by Arial Burnz
Davina turned when Rosselyn emerged from the wardrobe with pink-rimmed eyes. “Thank you for helping me dress, Roz.”
Rosselyn nodded and excused herself, leaving Davina with an uncomfortable silence and an empty heart at another failed attempt to reminisce with someone. Davina pulled a fresh kerchief from her dresser drawer and sat on the lounging couch before the hearth, burying her face in the soft linen. Wiping her face and tucking her kerchief into her sleeve, she straightened her shoulders and focused on the day ahead. The chores would be a welcome distraction.
With most of the larger chores finished for the day, Davina and Lilias freshened up and dressed more appropriately for their trip to the village. Davina wore a gown of pleated gold and maroon, embroidered with moss-green designs across her breast. Gold embroidery trimmed the square neckline of the kirtle, laced tight for support. The soft moss-green linen of her chemise peeked through the slits of the maroon sleeves.
“Oh, none of this will do!” Lilias complained to Davina in front of the vendor. “All my ribbons are old. ‘Tis nothing bonnie here for a replacement!”
The merchant frowned at her as they strolled away. Davina cast an apologetic glance back at the man. “Oh, you do carry on, M’ma. I only just bought some ribbon for you a few months ago.”
“Aye! ‘Tis old!”
A chuckle fluttered from between Davina’s lips and she ushered her mother through the market, making their way past the hawkers and sing-song calls of the merchants, trying to entice them to buy their wares. The gathering crowd by the entrance to the square gave Davina pause and caused her eyebrows to rise with curiosity. “M’ma, look,” she said, pointing.
They craned their necks, trying to see over the crowd. Laughter rippled through the congestion, and the gathered people parted to let the procession through.
“Gypsies!” a young woman squealed as she squeezed through the crowd to join the people standing to Lilias’s side. “The Gypsies are in town!”
Davina’s heart hammered against her ribs, and her hand flew to her chest. At least two years had passed since any Gypsies came through Stewart Glen, and not since nine years ago had she seen the group her giant Gypsy belonged to. Davina mumbled a hopeful prayer.
Lilias patted Davina’s arm with authority. “They’ll surely have a bonnie selection of ribbons from all over the world.”
“Aye, M’ma,” she said, surprised at her own breathlessness.
Davina and Lilias pushed their way through the forest of bodies to see the parade go by. With festive music tinkling over the crowd, acrobats tumbled in the street, and jugglers tossed flashing blades and torches into the air. Caravans rumbled by in a rainbow, all of them painted in bright blues, greens, yellows and reds, trimmed in brass or copper. Some had carved, wooden designs of excellent craftsmanship; all teetered, loaded with wares, pots and utensils, beads and scarves, happy faces and waving hands. A caravan painted with stars and mystic symbols lumbered by, driven by a pretty young woman with mounds of golden hair about her shoulders. Beside her sat a dark, wrinkled woman, who ogled Davina, her lips parted and eyes wide with recognition.
“He has returned,” Davina whispered.
She watched the great wagon roll by. The old woman strained to look at Davina over her shoulder, pushing aside the dangling scarves and beads.
Excitement surged through Davina. He has come back! He’s truly here! She watched the caravans wobble through the square and disappear down the center street. Her eyes jumped from one face to the next in the procession as the people passed by, but she didn’t see him anywhere.
Lilias nodded, watching the trailing acrobats throw each other into the air. “We should come back tonight and watch them perform, Davina. This promises to be a very entertaining evening. “
“Aye, M’ma,” Davina said at last with a growing smile. “That it does!”
* * * * *
A cry sliced through the blackness and Broderick MacDougal ran toward it, urgency knotting his gut. She ran out of the forest toward him, her carrot-red hair flowing behind her like a banner, her eyes wide and filled with terror.
“Broderick!” the young girl yelped. She glanced back over her shoulder, as if running from some hideous monster. Her thin, frail body ran into his arms and he encased her in his comforting embrace, soothing the freckle-faced child. “There, there, lassie. ‘Tis safe you are.”
