Cursed: The Girl Who Shook the Earth Read online

  Cursed: The Girl Who Shook the Earth

  Cursed

  E.C. Farrell

  Published by E.C. Farrell, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 by E.C. Farrell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contact [email protected] for more information.

  Farrell, E.C. Cursed: The Girl Who Shook the Earth. Kindle Edition.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Cursed: The Girl Who Shook the Earth

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  Epilogue

  About the Author

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  1.

  TEN MINUTES BEFORE work, I trigger an earthquake.

  I grip my bathroom counter as the anxious tremors inside me bleed out into the open. My apartment physically shakes. Necklaces and bracelets fall off the doorknob hanger I made with my second foster mom, shampoo and body wash bottles topple into the bathtub, and my lights flicker.

  Dropping to the tile floor, I throw my legs up against the cabinets, and breathe through my nose like they do in those yoga videos. “I am calm...I am calm...I am calm...I am so not friggin’ calm...Why can’t I live somewhere that actually has earthquakes?”

  I could live in California, a place where a landlord and apartment neighbors might not worry much about a tiny tremor on a hot June day. But no. I live in Houston, Texas, a city used to its fair share of hurricanes and the occasional tornado, but decidedly no earthquakes.

  A few more slow breaths finally ease my panic and the thunderous shaking calms. Though this does nothing to end the tremors always present in my bones, as long I’m not rattling my apartment complex anymore, I’ll take it.

  Groaning, I fold my arms over my face, listening to the nervous chatter of my neighbors in the halls. At least it’s midmorning. Most people are at work. Somewhere I desperately need to be in...I glance at my watch, seven minutes.

  With a pathetic whimper of dread, I concentrate on my breathing.

  I once swore on a stack of sticky menus that I’d never wait tables again, but, with my spotty work history, I had to break that vow a few months ago. Plus, now that I’m 18, the state of Texas says I can serve liquor, which means even more tips.

  I’ve debated giving up and submitting my body to scientific study. That has to come with room and board, right? But I don’t much fancy being a lab rat. Waiting tables is exhausting, sweaty work that often crushes the soul, but I sure do make bank. As long as I stay busy, I typically don’t have anxiety attacks at the restaurant. The last thing I want is to trigger a mini-earthquake there.

  Tracing the scar branching from the corner of my mouth to the edge of my jaw, I grab my cell and glance at the anxiety-triggering text message again. A message from “Caroline” — mom’s first name — fills the screen.

  Caroline: I know the last time we saw each other didn’t go well, and that Ms. Jan said you didn’t want to see me, but we need to talk.

  Groaning again, I delete the text, then roll sideways and shove myself onto my knees. “Whine about it all you want, but it’s not gonna change anything, Case. Now put on that apron and your bestest foster kid smile and whatever you do, don’t drool over Ash...at least not in public.”

  I snort to myself as I pull on a pair of jeans and my tennis shoes. My coworker Ash is too pretty for his own good. It’s a little distracting.

  Ignoring the mess my terror-tremors caused, I grab my apron from the floor of my closet, then duck out the front door. Some of my neighbors still chatter in the hall. Two speak in rapid Spanish, most of which I understand, while an elementary aged kid translates in a language I don’t know for a woman wearing a burka.

  I cut around the corner and sprint down the stairs, tucking my chin so my curls cover my face. Avoiding everyone in the hallway makes zero sense. There’s no reason for anyone to think I’m the weirdo who set off the earthquake. But fear has a bad habit of hindering logic.

  As I jog across the asphalt toward the restaurant on the other side of the fence surrounding my apartment complex, I focus on the wide, blue Texas sky, on the clouds, the plants, anything to calm my nerves. Vibrant crepe myrtles thrive even in the June heat. Mockingbirds jump between their branches so the dark pink petals flutter to the blazing concrete. If I ever get a house of my own, I’m planting some of those in my yard.

