by Julie Kenner
She never dreamed she’d conjure the man himself.
She only hoped he would be back. She frowned. By releasing him this morning, she might have inadvertently helped him cross over. She combed her fingers through her tangle of hair and chided herself for being so selfish. What if that’s exactly what he wanted? To cross into the Otherworld? To be free of this prison on Earth?
She stepped into the kitchen, not needing to turn on any lights, thanks to the bank of glittering windows on the eastern wall of the house.
“He did not cross over.”
The voice made her jump, but Eve wasn’t entirely surprised to see the ghostly outline of an aged Romani woman sitting at her small oak kitchen table. As Dr. Bonnie had predicted, the bottle allowed Eve to see the spirit she’d previously only spoken to in brief, broken phrases.
“Jeta?” she gasped.
The woman smiled, nodding her head so that the beads woven into the kerchief tied saucily around her head tinkled. The sound seemed to echo, as did her voice. Just as it had once done only in Eve’s head.
“This is powerful magic you’ve unleashed into your home. Powerful black magic.”
Her frown was so pronounced, Eve could see the lines around Jeta’s mouth clearly, though she could also see her refrigerator through the woman’s partially transparent face.
“Is Viktor evil?”
Jeta shrugged and her hands rose gracefully like doves taking flight from her lawn in the morning. “Some say yes. Others would say his ways were wicked, even if his goals were true.”
No longer startled or afraid, Eve slid into the chair across from Jeta. This was what she’d wanted! This was why she’d cleared out her savings to purchase the bottle in the first place. To have a clear, uninterrupted conversation with this woman from the past.
“Did you know him?”
Jeta shook her head. “No, child. The Romani live all over the world. I was born in France, though I lived in just about every land of Europe before I came as an old woman to America with Nicholai and Alexis.”
“They’re related to you?”
So many questions swelled in Eve’s brain, she knew she couldn’t stay in a linear conversation if it killed her. She’d found so little information about the gypsies buried in her backyard. Most of her research came from apocryphal stories passed down by the Georgia families that had lived in and around Marietta since before the Civil War. Rumors of magic, prejudice and murder.
“Nicholai is my grandson. Alexis, well, she is his cousin. She had the gift of Sight, as did I. Nicholai was a great craftsman with wood. A carpenter.”
“If you didn’t know Viktor, how do you know his story?”
“Ah! The gypsies love a good tale, don’t we? His life was short, but his story traveled far and wide. His demise at the hand of a black witch is the stuff of legend.”
Eve nodded. The Romani people, with their strong oral tradition and growing written one, would embrace legends as bold and dark as the tale of Viktor Savitch. Such a story had the strength of drama to travel continents.
“You’re sure he hasn’t crossed over?” she asked, remembering Jeta’s first statement.
Jeta’s chest puffed and her eyes drifted closed, as if she was concentrating intently. “He is near. And crossing over is not what he wishes.” She remained still, quiet for a few moments longer. Then again, she smiled. “Yes. I understand.”
“What? What do you understand?” Eve’s voice crackled with desperation.
When Jeta’s eyes opened, Eve was startled by the brilliant gloss of her dark irises, like polished onyx. “He died violently. At another’s hand and before his time. Like me. Like Alexis and Nicholai. Our spirits hope some day to rest, and we could, if we wished to leave. But those of us who remain on this Earth truly want something more.”
A chill crept along the back of Eve’s neck, so powerful she touched the spot behind her ear where the coldness originated.
“What? What do you want? What does Viktor want?”
Jeta reached out, much as Viktor had done less than an hour ago. Eve willed herself to keep her hand flat on the table. The aura of Jeta’s hand emanated heat just as Viktor’s had. The same tingle tickled over her skin, though this time, the soft, soothing effect calmed her, as if she’d been touched by an angel, rather than the devil himself.
“He wants to cheat death,” Jeta answered. “His will is to reclaim the life he should have lived. And he needs you to help him.”
CHAPTER FIVE
VIKTOR LISTENED INTENTLY to the old woman. Yes, she understood completely. Maybe in the beginning, he’d merely wanted the freedom to cross into the Otherworld, to reconnect with his lost ancestors, to speak to his grandfather and beg forgiveness for adopting gaujo ways to control his wayward clan. But death had never suited him. He’d accepted the inevitable would occur, of course, but he’d had no desire to yield to murder. Besides, with her magic, his killer had made sure he couldn’t cross.
She’d guaranteed that he’d spend an eternity imprisoned in glass and silver so lovely and intriguing, any woman who saw it would have to possess it. In that way, his tormentor ensured his continued torture. Beautiful, sensual, alluring women owned him. He could watch them, day and night, yet he couldn’t have them. Couldn’t touch them. Couldn’t practice the many modes of seduction he’d utilized as king of his gypsy clan.
But now he could. He had. And yet, while the experience of making love, as it were, to Eve had made him visible, Viktor felt ever so slightly thinner. Less substantial, when the opposite should have been true. He had no doubt that his existence outside the bottle was only temporary. If he wanted to reclaim his solid form—which he craved beyond any other desire—he had to act now.
He slipped out from the stream of sunlight that had kept him hidden.