Broderick pulled back to wipe her tears, but no longer held the youth in his arms. A mature woman, who resembled the maid, clung to him now, cascading mounds of rich auburn hair framing her exotic face. Her sapphire eyes, glassed with tears, gazed at him with hope, her bow-like mouth trembling and tempting. Her full breasts pressed against his chest, and Broderick moaned in response.
A guttural growl in the distance returned his attention to the one who pursued her. Turning away from the darkened trees and carrying her in his arms, he headed for a white fog bank in the glen where she would be safe. She nestled her head against his chest, clinging to him, her warmth seeping into his flesh.
Once they reached the safety of the fog, she pressed her palm to his cheek. “I knew you would return.” The huskiness of her voice teased the desire stirring his loins.
Broderick let her figure slide down the front of him, and against his arousal, as he set her to stand. He groaned as his hands caressed her curves, realizing the only barrier between his touch and her skin was her whisper-thin night dress.
“Broderick, I knew you would return,” she breathed and touched his lips with her fingertips.
Broderick bent forward and seized her mouth in a hungry kiss, and she opened to him, inviting him to delve into her sweetness. The physical contact alone was enough to excite his cravings —the heat of her skin, the scent of roses and her blood, the taste of her mouth, the sound of her sighing his name—and yet a deeper connection caused his body to respond with a surging need that settled in his groin. His hands sought the hem of her night dress, pulling the material up to her hips where Broderick smoothed his palms over the soft mounds of her bottom. Lifting her into his arms once more, he persuaded her to wrap her long legs around his waist, and his fingers explored the wet folds of her quim. She gasped and threw her head back, clutching at his shoulders.
“Aye, lass,” Broderick encouraged. He toyed with her sensitive bud and she bucked her hips against his hand, grunting her pleasure as she writhed in his grasp.
Wrapping her arms about his neck, she fused her lips to his and whimpered her orgasm into his mouth. Shuddering, she broke from the kiss, panting and gasping. “I want you inside me, Broderick.”
His rod surged with anticipation. Cradling her backside in one arm, he unfastened his breeches, letting his erection spring forth. Already wet and pulsing for him, she slid onto his shaft with an ease that weakened his knees, and he dropped to the cool grass, positioning her to straddle his lap as he knelt. Broderick cupped her bottom, bouncing her as he buried his cock deep, watching her full lips whisper his name. With a firm grip on her hips, he drove deeper and harder, grinding her against him, not able to get enough of this woman, rocking closer to climax.
Her hot breath against his ear, she pleaded, “Say my name, Broderick.” She locked eyes with him. “Davina,” she encouraged. “I want to hear your voice thick with passion as you say my name.”
A grin spread his mouth wide and he eagerly obliged. Bending forward, he laid her under him, tilting her hips to give him better access, and grunted into her hair.
“Davina!” Broderick MacDougal sprang up in the darkness of his cave, rousing from his sleep and rubbing his erection. In the blackness, his eyes searched his surroundings. As the haze of his daytime sleep cleared from his mind, he relaxed and laid back down.
A sheen of moisture covered his body, and he lay panting. Dreams. They seemed to be meant for mortals, and yet after so many years, he had one. Touching his turgid shaft, it dawned on him that he hadn’t had a stiff member upon wakening since before his transformation almost—
Shaking his head to clear the memories threatening to rise, he drew in a deep breath to will them away and reflected on the dream, instead. A long, tortured moan escaped his lips. Where had the detailed vision come from? He lay smiling, wishing such images filled his mind every time he slept, though he admonished his himself for not finishing the deed and being so unfulfilled. How strange that he dreamt of the young, freckle-faced girl whose palm he’d read the last time they’d been to this little town—and recalling this caused his member to sag.
Broderick laughed at his body’s response.
