by Stevie Barry
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Curse of M
By Stevie Barry
Copyright 2017 Stevie Barry
Amazon Edition
Chapter One
June, 2012
Lorna shivered, hugging her coat closer about her and glancing uneasily upward. The sky was grey, heavy with leaden clouds that hung dark and sullen over the expanse of Puget Sound. The water churned, frothing into whitecaps as fitful winds gusted from the west. She’d already been kicked out of two corners at the Pike Place Market, and lost half a day’s money; panhandling in Seattle was a lot harder than it looked, especially since she was far from the only one with a guitar. She wasn’t a cute teenager with a witty sign, or a grizzled veteran. Amid a city full of eccentrics, she had a hard time standing out enough to attract any notice.
She made it undercover before the rain started in earnest, clutching her guitar case close. On weekdays, she'd found, the Market was actually possible to navigate without having to kick people; at half an inch shy of five feet tall, Lorna would often get literally stepped on in crowds. The guitar case helped -- it was a little over half as tall as she was, and she could use it like a shield against jostling.
There was a restaurant near the main entrance, an old-fashioned place with prices reasonable enough to allow her a sandwich and a cup of tea. She'd been in the States two months now, long enough to properly get the hang of American currency -- and to discover life here was nearly as expensive as it was in Ireland. She wormed her way toward it now, shivering again as the wind picked up.
-- damn weather --
-- weird --
-- windows are down --
-- great, the basement will flood again --
-- something smells good ---
-- oh God, what did I just step in --
Lorna winced, pressing her free hand to her temple. She knew there was nothing to be done for it -- God knew she'd tried -- and it was almost enough to drive her back to drink. If she had to become one of the Cursed, why did it have to be this? Oh, it wasn't a flashy Curse, not something that would get her caught (or shot) on sight, but it was always irritating, and occasionally overwhelming to the point of debilitation. It was never anything useful, either; just snippets of thoughts, pulled at random from whoever happened to be around her. Unfortunately, she needed a crowd if she were to successfully panhandle, so she had no choice but to suck it up and deal with it.
The restaurant, she found, was busy, but not as jammed as she'd feared. It was big, with a high ceiling, worn hardwood floors, and large plate-glass windows looking out over Puget Sound. The water was even choppier now, the sky alarmingly dark. Fat raindrops, wind-borne, splatted against the glass, and she sighed. There was no way she was heading back to her bus until this cleared up.
She'd been in here often enough that the hostess knew her by sight, and directed her to the counter with a wordless wave. A number of scents drifted to her from the kitchen beyond, all delicious, and her stomach growled like the thunder outside as she clambered up onto one of the tall barstools, carefully leaning her guitar beside her.
"Haven't kicked you out yet, huh?"
Lorna glanced at the man beside her, and gave a tired grin. He was an older bloke perhaps in his sixties, with a face weather-lined and a shaggy mop of salt-and-pepper hair. She didn't know his name, and hadn't given him hers, but he'd been her semi-companion at lunch for the last week. While she didn't exactly trust him, she didn't actively distrust him, either: though he seemed to know her for what she was, he wouldn't sell her out, for he, she'd gathered, was Cursed himself. She didn't know what his Curse actually was, but she didn't need to -- it was enough to know that the world was against him as much as it was her.
"Not yet," she said. "Only a matter'v time before they get sick'v us both, though." He was one of the few Americans she’d yet met who could understand her heavy Dublin accent without much problem.
The approaching waitress snorted. "Nobody'll boot you, as long as you keep buying stuff. Same as yesterday?"
Lorna nodded, and flinched when a clap of thunder broke right overhead. It was so close and so loud that it rattled the old man's mug on the counter. As if on cue, the wind picked up, misting the windows with a fine spray of salt water.
"Is this what you call normal around here?" she asked, when the waitress returned with a mug of hot water and a tea bag. (American tea; Lorna would never get used to it. Who put the bag in the cup? Honestly.)
The woman frowned, her expression blank until she translated what was likely a garble to her. "Not until recently," she said. "People keep trying to blame it on climate change, but if you ask me, it's got something to do with all the Curses floating around. Whatever they even are. Seems like every time there's a storm, more people get dragged off. It's like the storms out them as Cursed, or something."
Lorna didn't choke, but it was a near thing. She felt the old man freeze beside her, and a jolt of his dread joined hers. "You've got the Men in Grey here?" she asked.
The waitress sighed. "Is there anywhere that doesn't? Hang on, hon, I think your order's up."
Lorna glanced at the old man. She didn't need her useless telepathy to know what he was thinking. While she didn't know where he stayed, she'd been living out of an ancient VW Bus, and she'd be an absolute shit if she didn't at least give him a ride somewhere safer.
When her sandwich arrived, she ate half of it in three large bites, grabbing a takeaway box for the rest. "Come on," she said quietly. "That's got to be our cue. I've got a bus in a car park up the hill, and I'm thinking it'd be best if we weren't visible for a while."
