Phantom Series Boxed Set (39 page)

“I can try,” she assured.

“Go ahead,” he replied with a confident swing of his hand, gesturing at the box. “Try if you like, but you’ll never connect to the past when you haven’t lived it—you’re not that good a psychic yet. No offense.”

Cat slid the box closer to her and smirked. “None taken.”

She peered inside, then, with a determined inhalation, took the button into her palm. Paschal crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, the certainty of her failure etched on his face.

Ben, however, shifted forward and slid his warm, supportive palm over her knee. She allowed herself a split second to enjoy the feel of his flesh against hers and the memory of how much higher those fingers had sneaked up her thigh only a few hours ago.

When he cleared his throat guiltily, she guessed the same memory had occurred to him as well.

“Go ahead,” Ben urged. “Show the old man that he’s not the only one who can do this.”

Great. No pressure
.

She inhaled again, but this time she allowed the breath to fill her lungs to maximum capacity. She concentrated on the oxygen expanding in her system, and when she felt entirely full, she blew out the air through her mouth, tightened her fingers around the button, closed her eyes and concentrated. The voodoo chants taught to her by her grandfather looped in her brain. She called upon the Santería spirits invoked by her grandmother to guide her way.

The button’s age instantly struck her. A blast of odors. Stuffy rooms. Stale sweat. Piquant perfumes. Images popped across her inner eyelids like tiny, fragile bubbles. Boxes. Cartons. Envelopes. Even a beaded sachet. Hand after hand after hand. Some warm and gentle. Some cold and hard. Cruel.

She dropped the button.

“Too many people have touched this,” she said, wincing from the icy ache in the center of her palm.

Paschal’s grin was maddening. “You don’t say?” His expression darkened. “Without knowledge of the precise person we’re looking for in all that psychic detritus, he’s impossible to find.”

She supposed he was entitled to his omniscient tone, but she still shoved the button back into the box angrily, then glanced at Ben.

“He’s right,” she conceded.

With a harrumph, Paschal snatched the box from Cat.

Ben opened his mouth to argue, but Paschal had already grabbed the button and tossed the box aside. He clutched the brass tightly in his gnarled hand, closed his eyes and fell utterly silent. If not for the way his empty hand gripped the edge of the table, they might have thought he was asleep.

But Cat recognized the trance for what it was. With any luck, he was even now psychically jetting back into the past and then, hopefully, into the present, where they’d find his brother Aiden. Only when they found out what had happened to the entire Forsyth brood, including the sister who betrayed them all, would Paschal finally find peace.

When Paschal gasped, both Ben and Cat shot forward. His closed eyelids rippled from the rapid movements underneath. His jaw slackened, and a barely audible moan mixed with the sounds of his suddenly shallow breathing.

“Paschal?” Ben asked, his voice so deep and desperate, Cat knew the ever unflappable man was teetering on the edge. “Dad?”

Paschal groaned.

She swallowed deeply, said a silent prayer, then whispered, “He’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” Ben snapped.

“Do you want me to know?”

Ben’s gaze locked with hers. “How can you?”

With another wordless plea for help to the God who had bestowed her with her gift, Cat held on tight to Ben with one hand. With the other, she slid her fingers into the thick white hair at Paschal’s temple and attempted a connection.

After all, what did they have to lose?

Valoren, outside Germany

October 1747

With his hand clutching the hilt of his sword, Aiden Forsyth reined in his skittish steed and watched his youngest brother, Rafe, ride across the craggy wasteland that separated their family estate and Umgeben, the village of the banished Gypsies.

When he reached his brothers, Rafe slid off his horse’s back, stomped into the center of the circle of brothers, and reported to Damon, the eldest.

“The mercenary army advances at dawn.”

Damon nodded. “Then we have time to find Sarina.”

“Not if Rogan has spirited her away.” Aiden drew his weapon, admiring the pull of its weight against his hand. This was what he knew—dueling, honor, war. No matter how tired of bloodshed he was, he’d rather face the oncoming horde of mercenaries than the infinite mysteries of magic. “He’s brought this danger on our sister. On us. He must pay for his betrayal!”

