Page 8 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

Where Indy Meets The Most Insufferable Man

The stranger wore a fine-pressed suit tailored to perfection, hugging broad shoulders and long legs.

His presence screamed luxurious, his rings polished bright and the gems in his ears blinding.

Even his nails were impeccably clean, his fingers long and veins prominent atop his cool white skin.

A crow with thin green eyes sat on his shoulder, inky black the same as his waved hair.

He held tight to my wrist, eyes narrowed and such a dark green, they approached black.

Beneath his keen attention, I became an irresistible specimen.

“That is quite the curse you have, isn’t it?” His lips curled into an impish grin.

I relinquished myself from his hold. “You are another artificer, I presume.”

And the one with eccentric tastes. He welcomed me to his home, so he made the castle, not Mr. Thatcher. Though, I suppose they could have constructed the house together, which would be a more believable feat .

The stranger had the presence of one who got what he desired.

He was the kind of man most would swoon over while he picked their pockets, smiling all the while.

He was the fire seeking to warm and threatening to burn.

The first two clasps of his shirt were unbuttoned.

Errant strands of black hair brushed over his brows, commanding further attention to his feverish gaze.

I didn’t like it, feeling more like a curiosity than a person, another item to stash away in the many rooms of Ivory House.

The crow on his shoulder fluttered down to pick at the remnants of Mr. Thatcher’s toast. Miss Beamy eyed the bird, her tail fluffy and high.

I worried there would be an attempted murder, but neither man paid the animals any attention.

Either murder was acceptable in this house, or Miss Beamy wasn’t an expert bird catcher, though I dared not say that out of fear of mauling.

“I am.” The stranger gave a mocking bow. “Rooke Hawthorne, Grand Science Artificer of Wyvern Spire and creator of Ivory House. In short, Miss Moore, I am the most talented artificer this world has ever seen.”

The most confident, although he must have merit to enchant a castle that the kingdom knew by name. An artificer of his renown could reveal the truth of this curse. A pair of dog ears couldn’t be the worst of it.

However, I couldn’t afford his services.

There wouldn’t be a point to ask, either.

Artificers worked for two reasons: themselves and the highest bidder.

They were greed incarnate and showed no mercy to anyone they perceived as beneath them.

Miss Francesca turned her nose at anyone who dared ask her for anything, always saying we couldn’t afford her.

In Cavehallow, most artificer merchants sold to the highest of society and gave us the scraps, if we were so lucky.

I had nothing. In his eyes, I would be less than dirt. However, based on his attire, as eye-catching as possible, and his introduction, it was safe to assume he thought highly of himself. If I challenged him, he may be urged to give an answer or two.

Meeting his haughty nature with an amicable smile, I asked, “Is that so? Then prove it. One of your talents must surely be capable of curing me of this curse.”

Mr. Hawthorne snickered. “Are you attempting to bait me, Miss Moore? ”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir. I merely do not understand the world of magic and demons, so I assumed the talented artificer that you are could help, or can’t you?”

“I can.” He settled a hand on the small of my back, the touch so gentle, one might think he found me fragile or was disgusted by my presence. “But I won’t. Unfortunately for you, I have nothing to prove, and I have no interest in dealing with demons.”

“Because they frighten you,” I tried.

“Only a fool wouldn’t be frightened, and do I look a fool to you? Of course not.”

“Rooke, should you not at least hear her out?” said Mr. Thatcher.

“Absolutely not. We’re both too busy, simply far too busy to deal with such troublesome and deadly matters.

I, for one, quite like living. I can’t say the same for you,” Mr. Hawthorne urged me out of the kitchen, leaning in to share, “Deals with plants, he does, poisonous, venomous, carnivorous—it’s a miracle he hasn’t lost his head.

Now,” he retreated to comb a strand of hair behind his ear, “Ivy will circle back to your home. Which is where?”

I didn’t reply, attempting to conjure an acceptable excuse to convince him.

“I suggest you accept my charity; otherwise, I imagine you will have a long walk home,” he said, still smiling but in the most unfriendly of manners. Typical artificer.

“Westshire,” I answered through clenched teeth.

The halls of Ivory House swerved in abnormal fashions, windows opening to rooms rather than outside, and steps leading nowhere.

