Do Your Worst

by Rosie Danan

While other women inherited a knack for singing or swearing from their grandmothers, Riley Rhodes received a faded leather journal, a few adolescent summers of field training, and the guarantee that she’d die alone.

Okay, fine, maybe that last thing was a slight exaggeration. But a unique talent for vanquishing the occult, passed down from one generation to the next like heirloom china, certainly didn’t make dating any easier.

It was like Gran always said: No one appreciates a curse breaker until they’re cursed.

It was curse breaking 101: pin down the origin. In their most basic form, curses were uncontrollable energy. And power stabilized when you completed a circuit back to the source. Riley’s first task was always uncovering specific details: who, when, why, and how.

Gran had taught Riley that curses came from people, born out of their most extreme emotions—suffering, longing, desperation—feelings so raw, so heavy, that they poured out and drew consequences from the universe.

“The tale goes that when both clans’ numbers had dwindled so far that it looked like the castle might soon belong to no one,” Eilean said, her low, lilting voice weaving the story like a tapestry, “one desperate soul went into the mountains, seeking the fae that lived beyond the yew trees, determined to make a terrible deal.”

“Wait.” Eilean stopped working. “You’re not going to hit on him, are you?” “I mean, yeah,” Riley said, “but, like, respectfully.”

He paid, though she sincerely tried to get him to split it, suggesting they settle the matter in a thumb war, an offer he indulged purely for the chance to hold her hand. His life could do with an influx of whimsy.

“Have you been to her website? All those phony testimonials? The merchandise? Frankly, you should be embarrassed for having hired her in the first place.” Riley dug her nails into the meat of her palms. “I came here as a professional scientist, expecting to find a productive work environment.” The man’s voice pitched so low it was practically a growl. “I have a PhD from Oxford, for Christ’s sake. I refuse to allow a con artist to jeopardize the possibility of legitimate research. If the board of trustees from Historic Environment Scotland knew about this—”

“Why don’t you give this up now, rather than waste both our time? I mean, seriously, what evidence could you possibly produce?” “Trust me, sweetheart. It’s like porn.” Riley tapped his cheek twice with her palm. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Enemies it is,” Clark said, all crisp consonants and barely leashed scorn. “Do your worst.”

I’ve known a few guys who thought they were pretty smart But you’ve got being right down to an art

“Please don’t spit in your hand to seal it.” He’d seen that in a Western once and wasn’t entirely sure Americans hadn’t maintained it as a custom.

🤣🤣🤣

Clark as a cat person made sense. He too was prickly, standoffish, and arrogantly territorial. Personally, Riley preferred dogs. They were simple and devoted. You always knew where you stood with a dog.

“Why do you think thousands of people pass through Inverness every year, coming for a glimpse of an ancient monster or to touch a series of sacred prehistoric stones? It’s not just down to Jamie Fraser.”

“It’s the fairy thing that people get hung up on.” Ceilidh nodded sagely. “The fae have been Disneyfied enough that your average Joe pictures Tinker Bell—someone tiny with wings and a magic wand.”

“They’re always cruel, beautiful, and eager to make a deal with humans only to delight in the suffering that comes when they get their heart’s desire.”

“She said, I don’t need to torture my enemy with weapons, I will simply ensure he dies from a lethal case of blue balls.”

“Crìoch air naimhdean,” he read, his voice hoarse and low. She took out her phone, using an app she’d downloaded the other night for translation. “An end to enemies,” she read.

Curses are patterns. Inescapable repetition.

Especially now, without the halo effect of his father or brother—he knew he had to be the smartest person in any room. Otherwise, no one would want him there.

He’d never really teased anyone growing up. He’d always been too obviously sensitive to invite that kind of playful interaction. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, et cetera.

No matter how many times she pushed him, how many ways she tried to prove she didn’t want coddling, he always found a way to be careful with her. That, more than his condemnation, was hard to shake.

He was English. His people had practically invented repression.

🤣🤣🤣

From her lips, death.

