Lightning Struck (The Roaming Curse Book 1)

by Miranda Hardy

  Lightning Struck

  The Roaming Curse ~ Book One

  Miranda Hardy

  Lightning Struck

  Copyright © 2017 by Miranda Hardy

  All rights reserved.

  Lightning Struck is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means. The scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Quixotic Publishing LLC

  Royal Palm Beach, FL 33411

  www.quixoticpublishing.com

  Edited by: Keith B. Darrell

  Cover by: Steven Novak

  Lightning Struck/ Miranda Hardy. — First Edition

  ISBN 978-1-939588-16-6 (print edition)

  ISBN 978-1-939588-17-3 (eBook)

  Created with Vellum

  FOR

  FAITH AND CODY

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  The End of Book One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Read more from Miranda Hardy

  Chapter 1

  The last time I cried, thirteen people died. This is no place to sit and meditate, so I clear my mind and concentrate on controlling my emotions as the bus screeches to a stop next to me.

  Elysia, focus on your surroundings. Dad’s advice plays over in my head.

  The wind whistles through the dark treetops in the park across the street and races toward me, sweeping my hair into a swirly mess. I tug on my hoodie as a shiver runs down my spine.

  I breathe deeply, the early morning sounds heard before sunrise captivating my attention. As I listen intently, a frog croaks, splashing into the murky waters of a retention pond. Crickets chirp their familiar tune, reminding me of the swampy area we’ve called home for the past year.

  I peruse the small, quiet station. The lone clerk behind the counter sips his coffee, yawns, and continues to look at his phone. The aroma of fried food mixed with the stench of garbage invades my senses. Next door, a cook from the diner brushes dirt from his hands before reentering through the side door.

  Grabbing my duffel bag, I follow the young couple holding hands who are in line to board the bus. I silently pray I make it out of town. I’m used to being on the run, but this is the first time I’m running alone.

  “Is this your first time going to New Orleans?” The young brunette chomps down on her gum, causing it to pop in her mouth.

  “Huh?” It takes me a second to realize she’s speaking to me.

  “New Orleans? First time?” Her sweet southern accent and charming dimples stir a tinge of jealousy within me. She nibbles on her bottom lip.

  “Oh, no.” I mutter as we proceed to board.

  “Isn’t it the best? I mean, Baton Rouge is a bore compared to New Orleans.” She continues talking as I show the driver my ticket. “We’re just headin’ up for the weekend. You know, getting out of town and seeing something different.” Her eyes light up with enthusiasm.

  I nod.

  The two lovers sit in the front, making the back of the bus increasingly more appealing. I breath in the musty, heavy air and notice how old the bus is. The dark crimson seats need reupholstering, and cracks creep up the dirty white restroom door.

  As the driver releases the brakes, I plop down into the last seat in the rear.

  New Orleans is only two hours from Baton Rouge, and the morning bus is devoid of many passengers, making the ride more tolerable.

  I grip my duffel bag, remembering how Dad frantically shoved it into my arms and told me to leave. When he pushed me out the door and refused to let me back inside, I understood how dangerous things had become. I wish he had come with me as he always did, but I knew this time was different. We had stayed in Baton Rouge too long. I had made friends and started to settle, but settling isn’t in the cards for us.

  The bus jostles me back and vibrations tingle my feet through the soles of my sneakers.

  Why was Dad so cryptic?

  “Go. After I take care of a few things, I’ll find you,” he had said. Remembering the way he said it, his anger seeping through every word, gave me chills. It was so out of character for him. The hairs on my arms rise.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of red. I turn to look out the back window. A black SUV with a red flashing light on its roof barrels onto the sidewalk of the bus station and two people jump out running into the tiny substation.

  My heartbeat quickens and my skin flushes with heat. It’s too hot on this damn bus. I’m thrown back as the brakes squeal. We’ve reached a red light. Talk about bad timing.

  My hands sweat and bile rises up my throat. I know those people are looking for me.

  The shadowy figures reappear next to the SUV. The driver points toward the bus as they hop in and pull out into the street. Panic grips me. I realize even if I got off, they’d see me. We’ve already passed the park where the trees could have provided some cover. There are only residential, one-story houses on either side of the street.

  The light turns green. The bus lurches forward. The SUV is still two blocks away with its red light flashing.

  The SUV swerves around a car in the intersection. A horn blares.

  I’m trapped like a rat with a cat hot on my tail.

  Then the rain starts—poor cat doesn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter 2

  My fear triggers a new threat: hail. The hail pounds on top of the bus, like rocks hitting a tin roof. A thick fog blankets the area. Dark clouds block the rising sun making it appear as dark as midnight.

  “Where did that come from?” the young girl asks.

