“Girl—”
“Risa,” she snapped.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Unless we get murdered before we start. Which, I remind you, is very likely considering I’mcursed.”
“Psh.” Brunhilda swatted at something Risa couldn’t see. “Curses, shmurses. Think of this as an adventure of self-discovery.”
“I’d rather not.” Risa shook her head. “I hate adventure. And I have personally never self-discovered anything.”
“You will figure it out with the prince.” Brunhilda thumped a tree with her misshapen walking stick. “You’ll realize your true gift is self-love—or something equally ridiculous—and save the day. Or die. Whichever comes first, I suppose.”
“Seriously? I didn’t pack my bag, leave home, and resign myself to being a giant’s favorite meal”—Brunhilda’s scowl at the misinformation of giants’ eating habits was scathing, yet Risa persisted—“just to act as a reluctant prince-sitter.”
The wizened woman looked moments away from turning her into a newt, or a sacrificial lamb, or whatever creature it was witches turned unwilling humans into. “Your one and only job is to get him to say yes at the altar.”
“How am I to convince a chronic and problematic flirt to commit?”
Brunhilda shrugged, tapping another tree with her walking stick. “I don’t care how you do it. Be his friend, threaten him with your incessant talking, tell him a story every night that you never quite finish and leave him wanting more.”
“What if I don’t?” Risa smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her blouse and fluttered her lashes. “What if I just abandon him?”
Brunhilda’s cane paused mid-thump. Onyx eyes flashed.
“You’d regret it,” the witch warned.
“What are you going to do, curse me?” Risa rolled her eyes. “Been there, done that.”
Silence fell. The temperature plummeted. The forest suddenly grew dim. Whatever light remained seemed to concentrate onto the witch, who glowed with unfettered power. Brunhilda stared at her with unfocused eyes the color of the darkest night.
Thiswas a witch. Every haunting story, every warning, had been about whatever was happening in this moment.
“If you wish to be cursed so badly, I’ll do the honors.” Brunhilda pointed her walking stick and proclaimed with a booming voice: “I curse you to remain with the prince until he is married. You will be unable to leave his side until he says ‘I do’ at the altar, or your heart will stop.”
Painful heat seared Risa’s skin, a thousand red-hot needles poking at her spine. Brunhilda’s spell raced down her back and flooded every part of her until she was bent beneath the will of the witch’s magic.
Then it was over. The Bosque tittered with life again. Light streamed through the gaps between the leaves, painting the woods in swaths of gold. The summer heat simmered in the air once more.
“How’s that for bad luck?” Brunhilda cackled, sounding very pleased with herself.
Risa was still reeling from the force of the spell, unable to make head or tail of what had happened, body flushed and overheated with power, when a voice cut through the trees.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Javier of Kheadon, and his royal guard!”
Oh no.
Brunhilda’s delight at cursing Risa was replaced with an impressive glower pointed in the direction of this new voice.
A middle-aged man in a brown uniform appeared out of the trees, the silver medals pinned below his heart glinting like starlight. A small group of uniformed guards followed, shifting eyes on high alert. They wore matching suits; the strips of chain mail that draped over their shoulders rattled with their movements. The royal insignia of the Kheadish monarchy, a lion stitched over a sun, glittered in gold thread on their chests.
Risa had been keeping her panic at bay on their walk through the Bosque, but now she felt it surge. She couldn’t do what Brunhilda wanted, no matter what curse hung over her head. This general, with his cold, calculating, colorless gaze and thin lips pulled into a sneer, was someone she shouldn’t cross. He would be able to see the bad luck that clung to her before Brunhilda even had the chance to be rid of her.
The man stood several inches shorter than Risa. Thinning stark white hair lay flat against his skull with thick pomade that shone in the scant light of the Bosque. His small stature did not prevent him from posturing, his heels firmly planted and arms ramrod straight at his sides. He puffed out his chest each time he spoke.
“Witch,” he called in greeting, loud, pompous, and dripping with condescension. “You took too long.”
Brunhilda cackled and waved his words away with her walking stick. “I got here precisely when I meant to. I am a witch, General Van Houten, and you would do well to remember that.”