Aiden’s heart thudded against his chest in heavy, painful beats. His battle would not be for king or country this time, but for something more precious—family. After the madness at Culloden, Aiden had never wanted to kill again. But then he’d arrived home in Valoren, the colony for exiled Gypsies, governed by his father, to find his sister missing, an oncoming death squad headed toward his family, and his beloved brothers preparing to ride to the rescue of all. He’d instantly slipped back into his role of consummate soldier, with no time for regret over how much this action would cost his soul.

Damon grabbed the hilt of Aiden’s weapon, which flashed silver as lightning streaked across the sky. “Remember, we must find Sarina
before
we kill Rogan. He cannot die until we know where she is.”

Aiden bit back his protest and, in the eyes of his brothers, saw that they did the same. Damon’s order was cool and logical, but still Aiden chafed under any edict that would allow Rogan more time among the living. Still, honor dictated that Rogan would die at the hand of a Forsyth son. Which one made no difference, as long as the murder happened soon. Very soon.

Men Aiden had once served with in the king’s army were gathering close by, preparing to slaughter the Umgeben villagers Aiden had known since childhood. Lord Rogan, who must have bewitched Sarina with his reputed sorcerer’s magic, had invoked the king’s wrath by usurping his governor’s power and demanding autonomy for the Romani wanderers. Even their father, who’d devoted his life to serving the king and protecting the Gypsy tribe, was in danger. If the Forsyth sons did not act quickly and decisively, the bloodshed at dawn would rival that of the massacre of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s last supporters.

“We must ride!” Damon declared.

And so they did. When they emerged through the valley, lightning illuminated more than just the black sky and the forbidding mountains on either side. The village within was wholly untouched—and yet deathly still.

There was no sign of the people who lived here…but no sign of evacuation, either. All remained peaceful and calm. Eerily so.

Aiden grabbed Rafe by the arm as he trotted past him. “Did you not send warnings?”

Rafe nodded, then shook him off and rode onward.

Colin, the third born, stopped at Aiden’s side. “We sent a groom as soon as your message arrived. Father had called us together to decide how to lead the Gypsies to safety when we found Sarina’s letter, declaring she’d run off with Rogan. Then you arrived.”

Aiden nodded. He was thankful his father was, at least for the moment, safely hidden with his wife and servants at their estate on the other side of the mountain. “Father is fortunate the Gypsies rebelled against him of late and barred him from the village. He can remain loyal to the king, at least in show.”

“If only the Gypsies had rebelled similarly against Rogan,” Colin said darkly, “we wouldn’t be facing this massacre at all.”

Their gazes locked on the looming structure at the far end of the village, abutting the mountainside. Rogan’s castle. He’d come to Valoren as Damon’s guest, then settled here like a king among the Gypsies. Shockingly, the normally suspicious Romani had accepted him like a prodigal son. Aiden had met Rogan only once, years ago in London, but had been struck by the iciness beneath the man’s considerable charm. Aiden vowed to never turn his back on such a blackguard, but Damon had declared the nobleman merely eccentric and intriguing and had invited him to the family home in Valoren. At the time, Aiden had been too concerned with his own interests and upcoming campaign against the Scottish rebels to challenge his brother’s judgment. But now certainly wasn’t the time for regrets.

“God help us,” Colin continued. “In a few hours this will be the site of a bloodbath.”

“Not if we can stop it,” Aiden assured him.

They rode to each dwelling, knocking on the hollow-sounding doors and tearing curtains aside with drawn blades. Curious signs met them at every turn. Prized possessions sat out in the open, untended. Fires burned with food on the spit, as if the owners had only wandered a few steps away. And yet, locked pens were empty of livestock. And the handcrafted talismans that normally hung around the village were gone.

“What sort of magic spirits away an entire town?” asked Logan, the older of the twins.

Paxton, the younger twin, shook his head. “They had but an hour’s warning. They could not have abandoned their homes without our meeting them on the road.”

Rafe did not respond. The youngest Forsyth son had been born to their father’s Gypsy second wife, as had Sarina. Rafe had spent more time among the villagers than he had with his own family. If the disappearance had caught him unaware, how would they find Salina before it was too late?

Not by standing still and wallowing in their surprise.

