by Ann Gimpel
It’s busy.
It can’t hurt me.
Mesmerizing waves of vampire sludge crashed over her. When she caught herself taking a step forward, she wrapped a hand around a nearby tree trunk. It was wet and slimy, but it anchored her in the real world. The one she aimed to remain in.
At least none of the other magical sources had flickered and died. And there was still only one vampire. Because she was focusing so intently on it, she noticed a difference in how its power felt. At first, she thought she’d imagined it, but the vampire’s life force was definitely waning.
Which meant the bastards could be injured. Maybe even killed.
After her first run-in with them, she’d have sold her soul for access to the lore books that had been in her caravan for generations. She knew less than nothing about vampires, including this new information that they could be wounded, perhaps slain.
What had happened to the lore books? The caravan’s leader said he planned to sequester them somewhere safe, but old parchment was sensitive to mold and mildew. Maybe he’d kept them in their trunk and—
It doesn’t matter. Her mental voice was stern. Even if gypsy lore died out of the world, there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it.
Yara followed flickering vampire energy as it pulsed weakly, and then faded to nothing. She wanted to jump up and down, shrieking her joy at a major victory over something truly evil, but knew better than to give her location away.
The mix of magics was still on the move. Without overthinking things—so she couldn’t talk herself out of it—she sprinted toward its location. If the vampire were truly dead, she’d spit on its corpse. The specter of seeing Romani—her people—heartened her. That odd magic still shimmered in the midst of them, but if it meant them harm, she’d have felt the red-tinged throb of fear.
One of the car’s inhabitants was a shifter, but that didn’t bother her. No love lost between shifters and Rom, but they left one another alone. What did it mean that a shifter had thrown in his lot with a bunch of gypsies?
Lots of mysteries lay ahead, and she ran faster, using magic to muffle branches that snapped beneath her pounding feet. Water squished through a hole in one of her boot soles. She needed new boots, had needed them since last winter, but they were hard to pilfer. They had to be the right size, or at least close enough, and the few pair she’d found that might have worked had been even more worn than the ones on her feet.
A major roadway, one that led to a crossing station, wasn’t far. Had the car come from Germany? It made sense, given the direction it was traveling.
Oh-oh.
She skidded to a halt. The car left the main road and was headed right for her. She’d switched from the forest to an ancient, little used dirt track because it was easier than wending her way in and out of thickets. This near the border, most folk were in a hurry to put either Germany or the Netherlands behind them, and she’d never seen a vehicle on this road before.
She moved to the side of the road, uncertain whether to draw attention to herself. Something might be amiss with the car; the engine was noisy with a labored sound. Better if it stopped on its own and its inhabitants got out. That way, she could ascertain if the vampire were truly dead. She couldn’t sense its energy anymore, but the things were sneaky.
Headlamps lit the dying day, and the vehicle—a huge truck, not a car as she’d thought—pulled into view. At least it explained the way the engine sounded.
Magic snared her, the magic she couldn’t identify. She tried to pull away, but this brand of power was almost as insidious as vampire energy. It felt cleaner, though, and the ball of fear that had lodged in her throat when she realized she couldn’t escape began to loosen.
The truck rumbled to a stop not ten paces from her, and the canvas sides covering the back parted. People poured out. The driver stepped down from the high cab. Tall, broad, and burly with shaggy, dark hair, it was the shifter she’d sensed. He ignored her and made his way to the back. Someone dropped a pile of bones that had to be the dead vampire into his outstretched arms.
“Ugh. God but he stinks,” the shifter complained.
“How do you think it smells back here?” Someone she couldn’t see countered. “Between Stewart’s spell to make it look like we were dead and rotting and the vampire, it’s enough to put a man off his feed for a week.”
She faded into shadows, still uncertain, but a slightly built young man made a beeline right for her. Romani to his core, he had curly dark hair and arresting gray eyes.
