Cursed: The Girl Who Shook the Earth Read online

  I have to do something to defend this poor kid. Con artist or not, drug addict or not, I can’t leave him to this crew of creepy adults. Out of pure instinct, I grab the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. Right now I’m the only thing between him and a group of people he clearly doesn’t want to go anywhere with.

  Turning to the trio, I lift my chin, take a step in front of the young man, and gather enough oxygen to say, “You’ll have to tear through me first.”

  2.

  A HISS SLICES THE AIR between the woman’s lips and she springs toward me. Teeth clenched, I swing the fire extinguisher. Shockwaves course through my forearms when I make contact. Something cracks. Loud and wet. My stomach twists as I stumble backward, but I make myself face my target.

  The woman crouches a few feet away, jaw now bright red and hitched at an odd angle. Black eyes narrow, she lets out an altogether inhuman wail, and the other two stalk forward. To my left, the kid yelps. I throw another glance at the kitchen door. Still no one. Still on my own.

  Typical.

  Cursing, I focus on the men, pull the pin on the extinguisher with shaking fingers, then squeeze the trigger. White foam shoots into one of their faces, but the other lunges at me under the spray. His shoulder slams into my waist. We hit the ground. Air shoots out of my lungs as his weight grinds my spine against the hard wood.

  The floor shakes faintly, the first sign of a terror-induced tremor. I gulp down a breath. Not the time to destroy the bar with my weirdo power. Then again, maybe my emotional instability can still be helpful.

  Using panic as fuel, I aim the bottom of my makeshift weapon at his skull, and slam it down with all my strength. Pain wrenches my elbows and splinters across my palms. The blow forces the man back. On his hands and the balls of his feet he staggers, shaking his head like an irritated dog. Before I can get upright, the woman springs at me again.

  A blur hammers into her body, sending her flying across the room, all the way to the front door. Twisting midair, she lands on her feet to face the new opponent. Ash stands in front of me, his muscles coiled for a fight, hands clenched, not even looking a little shocked to be squaring off with clearly paranormal creatures. That definitely makes one of us.

  Relief rushes through me, but it doesn’t last long.

  The foam covered man bursts forward, fist drilling straight toward Ash’s stomach. I can’t follow what happens next — they both move way too fast — but a blur of limbs later leaves the stranger on the floor with an arm so twisted it looks like a gnarled tree branch. My stomach heaves as the second man tries to take Ash out.

  Idiot.

  Ash flings this dude so hard he actually lands on the porch beyond the woman. One of the rocking chairs set up near the door topples sideways. I gape. Ash is strong, but there’s no way he should have been able to do that.

  Not to be intimidated, however, captain lady fang sprints at us with another wild wail. Terror pulses through me. Instinctively, I throw out my arms and a single, violent tremor rocks the bar, knocking her off balance.

  Ash catches her by the throat and slams her against the white stone wall of the fireplace at the center of the room. He doesn’t even glance at me. Hopefully he’s too distracted by the fight to notice the mini-earthquake.

  Though clearly dazed, the woman claws at his hands, shoes scraping the ground. “Traidor.” She says the word in a hiss and my skin crawls.

  Not normal. Not human. What in the name of all that is good and holy is going on?

  When he speaks, Ash keeps his voice low and even. “If you take your people and leave right now, I won’t drain you like a goat.”

  “The boy belongs to—”

  Ash’s hand flinches. Her eyes bug and she chokes.

  “Get out.” With a final squeeze, he shoves her to the ground next to the man with the mangled arm.

  She bares her fangs. “This isn’t—”

  “Over? I assume not.” Ash steps toward them, the death glare in his eyes.

  They yelp and scramble out the door.

  For a few somewhat calming breaths, I stare after them. Questions clog my brain so bad I can’t pay any real kind of attention to their retreat. Who are they? What are they? Did Ash notice that I shook the bar? Or was the heat of the fight enough to distract him? And why isn’t he freaking out about the fangs?

  The freaking fangs!

  When these thoughts make me so dizzy I sway, I force my focus to something I can make sense of: the scared kid crouched in the corner.

