Carpathian 00 - The Scarletti Curse

Giovanni from this side. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from weeping uselessly. She had to get help, summon soldiers to go to the aid of their don. She did not believe he was dead. She would not believe it. There was a shadow darkening her soul, but she would not believe he was gone from her.
    Nicoletta turned and ran. She knew the path, had used it hundreds of times, roaming the hills day and night in her childhood. She had often gazed at the palazzo, awed by the great statues and gargoyles that guarded its eaves and turrets, the long ramparts where legends and rumors were born. She ran until her lungs were burning and she was gasping for breath. She ran until she could no longer feel the pain in her bare feet.
    The wind coming off the sea became more ferocious than ever. It nearly knocked her over, pushing her along the cliffs to the shortcut leading down to the palazzo grounds. She lifted her hands to the flying, blinding mass of her hair, twisting it as she hurried down the steep, slippery slope. It took two attempts to the knot her hair in place. She was exhausted, frightened, nearly spent from her race along the cliffs. Her heart and lungs felt as though they might burst, and her face was wet with tears. She stumbled several times as she ran, limping now, to the immaculate grounds of the palazzo, calling out to the guards.
    From out of the shrubbery forming the maze an owl swooped low, rushing right at her face. Nicoletta screamed, throwing up her hands to protect her eyes. She felt the powerful draft from the wings as the bird of prey veered off, the tip of a wing feather brushing her cheek. The terrible knot in her stomach grew, and she stopped moving and held herself very still, taking in a deep breath of clear, cool air in an attempt to calm herself and read all necessary signs.
    "Nicoletta! Nicoletta!" Portia's voice rose eerily out of the maze, a wail of terror, a plea for help. "Help!
    You must help us! Can you hear me? Nicoletta! We need you now. Margerita is dying. I cannot stop the bleeding. Per l'amore di Dio, help us before it is too late."
    The dark shadow in her lengthened and grew until Nicoletta was consumed by it. She hesitated, pulled in two directions, the need to get aid for Giovanni paramount, but the terror and desperation in Portia's voice dragging her reluctantly toward the woman. The owl glided in front of her, silent now that it had her Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    attention. She quickened her pace, racing for the maze, calling out to the guards for help, to anyone who might hear her. The wind whipped the sound of her voice back into her face. "Portia, what is it? Giovanni needs help. Tell me quickly." She yelled the words at the top of her lungs, hoping anyone might hear.
    "Oh, Nicoletta, thank the good Lord, please help my angel, my daughter. Help her, she is dying." The voice sounded thin and reedy, filled with tears, with sorrow.
    Her heart pounding, Nicoletta followed the bird, felt the premonition of danger, of trouble, growing stronger with every step. When she rounded a corner she found Portia lying in her path, her body covering her daughter's. There was blood on Portia's temple streaks of it trickling down her face like red tears. Blood on her dress and on her hands where they were pressed to Margerita's body. "I cannot stop it. He did this to her. He did this to my daughter!" Portia sobbed.
    Nicoletta sank onto the ground beside the two women, lifting Portia's hands away to see her daughter's wound. "Who did such a thing?" she asked, horrified by the sight. Margerita looked little more than a child, pale and helpless, her eyes wide open and staring in terror and pain. Her breath was coming in painful, whimpering gasps. "Portia, go for help. I will do what I can for her, but I need Maria Pia and my satchel, and you must send the soldiers after Giovanni. He is injured and under attack in the pass."
    Nicoletta's orders were crisp and firm.
    Portia tried to rise, nodding, then sank back to lie facedown on the path, her eyes staring into her daughter's. Nicoletta looked down to see the stab wounds in Portia's back. "Portia," she whispered softly. "Who did this to you?" Quickly she tried to press her hands to the wounds, to stem the flow of blood.
    "Save my daughter. May God forgive me, I let him do this. I let him put his filthy hands on her and use her the way he used me. But she is not like me. Not like him. She