Blood Curse (Branded Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

“But, mama?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“The man did not kill her. He tried, but he could not do it.”

“How did Alexandra die?”

“I do not know.”

Pril pulled her close. If Alexandra hadn’t been killed by the slave, then who had taken her life?

“And mama?” Tsura whispered. “They killed him.”

Pril ran her palms down the front of her skirt as uneasiness settled deep within her, and the soup she’d eaten for dinner churned in her stomach.

The Monroes were near once more. She’d not done the protection spell over them all, the one she’d said countless times before, to protect Tsura and the others from harm. She used the oil on Tsura, thinking she’d concoct a different spell for the others—but she’d forgotten, and now Alexandra was gone.

She hung her head.
How could I have been so foolish? I am the reason my niece lies within the cold ground.
There was nothing she could do to stop the desolation as it crawled up her spine and curved her back. Life was precious—even more so when it was a young one. It was any wonder Milosh blamed her so. The shame covered her and blurred her sight as tears washed her cheeks. She’d been selfish when she should have rationed the oil and cast the spell—strengthened the charms.

She pulled the jars from the shelf. Rosemary, bark and the remnants of the oil her sister had blessed. The jar was empty, except for the thin layer that clung to the glass walls.

Pril did not receive the gifts her sister had. Vadoma had been the firstborn daughter to Imelda, the enchantress. Their mother had been very strong in her magick, aiding those in need with potions and spells. Pril held no such power. Her only gift was the counting of the spells. She could not move things, throw a beam or have seeing dreams. She was useless.

She blew out a breath and stared at the last of the oil. There was enough to strengthen the charm, but not cast a full protection spell. She’d known this when she used the oil for Tsura a month ago. But now that her niece was gone, the act of what she’d done came down upon her, weighing on her heavily. She leaned into the counter and pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging the strained blood vessels.

She took the jar and stepped outside into the darkness. The clan asleep for the night, she went to Mortimer, her Ox, tied behind the vardo.

“Hello, my friend.” She stroked his rough fur. “I need but one drop this time.”

The ox turned his head toward her and bowed.

She smiled.

“Good boy.”

Quickly, she slid the needle along his neck enough to produce one drop of blood. She held the jar next to Mortimer’s neck, watching as the blood ran into the glass mug and mixed with the oil. She dipped her finger into the mixture and ran it along the scratch.

“For the gift thou hast given, receive mine with love.” She watched as the wound healed.

Inside the vardo, she stoked the fire in the small cook stove and placed an empty pot on the burner. She pinched the rosemary, a symbol of Vadoma, and dropped it into the jar of oil to swirl with the spice. She watched as it mixed together with the oil and blood. Next she took the bark from the forest and dropped it into the pot. The bark sparked. She poured the mixture of oil, blood and rosemary into the pot, listening as it bubbled and hissed.

“Protect mine child from the evil that hunts. Keep her spirit hidden to their wants.”

The liquid evaporated into a cloud of smoke, and she watched as it drifted over the child to settle on top of her sleeping form.

Kade Walker eyed the wagon in front of him. He’d never seen such artistry before. Hand-painted green and yellow vines curved along the outside walls to cover the black boards. He set his jaw. There was no damn way he was going in there. He pulled his collar up and pushed his hands into his long coat. What the hell was the matter with him? He was crazy to think he could get answers from a fortune-teller, a damn gypsy no less.

He shook his head. He’d tried everything else. Followed every damn lead that came his way—investigated every gypsy camp he’d come across, and he’d still come to a dead end. This was the last place he wanted to be, but time was running out. He’d been told the woman inside could see the future, that she had some sort of magic. He clenched his fist. There was no such thing.

What he needed was a sign—an epiphany that he was on the right trail.

Voices inside the wagon grew louder, and he watched as a young woman and her son exited. His chest constricted. The woman held a handkerchief to her cheek and the boy tightly to her side.

“Awe, hell.” He spun on his heel determined to find another way to get information.

“Sir, would you like to know the days ahead of you?”

Kade stopped.
Shit.
He turned to face the gypsy and was not prepared for the sight before him. Balancing herself on the top step, the gypsy woman stared down at him. Long red hair, the color of crimson, fell to the middle of her back. The heavy tresses, pinned up on the left side with a large bejeweled broach, swayed behind her. Her hand on hip, a bright blue scarf tied around her waist hung at an angle. He followed the line of her flowing black skirt to the hem where a black slipper peeked out. A beige blouse fell loose around her breasts and could slip from her shoulders at any moment. Had it been another time, another place, he’d have wondered what gypsy jewels lay beneath the thin fabric. She jingled when she moved, and he pulled his gaze from her attire to the metal bracelets around her wrists and the tiny bells hanging from her neck.

