Erasing Faith (17 page)

He held out his free hand for me to take and my eyes snagged immediately on his knuckles. They were split and swollen. Terribly bruised, like he’d been on the losing end of a bar fight. I wanted to ask what had happened, but I held back.

I could’ve walked away. Could’ve turned my back on him and gone on alone, angry and unsatisfied. But holding a grudge against Wes wouldn’t make me happy. The only thing that might do that was spending time with him.

So, I slipped my hand into his, careful not to squeeze his injured knuckles.

“Take me for a ride?” I asked in a terrible imitation of Anna’s most seductive voice.

Wes laughed, laced his fingers through mine, and pulled me into his arms. I sighed as they tightened around me, content for the first time in three days. No matter what he did, it didn’t change the fact that being with him was always better than life in his absence.

***

We went on an adventure, as Wes had promised.

I was beginning to learn that he wasn’t the stay-home-and-watch-old-movies-in-our-pajamas-all-day type. He didn’t do lazy — there was too much adrenaline pumping in his veins for that. He was a thrill-seeker, the ultimate danger-junkie. I couldn’t help but wonder why this lover of all things risky and heart-racing wanted me — an admitted coward and scaredy cat — as his companion. But, as long as he let me tag along, I wasn’t going to question it.

He drove his motorcycle far too fast as we left Budapest behind and merged onto one of the main highways. It was the first time I’d left the city proper since my arrival in the country. I was a little nervous as I watched the spires and hills of the capital fade from view, especially since Wes refused to give me so much as a single hint as to where we were going.

My nerves were all but forgotten as soon as we headed into the countryside.

It was gorgeous. Green and lush. Peppered with quaint, centuries-old towns and more pastures than I could ever count. I’d never seen anything like it in my life.

We whipped along for more than two hours, but I was so enthralled by the view, it seemed a much shorter time. When we reached our distant destination of Gyula, a village at the furthest reaches of Hungary, practically straddling the Romanian border, it was late in the day and I was starving.

Wes slowed to a crawl when we reached the town outskirts. The roads were more congested with cars the closer we got to the central square. I could hear music flowing down the streets as we approached and felt my eyes widen in wonder when I saw dozens of people dressed in traditional folk costumes walking the cobbled streets. The stunning red and white fabrics, intricate embroidery, and colorful headdresses looked like they’d leapt off the pages of one of my history textbooks.

Screw Professor Varga and his boring lectures.
This
was the history I wanted to experience.

“What is this?” I breathed in Wes’ ear, my chin propped on his shoulder as the bike crawled down the road.

He turned his head slightly so I could make out his words. “It’s the summer festival. There’s dancing, food, crafts, music…” He trailed off. “I have to meet someone for a few minutes — work stuff. But I thought you could explore on your own while I’m tied up. I’ll find you as soon as I’m free.”

I was at a loss for words. A grin split my face as I watched two girls in matching dresses skip hand-in-hand down the road, heading for the small castle at the heart of the town, which seemed to be the epicenter of activity.

“I just thought…” Wes’ voice was casual, but there were undercurrents of unease in his tone. “If you don’t like it, we can leave. I’ll come back another day.”

“Wes.” I squeezed his torso so tight, I’m pretty sure I cut off his oxygen for a few seconds. “I
love
this. History geek, remember?”

“I remember.”

I felt my heart turn over. Of course he’d remembered.

“Now, will you park this damn bike already so we can go explore?” I demanded in a gruff voice, trying to avoid thinking about how perfect he was for me.

It was no use.

Wes Adams was quite possibly the best thing that had ever happened to me — and, though he might not be aware of it, I certainly was.

GYPSY CURSE

“How much?” I asked in horribly mispronounced Hungarian, praying the young girl in the stall would take pity on me.

