by Kira Decker
Elsabeth’s Dance: A Shoalman Chronicles Story
The Shoalman Chronicles Series
Copyright 2020 © by Kira Decker
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover art and design by Sharon Carpenter.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions
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Happy Reading!
Dedication
To my loving husband, who danced into my life right when I needed him.
Table of Contents
PART I The Present
PART II The Past
PART III The Future
Author Bio
Social Media
Additional Works
TRANSCENDENCE – Chapter 1
Part I
The Present
Death faced Rockshoalman.
Others might recoil and flee in fear, but after five hundred years, death’s ability to intimidate him had lost its power.
Except here.
Darkness surrounded him, cold and unfeeling, the moon cowering behind the patchy clouds as if afraid to intrude. Only his breath leaving trails of silver vapor in the air proved life existed amongst the ruins. Nestled on the highest peak of the parish lands, the manse sat high on a cliff overlooking the local village in the valley below. Rockshoalman stepped gingerly toward the edge, careful in the lamplight not to lose his footing on the dew swept stone—although not even that fall could kill him.
Traditional wood and stone houses stretched out before him. Gas lamps lined the village streets, twinkles of light against a midnight black canvas. A hundred years ago it had been the same. The village and surrounding area—much like himself—remained ageless against time. Wisps of music floated on the air. The inhabitants celebrating in the local pub most likely; the day forgotten in drink and song. Forgotten like him.
The click of the caretaker’s gnarled wooden cane against the cobblestone paths turned Rockshoalman towards the two-story manse once more. No such life reached the stone manor house remnants before him. The multi-hued and speckled granite now dull and muddy in the tentative moonlight. Weathered and rotting boards covered the first-floor windows like haunted eyes peering across the expansive and overgrown front lawn, while withered ivy strangled the two Roman columns in a death grip. It could be the subject of one of his paintings—the kind his curse forced him to paint. The ones he despised.
Despair reached its insidious fingers around his heart, abrading the hope he clung to in desperation. Rockshoalman stared at the horse-drawn carriage, the only means of transportation to the manse he could procure, and the uncertain future it offered. Could he be free to live if the shadows of his past remained?
“This is a mistake,” he whispered to the icy wind tugging at his navy blue, wool overcoat. “I should not have returned.”
With a heavy sigh, he resigned himself to a half-life. Before he took more than a step towards the carriage, the moon escaped past the clouds to cast a pale moonbeam on a splash of color. His breath caught.
A single pink bloom graced the otherwise barren flower garden that edged the cobblestone path leading towards the front entrance. Life challenged death.
She is here.
Kneeling, Rockshoalman picked the peony. Cradled within his palm, the floral scent swelled around him, edging the darkness away with happier thoughts. The layers of petals reminded him of the lace and ruffles of a time a hundred years past. He sighed and tucked the flower into his lapel. The kernel of hope within his heart dared to flare brighter.
“Not sure this is a good idea,” the gruff voice of the estate’s caretaker complained as the old man reached his side.
“Nothing can harm me here.” Not physically at least. Rockshoalman pushed the morose thought away. Returning here was a risk. If his demon found him, there would be nowhere to run. Provided provoking the past didn’t send him into an abomination painting frenzy first. Rockshoalman closed his eyes, fighting to control the memories and the painful guilt of loss that threatened to allow his curse to overtake him.
“Why is your Guardian not with ya?”
Rockshoalman glared. The caretaker blanched almost as pale as his silver hair.
“He has no place here tonight.” Only Ciprian Solvak had set foot on this estate, and he had died for that choice.
No more Guardian’s deaths would plague his conscience because of the manse. He had not wanted Lucien Solvak, Ciprian’s great-great-grandson and current Guardian, haunted by the memories of death Rockshoalman might experience tonight. No Guardian should have to relive their predecessor’s demise.
Only after hours of arguing had Lucien agreed to remain behind. That and a confession. This place was a scar he needed to heal by himself.
For her.
Rockshoalman stood and pointed to the entranceway. “Open the manse.”
Hobbling up the front steps, the old man unlocked the padlocked double doors but drew back the hand poised to open them. “Can this not wait ‘til morning?”
“No,” Rockshoalman stated in a flat tone, his shoulders taut. Ghosts are best faced in the darkness where they dwell.
“Suit yourself.” A weatherworn hand turned the brass doorknob on the iron-bound doors and pushed. Hinges shrieked their displeasure at being disturbed. The old man flinched and made a quick sign of the cross.
Rockshoalman ignored him. Long strides carried him to the mahogany spiral staircase, pain infusing each creaky step and crack in the plaster walls until he reached the second-floor landing of the once grand house. Blood pounded in his ears as his heart rammed against his ribs. Rockshoalman fought to control the trembling coursing through his form. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Power lingered within these walls still—a chill air painted with memories. Echoes of long-gone children’s laughter as they ran down the main hallway to his left settled amongst the broken furniture and leaf-strewn debris, the musty scent of mold heavy in the air. The buzz of forgotten voices hovered in the smoke-stained high dome ceiling over the central curved stairway. Each sound, each smell tearing at his control.