“Who are you?” He locked gazes with her. “We sensed you while we fought the vampire. Or Stewart did, anyway. Are there gypsies here? Where’s your caravan?”
Yara didn’t bother denying her Romani roots. Other Rom had ways of knowing these things.
A tall, spare fellow clad in a tartan hurried toward them. Red hair hung in braids that reached past his waist, and he trained astute dark eyes on her.
Yara took a step back, and then another. This man was the source of the magic she couldn’t identify. “What are you?” she blurted, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. She might have chosen to live alone, but it was no excuse for being rude.
“My name is Stewart, and I’m a Romani caravan leader.” Compulsion flowed beneath his words.
She narrowed her eyes and considered calling him out on an obvious untruth. Before she could craft something that wasn’t quite as insolent as her previous question, he saved her the trouble.
“All ye need know is I willna harm you,” he said into her mind. Soothing magic accompanied the words. He switched to spoken speech. “Is your caravan close, lass?”
Yara rolled her eyes. “You don’t know much about gypsies in the Netherlands, huh?”
“No. We thought we’d be safe here,” the young man said. He stuck out a hand. “My name is Aron.”
“If ye could hit the high points,” Stewart prodded. “About Romani and this country.”
“Sure.” She extricated her hand from Aron’s. “Rom have never been exactly welcome here, but things got a whole lot worse in 1930. We were branded undesirables. All the caravans disbanded, and we’ve been living as best we can.”
“What happens if the authorities figure out what ye are?” Stewart asked.
“They imprison you under the guise of helping you learn proper ways to live.” Yara didn’t bother concealing the derision that lined her words.
“So the sooner we’re out of here, the better,” Aron muttered.
“Might not be as easy as all that, lad,” Stewart replied.
“What’s this?” Another man bustled up. This one was stocky and dark-haired with tanned, leathery skin. “I’m Michael.” He extended a hand, and she shook it. “Where’s the rest of your caravan, woman?”
Yara inhaled sharply. “No caravan. Just me. No caravans anywhere in Holland. Not anymore. Where have all of you been living, anyway?”
“Germany.” Michael narrowed his dark eyes to slits. “We’ve kept to traditional ways. No radios. I did read the occasional newspaper, but never kept up on the news—until lately when our survival was threatened by the Reich.”
“Where were you when your caravan disbanded?” Stewart asked.
“Not far from Amsterdam. I was with my sister then. She and I traveled to this location, and I’ve remained here.”
“What happened to her?” Aron spoke up.
“Hush.” Michael sent a pointed glance at the young man.
“It’s all right,” Yara said. “She left for Ireland, but that was a long time ago. Maybe eight years.”
“Do ye know if she got there?” Stewart drew his brows into a thick, worried line.
“Yes. It’s only been recently I stopped hearing from her. Either that or the post office in Enschede figured out I’m Romani and—”
“General delivery to a postal station?” Stewart cut in. At her nod, he went on. “Ye must have wanted to keep in touch with her verra badly to risk showing yourself in a public location.”
>
Heat rose from her chest and swept over the top of her head. “I did. That’s the only place I ever let anyone see me. If they’d asked me any questions, I’d never have returned, but the lines are long and the clerks overworked. No one looked twice at me, but I helped that along with spells.”
Magic converged on them. Shifter magic. Yara stood straight and raised her hands to summon power. Why wasn’t anyone else preparing to defend themselves? “Shifters approach.” She kept her voice low.
Aron waved a dismissive hand. “They’re our friends. One is my sister. Things have changed—a lot.”
“Your sister?” Yara focused a beam of magic at Aron. Perhaps she’d misjudged when she pegged him as Romani.
He rolled his eyes, having sensed her examination. “You got it right the first time. Her boyfriend, Jamal, had to make her a shifter to save her life. It’s a long story, but—”
“Indeed it is, and we shall save it for another time,” Michael cut in sternly.
“Aye,” Stewart concurred. “We must be gone from here soon. Afore the vampire’s partner is done feeding and comes looking for his companion.”