She smiled warmly and rattled off the number of
forint
I’d owe if I wanted to purchase the gorgeous bracelet I’d been staring at since I spotted it on my first pass by her table over an hour ago. As I’d wandered the festival, I’d seen all different handicrafts, from beautiful embroidery to carved horns to finely-worked leather, but nothing had captured my attention quite like the horsehair bangles, earrings, and necklaces displayed on her bright red tablecloth.

I touched the bracelet lightly, tracing the intricate, woven threads with the pad of one finger. I’d left straight from work — my wallet contained barely enough money to purchase a coffee, let alone a handmade piece of art.

“Köszönöm,” I murmured with a regretful smile, turning from the stall and heading back toward the square. Folk dancers were moving to traditional steps as a band of string instruments, pipes, and drums played upbeat tunes. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I watched people of all ages dancing and singing together. Song after song, dance after dance, the merrymakers showed no signs of stopping as the afternoon waned on. Hands clapping to the beat, a huge smile fixed permanently on my face, I watched for so long I lost track of time.

I’m not sure what made me glance up, but when I did, my gaze landed on a set of unwavering, dark eyes that were staring at me from across the square.

Wes.

He winked when he caught my eye and took a few steps along the perimeter of the crowd, cutting a path toward me. His movement soon drew the attention of some of the dancers, and I laughed as I watched two bold, gawky girls of twelve or thirteen grab his hands and haul him into the center of the celebration. Their leather-booted feet tapped madly against the stones as they twirled, granting Wes no mercy as they spun him in circles, maneuvering him around the makeshift dance floor like he was their personal, life-sized Ken doll. The crowd laughed and cheered as they watched his stumbling steps. I was swaying in place and laughing at him, too — until he passed close by my side of the audience, reached out an arm, and tagged me around the waist.

“If I’m doing this, you’re damn well doing it too, Red,” he growled in my ear, hauling me into the center of the square.

We whirled around wildly, locked in each other’s arms, until the crowd went blurry and the sound of their laughter faded away. All I could see was his face. Faster and faster we spun, a hysterically uncoordinated pair, making up all our own steps. Heedless of the many people watching.

We only had eyes for each other.

***

I glanced warily at Wes, entirely unsure that this was a good idea.

He grinned back at me across the small round table.

“Ala okaya, ohala okaya.” The old woman’s eyes were closed as she chanted some sort of pagan incantation under her breath. A visual sweep of the small tent, constructed of red and purple swathes of fabric, revealed all manner of strange things — candles of every shape and size, countless vials filled with liquid, small bottles containing God only knew what. Eye of newt and toe of frog, most likely.

I snorted under my breath and Wes looked over at me disapprovingly. The woman chanted on, undisturbed.

“Do you think she’s casting a spell on us?” I hissed in his direction.

“Undoubtedly,” he whispered back.

After our turn on the dance floor, the same two girls who’d pulled Wes into the square had grabbed our hands and dragged us toward a vibrantly-colored tent on the edge of the festival grounds. Giggling at each other in a mischievous manner exclusive to preteen girls, they’d pulled back the draped entrance and shoved Wes and me inside without another word. And now, we were alone at the hands of a zillion-year-old gypsy woman who, apparently, doubled as a witch.

“Ala okaya, ohala okaya.”

Her chants continued as she reached sightlessly beneath the table and pulled out two stout green pillar candles. I watched as she wound a cord made from willow or some other thin-branched tree around the candles and tied them together in an intricate, ritualistic knot without ever breaking her chant or cracking open an eye to peek. Clearly, she’d done this before. 

“Is she speaking Hungarian?” I asked.

Wes shook his head.

“Romanian?”

“No dialect I’ve ever heard.”

Great. There’d be no clues from that front, then.

The candles were now lit, flaming brightly and casting flickering shadows across the gypsy’s wrinkled face. Her chanting picked up pace and she held her palms up to the sky, shaking them in time with her spell. I half expected sparks to start shooting from her fingertips or, at the very least, a little bit of levitation off the floor. Maybe I’d watched one too many Harry Potter movies.

