Cursed by the Gods (The Sphinx Book 1)

by Raye Wagner

  Her memories of love lifted her spirits. And he was pleased that he’d stumped her; she could hear it.

  “I hate to put you on the spot, but I’m going home a bit early today. Do you want to come by tomorrow and give me the answer?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Or maybe Sunday.”

  “Right. Hang on a second.” He stepped through the double doors and then returned with a large parcel, her name written across the top.

  Hope accepted the meat with a smile. “Thanks, Mr. Stanley.”

  With a parting wave, she turned to leave. The riddle went to the back of her mind as she thought about dinner. She stopped in the produce section to get vegetables to roast with the meat. She stocked up on apples, bananas, grapes, and when she smelled the strawberries, she grabbed a container of them as well. She needed eggs, milk, and bread.

  Halfway through the checkout process, she remembered.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her skin flushed as she looked at the clerk. “I . . . I don’t have my car. Would you mind if I pay now and then run home and get it? I’ll only be about fifteen minutes. I could just leave the cart right up front here?”

  The matronly clerk merely nodded. “Sure, honey. We’ll bag it, and you can pick it up when you get back.”

  She thanked the woman and gazed out the window, calculating how quickly she could run home. Then she saw Athan approaching. Her heart jumped, and she shifted her gaze. Maybe he hadn’t seen her. Hopefully, he wouldn’t.

  “Hey,” he said seconds later. Athan stood at the end of the lane, blocking her exit. “Didn’t you walk to school? I didn’t see your car outside, and”—he stared at the bags being piled back into the cart—“that’s a lot of groceries.”

  She delivered a tight smile. Of course he saw her. “I’m going to run home and grab my car right now. No worries.”

  She swiped her credit card and waited for the transaction to process.

  Athan continued to stand and stare. “Um,” he paused for a second, “Can I give you a ride?”

  While Hope contemplated how to best refuse the offer, the clerk grinned up at both of them and said, “That’s perfect timing, huh?”

  Hope wanted to growl her frustration. It wasn’t perfect timing. What would’ve been perfect timing is for Athan to have missed her by five minutes. But how could she say that? She couldn’t. And it didn’t matter. A ride wasn’t going to kill her. “Su-sure,” she stammered. “That would be very . . . great.”

  As she signed the receipt, Athan grabbed the cart. He waited for her to finish, and then they walked out to his truck in silence. He unlocked the doors with a button on his key ring, opened the passenger side for her, and then started to load the groceries in the back.

  She should help him unload the cart, but she’d have to walk all the way around . . .

  “Go ahead, climb in.” He interrupted her thoughts and nodded at the passenger door.

  So she did. But she couldn’t help the hyper-vigilance pulsing through her. Once inside, she was surprised by the luxuriousness of the truck. The cream leather was soft, and the windows were tinted. There were several buttons and dials, as well as a large screen on the dashboard. She could smell the newness of it. She took a deep breath, and something rich and sharp tickled her senses.

  While Athan stuck the last two bags in the back, Hope tried to place the scent. Something warm but familiar. She took another deep breath, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

  He moved smoothly, almost gracefully, like a dancer, spatially aware of how he fit in the world. He pushed the cart, and it glided through the lot, finding its way into the rack. Excellent aim. Of course.

  When he climbed up into the vehicle, she realized what she’d been smelling. The scent in the car was him. His scent. With the door closed, she was overwhelmed. Leather, mossy woods, and a hint of citrus. She suppressed a smile.

  Athan started the truck, and a strange blend of pipe and drum sounds emanated from the speakers, reverberating through her body.

  She turned, her eyebrows drawn down in question.

  “I know. I know.” He turned the volume down. “My dad loves all types of music, so I got to hear lots of different styles growing up. I usually only listen to this when I’m alone; not many people appreciate it.” He reached again for the dial.

  “No.” She reached out to stop him, but withdrew before touching him. “Don’t change it. It’s different, but I like it.”

