Druid cursed, p.1
Druid Cursed, page 1
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Dedication
Content Warning
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2025 by C.J. Burright. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing believes stories have the power to inspire, connect, and create lasting change. That’s why we protect the rights of our authors and the integrity of their work. Copyright exists not to limit creativity, but to make it possible—to ensure writers can keep telling bold, original stories in their own voices. Thank you for choosing a legitimate copy of this book. By not copying, scanning, or distributing it without permission, you help authors continue to write and reach readers. This book may not be used to train artificial intelligence systems, including large language models or other machine learning tools, whether existing or still to come. These stories were written for human connection, not machine consumption.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Lydia Sharp
Cover and edge design by LJ Anderson
Cover and edge images by Valentina Khomutova/GettyImages
Interior design by Britt Marczak
Paperback ISBN 978-1-64937-953-5; eBook ISBN 978-1-64937-875-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition October 2025
To Karissa, for reading my books…mushy parts and all.
Druid Cursed is a steamy, dark, and witty paranormal romance with a happy ending. However, the story includes elements that might not be suitable for all readers. Death of both humans and animals, injury, blood, spirit possession, spell-casting, rituals, substance-induced hallucinations, frightening imagery, perilous situations, alcohol consumption, and sexual acts are shown on the page. Death of family members and an unborn child and suicide are discussed in the novel as part of character backstory. Readers who may be sensitive to these elements, please take note. Leave the ordinary world behind, step through the iron gate, and indulge in the magic and mayhem of Ravenwood Estate…
AWAKENING
Kellen Ravenwood opened his eyes to the gentle bloom of dawn, not the aching, glaring emptiness that had surrounded him for the last fifty years. Birdsong and the whispering of leaves in the wind filled what had been utter silence a mere heartbeat before. He drew in a deep breath of air scented with herbs, moisture, and loam. The unholy urge to weep nearly overcame him.
Home. At last, he was home again.
Caedmon, his twin in appearance if not personality, loomed over him while he sorted his senses. The slab of stone beneath him lost its warmth. Silver whorls embellished the surface, fading, remnants of the counter-spell Caedmon had used to free Kellen from his cursed prison.
A fleeting freedom, a final opportunity to make it permanent.
“Welcome back, Kel.” Caedmon flashed a smile, his black eyes glittering with unshed tears. “For being nearly six centuries old, you still look quite dashing.”
“And after nigh six centuries, you remain overly annoying, brother.” Kellen winced at the gravel of his rusty voice. He pushed himself up to a sit, uncaring that he was naked, his skin pebbling in Ireland’s late October chill. Sensation of any kind was glorious after the absolute void of his enchanted prison.
Caedmon handed him a flask, and Kellen sipped the fresh, cool water slowly, adjusting to the reality of being human once again. Free. Alive.
But only for the length of seven days, the barest relief. And this would be his last bout of freedom, ever, if the curse was not broken.
He pushed aside the yawning chasm within him that threatened to destroy his few remnants of hope. No matter the number of days, he would use them wisely. He would not wallow in defeat before it was done.
Kellen brushed off the dust, cobwebs, and failure of another half century gone by and grasped the robe offered by his twin. Their enemy believed a week of freedom was inadequate time to break her curse. Thus far, it had proven true, but he refused to allow her to steal his faith along with his freedom.
This time. He could not fail again. By the stars above and the earth below, no curse, no lie, no witch would rob him of his liberty. And woe to any fool who dared stand in his way.
He looked to his twin, who had just spent another fifty years searching for a remedy while Kellen remained trapped, unable to assist him. “Pray tell me you have favorable tidings.”
“I’ve found the key to breaking this curse,” Caedmon said with a nod. Before Kellen’s hope could soar, his brother’s smile bled from his face. “But you aren’t going to like what you must do.”
CHAPTER
ONE
Maggie O’Malley—formerly Maggie Jamison, thanks to a judge’s final signature—released the handle of her rolling suitcase and gulped an icy breath of autumn Ireland air. She shuddered and pulled her jacket tighter as she took in the ominous Ravenwood Estate ahead of her and Wendy.
The butt-numbing flight over the Atlantic and teeth-rattling taxi ride through gloomy, rain-swept mountains and misty forests should have prepared her for this, but the sour sense of unease sank even deeper. A twelve-foot wrought-iron gate blocked the way to the mansion and its Gothic gables peeking beyond the thick forest border. And not your average I’m-rich-and-you’re-not type of gate with curling vines and flowers. This one felt more like a warning, with spokes forming two fanged gargoyles, barbed wings spread wide. Totally went with the dark, enchanted woods vibe.
