by Nichole Van
“The zingari had petitioned the podestà to be able to remain in their lands. With the last stretch of his resources, Giovanni felt his mercenaries could ensure that. In return, he requested the gift of Sight.”
Silence.
“Oooookay.” Michael stretched the word, adding a universe of skepticism to it. “So that’s where your ‘gifts’ come from?”
Chiara sighed. It was a decidedly frustrated sound. “No. As we’ve been saying, we feel like that story is likely apocryphal. There has been no other evidence over the years to support it. Our gifts are more likely a genetic legacy. What we’re most interested in, at the moment, is solving the problem of the daemon that is attacking Tennyson and Olivia.”
Silence for another moment.
“So now what?” I asked.
“Aside from trussing up Michael and tossing him into our make-shift dungeon?” Jack replied.
Michael shifted restlessly and finally let out a huff of exasperation.
“Oh gee, what will we ever do?” He tapped his chin and then snapped his fingers again. “If only we had access to a psychic who could tell us all about the future. Man, now that would be helpful, wouldn’t it?” He fixed a dead-eyed look on Tennyson. “Pity we don’t have one of those.”
It was one hundred and ten percent challenge.
“Skepticism. Contempt. And a healthy dollop of outrage,” Tennyson countered, naming Michael’s emotions.
“What on earth does she see in you anyway?” Michael asked him, looking pointedly at our bodies cuddled together.
“I think that’s some serious jealousy speaking, Michael.” Tennyson snorted, pulling me closer. He turned to me, wiggling his eyebrows. “He should be jealous. Because I have you, cara.”
Tennyson fixed me with a heart-stoppingly tender gaze.
Whoa.
Pretty sure that look melted some vital brain cells.
Totally worth it.
“Jealous?!” Michael half-choked. “You gotta be kidding. You have nothing going for you. At least I didn’t have to ask my mommy for lunch money when Olivia and I dated.”
Uhmmm. Yeah.
That comment brought the room to a screeching halt.
Dead. Silence.
Tennyson went statue still. “You dated him?”
Emotion flooded his gaze. I wanted to label it hurt or jealousy or something, but those feelings made no sense here.
Was he just acting?
Michael’s responding smirk was pure male ego. “You bet she did.”
“I didn’t ask you, scemo,” Tennyson replied, shooting daggers at Michael. “Ho fatto la domanda alla mia ragazza perché lei è la donna più meravigliosa del mondo e voglio passare il resto della mia vita con lei. Tu, scemo, non sei degno di leccarle le scarpe.1”
Whatever Tennyson said, it got a reaction from the Italian-speaking half of the room. Chiara huffed a laugh and Jack snorted at what I assumed was a snarky set-down.
I was pretty sure I was now putty in Tennyson’s fine hands. Seriously, hearing staccato Italian flying from his mouth . . .
Whew. I mentally fanned myself.
For his part, Michael looked ready to commit murder. Or, knowing Michael, compose a sternly worded TripAdvisor review of his evening at Chez Maledetti.
Everyone turned to me, expecting a reply.
“Michael and I did date off and on for a year or so. But that was over two years ago.”
Tennyson traced a finger across my hand, sending chills up my arm. “You weren’t lying when you said you dated losers.”
I almost choked at the blatant insult.
Though I had never said as much to Tennyson, his words were incredibly true.
Michael had been one of many men who had seen me as an easy stepping stone to my parents. It stung that many of them had been right, Michael included.
I had met Michael at a fundraising event years before. He was a volunteer, obviously eager to climb the political ladder. But as that pretty much describes everyone around my mother, that fact alone didn’t set off any warning bells. My mom hired him on as a staffer.
I assumed that he was genuinely interested in me. My parents adored him and strongly encouraged our dating. I probably would still be dating him if it hadn’t been for a fateful Friday afternoon.
I had arrived early to meet Michael at his office, eager to spend some time with him. As he was on the phone, I stood outside his office waiting for him to finish. Even to this day, I could remember the words, crystal clear.
“Yeah, I know she’s a total hag. I hate having to date such a troll,” Michael griped to the person on the phone. “But that’s the price of political gain, ya know. You have to pay the piper. And if that involves dating and marrying the oddball daughter of a senior senator, then that’s what you do. She thinks I walk on water and I keep her happy, so it’s not like I’m hurting her or anything. She’ll never know I don’t care.”
Heart. Shattered.
I had pivoted on my heel, returned home, left Michael a voice mail telling him that this oddball daughter was breaking up with him and crawled into bed for three weeks straight, nursing my broken heart like the trollish hag I supposedly was.
Michael was aghast, naturally. How could I dare to reject his hot-person-ness? That went against the very laws of nature.
He called and texted incessantly, claiming that he was sorry. I didn’t doubt he was sorry for being found out. But that didn’t change the reality of his true feelings for me.
I finally asked him, point blank, ‘If I wasn’t Louise Hawking’s daughter, would you still date me?’ He had simply gaped like an open-mouth fish.
So that was that.
My parents were severely disappointed naturally. Of course, my mom kept Michael on her staff because, ‘He’s far too valuable to let go over a personal, family squabble.’
