Capricorn Cursed (2 page)

She wondered if she would see him again. She wondered if he wanted to see her again.

Natasha hadn't noticed him around town before, but Hermana was rather large. Since she didn't go out much during the day, she didn't know if he could have been living and working here for years. Men came and went. Some were special. Some, not so much. Such was the way of life.

Again she attempted to focus on the words in front of her, but they lazily swam away. The idea of spies blasting each other from hidden places just wasn't holding her attention, as dreamy romantic ideas flitted around her tired mind.

Looking around the room, she was aware of all the darkness—black candelabras, black lamps, black table dressings, even black books. Normally, she enjoyed all the blacks and burgundies that furnished her space, but as ideas of romance circled her thoughts, she wondered if all the dark colors were just a black hole where her emotions hid.

She yearned for some greenery in the dimness, but whenever she brought home a new plant, it died. The only current survivor was a three-foot tree in the corner, but even that wasn't faring too well.

She went to the kitchen to fill her copper pot with water from the cooler. The shiny metal glimmered in the darkness. The running water reminded her of the first time she laid eyes on the pot. It had been in the hands of Countess Lydia (of some small European town she would have to look up again in her diary) as she showed Natasha the proper way to water plants. Even as Natasha stood beside the beautiful countess, the brilliant green leaves around her turned a dull yellow as they slowly shriveled and died.

The countess had turned to her with a gleam in her eye.

“As I expected, you are one of them.” The countess studied her as she questioned Natasha. “How can I show you to care for plants when you are destruction?”

Natasha shivered as she remembered the look of betrayal in the countess's eyes. No matter how much she forgot over the years, the hurt in that she had seen in those eyes never left her heart.

The pot was nearly full, and Natasha turned off the tap. As she walked toward the small tree, a Malabar chestnut, in the corner of the living room, its leaves fluttered lightly.

“Now, now, I'm just trying to feed you.”

As she approached the plant, it turned a light yellow and tightly curled up its leaves. Natasha sighed and stepped back. The tree uncurled hesitantly the farther away she went.

“Two days old and already you're leaving me. So much for my money
feng shui
.” She returned to the kitchen and poured the water down the drain. Sighing, she went over to her computer and flicked it on. She checked her email. Nothing except her daily horoscopes.

“A new year brings new hope.”

Natasha sighed. Didn't beginning-of-the-year horoscopes always say that?

She noted that the full moon was on her birthday, and she considered that rather auspicious. The moon was going from Cancer to Leo, so she imagined she would have some vivid dreams and lusty thoughts.

Finally, sleep beckoned her. She returned to the living room to snuff out her candles. She stopped at the small altar set up by the window.

There were a few simple tokens on it, and she touched each one lightly. “Thank you for your blessings.”

She went into her bedroom, where a huge king-sized bed with a thick burgundy velvet canopy loomed. The bed was the centerpiece of the room, but it still didn't detract from the ornate matching dresser and highboy. There was also a wardrobe. But, her favorite item, one she had kept for years, was her vanity table.

The little claw-footed, mirrored dresser had once belonged to someone. She couldn't quite remember who and knew she would have to refer to her diary again. There was the vague idea that it had been payment, likely for music classes. The matching stool was upholstered with burgundy velvet. Although it was worn, it was still a beautiful piece.

Once a week, Natasha wandered around her rooms with lemon oil and cloths, shining up her precious wooden pieces until they gleamed like the moon on the beach at low tide.

She put on her favorite white cotton nightgown with the ruffled sleeves and slipped into bed. Lost among the pillows and comforters, she reached out to tie the canopy flaps shut. With a black-silk-and-lace mask over her eyes, she smiled as she tried to sleep, willing herself toward thoughts of Gus once more.

In minutes, she came to her.

“Not tonight,” Natasha whispered. “I'm tired.”

The spirit was persistent, teasing her face with ethereal, floating fingers. Natasha batted at her with her hand.