He saw her enough during the many visits she made to Amice. Her secret trips to the pantry with her brother to steal honey tickled his mind; and the way her heart thumped away in her breast every time she saw him. Pretty and innocent, she had been destined to break some hearts. A soft chuckle quivered out of him as he recalled Amice’s divination: You have her heart forever, my son.
After so many years, how many hearts had she broken? How many, indeed, if she turned into the vision of beauty in his dream. He growled a predatory sound and his shaft resurrected with need. Was she still here after all this time? Most likely grown up and surrounded by a brood of wee bairn. If she were his wife, and if the dream was any indication of what she’d be like in his bed, the woman would be eternally pregnant.
What a strange dream to have after all these years. Had returning triggered some kind of craving to protect the lass after the fortune he read for her? Did she experience the tumultuous future he divined? These cravings to protect her must have been quite strong to elicit a dream after so many decades. Interesting.
Broderick rose to dress. His silver sword sat propped against the stone wall, along with his clothes, boots and sporran—the leather pouch he wore upon his belt. He had his sword especially fashioned in preparation to confront Angus Campbell, having the blade crafted in silver—the only weapon he knew that had an effect against a Vamsyrian. Though he didn’t have much cause to use his sword over the last few decades, Broderick practiced with the blade, using his immortal strength and speed to wield the weapon in ways he never learned as a mortal. Holding the sword in his grip, enjoying the weight of the weapon, gave him comfort in a mortal sense. He rarely carried it with him to the camp, though, and left it propped against the cave wall. If Angus was close by, Broderick would know.
Dressed, he stepped out of the cave and inspected the surrounding forest. Going ahead of the caravan of Gypsies, knowing where they headed, he found the cave he used the last time they visited Stewart Glen. Caves were ideal, but not plentiful in the smoother terrain of the eastern end of Scotland. Fortunately, this town sat nestled into the rising mounds of rocky terrain covered in a dense forest, perfect for hiding in the hours of daylight. Broderick preferred something like a cave, or abandoned dwelling, which took little preparation. On the other hand, if they weren’t available and the area didn’t seem safe, digging sometimes became necessary—a task Broderick loathed because it reminded him so much of a grave. He knew he slept the trance of the undead during the light of day, but delving into the earth at such a time was not the reminder he needed—too nightmarish for his tastes.
The low stirrings of the Hunger needled his gut. Immortality had benefits, but was not without its banes. Though he could still eat, normal food did nothing for him. Vamsyrians must feed on human blood. Not because the lack of blood would be fatal—this Broderick found out five years after he crossed over, taking his own personal journey to discover his limitations, despite the advice of his mentor, Rasheed. That personal journey gave Broderick advantages over his mentor and the other Elders, and he chose to keep his private lessons secret to maintain that advantage. The Vamsyrians proved to be a suspicious breed. A contagious state of mind, Broderick reluctantly admitted. Once more, the past tried to resurface and he pushed the rising dread away. Enough of this review of his history. The time had come to satisfy the Hunger.
The hairs on the back of his neck tingled and Broderick darted his eyes about the forest. This sensation proved to be something else he’d not experienced in some years—the presence of another Vamsyrian. Ducking back inside the cave, Broderick donned his sword, and opened his senses to the experience, closing his eyes and taking in the area around him. The cool night air touched his cheeks and a faintly familiar chill rippled through his limbs. Angus?
Broderick pinpointed the direction of the presence and dashed through the forest, trees and brush flashing by in a blur. Though sensing the presence of his kind was not a skill he alone possessed—as any Vamsyrian could feel the spirit of another—he did take many years to increase that range beyond anyone he’d known. This was one of the advantages he kept from his mentor. As he pursued, he turned this way and that along with the presence, certain whoever it was came within range of what Broderick called the standard boundary. Surprising Broderick to a gradual stop, he lost the sense of the presence. He closed his eyes and extended his perception. Still nothing. Broderick clenched his jaw in defeat.
