by Ann Gimpel
“Can’t sleep, honey?”
Ilona shook her head. “I’m sure I will, but a lot has happened today.”
“You’re safe now.” Trina’s voice faltered. “Well, safe as any of us can be these days, I guess.” Twisting, she dug into one of many crates littering the wagon and came up with a small, silver flask that she handed to Ilona.
“Thanks.” Ilona removed the cap and took a cautious swallow. Gypsy homebrew was always breath-stealingly strong, and this was no exception. The liquid burned like fire as it tracked down her throat to her stomach. She gave the flask back to Trina, who took a hefty swallow.
“Be right back.” Trina hefted her bulk to her knees and crawled to the wagon’s door where she let herself out into the night.
The other woman, Marguerite, was Trina’s mother. She moaned in her sleep and rolled over. Judging from her lined face, she had to be in her sixth decade, or maybe even her seventh. Ilona hadn’t looked too closely, but illness ate at her, the darkness concentrated in her breasts and abdomen.
Ilona wondered if Trina knew. Neither woman had much in the way of power, but that was true of most of the Rom. If the lore books were accurate, magic was on the decline in their people. Perhaps it was incompatible with modern life. Or maybe it required people to believe in it.
No one did anymore. Not the Rom or their customers, but both made a great show of pretending.
What will become of us?
Ilona chewed on her lower lip. If the Nazis won, it was an easy enough question to answer. Eventually, they’d round up all the gypsies and Jews and other undesirables and kill them. If a few Rom escaped to join their kin in other countries, they might not die out entirely.
If the Nazis lost and Europe’s gypsies could once again roam free, they still needed something akin to a miracle to get back in touch with the vibrant, magical people they’d been when they emigrated from India centuries ago.
Trina came back inside, latching the door behind her, and got under her blankets. “It will be all right.” She patted Ilona’s arm. “Try to get some rest. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.”
“We could look,” Ilona whispered, not wanting to disturb Marguerite. “You tell fortunes just like me.”
“Ha!” Trina snorted softly. “You bought into that tripe, huh? I make it up as I go depending on who pays me. Sleep now.”
“Thanks. You too.” Ilona didn’t bother crafting a response to Trina. Maybe when your power was as puny as hers, everything did seem made up. Her mind buzzed from the alcoholic homebrew, and she wished she’d swallowed more. When she wasn’t vigilant, Jamal entered her thoughts.
Jamal with his intelligent, dark eyes and tawny, chestnut hair. He’d started to take his clothes off prior to shifting. She’d known she shouldn’t look, but she hadn’t been able to rip her gaze from his tall, broad-shouldered form. He smelled like forests and wintergreen and mystery with a musky undertone that made her want to undress him slowly, savoring every inch of skin as she revealed it.
Ilona wasn’t a virgin. Very few grown gypsy women were, regardless of whether they were married. But she’d kept her dalliances brief, private, and outside the caravan. The last thing she wanted was for Valentin to launch into one of his famous, anti-women rages and call her a slut. The next thing after that would be a forced marriage before she ended up pregnant and shamed him and the caravan.
She tucked her mouth beneath the blanket to smother a giggle. Valentin had been a piece of work. His desire to fuck every man who crossed his path had done more to shame the caravan than a whole wagonload of slutty women would have. She’d longed to tell him that, but had the good sense to bite her tongue. No one was supposed to know about Valentin and his boys, some of them barely past childhood. If she’d mouthed off to him, he’d have kicked her out.
Getting through her interviews with Michael and Stewart had been a relief. Elliott may have reassured her that he’d never force her to return to Valentin, but he wasn’t the guiding force for either of these caravans. When both Michael and Stewart reinforced Elliott’s sentiment, she’d truly begun to relax.
Ilona rolled onto her side, her stomach still pleasantly full from dinner. A few Rom had apologized for what they saw as scant rations, but to her dinner had been plentiful and delicious.
Her mind returned to Jamal.
What was it about him that drew her? His dark good looks? His powerful body? The strong magic that made the air around him sparkle with promise? What would it be like to weave her magic with his?