  Dark eyes wide, Jeremy clutches the leg of a table so tightly his knuckles turn white and his arms shake. When I take a careful step in his direction, he flinches, but doesn't meet my eyes. About a foot away from him, I lift a hand and sink onto my heels.

  “Hey, you’re okay now,” I say, my voice as soft and steady as my fried nerves allow with my bones buzzing.

  Jeremy’s eyes zero in on my arm, a weird, sharp movement. Every muscle in my body immediately tenses to run at the unexpected and very predatory look on his face. I clench my back teeth against this instinct. Running only shows fear, triggers a chase response. Something I saw more than once in the system. Though he’s definitely younger than me, and painfully thin, he’s also bigger, potentially stronger.

  I wiggle my toes in my shoes, and take a steadying breath. “What—”

  “Case,” Ash says, “I’m going to need you to back away from him. Slowly.”

  Brow furrowed in irritation, I don’t fight to keep the annoyance out of my words as I say, “Ash, the kid is scared. I can—”

  An animal-like growl rolls from Jeremy’s chest. I shut up quick. Every hair on my body stands on its own. That tremor vibrates the floor under my feet, but this time, just barely. The kid grips the table leg even tighter and, for the first time, I realized what he’s glaring at.

  Blood drips from the side of my outstretched hand. His eyes follow the movement and his lips tremble.

  Curses snap through my head. My brain tries to make sense of this, of the hungry look on his face, but again I make myself focus on what I can solve. I obey Ash’s command and back away, very, very slowly. The second I move, Jeremy lunges at me, claws sprouting from his fingers, fangs from his mouth.

  I dive out of the way, rolling sideways, and straight into the stupid fireplace. When the world stops spinning, I cast around to find Jeremy. Ash holds him off the ground in a bear hug. Twisting and clawing and snarling, the boy fights for freedom with what looks like pure desperation. His violent movements barely jar Ash.

  About a breath later, as if she’s materialized out of the sprinkler system above, Kia floats into the space in front of them.

  A soft smile flows onto her lips as she touches the thrashing kid’s face. She opens her mouth, but whatever comes out doesn’t sound like words at all. It doesn’t even really sound like a song. Not exactly, anyway. Music pours from her lips. Music that flows with joy and peace and harmony all at the same time.

  The muscles in my body unwind and relax as my mind clears. Slowly, the kid stops struggling, and after a moment, he sags in Ash’s arms. His face contorts, calm now, but sad. So clearly sad.

  I press a hand to my chest. Over the years I’ve seen that expression so many times on the faces of so many of the kids with me in the system I can peg it pretty easily as the look of the defeated. Most kids I saw this way spent years fighting addiction, self-harm, or any number of other destructive habits meant to help them get control. They’d battled so long and failed so hard they’d lost the get up and go.

  Can’t say I ever saw any of them triggered by blood though.

  That’s a new one. But then, drugs do weird stuff to people, cause super strange hallucinations. One kid I shared a home with swore that butterflies lived in our closet. Since this was the weirdest thing she ever did, I usually just humored her.

  Whatever this kid’s on doesn’t seem quite so harmless.

  He must’ve gotten hold of some bad drugs on the street. It’s the only explanation
that makes sense in my brain. That and starvation are all too common for kids running from bad foster situations. I’m one of the lucky ones, but some end up in worse scenarios than they started in.

  With one final, gentle stroke from Kia, Jeremy’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and he goes completely limp. My eyes widen as Ash hoists him into his arms, supporting his legs, and carrying him into the kitchen. I stare after them as my mind races.

  Kia glides over to me. She sinks to my eye level and touches my hand. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Do we need to call an ambulance when we call the police?”

  Shock still buries my voice deep in my chest, so I just shake my head.

  “Somehow I doubt that, but the blood is our biggest concern,” Kia says. “Let’s get that patched up, then you can head home.”

  I nod, only half locked in to this statement, my mind way too focused on Jeremy. “What...what are y’all going to do with the kid? You’re not going to have him arrested, are you?” I ask as Kia retrieves the first aid kit from the bar.

