by Nichole Van
The past. I had to be seeing the past.
No. No, this wasn’t right.
This didn’t happen to me. My brothers saw the past, not me. But . . .
The man’s clothing said it all. He was wearing a red satin doublet with puffed sleeves slashed through to show the white linen underneath, the whole thing belted around the hips with a gold embroidered leather band. Woolen hose encased his legs, and riding boots and spurs were on his feet. A fussy hat drooped to one side of his graying head. Gems glinted on his fingers and winked from his doublet, proclaiming his wealth.
A servant hovered behind him, his costume similar but less opulent.
A lifetime of working with antiquities allowed me to instantly peg the men’s dress to the late Middle Ages.
I was definitely looking at a scene of the past.
I swallowed, my pulse quickening.
I had never had a vision of a scene from the past. But this clearly was not the future nor a movie set or reenactment.
Why was my GUT morphing like this? Branwell’s GUT had expanded to include smell and sight and even some emotion in recent years, but he had never seen the future. His GUT still only touched on the past.
So why was I suddenly seeing something from the past?
The wealthy man was speaking in Italian, though it was stilted and old-fashioned. The Italian of Dante Alighieri—the dialect of thirteenth century Florence. The language that became modern Italian.
“I know you can help,” he said to the woman. “I have heard the stories. You are one of the last great mystics of your people.”
The old woman waved a hand. “What you ask, it is too much. The required sacrifice . . . it is too great.” Her Italian was heavily accented but clear enough.
“That is understood,” the man replied, “but I have promised you much in return. The podestà has received complaints. Many want your people gone from our lands. They call you heathens and devil worshipers. They will not hesitate to kill you. I am more enlightened and will plead your case. My mercenaries can protect you. You grant my wish, and I will see to it that you live unmolested, that your children are unharmed.” He glanced pointedly at a child sitting nearby.
What was this I was witnessing? Where was I?
I glanced down and stared at my hands. Soft and feminine, they were resting in my lap against a blue woolen skirt.
Not my hands then.
My heartbeat quickened.
This had also never happened. Whenever I had a vision, I was either myself or just floating in the background, observing something.
I had never been thrust into another’s body. I had never not been me.
That said, Dante experienced past-life regressions, memories of people he had been in the past. Sometimes if the right conditions were met, those close to him could experience the regression with him.
Was that what this was? Was I playing part in one of Dante’s regressions?
I instantly rejected the thought.
Dante was nowhere near Rome today. He was working on a project with Branwell in Florence.
Besides, from how Dante described it, when he had a past-life regression, he fully became the person in the past, complete with their memories. He never remembered who he was in the present while in the regression.
But I was sitting here clearly thinking about being Tennyson D’Angelo. I had no idea whose body I currently rested in. And with the exception of my eyes, I couldn’t make the body move.
I was still an observer of a sort.
The man continued, “I am offering you amnesty—a permanent home on my lands. I am offering you protection and security. Your people will have a future here. I pledge my honor on it.”
“And what is your word worth, Signore?” The old woman’s voice dripped with scorn. “Many promises have been broken to us over the years. How can we trust that the D’Angelos will be different?”
The entire universe ground to a halt at her words, whirled and then started again, everything topsy-turvy from what had been.
I really looked at the man.
This had to be Giovanni D’Angelo, the man that our family history said made the original pact with the gypsies. The time period was right. The language and clothing were correct.
But . . . this scene had been blocked from our GUTs’ sight somehow, right? Wasn’t that what Cesare il Pompaso had said?
So why was I seeing it now? And why me?
And was this really the beginning of our GUTs? Why did all the Etruscan stuff tie in to us so neatly if our GUTs hadn’t been created until nearly two thousand years after the Etruscans?
Was this truly a scene from the past? Or something else?
Giovanni collapsed to his knees before the fire. “I swear on the honor of my father that my word will be my bond. All the promises I have made, I will seal with my blood.”
He looked extremely sincere and earnest.
The elderly gypsy woman regarded him for a moment before nodding her head. “Your heart and mind are genuine,” she whispered. “But will your children keep this promise into the future?”
The old zingara’s words from the twenty-first century flashed through me. She had continued to yell them at me, over and over.
‘You are liars. You promised us safety and protection. You promised us a home. You lied and are cursed for your lies!’
Was the old woman referring to this ancient pact? To the exchange between Giovanni and this much earlier gypsy?
The vision continued on. In the flickering light, the old woman’s eyebrows drew down in a frown. She raised her head and met my gaze. Intent. Seeing.
But was she all-seeing? Did she see me? Or was she looking at the woman whose body I rested in?
“You promise much, but you ask much, Signore D’Angelo. To grant your request, our sacrifice would be great.” Though her words were for Giovanni, her gaze never left mine.
What did she mean? Why was she staring at me?
And, more to the point, had the gypsies made a sacrifice for our GUTs to become reality? And if so, what had that sacrifice been?
The vision abruptly faded, hurtling me back into reality.
