Tiger's Curse Page 2

  Kishan froze in mid-attack and was enveloped in a great thrust of air. He screamed as his emotional anguish curled itself around intense physical pain. He smelled an odor of burning flesh and realized it was

  his own. His amulet, which he had kept hidden from Lokesh under his shirt, was burning the skin where it

  rested.

  Ren’s pain also began to expand. It swirled under his skin, burning him from the inside out. Enveloped in

  agony, he collapsed to his knees. He reached out with his hands to brace himself, but he managed only to

  scratch feebly on the cold, white tile of the floor. He was aware that his brother was near him, suffering in

  a similar manner, and then he was aware of nothing except the pain.

  White light shrouded his body and obscured his vision. Slowly, the fiery, stabbing needles and the white,

  pulsating glow began to recede and move off into the distance, leaving a shadowy void behind. Viscous darkness crept over him, tightened around his body, and squeezed the air out of his lungs. He thrashed around on the floor, struggling to breathe. He felt as if his body was diminishing, falling down a long, dark

  shaft. He focused on the white light, which moved away from him slowly, becoming smaller and smaller until there was only…blackness.

  CHAPTER 1

  Iwas standing on a precipice. Technically, I was just standing in line, but it felt like a precipice.

  Childhood, high school, and the illusion that I was not responsible for myself were behind me. Ahead of me loomed the future. I was fairly certain it included more education, a variety of summer jobs to help pay tuition, and the probability of a lonely adulthood.

  The line moved. I’d been waiting for what seemed like hours to be interviewed to become a temp for hire. When it was finally my turn, I approached the desk of a bored, tired woman who was on the phone.

  She gestured me closer and indicated that I should sit down. After she hung up, she mechanically began the intake process.

  “Name, please.”

  “Kelsey. Kelsey Hayes.”

  “Age?”

  “Seventeen, but for all intents and purposes, eighteen. My birthday’s coming soon.”

  She stamped a few forms. “Are you a high school graduate?”

  “Yes. I graduated just a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Address?”

  “458 Pine Street, Dallas, Oregon 97338.”

  Dallas is a small town near Salem. Not the Salem with the witches—that one is on the other side of the country—and obviously not the Dallas in Texas, either. Lots of people get those confused. You’d be surprised.

  “Parents’ names?”

  “Madison and Joshua Hayes, but my guardians are Sarah and Michael Neilson.”

  “Guardians?”

  “Yes. My parents are…deceased. They died in a car accident when I was a freshman.”

  She bent over some paperwork and scribbled for a long time. I grimaced, wondering what she could be writing that was taking so long. I listened to her pen scratch, and my thoughts drifted to my parents.

  I grew up the only child of some great parents, the kind of parents who attended PTA meetings and encouraged you tobe something when you grew up. My mother was a smart, plump, and pretty housewife who sold Mary-Kay for kicks. She worked as a nurse in a geriatric facility for several years, but she chose to be a stay-at-home mom when I was born. My dad was an average-looking guy, a typical backyard grilling kind of dad. He was a math teacher and, because of his love for everything numerical, I ended up liking math too.

  “Any college training?”

  “Not yet, but I plan on attending Chemeketa this fall.”

  “Interests?”

  “Math and literature.”

  “Do you like animals?”

  “Sure…umm, I know how to feed them.”Is anyone lamer than me? Way to talk myself out of getting hired. I cleared my throat. “I mean, sure, I love animals.”

  The lady didn’t really seem to care what my response was anyway, and she handed me a referral for a job that would last two weeks.

  It was for the circus, not a big one like the Ringling Brothers, but a small family-run circus. I’d heard that

  there was one in town performing out at the fairgrounds. I remembered getting a coupon for it at the grocery store. I’d even considered offering to take my foster parents’ kids, Rebecca and Samuel, so that their parents could have some time to themselves, but then I lost the coupon and forgot all about it.

