by Alex Archer
Annja shoved past one of the local protesters and a path was cleared for her to approach the dig pit where she smelled the kerosene and couldn’t get too close because the blaze was twelve feet high. All her life she’d had nightmares about fire. Because Joan had been burned at the stake? Or was it deeper? Something to do with the loss of her parents, of which she had no recall?
Wrapping her arms across her chest, she shivered even as the heat scorched her cheeks.
Doug joined her side, the tablet computer’s tiny camera eye aimed at the fire. “I’m sorry about this, Annja, but you know if I document it, you might be able to use it as evidence.”
“Thanks, Doug. Doesn’t look like you’re going to get your show, after all.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. If this is the reaction to the possibility that vampires exist, it’s perfect.”
Around them shouts that they had “stopped the mullo” were greeted with cheers. Annja, however, received more than a few evil eyes. The audacity of ignorance burned her more viciously than this fire. She felt sure the blaze wouldn’t completely reduce the bones to ash―it took a higher temperature and longer burn to do that―but the remains would be damaged beyond rescue.
“A total loss,” Luke shouted, joining her side. “Hell, the security guard must not have been around. I should have camped here overnight. Kept an eye on the area. I should have hired security for more than the evenings.”
“It’s out of your hands,” she said. “They were going to destroy this site one way or another.”
“Yes, but I can’t believe the idiot selling stakes was the one who helped them do it.”
“Good left hook,” Annja commented.
“The guy with the sword seems as surprised as we are at the fire and he’s questioning his people right now. He may prove an ally.”
Scanning the surroundings and determining that the fire was contained in the pit, that it shouldn’t leap the forty or fifty feet to the forest, Annja stepped back, arms crossed, and watched as Doug panned across the crowd with his video camera. The crowd played to him with exaggerated gestures. And—oh, yes―there was the proverbial pitchfork poking the sky in triumph.
“I did not authorize this!” the man with the sword said, at Luke’s side. “This is no way to create peace. It was unnecessary. You and I both understand the mullo does not walk this earth.”
Stunned at that confession, both Annja and Luke gave their attention to the man.
“Then why play to their superstitions?” Luke insisted. “Isn’t it the old beliefs and ways that keep them from integrating with modern society? Isn’t that what you want for your family?”
“I want peace, not fear. The old beliefs and ways will never die. I can fight it all I want, but until the fears die with the elders, I must do what I can. The elders, my parents and cousins, they believe. They have lost two children in the past year. And myself...” He heaved in a sigh and looked away from them, up over the tree line.
Himself? What wasn’t he telling them? Had he lost someone? Annja wanted to ask about the missing children, but right now her attention was divided between making sure the flames didn’t spread and keeping Doug from stepping too close to the fire.
Abruptly turning back to them the leader said, “And for you to bring this horror into the lives of my people has pushed them over the edge. This bonfire was started by fear and yet...it will serve to cleanse them, do you understand?”
Annja did understand, but that didn’t mean she had to like it, or approve.
“They’ve lost children?” Luke asked. “Don’t tell me your people believe a mythical creature rose from the grave to—what? Suck their blood?”
The leader shook his head, bowed it, then lifted his gaze to land, Annja presumed, on the parents in question who must be in the crowd. This was the first clue she’d been given and she wasn’t going to let it go.
“We’ve not been formally introduced. My name is Luke Spencer,” he said. “And this is Annja Creed.”
“I know who she is. And I know you are the man who unearthed this nightmare.”
“And you are?” Annja interjected angrily, trying to calm the urge to call up the sword and let him have it right now.
“Santos Shaw.”
“Tell me, Santos,” Luke continued, “tell me what it is that sparks the horror in your family’s mind? You said that you understand it is myth. Don’t you want to discover what really caused the loss of those children?”
Santos’s jaw tensed, his eyes fixed on the amber blaze. Annja understood that his people could deem him to share sacred family secrets with an outsider, and she didn’t want to press. Hell, she was here to dig up skeletons, not investigate the mysterious disappearance of children.
I think it was a child. What had Garin seen in that warehouse? And if it had been a child, was it the missing Romani child? If so, the place the kidnappers were keeping the child may have been close to the abduction site.
“He’s hiding something,” Luke said to her. “I need to learn more about the families. The ones who lost children.”
“I don’t think he’s going to have a friendly chat with you. The blaze has been set. They’ve defeated the mullo without having to hire a dhampir.”
“Annja, don’t start.”
The American salesman had served as the Gypsy’s dhampir. “Ask him, then.”
“Can I speak to your mother or father? An elder?” Luke asked. “Ask someone about the missing children? I promise to be respectful of their loss. But I need to understand. My job is all about understanding the social structure of a people through the ages by studying bones and the everyday articles of living. Anything related to the bones they have burned only enhances the picture and could help archaeologists worldwide to better understand your people.”
Santos winced. “We are not a project for you to put under the microscope and study.”
“I didn’t mean to offend.” Luke splayed out his palms in an open, nonthreatening gesture. “Help me to understand why the bodies were buried the way they were. I suspect the burial is more recent than the many centuries I’d originally guessed at. They could be recent relatives.”