Yara snapped her head up, looking for the shifter who’d taken the vampire. “Is there some way to hide the dead one? It is dead, right?”
“Aye, lass. ’Tis dead,” Stewart concurred. “No good way to hide it, though, and his associate saw our truck. We must pick a path quickly afore our options dwindle to nothing.”
The shriek of a large bird drew her attention to the sky. An enormous black vulture with magic sheeting from it circled to land. Must be another shifter. In addition to knowing next to nothing about vampires, she also didn’t know much about shifters. Including the various animals they could share a bond with.
Thick underbrush crackled, and a group of black and gray wolves moved toward them. Yara marshalled her instinctive fear, reminding herself they were all part of the group she’d stumbled onto. The wolves hastened toward the rear of the truck and jumped inside. More rustling, and a pair of shaggy, brown bears followed them.
Breath hissed through Yara’s clenched teeth. At least they weren’t milling around showing their fangs and snarling. She glanced upward, noting the vulture’s position as it spread its wings, intent on landing. The wolves and bears might make her nervous, but the vulture was far more daunting than any of the other shifters, and had significantly more magic.
The air turned incandescent, taking on a shimmery aspect and pulsing with power. Scents rose around her. Yara understood that part. Every magic wielder’s castings held a particular scent. Her own magic had always reminded her of pine trees after a downpour, sweet and tangy with undernotes of vanilla.
Bright light flashed, so intense she shut her eyes. Along with the light came the smell of clay baked under an intense sun, mingled with rosemary and new-mown hay. Yara pried her eyes open expecting to see the vulture rocking from foot to foot. Instead, a tall, angular woman stood before her. Long, silver-gray hair hung to the ground. She may have looked human, but her amber eyes were pure raptor. Intense, searching.
Power scoured Yara from the crown of her head to her toes. It prickled and burned, but she held herself still as the bird shifter took her measure. The woman was ancient and stronger than Stewart, the one who’d tried to pass himself off as Romani, but wasn’t.
“Interesting,” the woman muttered. “Where’d you come from, girl?”
Yara bristled. “I live here.”
“’Tis just her, Meara.” Stewart stepped forward, joining them. “No caravan. No other Rom. I checked with magic.”
“What?” Yara rounded on him. “You didn’t believe me?”
He shrugged. “Not much reason to believe anyone ye doona know, lass. Sheathe your claws. I dinna mean aught by it. Have ye a name? Or should I call ye lass and have done with things?”
Something about Stewart, his words or his soft brogue, caught her off-guard. No one had apologized to her for anything in a very long time. She held up both hands. “Sorry. I always did have a short fuse. I’m Yara de Vos.”
“I am called Meara,” the bird shifter said, “but that one already named me.” She tilted her chin at Stewart, her nostrils flaring. “I smell dead vampire. I don’t need to know what happened, but we must mask its presence from its kin. They’ll be along—”
“Sooner rather than later,” Michael muttered.
“I can’t do much about concealing it forever, but I can buy us an hour or two.” Still scenting the air, Meara moved away from them.
“I’ll add my magic to the mix.” Stewart trotted after her. “That might extend our window for an additional hour.”
“Can you move it away from this location?” Yara called after them, but neither Stewart nor Meara turned around.
“Why?” Michael asked.
“Because I live here, and I’d just as soon not deal with those undead monsters.”
“Why not come with us?” Aron asked.
Surprise slapped her, and her mouth gaped open. She shut it with a snap.
A slender woman with long, dark hair and Aron’s gray eyes raced toward him. She must have been one of the shifters who’d disappeared into the wagon, no doubt to don clothing. Reaching them, she scooped Aron into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re all right. When I smelled vampire, I feared we’d lost someone.” A long, woolen skirt clung to her, topped by a gray tunic and a black cloak. Apparently, these Rom were downplaying traditional clothing as well. All to the good if they planned to traverse the Netherlands.
