From Bad to Cursed Read online

  That is, if I even lived long enough to worry about such things.

  “Not today, bitch,” I muttered under my breath, mind whirling as I thought on my feet, every nerve ending alight and crackling like a fuse. “I am not the one for this.”

  I arranged my fingers into a different kind of conjuring, clouds of vaporous black seeping from my fingertips and gathering around my hands. You never really got used to the feel of ectoplasm, not even after years of handling it, the sticky cold of it clinging like a noxious second skin. But my magic itself felt wild and slick inside me, a quicksilver torrent racing up my spine and roiling in my head—the very best feeling in all the world.

  Then came a headlong rush of haunts, harkening to my call.

  The demon blinked in sudden confusion as the whole jostling host of shades that called The Bitters home began materializing around her one by one. Given that my ancestral demesne was over three centuries old, and impressively haunted at that, there were a lot of them. A mosh pit’s worth of hazy gray-scale forms, tattered and nearly translucent, trailing smudgy limbs and writhing hair as they pressed in against one another.

  At first, they emanated only bemused annoyance, having been rudely yanked away from whatever ghostly business they’d been minding before I called on them. Then they noticed Davara Circlebreaker, still poised at the edge of my circle, a tiny wrinkle of concern now marring her smooth brow.

  Their irritable rumbling abruptly changed pitch into a disgruntled hum—which escalated very, very quickly into the kind of bloodcurdling wail you could really only describe as eldritch.

  The thing about summoning circles is, they’re a one-way barrier, meant to keep things in rather than out—and the thing about ghosts of the restless dead is, they’re territorial by nature, hostile to interlopers in their domain. I’d guessed that a trespasser like Davara, one that belonged in this realm even less than they did, would read as the ultimate provocation. And despite the huge power differential between a first-tier demon and a bunch of unruly revenants, I was banking on strength in numbers, the way a furious swarm of ants can bring down an elephant.

  As the throng of shades bum-rushed Davara, a roar of pain and rage thundering from the center of the circle once they’d closed in on her, I could see that I’d been right on both counts.

  Then the shriek cut off abruptly in a massive flare of scarlet light as the demon finally called it quits on this entire earthside outing. Apparently the prospect of munching on a witch’s soul and wreaking some small-town havoc wasn’t worth the trouble of getting nipped to (un)death by a rabid spectral horde.

  “Woooooo!” I cheered, yanking down a victorious fist as the light faded away, bright afterbursts still popping in my field of vision. “And that is how it’s done, motherfuckers!”

  The ghostly mob slowed in their maddened whirling, settling back to hover just above the dusty stones. Then they turned to fix the glowing craters of their eyes on me—a.k.a., the presumptuous scally who’d dragged them here against their will.

  “Oh, fuck me,” I groaned, the garnet at my throat throbbing as I flexed my fingers. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  2

  Not Enough Heart

  I’m not gonna say I agree with Aunt Elena, because that would be treacherous,” Letha said, sidestepping the hairy animatronic tarantula that leapt out at her, hissing, from inside the dark passageway leading out of the teenage witch’s lair. “But let’s say, just as a hypothetical, if you turned my house into a poltergeist nest for shits and giggles? I, too, might be a little spicy with you for a while.”

  My cousin was referring to the lingering psychic fallout from my improvised banishment. It had taken me all night to subdue my ghost militia, and even then the fix was only temporary. More than two weeks later, we still had knives embedding themselves in the ceiling, shadowy figures hovering over us while we slept, doors slamming open and closed in a syncopated rhythm designed to drive us all mad. Not to mention the way the mirrors distorted your reflection into a Munchian horror show when you were just trying to put on some fucking mascara. The kind of trippy shit that really got under your skin.

  It had also scared my three cats half to death, not to mention the zebra finches, which was the part I felt the guiltiest about. Maybe it was my imagination, but even Elphaba the hedgehog struck me as a little nervy, not quite her easygoing, mellow self.

  Suffice it to say, things between me and Elena had been . . . strained, ever since.

