Gypsy Magic

by Rebecca York; Ann Voss Peterson; Patricia Rosemoor

  And protruding from his chest…the knife that had killed her mother.

  “I DON’T BELIEVE Milo committed suicide,” Andrei said in protest to Leon Thibault’s explanation. “Too damn tidy!”

  And he was certain that the knife that killed the carnival owner was the one from the live oak—he recognized the handle. Even as strong as Milo had been, it would have been some feat for him to have freed the damn thing.

  “Be careful with that,” Andrei cautioned the examiner who’d pulled the knife from the body and was dropping it into a bag. Old, long-dried blood that he hadn’t noticed before spattered the handle. “It’s evidence—”

  Thibault stepped in. “Don’t stick your nose where it don’t belong, Sobatka. Of course it’s evidence—”

  “—in Theresa Granville’s murder,” Andrei finished.

  “What?”

  “We saw Milo pull that knife from a hollow in the live oak where Theresa Granville’s body was found. Take a good look at that handle. Dried blood.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  The D.A. appeared disbelieving until Andrei explained what had happened the night before.

  Thibault looked from him to Lizzie. “That your story, too?” he asked her.

  “Yes. He all but admitted to murdering Mama. I’m afraid you’re going to have to stop a certain execution,” she said.

  “I see.” But he didn’t sound convinced. “We’ll have to go over the story again, get all the details in writing.”

  “Of course,” Andrei said, wondering what Lizzie was thinking.

  The carnies were disbursing, keeping busy, going back to dismantling rides and tents, their mood dark, their future uncertain. Her gaze darted around as if she was afraid to look at anything or anyone too long. Especially him.

  Was she already regretting sleeping with him? It seemed so.

  Or maybe she was just freaked out by this latest development. Milo dead. Murdered. By whom?

  “I’ll have one of the men bring you back to my office in Les Baux,” Thibault was saying.

  “I would like to go home and get cleaned up first.” Lizzie was fidgeting, as though she couldn’t wait to leave. “I can get myself there.”

  Because of Milo? Andrei wondered. Or because she wanted to get away from him. “Give me a minute and I’ll take you.”

  But she was already backing off. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Andrei pressed his lips together lest he argue the point. She was safe from Milo. She wanted to put some distance between them, that was obvious.

  And before he could convince her to wait, Thibault mused, “What would make someone kill Milo Vasilli?”

  Distracted long enough for Lizzie to turn and flee before he could speak, Andrei tried not to take it personally. This was a difficult time for her, he told himself. He would give her some space, but he wouldn’t disappear, not until he was certain that was what she wanted.

  The D.A. went on, his sharp gaze going from carny to carny. “Which of these seemingly grief-stricken people is, in fact, a murderer?”

  Andrei snapped back to him for a moment. “Maybe you ought to be looking at who isn’t here.”

  CAUGHT UP in an emotional whirlwind, Elizabeth averted her gaze from the signs of the carnival leaving. She didn’t need to see the rides being dismantled or the tents being taken down to know that it was over.

  Not just the carnival, but her and Andrei.

  She crossed the grounds as quickly as she could, and it was only when she came to the path—a shortcut home—that she slowed and mentally began to process Milo’s death. Most significant—at least she thought so—was the murder weapon. Whoever had removed it from the trunk had been really strong. Milo himself? She supposed a crazed person might have more adrenaline and therefore more strength than normal, and Milo certainly had been crazed the night before.

  But for all these years, Milo had left the murder weapon hidden. What in the world would make him bring it back to the carnival? And why would someone else use it to kill him, unless…

  Unless the same person who killed Milo was involved in the attempts on the lives of Andrei’s cousins and their lovers. Why? Because that someone must have been involved in her mother’s murder, Elizabeth concluded.

  Thinking she ought to go back and offer that theory to Leon Thibault, she hesitated. She would have to face Andrei, as well, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

  And then she heard a noise behind her that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  Someone was following her!

  Her pulse rushed and so did she, straight for home.

  But suddenly other sounds, these somewhere ahead, made her falter. Heart pounding into her throat—what if the murderer were after her now?—she looked around wildly and left the path, cutting off into the brush.

  The scrunch of footfalls seemed to surround her.

  Frightened and confused, Elizabeth realized she’d turned herself around and didn’t know in what direction to go. Where the hell was she?

  Suddenly someone stepped into her path and she nearly jumped out of her skin. And then she saw who it was.

  “Florica.” Tension whooshed right out of her. “Lord, you startled me.”

  The child-woman giggled softly, and as if playing a game, she said, “You’re it!” Then just as quickly, Florica’s good humor disappeared. Her smile faded, leaving an angry visage and cold eyes staring at Elizabeth.

  And why not? Florica had just lost a parent to violence.

  “I know how you must be feeling,” Elizabeth said reassuringly. “I lost my mother the way you just lost your father. I’m so sorry about everything, Florica.”

  “You’re sorry?” She seemed puzzled. “Truly?”

  “That your father was murdered so horribly? Of course.”

