The Night Curse (Book one)

I secure the black mask against my eyes, touching the baroque pattern along its edge. It’s just the right level of detail—ideal for blending in. Tonight isn’t about showing off. Tonight is about not getting caught. Grabbing a black cloak, I vacate the cottage and step into the gardens.

It’s dusk, the sky awash with navy, and the moon uncharacteristically elusive. Laughter and music spill from the manor’s ballroom as I tread near, the bottom of my cloak trailing behind.

Stepping into the manor, I see the sumptuous red tulips embellishing the entrance hall and how approvingly the guests regard them. Satisfaction tugs at the corners of my mouth.

Maybe I should have been a gardener after all.

I deviate from the flow of attendees, taking the grand staircase to the upper floors.

I continue to steadily climb, studying my surroundings as I go. Observing no witnesses, I reach what appears to be the top floor, and head to the section of rooms facing the cottage, remembering the room aglow with orange on that first night that I’d arrived.

I hazard a guess at a door opposite my bedroom window and in line with my predictions. It creaks slightly, exposing a bedroom inside. The fire has dimmed but small flames still lick languidly in the hearth. A four-poster bed stands against the back wall, matching the grandeur of the manor, except for the unmade sheets.

Adjacent to the bed, a large, arched window looks out over the estate. It’s situated central, allowing full width of the grounds. My cottage can be easily seen, and that thought sends a sliver of dread down my spine. I pivot and drag my heels to the bed, groping the covers for any hidden truths. My fingers graze the hardness of a book’s spine, and I flip over a pillow to uncover a small book. It’s discoloured and worn, the pages stained yellow, but upon inspection, it seems to be a diary.

I stuff it inside my pocket, a triumphant feeling settling into my muscles, and continue to rummage through the drawers. Nothing else grabs my attention, so I sneak out of the room, closing the door just as I had found it. I retrace my steps, returning to the staircase. As I make my descent, the diary full in my pocket, I absorb the many portraits decorating the wall. Harling relatives, no doubt, and not a single Dreamwalker amongst them.

When I reach the bottom of the staircase, the ball is in full swing. The sways and melodies of the room pull me in. I stay on the fringes of society, my back close to the wall. Couples swoon and swish around the floor, pairing with the grace of the song playing. The masquerade ball is full to the brim with socialites decked in polished masks and their finest attire, no doubt.

Amongst the bustle, Lady Clemintine spins in the arms of her fiancé. Her mask is the most decadent with peacock feathers dipped in liquid gold, matching the royal blueness of her silk gown. Marquess Elliot holds her like a prized possession—stoic and firm.

A waitress halts my gait, offering me a drink on a silver tray. Without hesitation, I select a glass of bubbles and drink, the taste of almond fizz drenching my throat. As I lift my head, I notice a woman with clasped hands and kneading fingers watching from the shadows. Her mask is black like mine but with accents of purple. Her movements cease, and her body visibly stiffens as she takes me in. It’s then that I see her black hair and the pearl of her skin.

Amelia.

Amelia is here, out in the open. A wolf hiding in sheep’s clothing. Except her clothing is anything but dowdy. The folds and pleats of her burgundy dress leave little to the imagination. When I saw her in my dream, I was so consumed by her face that I hadn’t taken in the curves of her body. Seeing Amelia, all of her, save for the pools of elixir whirling in her gaze, is... sinful. I’ve read about women like Amelia. Witches with false youth and alluring looks, hellbent on fury and destruction. She’s the devil incarnate, and still, I find myself going to her.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” I say, low and teasing, my feet already upon her.

“I could say the same about you.”

Her head is fixed on the dancefloor, but without her eyes, I can’t tell where she stares.

“What a clever disguise. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t a Dream—”

Her head whips to mine and a shush forcefully hisses from clenched teeth. “Not even my mother and father know that I am here, so you have to be discrete.”

I concede, lowering my weapons. “As do I. Like I said in my letter, your secret is safe with me.”

She exhales a sigh that I take as a relief. We stand side-by-side, drawn to the captivating music, tolerating one another’s presence. A waiter passes again, and Amelia swipes a flute from the tray, her mask never straining from the people dancing under the candlelit chandeliers.

Some time passes before I speak again. “Are you pleased for her?” I question, noticing how Amelia follows her sister’s every move. There is tension in her jaw and a tightness in her breath.

