Cleo's Curse Read online

  Cleo’s Curse

  Soul Warriors Book 4

  by

  ALLIE BURTON

  An ancient knot entangling Cleo in a world of magic and power.

  A driven leader intent on controlling a curse.

  A disgruntled slave no longer willing to bow to a modern goddess.

  Needing to suck up to her parents, spoiled boarding school student Cleo Carruthers decides to make an effort and attend classes. Except the teachers can’t see her. The Knot of Uset has woven a web around her and she’s become truly invisible.

  A slave to Queen Cleopatra in a previous life, Soul Warrior Antony refuses to serve anyone. But when a modern day goddess demands his help, he can’t say no. Saving the world must take precedence over his wishes. Until his wishes get tied up into a knot by Cleo.

  Trapped in a strange world, together the two teens must secure the magic of the knot and become unbound from the relic’s powers. But they are being hunted by those who want them to disappear. Permanently.

  Reviews About Soul Warrior Series

  “If you are a fan of Rick Riordan and his Chronicles of Kane series or even books about a quest, with some love and history thrown in…THIS BOOK IS FOR YOU!” –Hooked in a Book Reviews

  “…fast paced excitement with romance a nice compliment to the action…This book is great for people who like action adventures with a bit of magic and mythology mixed in.” –Book Briefs

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you enjoy CLEO’S CURSE! If you’d like to start the Soul Warriors series at the beginning, SOUL SLAM—the first book in the series, is available free at Kobo. And, if you sign up for my newsletter I’ll send you TUT’S TRUMPET, Soul Warriors Book 2, as a gift. Sign up here: http://www.allieburton.com/contact.html

  You’ll also get the latest Allie Burton news, information on contests, and sales. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.

  Word of mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoy this novel, please consider leaving a review at your place of purchase, even if it’s only a line or two. Your review will make all the difference and is hugely appreciated.

  Thank you so much and happy reading!

  Allie Burton

  [email protected]

  www.twitter.com/allie_burton

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  Other Books in Series

  Soul Slam

  Tut’s Trumpet

  Peace Piper

  CLEO’S CURSE

  Soul Warriors Book 4

  Copyright © 2015 by Alice Fairbanks-Burton

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, decompiled, reverse engineered, stored in or introduced to any information storage and retrieval system in any form, whether electronic or mechanical without the author’s written permission. Scanning, uploading or distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic versions, and do not participate in, or encourage pirated electronic versions.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Chapter One

  Cleo

  A black SUV screeched to a stop on the quiet street in front of my private boarding-school residence hall. Two men wearing mismatching black pants and sweatshirts charged out of the vehicle.

  I hated when people didn’t match their shades of black. Fashion basics, people.

  “Get the Uset package!” One of the guys with black hair and a strong build rushed past, pushing me.

  I stumbled, and my Christian Louboutin boots slipped off the sidewalk into a puddle, coating the pink leather in mud. Was I invisible to everyone? “Hey!”

  The man swiveled and pointed a metallic-gray contraption. The barrel came to a tip, like a ballpoint pen. Tubes curved along the top in an infinity pattern. Where the trigger should be was a clear orb sparking with flames.

  Each detail stamped on my mind even while my brain circled in panicked loops. Loops that dipped and flipped and tripped. I’d never seen a rifle close, especially one this strange-looking. I held my shopping-bag-laden arms in a no-challenge position and took a shaky step back. The designer clothes, guy-teasing pumps, and chocolates weighed heavier in the fancy bags than they had the entire time I’d shopped.

  The guy pointed the gun toward his real quarry—a delivery guy.

  My bones sagged, weary with relief. I took another slow step back.

  Farther up the sidewalk, the second man pointed his weird gun at the delivery guy dressed in a drab, brown uniform and pushing a metal cart filled with packages. The delivery guy stopped only a few feet from the front door of my building. No one was around this early on Saturday morning, because most of the students were sleeping or studying. For high school students, ten a.m. was way too early to be out and about.

  The man dressed in black shoved the gun at the delivery guy. “Give me the Uset package.”

  Unusual name. Was that a new perfume or fashion designer?

  My designer friend Demetri was about to release his latest line, and I’d be one of the first to see the runway show. From the plain black khaki slacks, black sweatshirts and knit beanies the men with strange guns wore, I didn’t think they were after stylish clothes.

  The delivery guy with the bulging belly held up both his hands knowing he was being mugged. “Take them.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t paid enough to protect the packages in his care. Hopefully, none of my online shopping was in that shipment.

  The man standing by me moved forward and picked up the top package. Grunting, he tossed the box to the ground. Glass shattered inside. He did the same with the next package. And the next.

  The street view was blocked by the dark van and the delivery truck. Tall hedges covered the residence hall’s lower windows. No one could see what was taking place unless they sauntered down the sidewalk.

