Evangeline Anderson - Gypsy Moon.pdf - Anderson, Evangeline - riochin

Gypsy Moon

Evangeline Anderson

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

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

http://lsbooks.com

Email:

raven@lsbooks.com

Editor

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.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Raven and all the great staff at LSB for always being so

supportive and great to work with.

Prologue

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

string.

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

lost.”

“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

comes?”

“ 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

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