Page 68 of Cursed Crowns

Some things aren’t worth the price, little bird. Or the blood.

Or the blood.

Wren looked between the dead mouse and her own mangled hand. Was it truly possible? Could she really use her own blood?

She knew it must be. That’s why her grandmother had looked so scared. Even Banba wouldn’t dare dabble in the same magic that had twisted Oonagh’s soul. She had chosen to perish rather than attempt a forbidden craft.

“Stubborn old woman,” muttered Wren. “One time won’t hurt.” And it wasn’t as if Wren was planning to follow in Oonagh’s footsteps and sacrifice living things. She’d just use a bit of her own blood and see if it worked. There was no harm in that, surely. It already belonged to her.

Outside, the blizzard raged on. The window rattled in its frame, cowering against the angry whorls of snow. It felt as if the mountains themselves were trembling in fear. Wren was trembling, too. She made a fist of her mangled hand and raised it above the mouse, watchingthe blood drip through her fingers. It landed on the snow-white fur, staining it red.

“From death to life, heed my request, and wake from your eternal rest.”

For a moment, the wind stopped keening, as though to listen in. Wren could feel the slow thud of her heartbeat in her chest, a strange calmness spreading through her until she felt deliciously drunk. She watched her blood fall, one drop and then another, but felt no pain. The mouse’s fur began to glow.

Wren’s throat tightened. “Wakey, wakey, little one.”

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs began to burn. Outside, the wind kicked up again, thrashing restlessly against the window. The mountains groaned, like they were in pain, and the last embers of firelight flickered in the grate. As darkness crawled over the room like a shroud, something impossible happened—the moment so small and fleeting, Wren almost missed it.

The mouse’s tail twitched. Once. And then again. The blood on its fur disappeared, revealing its white undercoat. A heartbeat passed, and then it opened its beady eyes.

Wren stared into them. “Get up,” she whispered.

The mouse rolled to its feet, zigzagging across the dresser as though it had drunk too much frostfizz. Carefully, Wren lowered it down onto the floor and watched it stagger across the rug. She tiptoed after it, ignoring the blood still dripping from her hand. Her magic fizzed inside her, pulsing like a second heartbeat. It was awake. It wastriumphant.

Wren was triumphant.

Until, suddenly, she wasn’t. The mouse collapsed in the middle of the rug, twitched once, and was dead all over again. Wren sank to her knees as the flood of her magic rushed out of her. It left a strangehollow behind, as though some innate part of Wren—her heart, her lungs—had gone with it. Her stomach roiled and she lunged for the grate, vomiting her dinner back up. She retched and retched, waiting for the discomfort to ease. When it finally did, she looked down to find that instead of food, the grate was full of ash.

Beware the curse of Oonagh Starcrest, the lost witch queen, whispered the wind.The curse lives in new bones... new blood.

Wren examined her hand in the darkness. The wound was clotting over, and her palm was starting to sting. The hollow feeling was still there, but it was more manageable now, like the soreness that comes with a bruise. Was this the curse taking root inside her? Or was it simply the queasiness that came from using forbidden magic? From seeing it workbefore your own eyes?

Yes,thought Wren, trying to convince herself.That must be what it is.

Seized by a new wave of determination, she stood up and returned to the other mice, still laid out on her dresser.

She had done it once. All she had to do was do it again, but better. Practice makes perfect, after all. She didn’t give herself time to second-guess her decision as she dragged her fingernail across her wound, drawing fresh blood. When she spoke again, her voice was clear and strong. The enchantment filled the room like a fierce wind, rivaling the blizzard raging through the mountains.

The next mouse woke up with a determined squeak.

Wren’s lips curled. “Welcome back to the world of the living, little one.”

26

Rose

Rose slept in her silver-fur stole with the mirror clutched in her fist just in case Wren tried to contact her again. But the sapphires never glowed. She tossed and turned all night, plagued by nightmares of those disgusting dead mice floating in rivers of Wren’s blood. Surely, her sister wouldn’t do what Alarik was asking.

She wouldn’t.

Shecouldn’t.

Wren had to know how risky it would be. After all, Oonagh had lost everything when she had dabbled in that kind of magic. And she had cursed all the witches, too, fracturing their power into five separate strands.

By the time the sun peered over the horizon, flooding her chamber with golden light, Rose had convinced herself that Wren would do the right thing. She’d figure out another way to save Banba and come home. The fact that she was not only alive but staying in such luxurious quarters spoke to her sister’s innate ability to charm her way into getting what she needed, even without her magic. And now that she had earth from Amarach to help her, she would be fine. All would be well.

But, all the same, Rose decided to keep the mirror close.