Della’s fingers clutched at his hair and pulled. Lucien slapped her hands away and slid up to reach her neck.
Quickly, Rita sliced into her other palm and dropped the slippery knife to the floor.
Della’s flailing arms beat at Lucien’s back, her screams muffled. He had her pinned beneath him on the rug, one hand yanking a fist-full of hair to hold her exposed neck steady.
Rita clenched her fingers around the crystal and tugged. The chain snapped free. The amulet was coated slick with her Roma blood. She ran and lunged onto Lucien’s broad back. Rita wrapped her hands around his head from behind and went for his eyes. She dug the bloodied crystal into his right eye while she smeared his other eye socket with her wounded palm.
Lucien’s shriek rang through the room. The melting pulp of his eyeball sent a sick smell of putrid flesh into her nostrils. He thrashed wildly, rolled away from her and Della, and lay on his back. His hand half covered the empty hole where his eye had once been. Gray ash oozed from between his fingers. His screaming agony gave her a heady rush, a taste of revenge for all the pain he had caused. And she wanted more.
Della coughed and reached for the statuette. She got to her knees, and with a crazed gleam in her eyes, began pounding Lucien over the head. “You bastard,” she sobbed. Lucien’s skull crunched. “You no good son of bitch, you don’t never mess with Della.”
Lucien’s half screams, half moans, spurred Rita on. She rubbed her palms together again, coating the crystal with more of her blood. She pressed the crystal flat against his chest and put her weight behind it. Black ash spit into the air. Rita’s hands sank into his body, passing first through jagged rib bones, a rock-like heart, and through his spine to the carpet beneath. More ash flowed from his body.
“Fuckin’ freak.” Della pounded at his face, tears tracking down her smooth cheeks. The cracking bones of Lucien’s fingers, nose, and cheeks sounded like dead branches snapping off trees.
Gurgling sobs erupted from Lucien’s throat. His legs began to twitch erratically.
Lips pressed tight, Rita repeated the ritual of rubbing the amulet in her bloodied hands, and then pressing the crystal into his stomach, his legs. A black cloud rose from each part of his body that she pushed through and dissolved into gray, lumpy ash.
“Enough! He gone.” The booming voice penetrated Rita’s furious haze. Dragus hauled Rita to her feet. “Look at Lucien. It over.”
Uncle Dragus took the statuette out of Della’s hands and threw it on the floor. He picked Della up and carried her to the couch. The manic look remained in her eyes.
While they watched, each part of Lucien’s body continued to crumble into a heap of ashes.
Uncle Dragus’s led Rita to sit beside Della, and all three stared at the pile of filth on the carpet.
Uncle was the first to move. He went to the kitchen and brought two clean dishcloths to wrap around Rita’s hands.
“Ma didn’t have to die.” Rita’s shoulders shook with a sob.
“Think, Rita. Sister know she will die soon. Like old story, when she pass to next life by her choice, power go to other in family. It come to you, not me. She live on now, with ancestors in amulet. To always help blood line.” Uncle grabbed her arms. “You understand?”
“I…I think so.”
“Come we fix hands better.”
Rita looked at Della. “You okay?”
Della nodded, eyes still wide, staring at the mess on the carpet.
“Ah, we have to talk.” Rita got to her feet.
“No we don’t. This chick didn’t see a thing. No such thing as bogeymen or vampires,” Della babbled. “No men in white coats for me. Don’t wanna be lookin’ through any bars on my window tonight.” She shuddered and hugged herself. “This woman’s no fool. I’m keeping my mouth shut.”
“After Uncle bandages my hands, we’ll take care of that filth on the floor.” Rita let out a long shaky sigh. “I wonder how.”
Della’s eyes glazed, she giggled. “Where do you keep your vacuum cleaner?”
The packing and gauze in place over Rita’s palms, Uncle rubbed peroxide on the thin bloody line the chain made when she tore it from her neck.
Uncle Dragus opened the linen closet. Rita and Della held the corners of a white bed sheet on the floor while Uncle swept the remains of Lucien onto the cloth. The big man asked for flour to sprinkle onto the ugly mess. “White flour make fire pure. It burn green and spread undead ashes to wind.”
