Blood Curse (Branded Trilogy Book 2) (3 page)

She frowned. The powers Tsura held were difficult for even Pril to understand, but she needed to find a way to show her how to control them. She’d watched her sister as they’d grown and was often bewildered by all the possibilities her magick held. But Tsura was different—Tsura was stronger.

At four years old, she was a Chuvani but no Peddler saw her as such. They were a band of misfit gypsies from all different clans. When Vadoma died, Pril and her brothers decided to go off on their own. The Renoldi clan they’d grown up with didn’t need to suffer for Vadoma’s sins, and because Pril refused to give up the child, it put them in danger.

She bent and brushed her lips over Tsura’s forehead before leaving to go stand by the table.

“She sleeps?” Sorina asked as she brushed her long black hair from her shoulder to lay across her back.

“She does.”

“Come, let me bind your ribs and give you some tea that will relieve the pain.”

Pril removed her blouse.

“Had you been wearing a full corset your ribs would still be intact,” Sorina said and snickered.

“That may be so, but surely I would’ve punctured my heart from the corset bone itself.” Pril hated the corset; instead she wore a short stay that only went a bit below the breasts allowing her midsection to be free of anything tight and encompassing.

“I am afraid you will need to wear one for the next week.”

She groaned.

“We won’t do it up too tight, but you’ll need to sleep with it on as well.”

“Very well.” She pulled the unpleasant contraption from the trunk and handed it to her friend.

The woman wrapped it around Pril’s midsection and wove the silk through the holes lacing it. “Hold on,” she said while pulling the silk together to bind her stomach, ribs and lungs tight.

She whimpered as Sorina tied the back. Her ribs seemed to hurt more with the corset than without. Unsure if she should sit, she remained standing and watched as Sorina mixed the Horsetail tea.

She hated the herb. It tasted awful and smelled worse, too. For all the good it did she knew, even before Sorina handed her the cup, she’d not be able to drink it.

When the other woman wasn’t watching, Pril opened the jar of mint leaves, took one sprig along with one stem of lavender and dropped them into the mug.

“Mint and lavender do thy duty, remove thy stench upon the touch of mine lips,” she whispered so Sorina did not hear and lifted the glass, drinking the entire contents in one gulp.

“I cannot believe you drank it so fast. It usually takes me an hour to get it down my throat.”

“I like to get the bad stuff over with as quickly as possible.” She licked the mint from her lips to hide her smile.

Pril met Stefan and Galius outside of the supply wagon. Galius, the larger of the two men, stood with his muscled arms folded over his chest. Black hair fell in unruly waves around his face, clinging to his full beard. She slowed her steps and inhaled. Galius was angry.
Damn it.

“How is he?” she asked and wrapped her arm around her waist. It still hurt to breathe, and Sorina said it would until the ribs became one again.

“He is still unconscious,” Stefan said in low tones as his blue eyes roamed her body.

It’d been two years since she’d called off their engagement. She never loved him and only allowed the courtship because her brothers had pushed her into it. Galius wanted to see her safe and content while Milosh wanted to be rid of the burden she and Tsura caused.

Stefan had come to them like the others in the Peddler clan, a loner cast from his own people and from the terror of being a gypsy. But even after all this time he still pursued her.

The air puffed from Galius’ nose onto her forehead. She stepped to the side away from his irritation.

Stefan placed his hand on her arm and grabbed her palm, lacing his fingers with hers. “Sorina may have something to wake him,” he said.

She pulled her hand from his and crossed her arms.

“Sorina sits with Tsura,” she replied.

“The clan needs wood. Go and fetch some,” Galius finally spoke and gave the other man a glare fit to melt ice.

Stefan’s gaze swept over her.

“Now,” Galius said.

He rushed off to do Galius’ bidding.

She shivered. “He needs a wife.”

“He needs to be reminded that you are not his pet,” Galius growled, staring after Stefan.

“Yes, well that is unlikely to happen until he meets someone else.”

Galius’ gaze went over her head, and his strong jaw flexed.

She placed her hand on his arm careful of her ribs. “What is wrong, Brother?”

His eyes, the same almond-color as her own, stared down at her. “We need to discuss Tsura.”

Pril straightened her shoulders and stood a few inches taller. There was going to be no discussion. “No.”

Galius’ lips thinned. “No?”

“She is my daughter. I will decide what is best for her.”

“That may be true, but she has become a constant issue.” He looked around them before lowering his voice. “One that has Milosh chomping at the bit to rid the clan of.”

“No. I will not allow him to touch her.”

“Nor will I, but he is grieving, and while that will allow him some margin of grace, I cannot see past the anger and hate I witness in his eyes when he looks at Tsura.”

She stepped back. “He hates her?”

“I am afraid so, and his wife is not far behind in her feelings.”

Pril had known Milosh blamed her for their troubles, blamed her for the death of his child, but to hate Tsura—to hate a little girl. Her heart sunk. The weight of what she was up against almost buckled her knees.

“I will offer guidance, Sister.” Galius placed his arm around her shoulders.

“He cannot be trusted,” she whispered.

“Neither can our clan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Milosh has taken it upon himself to speak with a few of the others.”

“About Tsura? About the hunt?” Her heart raced, and her chest seized.

He nodded.

“The child is not safe. We are a small clan, one who cannot fight the Monroes, and we are tired of running. If Milosh can cast doubt into their minds we are doomed.”

“There must be something we can do—some way to stop him.”

Galius took her hand.

“I have asked for counsel with him, and…you are to be there.”

She hung her head.

“I cannot.”

“Sister, you must. Tsura needs you.”

She couldn’t see his face past the tears gathering in her eyes. “He hates me. I am the reason Alexandra is gone.”