  I picked up the job announcement and read the description. It said: NEEDED:

  A TEMPORARY WORKER FOR TWO WEEKS JOB INCLUDES—TICKET SALES, FEEDING

  THE ANIMALS, AND CLEANING UP AFTER PERFORMANCES

  Note: Because performances happen twice on Saturdays and Sundays and because animals need to be cared for 24/7, room and board will be provided for the two weeks only.

  “Hmm,” I muttered to myself, “I wonder what kind of animals they have there. I’d hate to take care of the elephant droppings.” I giggled quietly at my own joke, but the lady wasn’t paying attention. I told her

  that I would do it, and she gave me a card with an address. She said she’d call them and tell them that I would be there tomorrow morning by 6:00 a.m.

  I grimaced. “They need me there at 6:00 in the morning?” The worker just gave me a look and indicated that I should step to the side so she could help the next person. When I walked out of the building, I saw a sign advertising the Salem mall. Feeling proud of myself for landing a job so quickly and deciding I needed a reward, I treated myself to window-shopping at the mall. As I wandered the shops, I thought about the next stage of my life.

  Adulthood. Many of the graduating seniors I knew got to enjoy their summer, prolonging the precious time that came between being responsible for nothing and being responsible for everything. Some of them

  were even going on extended vacations that had been graduation gifts. Me? I got to work. I didn’t mind really. “Hard work keeps you grounded,” Dad always used to say. I walked into a bookstore, pulled out a few of my old favorites, and thumbed through the pages.

  My dad, mom, and I all loved reading. Dad mostly read military intrigue books, but he also liked historical ones, especially the biographies of early American patriots like George Washington and John Adams. Mom loved romances. In the evenings, we would all sit down in our library and read companionably—Mom always with a blanket and a pillow on her lap to prop up the book, a habit I picked up from her.

  My parents had made themselves a small, cozy library in their house long before I was born. It had a nice fireplace, two huge recliners, and a colorful, braided rug on the floor. Shelves covered every wall, except the one with the fireplace, and the room was stacked from floor to ceiling with books.

  When I was little, my mom and dad read to me while I sat on their laps. The Dr. Seuss books were my favorite as a child; I loved the creative whimsy of them. When I started to enjoy reading on my own, they

  bought another small recliner just for me. The first books I ever read on my own included theBlack Stallion books, theBig Red series, and theLittle House on the Prairie collection. Reading was very important to my family, even if sitting in a library reading with your parents sounded like something old people liked to do; I really loved it.

  I left the store and wandered to the food court, standing off to the side while I considered my options. In middle school and as a freshman, I was kind of chubby because Mom believed that showing your love meant homemade cookies. My favorites were chocolate-chocolate chip with peanut butter filling and pumpkin chocolate chip, but after Mom died, cookies weren’t the same; plus, my foster parents were health nuts.Who makes and eats tofu turkeys for Thanksgiving? Really.

  Because of that, I lost all my chubby qualities. I caught my reflection in the front glass of a store.My figure is actually on the skinny side now. Instead of cookies, comfort for me now meant wearing Tshirts,

  jeans, and tennis sh
oes. I decided not to get anything to eat because I wanted to see a movie later, and I knew I’d get some popcorn.

  I passed a large family eating together. The little brother was secretly dumping salt all over his sister’s French fries. I really missed not having a sibling. It would have been fun to have a little brother or sister.

  One of the lessons my parents taught me was that we should be grateful for the things that we get. When they found out that they were pregnant with me, they were thrilled. I came along so late in their lives that

  they’d already accepted the idea that they might not ever have children.

  Going through that experience changed their view of life. So, as I was growing up, they taught me that bad things could happen to good people and that the key to happiness was to try to make the best of, and be thankful for, the hand we’re dealt. They decided that they could still be content and happy without

  children. And they were happy together. They had totally given up on kids, stopped the fertility treatments, and were enjoying their life together whenPOW , there I was, a fantastic surprise for some totally awesome people.

