Cursed Hand Novels & Stories

I clenched my fists but this made the frost only intensify. The elder’s expression darkened. “The curse is progressing faster than expected.” I forced myself to calm down and the ice stopped spreading. Everyone seemed relieved but I stared at the frost covering my hands. “Is there a cure to this?” The eldest elder exchanged glances with the others and nodded. “There is.” He stated, giving me a ray of hope. Finally, a sensible person. “What is it?” “A Fireheart.” “A Fireheart?” The elder nodded. “One of the rarest bloodlines ever recorded, common among hybrids.”

“Not me. The second-born. Her shadow.” Her voice darkened, like smoke curling around old wounds. “And then she died. And I had him. Finally. And even then, it wasn’t enough. Because every time he looked at you, John, he saw her. Not me. Never me.” She stepped back from the bars, eyes gleaming with a twisted kind of pride. “You were protected from the knowledge of what you truly were. Yet you were the very thing I could never compete with.” “You are cursed, John. Cursed.”

The store clerk, my husband, and my mother had all asked the same thing before turning on me. I wanted to deny it, but Jane cut me off. "I wish I'd never met you! How can someone as evil as you exist? How could you do this to your own son?" She hung up. When I tried calling back, I saw she had already blocked me. The world spun. My legs gave out, and I collapsed to the floor. Why was this happening?

Her voice wavered as she crouched down and snatched the baby bottle from the woman's unsuspecting grip. Her hands trembled, her eyes wide with dread. "W-Where did you get this bottle?" Turning toward me, her gaze was filled with accusation and despair. Tears welled up as her voice cracked. "This… this is the bottle I gave to Nicholas, isn't it?!"

As we moved, a tiny bit of feeling made its way back into my hand, but still nothing like normal. My parents and Esmeralda were gathered in seconds. All I had to do was raise my paralyzed hand and it was as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over the room. My mother immediately burst into tears. My father tilted his eyes downward, as if in an effort to hide his own sadness. “The curse has awakened?” he asked softly. “Despite your marriage?” “Yes,” I said. “I had no feeling in my left hand when I awoke this morning.” “What about now?” my father questioned. “You seem to be moving it just fine.”

They were the colour of my skin, so I doubted anyone had noticed them earlier. I pulled the gloves off, exposing my thin, withered hands to them. They gaped. "What the hell is that?" Someone asked, a slight look of disgust on his face. I didn't blame him. I couldn't believe those were my hands either. "The curse," I said. "It happened when I broke the urn and joined with Althea's spirit." "Your hands have been like that for months?" Another person asked, horrified. "No. This is a new development. The curse has gotten stronger, and I've been told it'll only keep growing unless I find a way to break the curse."

As they say, everything was in place. Not like him. Reive looked at his own left palm. He wrinkled his nose. If he hadn’t knocked the girl out a minute ago, she’d have been screaming like a frightened peacock by now. But he had to admit there were some problems with his hand. It hadn’t fully reconstructed itself. It was a bare bone scarcely covered with flimsy flesh. The necromancer thought a little. He wasn’t dead. But he wasn’t alive either, in the accepted sense of the word. This was an interesting effect of the curse. However, apart from his hand which would scare even a draugr, everything else was all right.

He hesitates to answer. “Cursed.” He mumbles, I heard him, but I wanted to make sure it was really clear, “What?” “There’s a group referred to as The Enchanted. They are unnatural creatures that don’t really fit in anywhere. The subgroup for me is Cursed.” He seems upset by it, maybe that’s why he tries so hard to help people. If I was known as a Cursed person I’d want to do whatever I could to prove people wrong. I feel like I understand Corvu a little better.

“I just got bored.” Her laugh was a harsh bark. “Mercy’s a luxury. One you can’t afford.” The wind shifted, carrying the stink of her—juniper smoke, iron, old blood. The others fanned out behind her, silent. A boy with a melted ear. A woman missing two fingers. A man whose face was a patchwork of frostbite scars. “What do you want?” I asked. “Your hands.” She held hers out, palms up. They were calloused, crisscrossed with scars. “Hands that slit Hjalmar’s throat. Hands that carved curses into your skin. Hands that remember.”

He looked down at his hands, rough with calluses and marred with years of fighting and living like a rogue. “I can still feel the blood of the people I’ve killed on my hands, a feeling I can’t ever wash off,” he confessed, his eyes darkening as he lost himself in the memories of his past. “So I must be cursed, right?” “That wasn’t your fault,” I said softly, taking his hands into mine and lifting his chin so he’d look into my eyes. “You did what you had to do to survive. To get back to me! If you’re cursed, then so am I because I love you!”