Rita shredded newspaper and threw the strips on top. They bundled the sheet tight, then filed out into the yard and set it on the ground. Della carried candles, a box of salt, and the lighter fluid.
Drawing a large circle on the ground with the salt to keep the evil spirits contained, Uncle placed the bundle inside the ring. Della leaned over and squirted the fluid over the sheet. Each solemnly lit a candle, and when Uncle nodded, they threw them onto the sheet.
The fire blazed, emitting a crackling green flame. Uncle Dragus handed the bloodstained amulet to Rita. “Hold amulet over flames and say spell.”
“But how….?
“Think hard. Words will come into head.” He patted her shoulder.
The crystal dangling above the flame, Rita concentrated. Soon, a faint chorus of voices floated into her mind. She smiled, yet tears slid down her face. Her ancestors, who lived on in the crystal, radiated a warm glow of love that spread through her limbs. Her mother’s voice rang the loudest. Rita repeated the words.
“Wild winds’ spirits, hear my plea.
Gather round and come to me.
On this sacred ground tonight,
Cast your blessing, rid this blight”
The flames hazed to a phosphorescent glow. The crystal cleared to its brilliant sparkle. Instinctively, Rita knew this was a sign of pleasing her protectors.
Chapter Seventeen
Taking advantage of the next two days, Rita rested, healed, and spent time with Matt at the hospital.
Now, Rita ran the back of her hand over her mother’s floral bedspread, the texture smooth and silky. The faint scent of cinnamon wafted through the family apartment above the Tea Room. Della bustled about the room packing cardboard boxes with Anna’s clothes and personal items.
The “Closed until October 20th” signs posted in the restaurant’s windows downstairs had surprised the other shop owners, but Rita explained that the two-weeks were necessary for their Roma traditions.
Della shuffled between cramming the boxes and peeking out the window onto the rear parking area. “Holy shit, how many damn relatives do you have?”
Rita rose and stood next to Della. A caravan of silver bullet trailers, pop-up campers, and a colorful array of tents cluttered the lot behind the mall. “Around forty or fifty families will be here for the wake. Most will probably stay on after, for the traditional days of mourning.” She pressed her forehead to the cool glass pane to ease the pounding in her head. “Not all are relatives, though. Some are old friends of ours.”
“I see why you delayed the viewing.” Della nodded and leaned closer for a better look. “They had to have time to meet on the road, greet, and get here.”
They stood for a moment watching Uncle Dragus welcome the travelers. Bobby and Gus were doing a good job of directing and pointing out spots to either park or pitch tents.
Della nudged Rita’s shoulder with her own. “I bet the other shop owners are gonna bitch up a storm about jamming up so much customer space.”
“Most have been pretty good about it. Uncle did warn them. They sent wreaths and offered their sympathies.” Rita’s voice broke. “They said they were going to miss a wonderful, kind lady.”
Della sighed and gave Rita’s arm a squeeze. “Aren’t we all?”
“We better finish this up.” Rita moved to the closet.
“You sure you want to donate all of your mother’s belongings to the church?” Della held a leaded-crystal vase up to the light. “This is a beauty. Maybe one of your relatives would like to have
it as a remembrance.”
“Why don’t you take it? We’re not allowed to keep any of her things. Ma will come back to haunt us if we do.”
Della dropped the vase into the padded box. “That’s okay. I have a lot of vases.”
“Only family, Del.” Rita gave her a half grin.
Della winked. “But we sista’s and always will be.”
Rita rubbed an ornate, handcrafted jewelry box against her cheek, the polished finish smooth and warm. “Dad spent months secretly making this for Ma. He gave it to her for one of their anniversaries. She treasured this gift.”
Della handed her a tissue.
Dabbing her eye, Rita set the crafted box on the bed. She tucked a wad of one-dollar bills beside a pearl necklace inside, along with gold-hooped earrings. She wrapped several assorted trinkets into a kerchief and wedged it inside the silk pocket of the lid. “Ma’s soul may need to pay for small items on her year’s walk to Heaven.” She put the box into a paper bag. “The director will put the pearls and earrings on Ma before the first viewing tonight and place the box inside the casket. Family can’t touch the body for fear of mirime, spreading contamination from the deceased.”