After her mother died, no one in her caravan commanded power nearly as strong as her own. Sometimes she and her mother had snuck off to practice their trade unobserved. The level of their magic frightened the others. Not that the men would ever admit it.
Even in the midst of a Romani caravan, she’d often felt like a freak and had downplayed her ability. Maybe she wouldn’t have to do that in a group of shifters. Ilona’s eyes snapped open at the thought. Not that shifters would ever accept her.
Jamal had been kind to her. No more. No less. She’d probably imagined interest hovering in the depths of his remarkable eyes because of her attraction to him. For all she knew, he had a shifter wife somewhere. One thing was certain, he’d never take up with another gypsy. Not after what had happened with Tairin’s mother. What Ilona didn’t know was why Jamal hadn’t raised Tairin. It seemed like an indelicate question to ask, so she’d kept her mouth shut.
What kind of father let his thirteen-year-old loose in the world to fend for herself? Granted, thirteen was considered grown up in the seventeen hundreds, but still.
Maybe he’s not the man I think he is.
No. If he were a bad person, a slipshod father, Tairin wouldn’t look at him the way she does. Like she’s happy he’s in her life.
Ilona reached outward with her magic taking stock of the gypsy camp and who was here. She was used to employing power for simple tasks like this, and her touch was light enough no one who wasn’t looking would know she’d just taken the magical equivalent of roll call.
Jamal hadn’t yet returned, but neither had Meara. Probably a good thing because Meara’s power was strong enough to set a Nazi tank on its side—or explode it. Ilona hadn’t looked directly because she didn’t wish to anger the shifter, but Meara’s magic was a force unto itself. Ilona had always longed for that kind of strength. Where she didn’t have to conserve her magical well for fear of running it dry.
She closed her eyes and willed sleep to come. The sooner she slept, the sooner it would be morning. Even if Meara weren’t back yet, maybe she could sit with Elliott and scry the future. Her power was recovered from her precipitous flight out of Dachau’s work camp, and she wanted to help any way she could.
She hadn’t given up on finding Aron, either. If he’d returned to Valentin’s caravan, he’d moved beyond her reach, but if he were still in this area, she might locate him. Perhaps Elliott could help with that. Or Meara with her ability to fly.
A thought struck her, and she embraced it, reveling in the possibilities it unlocked. Maybe she could become a wolf or a vulture or a hawk. Elliott’s transition to wolf shifter was quite new, which argued it was at least possible to augment her magical side.
Her brain was pedaling in crazy circles by the time she released her grip on consciousness and fell into blackness.
Ilona crouched around a camp stove outside Trina and Marguerite’s wagon eating boiled grain and raisins. She’d slept well once she’d fallen asleep, and Trina had to wake her to tell her the morning meal was in the cookpot. Marguerite had requested a bowl inside the wagon. Something about the expression on Trina’s face told Ilona the other woman knew how gravely ill her mother was.
Ilona huddled deeper into the cloak Trina loaned her. Layered over her shirt and jacket, it was wonderfully warm. “Thanks for making breakfast,” she said.
“No thanks needed. It’s easy enough, and Mother needs to eat more.”
Ilona placed her empty dish next to he
r and lowered her voice. “How long has she been like this?”
“Months. I took her to a doctor in Berlin. And to others in Augsburg and Munich. They all said the same thing.” Trina sidled close and placed her mouth next to Ilona’s ear. “She has cancer. It started in her breasts, but it spread. Nothing they can do except give her morphine for when the pain gets bad.”
Tears sheened the other woman’s eyes. “She’s all I’ve got. I’ll miss her so bad.”
Ilona hugged Trina. “I know. I lost my mother a year ago. It’s still hard. We didn’t always get along, but she was my closest friend, the only one in the caravan who understood me.”
Trina hugged her back. “I’m glad you’re sharing our wagon. I’ve feared being alone.”
“Have your healers looked at Marguerite?”
“She won’t have any of it. She wouldn’t have gone to those doctors, but I insisted.”
