And they were still out there today, searching for every last Graykey.
I completely applauded the idea of ending the curse and eradicating even the idea of having another reaping. I had nightmares about getting caught in another family kill reunion.
But flat-out liquidating all of us indiscriminately seemed like a bit much. I had personally ensured myself safe from the dark side of the curse by casting off my magic years ago and giving it away to another. I still missed my powers of persuasion sometimes, but whatever. It had been worth it.
I might’ve been immune in the tenth reaping when I’d been young, but I think that had changed as I’d grown and started to mature. I could feel myself craving more, wanting to hunt down my own family and take from them. If I hadn’t shed my magic when I had, I probably would’ve been the very Graykey who had started the eleventh reaping. But I had shed my powers just in time, so it’d been my father’s cousin Percy who’d started the eleventh.
I hadn’t stopped my safety measures there, either. After giving away my magic, I’d gone a step further. I’d found a mage who could seal my womb closed, preventing me from having children and passing my curse on to another generation. There was no way I could fall victim to the bloodlust now or even be a carrier of it.
But did anyone care about that?
No.
They still sought me too. I’d evaded half a dozen High Cliff henchmen in the past six years. And all of them would’ve captured me or slaughtered me on sight, not even pausing to ask if I’d taken care of the risks from the curse by myself or even if I was willing to do so to avoid getting sucked into the bloodlust.
And so, I lived in hiding, always on the move, never staying in one place too long, and making sure I got close to no one. I had Melaina who assisted me, by keeping my face changed so no one ever really knew what I looked like, and that was it. But that was fine. We had to travel a lot in search of the amulets; there wouldn’t have been time for other friendships, anyway.
The creeping, crawling sensation finally abated, and I opened my eyes—not sure when I’d squeezed them closed, to begin with—and I glanced down to see what Melaina had turned me into with her magical abilities this time.
I saw my hands first—aged and wrinkled with liver spots. Scraggly blue veins crept up my arms over medium-toned skin, and grayed hairs covered my forearms.
When I checked my waistline, the pudgy, soft middle looked so believable I could almost feel the added weight bearing down on my hips. With trousers and a stained tunic covering the form, plus no breasts, I could tell she’d turned me into a man again. She did that a lot. It amused her to make me male, I think. She must think I abhorred the idea of being a different gender, so I never let on that I secretly felt safer that way.
Fewer people paid attention to and bothered you when you weren’t a soft-skinned female with pale, flowing locks and big, soulful brown eyes. Being a comely maiden had never benefited me before, so it was a relief to escape that shell for a while and look like, well, basically like anything else.
Except I already knew Melaina had made me as unattractive as possible—her form of punishment, I guess. Spotting a puddle nearby, I caught a glimpse of my face and found that I now had a jutting masculine brow, thick bushy eyebrows, the biggest, most crooked nose I’d ever seen, and plenty of raised moles with sagging jowls.
Yep. I was hideous.
But hopefully not so repulsive that no one would buy bread at the market from me. We really did need to turn a bigger profit today. Constant traveling wasn’t cheap. And a night or two in an actual inn would be heavenly.
“Make sure to hobble like you have a bum leg or something,” Melaina instructed, looking as if she enjoyed my glamour far too much. “Or else no one will believe the disguise.”
“Limp?” I sent her a sharp frown. Limiting my ability to move freely was dangerous. If some threat showed up, I’d need to be able to run. And escape.
But my aunt obviously hadn’t considered that possibility, or maybe she just didn’t care. That sounded more likely.
“What?” She smirked cruelly. “Being elderly will help you garner sympathy and sales.”
“Sympathy is extinct.” No one cared about anyone else’s plight anymore. Not from what I’d seen anyway. Why did she think I had become so anti-social? So anti-people? Because they were all rotten, straight to the core; that’s why.
“Then scare them into buying from you. Tell them all the other bread vendors have bugs in their loaves. I don’t give a fuck. Just make us some damn money.”
I nodded and started to turn away, only to pause when I caught sight of the bell hanging from the outer wall of the building. “Don’t forget,” I reminded her. “It will ring three times if the jeweler’s open for business. Two means stay away because they’re probably being raided.”
Those were the types of details Melaina tended to forget.
“Got it; three times a charm.”
“Right. Good.” I reached for the handholds on the pushcart and began to wheel it toward the opening of the alley and in the direction of the Pinsky marketplace. “I’ll see you at our meeting place at two.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, but when I reached the exit to the alley, she called, “Oh, and, Quilla?”
When I glanced back, she flashed me a sudden grin and playfully waved me along. “Do your auntie proud.”
My lips twitched. No matter how much of a bitch she could be, there was a certain charm about her that not even I was immune to. I wouldn’t just be alone if she took the amulet and left me; I’d actually miss her.
I’d die before letting her know that, though.
And so I shuffled along without a rejoinder.
The market square wasn’t located clear on the other side of the village, but it was still a good distance away. I grumbled under my breath, cursing Melaina the whole way for putting me in a disguise that forced me to shamble and go slow.
The trolley I was pushing must’ve had something wrong with the axle because it wobbled and kept trying to go in the opposite direction than I was pushing it. The force of the breeze wasn’t helping anything either. Bowing my head against the wind, because one good, strong gust could wash away my glamour and reveal my true image, I plodded along, hoping the damn bazaar didn’t finish before I even made it to the village square.
All the good spots were taken by the time I arrived, so I was forced to squeeze the pushcart between a vendor selling onions—half of them overripe, by the scent of things—and a fishmonger who also didn’t have the freshest supply. Both were going to snuff out that inviting aroma of warm baked bread.
Grinding my teeth, I set up shop anyway, parking the trolley and glowering quite frequently at my neighbor merchant to the right who kept spraying fish guts whenever he chopped off the head of his catch of the day and then wrapped the body in parchment for customers. Turning to the side and using my body as a shield from the pungent shower, I unpacked my loaves and began to set them out for display.
I had two customers stop and buy a loaf before I was even finished setting up. That was good; the place was packed today, too. I might just sell my entire inventory before noon, despite my unlucky location and late arrival.
Since sound couldn’t be glamoured, it was difficult to deepen my voice whenever I was forced to speak to customers. So I kept my phrases short and clipped, and I didn’t mess around with small talk—not that I was a fan of small talk, anyway, but whatever.