  He pulled up to the curb outside her house and turned the engine off. Before she was able to push the door open, he was there, pulling it open for her, extending his hand to help her down.

  Hesitantly, she took it. His skin was warm, the tips of his fingers calloused. The contact filled her with fluttering discomfort. She released his hand as soon as her feet touched the ground.

  He said nothing but turned and reached into the bed of the truck, pulling out two bags of groceries.

  She grabbed one from him, and their hands brushed. Her breath caught, and her heart somersaulted in her chest. Hope managed a mumbled thanks but couldn’t look at him. What was it about him that put her so on edge? Whatever it was, she needed to get over it. Because it didn’t matter.

  While she unlocked the door, he set two bags on the porch and went back to the truck to get the others. She deposited her school bag and the groceries on the kitchen table and was on her way back out when Athan passed her. She grabbed the last two bags off the porch and went back inside. When she walked in, she noticed him looking around in awe, two bags sitting on the floor at his feet.

  She looked around at her home. There was nothing amiss. The statue of Hecate was on the mantel. She’d recently vacuumed and dusted. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, but he continued to study the small interior.

  She stared at her home and tried to see it through his eyes. There was nothing wrong with it. “Nothing?”

  “Yeah. There’s nothing here. No pictures, no art, nothing . . . personal.” He stopped talking and examined her. “It’s like no one really lives here.”

  He stepped closer to her, studying her.

  She stepped back, and, for the first time, saw her house as he was describing it. She’d never thought of her home as a reflection of her. A home was just functional, just temporary. The less she had to pack, the better. But that didn’t mean she was empty of character. It didn’t mean that she was nothing. Her palms itched, and her feet begged to run. “Um, thanks for helping me. I’d better get started on putting things away . . .”

  She hoped he would take the hint and leave. She moved toward the kitchen, the two bags still in hand.

  “Sure, no problem.” He grabbed the bags off the floor and followed her.

  “No,” she protested, “I got this.” She set the bags on the table and turned to face him.

  “I don’t mind. It’s not like I have some place I need to be.” He smiled as if he knew he would have his way.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “But look, before I let you help me, I get to ask you a few questions.” She planted her feet and crossed her arms.

  He set the bags down again. “Shoot.”

  “Are you stalking me?” She glared at him as if she could somehow see through his lies if she focused hard enough.

  “Stalking you?” He mimicked her pose, crossing his arms and glaring at her. “Seriously?”

  The words sounded ridiculous, she knew it, but it wasn’t about how rational it sounded. “You’re just always . . . around.”

  “Hope.” He laughed. “It’s not exactly a big city. Besides, is it so hard to believe that I’m interested in you?”

  She swallowed. “I thought I made it clear that I’m not. Interested, I mean. In friends. Or dating.”

  “But why not?” He took a step toward her, and his voice softened. “Will you just . . . let me be your friend?”

  “I’m not looking for friends.”

  “Well, I am.”

  Hope snorted. “I’ve seen your parade of frien
dships over the last week.” She grimaced. “I’m not interested in cuddling in the library, or meeting you at my locker.”

  He chuckled. “That is not what I meant. Besides, not one of those girls was looking for friendship.” He tipped his head at her. “For being so uninterested, you sure notice a lot.”

  “Noticing and caring are hardly the same thing.”

  “Hope,” Athan countered softly, almost pleadingly, “if I promise not to hit on you, or be creepy and weird . . .” He paused for a moment. “Well, I won’t be creepy or weird again.” He grinned. “Please. Can we try to be friends?”

  “It’s just . . .” Fissures and cracks dissolved the mortar encasing her heart. The bricks crumbled. His simple plea was impossible to refuse.

  “We can try, I guess.” But she had serious doubts, and she let it leak into her voice.

  A slow smile spread across his face, and somehow it made her feel like warm honey was spreading through her heart.

  “That’s all I’m asking for,” he said, his expression brightening. “Now, friend, why don’t you let me help you put away your groceries?”