She hopped off the stool and snatched up her guitar case, ignoring his startled look. He seemed poised to question her, but she forestalled it with a glare. They could hash out her motives later. Lorna dropped a twenty off at the hostess' station -- more than her tab, and certainly more than she could afford -- and shoved the old man out in front of her.
"You're taller," she explained, when he glanced over his shoulder at her. "People'll actually get out'v your way."
They hadn't even made it back to the Market proper when somebody screamed. It was more than a mere cry of alarm; there was real fear in it, and a heavy ball of dread dropped into Lorna's stomach. Pain and shock from God knew how many people slapped her like a physical thing, momentarily stealing her breath. Something came crashing down, something far too close -- not the roof, but at least one stall.
-- Tricia says there's two more in here --
-- got the main entrance covered --
-- the hell do we always have to catch them in this weather --
Lorna swore in Irish, and prodded her pseudo-friend in the back with her guitar case. "Go," she said, standing on her tiptoes to at least try to hiss into his ear. "We've got company at the entrance, so we've got to weasel our way out the back. Don't run unless somebody else does." Thank God they were both rather nondescript people. Cold though the wind was, she wa
s sweating, her mouth dry and pulse racing. Nobody actually knew what happened to the Cursed when they got caught, but there were whispers, and none of them were good.
Her quasi-friend halted so abruptly that she slammed into his back, getting a face full of damp, slightly smelly wool. She swore again, wiping her face on her equally damp sleeve, and peered around his arm.
Shit.
Nobody knew just what the Men in Grey were, who they worked for or what they really did. All anybody did know was that where they went, the Cursed disappeared -- the Cursed, and anyone who tried to intervene. Not that there were many of those. They were, as the name suggested, men in bland grey suits, often fitted with earpieces and sunglasses, like bad impersonations of Secret Service agents. On the surface they were so cliché that it could be difficult taking them seriously at first, which was probably the point, but they'd gained one hell of a reputation.
Now what? Lorna wondered, a little wildly. If she'd been alone, she would have ooched her way through the crowd and run like buggery, her height for once an advantage, but she wasn't alone. Rationally, she probably didn't have much to fear, since both she and her almost-buddy looked as normal as anyone else, but somehow, the Men in Grey always seemed to know, to be able to spot the Cursed no matter how well they blended in.
Lightning flashed, so brightly that even undercover, the strobe-glare was momentarily blinding. Lorna blinked, disoriented, and on instinct she shoved her companion to the left. Sunglasses, or no, the MiG would be as temporarily blinded as everyone else, and she meant to use that to disappear into the heavier part of the crowd.
"Pushy, aren't you?" her companion asked, just before a clap of thunder actually rattled the roof.
Lorna wasn't the only one who jumped, and she certainly wasn't the only one who swore. "Oh, you've not seen pushy yet," she said, though if his ears were ringing as badly as hers, he might not have heard her. "What in hell've we got ahead'v us?" she asked, louder, once again trying to talk right into his ear.
He half-turned. "Booth blew over," he said. "Think it landed on a couple people." If he was as scared as her, he certainly wasn’t showing it; only the grim set of his mouth betrayed any worry at all. God did she envy him.
A surge of terror not her own crashed into her mind like a brick -- terror, and a pain so intense it almost made her ill. She caught a glimpse of one of the grey-suited bastards through someone else's eyes, the dull, phantom thump of what was probably a punch to the kidneys echoing through her back.
Before she could do or say a thing, another booth went crashing down -- from the discordant jangling, she'd wager it was one of the jewelry-stalls. More screams, and far more swearing, and suddenly the tide of the crowd turned against them, a stampede headed for the relative shelter near the entrance. Even her companion, tall though he was, couldn't stand against it -- he was the one who ran into her now, forced backward by sheer press of numbers.
Lorna staggered, losing her grip on her takeaway bag and nearly dropping her guitar. Her back still ached with someone else's pain, the bright afterspots of the lightning still danced before her eyes, and she was well and truly fed up.
"Blow this," she said, the words practically a snarl. She turned, ready to kick whoever was nearest her out of her way --
-- and found herself face-to-chest with one of the MiG.
"Shit," she breathed, heart lurching in her throat. She kicked anyway, even harder than she'd intended. Her boots, one of the few things she'd brought from Ireland, were steel-toed, and she heard the crack of his kneecap even over the panicked din.
He dropped like a lead balloon, his howl of agony completely unprofessional, she thought irrelevantly. Rather than flee, she went right over him, seizing her almost-friend's coat with her free hand.
"Well, damn," he said, half admiring. She didn't miss the rather vicious kick he delivered himself.
In spite of her fear and mounting rage, Lorna laughed. It was a slightly hysterical laugh, but it felt good nonetheless.
"Let's blow this Popsicle stand," he said. "I need a weapon."
