The Cure for the Curse
Page 1
* * *
Treble Heart Books
www.trebleheartbooks.com
Copyright ©2006 by Patrick Vaughn
* * *
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
* * *
Dedication
For Sammy, who never stopped believing in me.
Prologue
"Richard, help me!"
Warrenna Dennison lifted her head from the pillow. “Mom?"
She listened through the rain, but there was no answer, just the familiar creak of the front door swinging open and then a clang as it struck the wall.
But then she heard a voice: “Renna? Oh, no...” The words were gasped. “Where are you?"
Warrenna jumped from her bed. “I'm coming, mom!"
She darted down the stairs, into the hallway, where a stiff breeze rattled the frames of her mother's oil paintings.
Lightning flashed through the open door, illuminating Alexandria's slumped form. Her right hand gripped the doorknob above her head, but her left arm hung close to her side with the elbow turned in at an odd angle. Her rain-soaked dark hair clung to her face, and her pants were torn and spattered with mud.
Warrenna ran to her, shouting, “Mom, what's wrong?” But she stopped when she saw the blood.
It saturated her mother's white blouse, like a dozen red roses crushed into silk. Warrenna couldn't be sure where the bloodstains ended and the mud began.
"Renna,” Alexandria wheezed, “get your father."
Rain tickled Warrenna's ears as she stared at her mother's dripping figure. “Oh, God, Mom, you're bleeding! You have to get to a hospital. I'll get the car."
Alexandria shook her head and grimaced. “I'll be fine. Just get your father."
Warrenna finally nodded and tore her gaze from the blood. But as she turned to find Richard, he strode past her to close the front door. He calmly helped his wife onto the carpet of the TV room.
"We have to go, Richard,” Alexandria murmured. “I'm sorry. I couldn't stop it."
Richard nodded, his face pale. “Did you hurt anyone?"
"No.” She looked away. “But I was seen."
He closed his eyes, but only for a moment. “It'll be okay,” he whispered, and turned his attention to her injured arm. “Warrenna, go to your room and get your emergency bag."
Warrenna squinted. “My bag? But all I have in there are clothes."
"Renna!"
Richard turned around and gripped her shoulders, his sunken hazel eyes flashing. “You have one minute to pack your things, and then we leave."
"Leave?” she sputtered, fighting a sob. “Again? But why?"
"We'll explain in the car,” Alexandria said. She nodded to Richard, who gave her injured arm a hard yank. Her elbow crunched into place, and she yelped from the pain. “Go, Renna.” she grunted. “There isn't any time."
Bile burned Warrenna's throat as she stumbled back to her room. She yanked the drawers from her dresser, shuffling through the silly socks Melissa gave her and the shell necklace she bought at the mall with Deni. But she barely noticed any of her beloved trinkets. It was like she had never seen her room before, never seen any of her favorite things. How could she possibly choose?
She was grabbing an armful of shirts when she remembered that foggy morning three years ago, the last time her family abandoned a house on little notice.
Her mother's explanations were hardly illuminating. “It's no longer safe for us here,” and “The bad people are looking for us, so we have to leave,” was all Alexandria would say.
Back then, Warrenna didn't care that they were suddenly leaving town. She didn't make any friends in the year they stayed in San Francisco, and she never really liked how crowded the city felt. But this little town in Washington State was different. Melissa, Deni and Corbett accepted her as soon as she arrived in Bellingham. She felt at home somewhere for the first time. How could she leave?
She tried to tell herself this was just a bizarre hit-the-road exercise. But when she remembered the sound her mother's arm made, she knew this was no emergency dri
One minute later, Warrenna stood in the garage with her emergency bag of clothes in one hand and her travel portfolio, crammed to bursting with sketches and paintings, under her other arm. There were a hundred other things she wanted to take, but that was all she could carry.
After another minute, Warrenna and her parents were in their Volvo, racing down Interstate 5 while the rain pounded every inch of the car's black paint. Numb with grief, anger and worry, Warrenna could only listen to her parents’ rushed words.
"We'll go to the old place in Bascomville,” Richard said as he maneuvered the car through traffic. “No one will look for us there."
Alexandria nodded and began unbuttoning her bloodstained blouse with her good arm. “Yes, we can't risk bringing attention to Maldecido right away. We'll be safe in Bascomville.” She raised her voice. “Settle in for a long trip, hon."
Warrenna's heart lurched. She had never heard of any place called “Maldecido” or “Bascomville,” but she was certain there weren't any towns in Washington with those names. They were really leaving, and they weren't coming back. Melissa and Deni would never know where she went, or even why she left. And Corbett would never know how she really felt about him.
"Could one of you please tell me why we're leaving?” she blurted. “Or even what happened back there?"
Alexandria looked to Richard, but he looked away, out of the car window.
"I was in an accident on the 202, Renna,” she said. Her voice sounded tired as she peeled the blood-sticky garment off her shoulders and pulled on a dark t-shirt. “It was a bad wreck, seven or eight cars. I went to check on one of the other drivers. He had a wound in his chest. He was bleeding pretty badly."
