Do Your Worst(37)
She tried to be bullish, as confident in her abilities as her fore-mother, but it was work to harness bravado, constantly trying to mask the fear that deep down she was exactly what Clark and her father before him had said: nothing special, a pathetic pretender.
At least she’d always found spite motivating. The more Clark doubted her abilities, the more Riley had no choice but to back herself.
Besides, she’d effectively created repellant charms in the past, even if the circumstances here weren’t exactly the same. Kettle Brook Farms in southeastern New Jersey—the place where she’d gotten the scar on her knee—had almost gone out of business a few years back because of a mysterious blight on their tomato crop.
Not only had the farmers, Fred and Ike, been embarrassed that their Jersey tomatoes disgraced the name—pale and undersized, the flesh unbearably mealy—but they also couldn’t afford to weather the financial blow of another season lost to cursed crops. Riley made a face just remembering all the terrible tomatoes she’d tested during the long weeks she’d spent trying to figure out how the husbands had run afoul of dark spirits.
In the end, she planted crimson amaranth along their crop beds for protection, and hung a handwoven wreath of blackberry, ivy, and rowan as a shield above their door. And this year’s offering had been different—the tomatoes came in huge and vibrant, fire-engine red, so good you could take a bite of them like an apple, devouring one after the other with just a pinch of salt across the top.
The difference here was that since she was trying to send away a specific person, she needed an identifying marker. In a note that looked to have been added to the journal later, since it was in a different color pen, Gran had scribbled, hair works—no fluids needed!
Thank god.
Needing to collect some of Clark’s hair (uninvited) wasn’t ideal, but at least she’d seen enough episodes of Criminal Minds to know what to look for. His hairbrush would be the path of least resistance to securing the goods.
Normally, Riley wouldn’t consider breaking and entering a casual part of her curse-breaking practice, but it was kind of hard to feel guilty after Clark’s repeated attempts to screw her over. Especially when she considered that he’d made up an elaborate scheme aimed to take advantage of her reluctantly extended trust—which, it was worth noting, was the exact thing he’d accused her of doing in the first place! Pot, kettle—it all came out in the wash.
While Riley waited for Clark to abandon the scene of the heist, aka head inside the castle to work for the day, she continued foraging for other fresh supplies she’d need for the charm.
She couldn’t find dill among the overgrown gardens’ vast array of flora, but luckily, she’d brought along her collection of dried herbs. Airport security had not loved her collection of vacuum-sealed bags, but ultimately, because of the size and weights, they couldn’t find any reason within their jurisdiction to take them away.
Picturing that Ina Garten meme, Riley muttered to herself, “If you can’t forage fresh herbs for a charm to repel your enemies, store-bought is fine.”
When Clark finally came outside, familiar pack slung over his not-particularly-remarkable-in-any-way shoulders, he looked even more surly than normal. Riley gave a sarcastic little wave as their eyes met, and he dropped his own gaze quickly. Good. She wanted him to know she was still pissed. Even though she’d already ignored him the entire return trek last night and then tossed back his helmet with a little more force than strictly necessary. He looked back at her once over his shoulder before disappearing inside the castle—that same piercing, rebellious pain taking on new dimension in his face. Not that she cared about his emotional wounds anymore. Fool me twice and all that.
Once the coast was officially clear, she headed straight for the side of the camper where she’d seen him leave a window cracked for the cat. After a quick inspection, her hopes for easy entry dimmed. No way was her ass fitting through a space that tiny.
The front door was no friendlier, lock firmly in place. That left one decidedly undesirable option: the escape hatch over the bed.
Here goes nothing.
It was a process. First, finding a set of logs big and sturdy enough to give her a boost so she could climb onto the camper. Then lying on her stomach and slithering across the top of the thing, her whole outfit going damp from the morning dew covering the metal exterior.
No one ever said curse breaking was glamorous.
The hatch didn’t actually open from the outside. But—small graces—Clark had left it cracked, presumably for ventilation. After much trial and error, Riley managed to slide a stick in and flip the latch.
When she finally got the hatch open wide enough, she pitched herself through, falling in an undignified heap onto his bed. Riley sprang up as quickly as possible. For all she had hatred as armor against his beauty, she didn’t need to test herself by rolling around with her nose in his sheets.
It made sense to start her search for the brush in the bathroom. Unfortunately, the stray cat had once again chosen to occupy the space, this time curled up in the sink. It gave her the stink eye complete with a brow furrow powerful enough to rival Clark’s when she opened the door.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Riley did her best to return the steely glare. “You’re an interloper as much as I am, so just be cool and no one has to know I was here.”
As soon as she took a step forward, the cat opened its jaws and started yowling.