  Florica’s confused expression only lasted a moment. Then she shook her head and said, “Papa had to die. He tried to hurt Andrei. I saw him. I saw you, too, touching Andrei and kissing him. You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Elizabeth’s spine crawled. “I shouldn’t have?” she echoed as she tried to think. Slowly, she backed away.

  A solemn Florica shook her head. “Andrei was mine. Just like Carlo.”

  “C-Carlo?”

  “He was going to take me to the movies. But then he didn’t come and I saw him with the gadji.” Florica focused on Elizabeth. “She looked like you.”

  “Mama? What do you know about her? What did you have to do with her? Theresa Granville—that is who you mean, isn’t it?”

  “Theresa Granville,” Florica echoed, nodding. “She gave me a letter for Carlo, but I read it and then I knew that Carlo had betrayed me with her. She was bad, a gadji harlot, Papa called her. I knew what I had to do then.”

  Elizabeth blinked and tried to take this in. Florica was more a child than a woman mentally, but she undoubtedly had a woman’s needs. She’d thought Carlo had cared for her and then had cheated on her…and she’d what?

  “Did you tell Milo—your papa—about Carlo?”

  “After. He kept me safe.”

  The truth couldn’t be clearer. “Then Milo didn’t do it,” Elizabeth murmured, more for her own satisfaction than Florica’s. “He wasn’t the murderer, after all.”

  “Papa took care of me. But he’s gone now. What will I do?” Florica asked in her little-girl voice. She frowned and struggled with her skirts. “I’ll think about it when the carnival is on the road again.”

  The Gypsy freed her hand from the garment, and in it, she held a knife that looked every bit as deadly as the one that had killed Mama and Milo. Sweat beaded Elizabeth’s brow as she realized she was facing not only a murderer, but one who’d been crazed enough to have the strength to pull free a knife that had been hilt-deep in a tree.

  Chapter Eight

  Watching and listening as the scenario unfolded, Andrei reacted the moment he saw the knife. Florica grabbed Lizzie’s wrist with her free hand, and though Lizzie
struggled, she couldn’t break the hold. And no matter how hard Andrei concentrated, he couldn’t repeat his performance with Milo.

  The telekinesis wouldn’t work on Florica.

  Something about the way her out-of-sync brain worked made her and the things around her resistant to any kind of Gypsy magic.

  When he cut through the growth to get to them, Florica’s eyes widened. “Andrei!”

  Not wanting her to panic the way Milo had, he calmly said, “Florica, did you forget you were supposed to meet me?”

  “What?”

  Lizzie looked around, wide-eyed. He sensed her terror, but for the moment, he had to ignore it and concentrate on Florica.

  “The movie, remember?” He could only hope her mind skittered through time and fooled her. “I was going to take you to see a movie. You changed your hair for me.”

  Confusion crossed her features for a moment, then she muttered, “Carlo, not you.”

  But a moment was all he’d needed to close the gap, saying, “Put down the knife!”

  “Not until its work is done,” Florica said, raising it.

  Lizzie struggled to free herself. “Andrei, don’t!”

  But Andrei stepped in front of the woman he loved, shielding her from the instrument of death. As the knife sliced into him, hot pain seared his left shoulder.

  “Andrei!” both women screamed at once.

  Heedless of the blood gushing from his shoulder, he grabbed for Florica’s knife-hand, but she was too quick for him. She let go of Lizzie and backed off, while wildly waving the knife.

  “Stay away from her,” Lizzie whispered. “She killed her own father.”

  “I got that.” To the child-woman who was staring at his bleeding shoulder and sobbing, he said, “Put down the knife, Florica. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you. I loved Carlo. I loved Papa, too.” She shook her head. “Now I have no one. Papa can’t protect me anymore and I have no one left to love.”

  Even without use of his gift, Andrei sensed what her terror would force her to do. He lunged to stop her, but again Florica was faster, plunging the blade into her own chest.

  “My God!” Lizzie cried, as brilliant red bloomed across Florica’s white cotton blouse.

  Too late. Andrei shook his head as the young woman he’d befriended crumpled to the ground. Just then, Leon Thibault burst into the clearing with two uniformed policemen at his side.

  Andrei stooped down as Florica whispered, “Papa, I’m coming,” and her life’s blood pumped out of her chest.

  “So, you were right, Sobatka,” Thibault said, signaling the uniforms to take over.

  “Unfortunately,” Andrei agreed, rising.

  The policemen bent over Florica, but she’d already gone still, her eyes open and staring.

  Andrei turned and shielded Lizzie from the sight.

  She gasped. “Your shoulder!” She immediately began ripping her skirt. “You need a doctor…”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Bunching the cloth, she pressed it to his wound, and from her drawn, pale face and her frightened-for-him expression—not to mention the fact that he eavesdropped on her emotions—Andrei knew exactly how Miss Elizabeth Granville felt about her Gypsy lover.

  “I COULDN’T HAVE endured losing you, too,” Elizabeth admitted later, after a trip to the emergency room.

  Andrei would be fine—his had been little more than a flesh wound, more blood than lasting damage, thank God. As soon as his wound had been cleaned and bandaged, he’d insisted on leaving the hospital. He’d even insisted on seeing her to her front door.