I reeled, trying to right myself. My muscles spasmed, the fracturing clawing at me. I gasped, swallowing convulsively.
The frantic crowd of gypsies surrounded me, all yelling and pointing behind my shoulder.
I turned just in time to catch Olivia as she crumpled, unconscious. The weight of her body hit my chest, taking us both to the ground as my shaky legs gave way.
I clutched her to me, my body violently shivering, helpless to stop myself from wrapping both arms tight around her and crushing her limp chest to mine.
Frantic, I pushed her hair back from her face, pressing my cheek close to her mouth.
She was breathing. She was alive.
Hallelujah.
I surveyed her. Her color was better than it had been last time she collapsed. No blue lips. No chalky skin. Perhaps she wasn’t as hurt this time?
Idiot, sweet woman. She was supposed to run if this happened. But she clearly hadn’t. No, my Olivia’s heart was too huge. She would never choose her own safety over another’s.
Love scoured through me, scorching wildfire. Purifying in its strength.
I adored her, worshiped her, wanted her always and forever in my life.
I was thirty ways a fool.
My lips brushed her temple, all of me collapsing into her. My mind sought the nothingness of hers, the soothing emptiness.
I had no sense of time, how long I sat on the dusty ground, lost in Olivia and my own shattered state, body shaking.
A sharp jab to my right thigh pulled me out of it.
I blinked up into the sharp eyes of the elderly gypsy woman.
“You have betrayed us,” she reiterated in her guttural Italian. Her sharp emotions of disgust and anger pricked me.
I couldn’t let that slide. “Not me. I have not betrayed you—”
“Your family t
hen.”
My silence was my own condemnation. The D’Angelos had power throughout the centuries. We should have done more.
“You are cursed for your cruelty,” she continued, her contempt swamping me.
“We wish to correct the cruelty.”
She paused. Her anger morphed to resignation and futility.
Her features softened. “It is too late for that. We are too much as we are. We do not wish for assimilation.”
“Something is better than nothing.” Something could be done to help their plight, to stem the cycle of vicious poverty without forcing them to abandon their culture. “Allow us to help.”
The old woman’s eyes darted to Olivia, pensive. “It is hungry for you both. The darkness will consume you.”
My breath hitched, my mind scrambling to follow her rapid leap in topic. How much did this old woman really understand?
“You see it? The darkness?”
She shook her head. “No. But I sense it.” She pressed a gnarled hand to her breastbone.
“The darkness is killing us.” Desperation edged my tone. “Please, will you help? She is dying.” I glanced at Olivia. “I know we have wronged you in the past. But I cannot change what has been. I can only alter what will come.”
“And you will help us?” The old woman snorted. Disbelief. Frustration. “Your words are lies—”
“No. Not my words. I speak truth.”
Another snort. “Prove me wrong then. Right the wrongs of those who have come before you.”
“If I help you, will you return the favor? Will you help me save her?” I pulled Olivia closer.
Something of my anguished tone must have finally reached the old woman. She glanced at Olivia.
The zingara’s expression relaxed, her eyes misted. Regret filtered in to her emotions. Hints of compassion.
“I do not see the future,” she said. “I do not know what comes. Only that what was once whole is now broken, and the voices of the departed rise and speak again.”
She motioned with her crooked hand before turning away. Her final words tossed over her shoulder to me:
“I think that which was lost can be restored. But you must choose the path instead of being compelled to follow it.”
TWENTY
Olivia
I woke to sunlight pouring through the car window, Italian landscape whizzing past. I blinked at the bright light and shaded my eyes. My thoughts were sluggish and my limbs felt heavy.
Dimly, I heard Tennyson’s voice rumbling beside me, talking to someone.
I sucked in a deep breath and pushed myself upright, turning my head.
Tennyson’s anxious blue eyes glanced my way before returning to the highway.
“She’s awake, Bran. Let me call you back,” he said.
“Got it.” A deep bass came over the sound system. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Ciao.”
Tennyson tapped a button on the steering wheel, ending his phone call before pulling off the road onto a gravel patch, throwing the Jeep into park.
“Your brother?” I asked, struggling to sit up more.
“Yeah. How are you feeling?” He turned to me bracing his elbow on the steering wheel, his gaze running up and down my body. “Talk to me. I’m a little freaked out. I came out of my vision just in time to catch you. The daemon had at you again?”
“Yeah,” I stretched my muscles, testing my body. “I’m okay. Tired. I’m here, so that’s a plus. How long was I out?”
“About forty-five minutes.” He sat back.
Wow. That wasn’t long at all. That had to be good, I supposed. The slime hadn’t come at me quite as viciously or as long, so it wasn’t surprising that I also didn’t seem to have been hurt as badly.
But, then, the daemon was always unpredictable.
“Could you not get away from the daemon like we thought?” he asked, looking at me.
Crap.
There was that.
“Uhmmm.” My brain was too fuzzy to think of a quick reply.
Tennyson’s blue eyes flickered with emotions I couldn’t label.
“Olivia—” He stopped and scrubbed both palms over his face. “Could you have avoided the daemon?”