  Rounding the edge of The Mercury Room, I jog up the front steps, past the two sets of red-painted benches. Everything smells of cedar when I pull the door open, and a gust of blessedly cool air rushes over me. The very first time I walked into the restaurant, I anticipated the scent of flash frozen fries, cheap burgers, watered down beer.

  Instead, the smell called me to early memories. My first foster Granddad always said the best food dragged you by the arm back to a meal that comforted, cozied the soul. That’s exactly where The Mercury Room takes me every time I walk inside. Days cold and soaked from playing in the rain, called inside for steaming soup and grilled cheese, wrapped up in towels fresh from the dryer...

  Soft rock plays from overhead speakers, just loud enough to make out a word or two here and there. Bulbs encased in mason jars light the round tables and rows of booths. A currently cold fireplace mounted on a white-stone hearth divides the room and a bar borders the back wall near the entrance to the kitchen.

  One of the other servers, Max Avila, leans over the back of a chair, watching while two of our coworkers fill salt and pepper shakers. He smirks when he sees me. “Morning, little mama. Survive that freak earthquake on the way over?”

  A new layer of sweat prickles across my skin. I fight to school my face into a somewhat normal expression as I clock in on the computer close by. “Barely. Super weird. But, uh, I’ve heard extreme heat can cause earthquakes. Or maybe I read that somewhere.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t read it online,” Max says touching my shoulder, face serious. “Because, Case, I hate to be the one to tell you, but not everything you read on the internet is true.”

  I swat his hand away with a laugh, then head into the kitchen for lemon duty, passing Ash as he chats with one of the cook’s about today’s specials. As the expo, he’s all business at the start of a shift, but still pauses to throw me a smile. My insides turn to goo as I giggle like a total moron, then sprint into the massive refrigerator to hide myself in shame.

  The calm of prep work lasts barely half an hour before the busy starts. In spite of my raw nerves, by an absolute miracle, I make it through the day without triggering any more earthquakes.

  As I head to the back to start closing up — totally toast by the end of an overlong day and covered in both sweat and half a pitcher of beer — the owner, Kia, smiles at me from her office. This expression alone relieves layers of exhaustion so much I even have the energy to grin back. I swear, I literally feel my muscles uncurling in her presence.

  “Excellent job today, Case,” she says in her music
al voice.

  Face burning, I lift my shoulders. “I consider any day where I dump stuff on myself instead of a customer a success.”

  Laughter a few inches from my shoulder makes me jump. I twist to look at Max who, as usual, has appeared as if from nowhere. “That happens to the best of us,” he says as I lug a massive bag of garbage out of its container and tie it off. “It’s kind of like getting baptized into the religion that is the restaurant industry. Felicidades.”

  I laugh and haul my cargo out the back door. Nose wrinkled against the stench of pot a sticky Houston wind blows straight into my face, I heave the junk up and over the side with an exaggerated ‘oof.’ I huff and lean against the wall of the restaurant to gulp in some fresh air. Gray white clouds stretch across the starry sky like tire tracks. My phone buzzes in my apron. Flinching I tilt it an inch to see the caller ID.

  I let out a sigh of relief, then answer with a forced smile. Thank goodness it’s not another message from Mom. “Hey Ms. Jan, just finishing up my shift. Can I—”

  “Have you ever—” the phone cuts out halfway through her sentence, “studying to be a paralegal?”

  A groan begs me to turn it into a growl. Adultness, however, wins out. Hopefully, my horrible luck with technology will cut our conversation off naturally, and I won’t have to do anything drastic. Because on top of setting off weird earthquakes, my frustration quite literally sabotages technology.

  “No, doesn’t really seem like my jam,” I say, tracing my scar with a thumb. "Besides, you know how I am with computers, and I’m pretty sure being a paralegal has a lot to do with computers.”

  “Oh but you’re so organized, and Mr. Cole is hiring. You remember Mr. Cole, don’t you? You could get an internship.”