  Their example taught me that, “When life gives you lemons make some lemon meringue pie!” Mom always said that, and the phrase had stuck with me through the years. Yes, they were corny, but I loved that about them. Maybe that was the reason I loved lemon meringue pie.My favorite at Thanksgiving .

  They said each time they tried to get pregnant and failed, they cried, dried their eyes, and then got up again the next month to go back to the doctor.

  That kind of experience modified a person’s perceptions. It was life changing. Their example must have influenced me a great deal because, when they died, I cried, dried my eyes, did all the hard things that had to be done for a couple of weeks, and then I got up and went back to school. Moving on was really hard at first. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to me. I was scared and really angry with my parents for leaving me like that. Eventually, I figured out that I had two fabulous parents who really loved

  me. Lots of people in this world never got that. I told myself I was lucky.

  Counselors at school said that I didn’t mourn or grieve enough. They worried that I was so attached to my parents that I wasn’t forming bonds with other people. Maybe they were right. I cared for other people, and I thought I was an affectionate person, but I shied away from deeper relationships. I never had a high school boyfriend, for example.

  I walked into one of the big department stores. They had the makeup displayed in front. A woman rushed over as I looked into one of their big mirrors and I politely deflected the attention of the exuberant

  employee, while adjusting my ponytail.

  I was average in many ways. I didn’t do anything to stand out in school, and you had to if you sought high school popularity. I didn’t join any clubs or get placed in Honors. I didn’t really concern myself with

  current makeup, hairstyles, or clothes. I studied my face in the mirror.

  My hair is light golden-brown and I have a pale complexion. I used to be blonde when I was younger.

  Incidentally, I think blondes do have more fun. But, since I live in the Northwest, my hair never sees the sun, and blonde highlights almost never happen anymore, at least not naturally. My hair also has a natural

  wave that I have to work on to keep straight, and since it’s down past my shoulders and thick, most of the time I don’t bother. I just tie it back in a braid or a ponytail. In fact, the only obvious “girly” thing in my bathroom is a basket full of different colored hair ribbons.

  When I was younger, Mom liked to brush out my hair and braid ribbons through it while we talked about a variety of interesting things. Now, whenever I wear my hair in a braid or a ponytail, I always tie on a ribbon in memory of her. When I got dressed up, I straightened my hair and did my makeup. When I did, I thought I looked nice. My senior pictures, for example, were cute, probably thanks to touch-ups, but I much preferred to wear some lip gloss and have my hair tied back and out of the way.

  My eyes are a boring brown, so brown that they’re almost black, and you can’t really tell the pupil from the iris. I do have long eyelashes, and my foster mom has a thing where arched brows “ define your face,” so since I have been living with her, my eyebrows have always been nicely shaped.

  The only other redeeming quality on my face is my smile. My parents had paid dearly for it, and so did I,

  with three years of metal braces.People now say that I have a wide smile. I don’t really know what that means. It probably means that my mouth is too big for my face.

  Hair fixed, I wandered through the clothing area and looked through a couple of racks. A group of teenage girls was standing by the dressing rooms admiring each other as they tried on clothes.

  I didn’t really go in for the high school glam stuff. I never understood why girls subjected themselves to high heels and tight, uncomfortable clothes in high school. I mean, who were they trying to impress anyway? The boys were short and immature, and the stairs were hard to navigate with flirty shoes, so why bother?

  Once, I tried to tell one of the girls I often partnered with in science lab that she was crazy to wear heels to school. I even asked if she was scared that she might fall down and break an ankle or something. The inevitable giggle whisper fest occurred between her and her friends. After that incident, it just didn’t seem

  worth it or important enough to me to try to befriend anyone in high school. It was hard to relate to other people my age anyway. Their heads were always full of such trivial things, and it was really hard work to

  find something in common to talk about.

  I left the department store, walked down to the movie theater, and considered my film choices. I felt a little bit guilty staying out all day, but, I rationalized, thiswas probably my last carefree summer day as a teenager, at least it felt that way. The pressures of adulthood loomed on the near horizon.