Alexandria trailed off, closing her eyes and bowing her head. Rain rattled against the roof. The wipers swished water from the windshield. A thunderclap boomed somewhere behind them.
When Warrenna finally spoke, her voice was nearly inaudible. “That's horrible,” she said, the tears starting down her cheeks. “But I don't see why we have to leave town and all the friends I'd finally found."
Richard thumped the dashboard with his fist. “Damn it, Alex, we should have told her sooner."
"No,” Alexandria said, her voice firm. “The less Renna knew, the safer she was."
He sighed. “I guess it doesn't matter now."
"What doesn't matter?” Warrenna yelled. “What's going on?"
Warrenna saw her father glance at her in the rearview mirror. His face was pale and drawn, like her mother's, and Warrenna imagined that her own face looked much the same.
"Smelling all that fresh blood made your mother change,” Richard said at last. “Someone saw her other form, and so we have to go."
Warrenna sniffled. “What do you mean, ‘other form'?"
Richard flipped on the Volvo's overhead light, then pointed to Alexandria. “This form."
Alexandria turned around and opened her eyes. Her irises pulsed with scarlet. The pupils were thin slits of black. Her lips curled back, revealing a set of glistening two-inch fangs. Growling wheezes escaped her mouth, like an angry, panting dog.
"Listen very carefully, Renna,” Richard said. “There's something you need to know about your mother and me."
Lightning arced across the chalkboard-black sky.
"And about yourself."
>
Chapter 1
The poison blurred his vision, but he could still see his destination in the orange tint of the clouds, and in the mountain-size shadows cast by each pebble. Home was just a few strides away.
The woman was still with him; her small hand held his arm to catch him if he stumbled. But she didn't try to pull him along with her. She knew he wanted to reach the sunset on his own, to at least walk this final stretch without aid.
He glanced at her. He couldn't make out the fine details of her face anymore, but her shallow breaths told him that tears probably streaked down her bronze cheeks. He smiled through the burning in his chest. “Thank you."
More than she knew, more than he could ever say, he would miss her.
But that was all right. They would see each other again. Of that, he was certain.
Suddenly the burning stopped. The flames licking his lungs became icicles numbing his chest and shoulders.
Another step and the dusty ground ended, dropping to dark, reddish shadow. A warm breeze caressed the red feather in his thick hair, then faded to stillness.
He prayed that the Sky-God would give him a moment of clear sight so that he could take in the marvelous work the Divine had done to the horizon.
The sun was sinking into the desert, throwing fiery slashes of orange across the sky over his head. As they drew closer to him, those slashes darkened to dull red, then purple, then were finally consumed by the indigo of twilight. The distant mountains glowed orange, like dying embers of some massive campfire.
He watched the Sky-God's art for a few breaths, and then the darkness closed in from each side. It was time to go, but he would not let the poison take him.
His numb fingers found the knife at his belt, and his ears filled with the rushing of a thousand flooded rivers.
He plunged the knife into his heart. The ice shattered, and silence consumed the land.
* * * *
Thomas Gelbaugh woke gasping, his fist held to his chest. His heart pounded for a few seconds, but then he felt the sheet balled in his hand and the pressure of the springs in the mattress beneath him. He quickly touched his chest. No wound. He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes.
The room was dark except for the red glow of the digital clock by the bed: 6:14, sixteen minutes before his alarm would go off. He turned on the lamp, rolled out of bed and stumbled to the chair at his small desk. A notebook rested front and center. After a jaw-cracking yawn, Thomas picked up a pen and wrote.
The details of the dream came without effort. He described the sunset, the warrior, the fire in his chest that froze to ice, the woman, her sorrow, his peace. He stared at the blank wall as his pen moved across the page almost on its own.
Soon the alarm buzzed its annoying call, and Thomas reluctantly put down the pen and clicked the switch to stop the whining.
He glanced at the calendar: another Monday. That left just ten more Mondays until high school was over.
I've got to savor this day, even if it's a Monday.
He grabbed the day's clothes from a pile on the floor and stumbled to the shower.
* * * *
"Hey, B."
"Whattup, Tom.” Brendan rubbed the dark stubble on the side of his golden-brown head and groaned.
"You don't look so good."
"I don't feel so good,” Brendan replied. “Janey kept me on the phone all night.” He shook his head as he rubbed a coffee-colored eye. “I swear that girl's trying to kill me."
"Dude, I warned you about her,” Corwyn said as he took his seat behind Brendan. He absently pulled his silver cross out from under his black t-shirt and let the symbol rest on his chest. Then he nodded at Thomas. “Hey Tom, didn't I say that chica's a freak? She'll never get enough of you, if you know what I'm sayin'."
Thomas grinned. “Lucky for B we don't have practice today."
"No joke,” Brendan mumbled. “I don't think I could get the ball above my head today, let alone drain any shots."
"So it'd be like any other practice."
Brendan slowly swung an open hand at Corwyn's spiky, bleached-blond hair.
"Ay, watch the ‘do, man!"
Just then, Thomas caught sight of Mariah's bright blue eyes as she strolled down the aisle toward the seat in front of him. He quickly smoothed his short hair.
Brendan saw the look on his friend's face, so he cleared his throat and announced, “Speaking of girls trying to kill us."
