Chapter 19
His breath warms my cheek, moist and soft.
Tickles my hair against my forehead.
God, how I want it to be Creek!
To be his soul come back to me for comfort. To remind me he loves me.
I know I’m probably dreaming, or hallucinating from exhaustion and my wounds. I closed my eyes for a moment, hoping to gather my wits and figure out some kind of desperate plan, even if it’s totally futile. But whatever sleep I’ve fallen into now is disturbed by the sweet sensation of soft lips against my skin.
I’m afraid to glance up.
Because this man-smell I detect doesn’t belong to Creek. His scent is wild—reminiscent of forests and campfires, pine sap and hardwood leaves and lake water, along with the natural, warm aroma of his skin.
But this scent is ethereal, laced with jasmine and patchouli, like Granny Tinker’s wagon. It’s a more exotic—gypsy—smell.
I know who this is, and he scares the shit out of me.
Bravely, I flutter open my eyes, heart racing.
Before me is a desperately handsome man with dark curls and bottomless brown eyes.
Bohemas.
I recognize him from my vision while holding the stone, and that reckless kiss in de Bargona’s map room. He is Martiya’s lover of old—that passionate heart that never ages.
And I hate myself for it, but I take a peculiar comfort in his presence, even though I know he’s a ghost.
“Don’t you bother telling me stupid, mysterious things,” I hiss at him, in no mood for cryptic or puzzling messages from some lovelorn spirit. If he had any balls, he would’ve joined Martiya, the love of his life, in that ruby heart a long time ago. Or he’d cut these zip ties somehow and set us free right now.
He smiles at me, amused. Then he begins to gently wipe the blood off my face. I see it stain his ghostly hands—impossible as that may seem. And to my surprise, he takes a lick.
As his tongue relishes the flavor of my blood, I hear him sigh. Oddly, the color of his face and clothing looms brighter, and I swear I can feel the heat of his body near mine. He’s so handsome beside me, it’s enough to crush most girls’ hearts, spirit or not.
He pauses to gaze at my mother and me, tilting his head to admire the beauty of what he sees. I know what he’s thinking—that we could practically be sisters, and between my mother and I, we’re flesh and blood echoes of his beloved Martiya. How very, very tempting for him—but why should I give a fuck?
“Get us out of here!” I whisper loudly, rattling against our ties hooked to a chain against the wall.
But Bohemas only shakes his head.
“If your lover was really dead,” he says in a low tone that makes me shiver, “don’t you think he would be here right now instead of me?”
All breath siphons from my body.
What the hell?
He can’t be serious . . .
He’s mindgaming me for attention. That’s what all ghosts want, right? He’s after another kiss, to give me a sweet bit of hope so I’ll come alive for him in total gratitude—maybe even fuck him. I wrestle against my zip ties and wince, glaring at him.
“Th-that’s impossible,” I stutter, gathering breath. “I saw Creek get shot straight to the chest right outside of the convent.”
This abrupt confession makes tears choke at my throat again. I shake my head to try and regain control.
Bohemas laughs. The sound fills the dark air around us and becomes deeper, as if falling through the wet stones.
“You think all gypsies look alike?” he presses.
I feel his ghostly fingers run along the embroidery of my peasant blouse, making goose bumps scatter across my skin. He traces the flowers near my cleavage where his fingers pause. “Some of them wear holy garments, you know.”
My mind whips in confused circles, and I turn away. I have no idea what he’s trying to imply. He’s just a goddamn ghost—crazy and fucked up as they come.
Persistent, his fingers work their way slowly beneath the delicate cotton of my blouse, lingering in the space between my breasts. I despise it that his strangely warm touch provides solace in the dark hopelessness of this basement. And the scent of him has changed, saturating the air with the man-smell of horses, blacksmithing, herbs and coal. He gently pats my breast. “They know how to heal a broken heart, Rubina.”
“WHO?”
I turn to face him and demand he be clearer, but he’s gone.
In his place lies a skull at my feet shrouded in black burn marks.
I let out a scream.
