Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2)

by Diane J. Reed

  “There is no curse,” he calls out to Martiya, pointing at the writhing Vittorio. “It’s your hate that kept you prisoner all this time. You were a Gypsy Queen—a Thagarni—you could have sent your soul anywhere. And grabbed me by the hand to roam with you, to wander for eternity and sing our songs. But you chose a stone instead of me?”

  De Bargona watches in shock as Bohemas grabs Martiya and kisses her so passionately that her fiery haze begins to transform back into her crimson ball gown. Martiya’s beautiful face and features become clear as well, and the scar that was once a gaping wound at her throat starts to disappear. To my surprise, she appears youthful, almost vulnerable, and she gazes at Bohemas with confused, questioning eyes like a lost little girl who wants to find her way back home.

  “Martiya,” I sigh, “There’s no more stone, no more queens, no more Thagarnis left anymore. We’re simply ordinary women who dared to fall in love. That’s the only power we need. Go, Martiya,” I encourage her, pointing at Bohemas. “This man has been waiting for you for centuries. And if that isn’t true love, then I don’t know what the hell is.”

  In spite of Creek’s shotgun pointed at Vittorio’s face, my grandfather dives for the pieces of the stone on the grass like a madman, clutching them to his chest until Creek sets his boot down on his neck and swipes the pieces from his grip. Creek walks up and hands the shards back to Alessia, who gazes at them like the lost pieces of her own heart.

  “Grazie,” she whispers, not as a ghost but as a real, flesh and blood woman, despite her stark, black and white nun’s habit. She stares at the shards in her palm and turns to look at me with a wistful, yet puzzled glance. Does she recognize me? I wonder. Her fingers tremble, and she holds up what’s left of the stone to gaze at me as if I might be one of the ghosts as well. “Il mio cuore,” she nods.

  Just as she does, Bohemas stretches his hand out to Martiya.

  “Revenge, il mia tesora, or me,” he declares. Hesitantly, as though he’s a bit afraid of what she might choose, he dips his head for a moment and closes his eyes. But Martiya steps forward and grasps his fingers with both hands. Startled, Bohemas opens his eyes and nods, then wraps his arm around Martiya’s shoulder to lead their souls back to the gypsy trail.

  As they disappear into the elongated shadows of the woods, I hear an eerie wail, like the call of a wild animal that echoes through the forest, followed by the delicate melody of gypsy violins that rise and fill the air. The spirits are celebrating her home.

  Home—

  Creek gestures at the Conté de Bargona with his shotgun to start limping toward the woods for whatever the ghosts intend to do with him. It takes time, but after Vittorio vanishes into the shadows, with my heart in my throat, I walk over to Alessia—to my mother—and grasp her hands that holds the pieces of the ruby heart.

  “We made it, Mama,” I say, cupping her fingers in both hands and bringing them to my cheek. They feel soft and warm, except for the cool stone pieces. I have no idea how much English she remembers, or if she understands that I’m her daughter at all, so I glance over at Creek. He gives me a confident nod, pointing at the truck the nuns had loaned him from the convent that’s nestled in a nearby meadow. Taking a deep breath, I grab Doyle’s hand and press his palm against Alessia’s, linking my mother and father together.

  “Now it’s time for us to go home.”

  Chapter 23

  Light glistens off the gentle, lapping waves as the sun dips slowly over the water, painting the horizon a soft gold. Pastel hues warm the nearby trees, and I hear a bird call, long and slow, its cry echoing over the shore. My mother and father sit at little table adorned with a white tablecloth, candles, and vintage china. They murmur softly as they clink wine glasses and give each other shy smiles.

  They’re getting to know each other again, the way all lovers should—by spending quiet moments together on “dates” such as this one.

  But we aren’t in Venice anymore.

  We’re back at Bender Lake, and the romantic dinner is Lorraine’s infamous fried catfish and cornbread with a side of green beans, along with the Colonel’s moonshine poured into Mason jars.

  Something tells me Doyle and Alessia wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Creek has his arm wrapped around me. He snuggles against my neck and he gives me a squeeze. We’re sitting several feet away from my parents on the sand, watching them giggle over old times and recall secrets that only they will share. I see the fading light of the sun warm my mother’s face, and if I squint my eyes, I could swear she looks 16 again—like that teenage girl who thought Doyle McCracken had hung the moon.

