Cursed (The Curse Trilogy Book 1)

by Nicole Marsh

  Once I get in the car I take a deep calming breath and try to think of all of the great things that I’ve been gifted in this life. My parents, Sylvia, my art. I can feel my resolve strengthening, maybe Vlad won today, but someday the torment will end. For now, nothing he does can take away the things that are important to me.

  On our way home, my dad stops off at the ice cream parlor downtown saying it’s “An important rite of passage for any high school graduate.” My mom cleans up my makeup a bit with some wipes from her purse and snaps a few photos of me in my cap and gown, holding my ice cream cone. I snatch the camera and turn the tables, snapping photos of my parents together with their ice cream cones, then finally ending with a selfie of the three of us.

  I love my parents. They’re high school sweethearts that are still in love with each other and with their lives. I think their love story is the reason that they’re so insistent about Vlad and I becoming a couple. My parents can’t see how evil he is because they think we’re going to end up like them.

  My parents and the ice cream help to lift some of my despair, and I already feel lighter by the time I get home. Sylvia sends me a stream of messages updating me on the graduation ceremony. As I ran out, all the risers on the stage collapsed. Luckily none of the students were on the stage yet.

  The Auditorium was emptied and both teachers and parents tried to quickly fix the risers, but most of the screws had been broken in half during the fall. Amidst the chaos, Sylvia was able to snag most of the photos from the auditorium before she was kicked out to join the rest of the students.

  Out of everything that she sent me in her updates the thing that surprised me the most was that Vlad helped her take the photos down. I think it over, trying to make sense of why he would bother. Maybe he wasn’t behind the prank? Or maybe he didn’t care to leave the photos out, since I was already humiliated and he didn’t want to get caught. The second option seems more likely, just based on the fact that it’s Vlad.

  Once the mystery is solved, I enter the small studio that my dad created in the room next to my bedroom. It’s my favorite space in our entire house. My dad built shelving units against one wall that house my paints, brushes, smocks, and blank canvases. There’s a sink off to the far side with some counter space beside it for washing and drying my tools so I don’t have to trek through the house with paint covered items.

  I have four permanent easels set up throughout the room with a raised dais in the center, in case I ever have a live subject. The room has two large windows near the sink to let in natural light, but my dad also installed special ceiling lamps that mimic natural light as well. Most of the wall space that isn’t taken by windows is now covered in my art.

  At first there was no seating in the room, I like to stand while I paint. But after Sylvia started hanging out at our house more, my dad added two oversized leather chairs and a small table in the corner near the door.

  The urge to paint is pulsing through my fingertips. I’m still in my graduation gown, so I drape it over a chair in the corner and kick off my heels before snagging a smock to throw over my dress. Grabbing a random assortment of colors, I prep one of my easels and plug in my iPod.

  I get in the zone. Dancing, singing, and slinging paint. I don’t usually plan what I want to appear on my canvas, I just let it happen. When the image is fully formed, with every inch covered in color, I finally take a step back to take in what I’ve painted.

  There’s a large, black wolf running through a forest with his head turned back. A few other wolves are in the picture with him, but their features aren’t as clear. They’re simply blurs racing amongst the trees. The wolf in focus has intelligent amber eyes, he seems to be enjoying the run, but has paused to look over his shoulder at something.

  I love it. Wolves have been one of my favorite subjects to paint since for probably the last four or five years. An entire wall in my studio is currently dedicated to my completed wolf paintings. Something about them fascinates me as a subject for my art.

  Tilting my head to the side, I study my newest painting for a few more seconds. Something about the amber eyes look familiar. Almost a bit like… Vlad’s.

  I shake my head and turn away. Leaving the canvas on the easel to dry, I walk to the sink to rinse of my brushes. I hate when Vlad pops into my head.

  3

  The Job

  Mirabella

  I’m camped out at my desk the next day, Foogle searching interview questions that might be asked to library assistants in preparation for this afternoon. Scratch pieces of paper are littered about covered in scrawling words of advice found online. I don’t have an interview, yet, but I’m heading to the library in an hour or so to hand in my application for their open position.

