Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (15 page)

Only it isn’t Creek at all.

I realize it’s my dad.

He’s a young man, astonishingly handsome back then, with wide shoulders and a shock of blonde hair, bleached by the sun.

A young woman, a teenager really, who looks just like me in a winsome yellow dress walks up to him with hesitant strides.

Behind her is the Conté de Bargona, wearing one of his perfectly tailored suits. His eyes are stern—dark and bottomless in their disapproval—as if he has a gun in his pocket and is ordering the girl’s moves. Alessia pauses to close her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as though facing a death march. Then she opens them, lifts her chin, and walks forward in the sand with a pained look on her face, like she’s about to make a confession.

I watch her prim, white shoes get soiled by the sand at the lake’s edge.

Her tummy is swelled beneath her dress.

When she reaches my dad, she stands with her feet perfectly together, then twists her heels a little, as if she’s about to click them in the hope of escaping with him to Oz.

But there’s no escape.

Instead, the Conté de Bargona orders something angrily in Italian to her from the shore. Shaking her head, Alessia says to Doyle, “
Non ti amo
. I never loved you.”

And she firmly grips his hand.

“So this means goodbye.”

Even so, the way she gazes into Doyle’s eyes is the stuff love songs are made of. Her face is all heartbreak, all longing—and it’s then that I see a peculiar mist leave her chest and surround my father’s hand. It’s as thin as cigarette smoke, but it clings to him like a ghost. Though her eyes are focused on Doyle, I watch them become dim—as flat as Zuhna’s.

And I feel my breath hitch.

Even though my mind argues it’s impossible, I can’t deny what I see.

Alessia’s soul has left her body to swirl around what my father holds in his hand. Taking refuge in the ruby heart she secretly slipped to him, the most precious treasure that the de Bargona family owned.

In giving him the stone, she gave him
herself
.

That’s where Alessia really is—not within her body inside a nun’s habit, or locked up in an old convent.
That’s
why it was so important to my dad to steal back the box in our old home in Cincinnati that had been foreclosed. Because it held the ruby stone—and the love of his life.

My mind is reeling.

Doyle always said, even through his partially-paralyzed slur from his recent stroke, that Alessia was in the box. No wonder he kept talking to her in his dreams—she was really there!

But how is this possible? How does she breathe, eat, pray, keep functioning?

The same way I do, I guess—like I am now when I’m having an “episode,” where my soul seems suspended from my body, but my body continues.

It’s sort of like a seizure, I imagine. Only for her it lasts much longer. Perhaps even forever . . .

I turn my gaze once again to the lakeshore. The two lovers shake hands, nothing more, for the last time. Before I see Alessia let go of Doyle’s grip, she drops her gaze and lightly touches her belly. Then she withdraws her hand without shedding a single tear, turns on her heels, and walks mechanically back to the Conté de Bargona, as if she were marching into the depths of the ocean to drown. He simply folds his arms and waits for her with an arrogant smile.

Kill him!

The ruby heart hisses to me.

Make him pay for what he does
.

He destroys everything
.

The stone has become hot in my hands and I drop it to the ground, my eyes blinking open in pain.

I’m waving my hands in the air, already feeling the blisters form on my palms.

“She’s here!” I gasp, blowing on my skin.

I gaze at Creek in the darkness, my body trembling from what I’ve witnessed.

“Her soul—it’s
in
this stone, Creek. Just like Martiya.”

“But you said she isn’t dead,” Creek replies, uneasy. “How can she be inside—”

“I don’t know,” I shake my head. “I think it’s because her heart was broken. Maybe beyond repair, after losing my dad and her baby.”

“So Martiya protects her,” Creek nods, studying the stone on the ground. “Protects what’s left of her cracked spirit.”

In the moonlight, we can see that the stone has become so hot in Martiya’s rage that the leaves around it have begun to smoke.

