Hell on the Heart (13 page)

Annoyed at being so easily dismissed, John pushed for a reaction from Nicholae. “I plan to ask Czigany if she’d like to come with me.”

The slight appreciative curve of his lips was squelched. Nicholae’s attention focused entirely on John.

 “No.”

For the first time, the mask vanished. The friendly, easy-going face hardened into one John recognized without a moment’s doubt. If crossed, Nicholae would and could kill without hesitation. 

John’s eyebrow arched. Uncertain why he needed to uncover Nicholae’s hidden core, John shoved at the one area of weakness he’d discovered. Cezi. “She deserves to see this case resolved.”

The charming silver fox didn’t shift a muscle, yet John saw his mental crouch, his eyes alert, focused, preparing for a fight. “Exactly what are you offering my daughter? A job?”

“Would she take it, if I were?”

“Since we know she’s not qualified for any position she’d want to have, do you plan to dangle a carrot in front of her or taunt her by showing what she’s missing?”

“Funny, the word I got from Poppy was that the family expected me to protect Cezi. How do you think I’m going to do that while she’s here and I’m in DC?”

Nicholae’s features mellowed into a polite, but disinterested facade. So Poppy’s expectations had Nicholae retracting his claws. Still prepared for battle, but not quite as eager to begin. He drew his familial obligations around him like a protective cloak. “We will protect Cezi.”

John shrugged, appearing careless, but at the same time continued to poke Nicholae with an invisible stick. “Not according to your wife’s prophesy.”

His laconic reply sparked Nicholae’s temper. “And while you’re protecting her, what happens to her reputation?”

“Her reputation?” John sputtered. “She is an adult woman. Her reputation depends on her behavior.”

The older man snorted and poked a finger at John’s chest. Since John had seen that same gesture from his daughter, he assumed it was a family trait. “Pardon me for not being blind. But it is you, my friend, who watches her with hungry eyes.”

The truth circled his heart. He wanted her. So, what? What man didn’t want a beautiful woman? But it was actions, not thoughts that determined a man’s character. John Stillwater behaved honorably. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Like I said, she’s an adult. Old enough to make her own decisions about life and men.”

Nicholae’s face softened. Instantly, John realized his mistake. Czigany was his vulnerable spot as well. Inadvertently he’d given Nicholae the upper hand.

“My daughter’s lived a sheltered life. By twenty-two, most city girls have hardened themselves to survive.”

“She’s tougher than you think.”

Nicholae studied his face for a minute before turning toward the office. “No woman’s tough enough to survive loving a man whose heart’s been chiseled in stone.”

The searing pain woke her. Samantha grit her teeth and pressed her dry lips together, careful not to cry out. Attracting the attention of the guards would only bring more anguish. The stabbing wave of agony would pass. Tears leaked from her eyes as she inhaled shallow breaths to avoid expanding her rib cage.

Gratitude, so totally out of place, swept over her. Someone had covered her with a thin scratchy blanket and her hands were not bound to the metal cot. If her jailers were being nice to her, she must be hurt worse than she thought.

Her fingers gingerly touched the left side of her rib cage and an iron spike of pain shot through her. She’d purposely provoked them. Her terror amused them.

What was there to be afraid of? She no longer feared dying. After months in this hellhole all death would bring was relief.

If she were hurt badly enough, maybe the never-ending stream of men on the upper floors – the ones who enjoyed inflicting pain - wouldn’t seek her out until she’d had a chance to recover. Maybe they’d forget all about her and she’d rot in this dingy cell, a welcome relief. Or maybe Superman would use his X-ray vision, see her imprisoned in this dungeon, rip open the thick iron bars and fly away with her.

No more fantasies.

For months she imagined she would be rescued. Her family. The police. Somebody. Anybody would save from the next round of escalating horror.

Now she knew it wouldn’t happen. They’d keep her alive until watching life ooze out of her body would be their final thrill.

She wouldn’t be the first or the last. Merely one in a continuing saga. Hakuna Matata. Had she not been so exhausted, she might have laughed. Her life had been reduced to one big Disney show tune.

The empty blackness surrounded her and even though there was nothing to see, her vision wasn’t sharp. She touched her cheek and winced at the tenderness and swollen tissues around her eye. She remembered the blow. The last thing she recalled before she blacked out was a big meaty fist, sporting several rings, sailing toward her face.

Her throat was parched, but it would be hours before a guard would arrive with putrid water. Her eyes fluttered shut as her mind drifted. For the hundredth time she searched for ways to end her own life.

Dreams had long been replaced with nightmares. But now in the twilight of sleep and waking, the face of a young woman appeared. Not one of the other female captives she’d glimpsed. This woman was a stranger with long, black, curly hair and dark eyes. Pretty in an ethnic way, despite her American jeans and t-shirt.

Of all the Swallowtail Hollow homes, Poppy’s house was one of the least impressive. The one-story day-glo yellow clapboard with a wide veranda sat nestled in clumps of crape myrtles, hidden by tall pecan trees. And while shrubbery and trees were missing or striped naked by the strength of the tornado winds, the storm hadn’t dared touch the bandolier’s house.

As he did every evening, Poppy sat in his rocking chair moving gently with the evening breeze. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Cezi’s lips kicked up in an affectionate grin. “Of course you have. I didn’t even know where I was going until I ended up here.” She climbed the stairs and plopped down in an adjacent chair exhausted despite sleeping earlier for an unprecedented seven hours.

