Carpathian 00 - The Scarletti Curse

fewer still had the nerve to enter them.
    An owl hooted, the sound distorted in the heavy fog. She heard a rush of wings quite near her. Branches swayed and danced, clicking together in a macabre stick-figure dance, the sound loud in the darkness.
    She saw the glowing eyes of a night predator watching her through the trees. There was a strange feel to the air, it was thick, like quicksand, and her legs soon tired, her muscles cramping. Nothing on her beloved mountain seemed the same. Even the sheep seemed hostile, strange white apparitions appearing in the mist.
    The wind suddenly stilled. The leaves ceased to rustle. The night seemed unusually quiet. Nicoletta froze, simply waiting, not daring to move in the unexpected pocket of silence. A gentle breeze started up again, a soft tugging at her skirts, a ruffling at her hair. But the wind brought with it that murmuring voice, brushing in her mind like the gossamer wings of butterflies. The voice seemed clearer now, she could almost distinguish the words. It was the don's voice, no question she would recognize it anywhere. Soft yet commanding, its steady, persistent tone making it difficult to concentrate.
    Nicoletta pressed her hands to her ears, attempting to shut him out and keep walking. But the voice in her mind was whispering, enticing, nibbling away at her confidence, slowing her down, so that she felt as if she were moving in a dream, unable to distinguish reality from fantasy. She was partially up the mountain when she realized that the don was well aware she was fleeing, and he was using his hypnotic voice to slow her progress. No coincidence, this voice whispering on the wind; but a deliberate attempt to hold her to him.
    She clung to a tree to steady herself. "Stop it," she whispered to the night. He had to stop, or she might go mad. Was this what had happened to his great-great-grandmother, the woman who had thrown herself off the wide-winged gargoyle crouching atop the tower overlooking the violent sea? A guardian of the palazzo, they claimed, yet a horrible creature to her. Had the poor girl been forced to marry a Scarletti? Had she been a victim of the Bridal Covenant, too? Ripped from her home and family and given in a loveless marriage to a ruthless heathen of a man? Had her husband driven her to insanity with his commanding murmuring in her mind? "Stop it," she whispered again, her voice inaudible in the blanket of fog.
    Nicoletta turned along a thin ribbon of a trail that led to the more jagged cliffs. The rocky ledge was slippery from the mist, and the slime on the smooth walls caused her hands to slip when she reached for purchase. She clung there, her bare feet scraped and bleeding from the sharp rocks. The voice never let up, not for a moment. She could make out some of the words now. I will not let you leave me. I am coming for you. You cannot escape me.
    Nicoletta shook her head in an attempt to dislodge the voice from inside her head. There was no pleading or begging. He was as arrogant as ever, demanding her return, demanding she comply with his Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    wishes, his orders. There was no gentleness in him, only a hard, ruthless authority. He would find her.
    She couldn't escape him. How would it be possible, when he shared her mind? And if he caught her now? She didn't want to think about the consequences she might suffer at his hands.
    Would he wrap his strong fingers around her neck and strangle her? Would he squeeze the breath out of her slowly, lifting her off her feet with his superior strength and height? Is that what his grandfather had done to his grandmother? Had a legacy of hatred and madness been passed down through the generations? Was that the terrible curse that hung over the Scarletti family? Was that the fate awaiting her? It was easy to imagine it was so, there in the strange, heavy fog with his voice whispering to her continually. She touched her throat with trembling fingers. She could still feel the imprint of his hand hot against her bare skin.
    I am no longer amused, cara. The night has a bite to it. Come back before I lose patience with your foolishness.
    Now his words were very clear. How could it be that he could talk to her in her mind? Surely, as Maria Pia had once suggested, he was in league with the devil. He possessed great magic, and most likely his was not a gift from the good Madonna, as hers was. She bit at her fingernails nervously, unable