The Afflicted Zodiac Complete Series

by M J Marstens

  Hold tight!

  This is accompanied with a bouquet of flowers.

  Shit, I just gave him the perfect situation to be my silver knight on a horse. . . .

  Or is it my knight on a silver horse?

  It doesn’t matter because his plow is orange and it could be rainbow polka-dotted for all I care, as long as he somehow gets me out of this tangle. Is ‘thank you’ a sufficient gesture of gratitude in this situation, or am I going to have to cross the friend line again? Honestly, there are only so many more times I can cross that line before there is no coming back on his end. He probably thinks we are already dating. . . I should check his Facebook status.

  Facebook never lies.

  As I wait in the atrium, curious to see how Edgar is going to ‘save me’, I realize that I’m starving. When did I eat last? In reflection, I don’t think I did. All I ate today were Edgar’s donuts and that detox tea from this morning. I didn’t even finish the tea. It was even grosser cold. Maybe Edgar could run through the mini mart, since I’m not going grocery shopping now.

  Speaking of the hero of unrequited love (his), Edgar pulls up to the front doors in a blaze of flashing lights. He jumps down from the plow and marches straight to the front doors. He’s so purposeful, it almost takes my breath away- almost.

  Is he going to break down the doors for me?

  This guy has some seriously romantic notions. I see him raise a fist. . .

  And drop down a handful of keys, as he simply unlocks the door.

  Huh.

  I did not see that coming.

  He must see the questions in my eyes, because he says:

  “Mrs. Gerty gave me a spare key so I could help out around the library. I have been fixing some faulty electrical outlets on the side of shoveling the walks and salting them in my free-time.”

  He smiles sheepishly.

  “She’s such a sweet lady. She always thanks me by making a batch of cookies or a pie, since I live alone.”

  Mrs. Gerty, sweet?

  Now I have heard it all.

  Let’s hope she never finds out about Edgar’s infatuation with me or he can kiss his treats adios. It genuinely baffles me how Edgar is not married. He’s definitely a family type of guy, and I’m kind of surprised he’s not married with two-point-five kids already. Maybe he’s waiting for ‘the one’?

  I feel my stomach drop. . .

  What if he thinks I’m the one?

  I look over to Edgar, who has just finished relocking the door. He gallantly picks up my bag and walks me over to the passenger side of the plow. Nope, he’s just a true gentleman- he definitely does not think I’m ‘the one’. He helps me up inside and shuts the door. As it swings shut, I catch his look of adoration.

  Fuck.

  I’m in denial.

  Later just became now, and I need to rectify this before I do some serious damage to one of the world’s sweetest men.

  “I have a job interview on Monday.” I say out of nowhere.

  “Awesome, congrats! Is it here in town or in another border town?”

  I fiddle with my jacket zipper.

  “It’s in Arizona, actually.”

  He does an immediate double take.

  “What?”

  “My job interview is in Arizona. It’s for a metaphysical specialist position at the Miraval Resort in Tucson.”

  I watch his shoulders drop. Why do I feel like such a bitch right now?

  “Is there. . . is there someone, ah, there. . . that you’re seeing?”

  The question makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

  Does ‘no, not unless you count a vampire that haunts my dreams’ sound like a realistic answer?

  “No. . . no. Honestly, it’s the first place that has reached out to me from the hundreds of jobs I have applied for and is actually monetarily worth uprooting my life from here.”

  Also, it’s in Arizona and I hate snow, but I didn’t want to say that to someone who makes their living from plowing it. Clearly, you have to like the treacherous white puffs of frozen water to deal with it every day for half the year.

  “When do you leave?”

  “Well, I leave Sunday- but only for four days. I have an in-person interview.”

  “So you don’t definitively have the job?”

  He sounds a little more exuberant, which annoys me.

  “Technically, no, but Mary, the head coordinator at the resort, basically told me I’m a shoo-in!”

