S. Harper - Cursed

“Although I’d really like to meet Zack,” she says.

Shit. Did she really just say that?

“Zack?”

“Yes, Zack. Your partner. Call and ask him.”

“Can’t. Full moon tonight.”

She’s not deterred in the least. “So ask him tomorrow. Let me know what he says.”

Liz hangs up.

I’m left staring dumbstruck at the phone.

• • •

Even after three glasses of wine, I can’t sleep. Images from last night have been flitting through my mind off and on all day. Instead of fading, the itch seems to be growing stronger and more urgent. Try as I might to focus on something else, anything else, my thoughts are of Zack, the way he looks, the way he feels, the way he makes me feel. That moment in his kitchen last night was my doing. And yet there is more than my power sparking between us. Zack proved that this afternoon in the conference room. We agreed to keep it professional. We need to keep it professional. But there’s something between us, not just the simple lust we felt in Charlotte. Not even the aftereffects of my powers, which I’ve seen drive men to distraction. Something more. And it scares me.

Why don’t I just admit it?

Because I can’t.

Bitterness burns the back of my throat. I lied to him. It was for a good reason. It was for the best reason. But when I think about the way I lied—so dismissive, so condescending—my gut twists. Zack deserves better. I’d like to make things right, but how can I? What would I tell him? That I’m something very old, very rare, and very dangerous? That I have been cursed by a goddess determined to bring ruin to anyone with whom I find love? That it’s dangerous for both of us to even think of having a relationship? That he needs to forget what he knows, or what he thinks he knows?

Maybe I’ll call him, apologize for being so abrupt. Keep it short. Professional. Even Demeter could find no fault with that. I dial before I lose my nerve.

His phone rings in my ear. Six. Seven. Eight rings. Then it goes to voice mail. I panic and hang up. Of course, I’d get voice mail.

I hear the howl of a coyote drifting up from the canyon at the edge of the property. Not an unusual sound. Tonight, though, it makes me feel terribly lonely. I wander out to the courtyard and look up. The moon in a cloudless sky casts shadows on the ground. Shadows that touch my feet and draw me forward into the darkness. The air is quiet and still. I am alone. Normally I would take comfort in that. Tonight, being alone simply feels . . . lonely.

I’d say my thoughts drift back to Zack. But since we had words earlier, they haven’t been far from him. I wonder where he spends these changeling nights and with whom. Last night I felt confident that if Sarah came to him for shelter, he’d turn her away. Would he do so tonight? Did he make it home on time himself?

Even those who have risen through the ranks to a position of power as leader of a pack are subject to the pull of the moon. Only the absolute strongest Weres can resist. Fewer still can change at will. Whether they’re Alpha, Beta, or Omega, one thing all Weres have in common is that they are fiercely loyal to one another, to their pack, and to their mates. Relocation is rare.

Why did Zack leave South Carolina? And, if his relationship to Sarah ended there, why has she followed him to San Diego? To convince him to return to his home? To his pack?

So many questions.

This is the third night. Zack will be free of the moon’s hold tomorrow. The old ones used to say a waning moon is the time to eliminate negative thoughts, release all guilt.

I wish it were that easy.

Wherever Zack is, I can’t reach him tonight. But tomorrow . . . I pick up the phone, dial his number again. This time I leave a message.

“I’m coming to the beach house tomorrow morning, Zack. I’ll bring breakfast. See you about seven.”

• • •

Demeter comes to me in a dream. She’s standing in my garden, dressed in a long gown that sparkles, its fabric sheer and woven from ice crystals. Everything about her is ice—from her translucent alabaster skin to her piercing cobalt eyes to her stark white hair, flowing past her waist and tinged with frost. She holds a sword in one hand, a severed head in the other. Blood from it drips onto the pristine pile of snow that has formed at her feet, staining it.

“Do you know who this is, Ligea?” she asks, turning the head so I can see the face.

No matter what name I currently use, Demeter always calls me by the first.

My stomach knots. “Yes,” I whisper, head bowed.

“His fate was in your hands. You had a choice. You made the wrong one. You betrayed him with your lust.”

“Not lust,” I cry, tears streaming from my eyes. “Love. He was my husband. I loved him.”

“Silence! You haven’t earned the right to love.” Demeter’s voice thunders into the night, her sparking anger splits the darkness like lightning. “You and your sisters lost that right when you lost my daughter.”

“But you got Persephone back.” Even as the words fall from my lips, I know I’ve made a mistake. We’ve been here before, she and I. You’d think I would have learned by now. I should never challenge Demeter.

The goddess grows still. “You’d be wise to remember who you are talking to, Ligea,” she says, the soft tone of her voice more frightening than if she’d been yelling. “Or I may add another head to my trophy shelf.” A cold smile turns her features into stone as a thin layer of ice and frost forms outward from the edges of her gown, covering her skin.

She holds the head up once again. She turns it so I can see the face. A scream rips out of my throat.

This time, the head she holds is Zack’s.

My eyes fly open.

The moonlight coming in through the windows casts the room in an eerie glow. My heart is pounding, my breath comes hard and fast, freezing into mist on the bone-chilling night air. The doors to the garden have been thrown wide. I know I’d closed and locked them. With trepidation I slide out of bed. The normally warm wooden floor is ice-cold on my bare feet. I hardly register it or the thin layer of condensation that seems to be covering every surface. My gaze is fixated on the open doors, and the glass panes frosted now with a crackling web of ice. I move toward the door, not quite sure if I’ve wakened from a dream, or am in the midst of one. When I reach the threshold, I see that the deck is empty.

Except for a pool of water shining in the dark exactly where Demeter stood in my dream.

I feel as if all the air has been sucked from my body. I lean back against the wall of the house. It feels solid, real, but it’s not enough to support me. My legs give way and I slide down to the ground.

Day Four: Friday, April 13

I wake up, my face wet with tears. Demeter’s warning was clear. I can’t let my feelings for Zack rage out of control. She’s watching.

My body aches. At some point last night, I’d fallen asleep on the back deck. Again. When I awoke, my head was pounding. I’d dragged myself back into the house and fallen, exhausted, into bed. Still, I didn’t rest well. I couldn’t. Demeter’s flashing sword cut into my subconscious until my early-morning dreams, like last night’s nightmares, dripped blood.

Another warning comes when I finally tumble out of bed and look at the calendar.

Friday the thirteenth.

All the superstitions about the date flood my head, casting even more of a pall on my already dark mood.

Ridiculous.

As ridiculous as some of the myths spun around my sisters and me. Bird women? Mermaids? Luring men to their death with a song? The only death we are capable of is “le petit mort,” and so far, no man has ever complained about an orgasm that leaves him breathless and panting for more. In fact, most myths were made up by men who needed a scapegoat to avoid taking responsibility for a catastrophe of their own making. Thoughts of my sisters, of the home I may never see again, fill me with melancholy. Thoughts of the possibility I’m about to make a grave mistake fill me with dread.