Mr. Hawthorne’s even stranger taste laid bare in each room, incapable of allowing any space to breathe.

He was the type who couldn’t walk into a store without making a purchase.

“Marvelous. The journey will take us until nightfall, which gives you more than enough time to work,” he said.

Around the bend, we met destruction. Mud coated the walls.

Frames laid broken on the floor. The rug existed as little more than torn thread, similar to the catastrophe within the room I woke up in.

We hadn’t passed the mess on the way to the kitchen, so Mr. Thatcher must have taken us on another route.

I couldn’t possibly comprehend the layout of this maze-like structure .

“I do not know why you destroyed my home, but you will mend what has been broken. Why, once you are done, I will have to see what has been ruined and make a stop in town for replacements,” he proclaimed.

“Are you not sure you don’t already have everything you could possibly need? Your home is rather… overfilled,” I said.

“Nonsense! I have plenty of room, and what is the point of an empty room? That is rather sad, I would say.” Mr. Hawthorne snapped his fingers. A gaggle of cleaning supplies meandered down the hall to form a crescent shape around us.

“Your weapons of war,” he declared, then smirked when the bird from earlier landed on the top of the mop handle. “And your supervisor. Slate will keep an eye on your progress. There is a closet in the adjacent room with more supplies, should you require them. Good luck, Miss Moore.”

Now wasn’t the time for cleaning. I needed to get home and tell my aunt what happened.

She and the girls had to know I was missing by then, if not earlier in the night after Susannah realized I hadn’t returned with Dolly.

If they went into the woods to search, Carline was there.

She knew who my family was without me uttering a word. She could have them!

“Can’t the best artificer this world has ever seen magic the mess away?” I called in a voice more frantic than I wished.

“Yes, but it’s principal. You made the mess, so you clean it up.” His back faced me, the tails of his jacket billowing as he walked away.

“What about my family? I didn’t return home last night. My aunt must be worried sick, and I need to warn everyone about the demon that cursed me.”

Mr. Hawthorne stopped. He wore a bitter expression, disinterested, instilling an icy fear within me. He said nothing for a moment that spread eerily long. “What is your aunt’s name?” he finally asked.

“Agnes Shepherd,” I answered in a strangled breath.

“I will send a letter. It will reach her in under an hour. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, but if I may ask something else. ”

Mr. Hawthorne groaned, his head thrown back like I asked him to take on the world.

I may as well ask nicely, if only to prove that wouldn’t work, either.

“This curse, do you at least know what it is? It has to be more than…” I gestured toward my new set of ears, the ones flicking from nerves. That would get annoying quickly.

“I am good, but I fear no one is that good,” he replied. “Let me give you a brief introduction to demons. They are the most idiosyncratic creatures this world has and may ever see. Only time and study can reveal all the truths of your curse, and the answer remains no.”

“I asked nothing of you.”

“You are thinking of hiring me, but I assure you,” he tossed his hair dramatically, “You cannot afford me.”

Mr. Hawthorne ended the conversation by rounding the corner. I grabbed the broom, half tempted to beat the answers out of him. Unfortunately, my rational mind knew that an artificer could easily take down an angry girl wielding a mop.

I was trapped in the Ivory House with no idea if my family was safe.

A demon cursed me, but rather than ensuring my family’s safety, I had to clean.

I angrily swept the glass from the floor to toss into a bag following me around.

I hadn’t noticed at first and found the bag’s presence creepy.

The mop took to trailing behind me, also waiting to be used, with Slate still perched and watchful.

“Artificers,” I grumbled, feeling irritated with Mr. Hawthorne, even if he didn’t owe me anything.

He was right. I couldn’t afford his services, and no one wanted to be involved with demons.

I was cursed and didn’t know what the curse entailed.

Mr. Hawthorne said time would tell, but how much time did I have?

Was the curse deadly? And what if the letter didn’t reach my aunt in time?

She and the girls could be in trouble because of me.

A door creaked open. Nothing came out of the room, but the door waved back and forth after I didn’t move .

“Hello?”

No one answered. Mr. Thatcher said the house was sentient in a way, but I wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed and wasn’t too keen on finding out. I had dealt with enough magic in the last twenty-four hours. From then on, I hoped to never encounter more.