“Look past your nose, and see that he is your brother. He is mourning his daughter. He will come around. I have faith in that.”

She nodded, but deep in her soul she knew that hate had consumed Milosh, that he’d stop at nothing to see her in the same anguish as he.

Jamestown, Virginia

Silas Monroe stood outside the bedroom door, listening to the frantic cries of his wife while in labor. Soon he’d know if the blood curse had been broken.

“It is a girl.” The midwife’s words floated toward him, and hope sprung in his chest, kicking his heart into spasms. He went for the knob and was stopped by Beth’s harrowing scream. He pressed his fingers into the handle until his knuckles went white. Anger seeped into the crevices of his soul, taking up residence, and his sorrowful eyes slanted. He placed his forehead against the wall.

The girl was still alive. The damn gypsy child still existed. He gnashed his back teeth together, clenching his jaw until the muscle ached. Beth’s low wail slammed into him, and he swayed. He could not go in there. He could not see the anguish upon his wife’s frail face. He could not explain that they’d try again to find the girl, that maybe next time she’d have a boy. He’d promised her over and over that it’d be done, the blood curse would be broken and three times he’d failed. Three times he’d buried his daughters. THREE. And now he’d bury the fourth.

Silas pulled back his arm and punched the wall as hard as he could. The horse-hair wig he wore fell into his eyes, and he reset it, just as the pain shot up his hand. It wasn’t enough. He needed to hurt, to expel the anger within him. He hit the wall again, and again and again. Blood smeared the flowered wallpaper and ran down his forearm. His fingers and knuckles throbbed, but he didn’t care. Nothing compared to the agony he felt right now.

He pushed from the wall and went in search of his brothers. The dark hallways of the Monroe mansion were quiet at the late hour. The servants were all asleep, except the ones tending to his wife. His chest tightened. Beth would not want to see him. She’d shut him out like all the other times. He feared for her sanity, saw the circles under her eyes, heard the quiver in her voice and knew she’d changed.

He didn’t light a candle, for he could walk the halls with his eyes closed and not get lost. The darkness allowed him the privacy to release two teardrops. He let them remain on his cheeks, feeling the cool air as it dried them.

What would he do now? Who could he send to kill a child? He thought of the slave, Elijah. The man hadn’t returned after they’d received the letter telling them it was done. He’d sent Jude to kill him. His wife and child asked for him on a regular basis. He couldn’t even pretend to care about their loss when his was so much more intense.

He found his brothers in the library, both with a glass of scotch accompanying solemn looks. Hate boiled within him, and he swallowed past the fire in his throat. Hiram turned. Every time Silas looked at him he saw weakness, and he wanted to slap it from his face.

The brothers didn’t need to ask him, the slant of his eyes told them that soon they’d bury another niece.

“We killed the wrong one,” Jude growled and kicked the ottoman out from under his feet.

Hiram glanced away, silent.

“The damn slave killed the wrong girl.” Silas picked up the bottle of scotch and threw it across the room. Glass shattered onto the floor, and no one moved. “The wrong bloody child!”

“He said she had the mark—she was branded.”

Silas remembered the mark behind Vadoma’s left ear. The child had the same one.

Hiram ran his hand through his shoulder length hair. “There has to be another way. We cannot keep killing children.” He turned toward Silas, and his brown eyes begged. “I cannot sleep at night for my transgressions.”

Silas curled his lip, and he spat onto the floor. “You coward. You’re a part of this blasted curse like the rest of us.” He stepped closer. “Do you not remember the rope I placed around the gypsy’s neck? You were there. You watched her convulse until she died.”

Hiram averted his eyes.

“Search your memories, Brother. We burned her until there was nothing left but ash!”

“Stop,” Hiram yelled.

“You were always weak.” Silas yanked Hiram’s drink from his hand, and lifting it to his lips he drank it all in one swig. “What will you tell your wife when she has to bury a daughter?”

“I do not know,” he whispered.

“You’ve been lucky thus far, Brother. God has granted you twin boys. But evil walks among us and always will until we kill that damn gypsy child.”

“But we have killed so many,” Hiram whispered.

Silas slapped him across the face. “And we have lost many.”

Hiram grabbed Silas’ collar and tugged him close. “We should have never done what we did,
Brother.
If we’d have left things alone, none of this would be happening.”

“Left it alone? She killed our father.”

“Father died from typhus. She did not aid in that, and you know it.”

Silas hated their father as much as his brothers did. Castor Monroe had been a brute with large hands and wide shoulders. He had stood over six feet and could fight up to five slaves at a time. No one crossed him, and if they did sure-fire hell came their way.

“She placed a spell on him. Used her magick to spawn the disease,” Silas spat.

“That was no magick, Brother. That was luck, and father deserved what he got.”

“Damn you!”

Jude was between the brothers, holding them by their collars.

Their chests heaved as Silas and Hiram glared at one another.

“Calm the hell down. We will rectify this. We will hire more men. Send two or three out at a time.” He pulled the brothers close. “We will find the child, and we will kill her.”

Hiram shoved Jude from him.

“No. I want no more of this.”

Silas laughed a pitted and piercing sound. “There is blood upon your hands, Brother. Therefore, you cannot walk away.”

Hiram pointed his finger at Silas.

“The evil has taken your soul. It has caused the lines upon your face to hang, your mouth to droop and your lips to spew rancid sentences.”

“The child must die,” Jude said. “We haven’t a choice.”

Hiram shoved his fist within his mouth and bit down hard.

Silas saw him only as a broken link to the chain they’d formed. He needed to be removed.

“Hiram, you cannot expect us to stop until our daughters breathe life.”

Without another word Hiram spun on his heel and walked from the room.