Cursed Knuckles Novels & Stories

"What are you doing? Get out of here!" I grabbed my best friend's hand and turned to run, but the one behind us blazed his white teeth and flashed forward. I quickly turned around and kicked him in the stomach, but at the same time, another guy came at Cammie. For that split second, my heart stuck in my throat. To my surprise, Cammie held off his oversize bite with a blow, making the undead stumbled backward. "Ow!" Cammie cried and shook her hand in pain. "Is his face made of stone or something?"

His muscles burned as though they were being pulled apart, and his skin felt like it was crawling, alive with something darker, something uncontrollable. With a guttural roar, Ryder slammed his fist into the stone wall. The impact reverberated through the dungeon, echoing through the empty halls. His breath came in ragged gasps, the raw agony of the curse suffocating him. It was becoming too much, he couldn’t contain it much longer.

I sit on the bed where he is laying and I cannot utter words from my mouth. It feels like it was only yesterday that we were torn apart and I thought he was gone forever. I hold his hand and I close my eyes to search for his wolf. “I am silent, holding his hand and searching for any part of him that I could wake.” The cursed knife is something I know nothing about and I have no idea what it is doing to him. Why will it not just kill if it is so deadly? Why was the cursed knife used only on Cult and not others who tried to attacked in defense?

Deep amber-gold, catching the weak winter light the way embers catch a breeze. My hands were the worst. Fingers shortening and thickening, knuckles popping in rapid succession like someone snapping a bundle of dry sticks. The sound was obscene this close to my own ears. Nails blackened, curved, broke through the beds with a sting that was almost surgical in its precision then kept curving. Pads swelled beneath them. Palms that had been human seconds ago were now something entirely other, and the skin between my fingers stung tight as it fused and split and refused to decide which shape it belonged to.

I’ve had visions of how there’s no more future for me from everything Melissa has mentioned. Her own story is much worse. “The brothers are cursed. Perhaps by the moon goddess due to their viciousness; who knows? The eldest, the one who’s the Alpha, cannot see well. I heard he is colour blind. The one who followed, the one with the bad temper, lost his sense of taste. And for the last one, the playful one, he’s unable to smell.” My brain flashes back to when Kieran talked about the curse coming back when he was close to me earlier.

Cavallo hisses. “If you want me to come and get me,” I tell him. The shadows start swirling around me, and I can hear them talking. This dumb ass has no idea what is about to happen. I drop my hands and turn them palm up. I notice that one of his arms isn’t working well and has turned black. “He has been cursed.” The shadows hiss.

"Bu⁠t we‍'re out o‌f ti​me. The proximi​ty i⁠s‍n't enough. The bond need‍s more or t‌he cur‌se will finish what it started." I sat back down. My legs f​elt we​ak. "S​how me." "What?" "Show me. All of‍ you. Show me what the curse is d⁠oi‌ng." Caelan h‍e⁠sitated. The⁠n he‌ sto‌od. Pulled up his sl‍eeve. The m​arks we⁠r⁠e there. Darker‌ th‍an‌ I'​d seen on Kieran. Covering‌ his en⁠tire forearm. St‍atic now but visible. Proof.

Cursed line? She edged toward the carved wooden door—left slightly ajar. Just enough. She peered through the crack. Conan paced like a trapped wolf, his shoulders rigid. “If the prophecy is real—if the cursed mate exists again—we’re sitting on a damn powder keg. Bloodwood will tear itself apart.” Arlen leaned against the council table, unfazed. “Only if it becomes public knowledge.” Conan slammed a fist onto the table. “Karl’s curse is worsening. You’ve seen it. He’s losing hours. Days. The shifts tear him apart. The doctors can’t slow it.”

The kind of specialized knowledge that most doctors never encountered, that required study beyond standard medical training. But my mother had taught me well. Her journals had covered techniques that weren't in textbooks, methods that existed outside official pack medicine. *Identify the curse type based on the following magical signature: dark purple residue, three-point binding pattern, deterioration beginning at extremities...* I recognized it immediately. Blood curse, council-level work, designed to cause slow organ failure while appearing natural. The same type Marcus Thorne specialized in, according to Vera's information. I wrote out the identification and treatment protocol in careful

he curses. I use my hand that is wrapped around the base to tug on him in a jerking motion to cover the part I cant reach with my mouth. As I go faster letting my hand reach my mouth each time I go down his hands fly to my hair. The tugging sensation of my hair being pulled away from my scalp causes me to moan. Reaching with my other hand I roll his balls in my palm. "Shit" he curses as he jack knifes off the bed.