  I’ve had time to think about what I said at dinner the other night and decided that working around Vlad is just too risky. It sounded like a good idea in the heat of the moment, but I’ve come to new conclusions the more I examine the idea. I might be able to get revenge, but chances are he would just torture me and make me look bad, in front of the people who print the gossip in this town.

  Both of our parents were so excited about the idea of us working together at the Daily, I’ve decided to let them down gently, later. Maybe after I go to the library and ace an interview for the assistant position. Then I could break good news and bad news all at once and avoid making my parents upset.

  A knock interrupts my online search and I holler, “Come in!” without bothering to get up. My dad steps into my bedroom, hovering close to the door, but wearing a broad smile. “Hey dad, what’s up?” I ask after we stare at each other for a few seconds.

  “I talked to Marc today!” He looks at me eagerly, like I should be dancing joyfully at his announcement, but I’m not sure why.

  “Ookay.” I draw out, waiting for him to explain why he’s smiling like a loon.

  “He agreed to give you an internship at the F.O. Daily!” He finally blurts out, throwing two jazz hands in front of him, like he’s announcing I won a new car.

  It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. When they do, the floor feels like it drops out from underneath me. How could he have already volunteered me for the internship? How could I already be accepted? We just talked about this less than seventy-two hours ago. I thought I would have time to change my mind, to interview at the library, and let my parent’s down gently. No one except for the people at dinner Sunday night would ever need to know that I thought about taking an internship. How could he do this to me?

  I’m panic-shouting questions in my mind when I realize my dad is still excitedly talking about the intern opportunity. “I don’t want to do it!” I scream, cutting off my dad mid-sentence. Taking a deep breath, I repeat in a much calmer and quieter tone, “I mean, I thought about it and I think the library would be a better fit for me.”

  “Mira.” Even just saying my name, he already sounds disappointed and I wish I could open my mouth and stuff my words back into it. My dad is always on my team and I hate thinking he might not agree with my decision. “You can’t bail out now. You’ve already committed, they’re counting on you to show up next Monday as their intern.”

  “But I didn’t commit, you committed for me,” I start to protest weakly.

  My mom pops her head, around the door, peering into the room. “What’re you two plotting in here?”

  My dad turns to her, still speaking in his crestfallen tone. “I went to talk to Marc at the daily today. He agreed to give Mira the internship position…” My dad pauses to allow my mom her excited clap, without missing his next words. “I came to give Mira the good news and she tells me that she no longer wants the internship.”

  “Ohh Mira,” My mom exclaims, sounding ten times more disappointed than my dad. These two are really laying it on thick over an internship I just decided that I maybe wanted a few nights ago. “No one likes a quitter. You should try it out and see if you like it before you give up. They’re probably really counting on you n
ow. It wouldn’t be fair of you to change their mind after they’ve already given you the position.”

  At this point there’s no use in arguing. When my parents gang up on me, I always lose. Sighing I relent, “I guess I’m going to be the intern at F.O. Daily.” I silently add to the end of my statement, imagining my parent’s reaction if I said the words aloud, “Now I have to spend my whole summer with Vlad freaking Mort.”

  The week before my internship starts at F.O. Daily I spend alternating between painting and hanging out with Sylvia. Or painting while I hang out with Sylvia. We don’t have much time before both of us will be busy with work or school.

  The end of the week looms closer each day and I can feel my freedom slowly slipping between my fingertips. By Sunday, I’m a ball of dread. The last few hours of freedom from five days a week with Vlad, are closing around me like a vice.

  Painting is helping to relieve some of my tension, as is Sylvia’s presence and chatter, but nothing can make it dissipate completely. I clear off the canvas I just finished and walk to the sink to rinse off my brushes.

