Cursed in Love

by Kenborn, Cora

  His tie is pulled loose, and his hair is even more disheveled than usual. My earlier suspicions are confirmed when I see his face. His nose is swollen and purple, the shape bent at an unnatural angle.

  Definitely broken.

  The scent of stale whiskey radiates off him in a nauseating wave I can taste.

  “Where have you been?” I demand.

  Eyes as rich as the earth’s soil glare back at me. “Out trying to numb the pain in my face. Someone has a nasty right hook.” His eyes scan my dress. “I see you decided to finally change clothes.”

  He tries to move past me, but I block him. “Answer the question.”

  He takes a purposeful step forward, and I step back. The tension between us crackles, and his jaw tightens. “I think the better question is, why did you break into my house? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  My actions are riding on a picture I can’t get out of my head and a stranger. A stranger who may or may not have fed me a line of bullshit to get us both out of the way. Still, there’s guilt in his eyes, and it fuels my nerve.

  “I know,” I announce, the confidence in my stance betrayed by the slight wobble in my voice. Clearing my throat, I take a step back, determined to not show weakness.

  “Is that so?” He smiles. The asshole actually smiles, and a sliver of fear crawls up my spine. “And what is it that you think you know?”

  “You‘re one of them.” I almost choke on the words, the taste of them as bitter as they sound.

  His furious expression turns to stone, and his cold eyes bore into me. A few precious beats of silence between us break as he lunges forward and cups my cheek. Unforgiving fingers dig into my hair and jerk my head back. Refusing to show weakness, I wait for his muscles to tighten — a sure sign of what’s to come — but it’s his eyes that give him away, narrowing until only a dark void remains.

  “You’re starting to act a little crazy, Mila,” he snarls, the smell of stale alcohol and fear making me gag. “You should probably shut your mouth before they find out and you end up like all the others.”

  The others.

  Horrific pictures flash through my mind, and I swallow back the bile crawling up my throat. He wants my fear, and the battle waging inside me almost gives it to him. Instead, I clamp down on my tongue. He can’t have my fear. It’s the only thing reminding me that a piece of me is still in there.

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  A low growl rumbles in his throat, forcing a wall of panic to swell within my chest. Realizing my mistake, I brace for an impact that never comes. Instead, the corner of his mouth curls up in a chilling smile just before he turns his back to me. Only then do I realize it’s not whiskey swimming in his eyes. It’s the devil himself.

  “Have a seat, Mila.” My eyes focus on his stiff and robotic steps as he makes his way down the hall. “It seems I have some calls to make.”

  After the door to his office slams, I stand in silence. I don’t remember moving, but minutes later I find myself in the kitchen, holding an empty bottle of beta blockers in one hand and a glass of cloudy whiskey in the other. His words echo in my head as if he’s still standing in front of me.

  “You’re starting to act a little crazy, Mila. You should probably shut your mouth before they find out and you end up like all the others.”

  He’s both right and wrong. I’m not crazy, but when secrets are revealed, history repeats itself.

  Just not today.

  The amber liquid inside the glass turns my stomach, but I walk with a steady hand toward his office. Taking a deep breath, I drop the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels by the door and knock.

  “I’m sorry. I brought you a drink to apologize.” As I wait in silence, I press my ear against the door, afraid he may have passed out. Unsure, I take two backward steps when the door swings open, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes. He has discarded his suit jacket across the small leather couch and opened three buttons on his shirt, either getting comfortable, or ready to make good on his promise.

  I have no plans to wait around and find out. Forcing a smile, I extend my arm. “Whiskey neat. Just the way you like it.”

  He grabs the glass and returns to his desk, stopping only to glance over his shoulder with a sneer. “It’s a little too late for a peace offering.”

  I watch as he lifts the glass to his lips and drinks. First one sip. Then another. Then another.

  My heart races. I wait.

  He drains the glass. I wait.

  Sweat beads across my forehead. It drips down his temple.

  I bite my lip. He rubs his furiously.

  “Are you okay?”

  He claws at his throat, the glass slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor. “I can’t . . . breathe.”

  “What’s that? You’re mumbling.”

  His eyes flutter and narrow as he tries to focus. The wheezing sounds worsen as he tumbles off the chair onto his knees. “No . . . air . . . call . . .” He crawls to his desk, his hand slapping frantically beside the laptop.

  Calmly stepping over the shards of glass, I pick up his phone from the edge of his desk. “Is this what you need?”

  He nods while foaming at the mouth. “911,” he croaks, the exertion sending him flat on his back.

  “About that.” I tap my index finger against my lips. “See, I would, but I’ve been ordered to shut my mouth.”

  Both hands grab his chest, and his eyes widen. I don’t know if he can read my thoughts, but the moment his expression changes, he understands.

  “He . . . will . . . rise.”

  His body jerks twice then collapses. Part of me wants to cry. Part of me wants to touch him — to make sure he’s really gone. In a city like New Orleans, sometimes death is only temporary. Just to be sure, I hold his phone to my chest a few more minutes before wiping it down and tossing it across the room on the couch.

  While facing him.