Thomas shoved Brendan's shoulder. Mariah shook her head. “Boys, boys,” she said. “Fighting over me again?"
"Yeah, sorta,” Thomas replied. “B here says you remind him of Christina Aguilera, but I say you're more of a Charlize Theron kinda girl."
Mariah raised her left eyebrow. “Is that so?"
"Yeah,” Thomas repeated before Brendan could say anything. “You're way too classy to be Christina, and you keep your hair short like Charlize. Plus there's obviously a lot going on behind those blue eyes. So yeah, Charlize seems about right."
Brendan rolled his eyes, and Corwyn snorted, but Thomas ignored them.
Mariah smiled and affected an English accent: “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mister Gelbaugh."
Thomas winked, then looked to the head of the class as Mrs. Hayes stood from her desk."Okay, class, settle down. Let's see if we can learn something today.” She began her lecture, and Thomas's flirting seamlessly shifted to note-passing.
At first, the notes related to the class. They agreed that D.H. Lawrence had serious issues with his mother. But it wasn't long before the gossip began.
Can you BELIEVE that skirt Bethany was wearing Saturday night? Mariah's note read. She must have been freezing. Do guys really like that?
We actually prefer pants, Thomas wrote. Everybody stares when guys wear skirts. (Or so I've been told).
Halfway through the period, Mrs. Hayes asked Thomas to pass a worksheet out to the class. At the last row of desks, his hand brushed a girl's sleeve as he handed her the stack of paper. “Sorry,” he said, and glanced at her face.
He recognized the gun-metal-gray eyes of the new girl. She'd been in the class for about a month, and after her first day, he'd never given her a second thought. He couldn't remember her name, or ever hearing her voice.
A cold, hard feeling developed in Thomas's stomach as he looked at the pale girl's face. It felt like he somehow swallowed a bowling ball, and the heavy weight was pulling him to the floor.
The feeling reminded him of when his best friend Steven moved away in fourth grade. Or when Eight-Ball, his cocker spaniel puppy, ran away a year later. But this feeling was even worse.
"Did you need something?” the girl whispered.
Her straight auburn hair was short, but it still managed to hang over one of her strange eyes. She blinked like he just woke her up.
Thomas wondered how long he'd stared at her. “Sorry,” he said again, and shuffled back to his desk. The bowling ball in his stomach vanished after a couple of steps, but his eyes burned and his breath was reluctant.
Mariah passed him a note. Are you all right?
Thomas took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes like he was waking from a particularly troubling dream. I don't know, he scribbled. I feel a little weird.
You look like my cousin Chrissy did when I said goodbye to her this weekend.
Thomas was eager to think about something other than how awful he felt. How's that new foster family working out for her?
Not great. They've got five other adopted kids, and it seems like Chrissy gets lost in the shuffle.
At least she gets some special attention from her devoted cousin Mariah, right?
Yeah, I do what I can. But I can't believe my mother won't let her live with us.
Their written conversation turned to the familiar topic of Mariah's mother. After a few minutes, Thomas felt like himself again.
The bell rang, and the roomful of students stood to go. Thomas looked at his friends and said, “Hey, I gotta talk to Miz H for a sec."
<
br /> Mariah flashed him a smile that made him warm all over. “See you later, Tommy."
Brendan yawned. “See you lunch, Tom."
"See ya, Tommy-Gun.” As he spoke, Corwyn shoved Brendan toward the door. “Dude, the day's half-over, you can wake up now."
Thomas approached Mrs. Hayes, who sat at her desk reading some papers. “Do you have a sec, ma'am?"
She looked up and smiled at him over her reading glasses. “Sure, Tom. You probably want to know if I had a chance to read your entry in the short story contest."
He smiled and his face grew hot. “Right on as usual, ma'am."
She fished through a large bag at her feet, drew out the manuscript and began looking through it. “Let's see. Yes. Your descriptions, as I've come to expect, are amazing, Tom. You were patient in describing everything—the cool night, the stars, the forest, the horse, how the man's distress affected his riding.” She looked up at him, her eyes crinkling. “I was right there with him. And you kept this romantic, dreamy tone. I loved it."
Thomas smiled. Maybe the story was as good as he thought.
"But."
His smile disappeared as she continued. “You didn't establish any kind of context, Tom. You don't give the reader any chance to find out why the man and woman are in the forest, or how he got his wound, or why they feel so strongly about each other. You didn't even give them names."
She smiled at Thomas's frown and touched his arm. “The sensory information is really wonderful, but a short story isn't a scene cut out of a novel. It has to belong to itself."
Mrs. Hayes handed Thomas the manuscript. “It wouldn't take very much to make this story good enough to win the contest. Just sprinkle in some history. Have the characters say something that reveals some context. You know them best. Find something they would naturally do to show the reader a little more about the situation. And give them names. Everybody has names, Thomas."
Thomas nodded and gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, I guess everybody does. Deadline's Friday, huh?"
Mrs. Hayes's round cheeks flushed. “You can do this, Tom. You know you have it in you. You've got talent, more than anyone I've ever taught. That's why I hold you to a higher standard."