Kade narrowed his eyes. He knew a liar when he saw one, and this colorful gypsy fit the bill.

She smiled, but the emotion never reflected in her vague eyes.

The gypsy camp was a twenty-minute ride from town, and he was surprised at how many people came to buy the potions, healing balms and homemade honey.
Fools.
Couldn’t they see these lowlifes were scam artists? He was never one to believe in this kind of bull. Yet, when he scanned the area, men, women and children stood in long lines waiting for the gypsy wares.

“No. I need not know of the days before me,” Kade said, placing his palm over the dagger hanging from his hip.

Her dark eyes narrowed. “Hmmmm, you are not a believer?”

“Humph. Precisely.” He turned to leave.

“Are you afraid, Mr. Walker?”

Kade stopped. “Do I know you?”

She shook her head.

He did not like this one damn bit.

“Allow me to help you. Please, come inside.” She disappeared behind the brown sack hanging in place of a door.

He shook his head and climbed the three steps leading into the wagon.

Two windows on either side of the carriage lit the small room, and he scanned the space in the moderate light they provided. A navy carpet, with gold flowers stitched into it, lay on the floor. Wooden cupboards lined the walls to the end where it seemed the room stopped abruptly. A square table with two chairs stood to his left, and across from that was the stove. The room smelled of spice, and when he inhaled, the scent of cinnamon stuck on his tongue.

She pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit across from her.

He lifted the handmade seat and eased into it. Afraid he’d bust the delicate chair, he refrained from putting his full weight on it. He never took his eyes off the mystical woman across from him.

“You’ve come to hear your future?”

Kade cleared his throat. “If you say so.”

Her red eyebrow lifted. She grabbed his hand and turned the palm upward.

He yanked his hand from hers.

She snickered, the sound rustic and musical at the same time.

“I need to see your palm in order to tell you of the days that are ahead of you,” she said.

“Do you not have a glass ball, or some other contraption you see into, and pretend to tell me of my life?”

She observed him, her lids half closed, and he shifted in his seat.

“You are aware of the glass ball?” she asked.

“I’ve heard tell of it.”

“Well, I do not own one, never have. The answers are within your palm.” She motioned for him to place his hand in hers.

He open and closed his fist before inching it toward her. He didn’t feel right. Something was wrong, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

The gypsy examined his hand before she closed her eyes and hummed a haunting tune. A bell rang somewhere in the room, and Kade had to stifle a laugh
.

“Mr. Walker, I need you to close your eyes while I summon my ancestors.”

“What ancestors?”

“The ones who will tell me of your future.”

He snorted.

She glared at him from across the table.

“Please, close your eyes.”

“No.”

“If you do not believe in what I do, Mr. Walker, you may leave,” she spoke through tight lips.

“Lady, I don’t believe a damn thing you say.”

She threw his hand from her, and the bracelets on her wrists jingled. “Then why have you come?”

That was a good question. A last chance effort at finding answers in the wagon of a gypsy? Hell, he didn’t know. He thought he did, but as he sat across from the mystical woman, who bore her evil eyes into him, he had no damn clue why he’d come here other than desperation. But he wasn’t going to tell her that, and he wasn’t going to take any ridicule from a woman who professed she could tell the future.

“That is none of your concern, Gypsy,”

“Pril. My name is Pril of the Peddlers.”

He shrugged. Her name did not matter to him. “Do you think me a simpleton? Anyone with eyes in their head can see what you are doing is a fraud. You, Gypsy, are a liar. In fact, I’d bet good coin the bell rang from the back room you’ve cleverly hidden.”

Her gasp told him he was right.

“The potions and balms, your cohorts claim to cure damn near anything with, are nonsense as well.”

“I’ve never been—

“You and your people should be ashamed of yourselves. You have deceived the poor citizens of Riverbend so that you may steal their hard earned cash.”

“That is absurd.”

“I will say you’re very clever, Gypsy, and thus far it has worked for you. How you figured out my name is beyond me, and I don’t much care. The truth is that you’re a con.” He stood. “Ancestors talking to you? What a load of shit.”

“Mr. Walker, you obviously came for a reason and are too frightened to hear the truth.” She pointed her long finger, and the silver bracelets clinked. “Go from my vardo at once.”

“I’ll go when you return the money you’ve made today to those poor people.”

“I will not.”

“You have deceived them.”

“I have deceived no one. I tell them what they want to hear.”

Kade spun on her. “Precisely! You give them false hope.”

“I do no such thing,” she hissed.

He stood a foot taller than her and stepped closer to scare the little twit, but instead of retreating, she gave him a shove.

“You have overstayed your welcome, Sir. Now get from my vardo.”

He burst out laughing. “I see I’ve hit a nerve,
Miss Pril of the Peddlers.
Is there not some sense of dignity left inside your gypsy heart?”

