They came to a clearing. The gray and Pita kept to the heavy undergrowth. Pita got down on all fours and followed the wolf, keeping her head down to shield her face from the backlash of the dense foliage. Branches pulled at her hair and scraped her arms as they neared the edge of a wide clearing. The scent of wet leaves and moss wafted up and dampness seeped into her clothing. She sat back on her legs as quietly as possible and peered through the bushes into the clearing. She gasped but covered her mouth before any sound escaped.
Before her was a caravan of Gypsies. A circle of vehicles surrounded them: old pickup trucks with homemade camper-like additions built into the back beds, station wagons, and even old horse-drawn carts right out of an old Gypsy movie. About thirty people milled about. Some sat by a large fire talking loudly and laughing, while others worked at some project or other and children ran about playing amongst themselves and a couple of mangy dogs.
“The dogs...” Pita didn’t finish her thought. She couldn’t speak. At that moment time stopped. Her eyes locked with those frightening dark ones of the Matriarch, the woman from the plane. The cold black orbs seemed to focus on her.
“She knows we’re here.” Pita whispered.
“Yes...” That single word burned in her head like a hot branding iron. The wolf leaned against Pita as if to comfort her, to let her know it was there beside her. But she felt no comfort just cold fear like icy water running through her veins.
Malevolent eyes bore into hers, dark fathomless hatred reflected within. Then the woman’s voice sliced into Pita’s head.
“Go back from whence you came. You will not win, Pita Sedgwick…”
Knight’s paranormal romance, Curse of the Marhime, unifies past and present in a suspenseful and provocative wolf tale of passion and love.
~Faith V. Smith
Pita Sedgwick is minding her business, tending to her normal if not mundane life when a chance encounter with a gypsy foreshadows mysterious dreams and wolf sightings that stir passions and a longing for the home of her birth and the man she was destined to love forever. There’s one small problem; embracing her heritage and true nature means accepting her non-human side. How’s a girl to manage?
You’ll want to sit back and get lost in Dayana Knight’s descriptive and spunky writing style in Curse of the Marhime to find out! I did and enjoyed it.
~Pamela Ridley, author of Between Tears and Lies Too Long. (p-ridley.com)
Curse Of The Marhime
by
Dayana Knight
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Curse Of The Marhime
COPYRIGHT Ó 2008 by Sharon L. Connors
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Black Rose Edition, 2008
Print ISBN 1-60154-353-0
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my grandmother,
Edna May Raymer, a sweet, gentle soul.
Your memory and love will always be in my heart,
your name whispered upon the lips of all who read this book.
Acknowledgements
I would like to give hugs and kudos to my editor, Natasha Bacchus, for her patience, motivation, and knowledge. I am a better writer for having
worked with her.
To my husband, who spent many hours alone, while I toiled over both the writing and editing process, without complaint. His continued support and encouragement are priceless,
and I love him all the more for it.
Finally, to David Hayes whose invaluable experiences and time spent in Romania along with his tireless efforts reviewing this work again and again has helped to mold my story into what it is today.
Prologue
A village in Romania, 1965
The tortured screams had long subsided to labored, raspy breaths. The wasted creature lay unconscious bathed in her own blood and sweat. Cast out as marhime−one deemed dirty, impure, from society and her family−the young woman slept, feverish and emaciated, on the small cot while her infant lay wrapped in tattered blankets beside her. Stubbed candles flickered; casting long shadows and did little to improve the pallor of the girl’s deathly, pale face.
An old drabarni, more commonly known as a healer amongst the Roma, whisked the small bundle out of the smoke filled tent into the arms of a dark, swathed accomplice who swiftly disappeared into the ebony night.
As she dropped the flap and turned toward the wasted being upon the cot, the old woman felt a terrible stab of pity in her heart. The poor child would die with not a single loved one beside her. As if in answer to her dark thoughts, the screech of an owl broke the silence of the night. The drabarni shivered as a chill passed over her and the oppressive heat of the small tent suddenly turned icy. Her fingers clenched down on the bits of bread she carried in her skirt pocket to ward off the bibaxt. Too much bad luck had settled upon her already.
“Death will come soon, my child,” she whispered and knelt down beside the cot to swath the girl’s clammy forehead with a cool cloth. The girl whimpered in response, then lost consciousness once again.
****
The old woman awoke in the gray light of the dawn and realized something had changed during her brief slumber. No longer did she hear the labored breath of her patient. She slowly lifted her head from the edge of the cot where it had settled and peered at the lifeless girl.
Whispering a small blessing, she struggled to her feet, lifted the threadbare sheet, and gently covered the girl’s face careful not to touch the body. She slowly made her way out of the makeshift tent into the fresh morning air. Lifting her face to breathe the pine scent of the forest, she gave thanks that she no longer would inhale the coppery smell of blood or acrid odor of suffering.
