Scroll- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  And the fortune-teller replied in a spate of words too fast for me to even guess at their meaning.

  It might have been entertaining if I hadn’t already known what they were arguing about. Still, it was like watching a prize-fight between two well-matched combatants.

  But then I heard a word that I did know and understand, issuing forth from between the old gypsy woman’s thin lips.

  She fairly spat the word at Finn.

  ‘Emim!’

  Fearful One.

  Finn paused in his speech. Then, not even bothering to turn and face me, he threw over his shoulder in English, ‘Saffron, get out!’

  His voice, harsh and angry, brooked no opposition and I found myself making for the tent flap and, seconds later, dashing past the Romany encampment following the path of the Seine, the fortune-teller’s curse still resounding in my head.

  She had called Finn “Emim”, confirming my worst fears and suspicions. He was the enemy. In the back of my mind, I had already known this – but even now I didn’t want to believe it. I’d convinced myself that he wasn’t like the others. There was something different about him. He wasn’t like his “brothers”.

  I moved quickly and quietly behind the crowd so as not to attract attention in my agitated state. People were striding past me in the opposite direction, laughing and joking, heading towards the gypsy’s tent for a scrying.

  I had only just passed the last gypsy caravan, pausing briefly to look back before stepping out into the fitful light of the streetlamps when Finn moved out of the shadow of the fortune-teller’s tent. He lifted his head to the cool night air as if sniffing my scent like a wolf. His eyes roved past the line of colourful tents with their hanging lanterns, skimming lightly over the figures of the tourists and locals who were seeking entertainment, moving between them, tracking me down. Peering through the gloom, they came to rest on me.

  I could not believe the strength of his vision, that he could see me in such dim light. But his eyes narrowed perceptibly and he seemed to bare his teeth in anticipation as he sighted his prey.

  I took to my heels in fright.

  I had something of a head start – there was a good distance between him and me and a tide of obstacles in between. Or so I thought.

  But it did not matter.

  I had known as soon as I had begun to flee from his monstrous figure that he would easily catch me up. I had seen him move at great speed before – there was no way I was capable of outrunning him. I don’t even know why I bothered to try. I did not even dare to imagine what he might do to me once he did catch me up.

  But I was soon to find out.

  I supposed that I expected him to strangle me. Even if he did need my help to find the second part of the map, I had discovered something that was never meant to be known – something about his past he wished to keep secret, and not just from me. So I fled, dashing past market stalls and buskers, dodging tourists and onlookers, retreating from the noise and laughter of the markets with Finn in furiously hot pursuit.

  I put on a burst of speed as I neared the ice rink, believing that I could hear him closing in behind me with every stride. My breath was coming out in short, sharp wheezes; momentarily steaming in the wintry night air.

  It was then that I realised that Finn was no longer behind me.

  He had eased into a lope, effortlessly keeping abreast of me. Pace for pace. His graceful strides did not even produce a puff of breath from between his lips – lips that were, in my mind, pulled back in a snarl.

  He deliberately did not close the gap between us.

  He was toying with me, allowing me to believe that if I could reach the ice rink, I could reach safety. He was allowing me to lead him to a dead end where he would easily catch me up and have me at his mercy.

  Gasping, I exerted greater energy, feeling my heart pumping fit to burst; its beat a litany accompanying the rhythm of my stride.

  Just a little more, I tried to convince myself. Another few metres or so.

  But my legs were slowly turning to jelly as I ran out of stamina.

  I could not go much further.

  It was useless.

  I reached the colonnades of the Hôtel de Ville and collapsed against one of its stone columns. His hand came down hard upon my shoulder and twisted me around to face him.

  I noticed, as if from a great distance, the minutest details – how his eyes were now a turbulent midnight blue, how a lock of his overlong dark hair artfully flopped down on his forehead, that his shirt was slightly open exposing the hollow of his throat where I could see the blood beneath his pale skin throbbing wildly. I noticed, too, the expression on his face.

  It was as wild and savage as the ocean in a tempest.

  My sides were burning from the run, I was heaving great gasps of air as if I was drowning for breath.

  He did not even have the decency to look winded. He barely looked like he had been working out.

  It did not occur to me then that I could have called out for Gabriel’s assistance. I was in no fit state of mind.

  But then, neither was Finn.

  We stood in the shadow of the Hôtel de Ville where there was enough privacy for a couple to be intimate. But from the look in Finn’s eye I gathered that was the last thing on his mind.

  I waited for him to ring my neck.

  He had his arm above me and his body pressed against my length to ensure I could not escape.

  ‘You needn’t bother,’ I said, pushing against his taut chest, ‘I’m not about to run away. I doubt I’d get to take three steps before you caught up with me again.’

  He did not budge. His eyes were harrowing, intense, violent.

  I had never seen him in the grip of such strong, passionate emotions that they fairly seethed within him. I had only ever observed his indifference and despair. This Finn was new to me. And new to him, too, from what I could judge.

  I swallowed hard.

  ‘There were seven lanterns–’

  I tried to explain, but he cut me off.

  ‘The Roma are not to be trusted. They are as treacherous, cunning and black-hearted as devils.’

