Jasper Mountain (17 page)

He wanted to sit before her again, take in her face, and lose himself in her eyes. She seemed a mystical creature, not of this earth but somewhere unseen. From somewhere magical, the type of made-up places he’d read about, but had grown too jaded to believe in. When she’d taken his hands, eternity tumbled through his soul.

God, he wanted so badly to touch her again it hurt.

One difficulty. For all her otherworldly beauty and mysteriously gentle demeanor, she was in reality a fancy lady. One for hire. Victor Creely had the money, not to mention, first choice.

Jack came down the steps, intending to follow the stone path around the house to the front, find his horse, and gallop away. Light spilled out through lace curtains, illuminating the side yard in soft, webbed pools. A perfectly tended side garden glowed in the splashing light. He almost didn’t see her.

Like a wild elfin queen communing with her subjects, Milena sat, circled by plants and flowers. Diffused light barely painted her and the surrounding foliage in muted, silvery tones. Ghostly color emerged from shades of black. She held her eyes closed and her head tilted at an angle as if she listened to whispered secrets. Zebra grass swayed around her, communing with her magic. Purple rain sage flickered at her feet, leaves rustling and shimmering in the moonlight. Her calm beauty ached through him. He did not want to move for fear of disturbing her. If she woke, she’d disappear forever.

Before he knew it was coming, he sighed. Her eyes opened and she jumped to her feet. He hated what he saw constricting her face. Fear. Of him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said immediately. “I was just coming around to leave.”

She was very real, and very afraid. The pulse in her throat pounded. He’d startled her, sure, but why did he frighten her so thoroughly? What had this woman been through to make her this terrified of him? He watched her steel herself, composure replacing her alarmed expression.

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeated, spreading his hands apart, palms up. He needed to start some conversation. Something meaningless to calm her down. “So what are you doing out here?” What a stupid question. She was doing the same as him. Escaping.

“I come for solitude,” she answered back, her words soft, round, with a tinge of wariness around the edges.

“My apologies for disturbing you, Madame Shabanov.” But, Lord, he wasn’t sorry at all. He didn’t want to leave, or for her to go. He took a step forward and paused. She didn’t run. “You never did finish my reading.”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. He remembered her butterfly-light touch across his palm, and knew he’d sell his soul to feel the spark of her sizzle through him again. He would never forget the moment when her eyes met his in understanding. For the first time since the fire and all his loss, he didn’t feel alone. Someone else knew.

She must be magic. The only explanation that made sense, yet made no damned sense.

“You do owe it to me, Miss … er … Isabella promised.” A bit of shame twinged at how he pushed, but his need to be near her overpowered any regret.

Another thought crossed his mind. He did need her. For a very real reason. If her jabber was nothing more than imagination, at least he’d get to talk to her some more. He took another step forward, deciding to take the honest approach.

“I’ve lost a friend. A good one. He disappeared about a week past. I’ve been looking all over for him and I can’t find him. I’m afraid he’s …”

She nodded and sank to the bench. “In the spirit realm?”

“What?” Then he realized what she meant. “Oh, yeah. Dead. It sounds much nicer when you say it.” He nodded to the stone bench. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Her eyes skimmed down to the space by her side and back to him. Her look begged him not to come any closer.

“Or, I can stand here, too.” He shrugged slightly, only making small motions, like a man discovering the presence of an exotic bird. He didn’t want her to flutter away. “Can you help me, do you think? Can you do that with your fortune-telling?”

“A woman stands beside you. Not a man.”

He took stock of the area around them. They were alone. He looked back to her. “What?”

“A spirit. A woman.” A smile softened her face. “She looks very much like you. Perhaps a twin?”

He froze, chills sliding through him. “Jo.” His voice broke when he spoke his sister’s name. In this garden of moonlight, saying her name sounded like a sacred prayer, a song of memory.

“Jo,” she repeated. “You keep her tied to this world with your sorrow.”

Everything around him seemed to brighten, then faded back into night. “I don’t believe in ghosts. I believe in what I can see.”

Milena held her gaze steady. “I see her. Your sister. Your twin.”

Brushing Milena aside as insane, touched, would be much easier. Yet she looked back at him so calm, so sure. He’d never said anything to her or any of the ladies about Jo. A lucky guess? Did the information come from Victor to aid her parlor trick? Jack wondered if he was being played, not an unusual occurrence in this place. And honestly, Milena’s appearance worked in her favor. Not just pretty. Beautiful. Damned beautiful. She used all her talents to keep him unbalanced.

He decided to call her bluff, even though he hoped she somehow really saw his sister. He approached Milena and sat beside her, carefully and as far from her as possible. Perhaps a foot separated them, but he felt her soft, radiating warmth. He wanted to wrap his arms around her. Instead, he lifted his hands, palms up. She studied them, finally taking them in her own. “What happened to you?” she asked.

He followed her glance to the scars on his wrists, twisting and creeping up under his shirt cuffs, then raised his eyes to look squarely into hers. “You tell me.”

“Fire.” The fear on her face softened into compassion, and then pain. “I, too, have seen flame devour loved ones. Is this what happened to your Jo?”

