by Nichole Van
“It was a vision of the past,” his voice quiet.
“The past?”
“Yeah. That’s never happened before. Dante and Branwell never see the future. I have never seen the past. That’s the deal.”
“Are you sure it was the past?”
“Absolutely.” He paused. “I saw the beginning.”
Tennyson recapped what he had seen. The zingari camp. Giovanni D’Angelo. Viewing the entire scene through the eyes of some unknown woman.
My mind struggled to keep up with it. Given the near awe in his voice as he spoke, he clearly was overwhelmed by it.
“So Giovanni promised the gypsies safety and security? And in return, they made a sacrifice that resulted in your GUTs?”
“That’s what I understood from it all. The old gypsy lady was really angry at me, too. She kept calling me a betrayer.” Tennyson continued to massage his left thigh with his free hand, digging his knuckle into a knot in a muscle as he spoke.
“Well, it’s obvious that the gypsies haven’t been treated well, not now, not then.” I yawned. “Remind me to look up what aid organizations might be working with them. There might be something we can do to help.”
Tennyson snorted.
“What?”
“You’re just so kind. Always thinking outside yourself.”
Now it was my turn to snort. “Please. Just doing my job.”
But that didn’t stop the warmth of his words from spreading through my chest.
“Why do you think you had the oracle vision of us visiting the zingari?” I continued. “Like why did we need to go there? So you could have this vision of the past?”
“I don’t know. Again, it’s not like my visions are carefully crafted by some higher hand to add meaning to my life. They are just naturally occurring blips in the universe. Sometimes my visions are pointless. Other times—” He swallowed. “—other times, they’re shattering.”
I wanted to ask him about those shattering visions, but I didn’t. Something in the way he said ‘shattering’ brought a lump to my throat.
What had shattered for him? What horrid things had he seen?
“You don’t have to talk about anything,” I said, “but I’m here if you need a set of listening ears.”
“Thank you. I’m good for now.” But his sigh and unrelenting grip on my hand said otherwise.
He shook his leg and turned his body toward mine, close enough that I could see tiny wrinkles and blue veins feathering out next to his eyes. His ears were cute little shells, but one was angled on top, giving it a slightly elfin appearance. His small imperfections made me smile.
Man, I was such a goner over him.
“So,” Words tumbled out of my mouth. “I’m guessing you’re more deer pellets than buffalo pies.”
That got his attention. “What?”
Right. My verbal filters were completely shot, obviously.
So what did I do? I doubled-down.
“Are you deer pellets or buffalo pies?” I asked. “When something emotionally difficult happens, do you clench the experience tight and only talk about it occasionally in small bursts? Or do you just dump your emotional issues all at once in a massive, sprawling load?”
Dead silence.
He angled his head. “Uhm . . . are you comparing my internal emotional landscape to animal scat?”
“You were a forestry major. The analogy seemed appropriate.”
A tiny smile tugged on his lips. I would describe his expression as reluctant humor—amused but surprised about it.
Tennyson wrapped his free hand around our joined ones. His thumb swept across the back of my hand, rubbing over my knuckles and sending zings up my arm.
I was pretty sure he had magic in that thumb of his.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. After a few seconds, he snorted.
“I don’t know that I’m deer pellets or buffalo pies,” he said. “I am so used to being alone. I live each day actively avoiding other human beings. It’s a hellish way to exist, but necessary. But with you around . . .” He gave me a full-on wry smile, eyes still closed. “I can’t think that I’ve had a heart-to-heart chat with anyone in years. And probably never with someone I didn’t know extremely well. It’s just too difficult. Feeling their emotional reaction of pity or indifference or annoyance before I’ve even said anything . . . But here you are, only two days in, and I’m suddenly contemplating spilling my innermost thoughts to you.”
Classic deer pellet response.
I chuckled. “I’m a total buffalo pie-er, by the way. The filter between my brain and my mouth is practically non-existent. In case you somehow missed that fact in all your random conversations with me.”
“Thank goodness. I’d never know what you’re thinking otherwise.”
We continued to talk. Him about the vision and its possible ramifications. Me about the plight of refugees and gypsies and other displaced people.
His eyelids drifted downward as we talked. My blinks became longer and longer.
Somehow, we both fell asleep.
I woke to a feminine voice whispering loudly.
“But they’re so cute, Jack. I mean . . . look at that. It’s adorbs.”
“You cannot say the word adorbs, Chiara mia,” Jack’s proper British accent replied. “It violates all syntactical rules and at least three laws of good taste.”
There were other people in the room. I knew I needed to wake up more fully.
But . . . I was impossibly comfortable. I was nestled against something warm and soothing. A reassuring heartbeat thumped under my ear. The situation touched something deep within me, a primal memory of some sort.
This. I had been born just for . . . this.
I cuddled closer, burying my nose into the warmth.
Dimly, reality intruded, breaking me from my trance.
First, I noted that something smelled divine: spicy male cologne and laundry soap.
Second, my brain connected that smell to Tennyson D’Angelo.
Third, I woke up enough to realize whose body I was wrapped around.
