Terminal Lust by Kali Willows

 
     
    Chapter One
     
     
    Overwhelmed by excruciating panic, she worked to free her arms, legs, and heavy chest. Trying to force a scream out, nothing worked—her eyelids the only part of her paralyzed body that obeyed her.
    Ambrosia squinted hard and forced herself to inhale a slow, deep breath, then tried to wiggle her fingers. The slight twitch empowered her. She moved her toes, and then her head a little, side to side, and finally she was gaining control. Drawing air in, the soothing whiff of amber and vanilla danced in her nose. The oil infuser at her bedside made waking up a little more enjoyable despite her discomfort.
    Sighing with relief, she glanced over to the glaring red numbers on her nightstand. Three thirty-three. The same time every morning. This mundane existence was exhausting. Waking up with her heart pounding, perspiration streaming from every pore, despite the chill that overtook her body—was her illness taking its course? Restless now that her strength began to return, she flung the soaked covers off and eased her feet onto the cold floor, feeling around for her fuzzy slippers.
    A cup of chamomile tea might help her get back to sleep and even warm up a little. Cloaking herself in her terrycloth housecoat, she wandered down to the kitchen, flicking lights on along her way. Ambrosia dragged the kettle to the tap and forced the faucet on with weak fingers. She curled up in her rocking chair by the window to read yesterday’s paper.
    She read over the local news, wishing she had some interest in anything outside of her self-pity. A carnival was in town this weekend—rides, games, derby. A gypsy fortuneteller ! Her doctors could provide no explanation for her morning fright. Maybe the psychic could give her some answers. I’ll go tonight .
    The kettle clicked and Ambrosia hauled herself out of the chair. She gripped the handle with all her meager strength and poured the steaming water into her big cobalt mug. While the brew steeped, she wandered over to her desk and turned on her laptop. A number of emails downloaded, mostly spam, then she gasped—the reply she had been waiting for from Madame Evangeline. The date had been set.
     
    ***
     
    Bright, twinkling carnival lights had offered a thrill in her youth. The loud chatter of passersby, the continuous bantering of the carnies who tried to hustle unsuspecting parents into blowing a bundle on a tiny, fifty-cent stuffed bear, the buttery smell of popcorn and the hot sugar aroma of cotton candy….
    Even the laughter of people at the games, and the screams of excitement on the clanking rollercoaster as it climbed to the terrifying top of the hill had no impact on her. She walked through the crowd on heavy legs, stepping over spilled pop containers, scattered midway tickets, and the rest of the trash that littered the asphalt. Connecting with nothing and no one, she was the equivalent of the walking dead.
    Under the starlit sky, the primary colors of the striped tents loomed dark and dingy, perfect props for the eerie aura that encompassed the sultry summer evening. Ambrosia scanned the row of tents and then spotted the sign: Madame Zovka’s Fortune Telling . Grabbing a handkerchief from her back pocket, she dabbed beads of perspiration from her forehead and temples as she approached the open flap.
    “Come in child, I’ve been waiting for you.”
    An older gypsy woman with long, flowing silver hair sat behind a table in a black velvet and pink satin paisley shawl. Her gold-coined headscarf glittered in the flickering lights of the dozens of candles lit throughout the makeshift tent.
    “Me?” Ambrosia eyed the woman patting the red tablecloth with her wrinkled hand.
    “Yes, you dear, the one with questions about her sleep.” The bright pink lipstick creased in dark lines over her weathered lips and the thick dusting of rouge on her wrinkled cheeks seemed fitting with her attire. Chantilly perfume, with the heady scent of sandalwood and orange