Page 30 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

Where Indy Curses Coin & Limb

There was a tail, fluffy and warm against my palm. I pinched the skin. The pain told me it wasn’t an illusion. I had an extra appendage.

“No, no, no, no, no!” I shrieked.

The door swung open, revealing a set of clothes by the door. With no one in the hall, I snatched them and dressed as quickly as I could. Good thing whoever brought the clothes left a skirt because the tail wouldn’t fit under a dress.

Mr. Hawthorne had to be in his office. Thanks to the curse, I had an incredible—and annoying—sense of smell.

The scent of black coffee guided me to his office, where I barrelled into the room.

Mr. Hawthorne sat at his desk, drinking from a steaming cup with one hand, and scratched Miss Beamy’s chin with the other.

When he saw me, he spat out his coffee from laughter, and that had Slate shrieking from his nest. A handful of his trinkets scattered on the floor, causing the bird to scramble to retrieve them .

“This is no laughing matter,” I declared.

The tail curled between my legs. Mr. Hawthorne found further humor in that, forced to set aside his coffee rather than risk drinking it. His eyes shined wet with unshed tears, his laughter choked out in a snort.

“Stop!” I stomped my foot. “Is this a sign that my curse is advancing faster than we thought?”

“It is certainly a sign that this demon has poor taste,” Miss Beamy replied. “Dogs are such bothersome creatures with no style or charm. A tail such as mine is far more majestic.”

“I hope you do not take offense, Miss Beamy, but I would prefer not to have a tail at all.”

Or ears or this powerful sense of smell. I didn’t understand how dogs tolerated such heightened senses. It was maddening knowing everyone’s bathroom routine.

Slate adjusted his belongings in his nest while giving Mr. Hawthorne the stink eye over his shoulder.

“Why not?” He composed himself enough to take a breath and wipe the tears from his eyes. “The ears and tail suit you, little wolf.”

The tail slackened, then faded. I touched my spine where the tail had previously connected. Nothing remained that would have signaled I had a tail, albeit momentarily, at all.

“How fortunate for you.” Mr. Hawthorne approached. His hand hovered above my back. “May I?”

My heart stuttered at the prospect of his skin on mine.

I nodded because we had to get this done. He settled a gentle hand along my spine. My shirt pulled against his wrist as he examined my back. I told myself that’s all it was, a scientist inspecting his research project, but every moment his fingers prodded my skin felt like so much more.

My breath caught when his fingers traced the base of my spine. His hands were soft. I chanced meeting his attention, caught by the deep hue of his eyes. We stood, silent and motionless. His fingers pressed against my skin. My pulse hummed between my ears.

“There is no wound,” he said, freeing me from his tortuous touch. He returned to his desk, where he scribbled in a notebook. “There is nothing out of the ordinary at all. Tell me, do you feel different?”

I fell into the chair in front of his desk. “No, but I saw Carline last night before I turned. I didn’t have a notebook on me, but I remember what she said. Something right before I passed out surprised me.”

“What was it?” Mr. Hawthorne pushed a notebook across the desk while tapping a pen against his lips.

Accepting them, I took to writing everything down from the start while replying, “That she took a risk going after me. It was odd to say. I don’t understand what she could have meant.”

“Perhaps she meant it has become a risk since you’re seeking help. Regardless, that isn’t what we should be focusing on. Ears, then a tail, I hate to say that this is a fast progression. We’ll have to consider the possibility of your wolf form appearing during the day time,” he said.

Don’t worry about it , I repeated over and over, each one more of a lie than the last. I pressed the pen hard against the notebook where I wrote the recollection of last night’s events.

Mr. Hawthorne combed over his books, pushing them aside without disrupting Miss Beamy. Slate guarded his nest, watching Mr. Hawthorne intently and snapping his beak when an elbow got too close to his precious—stolen—goods.

“I have spent the night researching curses of similarity, ones involving a change or even a timing issue, such as one woman cursed to never speak the truth or a man who had to hop on one leg for an hour each day,” he said.

I realized then how unkempt he was, hair stuck up at odd ends and poorly tied at the nape.

He wore the same clothes as yesterday, the shirt ruffled, unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up unevenly.

A brace hugged his right wrist, the one he cradled after I grabbed it the other day.