Even the air felt wrong. Heavy, like some unseen force pressed down on her.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked Wendy, her best friend and plus-one for the week ahead. Not that they had any quick getaway now. The cab had peeled out before she could even fully shut the door. And according to her cell phone, there was no service this far north. “It doesn’t exactly say, ‘Your lucky streak starts here.’”
“Relax, Mags.” Of course Wendy wasn’t put off by the creepy environment here. Horror was her happy place. She waved the glossy red-and-black invitation above her head as she moved toward the gate without looking back. “You’re going to win the cash grand prize, and you’re going to have so much fun doing it, every scumbag stunt your ex-husband pulled will be erased from your memory.”
Well, putting it that way made it hard to argue. Maggie resumed her reluctant trudge. Competitions disguised as week-long Halloween parties weren’t her usual M.O., but desperation made a mild-mannered woman regrettably reckless. And it beat sitting home alone, feeling like a complete failure. Divorce did that, even though she hadn’t been the one screwing a case witness, stealing from the joint bank account, or lying at every opportunity.
Her stomach cramped, the betrayal still a festering wound that wouldn’t quite heal. Apparently, judges believed cops over domestic engineers, no matter the circumstances.
Love, trust, and honor. What a joke.
She took a deep breath and waited for her heart to shake off the memories. This week, she’d do whatever it took to win the reward up for grabs—more than enough cash to get her house out of foreclosure, pay off her ex-husband’s interest, and fund her dream to open a shop.
Books, Brews, and Bygones—great reads, great coffee, and great curiosities. Selling all her favorites in one cute, convenient boutique was a goal she’d given up when she’d met Darren, who’d preferred that she stay at home and not work at all. He’d blamed it on his old-fashioned sensibilities, and she’d been too love-struck and loyal to recognize it for what it truly was. Control.
She’d never be that naive again.
At the gate, Wendy tapped a button on the video intercom with a glittery pink fingernail and brought her eye close to the security camera. “Helllloooo. Anyone in there?”
The lock clicked, and the gate creaked open, a horror-movie introduction come to life.
“Welcome to Ravenwood Estate.” Wendy twirled and sashayed on through. “Home to the mysterious, sexy—and might I add rich—bachelor, Caedmon Ravenwood. Rumor says he’s attending the celebration in person this year.” Her voice had taken on a sing-song tone.
“Great.” A sexy bachelor was the least of her concerns, rich or not. That was more Wendy’s style. Maggie was here for only one thing: the reward.
Wendy, the conniving witch, had entered Maggie’s name in the Magic, Moonlight, and Mayhem contest, a challenge for anyone of Irish descent to answer. Despite her auburn hair, Wendy wasn’t a lick of Irish—but she could accompany as a plus-one. Maggie hadn’t been upset with her, though. Wendy was only trying to help, and the chances of being selected were slim to none. But then, by some odd twist of fate, Maggie had actually been chosen to participate, so now, here they were at this place that was all things grim and Gothic. The competition details remained a bit sketchy, but with Halloween on the horizon, she had her suspicions that the agenda included more than mundane activities like modeling the latest cowl fashion or carving the fanciest staff.
Supernatural shenanigans so weren’t her thing. It wasn’t that she feared the unknown. Thanks to her Aunt Maeve, she knew too much about those things and preferred to avoid them.
The gate seemed to swallow Wendy as she passed through, and Maggie swore the shadows darkened around her friend.
Maybe her imagination was just going wild, but a chill scampered down Maggie’s spine. She stopped on the opposite side, refusing to enter. “It’s not too late for a flight back for margaritas and popcorn at home. Cat pajamas, The Princess Bride, what could be better? We can brainstorm other ways to raise money.”
Wendy spun so fast her hair pirouetted around her head. Her eyes glittered with green fire. “Get your ass over here right now.”
“But you know how I feel about anything…arcane.”
She sighed, her eyes softening. “You’re perfectly safe here. It’s all just innocent Halloween fun,” Wendy assured her. “And besides, do you have a better alternative to make some fast cash so you won’t be living in your car next week, Mags?”
“Rob a bank?”
Wendy laughed. “You’ve got this amazing Ireland vacation ahead of you and moolah to win. You’re not backing out even if it kills you.”
Kill. So not the word she’d choose. Maggie opened her mouth for persuasion attempt number two.
“Don’t.” Wendy planted a fist on her hip and tapped her red stilettos. “Even if you don’t make enough money to get your house back and open your boutique—which you will—this is an all-expense-paid, week-long trip to the luxury estate of the Emerald Isle’s most eligible bachelor. You need this. And I need this, but more importantly, you need this,” she repeated. “Three years of Darren dragging his feet through the divorce just to torture you is pure evil. We’re both going to flush his memory down the loo this week, a permanent break from the past and a fresh future ahead. Got it?”
Maggie grinned. Best BFF ever. “Don’t get all witchy on me. Sheesh. I’m coming.”
