Cursed in Love Read online

  Remember the client who called in this morning. Mina? Meela? Mila? She needs assistance with something.

  I can’t remember what it was for the life of me. But I’ll figure it out when she arrives tomorrow. All I know is she needed to talk to a professional. That made me chuckle.

  A professional.

  I haven’t been called that in years. Perhaps she doesn’t realize what it is I do. Maybe she does and is not ready to admit it.

  Setting my mug down, I focus my mind and energy on completing my list. This should be easy. Not much happened today. I think.

  Chapter 2

  Mila

  Dr. Crane presses his lips together and scribbles something on his notepad before glancing up at me over the top of his thick reading glasses. “So, you speak to the dead.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Uncrossing his legs, he concentrates on tapping his pen against the white legal pad, I assume to refrain from stabbing me with it. I can’t blame him. For the last hour, I’ve talked in so many circles I’ve made us both dizzy.

  “I said they speak to me . . . sometimes.” I wince, hearing the strain in my voice on that last word.

  He stops tapping and raises a bushy gray eyebrow. “How often is sometimes?”

  I shrug and become overly invested in a loose string on my black pants. “A few times a week. Mainly when I’m working.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him open a folder and scan what’s inside. I count the seconds in my head as his brows knit together. “I see. And what is it you do, Ms. Devereaux?”

  I flinch, hating the sound of that name. However, as uncomfortable as I am, I still can’t help but smirk. “I’m in sales.”

  Technically, it’s not a lie. Everything in that folder is a complete load of bullshit, and I sold all of it without breaking a sweat. Whether it’s a learned skill or a God-given talent, I’ve perfected the art of being a chameleon.

  I’ve spent my whole life pretending I was normal, enclosed in a bubble where the dead stayed dead. I’ve worked hard to not stand out — to not be “that girl” whose mother was the favorite topic of local gossip. Why the hell would I throw all that away by telling some guy with a few initials at the end of his name who I really am?

  No way. Thanks to a recent nasty divorce and stalled paperwork, Mila Devereaux, the pretend sales executive, can sit here and spill her most loathed secrets so Mila Moroz, the homicide detective, can walk out with her head up, still looking the citizens of New Orleans in the face.

  As Dr. Crane busies himself with his incessant notetaking, I study a silver photo frame on his desk. He’s almost smiling in the picture, his arms wrapped around an identical image of himself, balding gray hair and all.

  Huh. Twins.

  Two boring, insufferable assholes in one town. What are the odds?

  Crane clears his throat, and my eyes snap up to find him studying me. “All right, and how do these spirits affect your sales calls?”

  “They tell me when these . . . clients need my help and why.” The more I talk, the antsier I sound, and the more he writes, the more my knees bounce up and down. The confidence of steel I walked in with is long gone, evidenced by the fact that I’ve pulled at the loose thread until it’s long enough to wrap around my finger.

  Dr. Crane makes a sound low in his throat. Maybe it’s out of curiosity. Maybe it’s out of fear I’m a straight-up nutjob. “Perhaps they come to you because you’re the one they’ve been waiting for.”

  I roll my eyes. God, this is ridiculous. I can’t believe Nick talked me into coming here. I don’t need a psychiatrist. I need a damn exorcist.

  It’s no surprise my head is pounding. With so many voices inside of it shouting at once, I can hardly think straight. Tucking my purse under my arm, I stand and make my way toward the door. “I’m sorry, Dr. Crane, but I’m late for work.”

  “Ms. Deveraux . . . Mila . . .”

  I think I hear him call out something about next week, but I’m already out the door before he finishes. Keeping my head down, I try my best not to break into a full run as the smell of disinfectant and death fills my nose. It isn’t until I push open the heavy double doors and breathe in the thick New Orleans air that the shouting quiets, leaving only the lone voice calling me to a part of town where nobody wants to be.

  I close my eyes and pretend I don’t hear it, but it’s useless. Until I drive to Viavant-Venetian Isles and find what’s left of her, it won’t stop.

  * * *

  When I pull up, the first thing I notice are the flashing lights of two NOLA-PD squad cars. I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m not. I would’ve actually been more surprised if they weren’t here. Even looking through the window of my car, I can see a crowd of curious onlookers gathered outside the yellow crime-scene tape strung around the area.

  Damn. I was hoping to keep this off the news tonight.

  Gritting my teeth, I step out of the car and push my way through the mob. Ducking under the tape, I head toward the two rusted dumpsters where Nick is standing with an investigator from the medical examiner’s office. Although their backs are to me, it’s obvious both their faces are tucked against their shoulders.

  It’s because of the smell.

  Burnt flesh. You never get used to it. This makes number sixteen, and it’s just as horrific as number one. Coppery-metallic with the musky sweet perfume of leather being tanned over an open flame.

  “Mila!” Nick turns and waves me over. Forcing a smile, I make my way toward him, purposely avoiding the body to my left. “Good, you got my text,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “That was fast. You must have been in the area.”

  Okay, we’ll go with that.

  “Close enough.”

  He tilts his head back toward the charred remains, his messy hair catching a rare breeze. “We have another one. Samantha thinks this one might be younger than the others. Of course, we won’t know for sure until the dental records come back.”