“Aside from the fact he was
Gajikané
?” She’d infused her voice with distain, but when Poppy said nothing, she sighed. Apparently the only person she was fooling was herself. “Yeah, I suppose I did. He calls me Czigany.”

The old man didn’t look at her, but his eyes got a dreamy look as though he was remembering a different time and a different place.

His warm smile with his black eyes, so shocking in color and clarity in his old face, crinkled. “Your mother was a beautiful woman. Do you remember her?”

“Bits and pieces. Tinkling bells remind me of her laughter. We’d push the living room furniture out of the way and dance around the room. Every day dad would come home and question why the living room was rearranged again.”

Poppy laughed, slapping his knee with vigor. The laughter turned to coughing and then choking. Cezi jumped up to help him, but he waved back to her seat.

For a few minutes, he was silent. Then the floor squeaked once again as the chair moved forward. Like a metronome he hit his consistent pace immediately.

“From the time your father was a teenager, girls chased him. We installed the tall barbwire fence and the electronic gate to keep the local girls out, not that your father was complaining. But to him one girl was pretty much like another.”

So, thirty years later, what’s changed?

“Your grandmother despaired of ever finding a good wife for him. Each girl she chose couldn’t hold his attention for more than a day or two.”

The old man reached for his glass of lemonade and took a sip, gesturing for Cezi to help herself. She shook her head, but moved to the edge of her seat impatient for the story.

“One summer the Idaho clan asked for help building new homes. We sent every man we could spare including your father and uncle. They’d just started the PI firm. Both claimed they didn’t have the time, but to keep the peace agreed to go for two weeks.

Those little arrogant popinjays took suits instead of work clothes, thinking they were above manual labor.”

Cezi knit her brow, trying to imagine her father and her uncle as arrogant little popinjays. She wasn’t even sure what a popinjay looked like, but she visualized a cartoonish stellar jay with a top hat and cane.

“Your mother was only sixteen, barely old enough to marry. But she had a head on her shoulders. Your father expected to play her like he did all the other girls. When she didn’t fall all over him, he still wanted her. But she slipped away every time he came near. Three months later, he was still there, living in borrowed clothes, hanging sheetrock, driving nails and trying to catch your mother’s eye.”

Cezi laughed.

“The next three summers were spent in Idaho, he never quite figured out how to win her. He gave up other women, brought her gifts and wrote her poetry. The usual things young men do.”

What men? None she knew. The last poem she’d gotten from a boy had been a grade school valentine’s card, but that had been before the hexing lawsuit.

“The harvest festival took place the night before your father was scheduled to leave. When your mother’s family refused to let her dance, your father dropped down on one knee in front of her entire family and poured his heart to her.” His creaky vocal cords seized up from unshed tears.

Cezi bit her tongue to keep from screaming. What happened next? But storytellers didn’t like interruptions, so she waited.

“She confessed she loved him, too. In his rush to marry, he failed to consult his family. His mother was so angry she spurned the marriage and called for a Kris.”

Cezi groaned. Her grandmother had convened the clan’s Elders for a ruling on whether or not the marriage could go forth. “Why would she do that?”

“It’s the parent’s right to choose for the child, you know that.”

Cezi nodded. Her childhood girlfriends were married in their mid-teens to men they hardly knew. Then sent to live among other
familiya’s
far away from those they knew and loved. None of that appealed to Cezi, yet somehow, she felt inferior because she remained single.

“So, what happened?” she demanded unable to wait any longer for the conclusion of the story.

“Your father snapped. He cut ties with his parents, quit working with Luca and moved to Idaho. But your mother wisely refused to marry until the Kris was concluded, believing your father would come to regret his decision to leave his clan.”

“Oh, my.” Yeah, her grandmother might have relented but her mother, pregnant before marriage, would have been a social pariah. Cezi had always skated that edge, but she’d hoped for better for her mother.

“Your mother came from clever parents. Her father offered a higher bride price to your grandmother. She accepted. And in the nick of time, too. You were born almost nine months to the date of their marriage.”

Cezi giggled, but sobered with Poppy’s seriousness. “In all the time they were married, your father never looked at another woman. Every day he rushed home from work to be with his
familya.
I’ve always thought her death would have killed him if it hadn’t been for you.”

She sat back. Her father had never cheated on her mother because he loved her? “Why didn’t you let the aunts force me into marriage?”

“I wasn’t sure your father would survive. You have so much of your mother in you. I thought you’d never be happy unless it was a true love bond.” He smiled and gently patted her hand.

“But I’ve never met a man I loved like that and now I’m too old.” She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. This habit of blurting out everything she thought was becoming truly irritating. What was wrong with her edit button?

“Are you? I don’t think the
gajikané
thought so.”

Cezi stared at her great grandfather unable to even form words to express her scattered thoughts.

He didn’t seem to notice. “Now, about the prophesy… Your mother also said, ‘a hunter will fix you in his sight.’ Be on the lookout for the hunter. You’re a resourceful girl. Come up with a plan. You’ll know the territory, he won’t. And you have a lot of family.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

The FBPA jet touched down at ten fifty-eight pm following a long week. John looked forward to a night in his own bed and some time alone. A number of issues worried him. Without distraction, he could sort them out. The plane taxied to a stop in front of the hanger.