Her Crimson Curse (Concept)

The night was dry. Arid and dusty. Summer was clinging to the gritty soil and what air breathed was clogged with heat as it swept through the pines and rattling free dead needles from their branches. It did little to soothe me. I sweated and pulled the cuffs up of my thin raspy trousers and tugged open my cotton shirt wider. I always hated summer. It just clung to you, like a second skin that refused to let you breathe. But, despite the heat and the discomfort, I had a thin tatty red scarf covering half of my face and a big fire burning brightly before me. It flickered and spat, the flames writhing miserably whenever the dry wind blew. Sometimes it rushed by so fast it nearly killed it, spreading panic through me. I'd jerk forward as if to throw my body about it, to defend that light that was protecting me, but the fire was stubborn. It continued to roar and I'd pour more oil on in the hopes to keep it fed. I knew I had to ration, there wasn't much left, but tonight was a full moon. Tonight was dangerous if I didn't keep that fire going.

My fingers touched the rifle by my side, the belt carrying the heavy pouches of ammunition and my hefty hunting knife the only thing I kept on. My eyes, the soft honey shade glowing orange from the fire, watching the vast pines like a fox, my lithe body tense; whether to fight or flee depended on how many were out tonight.

A shadow shifted. White eyes glimmered. A growl thundered, monstrous and demonic. The hair along my arms rose and I carefully shifted my weight, raising to my knees and lifting my father's old rifle lightly into position. I could hear men's whispers. Shouts of fury. Accusations of adultery. Insults rumbling in the distant; whore, slut, harlot.

It gave flashes of my childhood. My father, once a woodcutter, a gentleman, a good husband and loving father, gradually fell to the grips of the curse my mother carried, ensnared by dark tendrils. It slipped into his tempers, his thoughts, shackling him to paranoia and jealousy. Never trusted her. Never believed a word she said when she explained where she'd been or why she was talking to the kind man who lived next door. He began to beat my mother. Shout and abuse. And then he fell totally one night. As he murdered my mother, hatchet in hand, his body shifted and jerked, forcing him into inhuman shape; fur sprouting over his rough skin, fingers becoming claws and threatening, his teeth lengthening. He finished my mother off by snatching at her throat and tearing her head free with a violent jerk. I still remembered the smell of that blood, how it clogged my nose as I shoved my fist in my mouth to stop myself from screaming and giving away my hiding spot in the wardrobe. Even after ten years, that night was still burned into me. That was my future. That was what'll happen to the man who fell in love with me. It didn't matter how good he was, how loving and kind, he'd end up being twisted into a monster and killing me. It was destined to happen.

My father killed my mother. My grandfather killed my mother. Six whole generations of blood and corruption. Six women cursed to be born with beauty and born to be slain by her own husband, happiness shattered in a bloody rage.

Something loped through the trees, this time with more solidity than the vague shifts of movement. My finger rested on the trigger of my rifle, the old thing pressed against my shoulder as I took aim, my back sweating not just from heat now and my heart in my throat as I forced myself to calm. Plodding out from the pines was a wolf. A great beast the size of a horse with flaming white eyes and thick chestnut fur greying at the edges. It stared at me. Hard. Knowingly. Something human pooled in the white, miserable and pained. Then he slipped away, delving out of sight. I breathed and lowered the rifle. I was safe again this full moon. Dad recognised me. He'd keep grandpa and the others at bay. On moonlit nights, they grew restless and any male with the slightest interest would be killed. Sometimes they even came for me if they were that enraged. So, on full moons, I'd find the most secluded spot I could and sat in the dark, awake all night, rifle trailing the dark, and hope the wolves were in good spirits. Tonight it seemed they were.

I settled, relaxing slightly, and tugged my pack closer. My fingers snapped it open and I pulled a battered old book, weather and worn. I snapped it open, trawling over the notes inside. It had been my grandmother's but the thoughts and notes inside were old, dating back to my great-great-great grandmother; Anya. She hadn't been the first of the cursed, that had been her mother, Isadora, but she had been the one to first witness the first murder. The first to realise just what this 'gift of beauty' meant, the payment required. The curse.

