Hollowborn: A Curse Wrapped in Skin

“Spell craft is a delicate art. You have to know what incantation to say, what gestures to use, what material components to use if it needs that…many mages have to study for years before getting it right.”

“Okay, well, how come I can do it easily?” Smug b*****d. All the other mages crowded around them.

“That…is the question, isn’t it?”

It was the question Alaia unfortunately knew the answer to. Her curled fists shook, muscles so tense they ached. She had thought when she would glance upon their protege, she could let the whole thing go. However, her mind was rampant with fantasies of driving his head into the ground. But that would be rash. She had better plans in mind.

Alaia caught the eye of the protege’s mentor, and he shuddered, his face turning pallid, as if he had seen a ghost. It was possible he did not know the full circumstances the power that was created in her and ripped away from her. Good. I won’t stop haunting you until you and this whole goddamn institution pays.

She fled. Alaia retreated to her tiny apartment where she had her ancestral altar set up in an elaborate display of her grandfather’s smoke pipe, his favorite beer, his pictures-"a mirror of the hatred they shared in their blood and this present moment. She set a glass of water on the altar along with a leaf, feather, and a lit candle. She faced the dark incorporeal eyes of her grandfather-"a thick black smoke covering her bedroom like a cloud, and he asked, “Have you given my offer some thought?”

“I’m ready.”

“What will you give in return?” His voice was icy and warm at the same time. He was her grandfather, and he was not. Death had a way of changing things.

“I give you my ability to love.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “You truly are my granddaughter.”

Author's Note

Photo by Gabriel Kraus on Unsplash