by Julie Leto
His gaze swept the mosaic for any sign of Irika’s long, dark hair and penetrating eyes. Instead, he spotted the old woman who painted intricate landscapes on thimbles. Cinka. Cinka Dobravich. Nearly blind, she could not see to greet a visitor from across a yard, but her talent in miniature had been striking. And near the center of the display, he caught sight of the strapping young lad, one of four sons of Ivo and Esme, who’d so often disrupt Stefan’s naps by drumming on the fence outside their cottage. In an upper corner, nearly out of his line of sight, he saw a gray-haired man in a bright red shirt who wore the thoughtful, determined expression of the Chovihano, right down to the mole on his left cheek and the downward curve of his lips. Belthezor wore a bundle on his back, which was odd, but otherwise, he could practically feel the man’s gentle gaze as if he stood right beside him.
“I don’t see her,” he said.
“These are actual people?”
“Yes,” he said, equally amazed. Why would a man as self-indulgent as Rogan have this intimate masterpiece in the most public space in his castle?
“What did she look like?”
Mariah stepped back, her stare lost in the collage of faces. The scene was the village viewed from atop one of the mountain cliffs. Colorful vardos and festooned, ramshackle homes anchored a portrait brimming with action. The tiles on the communal fire at the center of the mosaic glittered, picking up the light from the chandeliers in the dining hall. Pieced together with expert care, the representations of children and animals evoked movement, even when they were entirely still. The artists had captured the weary, hunched shoulders of the butcher and the sprightly step of his much younger wife. But no sign of Irika. And no man at all who looked like him.
“Dark skin and hair,” he explained, hoping to find her—to know that something, however small, was left of the woman he’d loved. “Slim and almost fragile. She was a storm cloud hovering above, but never producing a single drop of rain.”
“Whereas I’m thundering all the time,” Mariah cracked.
He laughed, but for only an instant. Irika and Mariah existed on opposite ends of the world of women, but he suspected that it they’d met, they would have liked each other. Even Mariah’s rough edges would not have frightened Irika, who had been born with an angel’s soul.
And you never saw this mosaic before tonight?” she asked.
He shook his head. “After Irika and I were married, we avoided invitations into Rogan’s inner sanctum. I did not flaunt temptation in front of a man such as him.”
“Didn’t you trust her?”
“Irika? Implicitly,” he said, surprised by her question. “But Rogan? No. When he heard of our marriage, he presented us with a generous gift—a house, solidly built up against the mountainside.” He scanned the mosaic and found his home, surprised to see the windows dark and the yard where he’d once raised goats entirely empty—dead, whereas the rest of the mosaic overflowed with life. He pointed at the structure for Mariah’s sake. “There.”
Mariah levered up on her tiptoes. “And you took it?”
“Irika’s father insisted,” he complained. “He thought it unwise to insult Rogan. But we stayed away from any gathering that forced us inside his domain. I remember talk of the great mosaic, but I do not recall knowing that the villagers would be represented?”
Thinking back so far was a futile exercise. It was hard enough to remember all the major events, much less the minutiae, after two hundred and sixty years.
Mariah’s hand slipped down his arm, her fingers tangling with his. He could not miss the shiver of uncertainty that preceded her question. “Were you already promised to Irika when Rogan came to town, or did she pick you over him?”
Rafe slipped his hand free of Mariah’s and continued searching the mosaic, recognizing the woodworker, Lazar, and his wife, Natasha, surrounded by their trio of daughters. He did not want to feel Mariah’s insecurity when asking about his past. He had enough doubt of his own in providing the answers.
“Irika and I were promised to each other at birth. A marriage between the son of the governor and the daughter of the Chovihano ensured good relations among the Gypsies and their jailer.”
He expected her to contradict his classification of his own father, but she did not. He gained some measure of comfort by unburdening his conscience while in such close proximity to the mosaic, which seemed to emanate the same emotional warmth the village had provided when it was thriving and alive.