  Without the gun trained on me, I took another step back, trying to merge with the bushes. With a shaky hand, I grabbed my phone from my pocket. I tapped the screen and hit the recording app. It didn’t turn on.

  “It’s not here.” The man threw the last package down. “Where is the goddess of Uset package?”

  I smacked the recording app again. Come on. Think how many hits I’d get with this post.

  Both guys held their weird guns higher, trained at the delivery guy’s head, ignoring me.

  I swallowed. Instead of recording for social media, I should be calling 9-1-1.

  The delivery guy’s eyes widened, covering half his face. He tucked in his chin and fear stamped his expression. “I don’t know, dude.”

  Both guns fired. Real flames.

  Except not real flames, because purple, pink, and green colors shot out in streams. The noise hissed more than banged. The streams wrapped around the blah-brown delivery guy and he bent at the waist seeming to curl into himself.

  My chest chattered in a horrific rhythm, causing my heart to sputter and choke. Adrenaline and a self-preservation instinct had me hitting the ground. I landed in the puddle and covered my head with my hands. My nose filled with the smell of wet dirt. Forget recording the scene, I needed help. Hitting the first speed dial, I listened to the dial tone.

  Pick up. P
ick up. Pick up.

  The delivery guy collapsed onto the ground. The two men turned toward me. The rhythm in my chest twisted into electric dance music. I couldn’t hear the two men talking, yet I knew I’d be next.

  “I’m sorry I’m not able to answer the phone right now. Leave a message or call my assistant at…”

  Anger flashed, similar to the flames from those weird guns. Hurt sent a burning sensation over my skin. Of course, she didn’t pick up. Not for me. My life was ending and I wouldn’t even get to say goodbye.

  I flattened my body against the wet sidewalk, not caring about my tailored jeans, the untucked silk blouse, under a short sweat. Not worrying about my perfect brunette curls or my department-store-prepared make-up. Only thinking about my short, sixteen-year-long life.

  A life I’d been trying to change so my parents would approve. Go to classes. Make real friends. Start a new adventure.

  Being dead was not an adventure. Being dead was…well, dead.

  The burning pain ripped through and scorched my lungs. I wasn’t ready to die. I scrunched my body, trying to get smaller. Sharp pinpricks pierced the scorching skin. Had the torture begun? I didn’t hear the weird guns or see the colors swirling. I lifted my head.

  The two men jumped into the SUV and the car squealed away.

  Those black pants. Honestly, someone needed to lock Walmart’s doors once and for all.

  My body warped into the muddy and wet sidewalk. Every inch of my skin made contact with the rough surface proving I was alive. I was safe. Not that my life mattered to anyone else.

  Beeeeeep. Mother’s long-winded message finally ended.

  “Mother, this is CC, your daughter.” In case she’d forgotten. “You have to get me out of this horrible San Francisco boarding school. Someone’s been killed in front of the residence hall.”

  The message clicked off, and I smashed my finger against the end button. My parents wouldn’t notice if I’d been killed or disappeared. They were too busy with their jet-set travel, country club, and charity events. Which was the reason I was trying to be good so they’d bring me home and start paying attention. Being bad hadn’t worked.

  Untangling my arms from my shopping bags, I got to my feet and stared at the body of the delivery guy.

  Quit feeling sorry for yourself. At least you’re not dead.

  His brown uniform smoked. He must’ve been wet from the rain, and the sun was warming his clothes, steaming them dry.

  I surveyed the sky. There was no sun. Only fog and damp. Why had my parents banished me to this west coast wasteland?

  Tiny tendrils of gray plumes twisted into the air off the delivery guy. Splotches of…emptiness appeared on his body. Like big holes.

  Coldness shivered across my arms and caused the small hairs to stand at attention, aware something was most definitely wrong.

  The holes became bigger. Through the holes I saw the wet sidewalk beneath. Parts of his body were fading or evaporating.

  The coldness spread. Twin emotions of terror and fear curled in my stomach and buzzed in my brain. I shook my aching head, trying to make sense of the vision.

  There was no wound. No blood.

  No body.

  I trembled from my designer boots to perfectly-styled hair. My knees knocked together as if mating. My tummy wanted to heave my chef-prepared, five-star breakfast. I staggered back.

  The delivery guy had disappeared. Vaporized.

  Oh, my Chanel.

  Pinching the shopping bags between my fingers, my gaze rounded and I jerked back. I gaped at the now-empty sidewalk. Sirens cut through the haze in my head.

  A squad car pulled up, and a uniformed policeman got out. The delivery guy must’ve called the police before he…disappeared.

  “I’m Officer Hill.” The policeman ran his hand through short, curly, black hair. A dark mustache wiggled above his mouth. “Are you all right, miss?”

  “I, um,” I looked at him. Looked back at the sidewalk. “A man disappeared.”

  “You want to file a missing person’s report?” His gentle voice looped up at the end with a touch of ridiculous.

