The Nymph's Curse: The Collection (59 page)

She could only hope Chance was different, that he wasn’t the kind to bed her and leave. They had shared more than their bodies — they had shared something even more sacred — their secrets. He had shared a secret that most men in his position would have kept — he had put more trust in her than she could have ever expected from any man.

Picking up her brush, she pulled it through her long brown locks. What would Jenna think about all of this? This impromptu relationship raised more questions than Harper had ever thought possible.

Her sister had always been a free spirit, and as Harper thought of her, she imagined her sister sitting there watching her as she brushed her hair. It was a beautiful imagining and Harper hated to blink the vision away. Jenna seemed to nod and smile, giving her approval of Chance and the strange situation. Harper’s eyes burned as they grew dry, forcing her to blink — making her picture of Jenna disappear.

Yes, Jenna would have given her permission. If she had spoken, Harper would have guessed her sister would have told her she was a fool for not wanting more — for not wanting to seize the chance to have a real relationship with the man.

Her mind drifted to Carey, the other nymph who had once taken a place in Chance’s bed. Harper sucked in a surprised breath as she realized something she had missed. If Carey had gotten pregnant — something that most said was almost impossible for a nymph to do — then was it possible she would become pregnant as well?

Harper rushed from the room and hurried down the stairs. She needed to talk to Chance. Had he thought about what they had possibly done? Had he even come to realize there were not only emotional but possibly more dramatic consequences to their actions?

Harper tried to force her concern from showing on her face. She was probably getting upset over nothing — there was no way someone like her could become pregnant — not after they’d only had a one night affair.

Sitting at the ’50s style metal-edged kitchen table was Starling. As usual, she was hunched over her notepad, making scrawling notes and strange drawings of intersecting circles and dashing lines. From across the room Harper could just make out the word “red” and what looked like some kind of bird.

The kitchen stood barren and lifeless behind the girl. The only items on the ugly mustard yellow countertops were a dust-covered toaster, a lonely coffeepot, and a butcher block filled with the mismatched handles of a variety of knives. The lonely room was just like the rest of the house, but something about the place was gradually changing — almost as if the place was coming alive with Harper and the girl’s presence.

“Good morning, Starling,” Harper said, trying to temper her residual fear. What if she was to become pregnant, as Carey had once done? Would she want a baby? How would this affect Starling? What would happen between her and Chance?

Chance was a good man, an honest man — except when he was playing cards — in which case the game was the focus of his life. He had made a point of telling her he would have to leave — that there were games he had to play. Poker was a profession that a man like Chance, the son of luck, would never be able to walk away from. It was the focus of his life and she had to doubt his focus would ever change.

His avoidance of a relationship in the shadows of the night had fallen on deaf ears, but now in the light of day her fears rose and were intensified with her new concerns. It hadn’t mattered in the warmth of his arms, but now the entire situation made her feel like the lopsided picture she had seen at the lawyer’s office — one simple thoughtless action would cause the whole picture to come crashing to the ground.

Seeing how he dealt with Starling’s situation made her more nervous. Here he was, given a chance to have a real life, a real family with this young woman, and instead he was only going to find a way to fit her into his drifting life. Anyone who attempted to have this man in their life would have to face the same treatment. He would never change. He’d never settle down. And she had no intention of following any man.

Starling looked up from her book for a quick second. “Morning,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. Her skin was porcelain white and her hair was still wet from her bath.

Harper walked through the small dining room attached to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

Starling shook her head and looked back down at her paper.

“Are you sure?” Harper continued, hoping for more than a simple answer.

Starling didn’t answer, and a new tear started in Harper’s poorly stitched heart.

“Well, how about this?” Harper asked, even though she knew she was mostly talking to herself. “How about I run down to the store and get some groceries. When I come back I can cook you and your dad up some breakfast? Would you like that?”

Starling glanced up. “Chance left.”

Harper’s stomach lurched.

“What?”

“He. Left.”

“Did he leave a note?”

