Blood Bound To My Enemy

💐 CHAPTER ONE 💐 “Ma’am, I asked for lavender oil, not whatever cheap garbage this is.” I glanced up from the inventory sheet, watching Mrs. Henderson wave the bottle like she was conducting an orchestra of complaints. The woman beside her—a regular I’d helped dozens of times—suddenly stepped closer, her jaw tight. “Excuse me, but I was here first. Some of us don’t have all day to throw tantrums.” Something cold twisted in my stomach. Mrs. Henderson never complained about the lavender oil. And Sarah Chen was the most patient customer we had. However they were both staring at each other now, tension crackling between them like static before a storm. “Ladies, perhaps—” “Don’t you dare tell me how to shop, you pretentious little—” “Pretentious? Look who’s talking, acting like you own the place.” My hands trembled as I set down the clipboard. This wasn’t normal. Nothing about their suddenly sharp voices or the way they were squaring off over essential oils was normal. The air felt thick, charged with something I recognized but refused to name. Not here. Not again. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I managed, stepping between them. “Mrs. Henderson, this is the same lavender oil you bought last week. Sarah, I can help you with—” “Don’t defend her!” Mrs. Henderson snapped, her eyes flashing with genuine anger. “I know quality when I see it, unlike some people who settle for mediocre everything.” Sarah’s face flushed red. “Mediocre? At least I don’t storm into small businesses acting like a spoiled child.” The energy in the room pulsed, feeding off their escalating anger. I could feel it building, responding to the chaos inside me—the frustration I’d been swallowing for months, the loneliness that gnawed at me every night, the constant fear that I’d never be able to live a normal life. “Stop,” I whispered, but they weren’t listening anymore. They were shouting now, faces inches apart, ready to tear each other’s hair out over nothing. Over absolutely nothing. “What in the hell is going on here?” Mr. Peterson’s voice cut through the chaos as he emerged from the back office. His eyes moved from the two women to me, and I watched his expression shift from confusion to that familiar look of wary disgust. The same look everyone gave me eventually. “Maya,” he said slowly, “step away from the customers.” “Mr. Peterson, I was just trying to—” “Step away.” His voice was flat, final. “Mrs. Henderson, Sarah, I apologize for whatever’s happened here. Please, let me help you both.” I backed toward the counter, watching in sick fascination as the two women blinked in confusion, the fight bleeding out of them like air from a punctured balloon. They looked around the shop as if seeing it for the first time, then at each other with embarrassed horror. “I’m so sorry,” Sarah stammered. “I don’t know what came over me.” Mrs. Henderson pressed a hand to her chest. “Good gracious, neither do I. How rude of me.” But Mr. Peterson wasn’t looking at them anymore. He was looking at me with those cold, calculating eyes that had been growing more suspicious with each passing week. “Maya. Office. Now.” The walk to his cramped back office felt like a death march. He closed the door behind us with deliberate calm, the kind that meant I was completely screwed. “Sit.” I remained standing. “Mr. Peterson—” “This is the fourth incident this month.” He leaned against his desk, arms crossed. “Four times customers have gotten into fights for no reason while you were working. Four times good people turned nasty around you.” “That’s not—” “It’s not normal, Maya.” His voice dropped. “Nothing about you is normal. And I’m done pretending otherwise.” The words hit me like physical blows. “I don’t control what customers do.” “Don’t you?” He studied my face with undisguised revulsion. “My grandmother used to tell stories about people like you. Cursed bloodlines. Bad luck that follows families like a plague.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Is it? Because everywhere you go, Maya, chaos follows. Broken equipment, spooked customers, accidents that make no sense.” He shook his head. “I should have listened to my gut months ago.” “Please, Mr. Peterson. I need this job.” “And I need customers who feel safe in my shop. You’re fired, Maya. Clean out your locker and go. Take your bad luck with you.” The injustice of it burned through me like acid. Six months of perfect attendance, never calling in sick, going above and beyond for customers who barely acknowledged my existence. All of it was meaningless because I couldn’t control something I didn’t even understand. “You can’t fire me for things that aren’t my fault.” “Watch me.” He opened the door, dismissing me. “And Maya? Do yourself a favor. Find somewhere else to spread your poison. This town’s had enough.” The rage hit me like a physical force, white-hot and devastating. Every glass surface in the office—the picture frames, the coffee mug, the small mirror by his desk—exploded simultaneously. The sound was like a gunshot, sharp and final. Mr. Peterson stumbled backward, his face pale with terror. I didn’t wait to see if he was hurt. I grabbed my purse and ran. ~~~ The October air bit at my skin as I hurried down Main Street, ignoring the stares from people sweeping glass off the sidewalk in front of the shop. Word would spread fast in a town this small. By tomorrow, everyone would know about Maya the freak, Maya the cursed girl who destroyed Peterson’s Herbs in a fit of supernatural rage. Just like mother. The thought stopped me cold in the middle of the sidewalk. A couple walking their dog crossed to the other side of the street rather than pass too close to me, and I didn’t blame them. I could still feel the energy crackling under my skin, looking for another outlet. I pulled my jacket tighter and kept walking, my mind spinning with the same desperate questions that had haunted me since I was old enough to understand why foster families kept sending me back. Why did this happen? Why couldn’t I just be normal? Why did mother’s poison have to live in my blood? My apartment building came into view, and all I wanted was to lock myself inside, pull the covers over my head, and pretend today never happened. But as I climbed the stairs to the third floor, something felt wrong. The air was too still, too quiet. My door stood slightly ajar, even though I’d locked it this morning. I pushed it open with trembling fingers. My small living room looked like a tornado had torn through it. Couch cushions slashed open, books scattered across the floor, kitchen cabinets hanging open with their contents spilled everywhere. And on my coffee table, weighted down with a black stone I’d never seen before, was a note written in elegant script: YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR MOTHER’s SINS.