“Irika and I played together as children, knowing that someday we’d wed. We loved each other long before we exchanged promises with the blessings of our families.”
“You say that as if you’re sorry,” Mariah observed, her head tilted quizzically.
Rafe closed his eyes, remembering the day he’d stood beneath a canopy of colorful scarves, exchanged bites of bread doused in salt and vowed to remain faithful to Irika until death.
“I am not sorry I loved Irika, but I will never forgive myself for rushing our marriage. Once Irika was my bride, Rogan turned his charms on my sister. She was so young. He was a man of the world. And I was not there to protect her.”
Mariah stepped away, her arms hooked behind her back. He knew instantly that she was about to say something he would not want to hear.
“Sarina might have been young, but I’ve never heard you say she was foolish.”
“She was not,” he replied. “Just…innocent.”
Mariah’s eyebrows lifted, as if she doubted any woman, young or old, could be quite as guileless as he professed. He supposed that in this century, the notion would be difficult to accept. But he knew his sister. He knew Irika. Neither could have fought off Rogan’s charms for long.
“Women of my day were not like you or Catalina,” he explained. “Even the puri grandmothers who possessed the sight did not see Rogan for what he was. Not, at least, until it was too late.”
“I’m not denying that he was a scary guy,” she said. “Anyone who could devise the magic he did that trapped you for all this time had a seriously warped outlook on the world. But I don’t think you’re giving your sister much credit, and you’re taking too much blame for yourself. Maybe Rogan truly cared for her. Maybe he was trying to make a good marriage, too. Sarina was the daughter of the governor, and you said he wanted a position of power in the village—”
“Yes, but ask yourself,” Rafe interrupted, “why did he care about Valoren? Why settle in the village of Umgeben when he could have resumed his travels to the far corners of the world? Our village was small and remote. What had we to offer him to make him want so desperately to stay that he’d erect this monstrosity?”
He gestured at the castle, but Mariah did not follow his hands. Her eyes bored straight into his and held him captive.
“Love,” she answered simply.
“He knew not how to love,” Rafe snapped.
At this, she glanced aside. “Okay, then. Maybe just the company of people who shared his blood?”
He shook his head wildly. “My people had been in Valoren for over two decades when Rogan arrived. For all those years, we survived, but we chafed under the laws that kept us from wandering the land, making our lives wherever we saw fit. He changed all that. He took away the Gypsies’ desire to explore and travel and control their own destinies. Everyone …changed.”
“Everyone?”
“Nearly everyone,” he clarified. “But even Irika no longer spoke of leaving the valley. She wanted his house. His roots!”
“Maybe it was your roots she wanted,” Mariah offered. “Something steady and predictable and safe. I’m no expert, but I hear that a lot of women find that very attractive.”
She smiled, but Rafe could not see the humor.
“You don’t understand. Rogan possessed magic unlike any ever conceived of by the Romani. He influenced them all. Changed them all. You saw what Farrow Pryce could do with just the sword and a half-wit’s knowledge of how to use it. With the skills he possessed, Rogan could have tak
en over the world. But he didn’t. Why?”
“His motives don’t matter anymore,” Mariah reminded him. “You have to let go of the past. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned recently, that’s the one.”
Painfully, Rafe tore his eyes away from the mosaic and the loss it represented. Hatred and fury surged inside him, as if he’d just conjured something massive with Rogan’s tainted power.
“How can it not matter?” he asked. “He set my fate in motion. He insulted the king, who sent the army, who killed my wife. His magic ensnared me, prevented me from helping her. He forced me to watch blood stream from her neck and…”
Before Rafe knew it, his vision blurred and his face was wet. He slashed at his tears, tempted to gouge out his eyes if he thought the act would erase the torturous images from his brain. But he knew it would not. Nothing would assuage this agony. Not as long as he remained here, in Rogan’s lair. Not as long as he was tied to Rogan’s cursed marker.
Mariah slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his chest. “What happened doesn’t make sense. Murder never does. But Irika’s death was not your fault.”
