Jasper Mountain (9 page)

Milena came upon a grand house with a blue tile roof on the edge of town. The blue castle. Her vision come true.

She scurried beneath the castle’s porch. Her stomach rumbled. Ribbons of soft morning light slipped through floorboards, slicing through the dusky space. She was not the first to hide in this place. Remnants of food, some bones, and animal scat littered the dirt. She crawled into the corner farthest away from the road and brushed everything away, smoothing the dirt to lie down. Despite the hints of animals, the stench was not bad. All in all, she preferred this to lying beside the Dim Swede.

She curled up and drew her velvet bag to her heart. The bag held all the possessions she cared about. Her grandmother’s gazing ball, her seeing cards, and a
choori
—a carved knife with a crystal handle Baba had forged with his own hands. The heaviness and shape of her grandmother’s crystal gazing ball reminded her of her dream and its promise and warning. She did not know how her escape from the Dim Swede would be possible; she only knew she must believe such freedom was hers.

She tried not to think of Rolf and the strange men searching for her. Especially the one. When she’d reached out to get a sense of who helped the Dim Swede, a man startled her by waking.

Somehow, he felt her presence. He almost came after her, but she wove protection around herself, closed her mind to him, and he lost his awareness. He troubled her. Such a man saw more than with his eyes and was a danger, especially since he aided Rolf.

Rolf. Rolf, storming through town, coming for her. Furious. His hands ripping, tearing. His eyes, red with bloodlust.

She jolted awake, her heart pounding and her skin slick with fear. Darkness enfolded her; she must have dozed for most of the day. Even though she did not want to admit any weakness, her exhaustion must be great. Thankful that no one discovered a woman hiding under the porch, she concentrated on stopping the shivering from her dream.

Dream? Or vision? So hard to tell.

The
tacho Romano drom
opened before her to travel. The
Shuv’hani
brought her to the castle with the roof, blue like the sky. Blue, like freedom. And the gnome? The portent of hidden danger? The vision of Rolf? Words whispered through her like a relief, sweeping aside the gnarled foreboding in her dream. Trust.

“I will,
Shuv’hani.
I will.”

She needed food and planned to appropriate it the way her people had for hundreds of years. Not stealing, really. Surviving. She did not come this far to starve to death hiding under a porch.

She would take care not to get caught, that was all.

Damn. The light was out again.

Isabella bolted up, clutching the covers around her in the dark, not sure if her nightmare had ended or if she continued on, trapped in her sleeping mind. A draft brushed through the room even though the windows were shut. The stench of a rotted soul rode the air. He must be here, the man who chased her night after night, through a landscape of dreams. She froze. A steady cadence pulsed deep inside her ear, echoing her pounding heart. Faster. Faster.

She reached for the derringer under her pillow. Cold metal and smooth pearl nestled in her palm. Well, that certainly felt real enough. So, she was awake. She pointed the gun out into the dark. Let him come. She’d blow off his useless Saint Peter and laugh while he bled to death at her feet.

From the next room thumping grew to a frenzied speed. Then, a muffled groan. Another satisfied customer.

Not about to sit awake all night in bed, she lowered the gun into her lap and lit the candle. The room filled with gentle light, and the glow expanded, searching out every dark, menacing corner. She was alone.

Relief sliding through her, she tucked her gun back under the pillow. Her earlier vision flashed across her mind. Him, lying, bleeding from his mangled manhood. Her, laughing.

“Good Lord,” she said. What depths of her demented soul ushered such a vision? Honestly, she knew the twisted part of herself intimately. She could roll in chicanery with the best of them.

Rising, she covered her nightdress with a velvet burgundy robe, buttoned it, and pulled her hair from the lacy collar. The fall of red cascaded down her back, untethered. Much better. Dressed. Civilized. Beautiful and in control, her most natural state.

As Isabella glided down the hall, all manner of sounds emanated from behind different doors. The reverend could expect another healthy donation next week. She passed some rooms that were quiet; her girls done for the night, their benefactors rushing back to cold marriage beds.

Thank God she possessed enough sense to keep from that path. Away from the vows women cherished and believed, finally learning the words were nothing more than a cobweb for husbands to clear away and do whatever they damned well pleased.

Once downstairs, she followed the back hall to her door. The key she wore around her neck slid into the lock, and she entered her room. Her parlor. Forbidden territory unless she issued an invitation, which she never did. This room, deep within the Boarding House, was her own. She lit the lamp.

In one corner, an easel and palette of paints waited for her to lift her brush and lose herself in the pleasure of color and creativity. In the opposite corner sat a piano, grand and ornate. Carved naked nymphs and satyrs danced within swirls of leaves and trees. For her eyes alone. The piano had been custom-made and cost her a fortune.