Walking the short distance to her small hut, she heard a rustle and a soft mewling growl. Turning toward the disturbance, she gazed into the golden eyes of a gray wolf peering from the wooded edge of the clearing at her. Keeping no real religion herself, the only thing she thought to do was what she’d seen the Christians do when fearful or upset. She made the sign of the cross and mumbled softly to the creature.
“Go! Have your revenge my poor mulò.”
The old woman turned from the wolf and made her way into the hut. She held no fear of the wolf, but feared for the family of the young girl who, by turning away from the poor child, stood cursed throughout the life of the bloodline by her restless spirit.
Chapter 1
Mystique, Montana
Northern Rockies, 1995
Pita Sedgwick glanced from her small shopping list to the cart and mentally ticked off the items. So engrossed in the process, she didn’t notice the old woman until she stood right smack in front of her.
Pita jumped and took an alarmed step back when the woman spoke, “Excuse me, Miss.”
The woman wore her salt and pepper hair pulled back and twisted into a tight knot on top of her head. The hairstyle gave an unobstructed view of her wrinkled, unadorned face. Her clear, intelligent, ebony gaze held Pita’s capti
ve. Ill-fitting clothing that consisted of a long, drab, unidentifiable greenish gray colored skirt, contrasted by a brightly colored, floral, button-front blouse hung loosely over her slight figure. On her small feet, she wore dark clunky, but serviceable shoes, and gray woolen socks that wrinkled and bunched around her tiny ankles.
She waved a small white business card under Pita’s nose. “Please, Miss. You must take this and call me. It is most important that I talk to you. I am a seer, and I have urgent information for you.” A slight accent tinged the elder woman’s throaty timbre, which Pita identified as possibly Eastern European.
Pita pointed to herself and looked helplessly around to see if she were mistaken, that the woman addressed someone else, but the aisle was deserted except for the two of them.
With some hesitation, Pita took the proffered card and read it:
Floricita Faa ~ Reader
Tarot, Palm, Tea Leaves
At the bottom, in tiny print, were her address and phone number. Pita glanced back at the woman who quietly observed her with aged, wisdom-filled eyes. She advised once more, “It is of the utmost importance that I speak with you.” Then, she turned and walked away leaving Pita to ponder what exactly had just happened.
A strange, uncomfortable feeling settled upon her. Pita stared after the woman. She’d never gone to a fortuneteller, for the simple reason, Pita had no interest in knowing what was to be. The entire concept caused an unreasonable fear in her. She knew plenty of people who loved to hear their futures and fortunes. Nope, she’d take the traditional route. Forge ahead blindly. She considered dumping the business card on a shelf beside her that housed a myriad of power drinks, but an instinctive urge made her push the card into the pocket of her jeans.
Still feeling out of sorts, she turned her attention back to picking up the few items she needed. Glancing at the list in her hand, she ticked off the few items: bread, milk, can of chicken broth, coffee, and boneless chicken breasts. Heading to the bread aisle, Pita wondered what the woman had to tell her, what was so important, and why had she been singled out? A prickle of fear danced up her spine resulting in an involuntary shiver. She was not, by nature, superstitious. On the other hand, she wasn’t closed to things paranormal and the truths in which legends and lore were made either.
God, what if something terrible is about to happen? She pushed that question aside as she placed the few items on the checkout counter. Jeez, what’s the matter with me? Why does it have to be negative? Maybe it is something good— No, the woman’s attitude had seemed so…ominous. Shaking the thoughts out of her head, rational thinking returned. It was just a con…a way to induce me to give her business. Appeal to my curiosity. Get a grip!
At the cashier’s prompting, she swiped her debit card and placed it back into her wallet. Transaction completed and purchase in hand, Pita left the store, but she couldn’t let the encounter go. A distinct, sinking feeling rattled her heart into a fit of erythematic starts and stops. It was as if the woman’s forwardness was an omen; a prediction of doom or disaster that awaited her like a crouching panther stalking a deer.
****
Half an hour later, Pita pulled her car onto the stretch of wooded, mountainous roadway that led into Mystique, her rural neighborhood located in the Northern Rockies of Montana. The road gave way to a clearing. Darkness teased the edges of the purple and fuchsia sunset.
Pita allowed her gaze to wander from the road to the sky. She drank in the beauty of the orange-red sunset tinged with shades of purple that cast a warm glow through the tall pines. Turning her attention back to the road before her, Pita gasped and swerved the car. In the middle of the road stood a gray wolf, its eyes glowed amber in the headlights. Slamming her foot down hard on the brakes, the car skidded, narrowly missing a tree, and then slid to a stop on the soft shoulder.
Heart pounding a wild staccato in her chest, Pita inhaled a deep gulp of air and blew it out slowly in an attempt to calm her frazzled nerves. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel to steady her trembling hands. Peering in the direction of the wolf, she saw it still stood, watching her. Intelligent, golden eyes held her hazel ones for mere seconds, but it felt much longer. Strength and wisdom from the creature washed over her like plush velvet against naked skin. She sensed, in some strange way, that it was attempting to communicate with her. Its sorrow, unbearable and raw, slid over her along with a sense of apology, then suddenly the link was broken; the wolf turned and lumbered off into the woods.