Another flip response froze on his tongue. He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust his voice to speak steadily.

“It was,” Milena answered for him. “The fire. It brought you here, follows you, consumes you even now.”

Everything in him closed. Again, frustration bloomed. Anger. Suddenly it didn’t matter how damned beautiful she might be or how badly he wanted to touch her; he didn’t want to play this game anymore. He snatched his hands away and stood. “This wasn’t such a great idea, Madame Shabanov.”

“No,” she agreed, “it was not.” Her eyes traveled past him and she rose to her feet.

“I thought I heard something, wanted to make sure everything was all right,” Luke’s voice intruded. Jack spun around to face the former miner. He’d forgotten all about the sentry at the gate. When he did look back around, Milena was gone.

The back door clacked through the dark.

Milena slipped through the kitchen. The cook, used to flouncing ladies flitting about everywhere, did not even glance her way.

Milena took the back servant steps, praying not to stumble across any randy men, beautiful seductive women, or definitely not the proprietress.

She slowed her climb when she came to the hall. Sounds intruded, ones she did not want to hear, the unwelcome noise she heard every night. She clamped her hands to her ears and hurried to her room. Closing the door quietly, she leaned against it.

Jack Buchanan. Who was this man who wore the mark of fire on his skin? Evil or friend? She wanted him to leave her alone, be gone from her, yet he followed her, first in the hunt, and now in a different landscape. But a hunt all the same.

Yet his sorrow. His pain. These were true. She’d felt the depth of him in her own despair. She slid down and lowered her head onto her arms, trying to shut out the
MoortYak.
Like the holocaust itself, the memory advanced, unstoppable and on a surge of hate and fear.

At first the Romani are welcome, their blacksmithing skills, sewing, and wares much needed by the residents. Rumors begin and the town turns inhospitable. A few grumble about the filthy Gypsies. Question their ways. Their beliefs. Distrust grows and hate spreads like a sickness. Soon the entire town is angry. They want the wares and services for free. Greed glistens in their eyes as they watch the coins Milena and the others have sewn to their skirts glitter in the sunlight. Who are these Gypsies to wear gold that clinks with every movement? The people insist the Romani are rich, have stolen from them, do not give fair trade.

They refuse to realize Milena’s people carry everything they own in wagons and on their person. This is the Romani way and has been for generation after generation.

The Romani circle their vardos—wagon homes—as the
kampania
holds a council. Milena is invited and watches beside her grandmother, the
Shuv’hani.
When members of the council turn to the
Shuv’hani,
she nods approval. They must move on. Immediately.

Milena and the
Shuv’hani
return. Baba begins to load their vardo and Milena tends to her sister. Sasha is about to give birth. Sasha’s husband helps Baba with the packing while his wife cries with the pain of bringing new life into the world.

It begins with the sound of thunder. Hooves pounding. The ground rumbles. Baba screams, “Run!” but Milena cannot. Sasha writhes and the child is almost here. A tiny head peaks out into the horror of the night. The
Shuv’hani
turns to Milena.

“Leave, child. Run. Someone must live to tell of this night. The
MoortYak
is upon us.”

The legend of the
MoortYak—
the night of death and fire—has been passed down through their history, its story told around the campfire on the darkest of nights. A creature born of lust and greed with a need to possess everything, the
MoortYak
comes when least expected at the hands of people who destroy all they see. They plunder and murder and burn what is left to ashes, concealing what they have done.

Her people did not expect this nightmare to happen to them. Now or ever.

The
MoortYak
falls upon them through the swords and torches of handsome men with blond hair and bloodlust in their eyes. They rip into the
vardo
and before Milena can move, Sasha screams and she is butchered like an animal. The man who kills her sister turns to finish his job, and Milena recognizes him. He danced and flirted with Milena only a night ago and now grins at her with the fever of death burning in his eyes. She breaks through her shock and dives out of the
vardo
as he plunges his sword into the floor where she knelt only seconds before. He murders the
Shuv’hani.
With her dying breath, her grandmother looks at her and mouths, “Run” before she falls. Milena leaps to her feet. The man dives out of the
vardo
after her, but he is too late to catch her. He mounts his horse and chases her, his sword held high. He yearns to kill her; she can feel lust and hate run off him in rivulets. The woods are ahead; if she can only run fast enough, she will have a chance.

Shrieks of pain and dying follow her as she darts into the trees, no words for the horror of this night but one.

MoortYak.

Milena raised her head, tears falling freely. She lost everything that night. Finding Baba, although broken and his eyes echoing horror and loss, had been a miracle. Her father had cried and taken her in his arms, thanking God for saving his daughter and bringing her to him.

Milena did not remember much other than chaos, screaming, and the massacre of her people by tall, strong, sure men with pale, white skin and sunlight in their hair. The same men who smiled and bought jewelry from her people, whose clothes the Romani women patched and sewed. Men who had flirted and clapped at their dancing, laughed at Romani stories, broken bread with Milena and her family.

These men brought the
MoortYak
and after, returned to their loving families and comfortable homes, their souls soaked with the blood of her people.

“Awful interesting,” Jack answered Luke. The side garden continued to sway around him in cool mountain air. “This kind of thing goes on every night?”