The CuRious FAte of NelsoNora
MARISSA NOFER
Copyright © 2019 Marissa Nofer
All rights reserved.
ASIN: B07RLRBBP4
Cover Design by Story Wrappers storywrappers.com
DEDICATION
For Renee and Matt.
Thank you for countless books and adventures, and for greatly influencing my understanding of friendship and family.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are really no words to express my appreciation for everyone who encouraged and supported me from page one of my rough draft to seeing this book in print. I wrote the first draft of this book when I was fourteen years old. I had to cut at least six scenes focused around getting slushies (brand name slushies, you know which ones). The characters in this book will always hold a special place in my heart, and I am grateful to every reader who takes the time to get to know them. I hope you enjoy it.
-Marissa Nofer
CHAPTER 1
It was the same nightmare for weeks. I was lying on the shop ground as flames swelled around the edges of the room, swallowing the curtains and tapestries. My throat and eyes burned from the smoke, and the smell of the fire only amplified the usual thick aroma of incense and healing oils. A man’s boots approached, and the embroidered design on them distracted me. Had I not been so close to them from my position on the floor, I never would have noticed it. The pattern of triangles was fascinating as the smoke clouded my thoughts.
He leaned over me. He was strikingly angry. Even with my eyes blinded my smoke, I could sense that. “I bet you didn’t see this coming,” he said wryly. His hand reached down to my face, and as always, I jolted awake before it made contact. The problem with dreams for someone like me is that they seem an awful lot like visions.
I got up and hastily dressed for the day. One look at my bohemian nightmare of a wardrobe made me dread the graduation interview I had to attend in less than three weeks. To walk with my class, I needed to prove to the school board that they prepared me adequately enough to interview for adult responsibilities and future employment without becoming an embarrassment to the entire population of Raven’s landing. They didn’t ask everyone to interview, only the few black sheep. There was a zero-tolerance policy for strange people after the war.
I walked downstairs into the shop where Senora Connie was already setting up crystals and herbs for the day. The sign outside claimed that it was just a bookstore. “It’s the first day of spring. Big business,” she said in her thick Spanish accent.
“Good morning,” I responded pointedly. Then I noticed her new addition. A gaudy crystal ball sat on the reading table. She followed my gaze.
“You have an important client for today. They’ll love it.” She patted it and nodded with such finality that the ridiculous turban she was wearing nearly fell off. “I should know. I am the gypsy.” She laughed.
“You are not! You’re Mexican. And gypsy is a derogatory label.”
“Don’t start at me today, Nora.” She rolled the letter R in my name for an uncomfortably long time.
I left through the shop door while she was still listing off instructions for that day. It would be more of the same. No less than six clients wanting to know that the new season would bring love and prosperity. Married men wanting the spiritual green light to seduce their wife's best friend or worse… their daughter’s friends. Women wanting to know if their husbands would wander back into their bedrooms. Women wanting to curse mistresses. Then, just when I expected a daytime talk show host to come in with a manila envelope full of verified gasoline for their drama flames, some perverse individual would ask to meet me. They only ever wanted one thing… their time and cause of death.
I glanced at the burns on my arms as I pulled on my gloves. It was bad enough being adopted by the town nutcase, I would not walk the streets knowing the impending death of every soul I passed. It was bad enough that the post-war tensions had me living under a microscope. There were guards everywhere, and buildings boarded up in every direction. I kept to myself with rare exceptions, and I made sure never to let anyone close enough for our skin to touch. A moment of skin-contact and I would see everything about their death-to-be. Unnatural people like me remained number one on the government’s population cleanse list.
***
Within two hours of being at school, they called me into the office for a social emergency. It was about Westly, the closest thing to a family I had left. “He’s been in there for half an hour,” the secretary said with a nervous nod to a smaller office.
“And?” I asked.
“He’s had his break. He needs to attend class,” she snapped. It was the same old shit smeared on a new day.
“You know the situation. You’re all too chicken shit to call the Sheriff out for his negligence.” I went past her into the office where my best friend Westly was. He was spinning in an office chair and enjoying the quiet seclusion. “What happened?” I asked.
“We were out of eggs. The band is practicing with doors open. They removed all the books on weapons from the library because of the war. I am in the middle of a report about the importance of archery in ancient civilizations.” He ranted and cut off abruptly. His patterns of emphasis often left me surprised by where his stories ended. I was already unzipping his backpack and handing him his noise cancelling headphones we had stolen from the dumpster of a former sporting hunting supply store. Westly and I had that in common. We liked the quiet.
He was careful not to touch my hands even though I had gloves on. He didn’t know why I preferred zero contact, but he was perceptive and respectful enough to honor this unspoken system of ours. With the noise-blocking headphones on, Westly seemed immediately calmer. He took a few deep breaths, and we walked out together. The secretary began asking about hall passes and I raised a finger to give her the only hall pass she needed to see. Westly didn’t notice. He was deep in thought. “I’ve had enough of you, Nora!” she hollered out into the main hallway. It was entirely mutual. Between Westly’s need for space and my appetite for disciplinary intervention, I was in the office at least twice each week.
