips, a fragile whisper swallowed by the growing shadows surrounding me.

My knees buckled, and I fell as the world crashed down around me.

I was too tired to fight.

Too miserable.

Lost.

“Avril—”