by Nichole Van
Eh. Not sure about the date but it does look fine from where I’m at, too.
OLIVIA! I want deets! With photographic evidence! Call me later.
I grinned.
Michael also texted me three times, begging and then demanding that I return home with him ASAP. He reiterated over and over all the reasons why the D’Angelos were just using me and why I needed to stop being a pathetic losing loser and come home for my mom’s announcement already. (Okay, not his exact words, but the gist was there.)
I didn’t respond.
Though I did roll my eyes good and hard over his hypocrisy.
That’s right, Michael. So concerned about people other than yourself using me for political gain.
The D’Angelos and I were trying to solve this problem together. I had at least a solid ten days before I needed to be headed home.
Michael could take a chill pill.
Tennyson turned onto progressively smaller and smaller roads. Eventually, we crawled up a narrow dirt lane to an open meadow. Like the last Roma camp, a cluster of travel trailers and hastily erected shacks came into view. The vehicles and structures were in no particular order or shape, seemingly deposited at random.
This encampment appeared larger and even poorer than the last. Their living conditions were appallingly squalid. Did an aid organization work with them? I mentally reminded myself to look it up when I got home. Maybe I could extend our refugee services to the Roma in some way, if they were open to it.
Who knew?
Children ran away as we drove slowly into the encampment. Women in bright clothing turned away from their tasks to watch us, eyes wary and unfriendly. Several men set down tools, one putting out a cigarette. Three mangy dogs ran out to greet us, barking furiously at the Jeep as we pulled to a stop.
Everywhere I looked, people popped out of houses and looked around walls to stare. So many unfriendly eyes. My heart sped up.
I worked with refugees on a regular basis, so the destitute living conditions and desperate poverty were nothing new. The hostility, however, was. I was used to people being happy to see me and my aid workers. The zingari were familiar and terrifying all at once.
I glanced over at Tennyson. His forehead was lined with strain, eyes narrowed. I clearly was not alone in my feelings of distress.
“Is this safe?” I had to ask it.
He nodded, though slowly. “I don’t sense any intent to harm us. And if we can get the right information this time, the risk is worth it. But you should stay in the car if you’re worried—”
“No. I want to be with you.”
He nodded, letting out a hissing breath. “Lots of emotions here.”
Concern flared. “We don’t have to do this—”
“I’ll be okay.” He shot me a fast smile. “You being here helps more than you can ever know.”
A giddy thrill flashed down my spine. Me? Really?
“Seriously?” My instant grin might have been a little too big. I was blaming the stress of the situation. “How so?”
Gah! I was such a gullible schmuck when it came to him. A couple nice words, and I was putty in his hands.
Would Tennyson treat me like putty in his hands? Maybe if I asked super nice?
Michael was right. I was a card-carrying, pathetic losing-loser.
Tennyson returned my smile. “Just by you being you, anima mia. It’s like you offset me somehow. I can’t explain it. Just . . . thank you.”
Okay, not the most specific answer, but whatever. “Anytime.”
He looked down, his smile dimming a bit. It was that same expression he got from time to time.
It was sadness, I realized. An aged sort of weariness. The emotion curled around my heart and filled me with a protective ache.
This man . . . the things he had suffered . . .
Almost as if he couldn’t help himself, he reached out and threaded his fingers through mine.
He clearly was a guy who liked physical contact. I mean, most men do, but Tennyson seemed particularly affectionate. Why he felt the need to be affectionate with me, I was at a loss to explain.
I didn’t have time to chase the thought, however.
More Roma came out of the shadows, more faces of people who didn’t look too happy to see us.
Giving my hand one last squeeze, Tennyson stepped from the car. The approaching men called off the dogs and walked to greet Tennyson.
Taking a deep breath, I exited the Jeep.
I scanned the tents and trailers behind the men, quickly counting seven Wriggles hanging out in the area. More here than the other camp. Did that mean this camp had more paranormal activity? I had no idea.
I walked up behind Tennyson as he talked with the men in staccato Italian. Tennyson extended his hand behind him, wiggling his fingers for me to take. I wrapped both my hands around his one. He shot me a fast look over the shoulder, relief clearly spelled in his eyes.
I held on to his hand like a lifeline. He claimed I helped him—which . . . the jury was still out on that one, honestly—but he was a much bigger support for me.
We were a pathetic pair, he and I.
Tennyson chatted for another moment and then turned to me.
“They say they don’t know anything about our family or the curse, the knowledge has been lost to history.” Frustration rasped his voice. “It’s the same damn line they’ve been feeding us since this whole thing began hundreds of years ago.”
“So why did your GUT see us visiting the gypsies in the first place? We only came because of the vision you had.”
Tennyson shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s not like my visions are guided by a higher power or anything. It could just be the random occurrences of the universe. Maybe we’re caught up in a circular time loop or something, repeating the same mistakes over and over. Who knows?”
One of the men motioned for us to follow him farther into the camp, saying something as he moved.
“Now what?” I asked.
“He says we can see if their wise woman will talk to us.” Tennyson pinched the bridge of his nose before releasing a slow stream of air.
