Curses Read online

  Also by Lish McBride

  The Necromancer Series

  Hold Me Closer, Necromancer

  Necromancing the Stone

  The Firebug Series

  Firebug

  Pyromantic

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  Copyright © 2021 by Lish McBride

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  G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984815606

  Cover art © 2021 by Tara Philips

  Cover design by Kristie Radwilowicz

  Design by Marikka Tamura, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r1

  To Vela Mae McBride—who, when I was beastly, would tell me I was breathing a scab on the end of my nose.

  I hope this dedication makes your eyes bug out like a jumped-on frog.

  Thanks for giving me the words for Val.

  Love you, Grams.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Lish McBride

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: A Thief in the Garden

  Chapter 2: Good Family Always Bails You Out

  Chapter 3: A Conundrum of Curses

  Chapter 4: Not Everything That Glitters Is Gold

  Chapter 5: It’s Pretty, but What Do I Do with It?

  Chapter 6: A Deal Is Struck

  Chapter 7: Prince Not-Charming

  Chapter 8: What We Need Is a Montage

  Chapter 9: Prize Heifer Seeking Same

  Chapter 10: A Waste of Good Toast

  Chapter 11: Dance, Monkey, Dance

  Chapter 12: A Ball Gone Horribly Wrong

  Chapter 13: Objectively Handsome and Subjectively Beastly

  Chapter 14: She’s Always Prepared—Like an Evil Boy Scout

  Chapter 15: Bloom Worn

  Chapter 16: The Spinnaker

  Chapter 17: A Curse, Milady

  Chapter 18: The Real Gift Is Regret

  Chapter 19: Chicken Feathers Get Everywhere

  Chapter 20: A Charming Masquerade

  Chapter 21: She’s Very Practical

  Chapter 22: Danger Picnic

  Chapter 23: No One Gets Any Cake

  Chapter 24: Sorry, Your Mirror Is Out of Order

  Chapter 25: Enter the In-Laws

  Chapter 26: Rise of the Beast

  Chapter 27: A Gift That Keeps on Giving

  Chapter 28: Hey, He Can Be Charming, Too

  Chapter 29: Acknowledging the Corn

  Chapter 30: Enter the Forest

  Chapter 31: Nuisances from Above

  Chapter 32: Back Behind Bars

  Chapter 33: Plan B

  Chapter 34: A Fairy-Tale Ending

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  DuMont Family

  Florencia—mother, Pieridaen humanborn

  Brouchard—father, Pieridaen humanborn

  Tevin—oldest son, Pieridaen humanborn, gifted

  Amaury—second son, Pieridaen humanborn, gifted

  Kate—only daughter, Pieridaen humanborn, gifted

  Val (Valencia) Tern—second in line for the barony of Tern, a rural barony, cousin to the DuMont siblings, Pieridaen fairyborn

  The House of Cravan

  Merit Cravan—scion of the barony of Cravan, Pieridaen fairyborn, cursed

  Lady Zarla Cravan—baroness of Cravan, Merit’s mother, Pieridaen fairyborn

  Ellery Detante—Merit’s healer, sprigganborn

  Kaiya DeMarcos—guard for the House of Cravan, Hanian fairyborn

  The Royal Family of Huldre

  Lady Angelique Latimer—queen of Huldre, mother to Eric, Tiradian fairyborn

  King Henrich Latimer—king of Huldre, father to Eric, Tiradian fairyborn

  Eric Latimer—crown prince of Huldre and only son, Tiradian fairyborn

  Other Characters

  Diadora Smythe—stepsister to Wilhelmina, Ivanian fairyborn, gifted

  Willa (Wilhelmina) Smythe—heiress, stepsister to Diadora, Pieridaen humanborn, cursed

  Glendon DeMarcos—cultural attaché and ambassador from Hane, Kaiya’s uncle, Hanian fairyborn

  Suitors

  Cedric Fedorova—scion of the Fedorova barony, Pieridaen fairyborn

  Freddie (Frederick) Dowerglen—second son of the barony of Dowerglen, Pieridaen fairyborn

  Fairy Curse—a cruel twist of fate bestowed on someone by a fairy godling, sometimes deserved and sometimes not, but generally unwanted and not well thought out.

  Fairy Gift—same as a fairy curse, really, only the fairy in question thinks this one is a really good idea.

  It is the opinion of the author that both should be avoided if at all possible.

  —Excerpt from Musings: A Personal Look into the Fairy Kissed and Cursed, author anonymous . . . for reasons

  I, for one, would never put my health and safety in the inexpert hands of magecraft. Humans may be enamored with their shiny playthings, but we more enlightened beings know that nothing will ever replace the majesty and stately conveyance that is the horse and carriage.