The poor man hadn’t slept, stayed up all night poring over the books, putting dark bags under his eyes.

The typically composed Mr. Hawthorne looked an utter mess, and it added even more to his charm.

The artificer paced, holding a book in either hand.

He spoke so enthusiastically, his words jumbled together.

“Aubrey Juniper is a centuries-old case that I found most similar to yours. Cursed by a forest demon, she was said to become a tree. Unlike you, she didn’t morph between the two, but as the days went by, her skin became like bark and her limbs fused.

By the seventh month, Aubrey fell to her curse entirely. ”

“You aren’t very skilled at making someone feel better,” I grumbled while rubbing my wrist.

He dropped the books on the desk to trace his fingers over a passage that he read aloud, “There is also Jay Parkston, cursed by a toad demon to become a fly, and he, similar to you, changed back and forth, but his began with an hour change then two then three, and by the twenty-fourth day, he became a fly entirely.”

My wrist ached from how tightly I squeezed it. “All I’m hearing is that none of these people were spared.”

Miss Beamy hopped from the desk into my lap. I rubbed her head and scratched under her chin, focusing on the sensation of her fur and how her comforting purr vibrated against my chest.

“The solved cases won’t give us as good of an idea of what to expect your timeline to be,” he countered.

“I would like to speak to this expert now.”

“I sent a request to consult with her.” Mr. Hawthorne leaned against the desk. “She hasn’t replied yet. Without an invitation to her summoning circle, we would have to fly, which would take about five days, and then there is the question of whether or not she would let us in the door.”

“Are all artificers an utter pain?”

“We are a peculiar batch, I will admit that.” He circled the desk to open a drawer. “Keep yourself occupied while we wait.”

“Sure, because that is so simple given my predicament.”

“Head into town with Otis.” Mr. Hawthorne tossed a pouch at me .

I caught the bag. There were more coins inside than I had seen in my life. Frowning, I declared, “I said I wouldn’t go into town today.”

“And I said you need a new wardrobe.”

“Don’t you have other dresses to enchant? Surely another unfortunate woman left her clothes here.”

“ Fortunate , you mean.”

“No, I meant what I said.”

He bit back a witty retort, or rather undoubtedly, an inappropriate one. He must have remembered his own rule of acting professionally. Miss Beamy made a strange noise that might have been a snicker. She jumped down to drink from her water bowl in the corner.

“We do not know how long you will be staying here, and I imagine we will travel frequently to the archives. While I have some clothes here that would suit you, it would be better to get your own,” he argued.

“I still don’t want your money.” I dropped the pouch on the desk, glaring at it like it had been the thing to curse me.

A memory resurfaced, one of many I tried to cram far in the recesses of my mind.

Father came home with a purse of coins, claiming he got a promotion.

Mother must have thought he was lying. He worked at the same canning house most of his life.

They didn’t hand out promotions. They brought in relatives or family friends to work the higher-paying jobs, those already far out of poverty.

But I was too young to think anything of it, believing for a moment that we may rise from the dirt. In the end, the money wasn’t his.

The memory dissipated at the sound of Mr. Hawthorne’s exaggerated gasp. He feigned offense with a delicate hand pressed against his cheek. “Is my money not good enough for you?”

“I am no pity venture,” I replied bitterly.

“Come now, I am merely offering you a day to distract yourself and help my eyes. Your fashion taste is abysmal, if one could even call it that.”

“Says the man who had a room with a burnt orange carpet. ”

He crossed his arms. “It was a choice that I admit was not the best and does not deter from the argument at hand.”

I shook a hand in the direction of the pouch. “This may mean nothing to you, but it does to me. I can take care of myself, and spending unnecessary money to relieve my stress will do the exact opposite.”

He changed in an instant. The humorous atmosphere fell serious. His attention on me became so intense that I didn’t have the nerves to meet his eyes. But then he was in front of me with such speed, I couldn’t react. His hand caught my chin. His thumb barely brushed my bottom lip.

My throat went dry. “What are you doing?”

“Curious,” he said with my image reflected in his eyes. They were hypnotizing, a green enchantment more dazzling than any gem. He departed, and I cursed myself for trying to lean toward him. My hands held fast to the chair’s arms to keep me in place.

“Take the coins,” he said. “Make a purchase for yourself.”

“I just said—”