Page 83 of The Guardian's Curse

Please don’t overwork yourself. I’ll read whatever you need this evening.

Yours-

A

“Mine,” she murmured. She smiled as she pictured him writing the word yours in that lovely, precise script. It had probably been a mere formality, but it felt weighty and significant to her.

Last night, she’d seriously contemplated what it would mean to be with Alistair. He’d let slip that hard mask when he had offered to care for her. It should have been thrilling; a wealthy vampire with a big library and a taste for witches was practically a dream come true. And though she’d rejected the offer instinctively, she was more frightened at how much she liked the idea.

She liked the idea of taking what Alistair offered, of spending her days working on advanced magic while he did whatever rich vampires did to entertain themselves. She liked the idea of greeting him with dinner, whether it was in a glass or from her throat. And she loved the idea of dancing with him in the moonlight, of being held tight and adored forever.

It was beautiful and terrifying, and she was afraid to take a step in either direction for fear of falling.

She tried to put it out of her head. At the moment, she had more pressing matters, like helping Lucia. Upon opening the first of the witch journals, she found that Alistair had marked dozens of pages, writing a short summary of what he found in each passage. Several referred to red stones or red flowers being used as a reagent to create passion or anger in a target. Several more spoke of threads, but that was like reading about cells in a biology book. Virtually everything tisserande did involved threads of magic.

In a book that looked like Russian, one particular note caught her attention.

I’m not certain of the translation here, but the phrase seems to refer to the wives’ thread. It talks about a binding that cannot be broken except through death.

The wives’ thread. And Ruby spoke of the red thread of fate connecting soulmates. Shoshanna had always thought of soulmates as fairy tale nonsense that sounded better on paper than in reality. But she couldn’t deny that there was something unique in Lucia’s aura, something that she now saw in Alistair. Those were facts, not folklore.

But if soulmates were real, wouldn’t there be more talk of it? She hesitated, then called Maya, one of her classmates from her last summer course. They’d shared a cottage and grown to be friendly, if not exactly friends. The older woman answered after two rings. “Hello?”

“Hi Maya, it’s Shoshanna York. From the summer intensive,” she said. “Sorry to bother you, but I had a craft question.”

“Oh, lovely,” she said in her sweet, smoky voice. There was a clatter in the background. “I was just helping my daughter bake cupcakes. Can I call you back?”

She bit her lip. “It’ll just take a moment, if you don’t mind. Have you ever come across anything about soulmates? Or a lovers’ thread?”

“Not exactly soulmates,” Maya said. “But I remember reading a book that talked about how powerful bonds can be between family and lovers. I wish I knew more. Maybe Vivienne would know.”

“I’ll try her,” Shoshanna lied. “Thank you.”

She rustled through the textbooks she’d brought, but they were mostly useless. As a tisserand, her focus was primarily on inanimate objects. She put spells on doorways and buildings, or on small objects that would be worn on one’s person. She didn’t toy with the threads of someone’s essence.

It took hours of skimming through the books, but she finally struck gold—or red, rather—in one of the French journals Paris had brought. She searched for the word rouge, finally finding what looked like a set of lecture notes, based on the date and neatly listed bullet points. Some of the grammar was unfamiliar, but she managed to get a rough idea of the translation.

Strong bonds appear within one’s aura as brighter and thicker threads. These threads can be manipulated by a skilled Night Weaver, empowering the work and anchoring powerful spells. Of note are bonds between a mother and daughter, a father and son, twin siblings, and lovers. Perhaps most significant, though rarely seen, is the red thread that binds lovers. If any of these soul threads are altered or broken, the energy released is incredibly potent and destructive.

Shoshanna sat back and took a deep breath. She even grabbed her phone to check the translation of âme. It immediately popped up: soul.

That only seemed to confirm what she’d learned. A “red thread that binds lovers” had to be the mark of a soulmate. Her best guess was that Armina had used the power of the soulmate bond to strengthen her curse.

So did this mean that she had to break the thread to break the curse? That seemed impossible, even if she would want to. Why would she want to break Lucia’s bond to her soulmate?

She flipped through the book, but the rest was filled with meticulously drawn diagrams and lists of reagents. Her stomach turned when she found that the last quarter of the journal was blank except for splatters of blood across one half-filled page. A chill prickled down her spine at the thought of Paris striking down its owner with a smile on his face.

With a sigh, she set the book aside to take a break. She took a walk around the house, took some aspirin for her headache, and refilled her coffee. When she returned, she turned her focus to grounding agents and building a better protective sigil. The backlash when she messed with Lucia had likely been because she was holding the thread, like slicing into a live wire with metal shears. Her grounding sigil had been a good start, but she needed something that would absorb as soon as she touched it, not only when she broke the curse.

For the next few hours, she skimmed her books and drew a new diagram. Still, as she went through the steps, she couldn’t shake the thought of that red thread. This was not just any spell. She had to understand what to do about that thread before she could break Lucia’s curse.

She was still working when she heard the soft shuffle of Alistair’s feet. She jumped up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t make your breakfast yet.”

He chuckled. “I cared for myself for many years before you arrived. While I appreciate the concern, I can manage.”

She bumped into the table and cursed. “I know, but considering I’m living rent free...”

“Your company is payment enough,” he said. He brought his other hand from behind the door frame to show the full glass of blood. “You’re not working too much, are you?” He tilted up her chin. “Come take a break.”

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