  My father’s eyes appear equally fresh, but the gray hairs above his ears and wrinkles on his forehead betray another story. Even so, it’s easy to tell that the woman across from him is his whole world. His eyes twinkle with every move Alessia makes—especially when she picks up a hunk of Lorraine’s cornbread and takes a bite. Her face registers surprise, as if she’d hit a tooth on a hard kernel of corn. She pulls the bread away from her mouth, only to find a gold ring glinting in the sunlight.

  “Doyle!” she gasps, tearing up.

  As if on cue, several old men with fiddles—the ones who always play at Bender Lake hoedowns—step onto the shoreline from the woods and strike up a sweet melody. Alessia glances at them and gasps, before returning her gaze to my father.

  “Will you be my wife—again?” Doyle asks with a world of hope in his eyes.

  Alessia covers her mouth and dips her head, but it’s only to hide her tears. When she’s had a chance to gather her breath, she leans forward to give my dad a kiss.

  And to her surprise, everyone we know from Turtle Shores steps forward out of the thick trees to give them applause. The Colonel and Bixby, Brandi with Dooley at her hip, the TNT Twins, and a host of folks from the camouflaged trailers that surround Bender Lake. All but Granny Tinker, with her usual long velvet dress and flowing gray hair, and I shudder to wonder what she’s up to now—no doubt gathering newts and lichen for more spells.

  Creek grabs my chin and pulls me close, indulging in a long kiss, and I can feel the waning sun warm our cheeks. Afterwards, I lean my forehead against his, treasuring the way the soft light makes his blue eyes appear as clear as glass.

  “Alessia seems happy here,” I nod.

  “I think this is all she ever wanted,” Creek replies. “Along with you.”

  I feel a shiver work its way down my skin.

  We don’t’ really know each other yet, my mother and I, but I’ve discovered she remembers English well enough, and we’re working on it. It’s strange for her to meet her bambina as a full-grown woman, just a little bit older than she was when she gave birth. And Alessia’s spirit has been cooped up for so long that in some ways I feel like I’m teaching her about the ways of the world and what it means to feel again. When we take solitary walks together through the woods, I share the beauty of spring flowers and the murmurs of the lake with her the way Zuhna pointed out the magic of the natural realm to me, letting it cast its gentle spell as we talk about friends we both know from Turtle Shores. I’m confident our relationship will grow the way it’s meant to, in due time. Maybe not so much as mother and daughter, but as survivor to survivor, and even more importantly, as friend to friend.

  Yet she and Doyle seem every inch the husband and wife now, though they were only married “gypsy” style, like me and Creek. We watch them at their dinner table as Doyle leans over to whisper a secret into Alessia’s ear, and she laughs the kind of easy laugh that makes you feel all warm inside.

  “So,” Creek turns to me, “what do you say we leave these two lovebirds alone?”

  He stands up and gives me a tug to my feet. As the men’s fiddles fill the air with another light tune, Creek nuzzles me for a kiss, his lips soft and inviting. We watch our friends from Turtle Shores begin to sway in a slow dance on the sand with the warmth of the sunset rimming their shoulders. It’s a beautiful sight that makes me sigh as Creek a
nd I dust ourselves off and link our arms together to start walking home.

  “Home” for us is no longer a tree stand with two sleeping bags. We’ve “graduated” now to our own gypsy wagon, a lot like Granny Tinker’s, that the TNT Twins traded a portion of their ammo for as a belated “wedding” present.

  Memories come flooding back as Creek and I stroll down the honeysuckle-lined trail, full of the aroma of pine and new blossoms and moist earth, the same place where we first fell in love. When we reach the opening in a glen and see the small, round-topped wagon with a red roof, Creek hoists me in his arms so fast it makes me gasp, and then I giggle.

  “All right, Mrs. Flynn,” he smiles, his eyes twinkling, “it’s high time we started our honeymoon.”

  He reaches to turn the knob and cracks open the door, holding it ajar with his boot. I’m laughing as he wriggles us both inside without managing to whack my head on the heavy wood door jam.