  “Ms. Jan—” A small spark jumps from the bottom of my cell and I stifle a yelp as it stings my hand.

  “You had such a crush on his-”

  “I’ve got to close out. I’ll call you on my walk home, okay? Bye.” I hang up before she can interrupt again, blowing on the end of my cell to get rid of the smoke. “Stupid phone. Every time...”

  Ms. Jan means well, if “means well” implies wanting me to make the most money possible, marry up, and produce the southernly acceptable 2.5 children. A great life for some people, but Ms. Jan thinks it’s the best life for all the kids she’s ever taken care of, a way of getting back the families none of us ever had.

  An irritated shiver scrapes up my spine.

  “Parental expectations can be a pain.”

  I nearly jump out of my fake Converse at the sound of Ash’s voice, gasping so hard it cuts into my chest. Thankfully, this momentary shock isn’t enough to set off any earthquakes. Clutching the collar of my tank top, I glare as Ash steps out of the shadows. A half-flattened cardboard box hangs from one hand while he lifts the other in the same way people do for a frightened animal.

  Lanky and wound tight with wiry muscle, Ash’s movement is wildly distracting, even after a few weeks of working with him. My overactive imagination — one that eleven long years of harsh reality has only exaggerated — weaves the wild idea of him being some ancient, magical creature here to protect everyday ordinary humans. Kind of like a gargoyle.

  It’s ridiculous, but a harmless little fantasy.

  “You scared the junk out of me. Shadow lurker.” I snortle — a goofy cross between a snort and a giggle. “You know, terrifying a fellow staff member by crouching in the dark behind a dumpster is so not kosher.”

  Ash winces and sets the box down at his feet. “Sorry, there’s a pile back there Kia’s been wanting me to deal with for weeks.”

  Coming down from my shock-induced adrenaline rush, I manage a laugh that only shakes a little, and wave a hand. “It’s only a little serial-killerish. If I can’t handle that, I don’t deserve to live in the city. Besides,” I rest my fists on my hips, because the superhero stance makes everyone feel brave, “I wrestled in high school and took a year and a half of krav maga so I know enough to get myself in trouble.”

  Ash grins. “Bad ass. I’ve taken a few years of krav myself.”

  “Yeah?” I let my gaze drop to his arms. The dude looks like he popped out of the womb wrestling snakes Hercules-style. “How many is ‘a few?’”

  “About ten.”

  My jaw threatens to embarrass me by dropping, but I clench it to keep it in place. Not exactly a shock, but dang. “Good grief. No wonder you’ve got the death stare down.”

  Ash lifts his dark brows. “The what?” A slight laugh garbles the end of his sentence.

  “The death stare.” I gesture to his face with my phone, trying not to ramble, but failing. “You know, the one that turns grown men to tiny terrified mice.”

  He lifts his shoulders an inch, a somewhat boyish gesture that reminds me he’s only nineteen and not, in fact, an ancient gargoyle. “Kia calls it intimidation mode. Guess I did learn that during my training.” Ash scratches the sharp ridge of his jaw. “If you want, we could tell your mom the restaurant’s an undercover law firm and that you’re getting internship hours. It might help.”

  A real laugh bursts from my mouth, finally shaking the last of the tension out of my chest. I shove my cell back into my apron. Dang he has good hearing. Good thing I kept the conversation short. I don’t hate people knowing I’ve been in the foster system for the last eleven years, but I loath the looks of pity very few can resist giving me. Better for him to think Ms. Jan is my mom.

  “Sweet thought, but it would never work. She lives too close. Would probably come by to check out the digs. Delusional or not, she’s wicked smart and would probably figure us out.”

  Ash grins, sheepish, his blue green eyes oddly soft in the middle of his sharp features. “It was worth a shot.” He runs both sets of fingers through his hair, one after the other. The silky brown strands stay mostly in place, but a single lock insists on dipping back to his forehead like the branch of a tree. “Well, it’s getting late. I’ll let you get back to closing out. Promise not to lurk again.”