“C-Creek,” I stutter, deeply intimidated by what I’ve seen, “she wants me to . . . kill . . . him.”

“Who?”

“Martiya,” I confess. “She wants me to kill the Conté de Bargona.”

“No!” Creek cries out in the dim light, shocking me awake. “Don’t hurt her! Don’t you dare hit Caroline . . .”

We’d decided after miles of walking last night, and barely being able to see, to bed down along the gypsy trail till dawn. But in the hush of sunrise, Creek is standing over me in the woods, taking swings.

At no one I can see.

I bolt to my feet and swiftly back up, fearing the brutal force of his blows.

“Creek,” I whisper in a hoarse voice, not wanting to give away our whereabouts, “it’s okay, you’re having a bad dream!”

He doesn’t appear to hear me and throws a high kick, as though aiming at someone’s head. When his boot lands hard against a tree, it jolts him awake. His eyes blink rapidly, confused and beginning to focus.

What I see next I’ve never witnessed before since meeting him. Creek’s typical wolf-like gaze is gone. And in his eyes is the horror of a child . . .

He’s ten years old again, watching his mom’s boyfriend beat her.

Welcome to Creek’s childhood.

His mom’s boyfriend was the guy who burned Creek and his brother Dooley with cigarettes and lighters, just for kicks. Carved designs into their skin with a knife to watch them scream. The same man who got Creek’s mother so addicted that she didn’t see the rope burns from when he tied the boys up so they’d be “good” while he got high. Granny Tinker filled me in on a few snippets of Creek’s past, so I might understand why he acts the way he does sometimes.

Yet all I can do is stand here, horrified and allowing Creek the space to realize that his mom’s boyfriend is no longer here.

But I know it’s a lie—

Because ever since he killed Creek’s mom, that man is
always
with Creek. Trailing him, haunting him, bearing weight on Creek’s soul, like the ruby stone that hangs around his neck.

I thrust my head between my hands.

We certainly have a lot of baggage, don’t we?

“I didn’t hurt you, did I sweetheart?” Creek bursts, fully awake now and desperately peeling away my fingers from my face. He wraps me in his arms. “Oh God, tell me I didn’t strike you—”

“I’m all right, I’m okay,” I nod, but in the pale sunrise Creek spies the tears that have welled in my eyes.

“Creek, what’s happening to us?” I blurt, hearing the traces of dread in my voice. “That stone—Martiya—wants de Bargona dead,” I point at his chest. “And you want your mother’s boyfriend dead. We’ve already killed two people, and we seem to be careening down this bloody trail of vengeance—when we barely got married! What are we becoming?”

“No!” Creek grabs my wrists with a power bordering on pain. I feel his fingernails dig into my skin. “That’s not what this is about. Fuck what Martiya wants! We’re here to free your mother—crazy or not, she doesn’t deserve to live confined for the rest of her life because she went nuts after losing your dad and you.”

He steals a quick glance at the wisp of light on the horizon barely peeking through the mountain spires. He lowers my wrists and places my fingers on the ruby heart around his neck, clutching my hands in his big palms. For the life of me, I thought I felt the heart pulse.

“We’re here to free
you
, Robin,” he says. “From all the pain that has influenced your life.”

I stand taller, staring straight into his eyes.

I know Creek means well, and I know he’s right. Only when I see my mother, and at least
try
to let her know I’m alive and still love her, can I let go of the past—even if it doesn’t turn out the way I want.

But I also know Creek has a boatload of pain he’s never been willing to talk about.

“What about you?” I demand. “And don’t you for a second give me Mr. Stone-Cold-Tough-Guy here. Last time I checked, your pain outweighs mine by a few megatons.”

Creek says nothing, and it makes me want to scream. I don’t think I can handle his silence yet one more time, and if he keeps it up I’m about ready to slap him—his lethal right hook be damned. But to my surprise, he takes a deep breath and leans in closer, tipping his forehead against mine.