Somehow, I had twisted around to face the back of the couch and was currently sprawled across Tennyson’s chest, my head on his right shoulder and my hip against his left thigh, my nose pressed into the space between his jaw and collarbone. His arms banded my shoulders and my waist, holding me close.
We must have gravitated toward each other in our sleep. Or perhaps it was just Tennyson and his Hot Person skills, dragging me into his orbit.
“Shhhh, you’re waking them,” Chiara whispered loudly.
“I believe that was your intention, my love.” Jack grunted, probably from a well-placed elbow.
“You’re supposed to play along,” Chiara hissed.
“You clearly don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
Another grunt.
Tennyson stirred under my head. His voice groggy. “Chiara, do you think you could dial back the emotions a bit? I’m not quite up to dealing with the hyper, ‘Tenny! Wake up!’ vibe you have going on.”
Chiara sighed. “You’re no fun.”
“That’s me.” Tennyson yawned. “Mom should be here in a few minutes anyway. I felt her turn off the highway.”
“Is now where I bring up, again, how miserable it was to play hide-n-seek with you as a child?” Chiara asked.
“Nope. I suggest you save that for your therapist.”
“Ha-ha. Half asleep and still a comedian.”
“Thank you.”
I took that as my cue to push off Tennyson’s chest and sit up the littlest bit. My body protested the instant lack of his warmth—traitorous little hormones at work, sneaky buggers.
Full night had descended. A solitary lamp behind the couch lit the room.
Tennyson remained relaxed against the cushions, eyes closed, dark hair tumbled across his forehead, looking sleepy and mussed and eminently cuddle-able. I wanted nothing more than to collapse back into him and sleep the night awa
y.
How was it possible this incredible person could actually like me for me? The thought was astounding.
Careful, Olivia. Look before you dive deep into love with him.
My face was still close to his. If I leaned forward even six inches, our lips would meet.
Not that I was thinking about that . . . too much.
Hah! I was such a liar. Kissing was all I could think about, fixate on, wish-upon-a-star for . . .
Tennyson shifted and opened his eyes, his blue gaze instantly met mine. Granted, I was hard to miss, as my mouth was just inches from his.
I grinned at him, my eyes helplessly flicking to his tempting lips.
I expected him to smile or wink or . . . something.
I did not anticipate him flinching backward and practically launching himself upright, shrinking away in his frantic, skittering haste to put space between us.
Or, that’s at least how I read it.
Granted, he could also simply have an overactive central nervous system when he first wakes up.
But even my most hopeful hope didn’t quite believe that lie.
Swallowing, I twisted around on the couch, sitting more fully upright myself, giving Tennyson the space he clearly wanted. A leaden weight sank to the bottom of my stomach.
Hey, this is just my normal. Attractive men always scramble away from me like I’m an angry crab brandishing a switchblade.
I bit my lip and sternly stuffed all my silly, absurd hopes into a padlocked box.
Note to self—no matter how comfortable and bonded you might feel to someone, don’t assume the feelings are reciprocated unless expressly stated.
Obviously, I had been indulging in a delusional sense of connection between us all day.
You’re letting Reality date your Fantasies again.
You gotta stop.
Tennyson took in a short breath and nodded at Jack and Chiara.
Cause, ya know, no humiliation of mine was complete unless there were witnesses, too.
“Nice to see you guys,” he said, rubbing his neck and leaning forward to brace an elbow on his right knee.
“And you too, my brother,” Jack replied, looking back and forth between us, as if trying to understand what had just happened.
You and me both.
“Are you feeling all right?” Jack asked.
“Vorrei svegliarmi sempre con lei così vicino a me. Voglio baciarla e imparare la sua dolcezza, pezzo per pezzo2,” Tennyson rattled off in slick Italian, voice husky, clearly expressing his feelings.
Jack raised an eyebrow.
Chiara smirked.
Tennyson shrugged, still not looking at me. “Meh. I’ve been better.”
Ugh.
A kick to my diaphragm would have taken less wind out of me.
Stop this. You barely know this man.
Don’t be that girl.
The large front door downstairs snicked open. “Where is everyone?” Judith’s voice called. “I’ve brought pizza.”
2. I want to always wake up with her so close to me. I yearn to kiss her and learn her sweetness, bit by bit.
TWENTY ONE
Olivia
Fifteen minutes later, we were all seated at one end of the enormous table in the equally enormous dining room. Several pizza boxes lay scattered across the table surface. I was cleaning delicious pepperoni-laden goodness off my fingers.
“So, let me get this straight.” Chiara pointed a finger at Tennyson. “The zingari think Olivia is one of them. And you saw the past, specifically, the original meeting between Giovanni and the zingari. Are those all the revelations from today’s outing?”
Hah! Besides my own pathetic cluelessness?
I shook the thought away.
I had moved on from The Couch Episode, as I dubbed it in my mind.
Obviously, I was nursing a spectacularly one-sided crush. Not unsurprising as they were sorta my specialty.
Clearly, things had gotten extra chummy between Tennyson and me during the drive earlier, and I had decided to read more into it than actually existed.
Again. Not surprising.
Thank whatever gods may be that Tennyson didn’t feel my emotions. It was the only thing that stopped me from running from the villa in mortification.