“Did your dad arrest anyone special over the weekend?” I asked Westly as soon as we reached his second period class.
“Yeah. There was a guy in the woods who would not cooperate. He set himself on fire.” Westly said nonchalantly.
“What the hell? When was that?” I asked.
“Last night. He drove his car off Gibson Bridge before that.” Westly said as he walked through the classroom door. The slow-moving door was almost closed before I could prioritize one of many questions. He had a real talent for leaving me hanging. I stood outside the door with my mouth still open in confusion. We had entirely different classes, so I didn’t follow him. Instead, I stood in the empty hallway and took a few deep breaths.
I could hear the faint whistling of the security hall monitor who turned to face me, so I started walking toward my next class. I knew I wouldn’t make it there. My anxiety would get the better of me. I hated school. I made a sharp turn when the hall monitor walked in the opposite direction and I went through the side doors. There was only one guard posted at each side entrance, and he stood up straight when he saw me.
“Where are you headed? We do not dismiss classes until—”
“Church.” I snapped. He legally could not prevent me from going to church, but he could trail me for three blocks until I entered the church building, and he did.
I waved obnoxiously as the heavy door took its sweet time to close behind me. Inside the chapel at 37th Bel
oved Rosary I felt safe. I wasn’t a Catholic, but I was welcome here. The government could ration our food and domestic goods, but they had trouble controlling infinite goods like education, communication, and faith.
“Back again, Nora?” Father Reyes teased. I didn’t know many priests, but I found it hard to believe that many of them were willing to entertain the bizarre philosophical questions of random teenagers.
“I couldn’t do it today.” I admitted. He nodded and continued repairing loose pages in hymnals with transparent tape. I respected his dedication. He mopped the floors and fixed broken furniture or whatever else needed to get done around the church. He was also a veteran of the war on genetic impurity. He fought for the people… all people.
I spent countless school days hiding out there. I opened my most recent library book and began reading when a few people entered the chapel. I sat in my favorite pew in the middle of the church and kept to myself. After a while, I eavesdropped instead of reading, though I kept my face safely hidden behind my wildlife encyclopedia. It was more of the usual heartache. Families who lost loved ones to the war and others who were missing and unaccounted for after the regulation camps were closed. It was hard to listen to these stories knowing that I should have been in one of those camps. I should be grateful to Connie for hiding me in the bookstore, but I knew her motives were rooted in selfish interests.
“Deep in thought?” Father Reyes asked, forcing my mind back to the present. The other people had all left or gone to pray in the far corners of the church.
“If the government truly believed that something connected you to an all-powerful being that could wipe this mess off the earth, do you really think they would have left the churches alone?” I challenged. He sighed and looked around before he leaned in to answer me.
There was something almost menacing in his eyes as he considered his words.
“If the government fears my God, do you think they would screw with me?”
CHAPTER 2
I didn’t walk back to the bookstore until fifteen minutes before the seven o’clock curfew for underage residents. The sign read Madame Connie’s Rare Books and Ideas, but the store was much more than meets the eye. It was an apothecary and psychic reading shop for those who knew to ask the right questions. The government guards tried on several occasions to report Connie for misconduct, but while they considered people with abnormal abilities illegal, abnormal thinking and interests were nothing more than a grey area. They had censored new publications, but those written and released before the war were uncontrolled. The elimination of the Internet paired with total media control meant that a business like this was rather taboo. You wouldn’t find any decent people in here, only interesting ones.
Connie’s glare pierced me like a poisoned blade as I hurried inside the shop. I could smell incense burning and her lack of spoken disapproval told me that clients were already waiting for the post-curfew events to begin. They called it the witching hour, though it was more like four hours of lies and theatrics from Connie. With any luck, no one would request The Book of Cold Hearts tonight. I silently tucked my backpack and sweater behind the sales counter and used a box knife to open the three boxes of books that came in our weekly delivery from private collectors and auctions.
It was my job to handle any customers who entered the shop looking to purchase books and direct the rest to Connie’s list of intuitive services. Mostly, the curfew prevented me from seeing people from school, and because we lived above the shop, I was technically at home where the law required me to be. I added our store pricing labels to each new book and shelved them according to the organization system I’d designed. I arranged the books by purpose and then by title. Most of them fell under the categories of natural healing, supernaturalism, meditation, alternative religions, philosophy, and modernly banned literature. I had mixed feelings about the shop. On one hand, I loved the books and knowledge, but we were practically begging to be arrested, and for someone like me, this was hiding in plain sight.