  “Just because you’re turning it into a hypothetical doesn’t make it any less treacherous,” I informed my cousin, summoning a witchlight to hover above my palm so we didn’t have to fumble through the dark. We kept the entire haunted house space—a retrofitted warehouse adjoining the Arcane Emporium, our family’s occult megastore—glamoured with a fortification of the oblivion charm that cloaked all of Thistle Grove. Any normie visitor or member of the cast who happened to catch my spell would forget it within minutes. “Also, it wasn’t for shits and giggles. I had to get rid of the demon somehow, didn’t I? Even Elena’s not such an agent of chaos that she’d be down with me unleashing an ancient big bad unto the mortal plane.”

  “A big bad you summoned in the first place, Issa,” Letha pointed out with irritating logic. “For the aforementioned shits and giggles.”

  “Okay, fair. And I do wish Davara would’ve talked to me just a little before trying to bust out of the circle,” I added, pouting. “I had so many pressing questions. Like, do first-tier demons naturally have such popping skin, or does she moisturize with, the tears of the damned or something? Do they all smell weirdly amazing, or was that just her? The kind of stuff that isn’t in the books.”

  Letha shot me an aggrieved look. “Yeah, about all that . . . how come you didn’t invite me to spot you? Davara Circlebreaker sounds like a snack. And maybe I could have helped, before things got that far out of hand.”

  I squeezed Letha’s shoulder apologetically as we stepped into the next scene—then yanked her out of the way as a tear-streaked prom queen in ruffled fuchsia taffeta nearly barreled into us, fleeing a chainsaw-wielding prom king with disheveled feathered hair. A cluster of real visitors, cowering by a table scattered with severed hands, corsages, and a cut-glass bowl of bubbling “poisoned” punch, shrieked with terror before dissolving into panicky giggles.

  As the prom king sprinted past us, muttering to himself, I appraised his shredded powder-blue tux and bloodstained Converse with a critical eye. Stylishly fiendish, sure, but also just kind of dull in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  “Trust me, she was on the too-evil side of evilly hot,” I assured Letha. “Even by your standards.”

  “Well, she might’ve been an edge case. And now we won’t ever know, will we.” Letha fixed me with a baleful side-eye, which, given how big and hooded her dark eyes were, was extremely baleful. “Seeing as I wasn’t invited.”

  “I’m sorry, angel. It’d been a minute since I summoned, and . . . I don’t know. I wanted to do it solo, blow off some steam. Try to get my groove back.”

  Letha gave a grudging nod, her cool expression thawing just a touch. She knew I’d been in an indeterminate funk lately, though she hadn’t pushed me on it yet. My best friend and second cousin wasn’t the cuddliest of creatures, but she was rock solid, the kind of unflaggingly loyal boulder of a person you always wanted at your back. You’d be wise to avoid finding yourself downhill of Letha, because in true Sisyphean fashion, she might roll right back down and crush you. But you could lean on her anytime you needed, rest against her with all your weight, and know she’d never budge an inch.

  “Okay, so you get a pass this once,” she allowed. “But if I miss another demonic calamity, harsh words will be spoken. Of that you may be sure.”

  “Understood. So, what do you think?” I asked her, surveying the murderous prom unfolding around us. Torn banners fluttered from the exposed pipes far above, ironically wishing the class of ’83 a happy life. While the prom king chased the queen around, oblivious couples covered in varying degrees of gore swayed lazily to the discordant strains of a slow, macabre cover of “Sweet Caroline.” Letha’s set design was impeccable as always, detail oriented and maximally creepy; my assistant director had a real eye for elevating horror ephemera into an art form. “Is it still working, six months in?”

  As artistic director of the Emporium’s haunted house, I was responsible for everything from designing costumes to hiring the cast members, and this story line was my brainchild. The basic premise was that a teenage witch who was just coming into her power had been spurned by the prom king / quarterback / all-purpose popular dickbag. Fueled by rage, she’d cast a bloodlust spell on the whole town that had belittled her, turning everyone into murderous fiends. Kind of The Craft meets Carrie, with a twist—and way less menstrual blood, because, ugh, no thanks.

