The magic is more powerful here in Kefu. It redoubles its effort, tugging harder. The echo of my heartbeat drums in my ears as I fight to keep from slipping away. It’s trying to stop me from . . . from doing something. The way it brushes my lips reminds me of the almost kiss in the garden with Rudjek.
Twenty-gods. I wish he were here. He’d at least have something foolish to say to ease my worry. He’d crack a silly joke or proclaim his prowess in the arena. I miss him so much that it hurts. I miss his midnight eyes and the way they sparkle when he looks at me. The prick of fine hair on his skin—skin that I could traverse to no end—and his sweet scent of lilac and wood smoke. I inhale and can almost smell him, the way I did the night of the almost kiss.
Without warning, the magic falls silent and I snap out of the memory. A fog lifts from my mind. Is it that simple, then? If I focus on something else hard enough, it keeps the demon magic in check? With Rudjek in my thoughts, I return to reading the scroll, determined to learn the ritual to break my curse by heart.
I should write to him, but I can’t bring myself to do it after Arti’s declaration that he will die in the Dark Forest. What if I think I’m writing one thing and the demon magic writes another? It could make me tell Rudjek to go there. I can’t risk it.
I study the scroll late into the night. Although it’s written in Aatiri, there are elements of the ritual that remind me of the other tribes. If the last ritual was any sign, I’ll need a few days to recover once it’s over, but it’s worth the price. The incantation promises to rid my body of the demon magic and rebound any attempt to curse me again.
Tomorrow I will trade my years again and break my mother’s curse.
Tomorrow I’ll be closer to death.
The core of the ritual involves Arti’s hair and an object she cherishes. The next morning while she’s taking a bath and my father is downstairs, I sneak into their room. I expect to crawl the floor looking for stray hairs, only to find her brush ripe. She’s either grown careless, or too cocky. Witchdoctors burn their hair so no one can use it in magic against them. I find the ring that once marked her Ka-Priestess of the Kingdom sitting at the bottom of a chest of trinkets. She’s taken care to wrap it in the finest scarlet silk, so it must still mean something to her.
Since we set foot in Kefu, the curse has been much less constraining. The farther along Arti gets in her pregnancy, the more freedom I’ve had, but I’m sure it won’t last much longer. I pack her artifacts in a burlap sack with the other items needed for the ritual. I bury the ancestor bones for the second ritual in the gardens. Before I can slip into the desert, Terra catches me near the empty porter’s station.
“Are you running away?” Terra stares at my sack, her eyes round with surprise. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. But Koré gave me a simple task: delay my mother until the edam can act. If I can’t stop her, this is the least I can do.
“No.” I glance over my shoulder at the villa. “I have this . . . thing I must do. I’ll be back.”
Terra kneads her fingers together against her thighs. “What if someone asks about you?”
“Tell the truth.” I clutch the bag tight to my side. “You saw me leave, nothing more.”
“Be careful.” She rubs her fingers across her Kiva pendant. “And you better come back.”
I flash her a smile. “I will.”
As soon as I’m out of sight of the villa, a nighthawk appears in the sky. Its expansive black wings cast shadows upon the sand, and I freeze in place. When something to the south catches its attention, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I walk until the weight of the sack becomes too much to carry and settle in the middle of the desert. The eye of Re’Mec is so bright that it almost washes out my vision. I draw a circle of animal bones and sit cross-legged in the middle of it. I hold the straw doll I made last night after reading the scroll. She’s as crooked and broken inside as me. Using a chicken feather, I write script on the doll in my blood, naming my mother and myself. The endless night served as the perfect cover to gather the things I needed for the ritual.
Once the blood dries, I wrap the doll in linen and put her aside. My hands are steady as the pestle grinds against the herbs, reminding me of the lazy days helping in my father’s shop. The way he told stories as we worked, eating so many milk candies our bellies ached.
The cries of the nighthawk rise from a distance as the sun’s path across the sky leaves a trail of heat haze. I wipe my forehead, the small cut on my palm stinging from the sweat. Thankfully, this blood medicine doesn’t need to rest. I drink my fill, and it burns my throat. It tastes of ginger, mint, castor, and sulfur, and boils in my belly.
I dip my fingers in the rest and flick it on the bones in front of me. Another sip, then I flick some on the bones to my left. The sun beats down my back and blisters my skin. It matches the heat pulsing in my veins. I perform the sequence twice more: once for the bones at my back and once for the bones to my right. My body throbs like a toothache and my sight blurs.
My pulse vibrates in my ears as the nighthawk’s shrieks grow closer. I place the doll in the empty bowl, the remnants of the medicine soiling her tan shift. Inhaling a shaky breath, I douse her in palm oil. She ignites without kindle, and the flames burn bright green when I add my mother’s ring and hair.
“Charlatan,” a gruff voice taunts. “Don’t dabble in things you don’t understand.”
I startle and look around, but there’s no one here. At first I think the voice is inside me, but it travels on the stiff wind in the desert. It must be one of the demons trapped in Kefu, still strong enough to communicate without a body. That’s how the Demon King was able to reach my mother.
I ignore it and concentrate on the bowl, letting the flames lull me. A low humming drones in my ears like bees. Sweat drenches my body and the hum vibrates in my throat, growing louder.
“She’s got a nasty curse on her,” a second voice says. This one sounds old and shrill.
“She smells like death,” muses the gruff voice.
“Go away, demons,” I snap.
The one with the old voice taunts, “Let us split her open and see if she’s stuffed with straw too.”
They want me to fail. I can smell their bitter intentions. If they could stop me, they would’ve already. I won’t waste time on them.
“I give my life to break the curse and free my ka,” I recite.
“Are you sure you want to be doing that?” the old one asks. “That’s bad business.”
“I have a better deal for you,” the gruff voice lowers into a menacing tone. “Better than giving away your years.”
I should pay them no mind, but if there’s another way . . . “I’m listening.”
“This place is very old,” the gruff voice replies. “It needs fresh blood.”
“People don’t trade their souls like they used to,” adds the voice of the old one. “But you can convince them with your pretty little face.”
I spit, disgusted. “You want me to get people to trade their souls for trinkets?” I could never be a part of something so vile. I already have enough to atone for.
“I give my life to break the curse and—”