  I returned to my foster parents’ house late, having gone to see a double feature. When I got home, I silently crept through the house—my foster family usually went to bed very early—and checked the microwave to see what they had left me for dinner. It was Brussels sprouts casserole, nasty! I ate a few bites out of politeness and then scraped the rest of my plate in the trash. Shuffling over to the kitchen sink, I rinsed my plate and then placed it in the dishwasher. I also wrote a note to my foster mom thanking her for letting me borrow her car all day and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet.

  Living in a foster home was okay for the most part, at least in my case. My foster parents, Sarah and Michael, were a nice couple who watched out for me, and they liked me. I helped babysit their kids and never got into trouble. I had only a few weeks until I turned eighteen, and then, according to the state, I was on my own. Not that they would have kicked me out. On the contrary, I thought they would have liked me to stay, but I didn’t want them to feel like they had to keep me around. I mean, they had their own family to care for, and I didn’t want to be a nuisance.

  Normally, in my type of situation, the ideal thing to do was to place a minor with their relatives, but, because my parents had me late in life and because they were the youngest in their families, my aunts and

  uncles were too old to care for a teenager on a permanent basis. They visited me as often as possible, but they all lived in other states and had their own lives to worry about. That, plus the fact that I wanted to stay in Oregon, brought about my introduction into the foster care system.

  Quietly, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. My room was small and cozy, with just a simple bed, a mirrored dresser, a desk for my computer and homework, a closet, and a laundry basket. Most of my personal things were in storage. All the furniture in the room belonged to my foster parents.

  The only items in my room that truly belonged to me were my clothes, my books, and my blanket. My grandmother made that blanket, my precious quilt, for me when I was little. I wrapped myself up in it when I got extr
a cold at night and when I sat up against the headboard to read. Iloved my quilt. Pink scraps in different shades were arranged in blocks to look like flowers. Intricate, hand-stitched butterflies

  and flowers were sewn all around the outer edge in pastel colors. It was a bit worn-out, old, and ragged at the corners now.

  When I was very small, my mother would take me over to Grandma’s house so that she could help Grandma work on a quilt. Grandma would invite all her friends over to help, and the quilt would be set up on four wooden supports. The material was tacked onto 2 x 4 boards, which were held together with C clamps. As the ladies chatted and sewed, I would lie under the quilt, finger a stolen thimble, and daydream as I listened to the women’s chatter. I used to lay there for hours, watching the needles as they weaved in and out of the fabric. Grandma was wonderful! Every time I slept over at her house, her pet parakeets would cheerfully sing me awake. She also loved flower gardens, and she let me pick a handful of my favorite flowers on every visit.

  When I slept over, she’d make me my favorite breakfast: biscuits and gravy. My skills in sewing, embroidering, cooking, and coloring in a coloring book thefancy way all came from her patient teaching.

  She was very creative and artistic. I really missed her. She had a stroke and passed away a couple of years before my parents did. Singing birds and flowers remind me of her. Every time a bird sang, I imagined Grandma saying hello to me. So, I kept Grandma’s quilt folded up on my bed. It was always nearby.

  My clothes were hung neatly in a small closet, arranged according to color, and my shoes were lined up on the floor. I thought I had a little bit of OCD because my drawers were also meticulously tidy. My socks were all rolled in balls, arranged from the front of the drawer to the back. I usually grabbed the front ones and worked my way to the back. White socks were lined up on the right, black ones in the middle, and colored ones on the left. I didn’t really know why they went that way. They just did.

  After they died, most of my mom and dad’s possessions were sold, and the money was put into an account for me. There were a couple of keepsakes stored away for me, but I didn’t want to crowd my foster parents’ home, so I just left them in boxes. I did, however, keep a couple of pictures of my family, my grandma’s quilt, a couple of paperback books, and my journal around.