“No. I don't want to know.”

Natasha rolled over, turning her back to the ghost, but it was to no avail. The ghost teased her mask from her face, forcing Natasha to look at her.

The ghostly presence shimmered in the darkness, a full mouth and wide, expectant eyes flitted in and out of Natasha's focus. Another form shifted into shape next to the ghost and then another one. Soon, lost souls crying to Natasha for attention filled the canopy tent.

“Go away,” she said firmly to them as she sat up. “I don't want to see you right now.” Slowly, the images faded, and Natasha flopped back onto her pillows.

Curse this so-called gift! Why is there always a price?

Her dreams were no better, which was not surprising. The stronger her
gift
of speaking to the dead grew, the more she was unable to control it. Between unexpected messages from beyond and her constant thirst, she was going mad.

By the time she awoke, she was dizzy and weak. She opened up the great velvet drapes and greeted the night. It was chilly in the room; she could almost see her breath. She knew it had nothing to do with the snowstorm outside. It was the ghosts, lurking in wait for her to answer their questions and relay messages to their loved ones.

Her fingers itched as she prepared the coffeemaker. Once it was percolating, she went into the living room. There was a bit of a glow from the moon as the whiteness of the pounding snow swirled outside her windows.

Natasha loved her loft. It sprawled across the entire floor of an old factory from the ‘20's. Some company had once thought Hermana might be a good trade town. If there had been more workers able to focus on toiling in a factory, it would have been.

With Boston and other towns not that far away, the Hermana textiles factory didn't fare well. It may also have had something to do with the local citizens not being terribly excited about a big, black-smoke-belching factory smack-dab in the middle of their little scenic town.

It could also have been the witches.

There had been a series of unfortunate events, which included missed shipments and faulty machinery. There had even been that horrible day when the nasty, old foreman fell into some spinning thing and was sliced and diced beyond recognition.

No matter, the factory was abandoned within years of being built. It was eventually converted into large, beautiful lofts for artists and other eccentrics.

Although her living room and dining room area were combined, there was lots of room for any number of guests that a single lady might expect to have over. There was her bedroom, which was lovely, but her other room was her total pride and joy
—
the room where her angry soul found peace. In it, she could lose herself for hours from the sheer exhaustion of living; she could be single and alone, with no family and no destination.

The room called to her
—
sometimes invading her dreams, sometimes niggling at her when she was out with friends. She had spent countless hours saging the room, ridding it of the angry workers and the wailing foreman who were drawn to her.

It was the only room where she was able to somewhat hide from the spirits, but even then, it was seldom for long.

She turned the large goat's head handle and pushed the door open.

She flicked one of the many switches, and several huge wrought-iron chandeliers with electric candles burst into life. The room was covered with thick red carpet, not only across the floor but also along the walls and across the ceiling. There was another door leading to the back staircase, which was covered in black carpet so it was easy to locate.

The room had giant speakers, an area with a drum kit and several microphone stands. There was another area with one music stand and a ceiling-high bookcase stuffed full of music books and papers. Recording equipment, wires, microphones and boxes of CDs were on the shelves. To Natasha, there was nothing more important in life than vibrating with music. It didn't matter if it was booming from speakers at a club or quivering beneath her fingers on her violin strings.

There were several instrument cases, and Natasha went over to one of the violins. She opened up the case and pulled out a bow. She examined it for warps as she tightened it and then slid rosin along it. She lifted out the violin and fastened the shoulder rest. As she put it to her shoulder, she picked up her bow again. She trembled with excitement as the bow easily slid along the strings. A warm, rich sound enveloped the room as she played, fingers dancing easily along the fingerboard.

An hour passed before she remembered her coffee. She put away her violin and snapped off the lights. With a sigh, she shut the music room door behind her and returned to reality.