  I might be stretching Mary’s words a bit, but I feel really good about my eight-minute interview with her. ‘Oh’ is Edgar’s only response, and I feel like a meanie again. I reach over and take his hand and speak as truthfully as I can.

  “I like you, Edgar, and I appreciate everything you have done for me, but I’m ready to finally move on. . . past my grief. And I cannot do that living here.”

  “So, you’re breaking up with me?”

  Wow.

  One of us was seriously delusional, but I just didn’t know which one. . .

  “Uh. . . yeah, um, I think we need a break. I guess I didn’t even realize how serious we even were. . . I kind of am still just numb inside.”

  This confession seems to get a reaction out of him.

  “Of course! Please, you don’t have to explain further. I get it.”

  Doubtful since both his parents didn’t die in a car accident coupled with internal bleeding and hypothermia- but that response seems a little extreme.

  “Ah, well, thank you. So, again, thanks for driving me home. . . and I might have to pass on tomorrow’s dinner. I have to get packed and everything. I also have to undig my car and make sure it runs.”

  By now, we are pulling into my driveway and I have never been happier to get home.

  “Ok, do you want me to take you to the air-”

  “Nope! I mean, no thanks, I don’t want to inconvenience you any. . . I appreciate it though. Stay warm, Edgar!”

  I quickly shut the door, wave, and run inside.

  I find the potential vampire and I have something in common:

  We are both monsters.

  CHAPTER 7

  ZAHRA

  Sunday finally comes. Two more nights of sexy-time nightmares have put me on edge. But I’m fully packed and ready to finally wear a tank top again.

  Current temperature in Tucson: 76°

  Clemenston’s current temperature: 12°

  (And that is considered a heatwave.)

  I need to leave here at 10:00 to make sure I have plenty of time at the airport. It’s only an hour drive, but I want to give me two for safety, and another hour for check-in. You can never be too early, but you can definitely be too late. Another little gem my Gran used to tell me. I look out my living room windows etched with ice and frost. My car is scraped clean and dug out. . . along with my driveway.

  Edgar came by.

  Damn.

  How do I even begin to rectify that situation?

  Another time, right now, I’m going on a mini-vacation. I just wonder if there is any medication on the market, legal or otherwise, that would make me dreamless. I could really use a good night’s sleep. I had planned to sleep on the plane, but what if I do something embarrassing in my sleep? I swear to God, I woke up coming the other night. I didn’t even know women got wet dreams, but I was a sopping and quivering mess. And so damn horny, I made myself come another four times. At least I can get myself off. I miss Blue, though. . . that was my vibrator’s name, due to its actual color. But I think I might have accidentally donated it to Goodwill. Some lucky bastard got to unpack that treasure. Or unlucky bastard, depending on how you would rate finding a used vibrator in a box of miscellaneous housewares. I should probably shop for a new one. . .

  Sans vibrator, I pack my bags into my trunk and double check I have everything in my bookbag that I need for the interview.

  Check.

  Check.

  Double check.

  Good bye, Clemenston; hello, Tucson!

&n
bsp; The drive is a breeze (surprisingly), and I take this as a good omen as I pass through airport security. Once finally ensconced inside the airport terminals where no one can go unless they have a plane ticket, I start doing a little window shopping. I decide I can splurge a little bit and reward myself for a successful phone interview. Maybe they sell vibrators somewhere. . . I’m thinking a red one this time.

  NOT because Monster Man has a red penis.

  I just think it would create a more stimulating visual.

  Seeing nothing to buy, I wander over to the Business Class Lounge. The attendant is flirting with some airline stewardesses, so I decide to walk in and give it a peek. I have always heard how ritzy these places are, with a private lounging area, bar, and other amenities- like a free Wi-Fi hotspot. The darkened floor-to ceiling windows block any passersby from looking in but also creates an intimate setting inside. The lighting is low and black couches line the sitting area. Tinted glass dividers break up, what I presume, are other rooms of the lounge. Snooping around for the bathrooms (I like upscale toilets and privacy), I begin to weave around the glass panes. It’s almost like being in a maze of mirrors.