Santos crossed himself at that statement. Annja wondered if Santos feared revenge.
“Please.” If Luke’s gentle tone couldn’t convince the man to talk, then nothing could. “Just a few minutes to talk with your family? Someone, an elder, who may have information of those who have passed perhaps three or four generations earlier? The truth can calm their fears.”
Firelight glinted in Santos’s dark eyes as he studied Luke’s earnest expression. The Gypsy nodded.
“I will see about that. You get that gorja with the camera out of here, and then perhaps my mother will talk to you. But I will not promise you anything.”
“Deal.” Luke shook the man’s hand, and then went after their rogue cameraman.
* * *
GARIN PACED THE floor of his hotel room, cell phone to his ear as he spoke to Slater. Wine decanted in a silver ewer beside his waiting caviar. He’d showered and wrapped himself up in the thick hotel robe, and now all he was missing was a sexy blonde—but there was business first.
“You recall Bracks’s interpreter?”
“Indeed, I do. A slimy Irishman, he was.”
Garin smirked at the age-old clash between the English and the Irish. Came in handy when selling Irish arms to the Brits, though.
“I need to bring him in,” he said. “Can you be ready?”
“Always.”
“I’ll be in contact.” He hung up, but didn’t set down the phone.
Dipping a finger through the tiny jewels of black roe he licked off the salty treat.
The phone rang, and his second taste of caviar got stuck at the back of his throat when he saw it was Roux.
Before Garin could even say hello, the old man began talking. “You and Bracks. I’ve been thinking.”
Of course he was on top of what was going on in Garin’s life. Garin expected as much, though he was always baffled why Roux was ever concerned about him.
“Don’t tell me not to do anything foolish,” he said. “You’re not my father.”
“On the contrary. I think it’s time you took the man out. And I’m the closest you’ve ever known to a paternal figure, ungrateful son that you are.”
“Taking Bracks out is tops on my list. Glad you agree, old man. Anything else?”
“Speak to Charles at the concierge. He’ll hook you up with the quality of woman you’re accustomed to.”
Shaking his head, Garin couldn’t help a smile. “I’ll do that. Goodbye.”
Roux clicked off.
Annoyance rippled through Garin.
“Annja,” Garin decided. “She’s your spy, isn’t she, Roux?”
Why the two spoke about him behind his back bothered him.
No, it didn’t.
Perhaps a little. He was aware Annja Creed didn’t consider him an upstanding citizen. He was what he was. He couldn’t change. He’d been forged this way over centuries. He answered to no one but himself.
So why did it bother him when he heard the disappointment in Annja’s voice?
Garin dialed up the concierge and asked for Charles.
Chapter 12
The leader of the Roma protesters escorted Luke, Annja and Doug through the woods on what he explained was a mile trek to his mother’s home. Annja was nervous about leaving the dig site behind with the flames still licking the sky. Annja had wanted to kick the American hawker into the ditch and leave him there, but when he’d come to after Luke had decked him, he slunk away toward the forest, and she’d been inclined to let him scamper off like the coward he was. Nothing she could do now to change the damage he had created.
Santos had reassured her that his people would stay until the fire died. Not only did they have safety on their minds, but he also suspected they wanted to ensure the bones had been reduced to ash. They would also keep watch because a forest fire would ravage their small community. They lived at the edge of the city in houses, not the apartment complexes designated for the Roma. And they did not camp in trailers or tents, he added, implying that he suspected she’d pinned him for the traveling vagabonds most often associated with his nationality.
Annja detected the pride in the man’s tone as he explained this, but he was clearly still cautious and distrusted them. The Gypsies were a private people. She should be thankful Luke had managed this introduction, and only hoped when they did meet others, they would be willing to talk and to shed some light on the fears that had led to the destruction of the dig site.
Of course, she looked a mess smeared with dirt, and the sweat had made it into a sticky kind of mud facial she sincerely hoped had some kind of skin-improving agents in it. Otherwise, the look would just be sorry.
Santos had demanded that Doug leave the iPad behind; he didn’t want him filming the conversation with his mother. Luke, however, had refused to leave the valuable electronic device back in the Range Rover, so Doug promised to keep it tucked in his backpack. Annja had caught Doug’s wink, but she intended to make sure the man held to his word.
The authorities should be contacted regarding the fire at the site, and certainly, if a child had gone missing, shouldn’t the police be working on that, as well?
“Just ahead,” Santos instructed as the moon slipped behind the jagged black tree line and smoke from the distant blaze furled up. “I told my mother about you already. She is curious.”
“Do you get a lot of Dracula references living in this section of the world?” Doug asked as they hiked over thick tree roots coated with lush moss.
Santos flashed a grim look over his shoulder, chilling Annja in its trajectory toward the cocky producer. No reply. None necessary.
“Dracula could have been deemed a mullo,” Doug continued, unaware that he’d been cast the evil eye. “He did shape-shift to wolf form—”
“And he was also fictional,” Luke reminded him. “Could we abandon all references to the undead for this visit? Please?”
