Page 7 of The Curse of Indy Moore
A chill crawled up my spine. The dining room darkened. A mirror appeared, the girl within unrecognizable, my warm white cheeks plump and flushed, lips a bloody red, and curves caught in the dress I once grasped. The image was identical, yet uncanny, beautiful as a princess, brown hair curled and a tiara caught on my temple, glimmering brightly. Strangers danced in the background, their faces obscured by white masks painted with inhuman smiles. Luxury adorned them, their necks heavy with gems, fingers caught by rings, and pearls tangled in their hair.
“What is this?” I whispered, feeling a breath on my back, withered fingers on my shoulders, and in the mirror, a pair of gleaming yellow eyes watched. “Demon.”
“Demon?” Carline laughed. The vision faded, replaced by reality, where we stood in the dim light of the cottage. She didn’t hide her smile, revealing canines so sharp they dared to pierce her lips. “Is that any way to speak to your host?”
“My host, or my captor?” I countered, my voice little more than a whisper.
The thickening mist, the abrupt blizzard, getting lost, those wolves, and… the door, it was unlocked. I should have suspected something nefarious. The wolves never caught me when they could have, especially after my tumble. I shouldn’t have made it to the porch. The wolves let me. They taunted me, howling around the cottage as one, knowing their master had her prey.
“Captor is a cruel world,” she said. “I much prefer host, and have I not been gracious? I kept you from the wolves, fed you, and offered you clothes.”
“But you are the one who brought me here, aren’t you? Why? Why me?”
“Why not?”
I held my breath when she moved, gliding around the table to take a seat. She had no care, no worry that I may run or grab the scissors. Neither would mean much in the face of her power. To guide me there, to make that vision, she was magic itself, and I knew little of magic, other than it could be as deadly as it was useful.
Unlike artificers, who used scepters to write enchantments of magic, a demon didn’t. Demons had command over magic in ways we couldn’t fathom, conjuring storms from their laughter or raising the dead with a scream. They were what our parents warned us about at night as they tucked the blankets beneath our chin, spinning fearsome tales of creatures in this world capable of the unpredictable. Each story was more than a rhyme. They were lessons and re-imaginings of the truth that we had to take to heart, otherwise we would risk the same fate.
“Sit. Finish your meal, dear,” Carline said with a gleam in her golden eyes.
“I’m not hungry.” The dress I wore in the mirage returned to my hands. I clung to it so fiercely, the grip threatened to rip the fabric.
I had to escape. The cottage had windows, multiple exits, one in the dining room, but she was closer, and the wolves circled. They moved through the thinning mist and snow, matted dark fur and gleaming eyes, watching, waiting for me to risk the woods.
“What a liar you are, to yourself most of all,” she said, her smile wicked as the devil she was.
On nights when I begged to play outside a moment longer, Uncle Fern wove stories of demons dwelling in the dark. They toyed with their prey, uninterested in slaughter, for they craved more, a soul or a promise that took more than you bargained for. If those stories held any truth, I shouldn’t die for being defiant. Carline’s nature gave me time to consider my options.
“If it is my soul you are after, you cannot have it,” I declared, wishing my voice wouldn’t shake.
“What if I do not ask for your soul now?”
“I don’t care what you want or when.” I retreated to a better vantage point, closer to the door so the dining and living room were visible.
“Let me go,” I demanded, surveying the living room that had a potential answer to my dilemma, albeit a foolish one.
I shoved Dolly under my arm. She was too big to fit in my cloak pocket. Susannah would be distraught if I lost her.
“But I can give you what you want, Lucinda Moore.” Carline stalked closer, her hands outstretched.
I froze at my real name, Lucinda after the aunt on my father’s side who passed before I could walk. As a child, the name felt like a curse. I wondered if I’d die young too, so I insisted upon nicknames.Indy sounds sweet, don’t you think?My father suggested. The nickname was all he left me with.
“How do you know that name?”
Carline snickered. “I know everything about you, Indy. I know your Aunt Agnes and the girls and, oh my, that charming lad Baxter. Those blue eyes of his are simply delightful. I could eat him right up, and because I know all that, I know what you want.”
The tales Uncle Fern wove were not as fearsome as the truth looming closer.
“What do I want?” I clutched the dress. The skirt was long and wide, thick and sturdy. It might work.
“Exactly what you say you don’t. Exactly what you think you don’t.” Carline held out her hands, and the dresses fluttered in a summoned breeze.
I laughed, trying to keep her following me further into the living room. “You are a poor excuse of a demon if you believe I want dresses and jewels.”
“You feign not to want them, but you do. We all do. We are made to consume.” The firelight cut harshly across her russet brown skin, making her fangs and eyes a startling hue. “Food. Drink. Clothes. Jewels. Family. Love. Time. We are the thirsty lost in a desert, always seeking more, more, more. We take it all, whatever we can get our greedy hands on. You simply do not want to admit it.”
“Because it isn’t true,” I argued, cheeks and neck flushed from more than fear, a sense of shame that bubbled from somewhere deep. “I don’t need anything.”