  —Letter to the editor of The Pieridaen Gazette in response to the opening of the new train lines, spring 1880

  PROLOGUE

  House of Cravan Country Seat, 1883

  Merit Cravan, only heir to the barony of Cravan and current absentee from her own betrothal ball, locked herself in her room. Then pushed a dresser in front of the door, just in case. The dresser was heavy, and pushing it left her dress askew and her carefully curled and pinned updo a tangled mess by the time she was done.

  “You come out this instant, young lady.” Lady Zarla punctuated her demand with a moment of consistent but quiet thuds on the stout wooden door.

  “No, Mother.” Merit started yanking out the hairpins one by one, massaging her scalp. Her hair had a natural wave to it, but the maid had spent so much time heating and curling it that she no longer recognized the texture.

  “Stop being such a child!” Her mother’s voice through the door was fierce but low, because fairyborn aristocracy wouldn’t be so uncouth as to yell.

  “You stop being such a child!” As a retort, it lacked flair, and in many ways only supported her mother’s argument. Merit hadn’t considered herself to be a child for several years. As the only heir, she’d had to pack up her childhood early and assume certain responsibilities. And yet, at this exact moment, that was exactly how she felt. Small. Young. Scared. “I told you to cancel it.” Her words were calm, but the
pins in her fist shook. She didn’t love him, though that puny fact would not signify with her mother. “He’s old enough to be my father.” If her betrothed were a few years older, he’d be old enough to be Lady Zarla’s father.

  “He said he’d wait until you were eighteen. Honestly, Merit. Fairyborn gentlemen of his ilk don’t grow on trees.”

  “He can wait forever!” Merit yelled, throwing her pins at the door. Her mother gasped at the slip in Merit’s decorum, and Merit did not care. No, she did not. And if she kept saying she didn’t care, eventually it would be true, wouldn’t it?

  “Godling Verity, we are graced with your presence.” Lady Zarla’s voice had completely altered, her tone now reverent and careful.

  Merit put a hand over her mouth, muffling the sound that wanted to come out. In the mess of things, she’d completely forgotten—her mother had hired a fairy godling to gift the union. Godling Verity was temperamental, even for her kind—any perceived slight would be blown entirely out of proportion. Merit slid down the wall, pulled her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them.

  “Is there a problem?” The godling’s words held the crisp bite of authority. Merit didn’t think anyone had argued with Godling Verity in her entire life. No sane person would.

  “Lady Merit is indisposed.” Even through the door Merit could tell that Lady Zarla was holding on to her composure by her fingernails. “She’ll be back out in a moment.”

  Fear spiked through Merit, but so did determination. She had already chosen the boy she would marry, and he was most certainly not the paunchy, gray-haired baron waiting for her in the ballroom. “I won’t,” Merit yelled without thinking. “I’m not coming out!”

  It was the last straw. Her mother smacked the door with her hand. “You want to wait for your fortune hunter, you beastly girl? Want him to come back and profess his love? Well, he’s not coming. Not tonight, not ever. You will grow up and do as I say! Merit!” She banged on the door some more. “Get out here right this minute!”

  Merit’s fingers slid over the beautiful beading of her skirt. She’d been so excited about this dress when she’d first seen the sketch. The exquisite detail, the sweetheart neckline, the deep purple of the fabric. It was the kind of dress her mother would wear—the dress of a woman, not a girl. Months ago, before she’d actually met her betrothed and the reality had set in, before she’d fallen for Jasper, she’d touched the swatch of fabric the dressmaker had brought and looked forward to this moment. As if donning the dress would wave a magic wand, making her into a sure and steady adult. Now the hem was torn, the beading ruined.

  “He will come back for me.” Merit was no longer sure if she was trying to convince her mother or herself.

  A beat of silence then, a hesitation that told her that her mother was struggling with herself. “Fine. Wonderful. If he comes back for you—for you, not your money or your title— you’re welcome to him. You’ll have my blessings. But he won’t come back, Merit.”

  Her capitulation surprised Merit. It was too easy. “How are you so sure? You don’t even know him.”

  “Because I made him an offer, and he took it. Took the coin and ran. He wanted your family’s money. Not you.”

  Merit choked back a sob. The dull blade of betrayal sliced through her. Her mother was wrong; she had to be wrong. Jasper loved her. He loved her. He’d promised.

  Lady Zarla smacked the door again. “Merit! You are the heir to one of the oldest and most respected baronies in this land, and you will act like it! Now, come out here before the guests start talking!”

  Merit’s entire body trembled, but she made no move to open the door. Her mother was lying. She had to be. He would never—only it didn’t sound like her mother was lying, did it?

  Merit heard a new sound then, the faint buzzing of wings. Her pulse sped up.

  “You refuse to honor your mother’s choice?” Godling Verity crooned oddly, as though she was pleased by Merit’s disobedience.

  Merit swallowed her fear. Her doubt. Even if her mother was right, she couldn’t marry her betrothed. The thought of his hands on her made her want to curl up and die. “I refuse.” The words rasped out of her throat, but the godling heard. There was no doubt about that.