A quick search of the immediate area revealed a lair—a deep hole dug into the ground, the entrance hidden behind a large boulder in which only one of their kind had the strength to move. Broderick could hardly stand up inside the shelter and the width was just enough to accommodate a sleeping area for someone his size. Broderick eyed the wool and linen bedding in the dimness, his immortal vision giving him the ability to make out the sparse personal belongings. Whoever’s lair this belonged to didn’t leave enough behind to give Broderick many clues…save one. The spicy scent he caught rising from the bedding seemed vaguely familiar.
Broderick shook his head and left the lair. He couldn’t be certain this belonged to Angus. Too many years passed for him to be sure the essence he sensed or smelled was indeed his enemy. This hole could very well house another, whom he may have met in his many journeys. He wouldn’t be pleased to find his hiding place demolished, so until he was sure, he left this one alone. He took note of its location, though, and turned to head back toward the village of Stewart Glen. He still must feed.
The Gypsies set up their camp at the edge of the woods, at the rim of the small town of Stewart Glen. They erected tents, unloaded caravans, and displayed wares for the coming fortnight of bartering, begging, performing, and even some thieving. They would stay longer if there was a steady flow of visitors willing to spend their money. Or if they could find work on farms, but the harvest was over, so work would be scarce. Even the weather might keep them around, but long stays in general were to be avoided. They never wanted to wear out their welcome. Not many places embraced the Gypsies in these troubling times of plague and poverty.
The darkened sky let the fires and torches illuminate the encampment in a dancing yellow light. Broderick scanned the many tents and caravans as he approached the settlement, to ferret out Amice and Veronique’s camp. There sat the mystical wagon. The tent sagged and Broderick groaned. He had shown Veronique several times how to help Amice erect the tent. She needed to start taking on more responsibilities. Was she being lazy or did she truly lack the aptitude to stake the tent properly? How many more times did he need to show her how to complete the task? He shook his head. At least their camp was nested in a good vantage point at the edge of the settlement—close to the town where the villagers would file into the encampment. An inviting fire burned with a warm glow and Broderick sauntered up to the tent where he could see Amice’s shadow as she prepared for the evening of fortune telling.
“C’était la fille,” Amice said under her breath, his immortal ears picking up her voice even at this distance. “I know that was her.”
Broderick stood at the opening of the tent. Her hunched figure bustled around, arranging the table
and stools and lighting the oil lamps. Amice’s protective nature mothered him, and he frowned. She learned something of his past, though he never spoke of his history in length. She picked up bits and pieces of his life through the years, images she divined from him before she taught him to control his thoughts. Broderick’s tongue slipped during their conversations, revealing more details of his tragedies. As a result, she believed she knew what Broderick needed.
Broderick entered the tent and gave her a hug. “Bon soir, Amice.”
“Good evening, my son,” she responded in French, returning the hug, and continued setting up the table for the night. She lit the incense and blew at the coals until they glowed red. Now close enough, Broderick could hear her thinking. I must not mention her. He will not listen. I’m better off not mentioning her at all.
Broderick came up behind Amice and whispered in her ear, “Planning to marry me off, eh?”
She spun around and glared. He jumped back to avoid her scolding finger. “You stay out of my thoughts, Broderick MacDougal! I do not invade your mind! I expect the same courtesy!”
“I heard your words upon my approach,” he protested. Her thoughts were her own, and Broderick knew she abhorred the invasion of privacy, but he couldn’t help teasing her. These mind games were harmless enough. “So fiery for an old lass! And just who do you have in mind?”
“I never should have taught you how to perfect your mental powers!”
“I make too much money for you to mean what you say.” He laughed.
“You just keep invading me and we will see how fiery I can get! I will cast a spell on you, and you…you will fall in love with a chicken!” She nodded emphatically.
Broderick held his laughter back at the ridiculous threat for about as long as he could manage, his lips clamped tight, but eventually spit out a flurry of chuckles. “I did not choose to hide amongst the Gypsies to be eternally wed to a chicken! And what in Hades made you think of that punishment?” He shook his head, still laughing.