  He obviously didn’t see the irony of his statement.

  ‘But–’

  Again, I got no further.

  He lifted his hand and, just briefly, I wondered if he was about to strike me.

  I should have been afraid. I should have protested. Perhaps fought him. But I simply stood there, refusing to flinch.

  He gripped my jaw, tilting my head up to face him. His touch was not rough or cruel. It was, in fact, unexpectedly gentle for one who looked so murderous. He stood there staring at me for what seemed like an eternity, his hand still upon my jaw, brushing against my exposed throat. I began to wish he’d just get it over with. Kill me and be done with it.

  ‘Bloody hell! Finn, say something. Do something. If you’re going to kill me, just do it, just get it over with–’

  I stopped speaking then because he made me.

  He did not strike me. He did not strangle me.

  Instead, he did something entirely unexpected.

  It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. When he finally released me, I was breathing too hard and too fast – as if I had been chased by him all over again. My lips felt bruised and I tasted the metallic sting of blood. My eyes had widened till they were huge hazel saucers in my too pale face. And I looked at him with wide-eyed surprise as if seeing him for the very first time.

  He grabbed my arm then and half-dragged me, half-marched me to the edge of the steps of the Hôtel de Ville, overlooking the ice rink. In the distance, I could make out Gabriel’s wheat coloured head where he stood towering above the mere mortals surrounding him.

  Finn thrust me forward so violently that I almost slipped upon the icy steps of the town hall as he withdrew his hand from my arm. Then he turned abruptly and strode away, not bothering to look back at me once as he departed, knowing very well that my gaze was locked on his retreating fo
rm.

  I stood still on the steps of the Hôtel de Ville, a small figure against the impressive stone colonnades that adorned the town hall, scrutinising Finn as he was swallowed by the tide of humanity that separated him from me.

  It was several minutes before I regained my composure. And several more after that for my breathing and heart rate to decrease and return to normal.

  Gingerly touching my swollen bottom lip in wonderment, I suddenly realised I had not even thought to pull away from his close embrace ... nor had I wanted to.

  THE THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM

  CHAPTER TEN

  I had only descended a few steps of the Hôtel de Ville in order to make my way over to Gabriel and the others when a small hand brushed against my overcoat from behind. Normally I would not have noticed such a light touch, but my senses were heightened from the exhilaration and danger of my earlier episode with both the fortune-teller and with Finn and I was still slightly on edge, aware of my environment as I had never been before.

  I turned, anticipating a pickpocket, readying myself to give chase. Though, truth be told, I doubted I had the energy to run after the little thief after my exhausting failed flight from Finn.

  But I should have known better. The Romany taught their children to pick pockets with a light-fingered touch, not even the merest tickle of a feather. They often practised their skills on an chief member of their clan, an elder, who had already mastered the art of thievery. By using bells sewn into the intended victim’s clothing during lessons, the aim was to avoid detection by ensuring that the bells did not tinkle when the thief inserted their hand into a victim’s pocket or handbag. In this way, the children were trained to artfully pick pockets without a victim being aware that they were being robbed. I would not have felt my wallet or mobile phone being lifted. I would not have discovered them missing until the culprit was long gone.

  Instead, I whirled around to find a small Romany child no older than my younger brother, Alexander, standing behind me, assessing me with her huge, dark eyes – eyes that were much too knowing for such a young face.

  I regarded her objectively.

  She was half-naked in the middle of winter – a skinny little thing. But she did not look ill-treated or abused. While her shiny braids bore evidence of her hair being recently washed and her face was grimy with tracks of mucus, she wore a pair of Escada knock-off crystal-encrusted jeans, leopard-print ballet mules, and a silver lamé tank top, which looked far too flashy and grown-up for such a small child. It was like she had been playing dress-up with her older sisters.

  From the pocket of her jeans she drew out a piece of knotted calico on a leather thong.

  ‘My Bunica told me to give this to you.’

  I looked at her sceptically as she held it out to me in the palm of her little hand.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It is a charm to ward off evil, made from a black pebble and the relic of a saint; the finger bone of a dead Roma. It is strong magic.’

  I had automatically reached out to take the necklace but, at the girl’s words, withdrew my hand hastily. I wanted nothing to do with a dead person – saint or otherwise.

  ‘I don’t think–’

  ‘You will be in need of strong magic,’ the child insisted, her eyes glowing with conviction as she thrust the charm into my hand, ‘Because of him.’

  I hesitated. ‘What do you mean? Him?’

  ‘The Dark One. He who brings Death.’

  I gave a shiver at the child’s terrible words. They may have been a trifle melodramatic but she obviously believed in her grandmother’s Gift. And if the effect was meant to horrify and put me on my guard, she had succeeded.

  The little girl’s voice dropped low, conspiratorially, ‘My Bunica says to tell you this – wherever he walks, he brings darkness and despair. He is pure evil. You will hear the wailing and weeping of his victims. You will hear the cries and screams of the dead as they echo in his shadow.’

  I suddenly felt ill.

  Whatever future the old gypsy woman had seen in my palm, she sincerely believed I was somehow in danger and had sent me her granddaughter with her strongest magic.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, clutching the small charm in the palm of my left hand.