Every woman tried to fight it in her own way. They tried to not fall in love, but the loneliness made that difficult when a man stood by your side and fought monsters and tried to find ways to life the curse. They tried not to have children, but apparently high fertility and a strong need to have children was part of the package. They tried to discover what it was and how to stop it and why we were cursed in the first place. But Isadora, the one who'd likely know the most, had been killed before she could really pass any information to Anya, thus to her daughter and so on. The book told me everything I knew; we were gifted with great beauty, the sought to lure in any man or woman; the wolves were the husbands, twisted from corruption, and would fall upon any man who showed the slightest sign of interest; a man who could survive twelve full moons would be left alone to marry their 'daughter' but that wasn't a good thing, it was a sign the curse had snagged onto that man and the wolves now saw him as one of them. The wolves hated fire and heat and grew more docile in the summer. The most recently turned wolf may remember what he'd been and actually protect his daughter while the oldest, Isolde's Bran, is more shadow now than wolf, savage and unstoppable when stirred. The one I feared the most, but thank the gods he only turned up in the winter. Summer made him too tired to hunt.

I stopped on a page mentioning the Witch of the East. My blood boiled at the sight, thinning my lips beneath my scarf. That was all I knew about the witch who had cursed Isolde and her bloodline. The Witch of the East. Nothing else. No name. No location. No idea of what she looked like or who she was.

But I had to find her and kill her. My mother and grandmother proved there was nothing to find about the curse. We couldn't lift it ourselves, no witch or wizard could. Only this Witch of the East could. So, I intended to find her and either she'll lift it, or I'll blow her brains out. A feat I knew would be impossible to do.

At least alone.

With someone who knew how to kill, who did it as a job, impossible became probable. Which was why I was following a rumour of a Cinniúint in the hands of some black-market mobster who ran a rather obvious fight ring in a run-down city that couldn't care less about illegal activity so long as you paid right. They say this Cinniúit was a rebel, killed those he wasn't meant to, and had been stripped of his face and abandoned as punishment. Which was perfect for me. They weren't hireable, the went where their instincts told them to, killing who they felt had to die to keep the 'balance' of the world, and they were sticklers for rules. If one decided my job wasn't part of 'fate', they'd refused no matter what I offered. So, I wanted this Cinniúint who killed outside of what fate told him, one I could offer freedom in return for helping me. It had better work. I needed an elvish assassin filled to the brim with spells and death to fight a Witch who created such a blood, cruel curse. I needed magic to fight magic. My rifle could only do so much and I hadn't a clue how powerful this Witch was. I had to be smart if I wanted to live. Which I did. I wanted to actually live my life for once, not cowering from shadows and avoiding civilisation in case the wolves decided a man looked at me too lustfully and decided to devour him.

The wet, powerful snap of wolfish jaws grabbed my attention. My head jerked up and my hand was on my rifle again, tense and ready to fight. But my dad there again, his massive demonic teeth bared and warding away my hulking grandfather and the less solid wolves as their urge to hunt rose, their mouths aching for fresh blood. A stag bellowed in the distance. Ears shot up and paws thundered, howls echoing as they dived for a kill. Gone for now, but I had three hours left until dawn.

I set the journal aside. I had to focus on the now. I had to survive tonight and tomorrow night and get to the bloody city first. Then I could worry about whether or not the rumours were true and whether saving this assassin would end in me getting killed before I even proposed my offer. He was an elvish assassin who killed for pleasure. There was no guarantee releasing him would be met with a handshake of thanks, but rather a blade buried deep in my stomach.

Still, death wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. At least my dad and grandfathers would be freed and this curse would end rather than passed to my daughter.

But I'd like to live at least one day first. And I'd like to love. To be free. And the need to have a child was strong in me, like a hole in my chest, another layer of the curse I wanted to have gone. I couldn't have a child that would see me killed by her father and then left alone to fend for herself.

Which was why this Witch had to die and, as I stared at the wolf who had been my dad as he prowled like a great guardian, the wolf I saw flower into life as he slaughtered my mother, a fire burned in my belly.

I'd do anything to finally have my life back. Anything to end this circle of death and break this crimson curse.

That Witch had to die.