“Say what?”
“Ah, sort of like so no evil spirits from the dead flesh can escape and return in supernatural form to haunt the living.”
“Wow.” Della rubbed her arms as if chilled. She took the bag from Rita. “I’ll take care of this for you, make sure it’s given to the director.” She glanced around the room. “Well, that’s the last of it. Let’s load and tow. Do you want to greet the mob out there before we leave?”
“No, I’m not ready to face them yet. I want to go to the hospital, be with Matt for a bit before I get dressed for tonight. Thanks for taking the jewelry box and giving me more time to spend with him.”
“Not a problem, girlfriend.”
*
Later that evening, Rita breathed a sigh of relief to learn they had the funeral home to themselves for the next few days.
The parlor echoed with the moans and wails of gypsies in mourning. Whether they were close family, or hardly knew Ma, the noisy lamentations were part of the expected ritual.
Their vurma, Marta, a plumpish, middle-aged woman, along with her second cousin, Yvonne, a stick-thin gray-haired Tarot card reader, threw themselves to the floor and cried their grief at the loss of one of their own. The children emulated some of the adults with sobs and stomping their feet on the floor.
Rita wore her ruffled red dress, the color of mourning. The clan had donned the traditional red, black, or white. The men wore red kerchiefs tied around their neck to ward off all evil spirits.
Della stood near, dressed in a black skirt, black silk blouse, and knee-high boots. She nudged Rita. “This goes on for how many days?”
“Three.”
“Would it hurt your feelings if I wore earplugs for the next two?”
Rita tried to hide her grin, but failed. Her friend would never understand the dramatic display of grief planted deep in their cultural beliefs. Rita stiffened as hard arms wrapped around her from behind. She turned and looked up. Way up.
Third cousin Jaffe cleared his throat. “I was chosen to speak for all of us. We want to tell you how grateful we are to your brave mama. She had such powerful gifts and so much knowledge of our old ways.” He shuffled his feet, his face reddening above his silver mustache. “And you, our Rita, we bless you for stopping Lucien. We all think he might have come to take revenge on our families, his descendents.”
“I don’t really know what other evil he planned, or why he came here to America,” Rita said. “I thank you all for your kind words, but there better not be anything else in our past being held back from the younger generations, or I give you my word, there will be hell to pay—from me.”
“You tell them, girlfriend, and Della here will back you up.”
Jaffe gave them a sheepish look and nodded.
Friends, acquaintances and customers stopped to pay their respects. Still confined to the hospital, Matt had sent flowers with a card, “To a great lady.”
In the days following the burial Rita visited with her old friends and relatives and spent time with Matt, who was now recuperating at her home. At the oddest times, she found herself bursting into tears. Matt would pull her into his arms, not say a word, and hold her until the tears stopped. She loved the way he always knew just what she needed.
Tonight, the Tea Room would overflow for the pomano, the death feast. Rita stood looking out of her kitchen window, absently twirling a ringlet of hair around her finger. The charred spot in her backyard had faded to a muddy brown, the recent rains washing away most of the fire spot. She turned at the sound of footsteps.
“You look lovely,” Matt smiled, adjusting his tie.
She went to him, straightened the tie and smoothed down his white collar. “Sure you don’t mind coming with me and being swamped by my people?”
“I told you the first day I met you at the station that I’d follow you anywhere, anytime. I meant it, Cheri.”
Matt looked gorgeous in his black slacks and gray sport jacket. His recuperation had gone well, although he still suffered some twinges and tenderness.
Rita wrapped her arms around his neck. “Seems I’ll be the one doing the following since I was asked to join your unit.” She pulled his head down and kissed him. His tongue traced her lips. Warm tingles fluttered against her chest from the amulet, and tiny, satin wings tickled her heart.