  Besides the prom, other set pieces included the teen witch’s bedroom (complete with a bloody pentagram, black candles, and a human sacrifice—all the tacky accoutrements a real witch would never stoop to using), a classroom in which a homicidal chemistry teacher terrorized his students, a day care full of evil munchkins running amok, and a cheer practice gone heinously wrong.

  “I think this one was a win,” Letha replied, with a nod that rippled the slick veil of her pink-and-purple-dipped black hair. Courtesy of her Japanese mom, Letha had the kind of shining, slippery tresses I’d spent my teens chasing with too many products and an elaborate straightening regimen before giving up the dream in my twenties. “Thematically consistent, but with enough variety to keep them on their toes. A lively palette, compelling audio, wet work decent but not overdone. A vast improvement over t
he circus of the damned, no question.”

  I frowned, chewing on a knuckle. “You don’t think it all feels just a bit . . . uninspired?”

  “Uninspired?” She glanced over at a tableau unfolding by the punch table, the teen witch cackling above a cheerleader caught in the thrashing death throes of the poison punch. “I mean, it’s a little slapstick, sure, but that’s part of the fun. Looks like the tourists are eating it up.”

  “I suppose.” I nibbled on the inside of my cheek, trying to deduce what integral piece it was that I felt might be missing. “The narrative feels a little lackluster to me, that’s all. Like there’s not enough heart.”

  Letha tilted her head, flicking me a bemused look. “Unless you mean that literally—which, yes, no bloody ventricles currently featured in the program—I’m really not following, Iss. This is one of our most elaborate takes yet. And the reviews bear it out, too. Whatever we do next, we’d be smart to keep it along similar lines.”

  She was right; we’d noticed a significant uptick in ticket sales over the past six months, much more revenue pouring in from the haunted house than we’d seen in years. Part of it was the fact that, since Emmy Harlow had won the Victor’s Wreath during the Gauntlet of the Grove last Samhain, the town’s magic was no longer exclusively favoring the Blackmoores—Thistle Grove’s wealthiest and most powerful magical family, and our primary competitors for immersive entertainment. As a result, the rest of us were finally getting our fair slice of the tourist pie again. And now that we were well into spring, we were considering a redesign for the upcoming Flower Moon Festival, a town celebration organized around Beltane, the pagan holiday that usually brought the most tourists we saw outside of Halloween.

  I should have been stoked to launch into a revamp; there’d been a time when I loved nothing more than bringing a new horror story to life, especially the costumes for the cast. I used to lose myself for weeks in the design, even dreaming in fashion sketches, their flowing lines and throbs of color weaving through my delta waves as they stitched themselves into full-blown garments while I slept.

  Managing the haunted house might have been my day job, but for a long time, designing those costumes had also been my joy.

  Maybe the real problem wasn’t that Fiendish Eighties Murder Prom didn’t have enough heart; maybe the trouble was that my heart wasn’t in it anymore. A thing I felt guilty enough about that I hadn’t even mustered up the courage to share it with Letha, who knew everything else worth knowing about my life, and had since we’d been creepy toddlers together.

  “I guess I’ll have to talk it through with Elena,” I said, suppressing a reflexive wince. I had a debrief and planning session scheduled with her at the Emporium right after the walk-through. To say I wasn’t looking forward to a dialogue with my mother, especially in her role as Avramov matriarch, barely brushed the surface of understatement. “It’s her call in the end, anyway. Maybe she’ll want to keep a successful show in place for another season, make it easy on us.”

  Letha stopped dead, so abruptly that one of the ghastly dancing couples collided with her. She shot them a glare so concentrated and intimidating that they hastily sidled away, discarding any budding plans of drawing her into the scene. Maybe they recognized her as one of their bosses, or maybe it was just the intense Capricorn energy Letha exuded. Despite her filigreed features and general pastel-goth aesthetic, Letha had that effect on people, like one of those gorgeous tropical frogs that actually signal their danger with pretty colors.

