The Curse Catcher (The Complex Book 0) Page 3

  My breath catches at the sight of him. A healthy dose of fear floods my system, making me freeze in place.

  The first thing I notice is that he’s huge, his frame taking up most of the hallway, his defined muscles seeming almost larger than they should be. The second thing I notice is that he is strikingly human for a creature called the Minotaur. He stands on two feet, his corded chest and wideset shoulders are all distinctly human, as is his face.

  The only things terribly inhuman about him are his hooves, which appear to taper into human legs beneath his ripped up pants, his strange, reddish-brown skin, his horizontal pupils, his claw-tipped hands, and of course, the horns that protrude from his temples.

  The Minotaur breathes heavily through his nose, and the sound is all animal.

  I grip my knife tighter, but I don’t move, afraid that anything will break the strange impasse we’ve come to.

  His eyes moved to the weapon in my hand, his face darkening at the sight of it.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I whisper, raising the knife a little higher.

  He takes a step forward, those odd cloven hooves of his clicking against the stone floor. In response, I take a step back. Behind me, the hallway stretches on, leading to more twists and turns. If I need to, I can flee down it.

  The Minotaur takes another forward, chuffing under his breath.

  I still don’t know what he wants from me, and the fact of the matter is that he’s bigger than me, stronger than me, and he’s left a trail of destruction in his wake. And that realization is what ends the impasse.

  Making an executive decision, I turn on my heel and I book it out of that hallway.

  Behind me, I hear the Minotaur roar, and then the clomp of his hooves as he chases after me.

  Crap, crap, crap!

  I have no idea where I’m going, only that I’m sure I’ve never run this fast in my entire life. My thighs burn as I push them.

  Behind me, the creature roars again. His hooves squeal and click as they scramble for purchase over the polished stone floor.

  I force my body to go faster and my legs to pump harder. I nearly slide around a corner, and thank the stars the corridor I turn down isn’t a dead-end.

  Behind me, the Minotaur’s hooves skid along the floor, and then I hear him collide into one of the walls behind me. He lets out a sad, baying howl, but I don’t hear him get up.

  In fact, even three hallways later, I still hear his agonized cries. They don’t seem to have moved.

  Is he hurt? Does it matter?

  I don’t slow until I catch sight of the kitchen with all its broken cupboards and smashed dinnerware, my mind flashing back to those horns and claws. He was more human than I imagined he’d be.

  I jog the rest of the way to my room and barricade myself inside it. I back away from my locked door, knife still in hand.

  He continues to howl for a long time, but eventually he quiets.

  In the silence that follows, my heart begins to hammer. Surely as soon as the Minotaur gathers himself together, he’ll come after me again.

  But if he does, I never hear him.

  It’s not until the next morning, after I roll off the bed in my room, that I receive any sign of my monster.

  A note’s been slipped under my door. Lifting it from the floor, I read the two words written in shaky script: I’m sorry.

  I huff in response.

  It hits me a second later that the Minotaur knows where I am. I mean, I had my suspicions, but now there’s no doubt. And he hasn’t tried to enter.

  I sit back down, my gaze sweeping over the messy room. The shredded blankets, the fallen wall art, the pulverized electronics. I sigh at the sight of a broken tablet. Had it worked, I could’ve messaged someone for help.

  My spine straightens.

  I can message someone.

  Of course.

  I’m an idiot for not thinking of it sooner.

  All apartments have a communication system built into one of their walls. In my apartment, mine was near my bed. Surely this place has one as well. I haven’t seen one in the labyrinth yet, but if I do—once I do—I can send for help.

  I stand, grabbing my assortment of knives as I do so. My gaze shifts to the door. If I want to find the comm system, I’m going to have to face the Minotaur down again. I take a fortifying breath. I might not get away from him like I did last time.

  Just the mere thought sends panic skittering through me. But ultimately, if I don’t try, then I’ll be stuck here running and hiding from the Minotaur until there’s nowhere left to go.

  With that sobering thought, I head out.

  Chapter 6

  I stare at the crumpled remains of the one comm unit I managed to find in one of the maze’s living rooms.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  There might always be others.

  There’s probably one in the Minotaur’s room. But apparently I’m neither brave nor desperate enough to hunt that one down.

  Back to the remnants of the breakfast the Minotaur made for me this morning (which I guiltily ate).

  I can feel despair setting in.

  I bury my face in my hands. It’s useless. I already know it is. Even if I do find a comm unit and manage to contact someone, who will come rescue me? The Intra who threw me in here?

  Unlikely.

  I leave the destroyed living room, wandering aimlessly through the labyrinth, one of my hands dragging against the gouged out walls of the hallway. I shuffle pass debris scattered across the floor and take twists and turns at random.

  Eventually, I get to an area of the maze that I vaguely recognize. I peer down one of the open doorways and into the music room I discovered yesterday, the very room that set off the Minotaur in the first place.