To think that Vittorio de Bargona’s ancestor actually collected the skull of a man he’d incinerated out in a gypsy meadow sends vomit raging up my throat again. Dry heaves burn at my mouth, and I wonder if Martiya’s skull is here somewhere, too. It’s then that I realize all the bones down here are trophies to the de Bargona’s of their power—and their brutal methods. I twist and turn against my zip ties and cry out my mother’s name.
Like always, Alessia doesn’t even blink.
All this time, she’s simply stared at her feet. I try bumping against her to rattle her into some recognition, yet she remains stiff as the wall she’s tethered to.
Doesn’t she know we’re going to die down here? Become more trophies for the de Bargona’s sick collection? I wouldn’t be surprised if the Conté keeps our clothes in his closet to sniff and remind him of his victories.
No! I wail inside, imagining our skulls lined up against a wall like all of his other targets.
It can’t be like this.
This is not the way my life is supposed to end.
All this bullshit about being a Thagarni—some stupid Gypsy Queen! With no magic stone around, or Zuhna’s herbs or Granny Tinker’s crystal ball, what good is it? There’s only one thing I know for certain—if we don’t get out, we’re gonna die here. And Creek would never forgive me, even in the afterlife, if I allowed myself to become another victim to an abusive man like his own mother Caroline. He loved me because I’m a fighter—that’s the real magic I possess. He saw me knock myself out to provide for my dad and the people of Turtle Shores, and find my mom against all the odds in the hope of rescuing her. And when we were sleeping in that gondola in Venice, he promised he wanted me whole so our love could go on forever. As far as I’m concerned, that means kicking my way out to the very end, regardless of whether I succeed.
In a fury, I thrash again, feeling the ties slice into my skin, trickles of blood moistening my clothes. There has to be a way out. Has to!
My foot accidentally slips against the skull, totally creeping me out. It makes a hollow sound on the stones as it rolls over and cracks open a little, jagged as a knife.
That’s it—
Bone.
Even after the inferno in the meadow where Bohemas died, his skull is still here. It’s hardness has lasted for centuries.
Maybe that freaky ghost was trying to help me after all.
Carefully, I scoot the skull toward me with my boot. It rattles over the stones—a sick, hollow sound—and I turn it over. Lifting it up by the crack near the jaw with my toe, it’s incredibly shaky. I take my blessed time, holding my breath. An inch higher, then another inch, until it’s close—so close—to my fingers. Desperately, I push against the zip ties that bruise my wrist until my fingers . . . grab it!
I can’t help trembling a little at the thought that this once belonged to a human being. Bohemas, someone capable of love.
Shaking my head, I force myself to focus on cracking open the skull farther, revealing a sharp-edged piece that already rips savagely into my skin. Wincing, I razor it across my zip ties anyway, harder and harder, until I’m bleeding like hell—and the tie pops free!
“Oh God, Bohemas!” I gasp into the darkness. “You did it! Thank you.”
Instead of lingering in gratitude, I immediately start hacking at the other zip ties like a butcher. I’m a bloody mess from where the jagged skull piece has slashed my skin�
��but that’s the price I’ll gladly pay. As soon as I step my legs out of the cords, I turn to my mother.
I don’t want to hurt her, but there’s no other way, and we don’t have much time.
“Mom!” I cry. “This is gonna hurt like a bitch, but we gotta get the hell out of here. I’m taking you home, Mama. Back to Doyle. Your angel.”
I hack at her ties, too, but she doesn’t wince.
“Angelo?” she whispers, hardly louder than a breath.
Goose bumps flare all over my body. I want to react, but I don’t dare stop cutting.
“Yes, Mama,” I reply, floored that she always seems to respond to that word, but unsure if it means anything, or if it’s simply more of her textbook crazy. “We’re going back to Doyle, your angel.”
“Angelo,” she says slowly, as if rolling the word over her tongue to see how it might taste. Her eyes appear to search the floor, but then she shakes her head. “Angelo, dove si trova mia bambina?” she calls out with a heartbreaking plead in her voice. Her words echo against the walls.
The only word I understand is bambina—baby. And the way she studies the floor is as though her baby is lost somewhere among the stones, among the skulls. Her body begins to tremble wildly, making it hard for me to keep from cutting her.