  Something tapped against the door—Merit would realize later it was Godling Verity’s wand. “Beastly girl is right. You will get your gift from me this night.” The hum of wings grew louder. “As you are still young, I will be generous and give you a chance to learn from your folly.” Merit could almost see the cold smile on her face. “If love appears, we will bow to your will. If not, it will be as your mother says. You will marry someone of her choosing by your eighteenth birthday.”

  Merit placed her hands flat on the floor, trying to quiet the trembling of her body. It didn’t stop the fear slicing up her spine. For a second, she wavered. But then she thought again of her betrothed—of his greedy eyes on her, his clammy hands when he grasped her fingers and planted a dry kiss on her knuckles. “If I don’t?”

  “Then you will become a beast in truth. Do you still refuse?”

  Merit closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  There was a flash, then a whoosh, and Merit felt like her world tipped sideways and split in half. She didn’t remember anything else until one of her mother’s footmen removed the door at its hinges. When she opened her eyes, it was to see the footman faint dead away, the heavy door in his hands clattering to the floor.

  Then her mother screamed.

  CHAPTER 1

  A THIEF IN THE GARDEN

  Florencia DuMont spit on the ground and cursed.

  “There is a chance.” From the rolling cadence of her accent, the weather mage was Ivanian, though that wasn’t such a leap of logic. Most weather mages were. The woman touched her shoulder, a quick press of warmth, as her fellow mages looked on in sympathy. Or pity. Did it matter? “There is always a chance. Seek the harbormaster—surely they can aid you?”

  “My goods were not insured,” Florencia said smoothly. She looked down, feigning shame, letting the mage think she was either too poor to pay the dues or too foolish. Both reasons grated, but both were legal. Her cargo was not. Oh, she could petition on behalf of her legitimate goods, but they were cheap baubles and not worth the time and paperwork. Florencia kicked mud off her boot. The salty tang of the breeze off the ocean usually invigorated her. The swarm of humanity on the pier was colorful, bright, and a feast to the eyes, as well as to the pockets if your fingers were deft enough or your tale convincing.

  But not today. Today she smelled only salt and dead fish. Everyone’s ship had come in.

  Hers had not.

  “Squalls from the northeast hit the Tirada coast hard,” the mage said. “There was nothing to be done.” The blue swirl of tattoos on her cheeks, temples, and neck eddied like the wind across her brown skin. Since mages only got tattoos when they reached master status, Florencia had to accept that the harbor mage knew what she was talking about, even if she didn’t like the news itself. Her goods were at the bottom of the sea with the fish, and it was impossible to swindle fish.

  Florencia thanked the mage, hiding her irritation as she handed over a few small coppers for her to share with the mages behind her. She would get another ship. It never occurred to her to doubt it. Florencia left the docks, absently dodging people and crates of something with wings that hissed as she walked by. Normally she would have taken a peek—who was stupid enough to trade in creatures from the Enchanted Forest?—but her mind was already moving three steps ahead, creating and discarding plans to correct her fortunes.

  Florencia fetched her wagon. There would be no staying at an inn tonight. Without the ships, they would need the money to keep their creditors at bay. She could sell the wagon, fattening her purse as best she could. Florencia would keep her horse—it was important to project the image of wealth. No one would do business with a beggar. This w
as only a momentary upset in their fortunes. They would be back on top again. Florencia clucked at her horse, heading to a nearby inn. The closest one would have a place where she could sit, order a drink, and find a patsy to sell her wagon to.

  The Salty Siren was a bare-bones establishment. It wasn’t the kind of place one actually wanted to rent a room from, unless a body loved the company of fleas. The dining room, however, was passably clean, the mediocre ale watered down but cheap, and the clientele diverse. Rich patrons didn’t sleep here, but they did come here for business. It was the best place to hire a crew for your ship or to unload your cargo.

  Florencia didn’t bother cleaning her boots—the boot brush was already stiff with mud, so any effort would have been in vain. She sauntered in, her shoulders back, the tilt of her chin regal. People saw what you showed them, and Florencia DuMont had the look of a vengeful goddess made mortal. The haze of cigar smoke was thin, the windows open to catch a late spring breeze. She had to alter her course quickly to avoid kicking over a brimming spittoon resting on the floor next to the bar. With a sneer, she decided that her earlier assessment of “passably clean” had been overly generous. Florencia traded two much-needed coppers for a pint that she wouldn’t give to a pig and took a seat at a small round table in the back of the dining room. Now she simply had to wait.

  Like any good swindler, Florencia DuMont knew her assets well and traded on them heavily. She knew eyes had followed her confident swagger through the room—tight breeches, expensive boots, and a face wrought of temptation guaranteed it. The Salty Siren was full of hungry patrons, and she was a four-course meal. She sipped and waited and dangled as bait. If she made it to the halfway point of her pint, she’d undo her braids. She usually didn’t have to—Florencia was an exceedingly handsome woman—but sometimes people needed a push, and her chestnut locks would do the trick.