After sipping several cups of coffee and checking her email, she began to feel like herself, almost. There was still that gnawing, unending hunger in her belly, but she pushed it aside. It wasn't time yet. She had to wait to quell her appetite.

It was part of her Capricorn self-discipline. Waiting. Self-restraint, patience and anticipation of the perfect moment.

She was going to meet Ellie and Maggie for drinks at Intuition, and she still had to bathe and apply her face.

Around her, the room swelled with the nudging of impatient spirits, but she told them to leave her alone as she entered the bathroom.

The steam from the shower filled her with a sense of longing. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of herself under a waterfall in South America with Paolo, a coffee bean farmer. He had been darkly tanned, muscular and rather tall. His thick accent and strong worker hands had attracted her to him. During her time in his village, they had spent many hours together enjoying each other's bodies.

The afternoon in the waterfall was a memory she would cherish forever. She had written it down and revisited it regularly so she wouldn't forget it.

His lips had searched hers out so eagerly as she pressed into him. She was still young then, still able to handle the sun when she kept her eyes squinted shut. His hands had eagerly cupped her breasts as she arched into him with a moan.

His body had pressed tightly against hers, and she felt the firm swell of his cock against her stomach.

“I want to make love to you,” he had whispered hotly into her ear.

She nuzzled into him. “Yes, yes.”

He slid into her, his body tight and strong as he held her under the soothing, steady stream of the waterfall. She knew he could do whatever he wanted to her and she could never get sick or pregnant. Not her kind.

He held her, pushing into her urgently, grabbing fistfuls of her long, dark hair.

“I want to try something else,” he said as he pulled out. They waded to the rocky wall of the cave, and he moved her so she stood facing it, her hands clutching the damp rocks for support as he slipped into her again. His cock was rigid and parted her flesh easily. She gasped as the different angle activated new sensations. His hands pulled her hips back to push against him as he thrust into her. The wall was slippery, and her hands slid along it as she tried to balance. The delicious prodding of his urgency melted with her own, and she threw her head back.

Their feet slipped on the rocks, and the rushing water threw them off balance, so he took her by the hand to the grassy shore to finish.

She lay on her back on the soft grass as he pushed her legs over her shoulders. Again, he entered her, and she gasped as he seemed even bigger than before. She held onto his broad shoulders as his breath panted hot against her neck. She let pleasure course through her, as he whispered Spanish words into her ears.

In the shower, Natasha's soapy fingers worked her clit as she imagined Paolo fucking her that day. As she closed her eyes, fingers stroked her along her shoulders and back. Warm, soapy caresses warmed her round bottom. Her own hand found her breast, and she toyed with the nipple as she tingled and moaned. Another hand fondled her hair, and she squeezed her eyes tighter, not wanting to see the apparitions who were touching her.

At last, she came, just as the hot water was running low. She opened her eyes as the shower curtain fluttered, then stilled. The door to the bathroom clicked shut, and she shook her head.

Who are they kidding?

She rinsed off the soap and stepped out of the tub, feeling less tense and more ready to face her friends. She returned to her bedroom with one large, white bath towel firmly wrapped around her body while another donned her head turban-style. The warm steam from the bathroom wafted in, and it was welcome in the chilly room.

She caught a glimpse at herself in the mirror. Contrary to legend, she could see her reflection quite fine. She could see all sorts of things in mirrors. She was paid well for her skill.

Tonight, there was only her face staring back. A very young face, stern and cold, but a pretty face nonetheless.

It wasn't a trick.

Back when she had first heard about it, she didn't believe it. However, in her decades of living, she was proud she had followed the advice, as despicable as it seemed. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a woman in her 30's. Tall, slender, and pale. Just like the others that had turned her.

Marianne had told her the secret.

Marianne.

She remembered Marianne because she had painstakingly handwritten her story in one of the leather-bound journals on the bookcases in her living room. She read the journal often to remind herself who she really was and how to continue on. In fact, she stopped her preparations to go into the library to retrieve the journal.