  A sharp whiff of stale whiskey knocks me out of my haze, forcing me to take a good look at what I’ve done. The man I once trusted lies motionless, staring up at a ceiling he doesn’t see. I can’t help but feel a little envious. His problems are over, but mine have just begun.

  I’m lost in thought as the lights flicker then go out, plunging the house into complete darkness. I rationalize it’s just the storm until the sky illuminates, and I see a shadow pass outside the window.

  Shit!

  I don’t have the stomach for the more gruesome aspects of what I’ve seen done to the others, so I settle for the finale. Pulling a book of matches from my pocket, I strike four until I’m able to ignite a single flame. With the tiny flicker lighting my way, I retrieve the bottle of whiskey I left sitting outside the door. Before I can change my mind, I dump it over his body and drop the bottle by his feet.

  There’s only a slight hesitation — one moment where I wonder if maybe he’s right.

  Am I crazy?

  But before I can answer my own question, the flame hits the bottom of the stick, singes my fingers, and I drop it.

  Within seconds, his body is engulfed in flames.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Forcing myself to look away, I feel my way to the front door and fling it open, fighting my own feet as I tumble down the front stairs. My perception of time distorts, and everything slows until I can see nothing but a sky that seems to swallow me whole. The weightlessness ends, and reality comes crashing back around me as my right hip takes the brunt of my fall.

  “Son of a bitch!” I let out a shriek as I land. Pain from nerve endings I didn’t even know I had sears through my body, momentarily blinding me.

  Focus!

  Thunder cracks again, and I crawl on my hands and knees away from the iron railing. I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that metal is dangerous during storms, but if I don’t get the hell out of here, I won’t have to worry about the storm killing me.

  The burning house will.

&nb
sp; Squeezing my eyes shut, I press one palm against the concrete and pull myself up. Shaking, I ignore the pain in my hip and run toward my car parked at the end of the darkened street. Throwing myself inside, I close my eyes just as lightning blasts, casting an ominous glow behind my lids.

  I have no idea why I bothered to run. It’s not over. They’ll still come for me.

  Turning the ignition, I slam my foot against the gas pedal and tear through the historic streets of the French Quarter. Growing up, I was taught that New Orleans is a labyrinth of death. A city of secrets to be loved and revered. Even though I knew the lore well, I blame my mother for forcing the belief down my throat that has led me here.

  “Respect death and it will respect you.”

  However, she was wrong. Death respects no one, and destiny can’t be denied from the ones who have waited centuries to claim it. That’s what they promised, and if I’ve learned anything in first hunting then running from them, it’s that they always make good on their word.

  * * *

  I can’t shake the feeling I’m being followed.

  Light after light. Turn after turn. The same dark sedan mimics my every move. I glance at my rearview mirror, but without daylight on my side, it’s almost impossible to distinguish anyone inside the car.

  Normally, I would never consider doing what I’m about to do, but if someone is after me, I’m not leading them right to Odyn’s door. I have to force their hand, but it won’t be anywhere near Chartres Street.

  Besides, I don’t exactly have the law on my side right now.

  In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve found out the father I thought was dead is actually trying to kill me, my therapist is a homicidal psychopath, and the man I’ve been sleeping with has probably just committed voluntary manslaughter.

  Oh, and there’s also the fact I just murdered my ex-husband.

  My foot pushes down on the gas, and the car lurches forward on the wet road. The small distance I gain is quickly closed when the sedan follows suit. Panic starts to bubble in my chest, and then I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye.

  A little boy is standing on the corner just ahead in the pouring rain. His shaggy brown hair is in desperate need of a haircut, but it’s not what I focus on. I can’t take my eyes off his feet. Two soot covered bare feet.

  Eighteen.

  My heart aches for the boy who will never grow up. Whose feet will never find shoes. Whose only fault I somehow now know was loving his puppy so much it returned to him.

  After it died.

  And just like that, the panic fades.

  “Okay, you want to play?” I hiss. “Let’s play.” I take a hard left, my tires protesting the sharp turn with a squeal. Lightning flashes across the sky in a zigzag pattern, and I squint against its glare. With my attention bouncing between the road and the mirror, I wait to see if they follow. To my surprise, the sedan passes by me, continuing on its path. I don’t know whether to be relieved or confused as I let off the gas.

  “Get a grip, Mila.”

  The words are barely out of my mouth when I glance up just in time to see the sedan speed backward down the same street and then gun it, the front right side clipping a stop sign as it barrels toward me.

  “Shit!” I slam my foot down, and the pedal digs into the floor mat. The speedometer lurches from fifty to one hundred miles per hour in less than five seconds. Scenery flies by me in a blur as rain continues to pelt the windshield, but I don’t have time to worry about what will happen if I lose control.

  The sedan is dangerously close, and as fast as I’m driving, they’re faster.

  Sweat rolls down my temple as I force the car to do things it was never meant to do. It shakes in protest. There’s no more power and no more gas to force, but I still press harder on the pedal as if it will magically launch the car past its limits.

  It doesn’t.