  Sylvia is lounging in one of the leather armchairs in my studio scrolling through her social media. Music is blasting through my mini speaker and I just spent the past three hours plastering a canvas with paint. When I reach the sink, Sylvia’s voice startles me. I turn around to respond, only to see she’s started yelling at her phone. Apparently things have gotten heated as she argues with someone on post about whether or not straws are the primary killer of ocean animals. Her commentary becomes a steady stream of background noise as I go back to rinsing off my brushes. “You’re a fucking Idiot, Casey! What about sport fishing or oil spills? Paper straws aren’t going to save the ocean, dickhead.”

  Her rant is a bit of comedic relief from my thoughts occupied with Vlad. Anxiety and fear have been slowly building in my chest all day. I keep imagining different scenarios that Vlad could instigate to embarrass me in front of all of my new coworkers.

  Once my brushes are clean, I look to Sylvia. She seems content just to hang out in the studio today, so I decide to start another painting. I choose a few colors and start to sketch out a few outlines in light strokes. Humming, I darken some spaces before choosing a new color.

  After an hour or so, I notice that Sylvia has gone unusually quiet. My playlist must’ve his its last song because the entire room is silent. I pause my painting to turn and look at her, but her gaze is fixated on my canvas. I’ve been painting without paying much attention to my creation so I’m not sure what has her so transfixed.

  Stepping back I take a look. My painting features an office with desks scattered about in a semi-organized fashion, with enough places to seat about twenty. The large pieces of furniture are the only thing that look even slightly organized in the room. Chairs are on their side with their wheels up in the air, people are huddled under desks, and dark figure stands behind a small tornado of papers twirling in the center of the chaos in the room.

  Sylvia’s arms wrap around me from behind as she offers a “hmm”. She rests her chin atop my head, still examining my painting with me. “It won’t be that bad, Mir. He works there too, like as an actual job, not just an intern. He won’t want to risk ruining his own reputation just to play a dumb prank on you.”

  I pat her arm and nod my head, which seems to reassure her enough to let go. Sylvia’s been my support system for years. She’s always been there to see the after effects of Vlad’s pranks, and helped to comfort me when I’ve been at my lowest point. I can’t tell if she believes her own words, or want me to approach the situation with a good attitude and hope for the best. Choosing to believe the latter, they don’t provide much comfort.

  The moment is over and Sylvia returns to her chair, picking her phone back up and resuming whatever argument she’s moved onto now. I turn my music back on, allowing myself to stand there for a couple more seconds, before placing my canvas to the side to dry.

  Walking to the sink, I rinse out my brushes and grab a new blank canvas before heading to my easel. I try to fixate on more positive thoughts as I begin painting again.

  “Mira, you need to get a move on. You’re going to be late.” I can hear my dad yelling down the hall, startling me out of a deep sleep.

  I grapple for my phone, groaning when the screen lights up showing the time. I overslept and need to be at the Daily for my first day in half an hour. I could’ve sworn I set two alarms last night before crawling into bed, but maybe that was a dream, instead of real life.

  Scrambling around my room, I throw my hair into a quick ponytail and snatch up a navy blue pencil skirt and a white blouse. Unsure what the dress code is, I don’t have enough time to question my outfit, but business casual seems like a safe bet for my first day. Once I’m clothed, I run downstairs to grab some coffee and a banana and rush to my car.

  I cautiously back my Prius down the driveway, hoping I’m not late. Luckily the Daily starts a bit earlier than most of the other businesses, so traffic is light. Driving the speed limit, I park my car and quickly hop out to hustle in to F.O. Daily’s office building with three minutes to spare. I’m careful to avoid spilling coffee on my white blouse, already regretting wearing the top on my first day, in a place that I’ll be working with Vlad no less.

  When I walk in, the reception area is empty. I peek past the front desk and see the staff circling up near the back of the office. Some people pull up chairs and others are standing. Not wanting to miss anything, I decide to walk in and join the group gathered at the back.

  As I reach the gathering, a handsome light haired gentleman who looks to be in his mid-twenties approaches me. “Are you Mirabella?” At the nod of my head, he continues. “I’m Marc. I spoke with your father about the internship opportunity here. We’re excited to have you onboard.” He extends a hand with a wolfish smile.