I never had the courage to tell my parents exactly what had happened. Something about the whole ‘my boyfriend thinks I’m so grotesquely unattractive it’s a chore to be around me’ I found too embarrassing to talk about. Besides, I was fairly convinced that they would side with Michael and urge me to get back with him.
Once he realized I wasn’t coming back, Michael made it his personal goal to needle and cajole me at every turn. He needed his dynastic marriage with me to seal his ambitious rise to power, and I was thwarting his life goals.
So . . . no wonder I was somewhat skeptical of Tennyson and his intentions.
The tension in the room simmered.
Tennyson looked back and forth between Michael and me, clearly trying to discern the dynamic between us.
Finally, Tennyson shook his head. “No need to be so smug about it, Michael. Though there is a little hurt underneath all the smug. I think he genuinely cared about you, Olivia.”
Hah! Any hurt he felt was due to lost social climbing opportunities.
Michael rolled his eyes and, true to form, scoffed.
“Uhm, I hate interrupt this charming little drama you guys have going on,” Chiara said, “but Michael actually made a good point.”
“He did?” Jack leaned away from Chiara.
“I did?” Michael looked equally surprised.
“Yeah. Tennyson, you should do your oracle thing and see if you can tell us what we should do next. It’s worth a try.”
I shot an anxious glance at the scar in the corner.
Tennyson followed my gaze. “I refuse to do anything that might put Olivia in danger.”
“I agree,” Jack nodded. “But the daemon never came through when one of you brothers deliberately activated your GUT. It only ever manifested itself when your GUTs were working passively.”
Tennyson remained tense beside me.
“Is that true?” I asked him, voice low, leaning that much closer.
Did the man have to smell so good?
Tennyson nodded, though it seemed reluctant. “My GUT does feel different when I use it as an oracle versus the random occurring visions. As an oracle, I am c
alm and complete when using my gifts. When the visions come upon me unawares, that’s when the fracturing increases.”
“This is so stupid.” Michael folded his arms across his chest.
“I’m willing to chance it,” I said. “Like I said, the last time, it only attacked you.”
“Are you sure, cara mia?” Tennyson asked.
I nodded.
“If the daemon comes through, I want you to run. Don’t worry about me.”
Not likely, but I was smart enough not to say anything.
Tennyson wasn’t done. “No matter what, from this point on, I want you to save yourself. Agreed?” His face was fiercely emphatic.
I nodded again.
Tennyson pulled his hand out of mine and scrubbed his palms down his thighs. “Let’s do this then.”
He relaxed into the couch, hands still on his thighs, head tilting to rest on the back of the couch. Swallowing, he focused on the ceiling, taking several deep breaths, the kind of chest-expanding, lung-cleansing breaths you do in yoga class.
He clearly was putting himself into some sort of trance.
It was fascinating.
“This is ridiculous.” Michael leaned forward.
“Shh.” I shot him a warning glance. Enough was enough, honestly.
“What is your question?” Tennyson’s voice was hollow, as if speaking from a great distance.
“We are trying to seal the scars in reality. Where should we look for answers?” Chiara asked.
Tennyson’s breathing went deeper, eyes still unfocused looking up to the ceiling.
“I’m driving in a car,” he said after a moment. “Olivia is beside me in the passenger seat. We’re on the autostrada. We take the exit toward Prato and drive through town.”
I looked toward the huge scar in the corner, the one that had spit out the daemon last time. Its edges fluttered, as if some invisible breeze were wafting through it.
“I can’t believe you buy into this, Olivia.” Michael’s tone was incensed.
“Stop it, Michael,” I whispered.
If Tennyson heard us, it didn’t show. “We keep going and drive north into the mountains beyond Prato. The road becomes narrower and narrower. I take a right. Then a left.”
The large scar began to glow, a soft, golden sunset color, not the acidic flames of before. Its edges fluttered open wider.
No daemon poured through.
“We continue down the road, driving through trees,” Tennyson intoned. “A clearing comes into view. I pull to a stop beside a row of dusty travel trailers. Olivia and I get out of the car. Children run in the dirt, chasing mangy dogs. Two women in colorful skirts and head scarfs call the children to them. A man steps out of the trailer and walks toward us. He has dark eyes and olive skin.” A pause. “We’re at a gypsy camp. The Roma people.”
“Good grief.” Michael slapped his legs, the noise making me jump. “This is a total bucket of crap. How is this a ‘prophecy’?”
Tennyson took in a startled breath. “I see Michael walking down an Italian street. Someone has dropped a package of crackers on the sidewalk in front of him.”
“What?!” Michael whipped back to Tennyson.
Tennyson didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes remained unfocused, looking upward. “A pigeon darts down to grab one of the crackers. Michael waves his hands, shooing it away, unaware of its intent. Four other pigeons land in front of him, tearing at the cracker package. Michael stumbles over them, arms windmilling forward. To stop his fall, he puts both palms out and makes contact with the chest of an Italian nonna walking toward him, carrying groceries. The old lady drops her groceries and begins to yell that she never has been, nor ever will be, the kind of woman who welcomes such advances. She punctuates her tirade by punching Michael in the eye. Michael will have a black eye for two weeks afterward.”