She blinked, stumbling when someone bumped her shoulder. "A weapon?"
He didn't respond, but he did try to pat down the prone Man in Grey, who was now also sporting a bloody head wound. To her companion's obvious disappointment, the MiG didn't seem to have a gun on him.
Not that it really mattered -- they both got knocked away from him, separated by a thundering herd of schoolchildren who must have been on a class trip. Lorna lost sight of him, and to her embarrassment she accidentally whacked a kid with her guitar case. She was little enough that she could probably squeeze her way out among them, but she couldn't just leave her almost-friend, who was rapidly losing the 'almost' status.
She struggled back toward him as gingerly as she could, trying not to smack any more children. The wind had whipped the Sound into such a frenzy that she actually tasted salt on her lips, her face chilled by the frigid spray. If this kept up, the Men in Grey might be the least of their problems. Did America get hurricanes on the west coast? She didn't think so, but there was a first time for everything.
No sooner had she cleared the gaggle of kids than someone else grabbed her, a large hand clamping onto her left shoulder like a vice. It was another MiG, his suit damp and rumpled, and his expression was downright murderous.
Undignified though it was, Lorna screamed, and swung her guitar case around. It smacked him in the chest, hard enough to break his grip and send him staggering. She cringed at the thought of what it must be doing to the guitar itself, but that could be worried about later. If she had a later.
The man flailed, and she hit him again, using the case as a monstrous, awkward club. She didn't even hit many other people, because the press of the crowd lessened as it lumbered onward -- much of it toward the restaurant.
"Will -- you -- leave -- off!" she cried, hitting him square in the jaw. Persistent bastard, she'd give him that, but the weight of the guitar and her own relentless assault drove him back.
She jumped when a salmon went sailing overhead, smacking him full in the face. For a moment she paused, blinking, but only a moment -- it was an odd sort of distraction, but she'd use it. Back she scrabbled, hunting her lost companion.
Another fish went flying over her head, this one shedding chunks of crushed ice. Somebody was raiding one of the fish stalls, hurling salmon like stinky, slimy missiles. They weren't aiming, either -- the fish hit whoever and whatever happened to be in the way, which only added to the chaos. She wished she'd thought of it first.
Her boots slipped on the wet, ice-strewn pavement, and she almost crashed into the now-lopsided display. Her new best friend, it seemed, was the salmon-bomber; he'd hurled half the fish already, and had another in his hand when she grabbed his sleeve.
"C'mon, Red Baron," she said, shouting to be heard. "I think we'd best be off."
He didn't get a chance to retort -- the entire roof groaned as it tilted sideways, water sluicing down onto everyone unfortunate enough to be in the way. Lorna instinctively ducked, though there was no real point; she wound up soaked anyway. With a growl and a curse, she took off across the treacherous pavement, dragging her companion with a strength that always surprised people. She was vaguely aware that he was still slapping people with a fish, wielding the salmon like a smell cudgel. For the first time, Lorna really wondered just who and what he'd been, before the Curses.
Another unfortunate MiG got a face full of salmon, and a pointy elbow to the rib cage immediately after. Unlike the others, he didn't go down so easily -- Lorna had to slam her forehead into his nose and knee him in the groin. Of course his nose spouted blood like a fountain, spraying over her hair and face, stinging in her eyes and temporarily washing her vision red.
Lorna swore, ignoring the screams that erupted at the sight of so much blood. Wiping her face on her sleeve did nothing but spread it around, and she gave up when they staggered out into the storm. The rain would take care of it on its own.
Overhead, a streetlight shattered, the bulb going off like a small glass bomb. Christ, was someone shooting at them? She didn't dare pause to check -- if there was a sniper, she could only pray the rain would bugger up his aim.
Her friend stumbled behind her, and for a horrible moment she thought he'd been shot, but no -- the gale-force wind had literally ripped his fishy weapon from his hand. He cursed, but didn't try to retrieve it -- fortunately, because Lorna would have hauled him along like a sack if he'd tried. She'd be damned if she'd drop her guitar, though: it made a more effective weapon than a salmon.
Lightning forked overhead, a brief, brilliant filigree against the blackness of the clouds, followed by a clap of thunder that rattled her jaw. A stray thought hit her: was one of the Cursed doing this? Was there another one out there -- one who could muck with the weather? There were, she knew, Cursed that could do that, though they rarely did it on purpose. Half the reason people were so afraid of the Cursed was because so many of them couldn't actually control their Curses, which occasionally had lethal consequences to anyone around them.
Her legs burned as she hauled arse up the hill, though not nearly so much as her lungs -- sheer lack of money had forced her to quit smoking when she reached America, but it had only been two months. She was panting like a dog on a hot day, now as furious with herself as she was with everything else. Not so long ago, she could have made a run like this without breaking a sweat, but she was sure as hell sweating now, and not only from adrenaline.