The weight of centuries pressed in. Could he do this? Could he face a past he would rather forget? Except, part of that past, he feared to let go—a death grip that kept him from living. With a ragged breath, he forced himself to push through the gaping maw of the dilapidated grand ballroom.
Running his hands down the carved wood archway, moisture and cold coated his skin along with ageless soot. How long had it been since he last stood here? Almost a century younger at least, yet Rockshoalman’s dark Roman-Romani lineage and youthful appearance remained unchanged.
Are you here?
No answers came from the shadows, only the puls
e of loss. Mist rose and swirled across the floor. A low moan rumbled, vibrating the ancient oak floors beneath his feet. The very stones of the house groaned in pain. Faces flashed. Young. Old. Remembered laughter turned to screams. Rockshoalman staggered. Heat licked the palm pressed against the old wood for support. Sucking in a breath, he gagged on the putrid scent of burnt flesh and hair. Still, he persisted. One step. Another. With each forgotten memory clawing for release from the dark recesses where he kept them chained, a suffocating need to paint death increased. If he gave in to his curse, the painting would destroy his soul and his future forever.
“Help me,” he whispered to the spirits. “I must proceed. To live. For myself and for her. Else we are both lost.”
Heart threatening to beat out of his chest, Rockshoalman slipped a smooth quartz agate from his pocket. The stone warmed as he rubbed his thumb back and forth, the healing energy infused into the worry stone by Lucien, giving him the strength to battle emotions he had only recently learned to embrace. Head bowed, the perfume of the pink peony soothed his ravaged mind. A cool breeze caressed his face, drying the beads of sweat on his brow before chasing the fog of guilt out through a crack in the wall. By the time the slow shuffle of the aged caretaker caught up to him, a temporary calm had returned.
“After a hundred years of decay, the local kommuner wants to demolish the entire place as an eyesore within the month.” Flickering lantern light cast harsh shadows upon the flame-kissed beams of the caved-in roof and rubble strewn across the expansive room.
“A century ago, the manse was the jewel of this small, quiet village,” Rockshoalman lamented.
“Aye, but no longer.”
Behind the layers of soot and dust, brass chandeliers now lay festooned with cobwebs instead of candles. The crystals adorning the many branches dirty and lifeless, yet glimmers of moonlight sneaking through cracks in the boarded-up windows set an odd bright spark dancing across the walls and floor. As though the crystals clung to the hope they might once again dance free.
“You must decide soon. Or the Councillors will choose for you.”
Rockshoalman nodded. “Go wait by the carriage. I need to be alone.”
“As you wish, Domnule.”
Domnule. A Romani title of respect and perhaps, a final plea for Rockshoalman to leave. The footsteps hesitated for a moment longer before the click of the caretaker’s cane disappeared into the distance.
Rockshoalman shivered as ghosts from the past kissed his skin in the moonlit silence. Only this time, the spirits beckoned him. Had they understood his plea? Closing his eyes, Rockshoalman let the walls of the ruined manor house fade. Lilting strains of a forgotten melody grew stronger. Only he heard it, but that was enough to transport him to another place, another time.
Back to her.
Part II
The Past
“Why did you insist I dress tonight?” Rockshoalman tugged at the high, stiff collar of his starched shirt. Ciprian batted his hand away.
Standing in the grand entranceway of the Danish castle, muted conversations and glancing stares in his direction started a cold sweat dripping down Rockshoalman’s back. Spirits, he hated crowds. His dark wavy hair and deep umber-brown eyes a stark contrast to the light-eyed, pale Danish highborn. Frozen in time at twenty-two, his bachelor status and fame made him a prime target for the marriage brokers of the area. Only his reputation as an aloof and eccentric artist saved him from the Matrons seeking a match for their daughters.
“We cannot stay,” Rockshoalman whispered. “My presence puts all these people in danger.”
“Nonsense.”
“The demon will sense me.” Hands twisted together. The high wing-tipped collar tightened with each nervous breath.
“Your demon cannot find you here, Domnule.” The deep baritone of Ciprian carried only to him. A great bear of a man, with the thick black hair and short-cropped beard typical of the Romani, he should draw attention. His Guardian never did. A constant shadow no one paid attention to, but one always ready to protect Rockshoalman and his power charged paintings.
“The paintings—”
“Are safe,” Ciprian chided him.
His works were the only reason Rockshoalman attended Mestre Poulsen’s party. To make sure death remained only the subject of his art, not a personification brought to life.