  “My goodness—you’re an expert, Creek,” I grin before he swallows me in a kiss.

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he breathes, nimbly carrying me in his arms to the back of the wagon. He lays me down on our soft bed covered in old quilts. I hear a brief hiss as he steps aside to strike a match and light a candle in a Mason jar on a small table, casting an ethereal glow around us and making our skin look warm—ripe even, like Zuhna said. When Creek returns, after zipping open his jeans to put on a condom, his warm hands seek my waist and lift my t-shirt slowly over my head. He buries his face in my cleavage as he unclasps my bra, allowing my breasts to spill out to the warmth of his breath. Then he takes a step back from our bed without uttering a word.

  His eyes appear melancholy and hopeful at the same time.

  “What? What is it?” I ask, propping myself on my elbows.

  Creek doesn’t give me that sly grin that always puts me at ease and makes light of any situation. Instead, in the soft candlelight, the fractures in his eyes—those cracks in the center of blue ice—seem all too clear.

  “You’re so beautiful,” whispers, “inside and out. I couldn’t stand to ever lose you, Robin. And I almost did.”

  His eyes are glued to me as he slides off his shirt and joins me on the bed again. He wraps his arms around my body and hugs me close to his chest, kissing my hair. Gently, he runs his hands down to massage my breasts, his fingers working as delicately as if I were made of tender spring petals. Yet I’m already on fire as he leans in to swipe a kiss before steering his tongue gently down my throat and cleavage to my nipples. He circles one edge of my breast with his tongue, then the other and back again, until I’m building in ecstasy. Between my legs, I tingle and even ache for him, my breath short and halting at times, so I seek to slide his jeans and underwear down over his sinewy thighs. The feel of his smooth, hard skin beneath my palms sends me reeling.

  We both kick off our shoes and the rest of our clothes, then fall together, releasing long, drawn-out sighs, like spirits who’ve finally escaped to some pure realm where only skin-on-skin and heat-on-heat rule the candle-lit night. As Creek’s lips descend to my breastbone and work their way over my stomach to my navel, I’m moaning in want—no, need—and I feel his tongue travel down between my thighs. Already I’m bursting with pleasure, white sparks flickering on the backs of my eyelids—I didn’t even realize my eyes had fallen closed. Clutching at his cropped hair, I pull him down to me as the rhythm of his tongue begins to drive me insane. He’s still so gentle, swirling and kneading, and I feel myself creeping over the edge. My entire body ripples and rises with pleasure until I hear some animal part of me cry out.

  “Not yet, Creek. I want to you to come, too.”

  I edge myself beneath his body and take him, long and taut beneath my hands, and move his tip between my legs, thrusting him into me until we’re one. My legs wrap around him and clench in total greed, but to my surprise, he smoothes his hand over my hair and rocks ever so slowly, gazing into my eyes.

  “Mrs. Flynn,” he whispers, rotating his hips in just the right way to make me crazy. When he sees my pleasure, that half-smile finally works its way across his lips, making that dagger scar over his cheek sharpen to a fine edge. “How do you like being my wife?”

  “Pure heaven,” I smile.

  With that, he rolls and writhes, his muscles as tight and twisting as the snake tattoo on his arm, sending me soaring until I release a cascade of breathless gasps. All at once, his thrusts grow harder until I’m somewhere between panting and screaming and clawing for more. I’m almost afraid of myself, grabbing and demanding everything he’s got, yet trying to avoid the raw wound on his chest that’s still encased in bandages. I clutch his tight biceps instead, rocking him against me and feeling the slightly upraised scar where I carved the word Partners on his arm.

  “Partners,” he whispers with one final thrust, his back arched before he falls slack onto my chest, where I embrace him so tightly I can hardly breathe.

  “Forever,” I reply.

  The hush that follows, that long and sacred gap of silence with only our ragged breaths between us, is what I treasure most. Our hearts beat on top of each other like one person, throbbing wildly at first but eventually slowing down to a more peaceful rhythm as my hand seeks the tufts of his hair to curl between my fingers. I stroke his moist temple for a second, then glide my fingers down his hard cheekbone and neck and along the curve of his smooth back, kneading his tight muscles as he begins to relax. But when my hand reaches the bed again, I feel something stiff with a firm edge beside us beneath the quilt.