“In healing you Robin, I heal
me
,” he breathes. “I don’t know where that asshole is who killed my mom. And maybe I’ll never know. But if I can make one woman’s life better, prove to her that love can be okay, that it doesn’t have to hurt and it can last forever—well, then maybe I can prove that to me, too.”

The sun has begun to dance a little on the back of his cropped hair, making him look like a scruffy angel. A very sad angel, with the weight of over 500 years of tragedy linked around his neck.

“We owe this to ourselves, don’t you see that, Robin?” Creek implores. “You have a mom. You have a chance to not go around haunted for the rest of your life. Like
me
.”

I’m stunned at Creek’s admission, that he actually formed words for his pain. And in spite of everything we’ve been through so far, I feel closer to him than ever before. Like maybe I finally broke through his ice a little. My hands cup his cheeks, knowing how hard it is for him to let that side of his heart be laid bare.

“Okay,” I nod before giving him a kiss. “Then let’s get to Alessia as fast as we can, before de Bargona has a chance to figure out what happened to his men. We’ll try to find her as soon as the convent opens, and then I swear to God, we’re getting the fuck out of Italy. We’ll take her with us, if she’ll come.”

“That’s my girl,” Creek says, brushing his lips on my forehead.

And just when he smiles without a hint of his usual glacial reserve, I spy the blue falcon.

It must be only around six in the morning as I follow the path of the blue feathers that appear, one by one, to lead us up a majestic alpine pass in the
Dolomiti
mountains. I know it seems crazy to seek after them like bread crumbs in some weird fairy tale. But when I consider my heritage, it’s hardly the wackiest thing the women of my family have done. With each step I take, my boots avoiding the last patches of snow on the ground, I keep peering at the rocky horizon, hoping to see some sign of a rustic convent.

“Stop,” Creek says, grasping my shoulder. He lifts the ruby heart from the chain around his neck. “I think it’s feeling warmer.”

I sigh, relieved that Creek can sense the stone’s guidance, too. The blue falcon returns with an insistent call, making a broad swath around us in flight. Then it soars away and cuts through a fog bank ahead on the right.

Creek follows the trail of the falcon with his gaze, before it seemed to disappear in the mist.

“It must be over there,” he points toward the fog, thick as a curtain.

“But we can’t see anything,” I challenge. “It’s so hazy we might not be able to find the path. We could walk over a cliff.”

Creek settles his arm around my shoulder.

“That’s the point,” he assures me with a half smile. He glances at nearby ridges with his usual watchful eye. “They probably built a monastery hidden here centuries ago and defended it from these heights with soldiers when they needed to. Just watch your step.”

I nod, imagining armed men protecting the church’s interests. Drawing a deep breath, I press forward through the mist, my chest growing tighter by the minute. Not only from the altitude and nippy air, but also from the sick feeling that de Bargona’s men might be upon us from one of those ridges if we allow the sun to get much higher. Surely he’ll notice if his men haven’t returned by noon, and then he’ll send more looking for us. The way I figure it, once I see my mother, we only have a few hours to hitch a ride on a remote road to Switzerland, where hopefully I can tap into my Swiss bank account again and catch a flight back to the states. Whether I can convince Alessia to come with us to meet my father back at Bender Lake is another matter. But one thing I know for sure: at least my heart will have come full circle.

And then Creek and I can finally start the next chapter of our lives.

The
married
chapter.

That word still sounds so lovely—and foreign—to me. A little like this gypsy ring around my finger. I twirl it a couple of times for good luck, and forge on.

Creek and I march a few hundred more yards deep into the fog until it feels like it’s swallowed us whole. Moist particles strike my cheeks and spread cold fingers across my face. When my foot slips, causing me to teeter on a steep slope, I let out a tight scream. Creek grabs my hand, righting me.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I don’t think it’s much farther.”

“Why?” I reply, puffing. The air is getting so thin my lungs are straining.