The Scarletti Curse

by Christine Feehan

  Nicoletta pushed aside his terror along with her own and reached deep inside her for calm. It was there, the reserve she could always count on, draw on, and she entered the dwelling as a confident, assured healer. Lissandra's sister, Laurena, leapt to her feet with a cry of relieved greeting.

  The house was already filled with black-shawled women, mourners congregating to wail for the dead. Nicoletta's dark eyes flashed fire. "Is she gone then?" She hissed the question at them, and they all cringed at her evident displeasure. Immediately they ceased their incessant wailing. Not one dared defy her or point out that she was barely past being a child herself. Nicoletta was a powerful healer, and they were very superstitious. If Nicoletta could heal, she might very well be able to harm them as well.

  "Laurena, remove these women to another room, where they will be able to pray to the Madonna in peace," Nicoletta ordered prudently. "I will need water boiled and clean cloth." She approached Lissandra with more confidence than she felt. The girl was whimpering, her stomach swollen and hard, her body worn from labor.

  Nicoletta looked past Laurena to Aljandro, straight into his eyes. "Why was I not summoned the instant she went into labor?" Her gaze glittered with hot accusation.

  He looked away from her immediately. They both knew why Aljandro had not wanted to call her. He was still angry because Nicoletta had spurned his attentions before he had turned his eye to Lissandra. He had wanted sons, workers for his farm, and, had chosen a young bride to supply him. He had not called the healer because he had intended to keep his earnings to himself, in hopes of becoming wealthier. He had not thought of the consequences to so young and small a "brood mare," and at that moment he was mortified at his own behavior.

  Nicoletta pressed her lips together to keep from lashing out at the ignorant man and immediately set about inspecting Lissandra. Her young friend was well advanced in her labor, the babe very large. Nicoletta had seen this too many times. Lissandra was small, the babe large; everything was wrong. The outcome was usually grim: both mother and child died. She looked at Laurena, and for a moment their eyes said it all, a knowing exchange between women about a hopeless situation that need not have occurred.

  "Lissandra," she said quietly, "I am going to try to help. The babe is still alive. You must do what I say and trust in me." Nicoletta threw off her shawl and rolled up her sleeves, immersing her hands in scalding water. It was one of Nicoletta's strange differences, often remarked upon as this obsession with hot water when she tended the sick.

  Fortunately, she had small hands, and she relied on her inner guide, which always seemed to know exactly what was wrong and how to fix it. Had she been called earlier, she was fairly confident she might have saved both mother and child, but Lissandra was exhausted, her delicate body worn out. Nicoletta talked her through each swelling wave of pain, all the while patiently maneuvering until she could grasp the babe to help ease it out. Laurena thrust a thin, rounded stick between her sister's teeth, afraid that in her wild screaming she might swallow her tongue. Nicoletta worked steadily and patiently, sweat running down her face so profusely that sometimes she couldn't see.

  The baby was stuck. It would die, and so would Lissandra. Nothing would ease the baby through the tiny opening of pelvic bones. An idea of what to do on such occasions had been in her mind for some time now, but Nicoletta shied from trying it alone, wanting the comfort of Maria Pia's presence before she attempted such a terrible thing. But Nicoletta didn't have the luxury of waiting for Maria Pia. Lissandra had run out of time. Nicoletta had to act now or never.

  She looked into her friend's desperate, pleading eyes and made her decision. Sick to her stomach, she performed her task quickly, deliberately breaking the shoulder of the babe, then turning it with her hands to whisk it free. It slid into the air, blue and lifeless and still. Quickly she cleared the mucous from the throat, rubbing the infant's chest to stimulate it into taking a gulp of air. The moment it began a thin wail, she passed the babe off to Laurena, turning her attention quickly to cutting the cord and attending Lissandra.

  Now it would be a matter of controlling the bleeding. All the while she worked, she was nauseated at the thought of what she had done to a helpless infant. She was sick at the knowledge that even if she saved Lissandra this time, her husband would insist on another babe immediately, and, child that she was, Lissandra would not take the potion Nicoletta had secretly given her to allow her more time to grow before she became pregnant. She would obey her husband, and she would certainly die.