  Glad I’m not a bird, because I would never make it to another part.

  I round one pane and look up in time to see my reflection in the other across from me. Behind me stretches a hall and in the glass, I see a flash of red skin and long black hair before it turns the corner. My heartbeat kicks up and for a second I’m frozen with indecision before I race down the hall after him. The intricate web of glass dividers actually leads me back out to the main sitting area, where I bump into a woman. She’s dressed in a uniform and obviously works here.

  “Are you alright, ma’am?”

  “Did you just see a red man?” I blurt out, without thinking.

  Shit, I need to work on my brain-to-mouth filter. The woman’s eyes narrow and her mouth puckers in disdain.

  “Do you mean a Native American man?” She asks haughtily.

  “What? No! Are you racist?!”

  Now she just looks confused. . . and a little worried. I realize now she thought I was being prejudiced- not literal, because who has red skin for real?

  (Answer: my super white cousins who cannot tan. Only burn. They do not make an SPF high enough for those poor souls. By the end of every family reunion, they resemble human crabs.)

  “No-n-n-no, ma’am. Of course not, I just. . .” She trails off, obviously at a loss of what to say in this awkward situation.

  Trying to rectify the conversation, I say:

  “I’m sorry. I thought I saw someone. . . come this way. . . and I meant red suit, not skin.” She looks unassured by words.

  “Yes, one of our business class members did just walk out before you, ah, burst out here. He was leaving to board his plane. And he was not wearing a red suit.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Can I see your boarding ticket, please?”

  Fuck, that escalated quickly.

  Can security detain you for asking crazy-person questions?

  Can they detain you for sneaking into the business class lounge?

  More things to Google.

  “Actually, it’s time for me to board my plane, too, so thanks. . . for your help. . . and I’ll just be on my way!”

  I do not give her time to stop me, but simply dart past her and run down the terminal like my ass is on fire.

  CHAPTER 8

  ZAHRA

  Once I reach my gate, I walk to the restrooms across from it. I enter the family one for a quick second of privacy. Looking in the mirror, I question my sanity. I know I saw something. I did- but logically, the thing from my dreams would not be at the airport because it’s a figment of my messed-up subconscious. Maybe my grief over my parents’ death is deeper than I thought; maybe I’m unconsciously creating an outlet to release it through my dreams. . . . a really fucked-up outlet. Shaking my head, I make a decision: if the dreams have not vanished in a week, I’m seeing a therapist.

  I refuse to be crazy crazier.

  I come out of the restroom and sit at my gate. My flight does not leave for a bit, but I think I have gotten into enough mischief for one day. I need this mini-vacation, so no more asking if anyone has seen a red-skinned man. Yeah, I definitely can see how the lounge attendant took that the wrong way, now. I hunker down in a seat, away from everyone (in case security is looking for me) and pull out my charts to review for the interview. It says ‘Jane Doe’ at the top, but they are actually my natal and progressed charts. It’s not ‘professional’ to use your charts or a previous client’s for demonstrative purposes, but I know my chart like the back of my hand. I figure I’ll come across the most competent explaining it.

  So, for those who do not know much about astrology, a chart is a wheel divided into twelve sections. There are twelve zodiac signs, each having thirty degrees to equal a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle. Everyone has every sign in their chart; some are more predominant than others, depending on where the planets are positioned, and which signs are on the house cusps. We are so much more than our sun sign, which is what Western newspapers, daily blog sites, and the like focus on for our horoscopes. We are every aspect of our birth chart, comprised of every sign.