Aiden shot off orders. Colin he sent to the chapel. Rafe to search out the
Chovihano
, anticipating that the Gypsy elder might have stayed behind, too lame to travel. He directed the twins to the tinker’s hut, hoping the only Umgeben Gypsy allowed to travel outside the boundaries of Valoren had heard about the mercenaries and had warned the Romani before Aiden had stumbled across some of his former cavalry mates on his journey home.

Without question, his brothers obeyed. Aiden froze when Damon placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find her,” he said.

“I’ll seek out Rogan,” Aiden insisted.

Damon’s eyes hardened. “I brought that viper into our midst. It is my right to slay him. But only after Sarina is back in our care.”

Straightening tall in his saddle, Damon looked more like a general than Aiden would ever have dreamed. His eldest brother had once wanted nothing more than to inherit his title, serve in the House of Lords and continue to bring honor to the Forsyth name. He’d had no interest in dueling, for sport or insult, preferring more solitary pursuits and reasoned resolution of conflict. Aiden, on the other hand, had once relished a good fight. Settling scores with the aid of his sword or the occasional pistol was as natural to him as breathing. Yet each and every one of his brothers, even pious Colin and studious Paxton, had the capability to draw blood on behalf of their sister. But Damon blamed himself for this turn of events. He deserved the first chance to call Rogan out.

“Check the armory,” Damon said. “See if the Gypsies armed themselves before they disappeared.”

Aiden started to tell his brother to take care, but changed his mind. The time for care had passed. Aiden rode west, concentrating solely on his aims: Find his sister. Find the Gypsies. Organize an escape from King George’s mercenaries. Spit on Rogan’s corpse. After that, Aiden had no plans except living without the constant barrage of violence from rebellion and war.

Though he’d lived in Valoren the least of all his brothers, he knew his way around the village as expertly as the rest. Barren at first glance, the land possessed a powerful magic, strong enough to keep the itinerant wanderers rooted to one place. Though they refused to build more than rickety homes, preferring their wheeled
vardos
, the Romani had otherwise created a thriving village, funded by the sale of crafts and natural remedies to nearby hamlets. They existed in peace, healthy and safe, begrudgingly content with their lot.

And then Rogan had come to Valoren.

With a quick tug on his horse’s reins, Aiden headed toward the dark cavern where Rogan had trained the Gypsies to forge weapons even the king’s master blacksmiths would have coveted. He’d hoped to find the gated cave empty of the armaments, but he was quickly disappointed. Torchlight flickered over a full containment of swords, battle-axes and bayonets, all glowing red-silver in the light from the untended yet smoldering forge.

“Hello?”

His voice echoed through the warm, dry space. The dirt showed a single set of footprints, and the indentations did not indicate that the person they belonged to had been in any hurry. In fact, as he approached the weapons, Aiden noticed a thin layer of dust on the table, likely blown in by the storm.

Disheartened, he turned to leave.
Damn Rogan
. Not only had the sorcerer enticed Sarina into a romance despite the disparity in their ages, but he’d challenged the king’s authority over Valoren. George II had no choice but to act swiftly. Images of torn and bloodied bodies flashed in Aiden’s brain. He’d seen incredible carnage in Scotland. He had no desire to see such human wreckage again.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, he took one last look at the weaponry, then turned to leave.

A light flashed, and inside his head he heard a desperate scream. Feminine. Needful. Afraid.

“Sarina?”

He dashed back into the cave, but found no inner chamber, no path that led anywhere but into shadow. In a curve in the darkness, however, he spied a strange, bluish light. He drew his weapon and advanced into the alcove, shocked to find a single sword fastened to the stone wall.

The blade gleamed, reflecting a light that could not exist. A chill slithered through him as the unnatural glow swelled on the hilt, flashing red in the strange gems fastened there.

Rogan’s sword?

He’d heard about the weapon. The beauty and elegance of the deadly double edge had been legend among all who’d been invited into Rogan’s inner sanctum. How ironic would it be if he killed Rogan with a thrust from his own infamous blade?

The honed steel was exquisite—perfectly smooth and, Aiden guessed, utterly balanced. The wraparound handle, reminiscent of coveted Spanish foils, was a stunning web of fine gold. And the jewels? Aiden had never seen gemstones of that color—the color of fury. The color of rage.