Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (22 page)

“Now’s your chance! Destroy him!” Martiya fumes.

“She’s been through enough—
we’ve
been through enough!” Doyle retorts, caressing Alessia’s hair. “Don’t you think this is the ultimate revenge? The fact that he could never kill our love—”

“Yes, but there’s one thing I’m going to kill right now,” Creek cuts in with his shotgun raised, staring at Vittorio. “You want this?” He dangles the ruby heart by the necklace, then throws it to the ground. “Let’s see how well you do without it.”

In a blaze of light and noise from his shot gun, Creek fires at the ruby heart, breaking it into pieces.

And all I can hear in that moment is Martiya’s raw, otherworldly wail like a siren ringing across the sky.

“Drop your weapon,” Creek orders Vittorio.

Reluctantly, my grandfather lets it fall to the ground.

“Now take off your clothes.”

As soon as the Conté fumbles to remove his shirt and pants, Creek nods his shotgun at his feet to remove his shoes and socks as well.

Then Creek shoots him in the leg.

Vittorio lets out an agonized scream and curls into a fetal position, clutching his thigh with blood dripping down his fingers.

“This is what you are now,” Creek says, stepping forward to grab his clothes. “A crippled old crazy man who has to walk naked to the nearest town without any I.D. Who runs around trying to explain to everyone about some ruby heart that he thought once gave him power through a bunch of gypsy ghosts. Who’ll rescue you now, Conté de Bargona? Your men have abandoned you.”

Creek glances at the empty space where their van used to be, then up at the red glow of Martiya. “And near as I can tell, you’re gonna be haunted by that bitch for the rest of your days.”

Creek shoves the shotgun in his face.

“And you know what part I find the most amusing? All that money you thought you took from Robin. Well, look for yourself.” He points to Alessia. “Your daughter’s alive! And now she can prove Robin’s alive, too, and they can claim back that account. So go ahead and shove that information up your Swiss banker’s ass. That is, if they ever let you out of the loony bin.”

Zuhna taps Creek on the shoulder.

“There’s only one more thing,
miri mora
,” she says to him.

Above them, her falcon flies along the horizon past the red, setting sun and circles in the sky. She holds out her arm, and the bird descends to her hand and chortles softly. Zuhna nods, listening for a moment. “
Devel
,” she replies. The bird lifts its wings and flies past Vittorio to the darkness of the woods.

And that’s when we see them—

At first they look like shadows, except they hover in a line near the woods, their feet not quite touching the ground, for as far as we can see.

Goose bumps spread down my neck, and I take a step back and grab Creek’s hand.

“
Te’ sorthene
,” Zuhna whispers.

Slowly, the phantoms grow larger and begin to take on more form. One of them I recognize as the portly gondolier who helped guide us on the trail from Venice.

Another one looks like an old nun, only with large eyes and dark, gypsy features—perhaps someone at the convent who’d once befriended Alessia.

Still another is a young and beautiful woman with caramel skin and black hair swept up in a bun. She’s wearing a demure, old-fashioned gown with an apron, and I wonder if she was a loyal servant to Martiya. Alongside them gather a whole host of other spirits taking on definition in the murkiness of the woods, each one with swarthy features and black eyes like Zuhna’s.

These are the gypsies who were the friends and protectors of the de Bargona women all along.

“No! It’s not enough!” Martiya cries to the company of ghosts as she floats toward Creek. “You destroyed the stone—we’ll never get justice now!”

But then Bohemas begins to appear among the spirits, wearing his gypsy trousers and peasant shirt and that black mask he once wore to a ball long ago. Rising up from behind the other ghosts, he moves toward us and removes his mask, staring at Doyle and Alessia with the longing of one who’s known a broken heart for centuries.

“There is no curse,” he calls out to Martiya, pointing at the writhing Vittorio. “It’s your hate that kept you prisoner all this time. You were a Gypsy Queen—a
Thagarni
—you could have sent your soul anywhere. And grabbed me by the hand to roam with you, to wander for eternity and sing our songs. But you chose a stone instead of me?”

De Bargona watches in shock as Bohemas grabs Martiya and kisses her so passionately that her fiery haze begins to transform back into her crimson ball gown. Martiya’s beautiful face and features become clear as well, and the scar that was once a gaping wound at her throat starts to disappear. To my surprise, she appears youthful, almost vulnerable, and she gazes at Bohemas with confused, questioning eyes like a lost little girl who wants to find her way back home.