“Ah, I wondered when you would reveal yourself,” the old woman said with a clever twinkle in her dark eyes. Instantly, she reminded him of his grandmother and he bowed in deference.
“How could I stay away from a creature as beautiful and responsive as our dear Evonne?”
Coyly, Eve glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes revealed nothing. The old woman laughed heartily and stood, though it was hard to tell since she was so tiny. Her shoulders were stooped, her body old and infirm as it had been when life was taken from her. But her gaze was sharp as a blade and Viktor knew to hold her in high esteem.
“You’ve studied my people,” the old woman said to Eve, slicing a cursory glance at him. “I don’t have to warn you about the tongue of a gypsy man, do I?”
Eve turned away, blushing. “No, Jeta. I’ll be cautious.”
“Good. I won’t be far.”
And with that, she scooted across the room toward the door. The minute she passed through sunlight, she completely disappeared.
Eve inhaled, then released a long breath. “And our culture believes ghosts hide in the shadows.”
Viktor chuckled, then moved so he could watch her face. She was beautiful beyond words, even with her eyes puffy and shadowed from lack of sleep. Her cheeks retained the sweet pink tinge of a woman who’d recently experienced skillful lovemaking. Even without the use of his hands, Viktor had made this woman call his name. The fact should have made him feel stronger, but instead, he was overcome by a wave that made his form flicker.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her hands braced on the edge of the table.
Viktor locked his gaze with hers. Her eyes were a golden, honey-brown, just a shade lighter than her hair, which fell in waves just beyond her shoulders. He must have lost some of the subtlety he used to master, because she looked away and attempted to run one hand through her hair while the other clamped the opening of her robe.
“I’m free, am I not?” he answered, choosing to ignore the fluttering sensation still waffling all around him. Being visible had an advantage, but outside the bottle, in the light, he felt like a vapor, a mist. He missed his body, his heartbeat, his power. He wanted them back. Today. And he
’d do whatever it took to have his wish.
“How are you free?” she asked. “Or I suppose I should back up and ask how were you trapped in the first place? Jeta said you were murdered.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Jeta is not of my clan. Nor of any other I’ve crossed paths with.”
“She said your story was passed around, and she’s right. I’ve found references to your demise, but mainly, just rumors that you disappeared. Some said you returned to live with the British professor, Richard Davenport-Dunn, who had taken you in as a child, but that wasn’t true. His wife kept meticulous journals until the end of her life. She mentioned you in her early works. If you’d gone back, she would have mentioned you later as well.”
He kept his grin inscrutable. “Ah, Lady Lynette. A vicious creature, too shrewd and clever to be trapped in a woman’s body.”
Eve did not seem to take offense, but instead, her gaze softened. “Sir Richard cared for her, and for you, very much. He never wanted you to leave, did you know that?”
He cleared the tightness in his throat with a cough. “Sir Richard wrote of me?”
Evonne popped up from her chair and disappeared through a doorway. He sensed he could transport himself into the adjoining room by simply concentrating on her aura and connecting with it, but she returned before he could try.
She tossed a dusty book on the table. The lettering was faded, but still glittered with flecks of gold. He’d learned to read English and the title caused him to frown.
The Little Wanderers.
“He wrote an entire book about the many children who passed through his home. But you were the first—”
“Sir Richard loved his work above all else,” he commented, knowing his claim wasn’t entirely true. He owed the educated Englishman for many a kindness, niceties the angry teenaged Viktor had never received with graciousness. Even now, when he realized the generosity of this stranger, Viktor couldn’t completely discard the rage he’d harbored for having to live away from his family, his people.
For reasons Viktor still could not understand, he'd been sent away to honor a promise made between Sir Richard and his grandfather shortly before the Chovihano’s death. He doubted Jacques Savitch, his mentor and beloved purodad, knew what Viktor would learn in the Englishman’s household, particularly from Lady Lynette, Sir Richard’s ignored and insatiable wife.
“Sir Richard cared for you a great deal,” Eve insisted. “He wrote of your departure when your uncle died.”
“The leadership of the clan fell to me.”
She flipped through the pages as if looking for something in particular. “He wrote that the clan was in great disarray, with much infighting. Several family members had broken away from the clan, only to be persecuted by the gaujo. He supposed if you hadn’t gone, the clan might have dispersed or been destroyed.”
“He was right.”
Viktor forced his stare to remain on the book, but his mind wandered back to the discord and despair he’d found when he’d returned to his clan. During his ten-year absence, many clansmen had left. They barely had sufficient craftsmen and entertainers among them to earn enough to feed the children. With no chovihano, the sick had died or at least, never recovered. Only days after he’d taken the leadership of the clan, his cousin Marco had announced that he’d married a gaujo woman and intended to live with her in her village. In the interest of avoiding conflict, Viktor had let him go.
Only a year later, Marco’s gaujo wife sought out the clan, half-starved and beaten. Marco had been hanged—wrongly accused of raping a village girl. Their only child had been stolen from them in restitution. Without his family, without the power of the clan, Marco had been alone. This lesson taught Viktor that survival meant keeping his family together. At all costs.