  The little girl nodded solemnly and began to move away.

  ‘Wait!’ I called after her.

  I dug in my pocket and produced a €5 note, holding it out to the child. Her eyes widened as she looked at the money in my hand, offered so freely to her. I could see the temptation in her eyes; a wistful longing. But it warred with something else, something more powerful.

  ‘My Bunica said that there was to be no payment,’ she stated firmly.

  I continued to offer her the note. ‘Take it. Please ... As a thank you. Not as payment.’

  But the child was determined. Shaking her head roughly, she spurned my offer and, turning, ran back to the safety of the gypsy camp.

  As she disappeared from view, I opened my left hand and stared down at the small, three-sided leather bag stitched together on the leather thong that carried so much power and magic. Without conscious thought, I placed the necklace over my head, tucking it into my knitted top, so that the knot hung from around my neck, settling between my breasts. It felt strangely warm against my skin.

  I gave a shudder. The finger bone of a dead Roma. For the umpteenth time that day, I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into...

  I made my way slowly over to where Gabriel stood in solitude, navigating by sight through the throng of people milling around the ice rink. In the distance, to my right, I could see the cathedral towers and spires on the Île de la Cité gleaming golden against the starless night sky. The moon was up, a perfect circle of creamy white casting its reflection onto the still, dark waters of the Seine. From my position, it looked like the Eye of Providence, the all-seeing eye, gently rippling in the night breeze.

  As I approached Gabriel, the winter winds suddenly picked up to rustle the bare, skeletal tree branches against one another with a sound like that of hollow bones knocking together, leading me unconsciously to pick up my pace.

  ‘Gabriel,’ I said as I neared the edge of the ice rink.

  He turned with a careless grace and smiled down at me as I came to stand next to him; the top of my head barely reaching his shoulder.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, looking at my face with some concern.

  ‘I’m fine. Just tired is all. I’d really like to go home...’

  It was a subdued party that left the ice rink, each of us lost in our own thoughts, with the exception of little Adele who seemed oblivious to the tension circulating between the adults. My spirits now considerably dampened, I was grateful for the opportunity to return to St. John’s apartment to be on my own at last.

  But it wasn’t proving quite that simple.

  We dropped Vianne and Adele off somewhere in the Montparnasse district with barely a word exchanged between the three of us and continued on to the Golden Triangle. I was hoping to make a quick escape as the chauffeur-driven car pulled in illegally at the kerb outside St. John’s apartment building.

  But it wasn’t to be.

  Gabriel was out of the car, waiting as the chauffeur assisted me from the rear seat passenger’s side, before I had time to collect my thoughts. He was staring out at the line of trees covered in fairy lights that marched along the Avenue Montaigne as a soft wind ruffled his pale wheat-gold hair. He did not turn, even when I drew close enough to touch him.

  ‘Thank you for escorting me today to Lyon,’ I said as cheerfully as possible by way of farewell, ‘and for the trip to the winter markets.’

  Gabriel’s hand snaked out in a lightening quick gesture to capture my wrist in order to detain me, preventing me from moving past him into the warmth of the building’s foyer. He turned then and looked directly at me.

  ‘C’est des conneries! Ne me prenez pas pour un con! Do not think me unobservant, Saffron,’ he remarked
in an acid tone.

  He took a step closer, using his height to great advantage. The wind had risen, whipping his overcoat about him like great black wings, and he loomed over me like a fallen angel. Reaching out with his other hand, he brushed his thumb lightly against my swollen bottom lip.

  ‘And do not think your recent injury went unnoticed.’

  Dammit! Of course he’d noticed!

  With some effort, I was able to breathe evenly, and when I spoke, my voice was steady.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I murmured flippantly, ‘I ran into something solid and immovable. Like Sage, I’m not without my moments...’

  He ignored my opening gambit.

  ‘You’re nothing like your twin,’ he said flatly.

  I opened my eyes very wide and blinked at him. For some unaccountable reason, hearing the words coming from him, I felt hurt.

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve heard it said often. How kind of you to point that out. Well, I am very tired. It’s been a long day. Thank you again for your assistance.’

  I yanked my wrist out of his tight grip and, spinning smartly on my heel, started up the steps of the Haussman style building. He spoke then, something profane in fluent French, but he did not follow me as I walked away.

  After my last encounter with Gabriel, I felt thoroughly exhausted, drained of all feeling and numb with cold as I retraced my steps of earlier to the upper floor apartment. As I inserted the key into the lock, my mobile phone began to ring. Fishing it out of my pocket, I glanced quickly at the backlit display which read the number of the Manor House.

  Home.

  I had all but forgotten that Mum would be expecting my call anxiously, waiting to find out what had transpired at Interpol that afternoon. I pressed the little button to receive the call whilst simultaneously pushing the front door open with my left shoulder and entering the darkened apartment.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Fi? It’s me. Sage.’ My twin’s taut voice filtered through from Kent, laced with worry. ‘We’ve been trying to get through to you for ages! Where have you been? And why haven’t you been answering your phone?’