  Marc is quite handsome. Shaking his hand, I notice his palms are warm and smooth without the calluses that mar Vlad’s. “Nice to meet you Marc,” I say, while mentally thinking of Vlad when he suddenly appears nearby. It’s like saying Beetlejuice. “Thank you for offering me the internship, I’m really excited to learn more about the Daily. And you can call me Mira.”

  “Mira.” Marc repeats. “Great to have you here. We’re about to start our morning meeting where everyone pitches story ideas and assignments are handed out.” He gestures to the small crowd that’s gathered and is quietly chatting as they wait for the day to start. “Feel free to stand or to pull up a chair.”

  Once he’s done talking I murmur a quiet thank you and Marc leaves me there. He heads to the front of the semi-circle of other employees and claps his hands together twice. “Alright let’s get started. Before we get into it, the new girl here is our intern, Mira.”

  He waves a hand in my direction and fifteen sets of eyes find me standing slightly apart from the group, in the middle of the room where Marc left me. I offer a small, awkward wave and a shy smile. Most everyone waves or smiles back, except for one person standing closeby in the back left corner. Vlad shoots a glare off in my direction, of course.

  After everyone’s eyes are turned back to the front, I shuffle forward, closer to the group. Silently observing and absorbing, I cringe at some of the story suggestions. Our town is pretty small, so coming up with enough stories to fill a daily paper is clearly a struggle- if this meeting is any indication.

  Marc is very diplomatic about declining some of the less-than-exciting sounding ideas and offering suggestions to hopefully lead to better ones. I can see how Marc, although younger than quite a few of the staff members, became the man in charge of operations. He seems very passionate about journalism, but also kind and willing to listen, even if he doesn’t ultimately agree.

  When the whiteboard is filled with ideas, Marc begins to assign the stories to staff members at random. One they’re divvied up, they meeting seems to be at an end and people begin to get disperse. “Before you head out, I want to assign the intern to shadow someone today. Any v
olunteers?” Marc calls out.

  I stand in the back of the half circle with my fingers crossed behind me. I’m chanting, “Not Vlad, not Vlad, anyone but Vlad,” under my breath.

  My prayers are answered when an older woman raises her hand. She looks like the Hollywood portrayal of a grandmother, with graying hair knotted in a bun, small glasses perched on her nose, and a modest, loose dress. Definitely a safer choice than Vlad.

  “Alright. Thanks Glenna.” Marc acknowledges her hand up as my savior.

  I hang back for a few minutes as everyone walks away, waiting so I don’t have to fight through a crowd to reach Glenna. Once the path is clear I head over to introduce myself. “Glenna? I’m Mira. I’m excited to get to shadow you today.”

  She shakes my hand while she replies in a nasally sounding voice, “Me too, honey. You’re going to love covering the knitting expo, it’s my favorite time of year.”

  I barely hold in a groan. The knitting expo?

  Our town holds a few expos a year. One is a knitting expo, another is a pet expo, and the last is a Christmas expo. The events never change, and honestly rarely do the vendors or products, but the older population of Florence love the expos. It’s a gathering place for the best shopping and gossip in town all week.

  Some local businesses even close the week of the event so that their employees have a chance to go. Three years ago, the Mayor was quoted saying that he had a thought about making some changes to the Expos. The changes weren’t even listed, but his public approvals tanked so low that he was forced to make a statement on the local news channel specifying that he was not going to get rid of the expos.

  It’s also a huge potential news opportunity. Last year at the knitting expo, a famous crochet artist came to sign autographs and things got rowdy. One lady stabbed another with her knitting needle. There were accusations of line cutting amongst other issues. Both ladies were escorted out of the expo and banned from the venue for the remainder of the event. The Daily’s coverage of the event was out of control. Someone snapped a picture of the stabbing and F.O. Daily posted it on their front page until someone complained about graphic content.