The girl lifted her gaze and gave Harper a look that would have made the most hardened mother’s skin prickle.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Starling’s eyebrow rose as if Harper was undeserving of a verbal answer. The tear in her heart widened.

He had slipped out. He had left her. And even more, he’d left her to care for this wearing teenager — and possibly the beginnings of another child. The softness she felt for the man melted away and was replaced by the harsh pangs of anger.

“Did he say where he was going?” Harper tried to sound calm and unaffected as she opened the fridge. She stared into the gleaming white abyss with only a few stray bottles of condiments and a box of baking soda as she waited for an answer that didn’t come. She stared at the empty shelves and realized that the last thing she wanted was to eat. She shut the door and turned back to the teen. “Did he say anything?”

Starling shook her head, as if it made no difference to her whether or not Chance was there for her, or whether she would be in the care of Harper for an unknown amount of time. Did the girl have no feelings? Or had the wolves of her past forced her to hide her emotions, like they were some weakness that the predators could prey upon?

Most teenagers would have been dealing in some type of hysterics at this point, hating the world for the loss of their mother and hating life because of the injustice of their loss. But not Starling.

If Starling was the type who avoided the pain of the world, Harper didn’t want to force the girl to face things she wasn’t ready for. If anything, perhaps the best thing Harper could do was simply be there for the girl who pulsed with unspeakable loneliness. Starling had lost so much, and now the one person that they both — well, at least Harper — had trusted to take the girl in and protect her was gone as well.

The familiar sound of pen scratching on paper permeated through the kitchen as Harper made her way to the counter and grabbed the coffee pot from the machine.

“You a coffee drinker, Starling?”

“Yes.”

“How do you take it?” She took the coffee pot and stuck it under the faucet and let it fill.

Almost out of habit, Harper brushed her hand over the counter, collecting the dust, which littered its surface. She rubbed her dust-covered hand down her leg, leaving behind traces of her sister’s presence.

Starling shrugged.

“You’re not a cream and sugar girl? I have to admit I’m a bit of a sucker for sweets. I guess it’s my one weakness.”

Starling’s eyebrow arched. “Aren’t you a nymph?”

“Does everyone in the whole world know my secret?”

The teen glanced up at the ceiling. “I have it from a good source.”

Chance must have let it slip. “What about you? You a nymph like your mom or lucky like your dad?” She stepped up to the starting line of their relationship.

A light filled Starling’s blue eyes. Harper hadn’t noticed the girl’s eyes before, the way the blue was about the same color of the ocean on the Washington coast. Starling blinked and the light flickered out, leaving only the cold blue waves and the girl’s normal reserve. “I’m just a nymph.”

This was the closest she and the girl had come to having a normal conversation and Harper didn’t know if she wanted to risk the progress she had made in befriending the girl by asking another question. Yet the young woman had opened the door to an onslaught of questions that had wandered through Harper’s mind for the last twenty-four hours and which seemed to grow only more burdensome.

Flipping off the faucet, Harper carried the coffee pot to the little white Mr. Coffee and filled the reservoir. Opening the cupboard, she pulled out the filters and an ancient red plastic bucket of coffee. Beside the bucket was a little plastic jar of powdered creamer and sugar packets, as if Jenna, who always drank black coffee, had known Harper would be there looking for her guilty pleasures. She peeked around the cupboard door as she pushed it closed, trying to catch one last glimpse of her sister’s touch.

“So?” Harper asked, putting in the coffee filter and pouring a bit of coffee into the paper.

“Hmm?”

Harper clicked on the coffee maker and turned to face the teen. “Do you have a supernatural gift in addition to being a nymph?” The sputters and gurgles of the pot filled the quiet space between the two women and the rich scent of hot coffee started to fill the small kitchen.

“What do you care? You’re going to leave.”

The air rushed out of her. “I’m sorry about the loss of your mom, Starling. I truly am. It’s not fair you have to go through this. You don’t deserve to have lost your mom. Not now. Not ever.”