  “What is it?” Creek asks, as if sensing the subtle change in my mood.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” I reply, slipping my hand beneath the folds of our bed linen to check it out. “There’s something here.”

  Sure enough, my fingers detect a box. I grasp it by the corner and pull it out. It’s made of dark, distressed wood with a tarnished brass latch. It looks like the kind of small chest Granny Tinker keeps in her wagon to store rabbit’s feet, incense, and herbs.

  “C’mon,” Creek urges, “I want to see what mischief Granny’s been up to this time. It’s probably her weird idea for a wedding gift. No wonder she wasn’t around for your parents’ candlelight dinner.”

  Hesitantly, I creak it open with the same trepidation as if it were Pandora’s box, fearing what types of boondocks voodoo I might find.

  Inside, I notice the chest is lined with a rich, red velvet, and I spy a large note in Granny’s handwriting. Picking it up, it reads,

  Happy honeymoon, y’all.

  Watch out fer the shivaree.

  “What’s a shivaree?” I ask.

  In my mind, I imagine some backwoods prank on honeymooners—one that probably involves banging on pots and pans, and maybe an explosion or two from the TNT Twins.

  Creek laughs. “Don’t worry, sweetheart—if they try to kidnap you, I can take ’em on.” His mouth slips into a crooked grin. “Sounds like fun, actually. Just make sure you put your clothes back on before we go to sleep.”

  I give him an elbow in the ribs. “You’re still healing from a gunshot wound, Mr. Flynn,” I scold. “Take it easy, okay? I can fight for myself.”

  Creek nods and swipes a kiss, but then I turn over the note and watch his face turn to ash. On the back, it reads,

  And best beware of ghosts who never rest.

  “What does she mean by ghosts?” I add. “I thought we left them all a couple of thousand miles away, in Italy.”

  But that’s when I realize Creek isn’t looking at the note. He’s staring inside the box, at a silver bracelet that was beneath Granny Tinker’s strange message. Woven through the links of the bracelet are little dried blue flowers, with the letter C stamped on the clasp. Beside it is a lock of blonde hair tied with a blue ribbon and a small stack of letters bound with twine. When I turn to Creek, he’s all of a sudden as far away from me as the stars.

  Once again, he’s that guy I don’t know.

  That I’m afraid I’ll never kno
w.

  And his eyes are a wall of ice, even in the warmth of the candlelight.

  Holding my breath, I jiggle his shoulder.

  Creek,” I say gently. “What’s happened to you?”

  He remains silent, every muscle in his body tightening, for what feels like minutes.

  “Goddamn her,” he finally whispers.

  Swallowing hard, tears mist my eyes. I know what C stands for—it’s for Caroline, his mother.

  But why on earth would Granny Tinker want to spoil our honeymoon with a reminder of the loss of Creek’s mom?

  Fishing around the box with my fingers, I discover that beneath the lock of hair and a few lake shells and smooth stones lies the ruby heart.

  The necklace has been attached to the top of the heart again, and it appears that Granny must have somehow glued it all back together. For the first time, I realize the pieces that had broken off from the shotgun blast had cracked along the fissure of the star.

  “Look, Creek,” I hold it up to him, hoping to change the subject—along with his abrupt shift in mood. “Shouldn’t we give this back to the gypsies? After all, it’s their heirloom, the Stone of Thieves.”

  Creek’s eyes appear troubled, and so distant that I feel a chill travel through my whole being. I grab the quilt and wrap it tight around our shoulders in a huddle.

  “Granny Tinker would’ve sent it back herself by now,” Creek says. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  He gazes into my eyes while his jaw muscles twist. For an interminable space of time, he’s silent, until he releases a long sigh. “Unless she thought we needed it,” he whispers.

  Grasping the ruby heart from my hand, Creek holds it up by the necklace and studies its crimson reflections in the candlelight as though the stone were a witness to everything he never wanted to remember about his mother’s murder.

  “But I thought my dad said the stone has no power,” I remind him.