  “Stop them.”

  The voice comes out of nowhere, but I don’t bother reacting. I don’t have to look up to know Nick doesn’t hear it. He never does.

  As he rambles on, I slowly shift my eyes to the one place I’ve been avoiding. As expected, there’s someone standing there. Her form is just as real as Nick’s, but I know if I touch her, there’ll be nothing there. My fingers will pass right through that form like she doesn’t even exist.

  Because she doesn’t. Well, in this world at least.

  We stare at each other until my eyes burn. I’m not sure if it’s from the stench or refusing to blink, but regardless, I won’t be intimidated this time. Least of all from this one.

  Samantha, the medical examiner, is right in her assessment. She’s young. Much younger than all the others, and that makes solving this case all the more important. Not that any murder is acceptable, but this girl barely had a taste of life then was silenced forever.

  Something about her appearance sharpens my analytical side. Pushing my emotion aside, I really look at her. The girl’s long hair is pulled back on the sides, and she’s dressed in a white, collared shirt and a simple navy-blue skirt. It looks like some kind of uniform. She’s so fresh-faced and pretty that even though I’m trying to be objective, emotion creeps back in.

  What a waste. She never had a chance.

  “What’s your name?” I ask silently.

  The girl just stares at me, her dark-rimmed, hollow eyes full of unrecognizable fear, and her mouth sealed with silent screams. Slowly, she turns her head, dropping her chin to her shoulder.

  “Stop them.”

  My gaze follows hers, landing on the emblem of a school uniform.

  More assistants from Samantha’s office arrive with a body bag and a few tools for clean-up, and Nick pulls me aside, his earthy eyes glinting with curiosity. “So? Anything coming through?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Nick, I’m not a satellite. It doesn’t work that way.” I shake my head and scrub a ha
nd down my face.

  I hate that he knows about this. The last thing I want is for my partner to think I’m some whack job with a direct hotline to the dearly departed. For three years, I successfully hid all this from him until a combination of my mother’s death, a nasty divorce, and too much tequila opened my legs and my mouth.

  After weeks of relentless pressure, I caved and used this damn curse to find a missing kid, and now he won’t let it go. We got a few publicized pats on the back from the higher ups, and now he thinks I’m some carnival freak able to perform on command.

  “Right, sorry. What I meant to say was, do you think this one will show up and talk to you?”

  “Not any better.”

  At least he has the decency to look embarrassed. I guess that’s progress from when he dubbed us “The Ghostbusters” and I threatened to dick-punch him.

  There’s nothing funny about this. For me or for the victims.

  We stand in silence as I scuff the toe of my black dress shoe across the curb. It’d be so easy to pretend I saw nothing and walk away. To let Samantha and her minions do their jobs while we work the case like normal people.

  But normal isn’t what I am, and it’s not what this girl deserves. It’s not what any of them deserve.

  “Call Lawler Charter High School,” I say with a heavy sigh. “Find out if there’s a female student with long red hair who hasn’t shown up for school in a few days.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “That’s our victim?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and nod.

  Nick wraps his strong arms around me and presses my cheek against his broad chest. “We’re going to find out who’s doing this, Mila. Once we do, they’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

  I wish I could believe him, but I’m not so sure he’s right.

  On either count.

  Chapter 3

  Odyn

  The morning sunlight streams through the window, but I don’t move. I can’t. Not right now. My dreams were fitful, filled with the face of a woman I’ve never met. Beautiful, dark hair hung to her shoulders, and her eyes were almost luminous. Her lips were full, pouty, and I wonder just who this stranger is.

  My attention is drawn to the sky outside. It’s still a pale blue, almost silver in color, giving a hint at the cooler day ahead. After the rain last night, the air will be filled with the scent of freshly cleaned grass from my garden.

  Swinging my legs over the bed, I make my way to the glass balcony doors and shove them open. Inhaling a deep breath, I close my eyes and enjoy the fragrance that assaults my senses. I’ve always loved thunderstorms. They have a power that nothing in this world can match.

  When I open my eyes again, I stare long and hard at the garden, but my mind is not focused on anything other than the woman from my dream. I need to find out who she is, and why she appeared to me. There’s always a reason for everything, in life, and in death.

  Heading into the kitchen, I set my mug on the small plastic stand and flick the switch to brew my coffee. The gurgling sounds seem to calm my nerves. I don’t know what’s going on, or why I’m on edge, but today I have a lot of work to do.

  I should go for a walk, but being in the streets so close to Mardi Gras is not something I enjoy. I prefer being solitary. Even though I miss her, I know it’s easier for me to stay home and wallow in what I like to think is my grief.

  It’s stupid to think I can get over losing her. I can’t. I know that. But deep down, I wonder if this pain will always be there. It’s a dull ache that sits in my chest — heavy and somber.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  The promise of another storm is on the way. Smiling as my mug fills, I grab it once it’s done and head into the living room where I do my work. It’s the only room in the apartment that allows me focus.

  The unruly tourists can be heard from down on the street level, but even their raucous, drunken shouts at six in the morning can’t distract from what I need to do.

