Enchant the Dawn (7 page)

* * * * *

Since he’d managed to get the water flowing again, he celebrated by brewing tea strong and bitter enough to get him out of his maudlin state. As he drained the dregs from his earthenware cup, he got up from the three-legged stool. The stool was his only furniture besides the cot, the stove and a standing basin that served him to wash dishes and himself when the need arose. Part of him rebelled at this. It was anathema in
Romani
culture to bathe in still water. He often left the crude faucet open just a tiny fraction to allow water to trickle into the cracked basin. The sound was strangely calming. It wasn’t a rushing river but it was better than not bathing at all. One had to find what comfort one could in the uncouth city.

The rent wasn’t due until the end of next week, so he’d not have to start bothering anyone in the building or finding out who might need help to intercede with the landlord. Except for Mrs. Bertolli’s complaints about the water, most of the building was in as good a shape as he could make it, from the tile on the lobby floor that shone to the flues on the tiny stoves that served as heater and cooker for the families occupying each of the tiny flats. At night, after the kids had tromped through the halls and men and women had returned from a hard day’s toil, he’d clean the floors and wipe down the walls. Now, as kids and chaos owned the hallways, it was best that he stay up in his shack and tend to his still dormant plants. Or get out and walk the streets. Anything to keep his mind from dwelling on where his heart demanded he go. Not to mention his unruly cock.

He bundled up against the cold, wrapping a scarf from Irene around his neck and pulling on the gloves that he’d worn almost every day since he’d left his sister and her baby boy in the hands of her husband. Once she was settled and happy on a vineyard in France, he’d known that he could no longer ignore his destiny. He was a
Magi
and he had to roam. His father had taught him that, just as his Irish grandfather had taught his father. Wanderlust burned in him like an itch that couldn’t be scratched and even the traveling of the Tribes was not enough to satisfy. Daron thought if he went far enough maybe he could outrun his fate. But fate was too clever by half.

Ready to greet the dawn, he’d not been wearing his thick leather gloves when he’d run to touch the woman who’d fallen at his feet, whose eyes had given him a home. Even though she was unconscious, he felt in an instant her overwhelming exhaustion, her elation and her fear. He himself was almost struck down with the strength of the combination of her emotions and his own, until he felt the channels in his soul run deep as he took her emotion into the depths of himself.

That was his magic. Magic strange to both of his parents, whose heightened skills had run toward the making of music, the artistry of expression and making emotion come alive. His sister had called him a lightning rod, though she described everything in
Gadje
terms, having been enthralled with such things the whole of her life. Once he had puzzled out what a lightning rod was from her enthusiastic description, he had to admit it was not a bad description of what he was capable of. The first time he’d done it, his father and mother had been screaming at each other, which they loved to do. He however, being a child and not understanding the romantic nature of a yelling match, put a hand on each of them. He’d felt a boiling, simmering anger erupt within him, along with another emotion he didn’t understand at the tender age of five. But suddenly, the screaming had stopped and both of his parents had looked at him in awe. He had opened his mouth to scream but all at once it had all washed out of him and he’d collapsed, utterly drained.

Over the years, he’d been called upon a thousand times to settle arguments or broker fair dealings. Not because he was terribly wise but because he could render the participants free of excess emotion. He channeled it within himself and back to the Great Mother. He knew the best and the worst of people and more often than not he no longer wished to know much of anything about anyone. How he’d managed to collect all the friends he had when he himself was so distant, he was not sure. Maybe it was just part of the madness that was New York.

He closed the door to his little shack, not bothering with a lock because he had nothing much to steal. Pulling up the trapdoor, he descended the rickety ladder to the sixth floor and smiled and tipped his cap to each of the residents he encountered, greeting each of them by name, often in their own language, be that English, Italian, Spanish or some interesting mishmash that was pure American. Receiving no complaints to occupy his time, he found himself out on the pavement of Lexington Avenue, with a day stretching before him. A day containing nothing but the memory of smooth legs under his hands as he picked her up and the warm scent of her breath against his neck as he carried her from Central Park to her apartment. Tommy had offered to share the burden but Daron chuckled remembering the shock on Tom’s face when he’d snarled at him in response.

Sophia Hunter was the name on that little address book June had pulled out of her coat. Sophia Hunter was his woman. At least, his body was certain of that fact as he’d clutched her to him. His mind was not so certain. Was it time to abandon the name he’d taken for the trip across the wide waters? Would he be known as Daron Hunter for the rest of his life? It was not a bad name to have. All
Magi
took the name of their
ashavi
and on that, he could imagine himself being no different.

His feet took him south along Lexington. He’d wandered from one end of Manhattan to the other and crossed the magnificent bridge to Brooklyn as well. The subway put him too close to too many people and cost money he didn’t have. He managed his building for shelter and enough money for food but most of anything left seemed to find its way to those who simply needed it more. Besides, these Americans never seemed to want to walk, when it was the only real way to see the world, unless you were on the back of a horse. It took him three hours to traverse most of Manhattan and go to the one place that he knew he could keep his mind occupied and away from thoughts of supple thighs and firm breasts.

He sat down at a free chair and faced his opponent, an old man who welcomed him with a grimace and pointed silently at the board. Here in Washington Square Park, it didn’t matter where you were from or what language you spoke, only how well you could play chess.

* * * * *

He had just taken the old man’s queen when he’d felt the urge to look up. It had been a successful couple of hours. He’d been focused on planning his moves against a formidable opponent and had thrown himself into the game so completely that he was two moves away from check when he’d made the mistake of giving in to that urge and raising his eyes from the board.