  There are ten planets in every chart: the Sun, Mercury, Venus, the Moon, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. (There is no need to point out that the Sun, Moon, and Pluto (debatably) are not planets. This is astrology, not astronomy, and I did not make up the rules.) Where and how the planets are assembled in a person’s natal chart tells me a lot about their collective energy. Planets can be grouped together or spread out, mostly on the left side or the right, or predominantly in the northern hemisphere or the southern one. Mine are fixated to the right (which brings interdependence and karma-reaping), but straddle both the upper and lower hemisphere, being mostly in the 5th and 7th houses. Only my moon and Venus are to the left.

  I’m so engrossed in trying to find new meaning to my charts (different days, different moods, they all bring a fresh perspective to chart interpretation), that I don’t realize someone is leaning over me looking at my charts, too. I stifle a gasp and rear back, almost back bending into the chair connected behind mine. He has sandy blonde hair, light blue eyes, a charming smile- and is currently eating up all my personal space.

  “Sorry, I was reading and looked over and saw your. . . I don’t know what, I guess, and it intrigued me.”

  He pulls back into his own seat and I relax a little. I don’t know what to say. On the one hand, I want to be repulsed, but this man is devastatingly good-looking. Like, I have never seen a man this attractive- unless we count my crazy, subconscious hallucinations (and I might). But I also don’t want to pander to the double standard of society where beauty is rewarded. A creep’s a creep, no matter how well-defined his arms look.

  “It’s a natal chart for astrology, but I don’t really appreciate you being in my space like this and leaning over me. It’s rude.”

  I try to sound firm, but I kind of want to lick his skin. He looks like a surfer and I wonder if it tastes salty.

  Shut up, hormones!

  You’re not invited to this party!

  His face retains its carefree smile but something moves inside his eyes. I get the sensation that I know this man.

  “Forgive me, us Calies aren’t big on personal space. I forget this from time to time.”

  “Calies?”

  “Californians. We are big on free love, equal rights for all life, and chasing the next big high- or wave, for me.”

  I guess I did have him pegged correctly, but his line seems delivered and full of hippy crap. Not every Californian is like this, and I think it’s an excuse for his behavior.

  “Right, well, here in Minnesota we like our personal space to be an arm’s length radius around us.” I state primly.

  “Oh, in that case, I’m not sure I was actually in yours then,” he teases me.

  Smartass.

 
I know I’m tiny- there is no need to rub it in.

  But I relent a smidge and give him a grin. He leans back in a bit when he sees my upturned lips and offers:

  “I actually was wondering if you wanted to get a quick drink? Our flight doesn’t leave for a while and there is a bar around the corner.”

  I’m in a quandary and my mind waffles in argument with itself:

  It’s a free drink!

  But he was in our space!

  It’s company for forty minutes.

  I’m trying not to lead anyone on anymore.

  It’s a drink at an airport, how involved do you possibly think you guys can get?

  I don’t drink.

  Get a water then.

  Fuck my logical side. He must see my eyes come to the same conclusion as my brain because a certain smugness enters his features. Imagine both our surprise when I open my mouth and speak from the heart instead.

  “No, thanks. I actually am preparing for a really important job interview and I need to concentrate.”

  He looks stunned. I don’t think anyone has ever turned this guy down before. I hope the novelty doesn’t endear him to me even more. Some men like the chase. . . even if they don’t understand the woman isn’t running- she simply is not interested.

  Take the hint.

  But he surprises me by standing up and shuffling off. Not a backward glance, not a ‘see ya later’, nothing. Huh, maybe I ruffled his feathers more than I thought. I’m not too worried. There are plenty of women here willing to soothe his wounded male vanity. Besides, I actually do have an interview to prepare for and I’m going to nail it.

  f

  SATURN

  I’m anxious and nervous. Foreign emotions that make me feel out of control. That’s a dangerous thing- when I’m not in control. I walk quickly back to the Business Class Lounge and simply walk in, not bothering to show the attendant my boarding pass. Good-looks and confidence speak volumes. Once inside a private room, with no cameras, I let my features bleed to red. My blond hair lengthens and darkens and I allow my true form to the forefront.

  I clench my fists to keep from raging.

  How dare she.

  How fucking dare she.