  I get comfortable on the sofa, my legs crossed before me Buddha-style as I settle back and close my eyes. The scent of coffee, the low rumbling sound of the storm closing in, and the tick-tock of the large clock on the wall lull me into the mindset I need.

  My eyes close. My mind wanders as I stare into darkness, willing the woman to return, to tell me why she’s here.

  “Don’t be scared,” I tell her, speaking to no one in particular. “I’m open to speaking with you. To learn why you’ve come to me.” The silence that greets me is frustrating. Sometimes, it’s easier; other times, there is difficulty reaching the other side. But keeping an open mind is the only way to let anyone contact you.

  It’s been years since I found out I could do this. That I’m able to communicate, to learn more about those who are gone. Those who are no longer in this world with us.

  “I can bring you forth. I can allow you to appear if you just tell me who you are and why you’re here. I saw you last night.” Once again, I’m met with silence. Opening my eyes, I focus on the mug of coffee. Picking it up, I gulp down a mouthful before rising and walking over to the cabinet. Normally, I light candles, but I didn’t think it would be needed with the sunlight streaming in. I pull out a packet of matches and strike one. Once I’ve lit the two wicks, I set the candles on the table and go over to shut the curtains.

  The blackout material ensures the room is dark, and the only illumination is from the flames dancing on the wax. When I settle on the sofa again, I close my eyes and sit back. This has to work. I’m sure of it.

  A cold shiver races down my spine. There’s a chill in the air, and I feel her. The woman from my dream. Her energy is exactly like I remember. I don’t speak, allowing her to come to me. Letting her control the contact, I know it will be easier to give me guidance as to what she’s doing here.

  “My daughter,” her voice crackles loudly, causing my ears to ring at the sound. “Find her.” Two words, and my gaze snaps open. Before me is the apparition of a woman older than the one from my dream, but there’s no mistaking this is her mother. The same dark hair, those full lips, and wide eyes. The only difference is this woman is much older. I can tell from the wrinkles on her face. She slides forward, closing the distance between us, and the room gets considerably colder, making me shiver.

  “Who is your daughter? Give me the information, and I can do as you wish.” She smiles. It’s a sad yet shy gesture, and she dips her head in a nod, but she doesn’t respond. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t help.”

  “My daughter, Mila.” Her voice crackles once more. The connection I have is rickety at best, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. “My daughter is in danger.”

  “Mila? What is her last name?” My question is rushed, my heart thudding wildly. If this woman is telling me the truth, it could be a matter of life and death. But I certainly need more information than just her first name.

  “Mila Moroz.”

  Two words are uttered, and I quickly grab a pen and paper, jotting them down because I know I’ll forget. My mind is filled with far too many things to remember, and I know if it’s not on the page, I’ll never be able to recall it once her mother leaves me.

  * * *

  A familiar face appears transparent in the dim light. I should flick the switch to illuminate the room, but I want her to remain. To stay here forever. Even though I know it will never happen.

  “You’re still so handsome,” she smiles. Her tender touch is no longer there, merely an icy trail which causes me to shiver.

  “Don’t leave me,” I plead. “Never leave me again.” Even though I know my begging will never help, I do it anyway. Each time she visits me, I realize it may be the last. And with that certainty, I feel the ache in my chest steal every breath from my lungs, and I’m once more lost to her ghost.

  She’s gone again, leaving me with nothing more than a cold shiver that holds me in its chilling hold. As always, I revel in it. I pray I’ll be able to move on from this, but I know I never can. Not when she’s s
till here.

  Each time I hoped for more, just one more chance to feel her. I know she won’t ever be there. All my life, I had to learn about who I was. And it was only her. She was the one who took all my darkness, all the things I couldn’t accept, and she loved them anyway.

  I’m alone.

  I’ve been alone for so long, shutting myself off from the world. The only conversations I now have are with people no longer living. At first, it was painful to come to terms with, being on my own in the dark, but now, after years of focusing on helping those who need it, I’m finally comfortable in my own skin.

  Being a necromancer isn’t a choice. I was born into the bloodline which will always have the gift. My parents were special, giving me the support I needed, but as a teenager, I didn’t want to be different, so I pushed it away.

  And it’s only now, after all I’ve done to help, I know that pushing away something that’s been given as a gift will never work. It’s always there; it never will go away.

  Sighing, I focus on the notebook before me as I make notes about my meeting tomorrow. I’m supposed to be meeting a detective, and I know she’s the one that will bring a new challenge.

  At least, I think it may be.

  Chapter 4

  Mila

  Horse shit.

  It’s all I smell as I spend my lunch hour standing on the corner of Chartres and St. Ann. Granted, it’s not the most pleasant aroma, but it beats the usual desperate stench of urine and stale liquor wafting through the French Quarter.

  Sometimes you have to go with the lesser of two evils.

  While the tour guide of a passing horse-drawn carriage spouts off lackluster facts about local architecture, I stare up at the bricked, three-story townhouse, half-impressed and half-suspicious. It’s swanky. I let out a whistle while eyeing the potted plants sitting atop all three levels of an intricate cast iron railing.