  As if I was ridiculous. My parents might think that. Nobody else did. They didn’t dare.

  “Yes. No! I mean, I didn’t know the guy. He’s a delivery person.” The Carruthers family didn’t befriend service people. “Was the delivery person. He’s gone.”

  Bending down, the police officer picked up one of the smaller boxes and moved toward me. “He left his deliveries behind?”

  “He didn’t leave them.” I cast a glance at the empty sidewalk and back at the officer. “He disappeared. These guys with weird guns shot at him and he…evaporated.”

  The officer grabbed my upper arm, shaking the bags in my hand. Shaking me.

  His face scrunched and his eyes rolled around in their sockets. His expression resembled my father’s, when he didn’t want to listen to me or believe what I said. “Do you want to sit down in the back of the squad car?”

  “No.” I ripped my arm from his grip. The officer had no right. “I’m not crazy.”

  The tissue paper in the bags crinkled reminding me of who I was. How important my parents were. I took a calming breath.

  “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened, Miss?” The officer didn’t take out a notepad. He wasn’t taking me seriously.

  “Miss Carruthers. Cleo Carruthers.” Gritting my teeth, I announced my name with importance. I straightened my spine. “My friends call me CC.”

  His smile tightened, causing tiny wrinkles around his lips. “Sit down on the bench and tell me what happened from the beginning, Miss Carruthers.”

  I sank onto the wooden bench next to the entrance of the Exeter Academy residence hall. My packages slid off my arms and dropped to the ground. The swishing of the grass against the bags brought a little comfort. I wanted to open the packages and smell the fresh designer scent to soothe my nerves. And yet, that would be weird, and I needed to present a normal impression.

  Stumbling through my words, I told the officer what happened. His expression didn’t change. Doubt, disbelief, and believing that I was ditzy. He didn’t take notes. Just stared at me like I was insane.

  My muscles tensed, similar to when I had to deal with a shopkeeper trying to sell me last season’s shoes. “I’m not making this up.”

  “Of course not.” He tried to hide a smirk. “Can I drive you…home?”

  He said it as if I lived in a mental institute.

  I scoffed. “No, thanks. I live right here in Henderson Hall.”

  “You’re a boarding student at the Exeter Academy.” He regarded my designer packages with a different glance, a knowing glance, a judging glance.

  Exeter Academy had a reputation with the local population: rich, spoiled, troubled kids. Kids whose parents didn’t want to be burdened. I hated that I fit the stereotype.

  “Yes.” I stood and gathered my bags with as much dignity as I could muster. “Do you need anything else from me?”

  “The truth.” The cop murmured.

  I shook my fisted hands and the bags rattled. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Officer Hill didn’t believe a word I’d said. There’d be no report or investigation. No justice for the delivery guy who’d disappeared.

  “I’ll call this robbery in.” He picked up a couple of the more-smashed packages, and carried them toward the back of the delivery truck.

  What robbery? Did he plan to steal the deliveries? What about the truck?

  I pulled my shoulders back, pretending not to be bothered by the officer’s attitude or the mud on my jeans. There were other ways to deal with uncaring public servants. Daddy had called the mayor once when my Jaguar had been booted. He’d call the chief of police of this backwards city and make sure this officer was reprimanded for not believing a Carruthers.

  If I could get a hold of my dad.

  And if he would care about a delivery person.

  Or me.
r />   My attitude deflated, resembling flat, un-blow-dried hair.

  “Thank you for your help.” Marching toward the residence hall, I kept my head up and my back straight. I pushed open the door and strolled to the silver mailboxes by the front desk not worrying about the trail of mud I left behind. Trying to put the incident behind me, I used my key, unlocked my tiny box, and sorted through the various ads and junk mail. No personal mail.

  My fingers stumbled on a slip from the reception desk. A package slip.

  My pulse pumped. Nothing I’d ordered online would be delivered yet. What could the package be?

  I hurried to the front counter, where one of the scholarship students worked behind the desk. She noticed me, but kept chatting on her cell phone.

  “Did you see how drunk Sarah was last night?” The receptionist sounded malicious. “What a great party.”

  I blew out a slow, sad breath. I hadn’t heard about a party. Must’ve been an unimportant event. One I wouldn’t want to attend. I cleared my throat.

  The girl’s eyes narrowed and she swiveled away. I tapped my package slip on the counter. The tap, tap, tap kept pace with my impatience.

  “Excuse me.” I used my imperious tone. The one that said I was better than you so you should listen. The one my mother used.

  The girl swiveled around and she frowned. “What?”

  “I received a package.” I held out the slip.

  “What’s new, rich girl? You shop every day.” Her gaze veered to the shopping bags I held and then to my dirty clothes. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything about my appearance. She snatched the piece of paper. “As I was saying,” she turned and headed into the small office located behind the counter, not letting me respond.