Laura Morrison - How to Break an Evil Curse

Chapter One

T he Forest of Looming Death was, as one might guess by the name, a dreary place. Through it ran the Brook of Dashed Hopes, which was as bleak a brook as one could imagine. The brook was where the coal mine upstream dumped all the byproducts of its mining operation. It was full of bony, inedible fish, which were the only creatures hardy enough to live there. Since the fish were the only creatures in the brook, they were cannibalistic by necessity.

Just beyond this brook, and over the Bridge of Misery, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to a cave, which (unlike most landmarks in The Forest) had no name. But if it had had a name, it would have been called the Dwelling Place of Mirabella the Traitor. The Forest was where banished criminals of the land were sent to live out their remaining days, and Mirabella had been a resident of its shades for nigh on twenty years. She was the sister of the Queen of the Land of Fritillary, and as if that wasnt enough distinction and rank for her, she was also the only person in all the land who did not have a soul.

At least, no soul that anyone could detect.

Most days since her banishment to the Forest of Looming Death, Mirabella spent her waking hours hunting, tending her vegetable garden, and fighting other criminals off her prime forest real estate. Most nights she plotted revenge. She had been plotting with her partner-in-crime since Day One of her banishment, so it was as nice a revenge plan as ever a villain could hope to concoct, full of twists and turns and heartbreak and sweet, sweet justice for all the wrongs she believed herself to have suffered.

Bent studiously over a piece of paper on the stone floor of her cave, large black quill in hand, Mirabella scribbled away industriously. She paused, pondered for a full minute or so, and then dipped the quill in the bowl of raven blood she used as ink. She had made the paper herself by hand out of plant pulp and water, andsince if you are going to do a thing you might as well do the thing wellshe had decorated the margins of the paper with various pressed wildflowers and pine needles, so it was quite lovely.

Mirabella wrote a bit more, read it all over, and, with a pleased smirk on her gaunt face, breathed, It is ready. Her soulless eyes turned to a crudely made sundial on a flat bit of rock just outside the cave entrance. And just in time, too. She scooped up the paper and added it to a stack of others that sat on a small wooden table near the wall.

Then, she began preparations for her visitor. She pulled her only chair and an upended log up to the table, procured two mugs from her meager supply of kitchen goods, and tended to the fire that was heating a kettle for tea before stationing herself at the entrance to her cave to wait for her guest.

While she waited, she didnt fuss with her hair or worry about her appearance because, for one thing, Mirabella didnt care one iota about the opinions of others. And, for another thing, she happened to be one of those ladies who always looked good without trying.

Though shed spent half her life in a in a cave while being harassed by murderers and thugs of all description, Mirabella had unnaturally good skin and long, wavy black hair unsullied by gray. Her face was a bit lined from all her brow-furrowing and squinting through late-night plotting sessions by the light of a single thin-flamed candle, her ratty old clothes were rather filthy, and she was concerningly thin since shed never really gotten the knack of hunting even after two decades of banishment, but all in all, it could safely be said that she looked a lot better than one would expect, considering her circumstances.

If only she hadnt had those soulless eyes

But, then, if shed had a soul, she wouldnt have been banished to a cave in the middle of The Forest of Looming Death, and thered be no need to be carrying on about how she looked pretty good all things considered.

At last, a great horrible swirl of smelly smoke appeared out of nowhere, startling a few chubby doves Mirabella had been eyeing hungrily, but not affecting Mirabella in the least. This was the visitor she had been expecting and his smoky mode of travel was nothing new. Her eyes still following the doves, Mirabella waved some smoke away from her face and turned her gaze from the doves to her visitor.

The great evil magician, Farland Phelps, strode from the depths of the smoke, too cool to cough. Mirabella had often wondered how long it had taken him to perfect that, the not coughing as he walked out of his big magic smoke column thing. Did he just hold his breath? Did the smoke seriously not bother him?

Mirabella, he said in his sleazy voice.

Farland, she responded, dryly. The plans are complete.

Excellent, he sleazed and followed her into the cave.

Mirabella the Traitor held out the stack of papers to her partner-in-crime.

He took them and began to read, cackling evilly at the contents. He laughed harder with each page, until hed flipped too many pages for that to be sustainable, and then the laughs remained at the same intensity for the rest of the stack.

It was really a pretty big stack of paper.

So much evil cackling.

Again, Mirabella suspected Farland of pretension and guessed that those demonic chortles were, perhaps, rehearsed. It took him so long to peruse the papers that she had time to make a mug of tea for each of them, which she set down on the table just as he finished up.

Well? she asked.

Its perfect. Perfect. These plans are all I could have dreamed of. And, he added, impressed, the paper is quite pretty, too.

Oh, thank you. Be careful not to touch the red flowers. Theyre poisonous. A little safety measure to keep the information between us alone.

Gingerly, he readjusted his hold on the papers. Very clever.

Tea? she asked, gesturing to the table.

Oh, lovely!

They sat across from each other and sipped in silence for a few moments. Mirabella was thinking about her garden and wondering how the asparagus crop was faring. Farland was thinking about Mirabella. The closer they got to the completion of their revenge plot, the more acutely aware he was becoming of the fact that, over the span of these twenty years of plotting and planning, something had happened to him. He had fallen in love.

Or something like love, anyway.

Mirabella was smart, and pretty, and funny (if you liked mean-spirited sarcasm, which he did). He had not analyzed his feelings too much since paying too much attention to feelings is a sign of weakness, so he wasnt sure whether it was love exactly. But he knew for sure that he really liked being around her, that he would soon no longer have a reason to be around her, and that that knowledge made him gloomy. She had never expressed any interest in doing anything other than plotting revenge with himno walks along the riverbank, no picnics, no anythingso he had a good feeling that, once their plans were completed, shed be fine parting ways forever.

Good tea, he said, wishing she were weak-minded so that he could read her thoughts. He could only effectively read the minds of people who were not very smart, and Mirabella was the exact opposite of not very smart.

Its from my garden. Ack. He was looking at her with that sappy expression shed been noticing on his face more and more in recent months.