“Martiya,” I sigh, “There’s no more stone, no more queens, no more
Thagarnis
left anymore. We’re simply ordinary women who dared to fall in love. That’s the only power we need. Go, Martiya,” I encourage her, pointing at Bohemas. “This man has been waiting for you for centuries. And if that isn’t true love, then I don’t know what the hell is.”

In spite of Creek’s shotgun pointed at Vittorio’s face, my grandfather dives for the pieces of the stone on the grass like a madman, clutching them to his chest until Creek sets his boot down on his neck and swipes the pieces from his grip. Creek walks up and hands the shards back to Alessia, who gazes at them like the lost pieces of her own heart.

“
Grazie
,” she whispers, not as a ghost but as a real, flesh and blood woman, despite her stark, black and white nun’s habit. She stares at the shards in her palm and turns to look at me with a wistful, yet puzzled glance. Does she recognize me? I wonder. Her fingers tremble, and she holds up what’s left of the stone to gaze at me as if I might be one of the ghosts as well. “
Il mio cuore
,” she nods.

Just as she does, Bohemas stretches his hand out to Martiya.

“Revenge,
il mia tesora
, or me,” he declares. Hesitantly, as though he’s a bit afraid of what she might choose, he dips his head for a moment and closes his eyes. But Martiya steps forward and grasps his fingers with both hands. Startled, Bohemas opens his eyes and nods, then wraps his arm around Martiya’s shoulder to lead their souls back to the gypsy trail.

As they disappear into the elongated shadows of the woods, I hear an eerie wail, like the call of a wild animal that echoes through the forest, followed by the delicate melody of gypsy violins that rise and fill the air. The spirits are celebrating her home.

Home—

Creek gestures at the Conté de Bargona with his shotgun to start limping toward the woods for whatever the ghosts intend to do with him. It takes time, but after Vittorio vanishes into the shadows, with my heart in my throat, I walk over to Alessia—to my mother—and grasp her hands that holds the pieces of the ruby heart.

“We made it, Mama,” I say, cupping her fingers in both hands and bringing them to my cheek. They feel soft and warm, except for the cool stone pieces. I have no idea how much English she remembers, or if she understands that I’m her daughter at all, so I glance over at Creek. He gives me a confident nod, pointing at the truck the nuns had loaned him from the convent that’s nestled in a nearby meadow. Taking a deep breath, I grab Doyle’s hand and press his palm against Alessia’s, linking my mother and father together.

“Now it’s time for us to go home.”

Light glistens off the gentle, lapping waves as the sun dips slowly over the water, painting the horizon a soft gold. Pastel hues warm the nearby trees, and I hear a bird call, long and slow, its cry echoing over the shore. My mother and father sit at little table adorned with a white tablecloth, candles, and vintage china. They murmur softly as they clink wine glasses and give each other shy smiles.

They’re getting to know each other again, the way all lovers should—by spending quiet moments together on “dates” such as this one.

But we aren’t in Venice anymore.

We’re back at Bender Lake, and the romantic dinner is Lorraine’s infamous fried catfish and cornbread with a side of green beans, along with the Colonel’s moonshine poured into Mason jars.

Something tells me Doyle and Alessia wouldn’t have it any other way.

Creek has his arm wrapped around me. He snuggles against my neck and he gives me a squeeze. We’re sitting several feet away from my parents on the sand, watching them giggle over old times and recall secrets that only they will share. I see the fading light of the sun warm my mother’s face, and if I squint my eyes, I could swear she looks 16 again—like that teenage girl who thought Doyle McCracken had hung the moon.

My father’s eyes appear equally fresh, but the gray hairs above his ears and wrinkles on his forehead betray another story. Even so, it’s easy to tell that the woman across from him is his whole world. His eyes twinkle with every move Alessia makes—especially when she picks up a hunk of Lorraine’s cornbread and takes a bite. Her face registers surprise, as if she’d hit a tooth on a hard kernel of corn. She pulls the bread away from her mouth, only to find a gold ring glinting in the sunlight.

“Doyle!” she gasps, tearing up.

