Disclaimer: I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original newsboy characters – they are the property of Disney. The main characters Stress and Diana (among others) belong to me. Any other character, when noted, is property of their respective owner.

Translations: a Maldição de Diabo translates to "a devil's curse" in the romance language of Portuguese; the surname "Daite" is the Gaelic translation of the word "fate".

a Maldição de Diabo

April 2, 2006

A Devil's curse. An unsolved murder. 4 generations.
At the brink of his own destruction, he traded his life for 100 years to find out what exactly happened that night.
If that wasn't strange enough, what exactly he found out during his quest was.

PART ONE

AUGUST 3, 1899

The air was unnaturally still for an early August night. The normal hustle and bustle of the Manhattan streets was eerily absent as all had gone on their way.

All but one, that was.

There, on a silent street corner, under a dim light, stood a lone figure. The young man kept his dusty brown cowboy hat slung low over his dark eyes as he slowly brought a cigarette to his lips. Lazily, as if he did not have a care in the world, he took a long drag. Purposely keeping his back to the only building on the block with candle light flooding each room, he stood tensed, one hand fingering a frayed rope belt while the other stayed the cigarette. He was waiting, just as he had been waiting for the past three-quarters of an hour.

"Cowboy?"

When he heard the voice he gave a start, briskly exhaling the last lungful of smoke through his nose. He tossed the cigarette to the ground and slowly put it out with the tip of his cracked boot. Then, when the last ember had been reduced to mere ash, he turned. His jittery actions had betrayed his true mind. As much as he did not want to admit it, not even to himself, he was terrified.

"Kloppman," he answered, his voice low and dry, as he lifted the brim of his hat. He raised his gaze in order to eye the elderly gentleman that had just exited the back door of the Newsboy Lodging House on Duane Street. "How is she?"

The man, Alfred Kloppman—the superintendent of the Lodging House—took a step forward. The young man he was facing flinched as the blood drenching the elder man's shirt shimmered ominously in the moonlight. "I'm sorry, Jack, but she's gone."

Gone.

That one word echoed in his head. Visibly shaken, he reeled backwards, stumbling into the pole of the nearby street lamp. His hand dropped the ends of the rope as he groped blindly for something to hang onto. He had not been expecting Kloppman to tell him that.

"But… but how? I didn't think it was that… bad." He shook his head. He must have heard the old man wrong. There was no possible way she could be gone…

Kloppman glanced over at him, a wistful smile forming on his thin lips. It was quite out of place, given the situation, and it did nothing but prove to the boy that this was no misunderstanding. "You know how she is… was." His watery blue eyes were devoid of the amusement that Jack was used to seeing; it was that, more than anything, which told him it was all true.

The old man, aware of Jack's vacant stare, added, "Really, only a girl like her could get a knife in the side and say it was nothing but a scratch."

Jack did not need affirmation to the strength of her character; what he needed was assurance that she could be fixed—that she was alive.

But that he did not have so, in a burst of mild panic, he angrily flicked the hat off of his head; it settled, hanging down his back, courtesy of the cord that kept it around his neck at all times.

Kloppman could see, as Jack—without his hat—glared over at him, that the vacancy he had interpreted was nothing more than overt anger and barely masked grief. It hurt, watching the young man suffer, but it had to be done.

Jack needed to understand the finality of death. Even after surviving seventeen years on the rough New York streets, even after losing his mother to tuberculosis one winter and his father to Sing Sing the next, Jack still found a way to deny the reality of the day; instead Jack Kelly—Francis Sullivan, really—created his own reality.

Not surprisingly, the boy, it seemed, did not feel the need to face the truth just then, either. "You mean… it wasn't just a scratch?" His voice was low and demanding as he dared the man to answer. "C'mon, Kloppy. She was able to make it here after she got hurt." It was almost as if by denying the superintendent's words that he could convince himself that she was not dead. She's not dead… she can't be. She just can't.

Kloppman nodded helplessly. A veteran of the Civil War, he had seen all sorts of injuries and knew how to bandage most of them. But this one… he just had not been able to fix her. And he felt guilty. "Yes, Jack, she was. But I couldn't do it. I tried my best, lad, but she was too far gone. There was so much blood," he finished lamely, needlessly gesturing to his once white shirt, trying to get the boy to understand.

There was no denying the fact that the cut had been deep. And, even with his limited education—anything he knew, he picked up from a life living on the street—Jack knew that there was no way such a small figure could survive after losing so much blood. But still… dead?

After a moment, a moment that seemed an eternity to both men, Jack nodded slowly, turning his head to stare down the empty street. His arm was raised to cover his eyes, just in case a tear found its way there; he did not want Kloppman, or anyone else for that matter, to see him cry.

That had been saved for her, and now she was gone. If only he had insisted on walking back with her. Had the poker game really been that important?

She laughed carelessly, her light brown curls framing her pale, and slightly newsprint-smudged, face as she pushed Jack away from her playfully. "Don't worry about me, Cowboy. I'm a big lass. Besides, all I have to do is walk across town to get to the Girls' Home for the night. I'll be fine."