“I am.” Her voice is melancholy. A single tear slips from under her mask. Without thinking, I reach out to wipe it away, but her own hand beats me to it, leaving my fingers hanging in mid-air, and a pang of disappointment residing in my chest.

She turns and takes note of my raised hand. I lower it back to my side.

“Tears of joy,” she says quietly, an inauthentic smile briefly taking over the lower part of her face. Even with her eyes covered, I can feel her sadness.

“It must be difficult,” I begin. “Knowing that your sister will be moving out and starting a new life.” It’s true and something that I hadn’t considered until now. Clemintine is to be wed and she’s probably been Amelia’s only friend. All this time.

She steadies herself, as if shaken by the fact, and drains the champagne in her flute. “It isn’t just that.” Amelia dips her chin and places her hand against her heart. She inhales, expanding her ribcage forcibly against the tight bodice of her gown. I catch myself staring at the folds of her breasts, something unexpected rising in my groin. “I won’t ever have what Clemmy has.”

I glance over at her sister dancing in the arms of her fiancé and everything that represents. I’d always thought of how dissimilar Dreamwalkers are to us, never once stopping to think about how human they are, aside from their infliction. Dreamwalkers have such power, and yet, they can’t change the perception of the planet. They can’t coincide with civilisation. Of everything she can take, she can’t take back what she is.

How many others crave normalcy as Amelia does?

How many others covet human life despite their own?

Amelia doesn’t want war, she wants this. Marriage, love, life. She isn’t conspiring against us; she’s pinning after us. Alone and hidden.

Unless this is all an act to pull me into her web. What better way to ensnarl me than to get me to feel at her mercy? It is so hard to tell when she appears so… broken.

“Shall we?” I outstretch my hand to hers, bowing forward. If nothing else, she has tonight.

Amelia hesitates then gently slides her palm into mine, awakening the nerves under my skin. Fear dissipates with the softness and fragility of her hold. We walk side-by-side onto the ballroom floor. The violins are deep and longing. We part, the narrow space between us like a chasm, and begin to mirror one another’s movements. As we slowly turn, the world fades into shadows. I step closer, inhaling her heady scent. I recall those violet eyes and imagine them ablaze with fire beneath her mask. Our bodies briefly brush as we bend into another spin, the heat of her washing over me. I linger my stare on her mouth and how it parts with every soft exhale. Against my better judgment, I fantasise about closing the gap with the length of my body and sealing those supple lips with a kiss. As if reading my mind, Amelia sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. The act feels dangerously suggestive, and that illicit sensation reignites. As the music builds to a crescendo, so too does the drum of my heart. I know the song is about to end, but I long to stay lost in the sway of Amelia’s hips, and the sensual way she parts those damned lips, despite what she is and what I am here to do. As the crowd claps, the world reemerges, and so does my conscience. Because as much as I want to touch her, I know that I must not—cannot. There is no world where Amelia and I can be together, and it would be cruel to make her think otherwise.

“Thank you,” she mouths.

I remove my hand from hers and bow once more. “My pleasure,” I reply and mean it. “I must be leaving. I’ve drawn enough attention to myself as it is. Better to quit while ahead.”

Amelia’s lips settle into a tight line. She nods her head, extending the sides of her gown. “Sweet dreams, Harlow.”

The words sting, echoing what she said to me the first time we met. Still, I turn and walk away, my legs like lead from the urge to stay.

Outside, the night slaps at my cheeks and if I didn’t know as much, I’d have sworn that I must be locked inside a dream. Everything feels surreal. I can hear the gravel path as I near the cottage, but I’m out of my body, drifting home, losing myself.

I try to feel sullied from the Dreamwalker’s presence, try and fail. If her mark stains my skin, it isn’t enough. I’d roll in her sheets, bathe in her sweat, if only to smell her heavenly scent once more.

I’ve laid with women—indulged in the types of pleasure only a husband and wife should share. Those nights were rushed, emotionless affairs. Enjoyable, yes, but none went beyond the brief and sweet release of ecstasy.

Just the thought of Amelia has me on the precipice of infactuation. Or maybe, I’ve already surrendered. Given in to her intoxicating allure. But I shouldn’t… I can’t.

I am a hunter. I am a hunter. I am a hunter, I recite, hoping the mantra restores the pieces of me that Amelia has dismantled.