I squeezed his hand tightly. We followed after the men.
More people came out of their houses, watching us pass, eyes unfriendly and cold. A few braver children wandered over, trailing behind us. All the eyes turned our way made my neck tingle and my palms sweat.
We were obviously not welcome here.
I sternly told my racing heart to slow down. I worked with refugees like this all the time. I knew they were just people underneath it all, even if they were currently angry. Tennyson was already struggling. Me getting worked up over imagined threats wasn’t going to help matters.
The men stopped at a trailer with faded siding and moldering trim that clearly had seen better days. But then so had most of the items around me. Like the previous gypsy camp, the few structures that weren’t travel trailers were slapped together with plywood and blue tarp.
An elderly woman came to the door of the travel trailer, a younger woman at her elbow.
At last. Was this the woman the other gypsies had sent us to see? Would she talk with us? Did she have answers about the D’Angelo curse? Or was this just an elaborate pitch to get us to join her multi-level marketing network?
The men stepped forward and helped the older woman down. She was a shriveled bit of a person, every inch of skin lined and leathery.
The zingari started talking at once, gesturing and waving hands at each other, the men on the ground, the woman helping the elderly lady. They looked angry and impassioned, some waving at us, eyes snapping.
I clutched Tennyson’s hand and stepped nearer to him, my front nearly plastered to his back.
“What’s going on?” I whispered in his ear. “They seem angry.”
“I don’t know. They’re talking in their own language, not Italian,” he murmured in reply. “There are too many emotions swirling for me to pinpoint any one of them. They are angry and frustra
ted. Though, again, I haven’t felt any serious intent to harm us.”
That was . . . good, I supposed.
I glanced behind me. More people were crowding around, almost encircling us, women in brightly colored skirts holding nearly naked babies, small children hugging their mother’s legs, older children with hands on hips, looking tough.
The men finished helping the elderly woman down the steps. Someone pushed a cane into her hand, and she leaned on it heavily. Her clothing hung on her emaciated frame, a bright pink blouse and loose peasant skirt.
The men drew back, giving her space.
She hobbled over to Tennyson, looking him up and down. She spoke in sing-song Italian, her tone curt and sharp.
Tennyson replied.
The crowd around us came closer. Someone shouted words.
I tucked into Tennyson, both my hands clutching his.
The old woman went off, jabbing her cane our way. Her words were emphatic, her tone angry, eyes snapping. She kept shaking her head, motioning away with her claw-like left hand.
I didn’t know what she was saying, but it sounded like Tennyson was getting a royal dressing down.
I nudged his shoulder with mine. “She seems super angry.”
“She is.” His words were low, eyes still riveted on her. “She keeps going on and on about how we’ve broken our promises, how we’ve betrayed them.”
“Weird.” I poked my head further around his arm, getting a better look at the old woman.
Her gaze snagged with mine.
She stopped mid-sentence, staring at me. She angled her head, as if to get a better look.
She said something, pointing her gnarled finger my way.
Tennyson turned to me, placing a hand under my elbow. “She has asked to get a better glimpse of you.”
I smiled at the elderly woman, though I am sure my expression was more strained than polite.
Was she going to yell at me now, too?
She took a step forward and, bopping onto her tiptoes, grabbed my chin in her roughened hands. She smelled of garlic and stale cigarette smoke. She angled my chin one way and then the other.
She let go of me and said something.
Tennyson froze. He spoke quickly, frowning.
She nodded, emphatic.
He shook his head, equally firm.
I nearly got whiplash, looking back and forth between them.
She replied, expression smug and secure.
“What?” I asked. “What is it?”
Tennyson pinched the bridge of his nose again and then raised his eyes to mine. “She keeps insisting that you are a Roma. That you have the aura of royal blood in you, whatever that means.”
My head reared back. I blinked. “That . . . that’s ridiculous.” My mind raced. Now it was my turn to go wide-eyed and motionless. Of all the unexpected things— “How would that even be possible? I was born in the U.S.”
Why my mind latched on to that as being definitive evidence, I don’t know. Honestly, my parents could be from anywhere.
I spun in a slow circle, studying those around me, trying to see traces of myself in them. I supposed that there were some surface similarities. Many of the woman were the same tanned brown I got in mid-summer. Same dark hair. A couple even had my odd lighter eyes.
But beyond that, I couldn’t grasp it. No sense of kinship. No genetic memory that these were my people, my customs. I still felt alien and outside and studied, like a zoo animal on display.
For the record, I don’t like zoos, neither the visiting nor the participating in them.
“I don’t know,” Tennyson said. “The Roma are everywhere. But this woman could also just be mental. After all, she keeps accusing me of being a promise-breaker and a liar.”
One of the original men shouted something to the crowd gathered, pointing at me excitedly. A cheer went up through them, whooping and calling. The women and children surged forward, laughing, reaching for me.
I shrank into Tennyson. What did they want from me? Were they welcoming me into the tribe? Or did they want to drag me off?
Tennyson instantly wrapped his arms around me, shouting something to the Roma, hopefully telling them to back off.