  He terrified me so much, and he seemed so wild and so bent on chasing me. I still feel a whisper of that fear, standing in this room.

  What is the point of fear? If he wants to hurt me, there’s nothing stopping him. But he hasn’t. Not last night, when he could’ve ripped off the door to my room instead of delivering his note. And not this morning, when he could’ve sprung on me the moment I exited my room. Instead I found another breakfast waiting for me in the kitchen.

  I approach the keyboard once more. I don’t know what possesses me to sit down on that clawed up bench or to place my hands on those white keys. What strange madness urges me to begin to play some classical piece my mother taught me long ago. I’m supposed to be running and hiding, not coaxing a murderous creature closer.

  But maybe I’m feeling like I can surrender with dignity. There’s no way out of this place. There’s nothing left for me to do but give in to my fate. And something about that is oddly comforting.

  I begin to lean into those keys, and for the first time since I arrived here, I hear something that gives me hope. The melody flows out of me like a river, the sound filling the labyrinth. The notes build and build, until the piece hits its crescendo. My body moves with the sound, slowing as the song comes to a close.

  The silence that follows seems itself to be sound, it’s so weighty. I’d like to think that it’s the universe releasing the breath it held while the music kept it captive.

  Behind me, I hear a rustle. I jerk around in my seat, eyes wide.

  Standing in the threshold of the room is the Minotaur, his strange eyes moving between me and the keyboard.

  Instantly, my entire body tenses. I’m noticing all over again just how huge the man is.

  He takes a tentative step forward, his hooves clicking against the floor, and my back stiffens, but I don’t move. When he realizes I’m not going to try to flee, he takes another step … and another, crossing the room painfully slow. I flinch just a little at each clack of his footsteps.


  He closes the space between us. He’s so close I can see the light dusting of fur along his torso and hear the soft whistle of his breath. And his face—oh fucking heavens, he has fangs.

  He reaches out for my hand, his claws looking particularly sharp, and reflexively, I jerk it away. The Minotaur lets out a soft huff, then reaches out again.

  In this moment, he can do anything. I’m just that helpless.

  I’m supposed to be surrendering with dignity.

  Feeling acutely vulnerable, I squeeze my eyes shut and let him take my hand.

  As soon as our skin meets, I feel a zing of energy jump between us and a coppery taste fills the back of my mouth.

  Holy shit.

  I suck in a breath, my eyes snapping open and meeting his.

  This man has been cursed.

  My heart gallops, no longer out of fear, but out of a horrified sort of wonder.

  The Minotaur is cursed.

  He places my hand on the keyboard and then releases it is. Abruptly, our connection is severed.

  I eye his hand. I want to reach out and grab it again. There are so many things I could divine about his curse from our connection. How old the curse is, how powerful, how difficult to break, and what it’s done to him.

  Almost self-consciously the Minotaur tucks his hand behind his back. He nods to the keyboard. “Play.” His voice sounds like old gears grinding.

  It takes me a second to get past the revelation that the Minotaur is cursed, and it takes another to realize that not only is the Minotaur not trying to kill me, he … wants me to play the keyboard again.

  He waits for me to begin to play, standing far too close.

  I take in a shuddering breath, still vividly remembering his howls and the trail of destruction he’s left in this maze. And then, I shut it all off. All my worries, all my curiosity—I push it far away so that I can play.

  Once more, my hands begin to move. This time to play a different melody, one that is soft and sweet. Closing my eyes, I lose myself in the music.

  I don’t open my eyes until the song is finished. When I do, I turn to the Minotaur, but the man is gone.

  I can help him.

  I will help him.

  I think about this as I sit in my room late that night, the Minotaur’s far away cries piercing the air once more. He still frightens me—how couldn’t he? But now that I know the man’s cursed, I have a professional obligation to free him of it. Not to mention a personal one. Because if the curse is what’s making him violent, then lifting the curse might mean saving my own neck.

  I don’t get a chance to act on this possibility until morning.

  Shortly after the lights in my room come on, I leave my room to find the Minotaur. I try the first place I can think of—the kitchen.

  Even before I enter, I can hear the sound of food frying. When I step inside the kitchen, the Minotaur’s back is to me. For a minute, I’m taken by the sight of him. He’s a great beast of a man, with his dark, unruly hair spilling between his bull horns and his massive back fully on display, despite the white shirt he wears. And yet seeing all that rugged, raw strength put to use in the kitchen is somewhat disarming.

  My eyes move to what he’s doing. His hands have a slight palsy to them as he stirs food around in a skillet.

  “You don’t have to cook that,” I say, remembering the breakfast he left for me the last two days.

  He spins around at the sound of my voice, his face startled. I almost crack a smile. It’s funny to see a horned, fanged Meta such as himself scared by the sight of me.

  A second later, he collects himself, his hands still trembling slightly. “Auto … cook … broken.” He gestures to one of the smashed appliances in his kitchen.

  I step farther into the room, feeling as uncertain as the Minotaur looks. My pulse is racing, partly from fear and partly from the exhilaration of actually talking to this man.