Wendy stopped her at the threshold and held out a hand. “Pinkie-swear we’ll never let a man affect our friendship, no matter how rich or badass or sexy he may be.”
“Never.” She hooked their pinkies together. “I’ll earn my own riches, fight my own battles, and won’t give any man with six-pack abs a second look.”
“What about bedroom eyes and a striptease smile?” Wendy arched a brow.
“Gross.”
“Suit and tie?”
“Posers.”
“Sword and shield?”
Maggie chewed on her lip. Tough one, considering she loved all things medieval. “Depends on the sword.”
“Nerd.”
“Diva.” Maggie hugged her. “You’re right. We both need this.”
“Yes, yes, we do. And just to be clear, I’m not saying we can’t have a good time with men, as long as they don’t come between us.”
“Right. Well…you can have all the good times with men for both of us on this trip.”
Wendy laughed and looped their arms, then pulled her through the gate.
A sudden gust of wind raked across Maggie’s face and ripped at her hair with icy claws. As she pushed the strands from her eyes, the wind swept and swirled a pile of dead leaves and scattered them in the air near Wendy. For a second, the foliage seemed choreographed by an invisible artist twisting them into a foreign shape. Crackling and spinning, the leaves crowded around Wendy’s ankles. They rose from the ground like a living thing while she squeezed her eyes shut, her face turned away.
The gate shut behind them with a clang, and Maggie jumped, the vibrations echoing in her bones. When she turned back, the wind had abandoned the leaves and left them in a shredded, lifeless circle at Wendy’s feet.
“Damn, they weren’t kidding about the unpredictable weather out here,” Wendy grumbled, straightening her fitted wool coat. “Do I have any leaves stuck in my hair?”
Maggie exhaled, long and slow, expelling the creepy vibes with her breath. “No, you’re good,” she answered. They were just leaves. She was going to enjoy herself this week, and she was going to win that money, come hell or Halloween.
…
Kellen Ravenwood tugged his tie and pinned his twin with a black plague glare. “Why must I don this infernal attire? Have I not endured enough torment in my overlong lifetime?”
“You can handle a tuxedo. Be happy I gave you boxers, not briefs.” Caedmon clapped him on the shoulder, and his raven eyes twinkled. He was clearly enjoying himself, the vermin. “Time to step into the modern age, Kel. Druids don’t wear hooded capes twenty-four-seven anymore, only optionally at rituals.”
“A shame.”
“In your case, maybe.” Caedmon tapped the leather thong holding Kellen’s shoulder-length hair back at his nape. “You need a haircut.”
He bared his teeth. “Death first.”
“Half a century older and just as touchy.”
“For valid reasons.” He scarcely needed the reminder. Cursed to exist in an enchanted box, his sole respite one week at Samhain once every fifty years, thanks to Caedmon—the respite, not the curse. His brother’s counter-spell had insurmountable limits. Seven individual escapes for seven sequential days. This was the seventh and final escape.
These next seven days would be his last bout of freedom if the curse could not be broken. Caedmon had claimed to have discovered the key but refused to reveal it until Kellen had dressed, which introduced a whole other complication. He attempted to fasten the tie once again.
“This is it. We won’t fail this time.” Facing him, Caedmon rested his hands on Kellen’s shoulders, then seized control of the tie, finishing it easily. With the exception of the neat goatee Kellen refused to shave and Caedmon’s shorter hairstyle, Caedmon was his black-eyed, black-haired mirror reflection. “After this week, you’ll be free. Forever.”
Free. Forever.
The words taunted him, too sweet to believe.
Kellen turned to the window overlooking the gardens beyond, where fading sunlight frosted the trees into a shimmering wonderland. He could no longer remember how it felt to lift his face to the sun whenever he wished and bask in its warm caress. To stroll beneath the fragrant boughs of fir, his steps silenced by moss and pine needles, absent from the heavy burden of finite seconds. True freedom was a dream he dared not hope for, and yet it remained his sole savior while despair wormed ever closer, year after year, patiently awaiting his surrender. If he returned to his prison again, this week would be his last taste of what it felt like to live.
“Here. Drink this.” Caedmon handed him a silver flask. “Lighten up.”
Instead of growling, he took a swig. The liquid burned a fiery trail down his throat to his gullet. He savored the sensation, starved for the simple human luxuries of heat and taste.
His brother swiped the flask from him, set it down on a side table, and said to the air, “Lights, dim.” The lamps immediately dimmed, obeying his command.
“What— How—”
“Lights, off.” The room fell into darkness. “Lights, on.” The lamps burned anew. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, brother. Just say what you need. You and I have the same voice, so everything should work for you. Except the sage sconces in the corridors, of course. Those are real flames you’d have to snuff out manually.”
