That night, we give Rafe the gemstones.
Jude skips school on Monday, and somehow convinces Twig, who’s never played hooky a day in his life, to do the same. They pore over ancienttexts in the library—theological and philosophical. They sink deep into angelology and the Apocrypha. Anything that might provide some insight.
About angels.
Seraphina.
The curse.
And maybe, just maybe, a loophole.
Meanwhile, I take to Google.
How do you break a curse?
The answer is surprisingly thorough, and very unhelpful. Still, I try a few suggestions. Like renouncing the curse and declaring my freedom. I say it out loud, word for word, in the shower on Monday morning.
“I renounce this curse and declare my freedom!”
The mark remains.
I study the portrait for clues.
I fixate on the locket, which I can’t pry open. Not with my fingers. Not with a tiny screwdriver. I try a hammer only to wake up on the floor a full two minutes later with a goose egg on the back of my head.
By Monday afternoon, Twig has utilized two years’ worth of connections forged doing research forAccounts of the Uncanny. He and Jude visit every fringe group, every niche chatroom, follow every wild conspiracy to its bitter end. Until finally, they find a lead on a message board buried three layers deep where ghost hunters and theologians argue about the spiritual realm. A user namedPaleScript mentioned a monk who was cast out for translating forbidden texts—a Benedictine archivist with several published articles about the Watchers and their influence over human bloodlines.
Twig finds his last known location. And by Monday evening, Jude is airborne. Off on a private jet, making his way to the French Alps.
On Tuesday, Twig and I carve pumpkins with his family and my dad. The annual tradition cannot be skipped, and surprisingly, it serves as a welcome distraction.
Now it’s Wednesday. Just after lunch. I’m home from school trying and failing to get warm. No matter how many layers of blankets I burrow beneath, the cold will not relent. It has settled in my bones, and a feeling of heaviness sits on my chest. I can’t tell if it’s the curse … or if it’s just me, missing Jude.
The ache of his absence feels urgent.
Like he is water in the desert.
Warmth in the winter.
A match in the dark.
Halloween creeps closer.
Time is slipping away.
And Jude is gone.
We’re spending what could be our final days apart.
My teeth chatter as I flip through the no-longer-locked tome. I study the stained glass illustrations, looking for patterns and symbols. Thereare several repetitive themes, but blood is predominate. A force of life, power, and sacrifice.
My phone rings.
Jude’s number appears on the screen.
I answer it eagerly.
“Hey,” he says. His voice, even travel-worn and tired, brings the first real warmth I’ve felt all day. “Just checking in. Wanted to make sure you were?—”