“I was just going to say that even if it’s true—everything I said—about your brother, your dad—you’re wrong about what makes someone worthy.” “I’m wrong?” He had to laugh. If this was her attempt at an apology, it was as awful as her pillow talk. “Those are the last words you had to have?” “Yes.” He did turn then to sneer at her. Of all the wretched games… “I’m trying to say—I want you to know…” She ran a hand through her hair, making it wilder than it already was. “You’re good. A good person. And you’ll be good—the same amount—whether you’re a famous archaeologist or a disgraced layabout or god forbid you join a band.”

But now, if Riley thought—like she’d said—that somehow despite his moral deficiency, he was good… Not that he could be, if he atoned. He was, she’d said, already.

“You know, for someone who fusses over everyone else’s wounds, you could stand to be a little more careful with your own.”

“Hi. Um, so this is kind of random, but you know those romance books you’re always reading where one person, like, killed the other person’s family and at first the protagonist is like, ‘Watch out. I’m gonna bathe in your blood,’ but then when they end up in a sword fight a few chapters later it’s suddenly extremely erotic?”

“I’m saying I think the ancient, horny fae magic might not be satisfied until you rail me.”

Sure, she was impulsive, but that was different, action without thought. Risk was calculated. Riley had never been any good at the thinking part.

SAME

Maybe it won’t work, even now. Because it was clear to her in that moment that she’d never managed to hate him, not really, not even once.

world is flat. Earth is the center of the universe. An atom is the smallest building block of matter. If history has taught us anything, it’s how often we get it wrong.”

“It simply seems to me like spectacular arrogance to assume that anything I can’t prove is impossible.”

“You know what he’s like.” Riley stared at the door his father had stormed out of. “You knew the risk in standing up to him. But you were giving him a chance. To be better.” She turned to Clark. “It wasn’t an accident or oversight.” Like everything about her, the words were clear, definitive. “You’re braver than he is.”

But now. She carried his love for her in her chest. As if she’d swallowed the sun. And all she could think was I hope it’s the same for him. That he doesn’t just hear the words, but that they stay somewhere safe behind his ribs—a light that doesn’t burn out.

“I’ve never done this before.” Clark wrapped his arms around her until she sagged against him. “What? Broken a curse?” “No,” she said into his chest. “Fallen in love. How many more times am I allowed to get it wrong before you lose faith in me?” He ran his hand over her hair. “Oh, my darling.”

“I will love you,” Clark promised her, “even if you never break another curse. Even,” he repeated, “if you write a song and want to sing it directly in front of me.”

“Come on, enemies to lovers. It’s right there in the label. Don’t tell me you didn’t see this one coming.”

Gran didn’t care in the end if either of us decided to follow in her footsteps. She wanted us to know her. And she wanted us to believe in our ability to change things, to help people.”

“And now all of a sudden, I’m not in total control anymore. We have to trust each other. He’s there up close for every mistake. And it sucks because I want to impress him. As shallow as that sounds.” “Sounds like love.” “I’ve never had more to lose.”

“You’re cursed as long as you believe you’re cursed.”

A crushing sort of helplessness came with the knowledge that Clark couldn’t fix his dad. But he could fix the way he responded to him. Could make sure that whatever next choice he made—in occupation or partner or haircut—he did for himself.

Somewhere on that cliffside in Torridon, he’d accepted the fact that he adored—senselessly—complicated, extraordinary people. People who were exceptionally hard on everyone, but most of all themselves. He liked the striving in their mistakes, the messiness of their attention, the unvarnished surprises revealed by the way they approached everyday life. Clark loved the fierce way they loved him: like they wanted to protect him even when they couldn’t. “We all hurt the ones we love,” he said, softly, pointedly. “It’s why we must learn to make amends.”

If the last few months had taught him anything, it was that just because something hurt didn’t mean it wasn’t healing.

As it turned out, sometimes what you needed was someone who brought out the worst in you. There was a gift, she realized, that could only be exchanged between former enemies—permission to forgive yourself. Because if someone could see all your failures and faults, could actively seek out every possible reason to dislike you, and somehow still come around in the end, well, maybe your worst wasn’t so bad after all.

bought me a vintage writing desk you couldn’t afford. Even though we’d only been dating for six months. Even though I hadn’t finished a book yet and for all you knew might never finish one. I get as much comfort from your boundless faith in me as I do in the knowledge that you’d love me, just the same, if I never wrote anything.