Dark Curse (Darkhaven Saga #5) - Danielle Rose Page 0,9

day?” Holland says, as if he would actually stop researching.

He asked me this same question a couple of weeks ago. At that point, I actually believed him. I agreed, welcoming the pause in research, thinking we might do something fun instead. We did not. Holland disappeared into the bedroom he shares with Jeremiah. I found him later huddled on the floor with stacks of books cluttering just about every square inch of that room. Never again did I agree to quit early.

I shake my head. “I am okay.”

“How about lunch?” Again, he smiles. This time, it is wider. His face is morphing into a creepy Cheshire cat, and I almost want to say no just to see if he can give me something even wider and more pronounced. Is it possible for him to transform his face into an even more eerie creature? Doubtful.

“I am not hungry, Holland,” I say, a little annoyed. “Let’s just keep going.”

Holland sighs dramatically, not bothering to hide his frustration. I lean over and pick up the book I dropped. The throbbing in my head is still a constant thrum, but I try to ignore it, hoping Holland will see that everything is all right.

When I sit back in my chair, worthless book in hand, Holland has his sight focused on the pages of a thick, leather-bound grimoire. He does not look at me again until it is nearly sunrise.

By the time Holland wants to quit researching for the day, my body aches. We have been sitting in the parlor, curled up with countless research books and grimoires, all written by supposedly powerful witches, for half a day’s time. And I am starving, my muscles stiff, my eyes heavy. My weak, mortal body was not made for this mental—and somewhat physical—torture.

I stare at the ceiling, noticing the faded paint and chipped drywall, blemishes on an otherwise smooth surface. In the corner, where the crown molding meets one of the walls, the wallpaper is peeling. I have never seen the room from this angle, but I admire the manor’s imperfections. It does not try to hide its impurities the way I do. I wish I could lean on it, using its support and strength to amplify my own.

I cross my legs at my ankles and wince as the pain in my lower back shoots down my spine. My body is tight, and I desperately need to stretch.

Rolling my head against the hardwood, I look over at Holland, who is still perched on the couch. I, on the other hand, dropped from the chair to lie on the floor. At the time, I thought it would be more comfortable. I was wrong.

“Need help getting up?” Holland asks.

I want to laugh because I think he is joking. I want to believe he is messing with me. I want to throw my book at his foot or smack his shoulder or roll my eyes. Of course I do not need help. I am not an elder!

But I do none of those things. Because I know he is not joking. Holland means what he says, and he truly believes I might need help pushing my weakened body off the floor. Ignoring his request, I turn away from him, letting my gaze settle on the imperfect ceiling once again.

I linger on the fireplace, which, positioned at the center of the room, is a true focal point. It draws the eyes of everyone who enters. But as soon as any visitor steps inside to admire the architecture of the custom piece built specifically for this vampire Victorian manor, their gaze travels the rows of bookshelves stocked with first-edition novels.

Even more are in piles on the floor. From classics to grimoires and historical references, the stacks tower over me, encasing me between seemingly endless rows of dusty, musty pages. None of which has contained even a single helpful word. I am beginning to think the answer is not here.

The smell of something absolutely divine reaches my nose, and I close my eyes, inhaling slowly, deeply, relishing every second of this moment. Because soon it will be gone. With my senses dulled since I was cursed, I am rarely offered moments of indulgence. I lick my lips, my mouth salivating as if I have not eaten in days.

“Come on now,” Holland says. “Up we go.”

I open my eyes. He is standing over me, his arm outstretched as he offers me his hand. Begrudgingly, I accept his offer, and he pulls me to my feet.