  Nicoletta was sick, her stomach lurching at the vast quantity of her friend's blood that covered her, still sick at the thought of what she had been forced to do to the babe. Most of all she was sick to death at the waste of a young, vibrant woman whose life should have been just beginning.

  Nicoletta fought to stop the inevitable. She called on her special gift, her hands moving over Lissandra, letting the healing warmth flow out of her and into her friend, attempting to direct the energy where it was most needed. The effort was draining, mentally as well as physically. No one watching could say precisely what she did, yet they could not deny that it worked.

  Finally Maria Pia entered the house and immediately went to work beside her. They were both exhausted by the time Lissandra drifted into sleep, still alive but terribly weak.

  Nicoletta left it to Maria Pia to impress up on Lissandra's husband her need for fluids and bed rest until she was healed properly. Maria Pia would not say the cutting, angry words that burned inside Nicoletta. All Nicoletta wanted now was to run back to the safety of her mountain, far from the weariness and sadness and guilt pressing in on her. But she turned her attention to the newborn next, her hands finding the terrible crack in the bone and aligning it perfectly, bandaging it tightly to keep it from shifting. She again used her special gift, the touch of her hands spreading warmth and healing to the babe as it had to Lissandra. The effort was exhausting, draining, some element she couldn't define flowing out of her and into her patients to aid recovery, but she used it nonetheless.

  Finally she washed Lissandra's blood from her arms and slowly, wearily, daubed at her bloodstained blouse. Laurena hugged her tearfully, then quickly wrapped some bread and cheese into a scarf and thrust it at her, a token of her gratitude. Too tired to protest, Nicoletta shoved the meager meal into the pocket of her skirt. Exhausted from her sleepless night and the ordeal with Lissandra, she explained softly to Laurena that the babe would need special care while his shoulder healed, lit a candle to the Madonna in thanks, and left the farmhouse without saying a single word to Lissandra's husband. She never wanted to look at him again.

  "Nicoletta!" Aljandro hurried after her, attempting to catch her shoulder with one hamlike hand. He nearly crushed her bones there in the darkness. She could feel his anger at her, barely leashed, and his eyes were still hot with greed for her body even as his wife lay near death after giving birth to his child. It sickened her.

  Steadfastly she kept her gaze on the ground, fearful of lashing out at him. She didn't dare cause any more hostility between them when she wanted to remain Lissandra's friend and on good terms with all the villagio. "I am very tired." She twisted her shoulder out from under his grasping fingers. His touch made her stomach lurch.

  Aljandro dropped his hand as if she had burned him, his stare a mixture of anger and shame. He handed her payment but hissed something crude at her.

  Without once looking back, she walked slowly to the closest stream, feeling a hundred years old. She stood with her bare feet in the ice-cold water and stared up at the leaves of the trees blowing to and fro above her head. She cried then, for Lissandra and all the young girls like her, while the crystal-clear water rushed around her and on down the stream with its soft sound of cleansing. She blindly waded back to dry ground, where she sank into the cushion of deep grasses, drew up her knees, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.

  The voice came to her then, his voice, soft and warm, a gentle inquiry--or was it her own need
conjuring that warm and comforting voice, a soft murmur of protest over her storm of tears? Nicoletta didn't know how he could do it, or even if he was in league with the devil, but for the first time she welcomed the voice whispering to her. There were no real words, more a feeling, images of warmth and security, like strong arms enfolding her from the inside out.

  A hand on her shoulder startled her, effectively stilling the voice. Or dispelling the enchantment? A sorcerer's black-magic web? Maria Pia stroked back her hair. "You saved their lives, Nicoletta."

  "Puo darsi." She didn't look up, her face buried on her knees. "But for what? So the bambino will slave for Aljandro all of his life, and Lissandra will go through this again and die? I hate him, Maria Pia. I truly hate him. Aljandro did this because of me, because I refused his attentions. Even to spare her suffering, he would not send for me. I hate him."

  "You cannot show it, Nicoletta," the older woman counseled. "He does not forget slights to him, and you are in a very vulnerable position."

