Evangeline Anderson - Gypsy Moon.pdf

(636 KB) Pobierz
Gypsy Moon
Evangeline Anderson
(c) 2005
ISBN 1-59578-143-9
Gypsy Moon
Evangeline Anderson
Published 2005
ISBN 1-59578-143-9
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509
Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2005, Evangeline Anderson.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or
otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
Chrissie Henderson
Cover Art
by April Martinez
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of
the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual
events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to Raven and all the great staff at LSB for always being so
supportive and great to work with.
A Romany camp in Europe sometime after the turn of the last century.
All was quiet in the gypsy camp, the wagons and booths shut down, and the fires
banked for the night. The few brave tourists whose curiosity had overcome their fear
were gone now, their interest satisfied by the colorful display they had witnessed. The
locals, who hadn’t been foolish enough to come in the first place, were safe in their beds,
some with crosses painted over their doors as a ward against the others who were among
them, if only for a while.
Hunched by the glowing embers of the fire, a man with dark skin and light eyes
brooded. His broad shoulders stretched the homespun shirt he wore and the muscles in
his large frame were bunched tight with tension.
Overhead the moon rode high in the sky, pale silver and burning with promise. The
man, Kore Lovare, could feel the burn in his blood, making his skin feel itchy and tight—
too small for his body. It was only three-quarters full—a waxing moon, what some called
a gypsy moon—and the pull wasn’t yet strong enough to trigger his change. For once, he
was glad, he had other things on his mind tonight than running with the moon. Suddenly,
a thin wail broke the silence of the camp and his head jerked up as though yanked by a
There was another high, keening cry and then a door was opened in one of the
brightly painted wagons and a small, hunched figure came out. She nodded at the man,
now standing straight and stiff, his fists clenched at his sides as though in anticipation of
some important news.
Droboy tume , Kore,” Be well, Kore, the old woman muttered, motioning for him to
sit back down.
“Nais tuke ,” Thank you, he responded, ignoring her gesture. Then he burst out, “Is
my son well? Tell me, Taibhsear, I beg you.”
She nodded and held her wrinkled palms to the small warmth the dying embers
afforded. “Listen for yourself,” she said as another cry split the night. “He has a healthy
set of lungs, at least.”
“Don’t toy with me.” The man strode around the fire and crouched low to peer into
the wrinkled face. “You know the answer to the question of my heart, Taibhsear. You
know what I long to ask.”
“Ask then and be done with it. I’m too old to sit by the fire and listen to foolishness
all night.” She motioned to the dying coals.
The large man took a breath and closed his eyes briefly to compose himself. All day
he had carried this tension within himself as his boria , his wife, drew near to her time.
But as leader of the Vyusher Clachan , the Wolf Clan of the Rom, he could not show his
fear. Only now, when all were gone to their rightful rest could he ask the question that
had been dragging at his heart from the first moment his woman conceived.
“Taibhsear, I beg you,” he began formally spreading his large callused hands in a
symbol of supplication. “Tell me if the blood-curse will hold into my son’s generation or
if he will break it. Please…” His voice broke and he closed his eyes tightly to keep back
the tears—an unmanly sign of weakness and emotion. “Please tell me that he will not
bear the same heart-sorrow I do. To be joined to one while kal’enedral , blood-bound to
another. To long always for a woman he can never have…”
“Ah, Kore…” The wise woman bent her head and a look of sorrow passed over her
wrinkled features. “I wish I could tell what you long to hear,” she said at last, shaking her
head. “You’re a good man and a good leader, despite being a Vyusher, a wolf. But the
girl you tried to claim—her mother was a chovihani —a very strong witch. I warned you,
didn’t I, about trying to take a Xoraxai woman as your mate?”
Kore looked anguished. “That you did, Taibhsear. But I never dreamed that not only
I, but my son and my son’s sons would have to pay for my mistakes. So he won’t be able
to break the curse?”
The wise woman shook her head again. “Not your son, Kore, I’m sorry.”
He pounded a fist on his knee, his pale eyes filled with pain and rage. “ Li’sa’eer ,”
By the gods, he swore. “If only I had listened when you tried to warn me! I’d kill her if I
thought it would do any good.”
“She is beyond your reach now, gone to America,” the wise woman said
complacently, unmoved by his anger. “But listen, Kore, all hope to break the curse is not
“No?” He looked at her, his face filled with a terrible need. “But I thought you said
neither I nor my son could break it.”
“True.” She rubbed her withered hands together over the coals for warmth. “But
there may be a chance for your son’s son—your grandson—to break the chains that bind
your line. By the third generation, the witch’s power will be weakened with time. But it’s
still a chancy thing, trying to break a blood-curse.”
O ushalin zhala sar o kam mangela, ” he sighed. The shadow moves as the sun
commands. “Will you at least tell me how the curse may be broken when the time
Nashti zhas vorta po drom o bango ,” You cannot walk straight when the road is
bent, she replied formally. “You know I can’t tell you outright, Kore. But listen, I’ll tell
you what I can.” She threw back her head and the moonlight caressed her wrinkled
cheeks, making her young for an instant as the sight came upon her. Her thin old
woman’s voice grew low and strong as the foretelling poured forth.
“Thrice bound, by blood and lust and time
Thrice ten he seeks before he finds
As pale as snow, as bright as flame
Rom by blood, Gadje by name
The waxing moon shall mark the time
To break the curse upon his line
The one denied his sires by fate
He must find to be his mate
Timid as the mouse at noon
To rouse her to the rising moon
Thrice bitten must his chosen be
The number of her markings three
Once, on her his claim to stake
Twice, her Vyusher blood to wake
Zgłoś jeśli naruszono regulamin