Starling glanced down at the brown, cracked linoleum floor. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused for a moment. “It’s not fair.”

“As I’ve come to learn, nothing in life is fair. Sometimes those who deserve to die are made king and those that are most needed are the first to be struck down.”

“I didn’t need her.” Starling’s voice was scratchy from lack of use and she cleared her throat. “My mother needed me.”

“That doesn’t make what happened to your mom any easier — I know.”

“You don’t know.”

Harper glanced around the dusty kitchen. “I know very well how much it hurts to lose the person you love the most.”

The young woman raised her gaze and stopped just before their eyes met, almost as if she was looking at Harper’s neck rather than her face. “At least your sister is happy.”

“What?” Harper leaned back, letting the counter support her.

“Jenna. Is. Happy,” Starling repeated.

“Starling, she can’t be happy. Jenna is dead.” Hadn’t the girl heard the news of her sister’s demise?

“I know.”

Was the teenager trying to play some kind of sick game with her mind? Harper was already having a hard enough time trying to understand and come to terms with Chance’s revelation and its possible consequences — was the girl trying to make her think she was losing her track on reality?

Harper turned back to the coffee pot and watched the brown liquid drip into the steadily filling pot. “Sweetheart, I know you’ve been through a lot, but teasing me isn’t going to make anything better.”

“I don’t tease.” Starling turned to the table and lifted up her notebook. “Your sister is here. She woke me.”

There were a lot of things Harper had seen in her long life, but seeing ghosts was a little too far out of her comfort zone. She was a scientist, a woman who dealt with clear actions and reactions. She wasn’t the type who would believe in ghosts.

Then again, there was something about the girl, maybe her no-nonsense and quiet ways, which seemed to make such a thing almost possible. The girl was so different that her revelation almost seemed to fit her — the dark-haired and dark-spirited nymph.

“Okay. If that’s true, how did you talk to her?” Harper tried to keep her disbelief from causing a strange inflection in her words. If the girl could do what she said she could, Harper needed to support her. As strange as talking to the dead was, it couldn’t be said her own shape-shifting abilities would have been any less far-fetched to someone who hadn’t known nymphs existed. In this case, an open mind was her only option.

Starling turned back to her salt and pepper composition book. She opened up the pages and lifted her pen. “Watch.”

The nib of the pen moved in tight circles even before she let the ink release upon the paper. As she moved the pen down, the circles slowed, but her movements made deep black circular gouges. The shapes changed as she moved the pen around and around, and soon they became deep cutting gashes.

“Ask for a spirit to make contact,” Starling said.

Harper didn’t know what to ask, but there was only one spirit with whom she wished to speak. A lump started in her throat and goose bumps rose on her skin. “Are there any spirits who’d like to make contact? Jenna?” Her voice wavered.

“She’s here … ” Starling’s face went blank and her eyes closed. Her left hand dropped down to the open book, but the pen in her right hand kept moving in rhythmic motions. The pen jerked. The nib dug deep, scratching against the paper so hard that it was a wonder the paper didn’t rip. “R” formed on the paper. It was followed by an “E.” The pen moved and its ink merged into a “D” on the paper, making the word “red.”

“Jenna, what do you mean by
red
?” Harper looked up, searching for some kind of answer.

The front door of the house opened, letting in a puff of cold winter air and making the goose bumps upon Harper’s arms raise higher.

“Hello? You ladies awake?” Chance called, slamming the door shut behind him.

Starling’s writing stopped. The white plastic pen fell from her fingers and clattered on the table.

“Uh, yeah.” Harper looked around hoping she could catch a glimpse of her ghostly sister, but she saw nothing out of the normal. “We’re in here.”

Chance walked into the kitchen his arms full of groceries. A red plastic bread bag peaked out from over the top of one of the bags.

For a moment, Harper was angry for his leaving without telling her where he was going or when he’d be back, but her anger was replaced with a sense of relief. “Where have you been?”

He dropped the bags down onto the counter and began unloading their contents.