  “No, of course not. And don’t worry, we’ll make sure he gets what he needs.” Kia returns with the white box and smoothes a hand over my knuckles.

  A strange wave of delicious warmth rolls over me. All my anxiety fades. My questions fizzle out as the images in my head shift slightly, making much more logical sense. No more fangs or claws, no more snarls or wails, just aggressive humans with fists and beer-sour breath. Everything will be fine. I don’t need to worry at all. Fear incited my imagination, made paranormal monsters of evil people. This was just another case of PTSD.

  By the time I start the short walk home — with Ash and Kia watching from the back door just in case our friends from earlier try to jump me — I’ve brushed everything I just saw aside with simple explanations. Probably an exhaustion-slash-terror induced hallucination. No one else has magic like I do.

  I’m still fully alone in my weirdness.

  The smell of the canned chicken and cheese I burned for breakfast stings my nose when I open the door to my apartment. That poor little apple-scented candle did nothing to cover it up. Setting my keys on the kitchen bar, I pull my cell out of my apron pocket.

  Three texts from my best friend, Allister, and approximately eighteen missed calls and four voicemails from Ms. Jan. When, oh when, will this woman learn how to text? I heave in a breath.

  Think happy thoughts. At least it’s not mom. I let the breath go and send a reply.

  Me: Long Day. Will call tomorrow.

  Armed with a bottle of water, I shower (because ew), throw on my nightgown, and slump onto the patched, red couch wedged into the corner next to my second hand bookshelf. After a few jabs at the power button, the TV blinks to life. I don’t pay a whole lot of attention to the local news. Instead, I sweep the room, taking minor solace in the familiar.

  Two crayon drawings from my little foster sister Molly hang next to the tiny window. Happy flowers and butterflies. A splash of color I focus on sometimes when anxiety is trying to take over. I can’t afford fancy artwork, but this is better, more meaningful.

  Tears roll from the corners of my eyes. I brush them away with my bare arm. Maybe I’m alone in my paranormal weirdness, but there’s a kid out there who still loves me enough to send me small pieces of lovely, childish joy.

  The air conditioner kicks on, nudging the multicolored beads in my bedroom doorway. I watch them sway until sleep drags me under. Fanged creatures attack me in dreams. I attempt to fend them off with my power. Tremors crack the ground. They fall into black depths...

  A loud crack sends me straight off the couch.

  Blinking away the smears of sleep, I flinch around in a circle until I find the source of the noise. Thin fissures splinter across the ceiling and around the fan. Bits of paint and drywall flutter into my eyes, catching in my hair and tumbling into my sports bra. A second heavy thud shakes the room so hard, the glass tupperware containers on top of my fridge topple over.

  As they shatter, I catch myself on the wall one second before everything comes crashing down around me.

  3.

  PINNED AGAINST THE bookcase, half blind with dust, heart pounding in terror, I force my shaking body to stay absolutely still as that trio of fanged people drop onto the rubble of my apartment ceiling.

  With my legs trapped, one wrong yank might cut a vein or break a bone. If I keep calm and feel around, I might manage to find a weapon that won’t destroy the rest of my apartment the way my power definitely will. Like the aluminum baseball bat on the other side of the bookcase Allister gave me...

  As I assess the situation, captain lady fang turns her fetching grin on me. “You. The one who stood between us and our quarry. You’re going to pay for that with your blood.”

  Wiggling my toes — score one for me — I quirk my lips to the side. “Makes sense. I’d be mad if I were you too.” I squeeze my calf muscles, followed by my quads. Everything feels pretty functional. I inch my fingers around the corner of the bookcase. “But listen. This is a really bad time. Think you could come back later? It’s past my bedtime.”

  Past my bedtime? Really? Now I have to survive because those can not be my last words. The tip of my middle finger touches the bat handle. Only a thin section of ceiling rests on top of my legs. If I can get armed, I might stand a little bit of a chance.

  In theory.

