The horse impatiently danced beneath her. For a moment, Zora wavered. She did not want to leave Whit, not like this, but then she heard the
other
Whit, the double. It shouted orders to Whit’s friends, commanding them to stop her.
One of the men—the dark one with the scar—ran up beside her horse. He reached out and grabbed one of the reins. Trapping her in place. She pulled hard, trying to break his hold, but his grip was like iron.
Whit appeared, his face a mask of fury. His sword made a bright arc as he swung it. Zora braced herself, waiting for his friend’s scream of pain as the sword hacked into flesh.
It never came. Instead her horse danced backward. Looking down, Zora saw she held only one taut rein. Whit had cut the other, freeing her.
For a moment, no one moved, no one spoke. Whit had come within a hairsbreadth of severing his friend’s hand. Though he hadn’t, the action spoke clearly.
I will cut you down if I must.
It had to be now. Zora dug her heels into the horse’s side and galloped off into the darkness.
Whit watched Zora clear the edge of St. George’s Fields. The night swallowed her retreating figure.
He swore, then started toward his horse.
“Good God, Whit.” Bram clamped a hand around Whit’s arm. Only a moment ago, Whit had raised a sword against his friend, had nearly cut off the same hand that held him now. His closest friend. But Bram had threatened Zora. That would not stand.
“No time for this,” Whit said through clenched teeth. Though his friend had strength in abundance, Whit shook him off.
“If she’s a poisonous influence,” said Leo, “you are well to be rid of her. You raised steel against us.
For her.
”
“She stole my horse,” John said, staring angrily at the place where Zora had vanished.
“Zora isn’t poison,” Whit growled. “She’s the antidote.”
“That’s not what he said,” noted Edmund, and pointed at the
geminus.
Whit could not control the hard pound of his heart, nor the comingled rage and fear that turned everything hazy. The world was chaos, and he swept up in its madness.
His friends could not see it. They had not the means to recognize the
geminus
for what it was.
“There is not one word from that
thing’s
mouth you should believe,” he spat.
The
geminus
tutted, as though mildly disappointed, but Whit could see the enmity and determination in its gaze. God, he stared into a warped mirror to look upon himself, but not himself, and the sinister gleam in its—his own—eyes.
“You are overwrought, and misled,” the
geminus
reproved.
“More falsehood,” said Whit. He kept his saber drawn. The blade he had won in a game of piquet ages ago from a Prussian hussar. Before setting off in pursuit of Zora tonight, Whit had grabbed it rather than his rapier, knowing he would need a far more brutal and effective weapon for whatever he might confront in the night. He had never once believed he would ever use it against his friends. He never thought he would do
anything
in opposition to them. It was difficult to believe that he did at this very moment.
A week ago, he would have laughed and said it impossible. Now he understood that
impossible
meant nothing. A world lay within
impossible.
“The gifts Mr. Holliday gave us are flawed,” he said. “Everything is flawed, and we are damned.”
His friends—Bram, Leo, Edmund, and John—stared at him in bafflement, still mired in shock that not only did Whit have his steel drawn against them, but that they had scuffled in earnest. Tension hummed through all of them, like a sword beaten too long upon the anvil and ready to break.
“Explain,” demanded Leo.
Whit feinted with his saber. His friends leapt out of the way. He took advantage of the path opened up to him and moved cautiously but quickly to his horse, keeping his friends at a distance with his brandished sword. Even as he did this, he was conscious the entire time of Zora getting farther and farther away. Knowledge of London and his control of probability had allowed him to find her once, but he feared if she disappeared into the countryside, he would never see her again. He could not allow that to happen.
“I’d say that you should ask
that
,” Whit said, swinging up into the saddle, “but he cannot be trusted. None of us can be trusted.” Not even himself.
“Goddamn you,” snarled Bram. “Tell us what you mean.”
“I am losing time. We are all losing time.” He directed the point of his saber in the direction of the
geminus.
“Don’t listen to that creature. All of our souls are imperiled, and we’ve only ourselves to fault.”
“Lord Whitney is clearly misguided,” drawled the
geminus.
“But—”
Whit cut off Edmund. “We must each find a way, any way, toward salvation. I only pray that we are not too late.” He glanced down at his friends, the four men he trusted more than any other, men he loved like brothers—better than brothers, for they did not have the weight of blood or familial expectation and disappointment—and with whom he had done everything. Including damnation. Could any of them be saved?
“Farewell, lads,” he said. Ironic, the words of polite leave-taking, with his sword still drawn. He did not trust any of them. Not anymore.
Before any of the Hellraisers could move, Whit kicked his horse into a full gallop. He might never see his friends again. Or, if he did, they might meet as true adversaries. The pain of tearing himself from them hurt worse than any bullet or slash of a blade, yet he had to. He needed to find Zora, for he understood intuitively that she held not merely answers, but salvation.
Zora strained to hear the sounds of pursuit over her horse’s hoofbeats. Nothing. Yet she remained vigilant. Hours she had been riding, through sleeping villages and farms, skirting around larger towns. The more she rode, the more she recognized, and that gave her some cheer to know she neared her family and would see them soon. True, she would not be able to linger with them, but after days apart from her kin, even a few moments might serve as a balm. And then she must turn around and take up the fight for Whit’s soul.
He had followed her, defended her, but perhaps he had been motivated by greed, not sentiment. Men often grew jealous over their possessions, hoarding them. She could be simply an object to him, an object he would not share. He had freed her, too. Took up a sword against his friend in defense of her.