Now, I simply needed to cut off any rampant expectations before they became more rampagy.
Got it.
Done.
Let’s move on.
To that end, I had chosen a seat across from Tennyson at the table, giving myself some space from him. Even better, the excellent pizza Judith brought was providing much-needed caloric therapy.
“There are a few other things,” Tennyson said, looking at his sister. “The zingara, the woman who insisted we had betrayed them, she said something odd after I came out of my vision—”
“After I collapsed?” I asked.
“Yeah. She said that the darkness will consume us.”
“Interesting.” Chiara wiped her hands.
“Yes, but there was more. She said”—Tennyson angled his head—“what was once whole is now broken, and the voices of the departed rise and speak again.”
Chiara frowned.
Jack drummed on the table. “What do you suppose that means?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a reference to us brothers—the curse fractured with our birth—and Dad has been reaching out to us from beyond the grave. But that wasn’t what confused me.”
I met his gaze.
He licked his lips and looked away from me to the others. “She also said that which was lost can be restored. But we must choose the path instead of being compelled to follow it.”
Chiara’s frown deepened. “That makes no sense. We must choose the path? What path?”
“We seem to be adding to our list of questions, rather than solving them,” Jack noted.
“Or the old zingara is just batty,” Chiara grumbled.
Silence descended for a moment.
Chiara said, “Babbo’s messages—”
“Babbo?” I asked Tennyson.
“Cesare, our father. Babbo is ‘Daddy’ in our Tuscan dialect.”
Ah.
“Yeah, so Babbo’s messages and my visions of a couple months ago told us that closing the scars will seal the daemon away, breaking the curse,” Chiara said. “This is the only ‘path’ we’re on. We already chose it. I don’t understand. There is no path. I’ve never read a word anywhere in the D’Angelo archive that talks about a path.”
“I feel like we’re back to square one, in a lot of ways,” Judith chimed in. Her graying hair was in a loose bun on her head, curls escaping to frame her face. “Tennyson’s vision today is something of a smoking gun. It proves that the gypsy connection to the D’Angelo curse is very much real.”
“But what do we do with that information?” Jack asked. “Do we toss out all our evidence that the D’Angelo gift has ancient, genetic origins? Besides which, the Giovanni/gypsy angle doesn’t explain why Chiara clearly has a GUT of her own.”
“Perhaps it’s both,” Judith offered.
“What do you mean?” Chiara asked.
“Perhaps the D’Angelos have a genetic gift of Second Sight similar to Chiara’s GUT. The gift is useful but subtle. What if the zingari simply added something to soup it up, so to speak?”
“Like a power-up?” I asked.
Tennyson grinned and winked at me.
Grrr. Stupid man.
If he didn’t want me to like him, he needed to stop with the flirty stuff.
“Exactly.”
Chiara tapped her lips, thinking. “That is fascinating. It doesn’t have to be either/or, I suppose. However, none of this explains what the daemon is.”
“Or how to stop it, like Babbo said we needed to do.” That was Tennyson’s contribution.
Judith dabbed at her mouth, eyes pensive. Was all this talk of her husband still painful for her? Or had Cesare’s loss mellowed from a sharp pain to a lingering ache? I couldn’t
imagine loving someone as much as she had loved Cesare and then losing him so young.
Chiara tossed her used napkin onto the table. “I hate that all I do is sit around and be confused by this conundrum.”
“Conundrum?” Tennyson snorted. “Jack is finally rubbing off on you.”
“Har-har,” Chiara deadpanned. “Stop trying to change the topic. If the gypsy connection is real, now what?”
Jack stretched an arm across the back of Chiara’s chair. “So far, we’ve glossed over a potentially important point.” He looked at me. “Olivia may have a genetic connection to the zingari.”
All eyes swung my way.
I squirmed under their scrutiny.
“What was your DNA make-up again?” Chiara asked.
“Greco-Italian and southwest Asian, like northern India.”
“Well, that certainly doesn’t rule out zingari heritage. It’s said the Roma originated in the Hindu Kush region, which takes in that area of India. And you were adopted, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Closed adoption?”
How to answer that? “Not precisely. I was abandoned as a newborn at a hospital.”
Judith scrunched her mouth. “That’s awful, but not entirely unprecedented.”
“Meaning?” Tennyson asked.
“In the Hindu and Islamic cultures of that region, an unwed mother pregnant with a mixed-race child would face, at best, persecution within her community. At worst, she and her child would be put to death. Even among immigrants in the U.S., it would be a concern.” Judith pushed away her plate. “It’s no wonder your mother decided to abandon you in a place where you might be saved.”
I folded my arms across my chest, trying not to think too much about why my birth mom had decided to give me up like she did. I had come to terms with it, but it still hurt if I thought too much about it.
What had driven her to make the decision? Had it been hard? Had she been desperate? Or relieved to just get rid of me?
But one thing had always bothered me.
“I realize that my birth mom probably felt she couldn’t or wouldn’t care for me, and that motivated her leaving me like she did. But you’d think in the United States that she could have at least used proper channels and done the adoption the right way. At least signed my birth certificate and given me a paper trail or something. Instead, she just left me and ran.”