  The question was rhetorical as he was past her and into the kitchen before she had a chance to come up with a response.

  They spent the first afternoon of their tentative friendship sitting at her kitchen table doing homework. Shortly before six, Athan stood up and, with an apology, announced that it was time for him to go.

  “I’ll see you at school Monday. Unless you want some company running tonight?”

  She shook her head. “I ran this morning.”

  “Okay.” He crossed the room but then turned back toward her, his hand on the doorknob. He studied her, looking for something . . .

  “What?”

  He sighed. “Just, try not to be weird next week, okay?”

  The brick wall was immediately back up. She knew it, he was a jerk. “What do you mean? Are you being condescending?”

  “I’m just saying, at school I’ll probably talk to you.” His lopsided smile didn’t quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. “Please don’t be hostile, okay?”

  She snorted. Maybe not a complete jerk. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be nice. Wouldn’t want to break your heart.”

  It was at this exact moment that Hope knew the answer to Mr. Stanley’s riddle. “Oh,” she said, and then she slapped her hand over her mouth.

  “What? What is it?” he asked, stepping toward her.

  Her blush crept up her neck, and she wished there was some way to take back her exclamation. “Umm, nothing. A riddle . . . Mr. Stanley, the butcher, gave me earlier. I . . . I just got the answer.”

  Athan stood, eyes wide, waiting. “Well? Tell me.”

  Awkwardly, she stared at her hands as she wrung them. “All right, but don’t laugh.”

  She took a deep breath, and still staring at her hands, she recited, “If you break me, I do not stop working. If you touch me, I may be snared. If you lose me, nothing will matter. What am I?”

  After a few seconds of silence, she looked up at him.

  He shrugged. “I suck at riddles. What is it?”

  Flushing a deep red, she wondered why she’d ever told him. She should’ve said something else. Made up a different riddle. Breaking eye contact, she stared at the floor and whispered, “One’s heart.”

  “Clever.”

  She looked up to see if he was making fun of her, but there was no hint of mockery crossing his features.

  “You can tell me riddles anytime, Hope.” He smiled and continued, “Except right now. I’ve got to go.” He winked, said goodbye, and then left, closing the door behind him.

  Suddenly, her home seemed very empty.

  It was not that Hope was depressed, although maybe there was some of that. All of her life, she’d listened to her mother and done what she was told. And her mother was probably right. Wasn’t what happened in Bellevue the perfect example of why forming attachments was destructive? And yet, part of Hope refused to believe it. Part of her wanted, so badly, to believe it could be different. Because she had nothing else.

  When her stomach finally protested against spending any more time in bed, Hope meandered to the kitchen in her pajamas. She scrambled eggs with cheese, and fried the bacon. She rinsed the strawberries, snacking on their juicy sweetness even after her hearty breakfast.

  As she walked back to her room to change, her eyes drifted to the spare bedroom. She’d walked past the door countless times, avoiding the memories stored there. The door was ajar, and inside the room were the stacks of boxes that would never unpack themselves. With a deep breath, she affirmed the truth: If she didn’t go through them, no one would. It was time to move forward, even if it was only by inches.

  Trepidation fluttered in her chest as she pushed open the door. The darkness smelled stale and faintly of ash. She flipped the light switch, and artificial light flooded the room. Brown moving boxes covered the beige carpet, some stacked two or three high. Except for the one that had contained the knives and book, they were all still sealed with packing tape.

  She cleared some space in the center and grabbed the nearest box. She ripped the tape off and opened the flaps to find stacks of clothes, the pungent smell of smoke clinging to the fabric. She sunk her fingers into a thick sweater. It was her mother’s sweater, though it no longer carried her scent. Hope set the garment to the side and pulled out a pair of jeans. She patted the pockets and folded the pants. Shoving her emotions aside, she grabbed an entire stack of clothes from the box.