Chapter Eighteen
The guests crowded into the Tea Room. She and Matt mingled with friends and family. Rita smiled at the way her uncle’s face lit up whenever the cook, Millie, stood near him. Did they have a thing going? She hoped so. He deserved to be happy.
Servers placed food on each table in the pomano custom of threes—three chickens, three bowls of potatoes, three plates of all the side dishes. Matt sat next to her, at home with her family, and enjoying the stories of their gypsy lifestyle. He whispered in her ear, “They’re great. They almost make me want to hit the road with them.”
“Watch it. We kidnap kids and good-looking guys,” Rita whispered back.
He gave her that quirky smile. “If you mean me, I’m game.”
A clinking rang from the center of the room. Marta was standing on a chair, rapping a spoon against a glass. All murmuring ceased.
“Our people have suffered a great loss,” Marta said. “We honor a gifted seer today who is on her final journey. We wish her soul safe passage through the veiled mist of the afterlife until she reaches the gates of Heaven. But now, we must let her continue the walk alone.”
Uncle helped Marta down from the chair. He picked up his violin and began playing the soft, sad strains of Via Delorosa, artfully making his violin strings cry the tears. It had been one of Ma’s favorites, the melody so mournful, some dabbed at their eyes with tissue. The last note ebbed into the hush. Uncle looked around and cleared his throat. His booming voice carried clearly through the room. “I, her brother, say on this day, sad time done.”
“Yes,” Marta repeated. “We declare the mourning period officially over.”
Together, Dragus and Marta walked to the walls and uncovered all the shrouded mirrors. Soon, guitars, accordion, and concertina appeared. The music turned to upbeat mazurkas. The older folks clapped in time, some danced. Children giggled and skipped around the tables.
The night grew late. Rita, Dragus, and Della stood near the door as the clan and friends began to leave. She told Della that the parking lot would be empty by morning, if not sooner. Rita thanked Bobby and Gus for volunteering to keep order in the mall on their off time.
“We’re going to miss you,” Hank said. Sully stood at his side, knuckling his eye, complaining that an eyelash must have invaded his eyeball.
Rita grinned, gave them both hugs. “I’ll be back often to check on you two miscreants.”
Uncle pulled Rita aside. “She want you have this.” He held Ma’s wed
ding band in the center of his wide palm. “She give me before all happen. You put on chain with crystal. When right man ask,” he glanced toward Matt who was helping Millie fill a green garbage bag with trash from the tables, “you use ring. He put on finger.”
Ma must have known her daughter wouldn’t be sticking around Keyport much longer. Rita’s vision blurred. She took the ring, and Della came over to help hang it on the chain with the amulet.
“You’re doing the right thing, girlfriend. Even I sense it.” Della sniffled.
Chapter Nineteen
Matt pulled her closer as they sat on the couch watching the Steelers trounce Cincinnati on the TV. “You sure, Cheri?”
Rita snuggled into his warmth, breathing in the heady smell of his cologne. “Yeah, I’m sure. I want to meet your mom, and you still have a few weeks off.”
“I’ll show you all the great places, introduce you to some fine Cajun food before we both report back to our home office near Nashville.”
Rita lifted her chin and searched his eyes. The sunlight streaming through the window cast a rosy glow into the living room. “The case is wrapped up on our end then?”
“Yep. The Ripper’s officially dead. Your department received the report from the, ah, Homeland Security Headquarters.” He chuckled and tweaked her nose. “Forensic reports and all.”
“I had to fess up. I told Della everything after Uncle Dragus left. My amulet. The old mansion.”
“You won’t find a better friend, Cheri. You owed it to her.” Matt kissed Rita’s forehead and threaded his fingers through her unbound hair.
She laid her head on his shoulder, loving the solid strength of his arm encircling her. “I can’t wait to meet the new team, but I’d like to come home for visits, see Uncle and my friends. I’m going to miss them.”
“That can be arranged. You’ll like the gang. Everyone in the unit has a gift, Cheri, some barely perceptible, some strong like yours. You won’t have to worry about being a standout. Witherson will help you find your center and refine all your talents.”
Gypsy Blood (Born to Romany Blood, Book 1) Page 10