  "I do not care if he knows how I feel. I hope he does. He does not deserve Lissandra, and I did her no favor this morning." Nicoletta cried even harder.

  "In his way he cares for her," Maria Pia explained gently. "But he does not understand. He thinks mainly of his farm."

  "How difficult is it to understand that a child cannot have a child without fear of death, Maria Pia? His 'caring' will kill her. She is but a brood mare to him, and when she dies, he will get another. He thinks only of himself." She stood up and began to run, her bare legs flashing beneath her long skirts as she raced away from the farm. From Aljandro and what he represented. From blood and death. Yet she found herself heading for the cove.

  She wanted to see for herself that no one else had hidden in the rocks and attacked the don, although why it was so important at that moment, she didn't know. She had to do it, though. It didn't matter that she might discover the two dead bodies; she had to see for herself. She had to know the don was safe. A dark compulsion was on her. Nicoletta was drawn to the cove, helplessly caught in a spell she couldn't resist. Hypnotized, mesmerized, perhaps, trapped in a web of growing evil--it didn't matter. At that moment, the most important thing to her was to ensure that Don Scarletti remained safe.

  She ran until her injured calf protested too much, forcing her to a more sedate pace, and then she walked quickly, pausing only to sip some cooling water from the tiny falls scattered among the hills. She made it to the cliffs and looked down, wanting to be prepared for whatever she might find before she descended. The cove was empty. No dead bodies, no blood staining the sand, nothing to indicate that violence had visited the day before. No proof of the incident remained other than her memory.

  Nicoletta made her way down to the cove, picking her steps carefully on the steep, narrow path. The ocean mist bathed the tears from her face as she paced cautiously along the ledge to pick her route over the rocks to the sand. She searched carefully, but there was no sign of death on the beautiful semi-circular beach. Moving back into the shadow of the cliffs, she sat and stared out at the ever-moving ocean. The tide rushed to shore endlessly, rocking back and forth in a steady rhythm. She should have found peace, but the place seemed more sinister than ever. She could feel the aftereffects of violence lingering there.

  Exhaustion combined with the rhythm of the sea finally took its toll. She dozed for a time, worn out from her fight to save her friend. The waves continued to wash back and forth, a lullaby while she slept.

  It was the bird that woke her. Its shadow passed over her head as it circled lazily. The raven drifted lower, its circles tighter and tighter, until he landed in the sand and hopped over to Nicoletta.

  She opened her eyes wide and sighed softly, "So you have found me once again," she said, resignation in her voice.

  The bird stared at her, its beady eyes fixed on her face. She smiled. "You think I should find you a bit of food and reward you for alerting me? I am not that fond of you and your warnings." She stood up slowly, wincing as her muscles protested and her calf throbbed and burned. She stretched, a long, slow stretch, before reaching into the pocket of her skirt for the bread wrapped so carefully in Laurena's scarf. "You do not deserve this, but all the same..." Nicoletta tossed several chunks to the creature. The bird caught the pieces one by one in its sharp beak and devoured them. The bird continued to stare steadily at her, gave one squawk, then hopped down the beach several steps before taking to the air.

  Nicoletta's shoulders sagged, and she took her time walking back to the villaggio. Whatever trouble was coming would most likely be coming to find her there.

  She could feel the excitement in the air the moment she neared the settlement. People were washing, when it was not washing day, busily cleaning the narrow streets, sprucing up the homes. She waved halfheartedly to Ketsia but shook her head when the little girl eagerly signaled her to come and talk.

  Before she could enter the safety of her hut, Cristano confronted her, barring the doorway, cutting off her escape. His black hair was disheveled, and he looked a bit wild, breathing hard like a rampaging bull. His black eyes snapped at her. "Look at you, Nicoletta, running around barefoot in the hills! I have had enough of it. I have been very patient, but I can stand no more. I forbid this careless roaming of the hills like a madwoman. It is not safe, and it is most unseemly. You are making me the laughing stock of the villaggio. It is time for you to grow up and do as your betrothed instructs. I will insist the priest marry us immediately. I will inform Signorina Sigmora that we are to be wed."