Jack smiled at her as he allowed her to gently shove him down Duane Street, toward the lodging house. "But don't you think it would be a better idea if I walked you back? Someone's gotta take care of you—"

There was a twinkle in her golden eyes as she grinned, cutting him off with a quick word. "And that'll be me, you brute," she kidded, patting him in the back as he slowly dragged his feet forward. She dropped her hands at her side and shook her head, still grinning. "Look, Jack, it's just about curfew. I know that you've got your poker game with Race and Blink tonight… so go, alright? I'll be fine, I promise."

Sighing in resignation while mirroring her carefree grin so that she knew he was playing right along with her, Jack leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss against her cheek. "I'm gonna hold you to that promise," he said, mockingly pointing his finger at her.

"Whatever you say, Jack," she replied, rolling her eyes in amusement as she pushed his finger away. Sometimes he could be just a bit protective and it bothered her—but, deep down, it was nice to have someone care about her. In those times, it was quite the rare occurrence. She let a small, almost shy, smile escape. "Now, go. I'll see you tomorrow. How does that sound?"

Jack nodded. "Tomorrow."

But, shit, Jack thought, regretfully and reluctantly, tomorrow ain't never going to come because of me… because I let her go alone. What the hell was I thinking? And what happened?

"Kloppman?" Jack asked, jerking himself out of the memories of only a few hours prior, "did she tell you what … what happened to her?" He needed to know. If only to have someone to pin the blame on that was not him, Jack Kelly needed to know.

There was a pause—it was obvious that Kloppman did not want to answer the boy's earnest question—before the old man shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Jack… but she didn't. Not really. All she was able to get out was that it was just a scratch. She said she got it for running her mouth off to some guy. She didn't want to say anything else because she thought it might upset you…"

But nothing could upset him more than not knowing how—or why, damn it—she had died.

Well, nothing except for seeing her in the state she was in when she came stumbling into the lodging house about an hour before. He was sure that that sight would be one that stayed with him for as long as he lived, and then some.

Jack threw down his hand of cards. Even when he had a respectable hand—a pair of aces, a pair of eights and a nine card, high—Racetrack always had one better. "I fold, fellas," he said with a grimace as he watched the boy opposite him gather the pennies from the middle of the table.

The three of them—him, Racetrack Higgins and Kid Blink Moore— had set up a small table in the middle of the lobby to play their card game; Kloppman had gone out back to the dining area to finish up his own supper, leaving it up to those three to make sure that no late stragglers got in without paying their nickel lodging fare.

The stub of a cheap, smelly cigar clamped tightly between his teeth, the short, dark-haired boy greedily piled his winnings before him. "You shoulda known better than to play against me in poker, Jack," he cracked, his dark eyes twinkling as he baited his pal.

Jack picked up his top card, the ace of spades, and threw it across the table at the boy. "Yeah, yeah. I know, Race," he retorted before turning his head and looking at his other poker playing partner. The blond boy, wearing a brown eye patch that covered his left eye, was staring past Jack, glaring his good eye at the door that was behind them.

He looked confused which, in turn, made Jack a little nervous. Drumming his dirty fingertips against the table, he asked, "What's the matter, Blink?"

Blink shook his head briefly before letting out a small burst of laughter—laughter that he did not seem to mean—and pointing at the door. "I don't know, Jack, but I coulda sworn I heard something scratchin' at the door." He sounded almost apologetic, as if he expected one of the two others to chastise him for being so skittish.

As both Kid Blink and Racetrack stared at the door, curiously, as if to see if they could really hear anything, Jack rolled his eyes. He stood from the table and opened the door. If Blink thought he heard something scratching at the door, he probably did. Why not check to see what exactly it was?

However, once he casually swung the door inward, he jumped back as a small human form fell into the doorway. There was a person—a girl—who had been hunched over, scratching at the door.

Without thinking, Jack scooped the figure up and began to hurry up the stairs, yelling for Kloppman as he went. Since the old man was in the dining area of the House, he was easily within yelling distance. Jack continued on up the flight of stairs, hoping that Kloppman heard him and would come after him.

Upon reaching the bunkroom, Jack laid the girl down on the nearest bunk. He brushed the mass of sweat-soaked curls out of her face and looked into her nearly closed eyes. "What happened to ya?" he asked, alarmed, before noticing the blossoming stain on the right side of her once-white blouse.

As soon as he witnessed the blood seeping through, he turned just in time to see that Kloppman had arrived, followed by Racetrack and Kid Blink. Jack ignored the two boys and looked pleadingly at the old man, with his thin white hair and glasses. "Kloppman, she's hurt. She's hurt real bad… can you help her?" he choked out before turning around and casting his eyes on her once more.

"Are you alright?" he asked stupidly, in shock. Of course he knew she was not but he had nothing else to say. To say "I love you" never once crossed his mind. He would regret that.

Kloppman pushed the other two boys further behind him. "Boys, I need you to go get me some blankets and some hot water," he directed; both Racetrack and Kid Blink were gaping at the sight before them.