***
I was listening intently while Connie sold a woman an herb mixture that would reveal her husband’s true activities when he left the house for late night business meetings. The woman cried in relief that she would soon have answers. The mixture required that she continue to rub it on her hands while following him and remaining within one hundred feet of his location when he left the house for his next suspicious outing. I couldn’t believe people kept coming back to her for that nonsense. I laughed quietly to myself when I heard the bells on the shop door jingle.
“Can I help you?” I asked. I felt a turning in my stomach as my gut answered my question before he even spoke.
“I’m looking for The Book of Cold Hearts.” The man whispered. I nodded and showed him to the reading table at the far end of the shop.
“I’ll need you to wait here until the shop empties a bit.” I said with strained politeness. He gave a thin-lipped smile and drummed his fingers silently on the tabletop.
I signaled to Connie, who wrapped up her visit with her client swiftly and grabbed the large dark green logbook from within a safe behind a beaded curtain. There was never any money in that safe. Just information. The book was large and heavy with countless lines recording prior clients. It said their names, time and cause of death, and the former telephone area code of the place they lived. People came from all over the country asking for this service.
“What is your name?” I questioned sternly. The man’s face went a little pale.
“I—I thought I would work with her.” He said gesturing to Connie, who sat off to the side observing. I had locked the shop door to avoid interruptions, but these readings were generally quick.
“Not if you want what you asked for.” I corrected him. My age always seemed to freak them out a little. They expected a wise old woman with an accent and a devilish smile. Instead, they got a high school student with tattoos and a shitty attitude.
“By all means then.” He responded with a nervous smile. “My name is Scott.” I slammed the book closed.
“If you will give me bullshit in exchange for the truth, then just leave now.” I warned, pointing towards the door.
“It’s James… my—my name is James Traxler.” He stammered earnestly. It was the truth this time. I could always tell. I didn’t know the answer, but I knew lies when I heard them. I nodded and wrote his name in the book.
“What was the telephone area code before the war in the place you live?” I recited.
“Nine One Six.” he answered. His voice was still shaking. I knew the area code well. It was from California, one of the few states not bombed out of commission.
“Okay.” I sighed, wiping my mouth anxiously with my thumb. “Let’s do this.”
I pulled off my gloves and put my left elbow on the table holding my arm up as if I would arm-wrestle him. I never knew what I would see, and that position helped me fight the urge to pull away as if they had burned me. I braced my forearm with my right hand as an extra precaution, and he held a very shaky hand up and inched towards mine. It sometimes took people upwards of twenty minutes to bring themselves to make skin contact. For all his nervous quirks and stammered words, he was one of the fastest ones to take my hand.
The vision wasn’t aggressive. It was soft and weak. It was illness. I stood in a bedroom outfitted with a hospital bed and monitoring equipment that only the very wealthy could have access to nowadays. He looked to be about the same age, but thinner and his skin had the yellowing appearance that came with organ failure. In the vision, I took his hand and information filled my thoughts. It was August twenty-sixth of the same year and fourteen minutes to midnight. He died of unspecified cancer.
Distraught relatives and a golden retriever surrounded him. The dog had a greying muzzle and loyally rested beside him. There was a painting of newspaper sailboats on ocean waves, and an antique typewriter in the room. The vision began to fade as soon as I had all the information. It was typically only a split se
cond for observers, but it felt like several minutes for me.
“How much do you want to know?” I inquired as our hands broke contact. He looked a little skeptical.
“What kills me?” He asked.
“The cancer. You must already know about it.” I reasoned. He inhaled sharply and nodded.
“Where?” he continued.
“Home. In the room with the newspaper sailboats and the dusty typewriter.” I replied. He began to tear up. The next part was always the hardest part for them to ask. He just gestured with his hand for the rest.
“August 26th. Just before midnight.” I reported quietly. Connie scribbled that into the logbook now off to the side of our table. Sensitivity was not her specialty. James was weeping without making a sound. I pushed a handkerchief in his direction. He collected himself and dried his eyes.
“Thank you.” He said in a strained voice. “I can prepare my family and enjoy the summer with them.” I smiled gently. It was very rare that anyone thanked me for what I could tell them. He left an envelope of money on the table and left without another word. Connie was already counting the bills before the door closed behind him. I wiped my brow and tied my storm of dark hair up with a ribbon I’d stolen from an old battered book.
“Don’t look so tired and ugly. You have a nine-thirty appointment.” Connie scolded.
“You said walk-ins only from now on.” I growled. “I’m eighteen soon and I’m not doing this anymore. I’ll leave as soon as I graduate.”
“We don’t refuse work, Nora. And you have nowhere to go. You work here, or I give the guards your name.” She promised.
I felt angry tears in my eyes. I begged myself internally to just be quiet. It was always a losing battle.
“This will be the last scheduled visit, or I will burn this bitch to the ground.” I swore as I knocked a lit candle onto the floor and watched her scurry to stomp it out. It reminded me of my nightmare, and I wondered if my threat was as empty as I meant it to be.
The Curious Fate of Nelsonora (Fractured Universe Series Book 1) Page 1