Page 51 of Cursebreaker

She stumbles backward—right into Charlie’s arms.

“The enchantment—was sealed by blood,” she says weakly. “That’s all I could sense. The rest was—It’s—”

“You did beautifully,” Owen says, jerking his chin at Charlie as if to signal him to help Diana over to a nearby stool. As Charlie tends to her, Owen scratches his jaw, his lips pursed. It’s strange to see him like this—so much like his old self. Scheming, just like when we lived aboard the Lightbringer. “Sealed by blood.” He looks hard at me, then down at the cracked glass of the compass. Something sparks in his eyes.

“I know that look,” Lewis says, grinning.

Owen pries off bits of the broken glass, carelessly pricking his fingers. He stuffs the bloody shards of glass into his pocket.

“I’m scared,” Rook whispers loudly.

A laugh twists Owen’s mouth as he wipes the blood on his shirt. But his expression turns serious when he removes the needle from the compass and extends his other hand to me, expectant.

Dread pools in my gut. “My blood?”

The laughter is gone from his face, now solemn as he dips his head. “The blood of Hildegarde’s heir.”

Only blood can heal the land.

“Just a drop,” he says. “If I’m wrong—”

I hold out my hand, a sad sort of smile tugging at my lips. “You’re hardly ever wrong.”

A sharp sting as he pricks my finger.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers the needle and presses a single drop of my blood to the page.

The effect is instant. The parchment absorbs the blood, veins of scarlet bursting from the center point, and as they carve pathways through the map, the black ink turns silver, glowing like liquid starlight.

The map comes alive. Lions roar. Sea serpents hiss. Phoenixes spread their wings and fly. And there, in Bale, the capital city of Hellion, the blood congregates, coming together to form a new image.

The Helm.

“Well.” Rook lets out a low whistle. “Looks like we’re going back to Hellion.”

Jack’s lantern is snuffed out, along with every other lantern on the Starchaser, plunging us into sudden darkness. But there’s no breeze. No gust of wind. The air is still, the night eerily quiet.

“Did you do that?” Margaret asks Owen.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, Owen shakes his head, bringing a finger to his lips to silence us all.

At some unspoken command from Owen, Titus rolls up the map and stuffs it inside his leather coat as I take the broken compass, dropping the needle back inside before snapping it shut and slipping the chain over my head.

Titus shifts slightly, angling his body toward mine, when I hear the voice. But this time, I’m not the only one, and this voice—the soft singing, floating over the water, as gentle as a lullaby and as blissful as a lover’s kiss—is a voice I’ve never heard. A voice every pirate fears.

The voice of the siren.

“Come with us,” the sirens’ song seems to say, loud and soft and hauntingly beautiful. “We know the truth. We can give you the Relics of Night.”

“Cover your ears!” Titus shouts, bracing his head.

It takes every fiber of my being to follow his command. The song sounds so sweet—the voice seems so honest, so pure, I want to do as they say. I want to go with them.

But the instant I cover my ears, breaking free of the lure of the sirens’ song, the hollow ache in my chest is filled with bitter rage. No one is going to bend my will to their own. Not again.

Not ever again.

And the look of understanding that passes between Titus and me… I know he’s thinking the same thing.