“Mother—madre!” I cry, stopping to shake her a little while my bloody piece of skull drips onto her shoulder. “I’m your baby, your bambina! Don’t you see me? I’m here!”
Tears of frustration slip down my cheeks as I return to cutting her loose, my hands wavering in exhaustion. Even if I get her free, she’s still as fragile as a bird! Where will we go from here, and how can I carry her? All of a sudden, an idea comes to me.
It’s crazy. But sometimes that’s how you have to handle crazy.
“Mama,” I say sincerely, “we’re going to go see your baby. Your daughter, capisce? But you have to walk out of here with me. To see your bambina.”
Where, or how to get out of this horrendous basement, I have no idea. But it’s a start. As I finish freeing the cords from her arms and move down to her legs, I hear a gentle hum.
“Ninna nanna, ninna oh,
Questo bimba a chi lo do?
Se lo do a lupo bianco,
Se lo tiene tanto tanto,
Egli tornare anche lei?”
It’s coming from Alessia. She’s raised her bloody arms to cradle no one at her chest. And she’s singing.
“Mi hai rubato il cuore, mia gioella.”
The shock of her voice—low and beautiful and piercing in its rich tenderness—knocks the breath out of me.
I’ve never heard my mother sing before.
Much less a lullaby, meant for me.
It’s the same voice that wanted to comfort me, to guide me as a child and see me grow up. It’s the voice I’ve wanted to hear all my life, to know she really did want me. I know I have to keep cutting, but in my heart, I can’t bear to let this moment pass.
I stop for a second to lay a bloody, trembling hand upon her cheek.
“Mama—it’s me, Rubina. I don’t know what you’re singing. I only speak English. But I am your daughter, and I think it’s . . . beautiful.”
“English?” She says puzzled. She tilts her head to the side as if listening to a far-off voice. “Sí, mia bambina,” she whispers with a slight nod, “Americana.” Her head drops gently to her chest. She begins to sing again as though cooing to a child.
“Lullaby, lullaby, ooh-ooh,
Who will I give my baby to?
If I give him to the white wolf,
For a long time he’ll keep her,
Will he return her, too?
You’ve stolen my heart, my jewel.”
“No—no mama, I’m not stolen. I’m here.” I pat her cheek again, but she doesn’t appear to see me.
She’s staring at a wall across the room to our left, almost hidden in the darkness. Her eyes are intent as if she spies someone there. For all I know, she could’ve spotted the skull of Martiya—or perhaps her own mother—and retreated deep into herself again. I shake my head at the grim thought and fall to my knees to finish cutting her legs free. Yet part of me wonders whether she ever came down here as a child. Surely she was curious about her family’s weird treasures, the way most children are fascinated by morgues. To her, it might’ve seemed like a bizarre playground. Then the thought strikes me—if she ever did come down here, she might know where another door is besides the stairs leading back to the palazzo. As I manage to free her right leg and start hacking at the zip tie on the left, I hear an odd thudding sound.
It’s Alessia. She’s pounding on the stones with her fists.
Oh God, I’m hurting her so badly, she has to distract herself from the pain?
“Mama, I’m sorry. You’re almost free! Just a few more seconds, okay?”
But even when I stopped cutting to talk, she keeps pounding harder with all her might. Her motion is senseless and repetitive, maybe what crazy people do to cope? I realize I’m cold, wounded, hungry, and scared out of my mind, all in one messed-up ball. But God as my witness, I could’ve have sworn I heard someone pounding in reply. It must be a ghastly echo.
Yet there it is again, from beyond the left wall.
I’m not at all sure that’s a good thing.
“Mom, stop it!” I warn, as I manage to cut her last zip tie open. “We don’t know who that is—”
“Lupo bianco,” she whispers, cutting me off. Her fists keep pounding.
“White wolf,” I nod, registering the words from her lullaby. Yep, crazy town.
“Sì, Mama,” I nod to pacify her. “The white wolf has your baby. The song said so. Now let’s go find her.”