“Probably,” I whispered.
He ran his hands over his face again.
“I don’t like seeing you hurt.” He started up the Jeep again. “I’m taking you to the hospital, just to be safe.”
“No hospital. Please. That will just give my mom more ammunition to force me back to the States. There’s nothing they can do anyway.” I shoved my mass of hair back. I yawned. “I just need rest. Nothing else to do about me.”
A pause. Tennyson inched forward, looking to pull back onto the highway. Oncoming cars whizzed past us, buffeting the Jeep.
I yawned again. My eyes closed.
“You’re exhausted,” he said. I cracked an eyelid.
I wasn’t the only one who looked exhausted.
“What can I do to help?” I whispered, my eyes drifting shut again.
A gust of air escaped him, as if my words caught him unawares.
“Sleep. Rest,” he replied. “Let me care for you.”
I relaxed further into my seat, my mind dimly wondering if I had heard his last phrase correctly.
I wanted to respond. To tell him about the black chain and how the daemon had been different this time.
I wanted to tell him thank you for being my rock of support and bundling me into the car after I collapsed.
I wanted to tell him he could keep me and care for me forever.
But sleep dragged me under instead.
I next awoke to the sound of car tires on gravel. I blearily opened my eyes to the looming walls of Villa Maledetti. The sun brushed the horizon, throwing the world into long, purple shadows. Tennyson killed the ignition and threw on the parking brake.
I stretched out my legs, feeling better than I had earlier. I wasn’t one hundred percent, but I didn’t feel like death warmed over, either.
We practically stumbled into the house, both of us exhausted. I appreciated that Tennyson didn’t fill the quiet with chatter.
But as he flipped lights on in the large central drawing room, I couldn’t help but notice that his expression was drawn and worn, as if he was stretched too thin.
“You’re too tired,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
He shrugged and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a long day. Nothing sleep won’t fix.”
Tennyson disappeared into the depths of the house.
I collapsed on the couch, kicking off my shoes.
I thumbed through my phone. Five messages from Michael, asking and then begging and then threatening me to call him.
Sigh.
Tennyson swung back into the room a few minutes later on crutches. He had changed into a hoodie and comfy pajama bottoms with his loose left pant leg pinned up.
To be honest, he used his prosthetic so seamlessly, I rarely even realized it was there, so it was a shock to see him on crutches. But of course he would use them on occasion. That made sense.
He collapsed onto the couch beside me, resting the crutches on the arm of a nearby chair, rubbing his left thigh.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Had to get that blasted prosthetic off. The leg is killing me tonight.”
“Does it always hurt?”
“Not like this. I think the strain of driving and all my emotional issues just took it out of me today.”
Tennyson reached for my hand, the movement again seeming unconscious and natural to him. I happily wrapped mine in his.
I relaxed into the back of the couch, half turning my body toward him.
I loved how he seemed helpless to not touch me. Like reaching for my hand was as natural as breathing. Electricity hummed at the connection, my life force and his life force having a silent conversation back and forth. I wanted nothing more than to cuddle closer to him.
Part of me found it odd to be
here with him like this. It felt strange and exciting and new. And yet, at the same time, profoundly comfortable.
Yes, he was handsome and sexy and more beauty privileged than myself. Externally, we were an odd couple at best.
But our brains were cut from the same mold, he and I, puzzle pieces slotting together. He was a kindred spirit—funny, dorky and intensely earnest.
If I closed my eyes and just listened to his voice, I heard the other half of my soul talking. So when he reached for me, it kindled a painful sort of joy.
Logic pointed out that he must actually care for me, too. I had eliminated all other possible reasons, leaving only genuine attachment.
But my thinking brain immediately pshawed at the thought. How could I actually think that Tennyson D’Angelo like-liked me?
I was such a mess over this man. A normal, attractive woman wouldn’t question his motives. She would take it as her due and accept that Tennyson liked her.
Me, on the other hand . . . I knew better. Men didn’t fall at my feet, particularly men dunked in hunkalicious sauce. They didn’t develop sudden, overwhelming crushes on me because of my gorgeous looks or my fascinating personality.
Every last bit of experience in my life had taught me—usually with brutal thoroughness—to question the motives of men like Tennyson D’Angelo.
But . . . I couldn’t find anything else to pin his behavior on.
“Are you feeling better, anima mia?” His glacial blue eyes found mine, sincere and kind.
Ugh. This was exactly what I was trying to mentally sort through. Having this incredible guy appear to be so in to me.
“What does that mean?” I asked instead of answering. “That phrase in Italian you keep saying?”
“Anima mia?”
“Yeah.”
He thought for a second. “It means I’m a friend.”
“Like ami in French?”
“Something like that.” He shrugged. “You didn’t answer my question. How are you feeling?”
“Tired but I don’t think the damage was as great this time. What was your vision about? Can you share?”
Obviously, the last vision he refused to discuss. Would this one be the same?
His gaze went unfocused, his eyes trained on something distant. His chest collapsed in a deep exhale.