  After unpacking and then repacking several boxes, she got a marker and tape, resealed them, and wrote For Donation on the side. Someone would appreciate all this stuff. As the number of boxes in the bedroom dwindled, the ones marked For Donation in the hallway grew. When she came across something significant, like the photo album of her mom, she set it aside. That would require more . . . emotional space.

  In the end, there was only one box that held things she wasn’t willing to part with; the rest she moved to the living room.

  She stood at the doorway, appraising the products of her labor. The second bedroom was almost completely empty, the box in the corner looking forlorn and lonely. The only light was from the overhead bulb, the single window revealed a small square of the night sky. The sun had set and she hadn’t even noticed. With a sigh, she closed the door behind her.

  Her stomach gave a rumble of neglect, and she glanced at the clock. Just after ten! Almost eleven hours—whoa! No wonder she was hungry. She crossed into the kitchen and grabbed a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. The rich smell of ground peanuts made her mouth water, and she licked a spoonful of the sticky spread and sucked it from the roof of her mouth. The salty sweetness tasted like nirvana.

  After finishing her makeshift meal, she stepped back into the living room. Accomplishment and pride thrummed in her veins. And in that moment, she knew she would do what she could to stay in Goldendale for as long as she could. She’d keep her secrets, but she’d find a way to make friends.

  If the Skia attacked, she’d be ready for them. She had her training, and her knives.

  This was her home.

  Baby steps indeed.

  “Where were you last night?” Haley asked. “I thought you said you would come.”

  Hope could imagine Haley’s pout. “I never said that.” Hope lay on her bed, her feet up on the wall, the phone to her ear. “You said you wanted me to come, but I never agreed.”

  It was Sunday afternoon. Hope had spent the day cleaning house, grocery shopping, and washing her car. All the boxes from yesterday were still stacked in the living room. She’d need to take them into Yakima or the Dalles next week, but she was done being responsible.

  “Fine. But you missed out. Krista—”

  “Want to go see a movie? Or go shopping?” She didn’t really want to hear what happened with Krista. Especially if it had anything to do with Athan. Yes, they were just friends, but Krista was the spawn of Tartarus. No one deserved her.
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  “Oh, did you see the new Pirates is out? I love David Arturo.” Haley sighed. “He is so hot.”

  “Okay. Do you want me to come get you?” Hope couldn’t care less about David Arturo or how hot he was, but if that meant she got to leave, she was on board.

  “No, I’ll come get you. Give me a few minutes to tell my dad then I’ll head over.”

  Hope changed into a hoodie and jeans and tucked her wallet under her arm. Just as she grabbed her phone it rang.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Hope answered.

  A long silence was her first clue it wasn’t Haley. She was just about to hang up when she heard a man ask, “Who is this?”

  “Ex . . . excuse me?” Her grip tightened on the phone. Who would have this number? “Who is this?”

  “I found this phone and was wondering if you could help me locate the owner. What’s your name?” The guy rushed through the words.

  Not for one second did she believe him. Alarms went off in her head, and Hope looked at the screen. Priska’s number flashed back at her.

  “Hello? Hello? Who is this?” he demanded.

  Panic coursed through her. “You . . . must have the wrong number.”

  She hit End. Someone had Priska’s phone! And Hope’s phone number! Oh . . . oh gods!

  “Hope?” Haley pounded on the door.

  Hope unlatched the deadbolt and pulled the door open. She tried to force a smile, but her hands were clammy, and her heart was racing. “Hey . . .”

  Haley scrunched her nose. “What took you so long?”

  “Uhh, I was . . . on the phone.” Hope’s voice went up as if asking a question.

  “Oh.” Haley frowned. “You okay? You look . . . stressed.” She stepped in and looked around the room. “What’s up with the boxes?”

  Hope took a deep breath. “Just cleaning out some stuff.” She shook her head. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Because what could she say?

  “So, you cut me off, earlier,” Haley said with raised brows as she drove through the parking lot. “But I’m going to make you hear this.”