Marked by the Alpha's Curse

Chapter 6

#MBTACChapter6

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The morning sun did little to chase away the lingering chill in the air, and I couldn’t decide if it was the fog that made my skin prickle—or the knowledge that my life was unraveling faster than I could keep up.

Timothy had managed to board up the broken door, but no amount of wood or nails could hold back the storm of questions swirling in my mind.

I sat at the counter with Nimbus curled in my lap, his purring a weak attempt to calm me. The broken charm lay on the counter in front of me, its splintered wood seeming to mock my ignorance.

Timothy leaned against a nearby shelf, his arms crossed as he watched me.

“Who made it?” I asked finally, breaking the silence.

He raised an eyebrow. “The charm?”

I nodded, tracing the jagged edge with my finger. “You said it was meant for me. That someone crafted it specifically to protect me. Who?”

Timothy’s expression darkened. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough,” I snapped, surprising even myself with the sharpness of my tone. “You show up out of nowhere, dragging your curse and your enemies into my life, and now you’re telling me this thing—this unfinished magic—was made for me, but you don’t know why? Or who?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond right away.

“Timothy,” I pressed, my voice softening. “I need answers. If I’m connected to all of this, I have a right to know.”

He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. “Fine. Let’s start with what we do know. That charm isn’t just protective magic—it’s tied to blood. To lineage.”

“Lineage?”

He nodded. “Whoever made it, they used something from your family. Maybe a piece of hair, maybe something older, passed down through generations. Either way, it’s bound to your bloodline.”

My stomach churned. “So what? My family dabbled in magic? That doesn’t make sense. My mom—she never mentioned anything like that. And my dad…” I trailed off, the words catching in my throat.

“Your dad?” Timothy asked gently.

I shook my head, gripping the edge of the counter. “He left when I was little. I don’t remember much about him, and my mom didn’t talk about him either. It’s like he just… disappeared.”

Timothy’s amber eyes softened. “And your mom? Is she still around?”

I swallowed hard. “No. She died a few years ago.”

Nimbus shifted in my lap, his purring growing louder as if sensing my unease.

Timothy hesitated before speaking. “I don’t think your mom was the one who made the charm, but she might have known about it. Did she ever leave you anything—letters, journals, anything that might explain your family’s history?”

I thought back to the dusty boxes in the attic, untouched since her passing. “There might be something. I haven’t gone through all her things yet.”

“Then that’s where we start,” Timothy said firmly. “If there’s a connection between you and the charm, we need to find it. And fast.”

His urgency was contagious, though I wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread that coiled in my stomach.

“Okay,” I said, standing up and carefully placing the charm in my pocket. Nimbus meowed in protest as I shifted him off my lap, but he followed me dutifully as I led Timothy toward the attic stairs.

The attic smelled of dust and memories, the air thick with the weight of time. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, their labels faded or nonexistent. I flipped the light switch, but the single bulb barely illuminated the space.

“This is going to take forever,” I muttered, pulling open the nearest box.

Timothy stepped beside me, his presence a steadying force. “Start with anything personal—letters, photographs, things that might have been kept for a reason.”

I nodded, rummaging through the box. Old photo albums, crumpled receipts, and a collection of antique knick-knacks greeted me, but nothing stood out.

After several minutes of fruitless searching, my hand brushed against something different—a small, leather-bound journal. The cover was cracked with age, the faint scent of lavender clinging to its pages.

I held it up, my pulse quickening. “This might be something.”

Timothy leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “Open it.”

The first page bore my mother’s handwriting, the familiar loops and swirls making my throat tighten. For Iviel, it read. One day, you’ll need to understand.

My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages, each one filled with notes, sketches, and diagrams that made little sense to me. Some were in English, others in a language I didn’t recognize.

But one thing was clear—this wasn’t an ordinary journal.

Timothy peered over my shoulder, his expression grim. “This isn’t just a journal. It’s a grimoire.”

“A what?”

“A spellbook,” he said, his voice low. “Your mother was practicing magic.”

The words hit me like a freight train. “No. That can’t be right. She was—she was normal. She didn’t believe in stuff like this.”

“Clearly, she did,” Timothy said, his tone gentle but firm. “And she believed it enough to leave this for you.”

I stared at the pages, the intricate symbols and faded ink blurring before my eyes. “Why? Why wouldn’t she tell me about this?”

Timothy placed a hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding me. “Maybe she was trying to protect you. Or maybe she knew you’d only believe it when you saw it for yourself.”

I shook my head, the weight of the discovery pressing down on me. “This doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But it will. We’ll figure it out together.”

As much as I wanted to argue, I couldn’t deny the truth staring back at me from the pages. My mother had secrets—secrets that tied me to a world I didn’t understand.

And whether I liked it or not, I was part of it now.

Nimbus meowed softly, rubbing against my leg as if to say, You’re not alone.

Timothy’s voice broke the silence. “This is only the beginning, Iviel. Whatever’s coming, we need to be ready.”

I nodded, closing the journal and clutching it to my chest. “Then let’s start figuring it out.”

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To be continued...