  The bus slows. The driver leans toward the windshield, concentrating on the chaotic weather. I’m thankful the sound of the hail blocks out the siren coming up behind us.

  The SUV swerves into the left lane. Its horn drowns in hail that now rips through the murky morning sky and hammers the vehicle like small shards of glass shattering on a tile floor. The quicker my heart beats the faster the hail comes.

  The SUV’s dim headlights scarcely appear visible in the thickening fog bank that envelopes it. It pushes faster, as the occupants ignore the possibility of hitting oncoming cars. My fear escalates and my hands shake as the black vehicle comes closer to the bus. At that moment, as if the Heavens hear my pleas, a large hailstone bashes in the windshield causing the SUV to veer off the road and ram into an oak tree.

  The bus jerks forward again. T
he driver doesn’t notice the crash we leave behind.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply, imagining a calmer place…a place from my past…a carousel of horses going round and round with an organ playing a marching tempo. The long metal silver pipes vibrate in the middle of the carousel, hypnotizing me. The vibrant colors of the horses appear as if they would rub off onto my fingertips. The fishy smell from the Atlantic Ocean invading my overactive senses make me want to ride the plastic horses into the depth of the ocean.

  The hail stops hammering the roof, and the fog subsides illuminating the greenery on both sides of the bus. The clouds disperse, revealing the rising sun with its bright orange and red hues.

  “That was weird,” the young girl up front says. She glances from side to side.

  I block her and everyone else on the bus out and wonder if I’ll ever ride a carousel again. Regardless, it’ll never be as marvelous as when I was younger and fascinated with the pipes playing music in the middle. Our imagination becomes less creative the older we get. I no longer dream of being a mermaid or fairy princess…my dreams now center on finding simplicity and consistency, neither of which I’ve ever had in my short twenty-two years.

  The echoing brakes jostle me from a light slumber. In a haze, I look out the window and realize we’re in New Orleans. The happy couple rush off the bus, as the driver wipes sweat from under his cap.

  It’s been eleven years since I’ve been to New Orleans and the unfamiliar streets look intimidating. The cab stand sits thirty feet away and that’s the quickest possible route out of the bus station. There’s no telling how far behind the Hunters may be or if they are here already.

  A slow rain trickles as I race toward the empty line. I realize my heart beats faster than usual at the thought of being caught here. A man stands against the first cab and looks up at the wet threat.

  “Can you take me to the…” I stop myself from saying the name of the hotel. My father’s warning blares in my head. Leave no obvious path, Elysia. “Umm, the House of Blues please.”

  “Cha, but I don’t think it open, yet.” The bronze skinned cab driver opens the door to the back seat.

  “Oh, I’m meeting a friend.” I toss my duffel bag on the seat and slide in. The rain falls faster.

  He nods and rushes to the driver’s seat. Although it’ll cost more for a taxi than it did for the $11 bus ticket from Baton Rouge, this is the best decision. The House of Blues is several blocks and a street over from the meeting place; I’m proud I remembered to direct him there instead of where I actually need to go.

  As we pass a few streetlights, the rain subsides. I’m filled with relief. The streets take on a more familiar look. I try to remember when I was here last. Although New Orleans isn’t far from Baton Rouge, it seems worlds apart. Often, my coworkers would travel here to party for a weekend. They invited me a few times, but I always said no…too scarred from my previous memories of living here, I suppose.

  When I was eleven, Dad and I lived in a small one-bedroom apartment just north of New Orleans. He helped manage the apartment building to get a discount on our rent. The residents used the onsite laundry room because the units didn’t have a washer/dryer. The swingset was worn and often broken so I’d play hide-n-go-seek a lot with some of the other kids that lived there.

  The kids thought I was lucky I didn’t have to go to school with them, but I was always jealous seeing them get on the bus in the morning. That jealousy led to one of the worst events I’ve ever caused and it saddens me to think about it…1,836 deaths and billions of dollars in damage all because of my anger with my father over not allowing me to go to school with the other kids.

  Hurricane Katrina should have been called Hurricane Elysia.

  Years later, when I turned thirteen and my pubescent turbulence caused wildfires in California, my father sat me down and told me about my “gift”. It seemed like a curse to me, and still does. That’s when I started writing down all the statistics related to the disasters I caused wherever we lived. I’ve since memorized them…my journals always seemed to be left behind when we moved.

  “You’re here, Miss.” The cab stopped in front of the House of Blues Restaurant & Music Hall. The unlined two-way street looks desolate in the early hour.

  “Thank you.” I hand him a twenty dollar bill, which offers him a nice tip.

  “Ya sure ya meeting someone?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Okay, then. Have a good day, Miss.” He drives down the deserted street, leaving me to stare at the blue HELP lighted sign above a door. How appropriate.