Pril’s whole body shook with anger. The nerve this man had. He was bigger than Galius, and yet she was not afraid. Her brothers would say her temper was one of her worst traits, often landing her in a heap of trouble. Mr. Walker was lucky she did not own a gun. A bullet in the kneecap would surely put him on his knees, and at her height no less, so she could clock him square in the jaw.

“I am happy to do what I do,” she said, chin tipped. “I offer a means for those wishing to know the days ahead. As for our goods, they are made from what you see in the forest and within the ground you walk upon. The healing elements they hold are from the earth, not our chanting over them.”

“It is witchcraft, and you could hang for that.”

She fisted her hands and took a giant step into him so her breasts touched his chest. “We practice no such thing,” she ground out.

“Talking to spirits, telling the future, and claiming your wares have healing powers is not witchcraft?”

“You bastard.” She raised her hand to strike him when he caught her wrist and stopped her.

The door to the private room opened, and Pril turned to see her daughter, green eyes full of anger.

“Tsura, no.” She moved to go to her, but he held her wrist. A violent wind blew Tsura’s hair up and knocked the dishes from the shelves. Tsura threw out her hand; with it she sent a force so strong it slammed into Pril and Mr. Walker, throwing them through the doorway.

Pril squeezed her eyes shut until they landed with a hard thud on the ground. She took slow short breaths that were followed by a stinging in her side as she tried to regain her composure. Her head hurt, and when she opened her eyes the sky spun around her. She waited a few more moments before deciding she’d better remove herself from Mr. Walker’s chest. She rolled to the right, and a sharp pain sliced through her back. Her ribs ached, and she inhaled raggedly against the discomfort. She was sure she’d broken more than one. The bone throbbed against the skin.

She leaned to the right, pressed her elbow into the ground and slowly elevated herself. She brought her left arm around her midsection and cradled her broken ribs when she saw the blood. Her heart skipped, and she searched among the crowd for a familiar face. She spotted Sorina’s bright orange shawl coming toward her. There was a small puddle of blood at the base of Mr. Walker’s neck, and she gagged. The sight of blood had her vomiting into a pail before, but today she’d need to keep her composure. She didn’t think her broken ribs would fare too well from the heaving she’d do.

“Are you all right, Pril?” Sorina knelt beside her. The woman had a light flowery voice, and Pril often thought it resembled that of an orchid—subtle yet refreshing.

“My ribs are broken,” she said. “Please, tend to Mr. Walker. He is in far worse shape than I.”

Sorina’s blue eyes searched her face for any signs of doubt, and when Pril nodded, the women turned toward the man lying unconscious on the ground.

A crowd had gathered, and she didn’t know what to tell them. She decided to ignore their questions, the looks of concern and concentrate on Mr. Walker’s ashen face.
Please, let him live.

Sorina carefully turned his head and gasped when she saw the large gash. “He will need to be stitched.”

“He breathes?” she asked.

Sorina nodded.

She had to get up. She needed to help her friend, and see to Tsura—make sure she was okay.

Stefan and Galius pushed through the people.

“What happened?” Galius asked.

Pril gave him a look.

He nodded. No further explanation was needed. Her brother came to know when Tsura was involved.

“Are you okay?” he asked his thick eyebrows pulled together with concern.

“It seems I’ve broken a few ribs.” She inhaled, not prepared for the powerful ache in her side which caused her to involuntarily groan.

He nodded, and without further conversation he bent, picked up Pril and gently set her on her feet.

“We need to move him,” Stefan said.

“You will be all right?” Galius asked her.

“Sorina will aide me.”

The men hoisted Mr. Walker and carried him to the supply wagon behind Pril’s.

“What happened?” Sorina whispered.

“We…he slipped leaving the vardo. I tried to help him.” She prayed her friend would believe the lie.

“All is well, good people of Riverbend,” Sorina said, smiling at the crowd around them. “Mr. Walker slipped while exiting Pril’s vardo. She tried to aide him and in turn fell, too. They will be fine in no time.” She waited until they disbursed before she placed her arm around Pril’s waist. “Come now, friend. I need to wrap you tight.”

“I need to see Tsura.”

“After I’ve examined you.”

Pril stopped. Each breath was paired with a pain so intense it penetrated across her middle, and she gasped. “No, right now.”

Sorina sighed. “Very well.”

It’d taken Pril the better part of an hour to calm her daughter down, and in the end she placed a sleeping spell over her. The ox charm hung from the bed where they slept, and she grazed it with her fingertip. If something ever happened to Tsura, Pril would die. She’d need to examine her mother’s book again for a new spell, one she could create to protect Tsura and the other children. There had to be something she’d missed.