When they turned and began to stomp down the steps, Kloppman turned to Jack. The boy had not moved from her bedside. "And, Cowboy, I think it would be best if you waited outside. I'll get you when everything's cleared up," he said, his tone more gentle than it had been, as he took the boy's elbow and began to lead Jack to the door of the bunkroom. "I'll do my best," he added before turning around to attend to the fallen girl.

Jack nodded. He made to call to her—reassure her, anything—but paused when Kloppman closed the door behind himself. Jack stared at the door for a moment before following Race and Blink down the steps and heading out to the street to wait. He did not want to see what was happening in the room at the moment, anyway.

"Kloppman?" Jack repeated, this time more desperately. He had to push aside the last memory he had of her. He would go mad if he did not. "Did she say anything… anything… else before she… you know?" He was hopeful, though he should not have been. Out of the corner of his eye, he silently pleaded with the old man to answer him.

"Yes. She did," Kloppman whispered before turning his face away. His answer was not one that Cowboy would want to hear. He took a second to lift the glasses that he wore in order to wipe away any sweat that had collected before continuing, "She wanted me to tell you that she's sorry."

Sorry? "Sorry? Sorry for what?" Jack replied, reaching behind him to put his hat back on his head. He pulled it down low in an attempt to hide the tears that were suspiciously welling in his eyes.

Jack Kelly did not cry. His eyes just watered a little when he heard that his girl had died.

"Sorry for breaking her promise, whatever that means," Kloppman added apologetically before reaching out and resting his hand on the shoulder of Jack's grey vest. "Listen, I've got to go back in there and take care of things. It's just that, I thought you wanted to be the first to know. And, Jack, I am very sorry. She was one of a kind."

"Yeah, she is," Jack replied before turning his back on the building. Then, once he was sure he was alone again, Jack looked up into the star-filled night sky. He blinked back his tears—I ain't cryin'—trying his damndest to accept the cruel hand that fate had dealt him.

Behind him, a single candle was extinguished from the backroom of the lodging house; above him, a midnight raven cawed as it flew on overhead, disappearing into the darkness. But Jack paid no mind to it.

After all, it really was such an unnaturally still night.

The air was unnaturally still for an early August night. The man breathed it in deeply as he paced back and forth underneath the moonlight. The past nine months had really taken a toll on his nerves and it was hard for him to realize that, with a bit more time, his wife's pregnancy would be complete. His first child would finally be born. A happy smile crossed his tired face. My son, he thought. He was almost positive that the first Daite child born in America would be a boy, a strong man that would carry on the family name and tradition in the New World.

His thoughts, however, were interrupted when a shrill yell pierced the night's air. His heart nearly skipped a beat. After four hours of labor, his child had finally been born. He rushed forward, not even bothering to remove his hat as he raced up the steps and entered the small apartment he shared with his young wife. He had left the door open, so as to make his arrival all the easier, and, once he was back inside, he headed right over to the small cot in the back corner of the room. He was just in time to watch as the doctor handed a tiny bundle over to Morgana Daite.

He hung back and just stared at his flushed wife. She looked exhausted but exhilarated as she cuddled with her newborn child. As the doctor busied himself, cleaning up the blood from the birth, Morgana gestured to her husband. "Liam, come. I want to introduce you to your daughter."

Daughter? He approached the cot and knelt down at Morgana's side. He gazed down and smiled at the scrunched red face hidden underneath a mass of blanket. Any objections that Morgana had not birthed a son flew out of his head as soon as he spied his daughter for the first time. "She's beautiful," he sighed.

Morgana nodded and held the baby close. Her presence made everything the couple had gone through worth it. "My Rhiannon," she murmured, total adoration already settling in.

He heard the name and wondered briefly where his wife had drawn it from. Up until the moment of birth they had assumed that the child would be male, Liam the second. But his wife knew the lore and one of her favorite heroines was the fertility goddess, Rhiannon. She was a devout Catholic and followed the word of the Lord but, as she would admit as she made a feverish cross with her hand in front of her chest, she thanked Rhiannon in her prayers for allowing her to be fertile and carry a child. It only fit that she would name her child for the deity.

Liam rubbed the tiny nub of a nose on the baby. The name really suited her.

"Rhiannon Daite," he agreed.

Author's Note: This story will be filled with romance, loss, supernatural themes & humor. This first chapter is a revised version of a story I began in May 2004; I brought it back to life and have actually figured out what I'm doing with this story. I hope for it not to be as long as my other works – but, who knows, eh? (edit, 12.31.06, yes... it will be incredibly long. I warn you now. Enjoy!) I hope you enjoy it and, if you do, please leave a review. I really like reviews (hint hint).

I also wanted to add a brief history of the name Rhiannon: "Rhiannon is an old Welsh Goddess of the earth and fertility, of horses and birds, who has links to the Underworld and who is much featured in the Mabinogion. She finds antecedents in the British Goddess Rigatona ("Great Queen") and the continental Celtic horse-goddess Epona, who is also linked with dogs and birds like Rhiannon." In order to follow the story to the fullest extent, keep an eye out for the Daite girls and their names. Each one will be specifically picked as you will see later.

ETA: There are also three companion pieces to Diabo: Prelude to a Curse, Double or Nothing and Research. Just in case you'd like to check them out, too.