  Now he moved forward, pinning her against a porch pillar.

  “Your shoulder,” she cautioned.

  “It hurts horribly,” he said, his tone sexy.

  “And there’s only one thing I can think of to make it feel better.”

  Then Andrei kissed her, one of those slow, deep kisses that made her knees weak. Elizabeth clung to him, careful of his shoulder.

  When he drew back, he murmured, “You’re never going to lose me. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  Her heart skipped a couple of beats. “You mean you’ll return to Les Baux with the carnival every year?” Assuming the carnival didn’t fall into ruins now that its fate was undecided.

  He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I love you, Lizzie, and I never want to live without you again. I was hoping for a more permanent relationship.”

  Dizzy with relief, she quickly said, “I love you, too, Andrei. And if you want me to work the midway with you, I will! I could sell tickets or—”

  “Shh.” He put a finger to her lips. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Oh.”

  “What I’m trying to say…is that won’t be necessary. My engineering background can be put to better use in a new job. I rejoined the carnival this summer to hide from my curse, but I no longer have a reason to hide—thanks to you.”

  “If you want my opinion, you have yourself to thank,” Lizzie said. “There had to be more to its end than my loving you. I’ve loved you all along.”

  “Then what?”

  “You saved Carlo. You put yourself in danger to do that…and to protect me.” She looked skyward. “I think Valonia knows what you and Wyatt and Garner all did to free her son, and she freed you in return.” Her heart was so full that she could hardly believe it. “So, you want to get gadje work again. In Les Baux?”

  He laughed. “I was thinking of going back to New Orleans…unless there’s something keeping you here.”

  “Only Daddy.” Lest he mistake her meaning, she quickly added, “But I’m sure he’ll look forward to our visits.”

  “We can have any life we decide on. Together.”

  Together.

  The word thrilled her as did Andrei when he picked her up despite her protests and carried her inside, all the while whispering how she would now get a real taste of his Gypsy magic.

  Epilogue

  Breathing in his unexpected freedom, Carlo Mustov was grateful to be part of the day’s proceedings, pleased to honor those who had risked their lives to prove him innocent. To free him.

  The transition from prison to normal life after so many years hadn’t been easy, but he was back where he belonged. A member of his clan. Part of the carnival in which they all now had an interest. All familiar and beloved. The outside world could wait until he was ready for it.

  For now, he wanted to concentrate on happy things. On happy people. His looking from one expectant couple to the second to the third, drove away uncertainty, at least for the moment.

  They had all married in gadje ceremonies over the past several months—Alessandra King and Wyatt Boudreaux, Sabina King and Garner Rousseau, Andrei Sobatka and Elizabeth Granville. And now that the carnival had shut down for the winter, the clan had returned to Les Baux for the abiav, the simple ceremony that would join each of the couples’ lives in Romany tradition.

  Some of the townspeople had joined them, as well. Not Richard Granville of course. For that, Carlo Mustov was glad. He didn’t want to see his old rival and was certain Elizabeth’s father felt the same way.

  But he hadn’t killed Theresa, and now everyone knew that.

  He couldn’t believe that Florica had murdered the woman he’d loved, and in a way, he blamed himself. He’d cared for Florica as he might a little sister. That she’d read more into his affection for her had never occurred to him. Had he been more astute, he might have prevented the tragedy that had affected all their lives.

  But not all bad had come from it, he thought, as he approached the couples. The men were beaming, the women radiant. All wore the colorful dress of the Romany. No pale wedding garments here, he thought, but colors as strong and as bright as the young women themselves.

  “You make me so proud,” Carlo told his cousins.

  He kissed Alessandra’s cheek, then Sabina’s. He stopped before Elizabeth Granville, who remi
nded him so much of her late mother. When he started to turn away, she put a hand on his arm and looked at him expectantly. He kissed her cheek, too, and when she smiled at him, unshed tears burned his eyes.

  Carlo then picked up a basket of bread, and each bride and each groom took a piece. Next, he handed Andrei a ceremonial dagger, which was passed from one to the other, each person using the sharp point to prick a finger and let a drop of blood stain the bread. When all six had finished, the brides and grooms exchanged bread with their partners and ate.

  A cheer from the clan went up, and Carlos said, “You are now joined together forever. Feast!”

  A whole pig and several fowl had been roasting over an open fire. Along with the meat, huge platters of fried potatoes and boiled cabbage stuffed with rice and herbs and garlic were passed around the tables.

  But Carlo’s favorite part was afterward, when the appetite for food was sated and that for romance began. Musicians played traditional rhythmic tunes, and the couples wrapped their arms around each other as if they would never let go, and they danced.

  Carlo watched contentedly, then dreamed a little, imagining the woman he’d loved was in his arms once more. After all these years, after all the horror of her death and his own imprisonment, he still thought of her often, and now that he’d seen her letter to him at last, her words would be burned into his memory forever.

  No matter what happens, I will always love you…

  No Gypsy magic would bring Theresa Granville back, but she was avenged at last, and she would live on his heart.

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4298-2

  GYPSY MAGIC

  Copyright © 2002 by Harlequin Books S.A.

  The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows: