by Editor
Serena nodded and came out from the screen. “Tie these lacings,” she said, and turned her back to him.
She heard him clear his throat as his cold fingers brushed against her bare back to tie the many laces of the purple and gold stays. “You know, Àngelas,” he said, using her Romany name. “We are old enough now by far for someone else to be…” He hesitated and pulled hard on the stays. “…to be dressing you.”
Darkness swirled around Serena’s mind. His fingers against her skin washed cold dread down into her stomach as if someone were pouring a bucket of ice water down her throat. She shivered. William bled, a slick blackness oozed from his aura. She turned around and stared at him. “What?” she asked weakly.
“Duy should do it, or Petra. I’m a man. Have been for years.”
Serena tried to follow his words. She shivered and attempted to redirect her feelings. “Of course, Shoshòy, I will talk to Petra. Let me see your hand.”
William hesitated but then thrust out his hand. Serena didn’t have to look at it. She only had to hold it. She clasped it in her naked palm. Serena tingled as the aura bled further into her. Suspicion, despair, death.
“Àngelas?”
Serena stared into William’s eyes. “Stay away from the fools tonight. It doesn’t feel right.”
William stared hard at her, but then the playful twinkle flashed through his eyes again. He shrugged and pulled his hand from the cradle of her palm. “I’ll help tend the fires.” He smiled his charming smile and ducked to go out the door. “Hurry up, though, before King Will comes in here after you himself.”
Serena tried to shake the itchy dread that spider-walked just under her skin. She finished fastening her scarves and bells, meant to catch the light of the fire, and hooked one last strand of painted jewels across her forehead. A sweet chirping melody from outside the wagon made her fingers flash as they looped and knotted. She stepped out into the night.
The melody called from a branch above her. She glanced around to make sure no one watched. “Chiriklò,” she called, and the small sparrow landed on her hand. Serena stroked the smooth feathers of her pet. The bird crept closer to her and chirped loudly.
Serena laughed. “Yes, I have bread for you.” She pulled some bits from her pocket. The bird snapped one up and flew to a low branch nearby. “Aye, not at all like a Faw. Talking to worms and birds.”
Even in the shadows, Serena could see the hint of blue in his perfect wings, the same unique blue of the feather her birth mother had gifted to her on that terrible night long ago. She had found the little bird, or rather it had found her, shortly after landing in the pond.
Coincidence? She didn’t believe in coincidences.
Serena wasn’t sure how long sparrows lived, but this one continued to thrive and follow her wherever she traveled. The bird’s unusual color marked it unique and its ability to share information with her through its thoughts amazed her. Serena couldn’t read the thoughts of animals. Sometimes she caught an image from one, but none could keep a conversation with her like the little blue sparrow.
After eating his bread, he twittered a short melody and let random thoughts of the day sift through his mind.
“Serena!” William called from near the fire.
“Sorry, Chiriklò, I am to dance tonight.” The little bird flew higher up into the tree.
The scents, sounds, and thoughts from the faire pulsed against her like the wind before a storm, begging for her attention. But Serena easily thrust them from her, yanked on her soft leather gloves and wiggled her fingers down into each finger sleeve.
The first knowledge of her great sensitivity had crashed in on her upon awakening in the gypsy camp as Mari, her new mother, or duy, bathed her skin. She soon discovered that every inch of her skin could read the minds of those she touched. And many thoughts came to her without physical contact. Mari continued to help Serena master her power. Without control, Serena could lose herself to the onslaught around her.
She stepped between the wagons and smiled greetings to some of the Rom women nearby. They bustled around to set up their tin wares for sale. Do not touch me. What new havoc will she bring? Shouldn’t she be dancing? She scries the future more than is natural. Poor King Will.
Their minds tumbled behind their polite smiles and nods. Serena shrugged inwardly and blocked their thoughts. Everyone thought she was strange, almost dangerous. Maybe it would be best if she lived alone. She clutched arms around herself and turned down another dark path toward the glow of the fire. She didn’t belong with normal people.
Serena didn’t even look Romany. They were dark of skin with beautiful shiny black hair. Her hair was red. Where their skin tanned under the sun, her paleness burned red. Even without her powers, she would always be an outsider. The stone from her mother had helped her understand their language at first. She had picked it up incredibly fast. Serena touched the red stone that hung on a cord around her neck. But her tribe still only saw her differences.
“Serena,” she heard Mari call from near the fire, even though she called out Àngelas in her mind. William had given Serena her Romany name, Àngelas, when he saw her fall like an angel from the sky.
Her duy walked toward her through the shadows. Mari’s concern penetrated Serena upon contact.
“I am fine,” Serena said. “Just sad for a moment, is all.”
Mari rubbed her back and sent soothing thoughts to her. Àngelas, gift from God, with an amazing power to be cherished, not despised.
“I know, Duy, I know. To be cherished, not despised.” Serena looked at her mother who had still not uttered a word out loud. “But still, not normal.”
Mari sighed. “You will find your path, Serena, and you will follow it to your happiness.” Mari possessed a small measure of sight as well, but not near to Serena’s ability.
Serena’s eyes narrowed as she studied her duy. “You have seen this?”
Mari’s chin bobbed just enough to be a nod. “It’s in shadows, of course. There are happy paths and sorrowful paths,” she warned.
“But there are happy paths?”
Mari laughed. “Of course, child.”
From the distance, Mari and Serena heard a deep beat begin. Pipes, stringed fiddles, and the base harp joined in to roll together in a seductive melody. Serena dropped her outer shawl and handed it to Mari.
Mari frowned as she stared up at a little patch of stars shining down through the oaks. “The stars have worried me these last few nights. Be careful, Àngelas. Something dark comes.”
Serena wanted to tell her about the taint on William’s aura, but she had already missed the first cue. “Later, Duy, we’ll talk of the stars.” Serena broke away to run in her little leather slippers to the fire.
A crowd, mostly of men, gathered around the snapping bonfire that stretched up brightly in dancing shades of crimson light. Members of the tribe, including King Will, held the crowd back from the fire so that Serena could perform around its border. At the edge of the light Serena halted, closed her eyes, and filled her chest with warm air.
The fire crackled and huffed. Serena drew from the power within the flames. The noise of the people and the press of their thoughts dimmed as she funneled the magic of the fire through her body. She watched the flames flicker through her eyelids.
The thoughts of the crowd became a wall of noise that she held in its place away from her. She balanced it and diminished it until the noise was just part of the night wind blowing against her body.
The notes of the flute slowed, and Serena opened her eyes to stare at the flames. They pulsed with the night breeze, powerful and snapping. The flames beckoned her to dance with them. Serena’s arms and torso moved in the same fashion. Her head rolled back along her shoulders, her arms extended, offering herself to the heat.
The heat, it was a familiar partner to her. She pulled from its energy the strength to force out the emotions of her audience. Fire magick infused her. Serena danced, shifting her body with the waves o
f heat, sometimes facing the blaze, sometimes facing the night chill where the people stood. She didn’t see any of them, only the flame. It was her friend and partner. It accepted her, loved her.
Serena transitioned with the increasing tempo. Her body answered the music by mimicking its rhythm. Serena felt her hair wash around her shoulders as she turned, her arms languid and graceful. The core of her body warmed with fire and the thrill of the dance. She held a circle of silence around her as she moved. Here she could breathe, alone within the quiet, the peace.
****
“Bloody drunk fool.” Keenan Maclean stood vigilant at the fringe of the crowd. His large frame usually relegated him to the back of an audience since at nearly six and a half feet, he could see above everyone. And tonight was no different. He watched his companion, soaked with royal whisky, ram and trip his way toward the front row, near the fire. As long as Keenan kept his eye on Gerard, he was technically guarding him. He certainly didn’t appreciate any type of conversation with the man. If Gerard wasn’t so bloody crucial to the Jacobite cause, Keenan would have abandoned him to the gypsy faire much earlier. But Gerard Grant secretly supported Prince Charles Edward Stewart, Bonnie Prince Charlie, making him a surreptitious Jacobite. Plus, he nurtured a warm friendship with England’s King George II. Gerard was worth his weight in whisky to the Jacobites.
Keenan, a loyal Scot down to the marrow of his bones, despised English rule as much as any other Scot. Having met the untried Prince Charles Stewart, Keenan couldn’t support the radical Jacobite cause, either. His opinion didn’t matter anyway since his laird supported the Prince.
Sworn to perform his duty to his family, Keenan needed to make certain Gerard made it home tonight and that the contents of his pocket remained intact. Keenan leaned against the trunk of a wide oak. One last onerous task to perform before heading back at dawn to his beloved Highlands. One more step closer to fulfilling his duty to the prophecy that ruled his existence.
The slow music increased in tempo before the hushed crowd.
A performance. Another drunk stumbled into him.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed beneath his breath, his eyes searching the crowd near Gerard. He should carry the man out of here before their pockets were picked clean.
The audience remained motionless, entranced. Even bawdy Gerard studied the performer in stunned silence. Perhaps the dancer had talent. Keenan looked over a sea of heads towards the fire.
A woman danced from around the leaping flames. Her hair reflected the red of the fire with such intensity that it seemed to move as a twin flame. She wove her slender arms around her body; white gloves were the only cloth to hide the perfect skin of her limbs. The loose folds of fabric swirled around her naked calves above delicate leather slippers. Silk swathed her middle, the fabric so thin and supple that it showed her softly rounded stomach as it moved like a wave under her flexible stays. The bells sitting low on her waist shook in time with the music as she snapped her hips. Her seductive, half-closed eyes scanned across the crowd but did not connect, as if she saw none of them. Her lips parted. As she whirled with the increased tempo around the fire, her full breasts rose and fell faster with her breath.
Keenan watched her sensual movements. His gaze ran the contours of her face. Her high cheekbones flushed, her translucent skin sparkled. “Mo bhean,” Keenan said in Gaelic. “My woman.” The words filled his mind, thrumming through him with the sound of blood rushing in his ears. “Mine,” he whispered roughly.
Keenan’s thumb rubbed against his other fingers as if feeling her softness. Her skin would feel like the unblemished hide of a doe, tender, soft. “Mo bhean,” he said again and took a step forward as if under a spell. Keenan’s eyes followed the glimpses of her long bare calves, the taut muscles flashed by as she whipped the skirts back and forth. His hands fisted against his sides, and he shook his head, pushing out the ridiculous urge to hoist her up into his arms and carry her away. As if he was entitled to take her. As if she was his.
He could not turn away. Her arms held strength as she raised them up high. She was no young girl just blooming. She was a woman. Her body was shaped and rounded for the caress of a man. She rolled her head back, causing fire-colored hair to wash all the way down below her hips. It would run silky in his rough hands and smell of fresh night air and womanly warmth. Keenan felt a deep tightening in his loins. Bloody English trews gave no room to grow.
She danced toward the edge where Gerard stood. The bastard leered at the woman and licked his salivating lips.
“Move,” Keenan demanded, his voice low and threatening as he elbowed through the dense cluster of people.
The dancer whirled away from Gerard’s clenching fingers. But it was close, too close. Keenan wouldn’t allow the bastard to touch her.
“Move aside,” Keenan repeated.
Angry glares met his chest before climbing up to his fierce expression. The crowd parted. Keenan acknowledged none of them, but kept his attention on the dancer as he came alongside Gerard.
“Mmm, she’s a luscious tart, she is,” Gerard garbled and reached out once more.
It took all of Keenan’s strength not to yank Gerard backwards. Instead, he stepped in front of him, blocking him with his body. “Get your arse out of my way, you bloody buffoon,” Gerard called from behind him.
Keenan stood right along the perimeter as the dancer moved from side to side a few paces away on the other side of the bonfire. She swung her heavy tresses again, and Keenan could almost feel them. Like sun-warmed silk.
Keenan barely noticed Gerard’s attempts to shove him aside. His entire conscious state focused entirely on the sensuous woman who pulsed like a flame, body bending as if an invisible lover swayed her. Keenan ran his hand roughly through his hair. “Insanity,” he grumbled and closed his eyes for a long second. She was just a woman, a gypsy. He opened his eyes again. A gypsy woman who didn’t look like any gypsy he’d ever seen before.
As long as the music played, Serena would continue to dance as the flame. She never tired as the serenity of the blazing ribbons of fire and the dance kept the voices, the unending thoughts of others, at bay. She heard them only as a whisper, saw them only as a blank wall surrounding her on the edge of light. Around and around she moved, watching with half seeing eyes the web of thoughts held out at the edge. She leaned against it evenly to keep the thoughts from seeping inward, into her circle.
As she rounded the fire once more, pushing against the wills of her audience, a hole in the wall appeared. Curiously she danced toward it. Reaching out with her mind, Serena leaned into the hole. Her mind fell through it, and her protective wall shattered. “No!” she whispered frantically.
Images bludgeoned her. Naked flesh, her naked flesh, pressed from behind, shoved into beds. Her mouth on the men, her lips skimming over sweaty skin.
“No,” she gasped as if for air. Quickly she flung hard at the shards of carnal images. She took a wrong step, her body flailing. She felt it, or rather didn’t feel it, the void. She fell against it, against him. She stared up at the dark, silent mountain holding her.
The man was a giant. He stood taller than any man she had known. His face glowed with the light of the fire, accenting a slash across his left cheek from his ear to his jaw. The scar accentuated the square set of his serious face. His eyes stared back into hers, they were light, but she couldn’t tell the color. They narrowed as if trying to read her. Read her? Shocked, Serena realized that she could not read him. Not at all, as if he were a hole, silence in the noise of thoughts flowing around her.
His arms steadied her as he gazed into her eyes. “Who are ye, lass?”
Serena was mesmerized. Never before had she met someone who was blank to her. Someone with whom she could not read their thoughts, their emotions.
“Lass, are ye hurt?” he asked, his sensual mouth forming the deeply accented words.
Serena glanced at his hands wrapped around her bare upper arms. Nothing, she read nothing from him. Serena
snatched off her glove. His scar. Scars, chiseled into skin during battle, were extremely powerful. Even her defenses could not block the gruesome details.
Serena held her breath as she traced her finger down the length of the slightly puckered skin from his ear hidden in waves of dark hair to the rough squareness of his chin. The muscles in his jaw jumped at her touch. His lips opened on a ragged breath.
No jolt shot down through her arm and up behind her eyes. No visions of bloodstained iron, muddy grime and anguished cries of war victims. Just the void. He was the first person she had ever met whom she knew absolutely nothing about.
“What are you?” she whispered. “A demon?”
The man’s face relaxed. “Some have called me worse.”
Was he serious? She couldn’t tell. Serena had never needed to learn the subtle ways a body tells when it speaks lies or jests. She had always been able to tell even before the lie was uttered. But now, now she was lost.
“What are ye called?” he asked, releasing her. The gently rolling brogue reminded her of the mountain people up north on the edge of the sea.
“Serena.” She wondered what her name would sound like on his tongue.
“Move over, you oaf,” said a man from behind who nearly fell trying to push by the giant. “It is my turn to meet the lovely,” he slurred and leered at Serena.
“Gerard, leave the lass alone. I ken it’s time to take ye home, man,” said the ruggedly sensuous giant. He smelled of open air, pine perhaps, leather, and warmth. It was strange to engage her other senses, but she tried. There wasn’t enough time to fully study him, his smell, the deep roll of his voice, the feel of his muscles. Her other senses took much longer to fully see a person. She hadn’t realized how easy it had been to sum up a person with her powers.
Serena’s gaze moved over broad shoulders which pressed against the material of his shirt and then traveled down his chest to muscular thighs.