As if on cue, several old men with fiddles—the ones who always play at Bender Lake hoedowns—step onto the shoreline from the woods and strike up a sweet melody. Alessia glances at them and gasps, before returning her gaze to my father.

“Will you be my wife—again?” Doyle asks with a world of hope in his eyes.

Alessia covers her mouth and dips her head, but it’s only to hide her tears. When she’s had a chance to gather her breath, she leans forward to give my dad a kiss.

And to her surprise, everyone we know from Turtle Shores steps forward out of the thick trees to give them applause. The Colonel and Bixby, Brandi with Dooley at her hip, the TNT Twins, and a host of folks from the camouflaged trailers that surround Bender Lake. All but Granny Tinker, with her usual long velvet dress and flowing gray hair, and I shudder to wonder what she’s up to now—no doubt gathering newts and lichen for more spells.

Creek grabs my chin and pulls me close, indulging in a long kiss, and I can feel the waning sun warm our cheeks. Afterwards, I lean my forehead against his, treasuring the way the soft light makes his blue eyes appear as clear as glass.

“Alessia seems happy here,” I nod.

“I think this is all she ever wanted,” Creek replies. “Along with you.”

I feel a shiver work its way down my skin.

We don’t’ really know each other yet, my mother and I, but I’ve discovered she remembers English well enough, and we’re working on it. It’s strange for her to meet her
bambina
as a full-grown woman, just a little bit older than she was when she gave birth. And Alessia’s spirit has been cooped up for so long that in some ways I feel like I’m teaching
her
about the ways of the world and what it means to feel again. When we take solitary walks together through the woods, I share the beauty of spring flowers and the murmurs of the lake with her the way Zuhna pointed out the magic of the natural realm to me, letting it cast its gentle spell as we talk about friends we both know from Turtle Shores. I’m confident our relationship will grow the way it’s meant to, in due time. Maybe not so much as mother and daughter, but as survivor to survivor, and even more importantly, as friend to friend.

Yet she and Doyle seem every inch the husband and wife now, though they were only married “gypsy” style, like me and Creek. We watch them at their dinner table as Doyle leans over to whisper a secret into Alessia’s ear, and she laughs the kind of easy laugh that makes you feel all warm inside.

“So,” Creek turns to me, “what do you say we leave these two lovebirds alone?”

He stands up and gives me a tug to my feet. As the men’s fiddles fill the air with another light tune, Creek nuzzles me for a kiss, his lips soft and inviting. We watch our friends from Turtle Shores begin to sway in a slow dance on the sand with the warmth of the sunset rimming their shoulders. It’s a beautiful sight that makes me sigh as Creek and I dust ourselves off and link our arms together to start walking home.

“Home” for us is no longer a tree stand with two sleeping bags. We’ve “graduated” now to our own gypsy wagon, a lot like Granny Tinker’s, that the TNT Twins traded a portion of their ammo for as a belated “wedding” present.

Memories come flooding back as Creek and I stroll down the honeysuckle-lined trail, full of the aroma of pine and new blossoms and moist earth, the same place where we first fell in love. When we reach the opening in a glen and see the small, round-topped wagon with a red roof, Creek hoists me in his arms so fast it makes me gasp, and then I giggle.

“All right, Mrs. Flynn,” he smiles, his eyes twinkling, “it’s high time we started our honeymoon.”

He reaches to turn the knob and cracks open the door, holding it ajar with his boot. I’m laughing as he wriggles us both inside without managing to whack my head on the heavy wood door jam.

“My goodness—you’re an expert, Creek,” I grin before he swallows me in a kiss.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he breathes, nimbly carrying me in his arms to the back of the wagon. He lays me down on our soft bed covered in old quilts. I hear a brief hiss as he steps aside to strike a match and light a candle in a Mason jar on a small table, casting an ethereal glow around us and making our skin look warm—ripe even, like Zuhna said. When Creek returns, after zipping open his jeans to put on a condom, his warm hands seek my waist and lift my t-shirt slowly over my head. He buries his face in my cleavage as he unclasps my bra, allowing my breasts to spill out to the warmth of his breath. Then he takes a step back from our bed without uttering a word.

His eyes appear melancholy and hopeful at the same time.

“What? What is it?” I ask, propping myself on my elbows.