“What of Sarina?”
“You don’t even know that she died. She could have become trapped, like you and your brothers. But you need to accept that she had a mind of her own.”
“She was running from him, Mariah. She was terrified.”
“I know,” she said softly, but then spoke no more. What more could she say? They might never know what happened to Sarina. But Irika’s fate was indisputable. Rafe had not realized until now that time had not erased even the tiniest detail of that tragedy from his heart.
“Perhaps I did not trust Irika’s love. If I had, we might have taken our time with our marriage. She might not have become pregnant so young and remained weak for so long afterward that she couldn’t—”
“Fight the soldiers?” Mariah supplied, staring into his eyes incredulously. “Rafe, she wouldn’t have lived even if she’d been armed to the teeth and trained to fight. She was outnumbered. And even if you had been able to escape the stone, you would have died, too.”
He jammed his hands into his hair, pulling the strands from the queue he’d tied at the back of his neck. He had no answers, only questions. Fortunately, Paxton came in behind them and cleared his throat.
“What’s wrong?” Mariah asked.
Paxton glanced behind him. “Ben went to go find Cat, but they’ve both been gone quite a while.”
Mariah turned to Rafe.”Can you feel them? Are they here? Are they in danger?”
He did not want to call upon Rogan’s magic, but the tug of the darkness was too powerful here for him to resist. He reached out as if with a thousand hands and felt the emotions surging through the atmosphere. Ben’s concern. Cat’s annoyance. Gemma’s confusion.
“They are here and they are safe, but this place reeks with Rogan’s evil.” He opened his eyes. His brother now stood beside Mariah. “Paxton, you above all the others understand. You know what exists here. The vibrations darken me.”
So unchanged from the unflappable older brother with whom he shared special abilities, Paxton patted him on the shoulder. “This old place can be a little creepy in the dark. But like it or not, it’s Rogan’s magic that flows through this place and through the stone that keeps you tethered. It can also set you free. If Ben and the girls are all right, then we need to get on with things.” He turned to Mariah, who stepped back at the fierce look in his brother’s stare. “The time is now.”
Rafe saw the undulation of Mariah’s throat as she swallowed, but he saw not a flicker of hesitation in her amber eyes. In fact, they softened, almost glossed as she took his hands in hers. The emotions flowing from her skin instantly battled with the icy cold remnants of Rogan’s power.
“I love you, Rafe Forsyth. I want you to be free.”
She didn’t give him time to bend his head to kiss her. Instead, she stood on tiptoe and crashed her lips to his. Love flowed like water, dousing him with a thousand soothing sensations.
And yet, when he broke the kiss, he felt dry and parched, and the silken threads of her love snapped and fell aside.
Twenty Seven
Mariah waited, her breath tight in her chest, desperate for any sign that the curse had been broken. When Rafe stumbled back, she expected…what? Fireworks? Explosions? Beams of light dousing him from above? She didn’t know what she’d thought would happen, but she certainly expected something.
“Rafe?”
He gazed at her, his silver eyes so cold, they might have been forged from steel.
She turned to Paschal, but the older man simply shook his head.
“What’s wrong? I said the words,” she insisted, reaching for Rafe. “And I meant them. I love you. We’ve known each other for only a short time, but look at what we’ve accomplished together. I’ve let you into places in my heart I never knew existed. You’ve saved my life and I’ve saved yours. The thought of being without you for the rest of my life hurts more than being flung across a hotel roof or falling off a cliff. My fear kept me from seeing how much I care for you, how much I want to be with you. We’re connected. We have been since the day I touched the stone. Maybe it was fate. Maybe I finally earned some good luck. I can deny a lot of things, but I can’t deny that I love you with all my heart and soul.”
No matter what she said, his expression did not change. Finally, he broke away from her and stalked to the fireplace. He gripped the mantel so hard, his knuckles turned white.
“Leave me,” he ordered.