Chiara let out a bark of laughter. Jack smirked.
“Very funny.” Michael sat back. “Ha-ha. You all are hilarious.”
“Will that happen?” I asked Chiara.
“Nothing is set in stone, but if Tennyson predicts it, chances are it will happen at some point.” Chiara collapsed into giggles. I grinned with her.
The image Tennyson painted was funny. It almost made up for Michael’s ‘hag’ comment. Almost.
Tennyson took in a sudden lungful of air and shook his head, sitting fully upright.
He looked at us all laughing, Michael scowling.
“What did I miss?” he asked.
1. I asked the question of my girlfriend because she’s the most incredible woman in the world and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. You, moron, aren’t worthy to lick her shoes.
EIGHTEEN
Tennyson
This is exactly the place I saw in my vision.” I turned off the narrow highway and onto the small, dirt track.
My Jeep took the potholed road with ease. The lane led to an open meadow where the tops of travel trailers glinted in the morning sun.
“So why a gypsy camp?” Olivia asked from the passenger seat.
“I have no idea. I swear every single D’Angelo story loops back to gypsies.”
“Maybe your GUT has a bit of a gypsy fetish?”
“It’s starting to feel like it.” I peered through the trees.
After my vision the night before, Michael had stomped off in an irritated huff.
I was still reeling from the thought that Olivia had dated that douchebag. He had felt so smug saying that, too. Like Olivia was some sort of prize and whoever dated her first won.
I really didn’t like Michael. I was trying to take the high road and not engage with him. But it was hard.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how Olivia had likely kissed him and cuddled him and had feelings for him.
Jealousy burned in my throat, acrid and potent.
I wanted to know everything about their relationship. How and why had it ended? Did she still care about him?
But I had given myself a stern talking to this morning.
Be polite. Be nice.
No asking obsessive questions about Michael and her other past relationships.
No trying to dissect every possible emotion she might be feeling.
No more fantasies about kissing her.
No more thoughts about having her as my girlfriend in truth.
Her safety depended on me keeping my distance.
I simply had to be stronger than my attraction to her.
I rolled the Jeep to a stop at the edge of the meadow. We both leaned forward in our seats, taking in the cluster of old travel trailers and hastily-erected shacks haphazardly arranged around a central space.
“The camp appears . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Well-used?” I offered.
She nodded. “Something like that.”
It was a polite way of saying the place looked like a third-world slum. I had seen favelas in Brazil that were nicer than this.
The ground around the camp was trampled down to bare earth; plastic bags, wrappers and other garbage fluttered about. Just as in my vision, rattily-dressed children chased a mangy dog across the dirt. Two women stepped from one of the trailers, both dressed in t-shirts and flowy colorful skirts. They watched our car suspiciously, calling to the children.
Curiosityangerfrustrationworryragedistrust . . .
It all washed over me.
I let out a deep breath.
“What can I do to help you?” Olivia asked. “This has got to be difficult.” She motioned to the people through the windshield.
I loved that Olivia intuitively knew not to ask that dreaded question: You okay? She knew they were meaningless words. Instead, true to her selfless self, she immediately jumped to caring.
The silence of her emotions tugged at me. Like in the hospital, I mentally leaned into her, using the soft nothingness of her to shield my mind from the rest of the world.
Something about her presence acted as a balm. I could manage when she was around
, if just barely. The obsessive thoughts about heights and falling retreated. The constant background noise was more . . . bearable.
Words slipped out. “Sei la donna dei miei sogni. Ho bisogno solo di te per essere felice.”
I muttered the Italian, almost under my breath. You’re the woman of my dreams. I need only you to be happy.
I swallowed and gave a more bland answer in English, “Just you being here helps.”
It was the truth, though significantly less than the truth I wanted to say.
I wanted to tell her how much I admired her selflessness. I wanted to say how beautiful she looked today in her tight jeans and ‘accessory’ jacket. I wanted to thank her for no longer being with Michael and having a heart free for me.
Though if I rattled all that off in Italian, Olivia would justifiably want an explanation.
A man approached us from one of the trailers, the same man I had seen in my vision.
Relations between Italians and the gypsies—i zingari, in Italian, or more properly, the Roma—had been tense for years. I knew from experience that the Roma could be warm and welcoming to guests. But they didn’t trust outsiders easily, and most Italians were not kind to the Roma living in their midst.
In some ways, the Roma were utterly remarkable. They had lived in Italy for at least seven hundred years but had somehow managed to retain their own unique customs and language despite their persecution. Of course, their refusal to assimilate culturally had come at the cost of social isolation which, in turn, resulted in high unemployment and desperate poverty.
It was a vicious cycle.
Olivia and I got out of the Jeep. She crossed around to me, coming close to my side, almost hiding half behind me.
“Do you see any scars here?” I asked.
“I don’t think so . . .” Olivia glanced about. “No, wait. I see one over by the trailer in the corner there. That’s it, though.”
“If this were some sort of mystical ground zero, you’d think there would be more scars.”
“I agree. Who knows how it all works, though?”