  With another laugh, I wave and head into the kitchen. A few other staff members clean counters to the sultry sounds of the giant, industrial dishwasher roaring in the corner, while Kia and Max stand on either side of the coffee machine, each tackling different sections of the temperamental device’s various parts. Like a demanding toddler, it often requires the combined efforts of two people.

  When I walk past, Max, who holds the machine tilted up with one hand, reaches out to me with the other. “Run, run Case, save yourself,” he says in a shout to be heard over the dishwasher. “But remember us!” A stream of brown tinged liquid runs out of one side and he curses in Portuguese.

  Amusement drags a grin past my scowl and I chuckle. “I’ll be sure to tell the world your story. I’m gonna hit the bar sink. Holler if it gets too dicey.”

  Armed with a rag stiff from industrial soap, I trudge to the front and start sterilizing and destickifying the bar. Though in the past I found waiting tables the sixth, if not seventh, circle of hell, The Mercury Room actually works pretty well for me. Even with the weird vibes threading through the place.

  Maybe Kia’s presence chills me out so much the usual stressors don’t matter. Or maybe the physical labor serves as the perfect distraction slash outlet for the stress constantly vibrating through my bones. Or maybe I’ve grown as a human being.

  Nah.

  Gnawing the back corner of my tongue, I scrub at the stubborn layer of sugary stick coating the sink. If the door hadn’t opened, I probably would’ve ground the washcloth to nothing but cottony shreds in my, uh, fervor to get the job done.

  Swearing at myself for forgetting to lock up, I don’t even try to force a smile onto my exhausted face, but at least resist glaring at the idiot who apparently can’t read signs. A lecture withers in my throat when I see the state of the kid stepping into the bar.

  Thin, the worrisome kind of thin, and dirty, he wears threadbare jeans, a stained plaid shirt, and shoes so battered they
look one bump away from splitting in half. His wheat colored hair frays out around his freckled, sunburnt face, and his dark eyes flick back and forth across the room, clearly driven by nerves, or maybe fear. If I have to peg his age, I’d guess only a few years younger than me. Fifteen at the very oldest.

  When he finally meets my eyes, he tries a sort of half-smile that really, really doesn’t work. “Sorry, I know you’re closed but...I’m looking for...Asher Daughtry. Is he here?”

  Pinching my lips together, I tilt my head. “Who’s asking?”

  I feel bad for the kid. Whatever his situation, he clearly lives rough, but I’m not giving out information without following up with a few questions. My time in the foster system built empathy, but also a healthy dose of suspicion. Tough living can create the trickiest con artists.

  The muscles along his neck tense and his gaze sinks to the floor. “My name is Jeremy. And...he doesn’t know me but...I can explain it to him if—”

  Again the door opens, but this time it slams against the wall, and the kid flinches like a terrified cat. Three people — I use that term loosely because they do not act like any kind of human I’ve ever encountered — march into the bar. Adrenaline forces its way through my body.

  I jamb a finger into the buzzer for the silent alarm. Though Ash is taking care of the boxes by the dumpster, Kia and Max might possibly hear.

  Unless the dishwasher is still running.

  I glup, then double down on my glare. “Sorry y’all, we’re closed. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

  A smile smears across the face of the woman in front and absolute horror seizes my chest as her teeth sharpen into fangs. Seriously. Fangs. How? Why? Exactly one million questions zip through my brain. The kid cowers backward, another very animal-like movement, but he doesn’t look surprised as much as he does scared.

  “Such a shame,” the woman says in a slur. “But don’t worry, we’ll just take the boy and be on our way.”

  Terror driving my pulse straight into my neck, I glance at the kitchen door. No way I can take on three people by myself, even with my weird earthquake ability. It isn’t just dangerous, it’s stupid. But finding no one coming to our rescue, resolve hardens in my gut.