“
Bajo
…” he muttered under his breath as he met those eyes once again. Trouble. Big Trouble. Sophia Hunter gazed at him from a distance. She sat under a tree, relaxing without a care in the world. He’d forgotten that Tom said he’d seen her here once—she worked not too far away.

The old man turned slowly to see what Daron was looking at and whistled as she pushed herself up off the ground, graceful legs unfolding from under her and breasts thrusting out enticingly as she pressed against the tree behind her. The old man turned back to him with a leering smile and waggled his bushy eyebrows. “
Inavas…bara bajo
.”

Daron blinked at the old man’s pronouncement in perfect
Romani
— “Agreed…big trouble.” He’d been in New York three years and he hadn’t heard a word of
Romani
in all that time. Part of him wanted to stay and hear the life tale of this old
Rom
, whom he had played before but only in silence.

But it is not possible to ignore an
ashavi
when she walks with hips swaying and a skirt just short enough to see elegant ankles that beg to be trapped on either side of your neck. The old man creaked upward, leaning on a cane and made a shooing motion at him to get up and get the girl. It was as good advice as any.

He stood up but instead of walking to her, he helped the old
phuro
put away in their box the battered pieces of the wooden chess set. Mostly, it was a chance to look away and gather his thoughts, instead of simply turning so hard that he tore his trousers. It had been a very long time since he’d had a woman and though he’d spilled his seed often enough in his little shack in the past week, it hadn’t been enough to restore any sense of equilibrium when faced with the woman in the flesh. The
phuro
left, smiling broadly and giving Sophia a long slow appraisal that made Daron’s hands twitch. He managed to remain still, trying to exude calm as he finally met her eyes again.

Such fire
. Instantly, he knew all his efforts were futile and it would take all his will not to simply tear her clothes off and take her on the cold stone table.

She kept walking until she was so close he thought she might walk right on by. Then she tripped on the cracked concrete.

He caught her out of instinct and even with the gloves, the desire burning in her, the anger and fear and longing were all too much. He set her on her feet and let go, backing away. She blushed but stepped forward until she was just a foot away.

Much too close
. She looked too damn good when she blushed. He could feel the heat of her breath and smell the lavender she stored with her clothes. His nostrils flared and he forced himself to keep his eyes on hers and his hands off her.

“So, Mr. West, do you make a habit of rescuing women in public parks?” Her voice was a pleasant alto, her accent not the hard-edge of New York but the softness of somewhere farther west. She had come to the city. She hadn’t been born here.

Silence loomed and he struggled to come up with an answer. He was distracted by the beautiful shell of her ear, the pert turn of her nose, the breasts that he could have crushed against his chest if he just leaned toward her. He coughed slightly. “I try to be useful when I can.”

She raised an eyebrow. Obviously she expected something more. “Are you following me?”

He wrinkled his brow. He was doing his level best not to follow her. “Are
you
following
me
?”

She let out an explosive sigh and raised her eyes to the heavens in obvious exasperation. He couldn’t help grinning at her in response. She turned to go and he reached out and grabbed her arm, unable to let her walk away so quickly. Whatever evil spirit possessed him to say the words that came out of his mouth, only the Divine Twins could have known, “You know that you are mine, Sophia Hunter.”

Her eyes and her desire flared for an instant and his grip grew strong enough to scare him. She didn’t flinch from it though but as fast as the want flowed in, indignation flooded in to drown it. “How dare you! I belong to no man.”

He dropped her arm and stepped farther away. “You do now.” It was too much and not enough, so he turned and walked away, back toward East Harlem. Halfway across the park, he was still trying to master his traitorous body, the drumming of the blood in his ears kept him from hearing her running footsteps until she had shoved him hard.

“Don’t walk away from me, mister! I’ve had my share of men but I’m my own woman and always will be. Now either put up or shut up and get out of my life!”

Hot jealousy swamped him for a moment and then satisfaction. Maybe she did have enough strength to handle him. She stood there, hands on her hips, her cheeks pink with cold and anger and passion. He pounced.

He pulled her off the main path and around a large elm, pushing her into the bark and slamming his lips into hers. Her lips were cold and dry but tasted salty sweet. Her mouth opened to him and her nails dug into his back as she pulled him to her. She was almost as tall as he and he ground his hips into hers to leave her no question as to how much she affected him. She moaned softly and thrust back against him. He traced her teeth with his tongue but she dueled his tongue back into his mouth with her own, stroking hard. He tore away from her lips, attacking the dip behind her jaw and under her ear, where he could just taste her essence, that flavor that would be imbued in her sex. He wanted to bury himself in it, in her, until his face was coated with her satisfaction.

His hands pushed past the edge of her coat finding the dip in her waist and riding the side of her ribs until he settled over the cloth covering her breast. He squeezed hard and she bit down on his lower lip, hard enough that they both tasted blood. She laughed.

He popped the top button on the blouse with agile fingers and dipped his leather-covered fingers under simple cotton and wanton silk until he plucked the hardness of her nipple. She threw her head back against the tree, her eyes clenched shut. Her lips pressed together in an oddly contented smile, like the cat that had gotten the cream.

And then she ducked under his arm and sprinted away, chuckling. Leaving him as hard as a rock and five miles from any privacy to do anything about it. She turned suddenly, holding her coat closed over her disarrayed clothing and shouted, “I’m sure you know where to find me, Mr. West. Don’t be a stranger!”