  “What is with you, Iss?” she demanded, turning back to me. “I know you’ve been going through . . . something for a while now. I also know you haven’t wanted to talk about it, and I’ve been respectful of your space, like the exceptional human being I think we can agree I am. But we’re just about reaching the outer limits of my patience here.”

  “Letha, come on. It’s not that serious.”

  “Isn’t it? Because you’ve been shambling around like some subpar clone of your former self for months now. I mean, seriously, you’re suddenly not feeling Fiendish Eighties Murder Prom? You don’t want to brainstorm shiny new ways to terrorize the tourists?”

  “Could it be that I’m just tired?” I ventured weakly. “Possibly coming down with something?”

  Her dark eyes narrowed beneath the swooping wings of metallic eyeshadow. “Isidora Avramov, I’m starting to think you’ve been body-snatched. Are we talking an astonishingly lame demonic passenger here? Because I will admit that a prophylactic banishment has crossed my mind.”

  I chuckled despite myself at the idea of Letha attempting to spring a stealth exorcism on me, like the world’s shittiest surprise party.

  “I’m still me, I swear on my witch’s soul,” I assured her, looping my arm through hers and tugging her toward the exit. “If I wasn’t me, would I know to offer to buy you an apology Revenant ’Rita at the Shamrock Cauldron tonight, with extra pickled jalapeños?”

  “Make that two ’ritas, plus several shots of Cazadores,” she muttered, reluctantly letting herself be drawn forward. “And it had all better come with a detailed walk-through of what’s going on with you.”

  “If not tonight, then soon, promise.” I gave her arm a conciliatory little squeeze. “And it’s really sweet, by the way, that you love me enough to throw a surprise banishment in my honor.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, cuz.” A corner of her mouth twitched with the suggestion of a smile. “It’s only because I may perish of boredom if I don’t get the old you back soon.”

  Such a liar. Beneath the flippant facade, Letha cared about her loved ones with unparalleled ferocity, even for an Avramov, and “Blood is thicker than water” might as well have been our unofficial family motto (“We neither break nor bend” being the official creed). I knew she was genuinely worried about me, and if anything, the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to open up to my own best friend and cousin about what was really going on made me feel even worse.

  And even more of a traitor, to boot.

  “Still,” I said, letting her have this one. It was the least I owed her, what with the immensity of everything I was holding back. “It’s the thought that counts. And you know demonic shit has always been my love language.”

  3

  Cozy like a Straitjacket

  At least the Arcane Emporium still smelled like home.

  A sweet waft of incense and melting wax billowed around me as I stepped inside. Frankincense, myrrh, sage, and sandalwood burned all at once, in fragrant loops of smoke that hovered in the air like dragon breath. The vast showroom of what the younger generation had fondly dubbed Ye Witchy Walmart—to be used strictly among ourselves, unless you wanted to see Elena burst into flames while shooting hexes from her eyeballs—peddled everything from spellcraft supplies to spooky decor. Crystals winked from bins arranged along the central walkway, while aisles of racks and display cases stretched to either side, boasting besoms, staffs, and wands; censers, smudge sticks, and multicolored candles; pendulums, scrying globes, mirrors, and tarot decks; robes, dresses, and occult-inspired jewelry.

  Above, bundles of drying herbs hung from rough-hewn rafters, courtesy of the “cottagecore, but make it massive” look Elena had been going for when the store was built nearly thirty years ago. An entire wall was dedicated to the Avramov Apothecary, its shelves lined with stoppered jars of milky green glass. We even had our own line of “spell-infused” cosmetics—glamour serum, bath bombs that glowed in the dark, that kind of cutesy crap.

  Most of the specialty items were actually made by Avramovs, so we got to claim that our goods were not only artisanal and locally sourced but handcrafted by actual witches. Of course, none of it was going to do the customer much good if they didn’t have real magic of their own to work with, but at least we were sending the tourists off with genuinely beautiful collectibles.