  "Have you lost your mind, Cristano?" Nicoletta pushed at him. "Go puff your chest at one of the other girls. I will not have you ordering me about in such a way." She was small in comparison to his tall, muscular frame, but she defied him nonetheless. In truth, Cristano was handsome and bold. She had known him all her life and held some affection for him, but her fondness was that of a sister, a friend, not a wife. He knew he was handsome, knew the girls looked at him--all except Nicoletta. She lifted her chin haughtily at him. "I will always run barefoot and free in the hills, and no man shall dictate to me, Cristano. Certainly not you!"

  He yanked her close to him. "We shall see, Nicoletta. The elders know you need someone to take you in hand. I will seek their permission as I should have a long time ago." He dropped her arm and stalked off.

  Outraged, Nicoletta pushed her way inside, slamming the door shut with unnecessary force. "Cristano has lost his mind and needs assistance immediately. It is entirely possible he suffers from brain fever. I am not jesting."

  Maria Pia ignored her caustic comment and caught her arm. "Where have you been, Nicoletta? You have been gone all night! I was worried for your safety!"

  Nicoletta put her satchel carefully into the corner. "Did you tend to Lissandra's bambino?"

  "He is fine, strong and healthy, thanks to the good Madonna and your quick thinking. Aljandro, of course, said you were clumsy in the delivery to break the babe's shoulder. He says you also caused much pain to Lissandra. You must be careful, piccola. When a man is shamed and guilt-ridden, he often seeks to shift the blame."

  Nicoletta lifted her chin. "I do not care what he says." She waved a hand in dismissal. "Tell me what is happening. Why all the excitement?" She crossed to the window and stared out at the bustle of activity in the village.

  Instead of answering immediately, Maria Pia began to heat soup for Nicoletta. "You must eat, bambina. I know that you have not eaten since you supped last night. Come sit down, and allow me to feed you."

  "What is it you do not want to say to me, Maria Pia? It is best to get it out in the open." Mechanically, Nicoletta put on clean clothes. "Just tell me. Do not make me wonder." Her fingers curled around the hem of her blouse. She already knew. It was the don; it could be no other. He was the reason her heart pounded and her mouth went dry and she was suddenly very, very afraid.

  Maria Pia remained stubbornly silent while she prepared the soup and placed it on the table with bread and cheese. "Sit down,
piccola"

  She artfully wove the same thread of authority into her voice that Nicoletta had obeyed since she was a child. Nicoletta stilled her trembling hands, sat quietly in the chair like an obedient little girl, and looked up at Maria Pia. "Is he coming for me, then?"

  Maria Pia fiddled with a square of cloth nervously, every age line plainly visible on her face. "You are aware of the laws we live by. Our villaggio is within the domain of the don. We owe him fidelity and are under his protection. The land belongs to the famiglia Scarletti. Without him, our people would be homeless, powerless, with no means to make a living or protect ourselves from invaders. Two centuries or more ago, far before the curse was put upon the famiglia Scarletti, our ancestors made an agreement, which we have always kept." Maria Pia took a deep breath, her hands suddenly twisting the cloth into a tight knot. "The don has invoked his right to the Bridal Covenant."

  Nicoletta stared up at her, her eyes huge on her face, not comprehending, unable to fully grasp what the older woman was saying. The Bridal Covenant. She had heard of it, of course; all the village women had.

  As silly girls they had discussed the stories of the great and handsome aristocrazia emerging from his ornate palazzo and whisking one of the maidens off to a fairy-tale life of luxury and ease. Of course that lucky chosen one would soon marry off her friends to other young, handsome, rich noblemen. All of the surrounding villaggi and farms owing fidelity to the don had gladly participated in the Bridal Covenant; it was a cause for great festivity. All women of marriageable age had bathed and donned their finery, vying with outrageous flirtations to gain the attentions of the don of the palazzo.

  But that was before they all came to believe in the curse. Before the Scarletti women, and even their attendants, began to die in bizarre accidents--or were so obviously murdered. Before the palazzo was named, in whispers, Palazzo della Morte. Palace of Death.

  "He cannot do that," Nicoletta whispered, her hand going to her throat defensively. "He cannot."