Page 37 of Grave Expectations

They moved slowly through the cemetery, each carrying a few of the items needed. Roz’s blood hadn’t worn off yet, and she wondered how long it would take. How long until Alaric couldn’t touch anything? How long until he faded away?

Stubborn, ridiculous man.

Maybe he’d change his mind? She’d try not to be too smug.

They stopped before the statue, both staring up at his face. “You know, there was a few-generation stretch where my statue was decorated for the seasons. A wreath for Yule, flower crown for Beltane. It was nice to be included. When they stopped, I worried I’d been forgotten. Sometimes years pass and I visit the museum and wonder if they’ll have removed every trace of me. If this statue fell over, would they rebuild it?”

“I thought you were a scoundrel that didn’t deserve the attention?”

“Oh, I was. Doesn’t mean I don’t like a monument to myself.”

“If it falls down in my lifetime, I’ll make sure they rebuild it…with less artistic license.”

“Artistic license? What does that mean?”

“Like the portraits of royalty, they made them look better than they did in life. I’ll make sure the new one is more accurate.”

Alaric narrowed his eyes at her. Before he could say anything, she wagged her finger. “We only have a few more minutes before the moon starts to rise, we have to get started.”

“I’ll remember that comment later,” he mumbled.

But how much later did they have? Roz tried not to think of it as she drew her circle in the dirt at the base of the statue with her finger. She mumbled the words she’d memorized under her breath, casting the circle in practiced, methodical movements. Alaric leaned against his statue, arms crossed over his chest.

Roz double-checked everything before looking up at him. “Ready?” she asked. He watched her for a few long moments before nodding.

“Alright, step into my office.” She opened her arms to the circle. Alaric stepped over it, shivering once inside.

“I can feel the magic,” he said.

“It’s the perfect time,” Roz said, pointing to the moon peering over the horizon. The moon was little more than a sliver, such a delicate thing on such an ominous night.

Alaric sat across from her, his crossed knees touching hers. “Hold out your hand,” she said.

He obeyed without question. She placed a candle in his palm, surrounded by obsidian and amethyst. She lit the candle by pinching the wick with her fingers, infusing it with her magic.

“I light this candle to brighten the night, to unmask evil despite its might,” she intoned. Next, she lifted some of the hair, bringing it to his palm.

“Rocks of the earth, with powers that run deep, absorb the evil, don’t let it keep.” The crystals vibrated in Alaric’s palm, bumping against each other as they moved.

“Woven threads, a curse from long ago, your power is gone, you are no worthy foe.” She brought the hair to the flame. It sizzled and smoked, curling to nothing against the flame.

“Woven threads, now come undone, this curse is broken, the length has run. I sever you now, I banish you far, your hold is no longer, so mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” Alaric echoed. The flame extinguished, the rocks stopped their movement. The hair on the back of Roz’s neck stood on end a moment before a fierce wind ripped through the cemetery. It blew the candle and crystals from Alaric’s palm, kicking up the grave dirt she’d disrupted drawing her circle.

Roz shielded her eyes from the flying particles, ducking her head as the wind whipped around them. Her ears popped at the sudden drop of pressure, of the shift in the earth. How powerful was that curse? she wondered as goosebumps spread across her arms.

“Rosalin,” Alaric said. Something in his voice made her uncover her face to look at him.

He was no longer wearing the outfit he’d changed into, he was back in his robes. The dried blood and bruises were back, coloring his face. Roz could see the outline of his statue through him, his body more transparent than she’d seen it.

“Alaric?” she asked. He reached for the crystals, unable to pick them up. His body jolted suddenly, thrust back six inches by some invisible force. “Alaric!” she cried, diving for him. She reached for his hands, only for her hands to fall through them.

The tether. How had that been severed? She was intentional with what she chose—crystals to absorb a curse, the hair of the culprit, his intention.

Alaric shifted back another six inches, his eyes wide.

She thought they’d have more time. She thought they’d break the curse, have a few days. Maybe he’d get over his silly reservations about using her blood to keep him here. Or maybe they’d grow apart, torn by the impossibility of being together. Whatever the outcome, she thought they had time.