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She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “It’s a grace-stealing curse. She took your vampire nature, including your coordination, balance, and predatory elegance, and locked it away. Every stumble, every fall, every humiliation is a reminder of what you lost.”

“Can it be broken?”

“Technically, yes.” She bit her lip. “But not simply.”

“That sounded suspiciously like witch language for absolutely not.”

“It means the curse has two parts.” She slid off the windowsill and crossed to one of the locked cabinets. A touch of her finger made the brass latch glow, then click open. “The spell is wrapped around your vampire nature, but the power feeding it is anchored to the coven and, through the coven, to my mother.”

“So she has to lift it.”

“That is the cleanest way.” Carolina removed a narrow book bound in cracked green leather. The title had faded into illegibility, which felt appropriately encouraging. “An anchored curse can also be challenged by older magic. A true mate bond. A freely chosen sacrifice. Love, if it is mutual and strong enough.”

“True love’s kiss?”

She gave me a look. “That phrase was invented by poets who needed to sell stories to virgins.”

“So no singing furniture?”

“The furniture in my mother’s house reports directly to her. I wouldn’t trust it.”

Despite everything, I laughed. Carolina’s mouth curved, but her attention stayed on the book.

“A kiss might expose the curse,” she continued. “A completed mating could wound it badly enough to return what was stolen. But as long as the anchor remains, my mother can force power back into the spell. She could repair it. Reinforce it. Maybe make it worse.”

The brief optimism inside me developed trust issues. “And severing the anchor?”

“The caster releases it willingly, the coven strips her authority, or the source of the spell dies.” Carolina shut the book harder than necessary. Dust leaped from the cover. “I am not murdering my mother.”

“Good. I’m terrible with bodies. I’d trip while carrying one and create an extremely awkward police report.”

“Logan.”

“Joking is how I keep the screaming on the inside.”

Her expression softened. “I know.”

She returned to the windowsill, sat beside me, and took my hand. The instant our fingers touched, gold light threaded beneath my skin and curled around her wrist. The old book shuddered in her other hand, its pages riffling though the air was still.

Carolina stared at the light. “The bond recognizes the curse.”

“Does it recognize a solution?”

“Not yet.” Her thumb moved over my knuckles. “But it hates what she did to you.”

“Finally. Something magical with excellent judgment.”

I looked at our joined hands. “So the bond can fight it, but it can’t finish the job.”

“The bond alone isn’t enough,” she said. “The bond is fate. Love is choice. Old magic cares about the difference.”

“You’re telling me I need to fall in love to break this?”

“I’m telling you it’s theoretically possible.” She looked away, her cheeks flushing pink. “But Logan, even if we wanted to try... my mother would never allow it. She’d kill you first. Or worse, she’d curse you so completely you’d wish you were dead.”

“Then we don’t tell her.”

“We can’t hide forever.” Carolina turned back to me, her eyes serious. “She felt something outside the bar. I saw it scare her. But sensing a flare isn’t the same as knowing I accepted the bond or that you feel it too. Once she confirms that, suspicion becomes war.”