Ilona let go of Trina and pushed to her feet. “Your mother doesn’t believe in gypsy magic?”
Trina rolled her eyes. “What’s to believe in? Once we were strong, but the goddess hasn’t seen fit to maintain our magic.” She got up from her low campstool. “Now you’re strong. Even I have enough power to sense yours, but most of us are like me. We have occasional moments, but for the most part, we’re just like the gadjo. Magicless.”
Ilona took a chance. “Do you wish it were otherwise?”
Trina frowned, thinking. “Maybe, but I may as well wish for wings like that vulture shifter for all the good it will do me. Best get the wagon together for the day, and I need to see to Mother.”
“Can I help?”
“No. Pretty much a one-woman job. Wagon’s not big enough for you and me moving around in there at the same time.” She turned and disappeared into her home on wheels.
Ilona picked up their empty bowls and ladled water from a bucket to rinse them. Trina and Marguerite’s situation was eerily similar to what she’d just lived through. Maybe fortune had led her here. Regardless, it felt like she was where she belonged—at least for now.
Tairin and Elliott strode between the neighboring wagons and walked to where Ilona stood. “Sleep well?” Tairin asked.
Ilona shrugged. “Eventually. What’s up? Looks like you came to get me.”
“We did,” Elliott concurred. “Meara is back, and she and I are going to do what we can to look into the future. If you want to lend your power, I’d welcome it.”
Something about how he’d phrased his words caught her attention, and she asked, “Will Meara welcome me too?”
“Probably,” Tairin said. “She’s hard to read. But she didn’t call Elliott back when he said he was on his way to round you up.”
“I’d be glad to help any way I can.” Ilona looked from one to the other. Meara was back. Was Jamal? She sent magic outward, hunting for his energy but not finding it.
“What was that about?” Elliott quirked a brow.
Heat swooshed from Ilona’s chest over her head. She was blushing furiously, but she couldn’t do anything about the color she’d just turned. “Um, nothing.”
“Let’s go,” Tairin urged. “Meara’s impatient enough as it is.”
Ilona could have hugged her for not digging deeper into why she’d just turned the shade of an overripe tomato. She hurried after Tairin with Elliott bringing up the rear. If questions danced in his mind because he recognized Tairin’s transparent diversion for what it was, he didn’t bring them up.
Meara stood in the center of a circle of leafless oak trees about a quarter mile past the wagons. A creek ran through the grove, forming several pools where the water eddied as opposed to flowing fast. Still swathed in Trina’s cloak atop her other clothing, Ilona started to sweat before they reached Meara. She swiped the back of one hand across her forehead before drops could run in her eyes and make them sting.
“I accessed the future while I waited for you,” Meara announced. “It’s your turn. Once the two of you have gathered your own set of possibilities, we can compare notes.”
“What if what we see is different?” Elliott asked.
“It will be,” Meara said, “but not so different as all that. Magic comes to each of us by dint of our unique abilities, so our visions will vary. Focus the lens close. We need to get the next couple of weeks pegged down as accurately as we can.”
Ilona inhaled sharply. “We can alter what we see if we don’t like it.”
Meara shifted her unsettling gaze onto Ilona. “Aye. That we can. Have you ever clipped and rewoven the strands of time?”
Looking right at Meara was impossible, so Ilona gave up. “Um, yes. A few times, but the last time I tried, I failed.”
“What were you trying to do?” Meara’s strident tone softened, but not by much.
“Save my mother.”
“Aw, Ilona.” Tairin grasped her hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry.”
“You learned a valuable lesson,” Meara said. “Look at me, child.”
Ilona bristled. No one had called her child for a very long time. She raked her gaze off the stone-strewn ground and stared at Meara. “What exactly did I learn?”
“That illness runs its own course. It’s one of the few things we can’t tamper with. Except to hasten someone’s death and spare them suffering. That we can do. So long as your energy is engaged, you go before Elliott. Dig into your gift. Spare nothing. We need precision.”