He had not looked at her like a thing. When he found her at the field, more than covetousness heated his gaze. He had been very happy to see her again. But there had been more in his eyes, in the tension shimmering through his body. He’d been afraid. Truly afraid. Not merely for the loss of her, but something else. What?
Questions fled as the familiar shapes of her band’s tents came into view. Her eyes heated and grew watery. She had not been certain she would ever see them again. Zora neared, and what she saw made her heart leap: the fire in the middle of the encampment. It cast flickering light over the face of the man tending the flames. He was alone. It was Oseri, her cousin.
He jumped to his feet as Zora rode into the camp. Shocked at her sudden appearance, he only stood there as she flung her arms around him. They had never been close, Zora and Oseri, but at that moment she did not care. Only that he was familiar and she was back—for now.
“
Vitsa
,” she said, clutching him tight. He smelled of smoke and horse. Smells of home.
“My God, Zora.” Slowly, Oseri’s arms came up to hold her awkwardly. “We all thought ... We did not know what to think. The
gorgios
were here, and then you went after them, and then you disappeared.” He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away to stare into her face. “Your father and every man in the band has been searching for you. They looked all over.”
She could just picture her father tromping across the countryside torch in hand. A bullish, determined man, not unlike his daughter.
Without taking his eyes from Zora, Oseri yelled, “Wake! Everyone wake! Zora has returned!”
She looked to the fire, and felt it: a surge of primal power. Yet before she could explore it further, the peace of the camp shattered as men, women, and children came tumbling out of their tents, blinking, confused. People swarmed around Zora, everyone talking at top volume, shouting praise and exclaiming in wonderment. It had been so long since Zora had heard the Romani tongue, and it sounded like the finest music. Perhaps not sweet, nor melodic, not with dozens of Rom speaking at once, but lovely and welcome just the same. Heedless of taboos surrounding the touching of women, hands came up to pat, pinch, and pet her in welcome. All the familiar faces ... all the sounds and sights of home ... it overwhelmed her.
When she found herself enfolded in a woman’s arms and pressed tightly against a soft, plush bosom, the tears Zora had fought finally released. She wept openly in her mother’s embrace. Litti wept, too, and mother and daughter held one another, crying tears of relief and joy to be reunited.
“
Mam
,” Zora hiccupped.
“
Kaulo durril
,” Litti cooed, calling Zora by her childhood nickname: blackberry.
Her grandmother Shuri demanded the same right to smother Zora, as did every female relative. Zora was pressed into a succession of bosoms, engulfed in womanly warmth and softness. When, at last, she was presented to her father, he scowled fiercely, his arms folded across his barrel-shaped chest.
“What mischief have you been up to,
chavi
?” he demanded.
“No mischief,
dado
,” answered Zora. “Not of my own making,” she amended. Conscious of time being lost, she darted another glance at the fire. She felt its power resonate within her. Was that all she needed? To be in its presence? Would that be enough to sustain the magic once she had left the encampment?
Her father continued to frown at her, until Litti snapped, “For the love of Our Maker, Wester, you’ve been out of your senses with worry. And
this
is how you welcome our
chavi
back?”
His stern façade crumbled away, and he opened his arms. It had been many years since Zora had been held by her father—at her insistence—but she went to him now and allowed herself a moment to be his child again. He rocked her and murmured soothing endearments into her hair.
After a while, Zora resurfaced from her brief trip to her youth. Standing on her own, she pushed her disheveled hair from her face as she looked over the gathered band. She must leave them soon, but first she said, “Everyone, you must pack and leave this place at once.”
Shocked exclamations rose up from the crowd. The joy in everyone’s faces faded, replaced by puzzlement.
“Why?” her father demanded.
“It isn’t safe here.” Zora started toward the tent she had shared with her parents. She needed to gather her own belongings.
“Safe from whom?” This came from the leader of their band, their king, Faden. He blocked her path. “Your wealthy
gorgios
?”
Zora fought down her impatience. “They may be coming from London. That is where I have been, too. Held as a captive by one of those
gorgios
.” It felt strange to refer to Whit so impersonally, with so much distance, for he had come to be much more than a rich, bored
gorgio
.
He needed her, even as he had cut the rein that kept her trapped. Something had pulled him out of his magic-induced euphoria, and he had been badly shaken in the field south of the river. She needed to go back, as much as she hated the thought of getting anywhere near the city.
“Captive?” her father repeated. A look of horror came over him. “Did he ... ? Are you ... ?” Wester could not finish his sentences, for a Romani woman’s honor and virtue meant everything.
“He did not touch me,” Zora answered. That was not a complete truth. In fact, Whit’s kiss had been more potent, more sensual than all of the lovemaking Zora had ever experienced. Thinking of it now brought new heat to her cheeks. At least the darkness hid her telltale blush.
Her father, and all of Zora’s male relatives, exhaled in relief. To exact vengeance against rich
gorgios
meant imperiling the entire band, resulting in either hanging or a rougher kind of justice.
“Why are they coming here?” asked Cousin Oseri.
Curse it.
Zora did not know where to begin, how to explain or indeed if she
could
explain what she had seen. Superstition and fear ran deep in the Rom. She had been, up until a few days ago, one of the few skeptics in her band. If she told them everything, she could incite panic. If she told her family and band about the magic she possessed, they might brand her a
chovahani
, a witch. Her power meant she had a responsibility to fight the Devil. Should she ever return to her family, she would be an outsider amongst her own people.