  As the sedan gains speed, it swerves right, slamming into the rear driver’s side door. I barely have time to scream before the airbags deploy, punching into me so hard I feel my skin break apart. I’m so focused on the pain I don’t realize the car is airborne until it lands with a crunch of twisted metal and shattered glass. I’m in an endless roll of constant motion until the car lets out a final wail, my body hitting the roof in a jumble of bones and organs.

  The world flickers. Light becomes dark as the effort it takes to draw a breath grows more and more difficult. Just before the darkness claims me, I smell it.

  Smoke.

  I’m going to burn to death just like all the others.

  “I’m sorry,” I rasp, the words broken by desperate gasps for air.

  “Don’t be sorry, cher,” a deep voice says beside me. “Gerard and Nick were dead weight. You did me a favor. However, I’m afraid I’m going to need one more from you.”

  I cough, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “Go to hell.”

  He laughs, the sound more frightening than my own death rattle. “I have every intention on it.” Glass breaks as he squats down beside what was once my window, and I look into a replica of my own eyes. “I can’t wait to be reunited with your whore mother.”

  Chapter 18

  Odyn

  The streets are dead quiet, and the more I follow the apparition before me, I realize it’s leading me directly to my possible death. But that’s okay. If I save Mila in the process, I’ll happily spare her life for mine.

  The house that comes into view is foreboding to say the least, and I realize I’m going to have to jump a fence or some shit. I hit dial on Mila’s number again, but I’m met with the same happy tone of Detective Moroz and her “leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Fuck sake, Mila!” My voice thunders in the car as I pull up to the large black metal gates. There aren’t any lights, and as much as I’d like to make it known that I’ve arrived, I shove the car in reverse and park down the way behind a tree.

  Shoving open the door, I grab a gun from the glove box and secure it in my belt. I’ve never had to use the thing, but Lola always told me to keep it handy. I guess this means I’m going to finally be handy in times of trouble.

  The moment I reach the fence, I note there’s no way over. Digging a hole is not an option. I guess I’m ringing the goddamned doorbell. I’m about to head back to the ornate entrance when a car pulls up, and the gates slide open slowly. I don’t recognize the car, but it’s dark, and it could be someone I’ve seen before.

  The moment the gates start closing, I manage to slip through the gap, and I’m on the property. My heart is in my throat, banging like a wild animal needing to be let loose.

  “Mila, you better be alive,” I warn as I inch my way up the garden, hidden behind the trees and shrubs. The house is soon illuminated, and I wait, unsure how to approach the large monstrosity. In the distance I hear a car door slam followed by the deep grunts of something, but I can’t make out the words.

  Wiping the rain away from my face, I catch a glimpse of a man entering the house. Behind him, two large goons are holding onto a slim, yet beautiful woman.

  Mila.

  I want to run out there and save her, but I know that will only get us both killed. I hang back until they’re in the house and the front door has shut before I move closer.

  Moments later, three other black town cars pull onto the property, and I realize the Elders must know Mila has been captured. They’re about to start the ritual. I’m sure of it.

  As each one exits his vehicle, I take them in. Older, frail men will be much easier to take down than the two goons I noticed holding Mila. Once they’re inside, I sludge through the soggy earth toward the back of the house. Something tells me there’s a basement or dungeon of sorts.

  The moment I round the corner, I find what I’m looking for. Two doors are shut, and I’m sure they lead down into a ritual room. Silently, I move closer, hoping to find a window. I need to see what’s going on inside.

  I’m on my stomach, snaking my way toward the
building when a light flickers on, startling me and causing me to still all movement. The room in question is exactly what I thought it would be.

  On the floor in the center of the room is a blood-red circle with a large pentagram in the middle. Each of the Elders are in their dark brown cloaks, hooded in the shadows. Mila is brought into the room, making my chest ache. I notice she’s not saying anything, merely glaring at her father. She looks a bit like him, but there’s more of her mother in her. She is certainly a mixture of Mya and the asshole who’s now captured her.

  After lighting candles, they move around the space with Mila bound to a chair. I inch closer, hoping she’ll look up. I want her to know she’s not alone. I need her to see me.

  “Please Mila, look at me, sweetness,” I plead into the darkness. For the first time in my life, I pray into the night to a God I don’t believe in. Two seconds later, as if my prayers are answered, she flicks those gemstone eyes toward me, and they widen for a fraction of a second before turning away.

  Did she see me?

  I pull out the gun, my finger on the trigger and ready for action.

  I’m about to move when I hear the chanting begin. Her father reaches for her wrist and lifts the long steel blade, and that’s when I make my move. With the barrel pointed at one of the Elders, I pull the trigger. Moving quickly, I aim for the other old man and get him on the ground with one shot.

  They’ve seen me.

  I need to get her.

  I’m on my feet, racing for the house when I hear a shot ring through the air, and I know I have to get to Mila now.

  Chapter 19

  Mila

  I quickly turn away from the window. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. Not only am I seeing dead people, I’m now hallucinating living ones.

  The rattle in my chest worsens, and every breath feels like a wall of spikes being driven into my lungs. I don’t even have the energy to fight when my father’s hand lifts, and I see the glint of a long blade flickering in the candlelight.