Ilona knelt next to the stillest of the pools and spread her hands in front of her. Chanting softly, she marshalled her power and focused the lens of her third eye. This was familiar territory. Looking ahead, particularly not too far ahead, was easy. Whirlpools formed in the water, running into each other until images took shape.
Tanks rolled down the streets of a city. Maybe Munich. Maybe Dachau. Planes roared overhead. A screaming Hitler spewed hatred from a flag-draped podium. On one side of her vision, a line of gypsies—heads down and covered with black scarves—marched in a sad line, chained to one another. A similar line of Jews marched up the other side of her trance.
Ilona wrenched her attention away from the scene, forcing it closer to where they hid. Would the Nazis find them?
The first images cleared, and mercifully Hitler vanished along with them. Ilona altered the cadence of her chant, hoping for more relevant information. To up her odds of success, she dug a long, sharp fingernail into the ball of her thumb, making a shallow cut. When blood welled, she dipped her hand into the pool, willing her essence to become one with the water.
The next image that took shape held the wagons. She pushed more power into her working, urging it to yield information. Meara had instructed her to spare nothing, and Ilona dredged power she didn’t know she had from her depths. For long moments, nothing disturbed the wagons or the Rom wandering about in the clearing as they engaged in day-to-day tasks. She was about to clear her power, convinced all was well, but Meara closed a viselike grip over her shoulder.
“Stay the course, Romani,” she hissed. “You are not yet done.”
Power poured from the shifter into Ilona, heady like a rich wine. She let it flow through her, strengthening her vision. Something dark and malevolent tinged one side of the pool black. As she watched, the stain spread. No longer quiet, the water roiled as if the stream resented being used in this fashion.
Scared to keep looking, but unable to wrench herself out of a trance that was anchored by her own power plus Meara’s, Ilona’s eyes grew hot and gritty. Pressure grew in her chest and her head until she thought she’d explode. Her breath came in little panting gasps. Just when she thought she’d pass out, the maelstrom in the water shattered, and vampires marched through the hole.
Ilona tried to hold it back, but a shriek rose from her gut, and she just kept screaming as she counted ten vampires. Dark, daunting, unbelievably lovely. The lead vampire stared up at her, almost as if he sensed her presence.
Not possible. It’s a trance. A vision.
She was still shrieking when Meara w
aved an arm and the water quieted as if nothing had ever been there.
“Hush.” Tairin gathered her into her arms. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
Ilona writhed in her arms. “No. You’re wrong. None of us will ever be safe again.” At least talking cut the flow of those other ungodly sounds she’d been making.
“Well?” Elliott asked from behind her.
“She saw the same thing I did,” Meara intoned sounding like the death that stalked them. “No reason for a third rerun.”
Meara grasped Ilona from behind and dragged her from Tairin’s embrace. “Get hold of yourself. We used our gifts to grant us knowledge. Now that we know what we face, we can employ that knowledge to make certain those vampires get exactly what they deserve.”
Ilona inhaled deep, shuddery breaths. “How can you kill something that looks like those things do? That one hypnotized me, and he wasn’t even here.”
“That where shifters come in,” Tairin said. “We’re immune to their mind control, and we can shield you from it as well.”
Ilona shook herself out of Meara’s grasp and turned to face the others. “Or you could make me one of you same as you did for Elliott. That way, I’d be stronger. A better warrior. We have a few days before the vampires find us. It’s what the quiet time meant at the front end of my vision.”
Shock ricocheted through her. What had she just suggested? Where had it come from? “Never mind. I didn’t mean it. Not really. I’m ready to work on those plans, whatever they are. Rom magic has always been good enough for me. It still is. I—” Ilona chopped off her flow of words. She was babbling and needed to shut up.
“Come along.” Meara beckoned with one hand. “Words that come after vision states are often truer than we suspect.”
“Where are we going?” Tairin asked.
“To Stewart’s wagon. We will require his and Michael’s cooperation. Beyond that, we’re allies, and allies share information.”
After a final backward glance at the pool that was just a pool now and no longer a bloody battlefield, Ilona plodded after the other three. In the midst of her terror, she’d forgotten about Aron.