Music drifted down the polished wood and marble stairs to fill the limited space not populated with silk bedecked ladies and black tuxedoed lords. But nothing could drown out the hum of power from his paintings. A hum sure to call the demon.
“I never should have agreed to the banker’s request to show my latest masterworks.”
The dusky golden pools of Ciprian’s eyes, ageless in their own way, stared at him calmly and gestured toward the central staircase. Rockshoalman sighed. They had this argument many times before. Each time, he lost.
“I know. The funds from tonight’s display provided an escape into another identity.” Rockshoalman had outlived this one.
“True, we must soon leave this persona behind, but not quite yet.” A knowing curve teased at a corner of Ciprian’s mouth. “There is one more task to accomplish.”
What task, Ciprian refused to say. No matter how much Rockshoalman badgered him since the invitation arrived two weeks past. Had Ciprian received a vision with his Second Sight? The joyous laughter of young children off to his left startled Rockshoalman upon reaching the second story landing. Servants shushed them while herding them down the main hallway and away from the party, but could not dampen their innocent exuberance. A pang of regret painted yet another layer of darkness over his heart.
Rockshoalman paused before the intricately carved double doors of the ballroom. Open and inviting, the music flowing through them beckoned guests inside. Murmured conversations mixed with the energy emanating from his paintings to swirl within the gold-leafed dome ceiling. He pulled Ciprian to the side. Any excuse to delay his appearance.
“Power fills this manse. My works may have already drawn Him forth.” Undetectable except by another cursed immortal like himself or one gifted with the Second Sight like Ciprian, his demon could mimic any person’s form.
“The night’s dalliance will see us gone by morning. Not time enough for him to find you,” Ciprian whispered, his voice calm and firm.
Energy pulsed within the ballroom. Fiery. Passionate. One not connected to his paintings. Rockshoalman’s gaze danced from one person to another. Searching. Fearing what he might find. Yet only mortals appeared before him. Had the demon found a way to deceive them? He frowned. No. This was different.
Death was a compelling subject to paint—and his immortal curse. But Rockshoalman had found a loophole. These works, unlike the abominations of his curse, captured the serenity found in that darkest of moments, the cathartic release of pain through grief and the hope of a new life beyond. The emotions locked within the very brushstrokes of each piece. On rare occasions he had even met individuals who saw the beauty within the paintings as he did. Is that what he sensed? Someone responding to his works with a gift of their own?
“Wards protect the paintings from detection, just as my presence protects you.”
Rockshoalman studied the patrons standing near the art displayed around the ballroom. The balcony dripped with people attempting to avoid the crowded dance floor yet get a glimpse of his famed paintings. “Perhaps.”
A tendril of vitality teased at his senses like the warmth of the sun upon his cheek during a winter’s day. He turned his head towards the pull. Her hair shimmered in the candlelight, spun gold with bright pink flowers plaited in the braids. The azure blue gown a slice of sky floating above the polished white marble floors as though the clouds themselves carried her. Rapture infused her whole being as she gazed upon the Isle of the Dead.
He could not look away. Captured as surely as the emotions he imbued into his paintings. She could not be older than sixteen or seventeen—a mere blink of time compared to his centuries.
Yet…his heart lightened at the sight of her.
A gentle touch from Ciprian broke the trance. Stepping to the front, Ciprian made final adjustments to Rockshoalman’s attire. “Release your fears, my friend. Learn to live again.”
Rockshoalman let out a ragged breath. “I no longer know how.” Centuries of unending time with no hope for release had taken its toll. He only remembered the pain now.
Ciprian gripped Rockshoalman’s arm. The matching white ink tattoos hidden under their clothing surged. Rockshoalman inhaled.
Clean, crisp mountain air, the kind found right after a fresh snowfall, filled his lungs. With it, a sense of unblemished innocence. Pure joy of life flowed from his Guardian like a river. Infectious, Rockshoalman found his shoulders relaxing in his fitted frock coat, the tightness of his chest beneath the black silk waistcoat easing, and even a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Such was the ability of Guardian to Immortal Charge through the white ink. Safety. Healing. Peace.
“Worry not. You will learn once more,” Ciprian stated with a wink, releasing their connection. Pressing a small item into Rockshoalman’s palm, his Guardian disappeared into the crowded sea of black formal attire expected of all men in this age. One might expect the Romani to lumber. Instead, three decades of dancing with women—and daggers—allowed him to glide through crowds with grace and deftness, disappearing from memory. A skill Rockshoalman wished he possessed. The disappearing part, at least.
So many people. Chest tightening, the laugher of people around him taunted him; happiness he longed to have. Shoulders pressed hard against the wooden threshold, one foot in the light, one in the darkness, the etched wood design dragged at his coat, as though preventing him from entering the hall.
“Spirits help me,” he whispered.
His palm warmed, and he looked down at the smooth pink quartz glowing faintly in the candlelight. His worry stone. A smile came with ease this time.