When she was a young girl, her father insisted she learn to play. She spent hours practicing, when she really wanted to stay in her room and paint. Her father refused to accept a less than perfectly accomplished daughter to parade in front of friends and business associates, so she sat, hour after horrid hour, tears falling on ivory keys. She tried her best. There was no music in her.

Every lesson unfolded in the same manner. First, disappointment. Next, Father’s anger. Finally his cane whacked across her hands. Her mother never objected. Even when he broke Isabella’s hand, her mother voiced no complaint. Her hand didn’t heal correctly. Impossible to straighten it all the way, and it hurt, especially when she used it. And ugly, so very ugly. Thank heaven for gloves.

Isabella ran her once-broken hand over her piano. She never opened the lid; never saw the keys, trapped in darkness forever. The piano sat, beautiful. Useless.

She took a seat and lifted her palette. No sense in returning to bed; she knew who waited for her there, lurking within a nightmare. No, not sleep, but paint. Enter the world where she decided every detail, where she was the Great Creator. Completely in control. God, one might say.

She touched her brush to the canvas with her silent piano for an audience. She stroked color on, so gently, sweetly. Benevolent as any creator.

Thumping. Shuffling. Sounds from the back of the house ripped her from her world of creation. A rear window opened, the sound unmistakable.

A prowler was invading the Boarding House.

A golden guard slept at the gate.

The man, huge, with yellow curls falling around his shoulders, snored in a tipped-back chair by a majestic front door. Milena wondered why she didn’t hear him come out and sit above her while she slept. Then again, she was beyond weary. She was close to running into town and screaming for Rolf to come do whatever he wanted with her, as long as he fed her and let her sleep for a few days first.

A snore ripped through her moment of defeat. She worried such a thought crossed her mind. She needed food. Immediately.

She crept around the perimeter of the Blue Castle once again, hiding in the scrub, watching. She could not see in. Heavy damask curtains blocked any view. The fabric draped most of the windows so heavily, only the thinnest blade of light from the world slipped in or out. She’d wither and die in there, cut off from life, from the sky, the earth, the stars.

Milena made her decision. The entire back of the Blue Castle stood dark, with no guard to stop her. If her time in New York City taught her anything, she learned
gaujos
in grand houses kept to the top floors at night. She planned to tread lightly, to be in and gone before a moment passed.

Silently, she crept up the back steps. In the West, people were hung for stealing, their bodies placed in coffins and propped up for all to see. In the old country, the punishment was the hand, chopped off. Usually a death sentence, with blood flowing so freely, most did not survive unless loved ones were nearby and hadn’t been beaten or killed for their association. More often than not, the “criminal” had taken a loaf of bread or milk to feed themselves and their starving children.

Milena shook the vision of nooses and severed hands from her mind. Fear must not guide her. She knew from her heavy limbs and the ringing in her ears, this was her only chance to keep moving. She was near to collapse but the call of the mountain sang continually, pulling her forward. She could not answer if she crumpled and became the food for crows.

The padlock on the door was at most an inconvenience. The window next to it slid open easily, and she lifted herself up and shoved her feet in. Sitting for a moment on the sill, she allowed a wave of dizziness to pass. She almost felt like she floated, her soul straining to leave her cumbersome and weak body. She needed food. Grasping the window frame, she lowered herself into the room. Her feet landed silently, without even a creak from the floor.

Now inside, she froze, listening. Nothing.

Scents surrounded her: spices, cooked meat, rising bread dough, sugar, all blending together and she almost passed out. The pantry was to the left and enticed her to see what treasures lay within.

Outside the room, wood creaked.

Milena froze. Felt a noose drop around her neck. She put her hand up, but nothing was there.

Another creak. The invisible noose tightened.

Isabella St. Claire learned early on to never be caught without a gun. Holding the trail of her velvet gown with one hand, she picked up the pistol she kept with her palette and headed for the kitchen, holding the weapon out before her. She’d heard the intruder come in through the back so she was reasonably sure it wasn’t a client skulking about. Still, she planned to proceed with care.

She thought briefly about calling for help, but several screaming ladies wouldn’t benefit the situation. Most, if not all clients had slunk back to their wives and homes by now. Luke, her strong-arm man, obviously allowed the intruder past. She dismissed him as useless, like her ladies and clients. Luke most likely slept away on the porch. She wondered sometimes why she even bothered with him, but she’d think about that later. For the moment, she had a more immediate problem.

A scream might alert the prowler in the kitchen and cause him to run. Besides, Isabella St. Claire did not scream. She would teach anyone who dared encroach on her world quite the lesson. In fact, stories of this night might become legendary, with the right telling. Always good for Boarding House business.

She crept closer, through the hallway’s dark, stealthily approaching the door to the kitchen. The sounds stopped. Silence.

Isabella kicked the door open. “Don’t move,” she ordered. Moonlight spread throughout the kitchen with colorless radiance, outlining a still, shadowy figure. A woman. Only a table stood between Isabella and the intruder.