“Olivia.” Tennyson’s voice at my ear, his free arm banded around my shoulders, keeping my other hand firmly laced with his. “You’re okay. I got you. They’re not going to hurt us.”
He yelled something at the crowd. The people continued to jabber and touch me. My hair, my clothes.
I closed my eyes and buried my face in Tennyson’s shoulder, tucking my hands and elbows between our bodies, creating a cocoon of myself against him, his hand still cradled in mine. His free hand pressed against the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair. His heart beat a frantic thump under my ear.
Abruptly, Tennyson froze. His entire body jerked upright.
Had someone hurt him? Terrified, I pulled back.
“Tennyson?” I looked up to his face.
His eyes were focused straight ahead, not seeing me at all.
A vision.
Not good.
I felt it almost immediately. Searching. Scouring.
Whirling in a circle, I finally spotted a scar, hovering beyond a green travel trailer to my right. In my panic, I had missed it earlier.
The scar pulsed, glowing acid, edges flapping wildly in some unfelt breeze.
Black, oily goo poured out of the scar, racing straight for me.
The daemon.
My first instinct was to jump between the daemon and Tennyson, protecting him as I had last time.
That had nearly killed me.
And I had promised Tennyson the night before that I would run if the daemon made an appearance.
So even though it went against my every instinct, I stepped away from him, moving into the mass of bodies around me. But Tennyson still held my hand in a vice-like grip. I tugged, but he didn’t let go.
I was effectively stuck.
Panicking in earnest, I whirled, unintentionally placing Tennyson between me and the daemon, our hands still entangled.
The daemon lunged for him, wrapping itself around Tennyson just as it had in Villa Maledetti. It writhed and undulated, coating him, as if seeking to suck down his very soul.
It hadn’t reached for me. Tennyson seemed to be its prey of choice.
Should I help Tennyson?
I hesitated. I didn’t want to end up in the hospital again. I didn’t want to die. But the daemon was surely hurting him, too. How fractured would he be when the vision receded?
Chaos erupted around me.
The Roma were looking at Tennyson, snapping their fingers, trying to get his attention. He ignored them, instead tracking unseen things with his eyes.
The elderly woman was moaning and chanting, hands clasped together.
Children screamed and jumped up and down. Dogs barked.
Utter pandemonium.
And still the daemon kept on.
What to do? I was frozen with uncertainty.
I hated seeing Tennyson helpless like this. I wanted to scream and fight and protect him.
But doing so could kill me.
The daemon twisted and rippled, coalescing into a long ribbon of shiny goop.
This was the first time I had actually truly studied it. In the past, it had come for me, and so I had simply tried to get away from it, more than carefully observe its physical properties.
But in that moment, I had time to scrutinize and assess. As the daemon twisted and surged, I realized that it wasn’t as free-flowing as I had thought.
No. There was something else there.
It flashed once. Twice.
I concentrated, tracking it with my eyes. Left. Right.
There. There it was. Buried deep inside the daemon.
A black chain.
Why had I never seen it before? It was suddenly so clear.
It tightened around Tennyson. He grunted, his jaw lifting, teeth clenched.
N
o!
It was too much. I cared about this man.
I lunged forward with my free hand, reaching into the daemon. My fingers found the chain, slimy and cold, and pulled. Though taut, the chain had a little give. Leaning back with my weight, I managed to loosen a section of it before the daemon reacted.
The black slime reared back and jabbed at me, pushing me back, forcing me to release the chain.
I paused, lungs heaving. This was different from how the daemon had reacted in the past. More sentient. More knowing.
I hesitated for only the barest of seconds, before diving back in. The daemon and I played a game of tug-o-war back and forth. I would grip the chain and pull a section loose, only to have the daemon retaliate.
It was a losing battle. For every length I loosened, the daemon bit back ten-fold. The daemon was too strong, its grip too tight.
My last absurd thought before losing consciousness:
I never asked Tennyson if he was Team Edward or Team Jacob.
Tennyson
The vision slammed into me, wrenching me from reality into an immersive projection. As usual, I could do nothing to stop the vision from happening. No amount of mental struggling could hold it off. All I could do was helplessly observe my new surroundings.
I sat beside a fire, staring into the flickering flames. Night wrapped around me. Lifting my head, I noted details, each coming slowly into focus.
First was the elderly woman seated to my right. She was not the woman I had just spoken with. No, this woman was dressed in a loose cotton shirt and skirt, belted at the waist. The skirt was dyed a bright red that caught the dim light. A frayed cloak wrapped around her shoulders. A kerchief covered her graying hair.
Beyond her, the flickering firelight illuminated a tented wagon. People stood in the darkness, watching. Others moved around behind us, going about chores. Horses nickered in the gloom, their huffs and whinnies carrying through the dusk.
To my left, a middle-aged man sat. I studied him and then frowned.
I looked around again, really taking in my surroundings. The wagons. The horses. The firelight. The simplicity of the woman’s clothing.
A chill chased my spine. This was impossible. And yet . . .