  The hot air feels thicker than normal. Flipping the duffel bag on my shoulder, I go east hoping I’m headed in the right direction. I pass Dollz & Dames, looking in the windows at the shoes lined up, wishing I were here on a shopping trip. HELP EVER HURT NEVER…the rest of the saying above the door and windows of the House of Blues building. I have no idea what that means. I continue down the street, past the box office entrance.

  The candy store on the corner looks enticing, but I keep walking hoping to find the street I need. A woman jogs by as the next intersection comes into view. It’s the right street and my shoulders relax. Conti Street.

  The dirty one-way street is in need of a good paint job. Red and blue dumpsters line the west side with a few empty cars parked on it. As I pass a parking area between two tall buildings, my duffel bag becomes heavier. When I reach Conti and Chartres, I worry and wonder if I’m headed in the right direction. It feels like I’ve walked for hours. The area looks nicer now with restaurants lining the street and wider sidewalks.

  The street narrows. I try to imagine what it looks like in the evening with a swarm of people flooding the area. Watching the sidewalks, I’m sure I’ve stepped over more than a few puke stains in the last block…gross. Several hotels come into view; I become discouraged each time it’s not the one I need. I underestimated the distance, thinking it would be an easier march than this. A drizzle of water falls down my cheek.

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

  My pace quickens as I shift the duffel bag to my other shoulder. British, American, and French flags wave in the breeze on a second-story balcony. The hotel sign under three red awnings is a welcome sight. A man hoses down the sidewalks in front of some German restaurant across the street, and I want to jump for joy…I’ve made it to my destination.

  A club-type restaurant and bistro lines the south side, opening into a courtyard. My stomach growls; the Creole food smells enticing.

  The hotel entrance is on the north side of the walkway between the two buildings. The open right door leads into a fancy sitting area with a marble coffee table and high diamondback chairs in front of a black leather couch. A lit, curved chandelier overhead reminds me of an elaborate display of Christmas fairy lights.

  A plump, smiling Creole woman stands behind the creamy counter, and a large display of postcards and brochures sit under the windows nearby.

  “What can I do ya for?” She yawns and scratches her nose.

  I place my duffel bag under the counter. “I’d like to check in, please.” I reach into my purse and pull out my wallet. “Lili Williams.” Dad always said I looked like a Lili. It’s an emergency name we haven’t had to use in any city we’ve lived in.

  “Checkin isn’t till four, but let me see what we have.” The stout lady sighs and clicks the computer keys. “One night?”

  I tilt my head down, trying to decide if that’s enough. I honestly don’t have much money for too many nights. The tips from last night are shoved deep in my jean pocket.

  “We have the Deluxe Two Queens room available for you.” She looks up to me through her fake eyelashes.

  “That’s fine.”

  “You’re lucky I’m here now…it was a crazy party night and we usually end at 5:30. It’s been slow lately, though.” She clicks away on her keyboard. “It’s $129 per night plus tax.”

  I hand her my ID and cash. She swipes the keycard for me and provides a pape
r holder for it with the room number written on it.

  “Check-out’s 11AM. Have a good day now, ya hear.”

  She forces a smile. I pick up my duffel bag and head to the dark glass elevator. The doors open to a mirrored box outlined with gold trim and rails. An advertisement for the club hangs on the left of the doors.

  Sconces line the third-floor hallway and the raggedy, flowered carpet looks as if it hasn’t been replaced in decades. The doors are freshly painted in the cream-themed color with florid designs over them. My room is next to the exit sign.

  The squashed room holds two beds, an armoire, and a desk. It doesn’t have a balcony, of course, but the view of the courtyard is cozy to look at. I throw my purse and the duffel bag on the bed. My nervousness kept me from opening the duffel bag on the bus, but it’s time to see what Dad packed.

  I pull out several tops and jeans. An envelope falls onto the covers. I can barely control my shaking hands to open it. My chest constricts; raindrops hit the window. I take a deep breath as I slide out the folded piece of paper.

  Dear Elysia,

  Seeing you blossom in Baton Rouge this past year made my heart happy. You made friends and smiled more than I’ve ever seen. It pains me to think you’ve not been afforded the same opportunities that others get. You’ve not been able to go to college under your real name, yet I’m so proud of you for taking the courses you enjoy most just to learn. You would’ve been a skilled ecologist if given the chance.

  I blame myself for the things you’ve not been able to do, and you’ve never blamed me for it or questioned me or my guidance. When the feeling to flee surfaced a few days ago, I ignored it. I was praying it was false and would pass, as we’ve been here longer than any other place. I cried. I cried for you, mostly. Another place to settle, more friends to leave, a new job to find – this isn’t the life I’d want for my worst enemy, let alone for you – the only one I love on this planet.