I’ve always been a magnet for boys. Since elementary school, love letters have piled up like junk mail. Terrified I’d turn into a teenage delinquent, my parents went nuclear: they arranged my marriage when I was basically a toddler. Having an "official fiancé" actually worked. It blocked most of the unwanted attention. Then came college. My grandfather passed away, so I went back to our ancestral village for the funeral. Bad move. Someone planted a "Matchmaker’s Curse" on me. The rule? If you’re marked by the Matchmaker’s Curse, you must marry the person the mark belongs to. Problem is, I already have a fiancé. 1 Back in my family's village, nestled deep in the Appalachian backwoods, there's a legend. Families with sons who are... undesirable... will scout for a girl and secretly bind her to their son with a dark hex. A mark appears on the girl's body: a pale, crescent moon. They call it the "Matchmaker’s Seal." If the girl’s family can’t break the curse, she has no choice but to marry the son—whether he’s a fool, blind, or paralyzed. If she refuses, the seal spreads. It covers her whole body, rotting her from the inside out until she dies. My mom used to tell me this story. I treated it like a fairytale. I grew up in the city; this hillbilly voodoo had nothing to do with me. Until my grandpa died. I went back for the funeral, and guess what? I became the main character in a horror story. 2 At first, I thought it was an allergy. I kept scratching at my collarbone until I noticed it—a pale pink crescent moon mark, right above my left clavicle. I showed it to my grandma. She exploded. "Which blind bastard dares target my granddaughter?! They must be tired of living!" My mom was frantic, stomping her foot. "What do we do? Clara is already engaged!" "Engaged or not, we aren't taking this lying down," my dad said, his face grim. The Matchmaker’s Seal is a type of Gu poison—ancient, nasty stuff. It’s hard to cultivate and even harder to plant. And if the curse is broken, the backlash hits the caster and the intended groom hard. No normal guy would resort to this. It meant the "owner" of this mark was likely desperate. Probably disabled, disfigured, or just plain evil. Grandma sighed. "To break the seal, we need to know who planted it. If only your grandpa were still alive." Grandpa was a master at breaking hexes. When he was around, nobody dared touch us. Now that he was gone, the wolves were circling. 3 "Clara, did you eat anything you shouldn't have? Especially from strangers?" Grandma asked. I thought about it. "No. Mom and Dad warned me before we came. I only ate at the house during the funeral wake." "Then it was someone close. Probably at the funeral banquet," Dad slammed his hand on the table. There were over 150 guests. It could have been anyone. "But those were all friends and family! Who could be so vicious?" Mom started crying. "List everyone with a son," Grandma commanded. "Especially the unmarried, disabled, or slow ones." Dad grabbed a pen. Out of 153 guests, 13 had unmarried sons. Ten were dating or engaged. That left three. One was my second cousin, Earl, from the next holler over. He had a bad eye and was thirty, still single. Another was Old Man Miller's grandson, crashed his truck a few years back, lost a leg. He was twenty-eight, unemployed, and just played video games in his basement. The last was a distant relative, Lenny. An orphan, nearly forty, malnourished, and honestly, kinda creepy looking. 4 "Lenny wouldn't. I watched him grow up. He wears your dad's old clothes. He has no money and no skills to pull off a hex like this," Grandma dismissed him. "Clara, tomorrow you come with me. We're visiting the Millers and Cousin Earl." She poked my forehead. "Look at you, zoning out! Aren't you worried?" I wasn't zoning out. I was terrified. Not of the curse, but of my fiancé. Mom looked guilty. My engagement was a result of my parents owing a life debt. Dad, oblivious as always, brought it up. "If he finds out, it's gonna be a disaster." "Clara's fiancé? When can I meet him?" Grandma asked. "It happened so fast, we didn't have time to tell you," Dad mumbled. "We need to find the culprit fast. Before... before he gets angry." My fiancé, Silas Vance. Honestly? I kinda wanted to see him angry. He was so stoic it was annoying. I'd only read about guys like him in books. 5 The next day, Grandma and I visited the Millers. We beat around the bush until I just showed Old Man Miller the mark. "Good Lord, Clara! It ain't us!" he swore. "We've known your grandpa for fifty years! Plus, Clara's a college girl; my grandson ain't in her league. Your grandpa warned everyone about this dark magic. I ain't gonna disrespect his memory like that." He seemed sincere. Usually, once the mark appears, the groom's family shows up within two weeks to "claim" the bride. If it were them, they'd admit it. 6 Next stop: Cousin Earl's place. Earl came out to greet us. He looked honest, if a bit simple. He scratched his head and told us his dad wasn't home—he was out with a matchmaker trying to set Earl up with a girl from the next town. Grandma and I exchanged a look. We left without even going inside. If it wasn't them, who was it? "Don't panic, Clara," Grandma soothed me on the walk back. "The culprit will show up eventually. We'll handle it." I nodded. I wasn't panicking about the curse. I was panicking because Silas Vance was coming. Silas wasn't just a guy. He was from a hidden clan of Daoist cultivators. Like, legitimate wizards. They fasted, meditated, and practiced abstinence. Basically, he was an immortal who didn't eat spicy Cheetos or BBQ. We were incompatible on a cellular level. But he was gorgeous. Otherworldly handsome. Cold, distant, radiating "do not touch" energy. Since we got engaged, he'd used his status to micromanage my life. No junk food. No staying up late. No clubbing. "Three months between Spicy Sticks. Six months for BBQ. One ice cream cone a year." That was his compromise. Beauty is great, but does it taste like fried chicken? No. 7 I was mentally cursing him when I saw a familiar figure standing in my grandma's doorway. My brain buzzed. "Uh... Grandma... you go in first. I... I forgot something..." I turned to bolt. I knew my parents would call the "Black-Faced God," but I didn't think he'd teleport here instantly. "Clara Yeager. Am I that scary?" I ran smack into a chest that felt like a marble wall. I looked up. Sharp brows, eyes like deep mountain pools. Silas. "Scarier than my Calculus professor," I blurted out. Oops. Usually, he'd cast a "Silence Spell" on me for talking back. For a chatterbox like me, that was death. I braced myself. But he didn't get mad. He actually smiled—a faint, terrifying twitch of the lips—and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. "Your parents told me I was too cold. That's why you resorted to planting a Matchmaker’s Seal on yourself. It's my fault. From now on... I'll buy you Spicy Sticks. Ice cream too." Wait. What? My parents told him I planted the curse on myself? To get his attention? I almost laughed. I failed biology. How would I cultivate a magical parasite? But... he said he'd buy me Spicy Sticks. And ice cream. "Really? Buy me two packs of Spicy Sticks and a double-scoop cone. Right now." Let's test the waters. Silas nodded. "Let's go. Your choice. My tab." 8 After devouring the snacks and licking the ice cream off my fingers, I burped. "By the way, I didn't plant the mark. Seriously. I swear on my GPA." Silas’s face went dark instantly. "Clara!" Whoa. Now he's mad. "Stop! No Silence Spell! Or I'll marry the hex-caster and cuckold you!" "You dare!" His face was thunderous. "Try me." I glared back. For the first time in years, I felt brave. His dark blue eyes churned with rage, reflecting my defiant face. "I will castrate the man who planted that mark." "Ooh! You broke the Vance Family rule against profanity! Hahaha!" I pointed and laughed. Silas's ears turned bright red. He literally vanished—used a speed talisman to zoom away. Embarrassed? Angry? Both? I love dragging this ascetic monk down to earth. Watching him get flustered is my favorite hobby.
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