  “I meant that you don’t have to cook a meal for me,” I say. “If that’s what you’re doing,” I add. I creep a little closer and clear my throat. “My name is Skylar,” I say.

  I can’t believe I’m introducing myself to the Minotaur. This whole thing feels surreal.

  He hasn’t turned back to the skillet.

  He stares at me, looking to be in about as much disbelief as I am.

  Finally, he says, “Sky-lar.” There’s something offhandedly sweet about his rough voice carefully repeating my name.

  “What’s your name?” I ask when he doesn’t offer it up.

  He glances down at his feet, then shakes his head.

  “Do you not have a name?” I ask.

  “As-ter-ion,” he says, pronouncing each syllable slowly. He keeps his eyes diverted.

  “Asterion,” I repeat.

  He nods.

  “Why am I here?” I ask him. I can’t help but gaze at him, and I’m startled to realize that he’s actually quite handsome, his cheekbones high, his jaw chiseled.

  He continues to hang his head. “Sacrifice.”

  Internally, I wince a little at that.

  So I really am a sacrifice.

  “Why did you chase me?” I ask.

  Absently, one of his hooves paws at the floor. “When … run, I … follow.” He lifts a shoulder. “Can’t … help it.”

  Almost reluctantly, he lifts his head, and our eyes meet. Even though he’s strange and different and frightening, there’s a spark of gentleness in his eyes. And that little bit of kindness makes me completely reassess him. I can’t help but notice that beneath all that otherness, the Minotaur is a handsome man.

  I move closer. “Are you planning on …” I choke on the word before I say it, “killing me?”

  He shakes his head vehemently. “I want you … to live. I will … protect you … from myself … for as long … as I can.”

  I believe him, but yikes. If I understood him correctly, there is a part of himself that will try to attack me.

  I close the last of the distance between us. “Do you know what kind of Meta I am?” I ask.

  Asterion pauses, then shakes his head.

  “I’m a curse catcher.”

  He stills.

  “Do you know what that is?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “And do you know that you have a curse on you?”

  Again, he nods.

  “I would like me to remove it?”

  He hesitates. “Impossible,” he finally says.

  If there’s one word I take as a challenge more than any other, it’s that one—impossible. First rule of my profession: every curse can be undone. It’s just a matter of time and patience.

  I straighten my spine. “We’ll see.” I gesture to his hand. “May I touch you?”

  He appears confused by my request. I feel a strange pang of sympathy for this poor man that he’s baffled by the thought of me touching him.

  Wordlessly, he extends his hand, and for the second time in two days, I make contact.

  Chapter 7

  Oh, he’s cursed alright.

  I feel it there, just beneath his skin.

  All curses are different. Some have tastes to me. Others colors. Some are vaporous like smoke, others feel like thick globs of tar.

  Asterion’s curse is like a thorny vine. I can see it in my mind’s eye, glowing a bright, neon green color. It winds around his bones and muscles, his joints and his veins. And there are a thousand different strands of it, and they are everywhere.

  I’ve never seen anything like this.

  Normally, a curse is located in one specific area of the body that corresponds to what exactly has been cursed. The head is for cursing wisdom, the heart for emotion, the lungs for speech, the liver for luck, the hands for dexterity.


  But in Asterion’s case, there is not one area that hasn’t been colonized by the curse. Like a weed with a mile-long root system.

  I don’t know if I can even remove it.

  And then I remember the first rule of curse catching: every curse can be undone.

  Including this one.

  “That is a mother of a curse,” I say, releasing his hand.

  His fingers close around his palm as he watches me.

  “Do you have any containers?” I ask.

  Asterion doesn’t question the subject change. Wordlessly he moves to one of the broken cabinets, accidently tearing the remains of the cupboard door from its hinges before reaching inside and handing me an empty glass canister, one that once probably held something like grain.

  I take it, checking out the lid. It’s not as airtight as I’d like, but it’d have to do.

  “I’m going to remove that curse,” I announce, ignoring the uncertainty in my voice. I will remove this curse. I need to if I have any hope of living through my stay here.

  I open the glass container and inspect it. This is where I’ll store the curse. I whisper a spell against the glass.

  Curse catchers are known for removing curses. But less well known is that Metas like me can cast anti-curse charms. It’s magic’s preventative medicine. Often I sell them on the side, but I also use charms to spell my containers so that they can dismantle the curses I exhale into them.

  “Who cursed you?” I ask.

  Asterion’s eyes grow distant. “Old … enemy …” His gaze returns to me. “Long dead.”

  Just how old is old? Some of the stuff in this labyrinth has to have been made centuries ago. If the curse is that old …

  “They must’ve been powerful,” I say.

  Asterion grunts in response.

  Before I can say or do anything else, he sniffs the air. Letting out a noise that sounds an awful lot like a guttural curse, he turns back towards his skillet and the now smoking remnants of breakfast.