“But now you think Arden’s curse might require . . .”
Nettles, fire, snake, ladder, storm, manacles. Had all these dangers actually been an unseen power using disaster to usher them together like some kind of malevolent matchmaker?
“I don’t know.” Riley returned to the Philippa section of the murder board, once again tugging him along, and took down a printout of a photocopy of what looked like a letter. “There might be some historical evidence to suggest the curse has a history of encouraging blue balls.” She winced, passing him the paper so he could read for himself.
According to this firsthand account, Philippa Campbell had taken Malcolm Graphm prisoner and found some creative ways to torture him.
“From her lips, death,” he said, suddenly remembering the sentence he’d found in the cell.
“What?” Riley frowned, “Does it say that somewhere?”
“No.” He lowered the letter. “In the dungeons of the castle, that sentence had been carved in a cell right next to scratch marks from a prisoner tally. I saw it just before I found the manacles.”
“From her lips, death,” she repeated. “You think those could have been Malcolm’s last words?”
“As far as we know, the curse has prevented anyone else from holding the castle long enough to take prisoners since he died.”
Between the two of them, they must have turned over every scrap of documentation that referenced Arden.
Riley tapped her foot. “So, do we assume he was referring to Philippa? To her dooming him with the curse?”
“Possibly, or . . .” How to say this without giving himself away? “It might refer to the dangerous temptation of an ill-advised kiss.”
“Oh,” Riley said softly. Her foot stopped moving. “Right.”
Why did she have to have the perfect mouth? Hadn’t Clark endured enough trials in his thirty-two years? All he wanted was to hate her, and if he couldn’t manage that, then at least the universe might have allowed him indifference.
“Wait,” he said, “earlier, you asked me about the opposite of enemies. That wasn’t for a crossword, was it?”
Riley quirked said perfect mouth like she was trying to decide how much to reveal. “I’m almost certain that an end to enemies is the language of the curse. Which means to break it, that vow must be fulfilled.” She took a long breath. “I thought, until very recently,” she said ruefully, “that meant one enemy had to conquer the other—send them away.”
Away. His eyes went back to the handwriting underneath the word Sacrifice on her board.
“But most accounts assume Philippa and Malcolm were both killed by his clansmen. They couldn’t break the curse from beyond the grave. So . . .”
“Who are the enemies?” A rising sickness in his gullet told him he already knew the answer.
“Um.” Riley covered her face with her left hand. “I don’t really know how to say this.”
There was a picture of him on that board.
All her antics of the last week . . . breaking into his camper, requesting a lock of his hair, the cleansing solution she mixed for him to drink. Yesterday—her inescapable presence. The persistent questions targeted to poke at him. That incredibly distracting outfit.
What had Philippa wanted with those words, an end to enemies?
To drive the Graphms back, hold the castle unchallenged once and for all.
“We’ve been trying to get each other to leave”—the manacle weighed heavy against his wrist—“ and it hasn’t been working.”
Riley spun the cuff around her own arm.
Unbidden, a vision of her in his bed came back to him. He’d thought the darkness in her eyes as she tore him apart last night had been nothing but malice, but perhaps he’d mistaken something else: grim determination, even regret?
“I did what I thought it would take.” She made herself meet his eyes. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
Clark didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse to hear that the attack had been strategic, calculated to achieve some greater end than wounding him. Of course she would prioritize breaking the curse over his feelings. It was her job.
His eyes fell to the journal still open on the nightstand.
Sex rituals.
“That’s clever, actually. The opposite of enemies is lovers.” Clark joined Riley in sweating. “But if that’s the requirement, we’ve already . . .” He raised his arm to wave off the end of the sentence and—mortified—realized he was accidentally gesturing to her chest.
After what they’d done last night, it was pretty ridiculous to find himself circumspect now, but his facilities had been significantly weakened over the course of this conversation. Besides, even if he was a . . . god help him, freak in the sheets, he was still a gentleman in the streets, thank you very much.
Riley looked thoughtful—and, thank goodness, distracted. “What if the sex has to actually take place in the castle—or maybe the curse only recognizes certain types of intimate interactions?” She shook her head. “I need to read more about it.”
Clark fought to keep composure amid his rising internal temperature. “You’re saying this curse might have antiquated ideas about what acts would qualify us as paramours?”
Riley gave him a sardonic grin. “I’m saying I think the ancient, horny fae magic might not be satisfied until you rail me.”
“Jesus.” Clark went as tongue-tied as a blushing schoolboy.
“Hey,” Riley jumped in, “I certainly don’t define sex by penetration. But”—she shrugged—“it’s a three-hundred-year-old curse. It stands to reason we might be operating under a less-than-progressive definition of lovers.”
The idea that the castle wanted . . . that sent a bolt of awareness through his body. Clark didn’t know whether it was from interest or a primal survival warning to run.
Riley must have seen something troubled in his face because she reached for his arm. “Oh, god, Clark, listen, I would never, ever ask you to do that. After last night, I know you wouldn’t,” she said firmly.
Reaching for the book, she flipped the pages again. “I’m sure there’s something else in here I can try.”
“Something else. Right.” He’d stop thinking about taking her from behind any minute now.
Partially out of curiosity and partially to distract himself, Clark made himself consider the work that must have gone into compiling a journal that massive.
Her gran had seemingly dedicated her entire life to the study and practice of curse breaking, taking care to record all she could in order to pass down the legacy to her kin.
That kind of commitment, the pursuit required for such an endeavor, was even more impressive when you considered that unlike fishing or cartography or even lidar technology, curse breaking was a practice without an established history.
Chasing after such a polarizing calling must have required a massive leap of faith, especially for a woman back in—what, the 1920s? 30s?
“Riley, how did your gran—sorry, what was her name?—how did she become a curse breaker in the first place?”
She looked up, evidently surprised that he’d asked.