After taking some time to regroup and gather her wits, she pulled back onto the roadway. She clung so tightly to the steering wheel with both hands that her knuckles turned white and bloodless. The muscles in her upper back and neck bunched into painful knots of tension. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird.
Full darkness had descended by the time she pulled into the driveway of her small cottage house.
Damn! I forgot the porch light again.
Leaving the headlights on, she exited the car. Peering around, she bit back the nervousness she felt at the tree covered quarter acre lot the house sat upon. Normally, she loved the dense-forested property and its natural privacy, but tonight the darkness and shadows seemed foreboding and sinister.
Mentally trying to calm her spooked nerves, she eased the car door shut and walked at a fast pace, quelling the urge to run across the lawn to the front porch. After unlocking the door, Pita listened to the sounds of the forest that surrounded her. The crickets and tree frogs created their usual nocturnal symphony. Relief washed over her. Nothing could be amiss or they would sense it and be silent.
Jogging back to the car, Pita shut off the headlights, grabbed the packages and locked it. She hurried back to the door and into the house as if Satan himself were on her heels. Once the door closed, she slammed the dead bolt home and leaned heavily against it. Dropping the bags at her feet, Pita placed a hand at her throat and heaved a long grateful sigh. She reached over and flicked the porch light on for a little added security, picked up the bags, then walked down the short hallway, and into the kitchen.
Twisting at an odd angle, Pita flipped the kitchen light on with her elbow. She placed the packages on the table, plopped her handbag on the counter, reached for a glass in a cabinet above the sink, and drew herself some water. The coolness of the water refreshed her parched mouth. She rolled the perspiring glass across her forehead then set it aside. Pita began to put the groceries away when the phone rang, the shrill sound breaking the silence, causing her to drop the can of soup and her heart to skip at least two beats in the process. She grabbed the receiver to stop its obtrusive shrieking.
“Hello?” She said as she put some cans of soup into the cupboard. A smile lit her face. “Hi, Sasha. How are you?”
She hadn’t seen her best friend in a few days and the phone call seemed a welcome light from the darkness that had surrounded her since the incident with the woman earlier. “Sasha, why not stop over on your way home? …yeah, of course, sure, I’ll make dinner. See you then.”
Feeling better, she flipped the stereo on as she passed through the den on her way to her bedroom. The smooth, calming voice of Enya filled the house. Humming along, she washed up and changed into soft comfortable well-worn sweats. That done, she went back to the kitchen and set water to boil for the pasta and put a pot of tomato sauce and meatballs on the stove to simmer.
In the middle of preparing the vegetables for a salad, she felt the skin-crawling sensation of being watched. The small hairs at the base of her neck and on her arms rose. Alerted, she glanced out the kitchen window. She gasped and the knife dropped, with a clatter, onto the countertop.
The amber eyes of a gray wolf gazed back at her from the edge of the woods.
Chapter 2
“…and that’s all of it. Pretty weird, huh?” Pita concluded getting up to clear the table. “You want coffee, Sash?”
“Sure. Here, let me help you.”
As Sasha brought the serving plates to the counter, she loo
ked out the window above the sink. Then, she rooted through the cabinets for containers to salvage the leftovers.
“Bottom left.” Pita laughed. “I’ve moved things around again.” She finished measuring the freshly ground beans into the filter basket, poured the water into the reservoir, and plugged the coffeemaker in. “Is it still out there?”
“What?”
“The wolf, I saw you glance out the window.”
“No. I mean I didn’t see it.” Sasha furrowed her brows in concentration and chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “Okay…you have some woman approach and advise you she has something of dire importance to tell you,” she ticked off each point with a respective finger. “Then, you’re run off the road by a wolf that was trying to mind meld with you and another wolf—or maybe the same one from the road−is stalking you from your backyard.” She took a loud exaggerated breath then, continued. “Here’s my take. I think you should go hear out the psychic. You know how I feel about stuff like that. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I had.”
Pita frowned. “You’re taking this rather lightly, Sash. I’d have thought that my wolf sighting would have thrown you into a tizzy. Aren’t wolves associated with…what’s the word? Mulò, spirits, or the living dead?”
“Pita, I am impressed.” She sat forward and traced the edge of her glass with a manicured index finger. “You have been paying attention all these years. It seems that my parent’s Romanian stories and legends have enraptured you.” She laughed then sobered. Her eyes took on a thoughtful quality as the mirth faded. “And yes, you are correct. Many believe the dead come back in the body of the wolf to terrorize whoever had hurt them in life. The wolf part does make me uneasy, though they are common enough around here. But…” She stopped tracing the rim of the glass and picked it up, thoughtfully taking a sip of her wine. “The woman makes me more uneasy. Combined with the wolf, I’m thinking you should hear her out as soon as you can manage it. Something is amiss, Pita. Something or someone is trying to communicate with you.”
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