Eve’s gaze met his and perhaps sensing his bitterness, she shut the book. “You succeeded in keeping your clan together, until you disappeared.”
“Ten years later,” he said. “The clan was intact. Powerful. We traveled to many lands together, collected enough wealth to keep our children fat and healthy. The gaujo we met looked forward to our return, depended on us to repair their wagons and adorn their homes and clothing. They healed our sick. I spoke their language, knew their customs. We created a trust.”
She smirked. “An illusion of trust. Romani never truly trust the gaujo. Not really. We’re like two different species—cats and dogs—rather than two different cultures in the human race. At least, that’s what you would have been taught, true?”
He nodded. She did indeed understand how his people thought, how they’d thought for the thousands of years since they’d migrated out of India, escaping persecution after persecution by creating elaborate tales for the non-gypsies they met along the way. His ancestors told stories of a valiant pilgrimage out of mystical Egypt, full of pageantry and drama and magic and very little truth. They mimicked the Christian ways when necessary, adopted the rituals of other religions when it would keep them fed and out of prisons. The Romani adapted to the land and to the gaujo who could often make the difference whether they lived or died.
And to Viktor, they’d done more. From Richard Davenport-Dunn and his society, Viktor had learned the power of a woman’s lust. Though the men strutted to their parliament and to their political meetings puffed up with self-importance, Viktor had spied a wondrous truth. A man besotted by a sensual woman would do anything for her. Sir Richard adored Lady Lynette so completely, he never realized that her encouragement for him to study the gypsies was a complex ploy to satisfy her carnal obsession with his people, particularly the handsome boys.
“That is the lesson I learned of the gaujo and the Romani,” he admitted. “You know the truth.”
“I’ve studied your culture,” she explained. “I have a great deal of respect for it. My great-great-grandfather married a gypsy woman. He rescued her from a prison cell in Avignon, France, shortly before he immigrated to the United States through New Orleans, Louisiana.”
Viktor grinned. He’d recently been in New Orleans, with a woman who seemed entirely unnerved by the presence of the bottle. As a result, she’d sent him away quickly. Not that he blamed her. His prison possessed magical properties that while harmless to the average owner, could wreak havoc with someone who had sorcery in their veins. From the moment Caitlyn Raine had removed the bottle from the charmed casket that cradled it, he’d sensed the presence of something mystical in her, but she hadn’t had the power to release him. Neither had her friend, the doctor. Only Eve could set him free. Completely free.
“New Orleans brims with the magic of many cultures,” Viktor concluded, knowing he had to bide his time before he broached the topic of his release with this alluring, but cautious woman. “I should like to return there.”
“You remember New Orleans?”
“I’ve been aware of my travels since the beginning. I likely could not catalogue where I’ve been, but I could relay impressions, maybe describe a scent or a sound from every woman who’s ever owned the bottle.”
She licked her lips as he spoke, and Viktor thought he might go mad. Knowing she had gypsy blood, even a small dash of it, increased her power over him, like it or not. Yes, he’d manipulated many gypsy women in his regrettably short life, but inevitably, it was a gypsy woman who’d done him in.
“None of the women before me could release you?”
“No.”
He watched her throat undulate as she swallowed. “And you never made love…”
“No,” he answered, with a sly grin. He’d never dreamed he could have experienced something so enchanting as last night with Eve, especially not while still trapped in his prison. He could only imagine what they might accomplish now that he was, at least partially, free of the curse. “I wanted to, many times. The things I saw, trapped in women’s bedrooms. The lovers they took. The secret fantasies they brought to life. I was like a child trapped outside a candy store.”
She rolled her eyes, apparently un
impressed. Gaujo women today were entirely more apt to show and voice their displeasure than in his lifetime. Before, he’d associated such brazenness only with the women of his kind, women who understood the powerful magic they possessed that could make a man’s life either paradise or perdition.
And yet, he thrilled at learning that Evonne Baptiste had Romani blood in her veins. The knowledge elevated her, made her an equal match. She was no simple gaujo woman to be finessed and beguiled to do his will. No, she had powers she couldn’t begin to understand. Powers he could help her harness, control. Before he moved on, he would leave her stronger than before.
The challenge invigorated him.
Shyly, she drew her hand to her chest. “You’re still quite the lover, even without a body. That was some maneuver, manipulating my dream, the water and the candle. I can’t wait to see what other tricks you have up your, um, sleeve.”
Her gaze locked with his, and the pink he’d noticed on her cheeks earlier bloomed bright and brazen. She blushed and she didn’t care that he knew. She was bold, this one, but her audacity came more from her will than from deep within her soul.
Something stirred at this realization. Attraction? Lust? Most definitely. In huge quantities. But something more…as if someone whispered an important secret in his ear, but too softly for him to hear.
“You weren’t afraid,” he reminded her.
“Is that why you could—” she hesitated as she searched for the right word to describe what they’d shared “—contact me and not the others who’ve owned you?”
“Others who have owned the bottle, you mean. Perhaps,” he mused, certain she understood that a man like Viktor Savitch could neither be owned nor contained. His release had only been a matter of time and patience. And, apparently, sexual desire.
“Have you spoken to the others?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Only to Bonnie.”