I grab her hand, my heart racing. These might be the first steps she’s taken on her own in years. Slinging my arm around her for support, I guide her away from the stairs and from that creepy wall, praying that we might find some other door. I hear the pounding again like some wayward ghosts, and it scares the stuffing out of me.
“Lupo bianco!” Alessia cries adamantly.
She tears herself free from me with surprising force for a woman who can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. Her fists gather into tight balls again, and for a second I’m afraid she’s about to take a swing.
“Mio angelo!”
Alessia points a shaking finger at the wall. The knocking has become so hard now its sound reverberates across the stones. With unsteady legs, she sets her feet carefully, one by one, forcing herself in shaky strides to reach the wall until she collapses against it. Then she starts wailing her arms on the stones with the fury of a caged animal, blood dripping from her wrists.
“Lupo bianco,” she insists, gasping for breath.
In an odd pause between the pounding noises, I hear a faint voice.
“Robin?”
Chapter 20
“I-I can hear you!” I cry, barely able to stand from the shock. Leaning against the wall, I drum my fists madly against the stones.
I’m almost certain I heard Creek’s voice, but could that be my panic talking? Like a wanderer in the desert hallucinating about water?
“Robin! Hold on!” he replies.
Trembling with my hands in pain, I hear a powerful thud, then another, as if he’s throwing himself against the wall. All at once, it bursts open like a secret door—
And I’m flat on my ass, staring at . . . Creek!
For a moment, there are no words or thoughts. Just paralyzing astonishment.
He’s a wreck!
Wrapped up tightly around his chest in bandages that look like they were made from torn sheets. On the upper left side is a blood stain rimmed in a strange green color that could rival the size of Bender Lake. When he realizes I’m fixated on his wound, he glances at Alessia and then at me, flashing his cocky, lop-sided grin.
“Jesus Christ, Robin, we look like a bunch of zombies.”
“S-Stop right there!” I command, holding up a quivering hand and feeling like my heart
is about to halt. “H-How do I know you’re not a ghost? How can you possibly be alive?”
I’m hyperventilating and not making much sense right now, I know. But it seems to me to be a really important question.
“Oh baby,” he says, his normally ice-blue eyes warming to an aqua liquid. “The bullet went straight through my chest, a hair’s breadth above my heart. I faked falling down so they’d think I was dead.” He runs his hand through his shaggy hair before his lip rises in a smirk. “It ain’t the first time I been shot, sweetheart . . . or played possum.”
I don’t know what he said next, because I was up in an instant with my arms around his neck, kissing him to pieces. Ghost or no ghost, he’s my Creek—and he’s here!
“Ow-ow,” he winces, recoiling from his wound. He takes a step back and licks my blood off his lips, then gazes into my eyes as if he were peering into a little piece of heaven. Carefully, he lifts his finger to trace what must be the massive bruises on my cheekbone and jaw. “Oh Robin,” his hand lightly cups my cheek for a moment, but then tightens into a fist, “you have no idea how much I want to kill that asshole for what he’s done.” He leans forward to give me a tender kiss on the forehead, not wanting to hurt me. “But right now, we gotta go back to the gypsies. I gave the stone to Zuhna’s falcon when I saw de Bargona’s men coming, and I have a hunch she’ll know where it is. They grabbed me and shot me before I could reach you.” He brushes a lock of hair away from my eyes, his gaze full of apology. “And I passed out from the loss of blood.”
Hesitantly, I lift my hand to touch his wound and snap it back, feeling like a doubting Thomas.
“B-But how did you survive?” I gasp, still marveling. “You could’ve bled to death.”
Creek nods at me with soft eyes. “Those nuns—they weren’t about to let me go. They came out in a line and stood up to de Bargona’s men, waving crosses and saying they were going to give me a Christian burial or pray that his men and their families go to hell. You know those Catholic mob guys—deep down they believe what nuns say, and they figured I was dead anyway. After they left and the nuns realized I was alive, they lit candles and chanted over me and applied a cream on the wound that stunk like one of Granny Tinker’s poultices.” His eyes flash a bit of sparkle before he gives me a wink. “I think most of them used to be gypsies.”
Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) Page 14