“Your brother was very brave.” Michael beamed at the pair. “He would’ve taken the vampire on singlehandedly, silver or no.”
The woman glanced up from hanging onto Aron. “I’m Ilona,” she told Yara. “Until very recently, I was Romani, just like you.”
“I’m Tairin, and this is Elliott.” Two more people who felt far more Rom than shifter joined them. Tairin had beautiful, tawny curls that fell to her waist and liquid dark eyes with amber centers. Elliott’s hair was dark, and his eyes a deep, reflective blue. Both wore thick, dark, woolen clothing similar to Ilona’s.
Another man hurried their way. This one was pure shifter with hair the same color as Tairin’s and eyes that matched hers as well. What was he? A parent or a sibling?
“I’m Jamal.” He extended a hand. “Tairin’s father and Ilona’s mate.”
Yara grasped it, enjoying his warm, firm handshake. When she let go, he moved to Ilona’s side and wrapped his arms around her and her brother.
“I heard Aron suggest you join us.” Michael focused his attention on her. “It was a decent idea. Nothing to hold you here, and a gypsy without a caravan is an affront to nature.”
The corners of Yara’s mouth twisted into a sad smile. She knew that expression so well, she repeated it in Dutch. “Can I have a few moments to think things through?”
“Not much longer than that,” Michael cautioned. “We must be on our way as soon as Meara, Stewart, and our driver return.”
She nodded. “I understand. If I’m not back, leave without me.”
Resisting the temptation to remain with the group, she strode briskly into the forest, heading for her grotto. If she did leave this place, everything she wanted to bring with her was there. It was safer than the shepherd’s hovel.
Am I really considering going with them?
Her thoughts raced feverishly. She knew what she had here, and it wasn’t very goddamned much. Survival hung by a thread, and had for all the years since her caravan split up. When she tried to conjure even one argument to remain where she was, nothing came.
The lack of reasons to stay put surprised her. She’d been fine by herself. Well, maybe not fine, but not unfine, either. Now that she’d come to a decision, she moved faster. If things didn’t go well, she could always return here. By then, any hoopla around the dead vampire should have played itself out.
She didn’t have much to lose. If the group were intent on harming her, she’d have picked up on it. Besid
es, she wanted to know how Romani and shifters ended up allies. She raced into her cave and scooped up her few possessions.
The prospect of no longer being alone was heady.
Yara tried to rein in her enthusiasm, but it refused to retreat. She hadn’t had anything to look forward to in years. To finally be part of a group of magic wielders again was too tempting an offer to refuse.
Remain vigilant, her inner voice cautioned.
Yara pushed it aside. Vigilance would keep her mired right where she was. Leaving was a gamble, but one she was willing to take.
Chapter 3
Stewart felt the gypsy woman, Yara, leave. She was medium height, but had an arresting presence that transcended her patched clothing and half-starved appearance. Hair the color of a ruddy sunset was drawn into a bun, but flame-colored strands mingled with gold hung around her face. Her eyes were incredible, a blue-violet that shaded lighter and darker with her moods.
She had strength of character too. Most Rom were lost without their caravans. Living in groups had become an ingrained way of life for them since their origins back in India. Her news about gypsies becoming persona non-grata in the Netherlands surprised him, but well over a century had passed since he’d left the British Isles. A lot could happen in that much time.
“Do you require my presence?” the bear shifter who’d carried the carcass asked Meara.
She shook her head. “Return to the group, but do what you can to remove all traces of vampire stench before you do so.”
“I’d have done that anyway,” the shifter groused and stalked out of the clearing muttering in German.
Stewart barely spared him a passing glance. He was still lost in thought about Yara.
“Your attention is wandering.” Meara’s voice cracked like a whip before she returned to chanting over the vampire’s remains. Fire sizzled along what was left of it, cleansing and purifying its evil.
Stewart redirected the flow of his magic, weaving it in with Meara’s. Between the fire and the fact that the vampire hadn’t actually died in this particular spot, they might get lucky. For a while.