Wait, I take that back. There’s no such thing as too many Harry Potter movies.

Abruptly, the woman fell silent. I flinched involuntarily when she opened a set of bottomless gray eyes to stare across the table. Nearly a minute passed as she examined us with an unblinking stare, and I began to squirm in place.

It was safe to say she creeped me out.

Before I realized what was happening, she’d reached over and grabbed Wes’ right hand in one fist, then clasped mine in the other. She was pretty spry, for such an old lady. I didn’t fight her grip as she guided my hand over the open flame of the candle sitting on the table in front of me. Wes’ eyebrows were high on his forehead, but he allowed her to do the same. When we were both positioned palm-down over our candles — not so close that it burned, but near enough that I felt the flame’s warmth tickling my skin — the woman began to chant once more.

I locked eyes with Wes over the flames. “You think she’s enchanting us to give her all our money?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Maybe she’s hexing us. Giving us an eternity of bad luck or an unstoppable sneezing condition.”

I giggled.

“Bah!” The woman yelled, instantly drawing my attention back to her. She was glaring at me.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

She gestured from my mouth to the flame, pantomiming for me to blow out the candle. She turned to signal at Wes, as well.

“Time to blow?” I asked quietly.

Wes chortled.

“Oh, come on. That one was too easy, even for your dirty mind.”

He grinned at me. “On three?”

We counted down together and blew out our candles simultaneously. Smoke began to drift up from the smoldering wicks. Grabbing our hands once more, the gypsy swirled them through the smoke, until the separate trails from each candle combined into a single ashy cloud. She muttered under her breath as she guided our hands, moving so rhythmically, I soon found myself mesmerized. There was something bewitching about watching our fingers move lazily through the dim light.

As the smoke dissipated, the woman positioned my hand above Wes’, palm to palm over the now-dark candles. It was utterly still in the tent as she reached down, unwound the willow cords, and began to wrap them around our lofted wrists, tethering us together.

I didn’t dare speak — she’d only scold me again.

“A szerelem vak,” the woman recited.

That sounded more familiar — less pagan, more Hungarian.

“A szerelem igazi,” she continued, wrapping the cords so tightly they began to dig into the flesh of my wrist.

I glanced at Wes and saw, for the first time, his brow was wrinkled in what looked like comprehension — and the beginnings of distress.

“A szerelem örök.”

He glanced over at me and opened his mouth to say something, but the old woman’s voice boomed out once more.

“Előbbi egyedül. Ezentúl együtt.”

I looked at him with wide eyes, wondering why he suddenly looked worried. He’d been remarkably calm about this entire thing, up until she’d started speaking Hungarian.

“Örökké.”

Her hands dropped to her sides and her eyes closed. She’d reached the end of her spell — the finality ringing in her tone made that much obvious. I stared at Wes, whose face was a mask of stunned disbelief, and then at our hands, which were now bound together in a beautiful knot. Only when the curtain behind us flew open and the two girls rushed in, giggling and smiling ear to ear, did I begin to realize something wasn’t right here.

This had been no normal spell or chant.

“Wes…” I whispered, looking up at him with alarm. “What just happened?”

He couldn’t even look at me. I saw him swallow several times, watched his eyes open and close rapidly as though they might somehow blink away whatever had just occurred. The girls were clapping and circling the table, each bearing small loops of sturdy white rope. When they grabbed my left hand and slid the tiny circular cord onto a very specific finger, I almost fell over in shock.

“Did they… did she…” I gulped for air. “Wes?” My voice was squeaky.

“I think…” He cleared his throat, hard, then looked over at me steadily. “Uh…”

I stared at him for a long, frozen moment, waiting for him to finish. Waiting for him to confirm that my suspicions, crazy as they might’ve seemed, were correct.

“Well, Red…” Something changed in his eyes. They went sort of soft as they moved over my face and the hint of a grin touched his lips. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“I think we’re married.”