  The woman lets out a screeching sort of laugh and flicks both of her wrists. Her two partners spring toward me. Nothing for it. I shove myself sideways, grip the cold aluminum, and swing as hard as I can at the one with the still mangled arm. A loud ping mingles with the man’s howl as he stumbles into his partner.

  I scramble to my feet and square off just the way my little league coach taught me. Before either of them can recover, I bring the bat down again, this time aiming for their heads. Vibrations ricochet up my arms as I hit shoulders and backs and elbows, but I don’t stop until the woman sprints at me. I side-step her friends and dash for the door.

  A hand closes around my ankle, jerking me to a stop. Fear stings my skin. The floor rumbles under my feet, knocking over my bookcase. Teeth clenched, I plant my other foot, twist, and blindly swing. This time I only catch air, but it does make one of the men flinch backward. Choking on debris, I aim another blow at the skull of the guy at my feet, fury and tremors fueling my attack.

  “You ruined my apartment!” I hit the woman in the jaw. “Do you have...” I smack somebody’s elbow, “any idea,” I make contact with a knee, “how hard it is,” blood bursts out of a nose, “to find one this cheap?” With a final growl of pure rage, I slam the bat into the man’s wrist.

  When he lets go with a cry of pain, I wheel around and scramble for the door. My fingers can’t turn the locks fast enough. Something slams into me. My nose rams the frame and my vision doubles. Sharp teeth scrape across the arm I throw up to protect my neck. Over the ringing in my ears I hear myself let out an undignified squeak.

  The woman pauses, my blood coating her tongue. “You taste...different.” Her gory smile widens and she lunges at me.

  Again, the instinct to survive snaps through my muscles, drowning out confusion and hesitation. Adrenaline drives my knee up hard and fast. It makes contact with the woman’s crotch. Though not quite as effective as a blow to a dude’s junk, it’s far from pleasant. My target wails. When she doubles over, I bring my heel down into the top of her foot.

  Teeth grit against the fiery pain in my shoulder, I force myself to swing the bat one last time as I wrench the door open. It hits the woman in the temple hard enough to knock her back a few steps, and I wheel around the corner into the humid-damp night. Bat in hand, ignoring the hot liquid rolling along my arm, I tear down the stairs, across the parking lot, and through the fence toward The Mercury Room.

  I don’t look back. My ears strain for the sound of shoes on cement, of growls and howls and wails, but fear roars so loud in my ears I can’t hear anything over it. Gravel and sand dig into my feet. Something sharp se
ars my heel. Air heavy with moisture shreds my throat and lungs. At the porch, one of my big toes hooks on a stair and I go sprawling across the wood.

  Dizzy with sheer exhaustion and pain, I manage to lift the bat and bang it against the door. The last of my energy drains from my muscles with every blow. It’s useless trying to get anyone’s attention this late at night. Everyone’s gone home and I’m all on my own. Still I try, hoping against hope that someone, anyone, is still inside. My limbs tremble and, for once, I try to intentionally shake the ground. I can’t even make it tremble.

  Then I hear the growls, see the fangs glint in the moonlight. A weight settles on my chest. Ash is going to have a huge mess to clean up in the morning. Poor dude.

  “You fought well, child,” the woman says. “You will die with honor.”

  “Are you going to monologue?” I ask, my voice sounding thin after all the harrowing events of the night. “Pretty impressive with all those fangs. I’d never pull it off.”

  The woman hisses and lunges forward. Then a new voice floats through the air and she slows, wavers, stops in a daze. A heartbreaking song swirls around us, wrapping me in waves of cool calm like mist from a waterfall, restoring my energy. My attackers stare into nothing as if hypnotized.

  Kia materializes from the dark behind them, music flowing from her lips. Relief-driven tears sting my eyes. The restaurant owner walks a graceful circle around the trio. Her fingers trail across their shoulders and chests, graze faces and temples. As she moves, her song continues until her fourth pass where she pauses at their backs.

  Like a queen, she dips her head, and everything goes dark. I realize pretty fast what, or rather who, blocks out my light. Ash steps over me, stalking slow and methodical toward the fanged trio. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Kia appears at my side, pulling me into her arms and singing into my ear.