“Excuse me?” She’d just opened a door more heavily guarded than any tomb in the Valley of the Kings and he was pushing her away without even looking her in the eye?
“Fate has made fools of both of us,” he replied, his back still turned. “Leave now, while you still can.”
Part of her bristled at his dismissive tone, but the whole of her wanted to collapse. Or perhaps throw herself into his arms? Had he been infected by Rogan’s magic again? But how? He hadn’t made anything appear or disappear.
Except, perhaps, her trust.
She grabbed for the one emotion that never let her down, and used her fury to stretch to her full height and tilt her chin up.
“I just did something pretty damned selfless, you arrogant son of a bitch. The least you can do is look me in the eye when you tell me to get lost.”
Paschal clutched her shoulders and gave her a little shake that might have earned him a black eye and a busted groin if he weren’t Ben’s father and just a few centuries shy of matching ages with Methuselah.
“Mariah, please,” Paschal begged. “Give him a moment.”
“I’ll give him a moment, all right,” she said, tearing off the bag she wore over her shoulder. “I’ll give him a bunch of moments. As many as he needs. My part in this drama is over. Have a nice life—or whatever.”
She dug into the bag, retrieved Rogan’s marker and thrust it into Paschal’s hands, hardly registering how hot the stone was in her palms. She expected that anything she touched right now might burn to cinders from the magnitude of her anger. She’d just offered Rafe her greatest and most elusive treasure—her heart—on a bloody gilded platter. Her confession hadn’t made any difference to the curse, but it could have at least made a difference to him.
“Mariah, wait,” Paschal called as she stalked out, but she waved him off. She was finished. Truly and utterly finished with this whole freaking family. She should have known. She should have realized that having anything to do with this bunch wasn’t going to turn out in her favor. Not much had lately. Why should this be any different?
Except for the groundbreaking conversation with her mother and a few nights of incredibly mind-blowing sex, Mariah had been on a downward spiral since she’d lost those coins in Mexico. Maybe the curse had been on them and not on the Valoren stone. Maybe she just wasn’t destined to be lucky in love. Ever.
The humid sea air slapped her in the face the moment
she stepped outside, instantly chilling the streaks of moisture she hadn’t realized were streaming down her face. Then the wind kicked sand directly into her raw eyes. She cursed, but as she raised her hands, someone grabbed her by the wrists. She kicked out, but her legs were immediately bound by several beefy hands, and no matter how she tried, she could not scream.
“Take her. Quietly.”
She barely registered Farrow Pryce’s soulless laugh before her eyes rolled up into her head and the world went dark.
***
Cat plunged her hand into Gemma’s spiky hair and snatched her away from the window. The short strands slipped from her grip, but not before she’d grabbed the woman’s undivided attention.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Gemma pivoted, her arms flailing, but Cat sidestepped her pathetic attempts at punches, snagged the woman’s wrist and twisted it behind her back. Gemma Von Roan might be related to a major-league, eighteenth-century badass, but she fought like a girl.
“Let me go,” she said, her voice surprisingly soft and fearful.
The emotion caught Cat off guard, giving Gemma the split second she needed to break free of her grip. A heartbeat later, the air was jammed out of her midsection by Gemma’s shoulder, and both of them tumbled to the dusty, gritty floor.
Cat moved to get her feet under her, but Gemma shoved her flat. “Stay down!”
“Wha—”
“Shh!”
With a shake, Cat tried to make sense of the situation. The moment she’d spotted Gemma at the window of the finished suite, she’d been overwhelmed by the impression that Gemma was signaling someone outside. Well-deserved mistrust spurred her to act. She’d expected Gemma to put up a fight, but she hadn’t counted on her genuine fear.
Gemma crawled back to the window, slid her hands up to the sill and then slowly stood, but only halfway. Had there been light, only the tips of her hair would have been visible on the other side on the glass. But it was darker inside than it was outside. No one would be able to see her. And who the heck would be looking up to an ocean-view window from several stories down anyway?
