At lastIcan stop talking.Themoment the last word leaves my mouth, the magical pressure vanishes.Istagger slightly, sucking in a breath as thoughI’vebeen held underwater.
Grizalyn is staring at me and the look on her face is one of pure fury.Herlips pull back from her teeth, her expression twisting into something ugly and sharp.
“How,” she hisses softly, almost to herself, “Canthe spell ever become permanent if he refuses to pluck the innocent flower?”
“What?”Theword slips out beforeIcan stop it, but it doesn’t matter–she ignores me completely.
Then her gaze snaps back to me–colder now, and calculating.
“And what,” she says slowly, “were you doing with theForbiddenGrimoire?”
I shake my head instinctively, panic rising again.
“I wasn’t—Ididn’t?—”
She lifts her hand once more.
I don’t even hear the full words this time—Ijust feel the magic slam into me like a physical blow.
My body goes rigid as once againIam compelled to speak.
“I was looking for a spell,”Ihear myself say, the truth dragged out of me once more.“Atime weaving spell.Togo back.Tostop myself from ever going to your house.Tostop the curse before it began.”
Silence falls…then the witch smiles.
It is not a pleasant sight.
“So you want to work aTimeWeaving,” she murmurs, almost appreciatively.
“That’s very ambitious, little priestess.”
Her eyes glitter as she studies me, andIhave the horrible feeling she’s seeing far more thanIwant her to.
“That is the most advanced spell in theGrimoire,” she goes on.“Theonly one more difficult is the spell to undoDeath’sKissitself.Andyou thinkyoucan work it?”
“I…Idon’t know,”Iwhisper.“Itwas allIcould think of to try.”
She laughs–the sound is sharp and cruel as breaking glass and echoes faintly off the high marble walls of the library.
“Oh,Ithink youshouldtry, little priestess,” she says.“Infact…Ithink it could work out very well for me.”
My stomach drops.Whatdoes she mean by that?
But beforeIcan say a word, she points at me again.
This time, the magic that gathers in the air around her feels heavier–thicker.Itcoils through the air like something alive, brushing against my skin with a sickening, feverish heat.
Then she speaks andIknow at onceI’mbeing cursed.
“Let hunger bloom and burn anew,
No rest, no peace shall come to you.
Let longing rise, unquenched, unstill,
Till heart shall bend to body’s will.
Crave his seed with aching need,