Doug shrugged and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Just doing my job, man.”
Some kind of animal howled.
“What was that?” Doug asked.
The foursome slowed their pace, and Santos’s footsteps fell more lightly now, so Annja followed stride. Could have been a dog. Very likely a dog. Wolves did live in this country, but she had no idea if they were forest-dwelling and stayed away from populated areas.
Annja caught Santos’s wary look, his jaw tight and pulsing. So he was worried about the animal, as well. Interesting.
“My mother has a husky,” Santos finally offered.
“You see?” Luke admonished Doug with his own brand of evil eye, but it skimmed right over the producer’s head.
They arrived at a clearing with four small houses—more like shacks—surrounded by vehicles, some stripped down to the iron innards. They passed through a wrought-iron gate and walked by a laundry line hung with bedsheets. Annja noted the rain barrel beside the house and guessed they didn’t have running water out here, though she did see an electrical pole behind the house. The strong scent of lye made her wonder if they had been making soap or perhaps curing olives. She had seen an olive tree when coming out of the forest.
Santos welcomed them into the home he shared with his mother. He hadn’t mentioned a wife or children, and Annja didn’t see a ring on his finger, but that didn’t mean much.
The slender, dark-haired woman who stood in the kitchen wiping her hands on the apron she wore over her dress was beautiful. She stepped up to take Annja’s hand in greeting. She may have been aged, but she could probably still bring a man to his knees, Annja decided as those bright black eyes twinkled with good humor.
With further introductions—Santos called his mother Dai, the Romani word for Mother—but introduced her as Mamma. “Dai, this is Luke Spencer. Mr. Spencer, this is Mamma.”
She shook Luke’s hand and held it, turning it over to inspect first the back, tracing her finger over the wormlike veins scrubbed with dirt and soot, and then flipping it over to touch his palm.
“A man of labor,” she said, “but not too hard. You are one with the earth, the stones, the water and the air, yes?”
An obvious guess, the skeptic in Annja silently screamed. The archaeologist’s hands were covered with dirt.
Luke nodded, wobbling from a yes to a no, and then to something in the middle. “I’m an archaeologist. I do spend a lot of time digging in the dirt in an attempt to learn about the past.”
“The past is all we have to show us the way toward the future,” she commented cryptically. “You are from across the ocean. Your voice is mellifluous.”
He nodded a humble thanks, and Annja thought he was blushing, but his face was as dirty as hers so she couldn’t be positive.
“Annja Creed is also an archaeologist,” Santos said, and his mother directed her attention to Annja.
“Strong hands,” Mamma pronounced. “Skilled warrior.”
That assessment was strangely true. Annja nodded in acknowledgment and didn’t challenge the assessment.
“And this,” Santos winced, and said dismissively, “is Doug Morrell, a television actor.”
“Oh. The media.” Mamma’s voice was as toneless and dismissive as her son’s had been.
“Not an actor or host, like Annja. I’m a producer.” Doug stepped forward, offering his hand to shake, but Mamma merely looked at it. He continued to hold it out, perhaps hoping she’d read his palm. She stepped back to gesture that they all sit around the table, w
here there was a bread board with half a loaf of rosemary bread and an open bottle of spirits.
Fresh-baked, Annja decided, breathing in the rosemary-sweetened air. She recalled rosemary was for remembrance. At the very least, she hoped it would help Mamma remember all the details Luke would ask after.
“It smells delicious,” she offered.
“My own recipe,” Mamma said. “You cook?”
Annja shrugged. “Never have the time.”
The woman nodded, as if expecting nothing less.
Santos poured pale wine into small blue aperitif glasses and passed them around. When Luke took an obligatory sip, he nearly choked. Annja, too, had to keep from making a gasping choke. It wasn’t wine, but rather some sort of high-proof moonshine, she guessed. Beside her, Doug groaned, but didn’t choke or cough it up. It was a challenge, though, not to let his eyes tear up.
“I make this myself,” Santos said, “from caramelized gooseberries. They’re very tart but sweeten up nicely in vodka.”
“Sweet?” So this was his idea of sweet?
Annja set the glass down and waited until Mamma, after finishing a few sips, turned to face them with a decidedly stern look.
“You diggers of history have stirred up the mullo,” she said flatly. The gesture she made could be construed as an evil eye, her pinky finger out as she rattled her fist, but Annja sensed it was protection against the dead. “You think us ignorant and superstitious, but I know the truth of the world. There are things we dream to only imagine that are flesh, blood and soul. If the dead are not respected, they will return for vengeance.”
“With all respect, Mamma,” Luke began, “the bones we’ve uncovered are from the mid–nineteenth century, at the earliest. It’s possible it’s been over one hundred fifty years since that body was buried. The bones are not going to rise, I can promise you that.”
“Vengeance waits,” she simply said, folding her hands together and looking to Santos. “You have told them?”
Santos shook his head.
“Why not?” Mamma sighed. “Children have gone missing.”
