Chapter One of Dance of Hearts by L. H. Young

Dance of Hearts

L. H. Young

Prologue

Mid Fifteenth Century Hungary:

The sky was beginning to darken, and soon the oppressive heat from the afternoon sun would be replaced by blessed coolness once the moon was high overhead. Gypsy straightened the brightly colored scarf covering her hair except for the heavy chocolate curls that hung between her shoulder blades. She walked barefoot along the inner confines of the small camp of carts, both covered and not. Eli, one of her many male cousins was putting the finishing touches on one of four fires now burning brightly, heating coals. He waved at her as she passed him on her way to her grandmother’s covered cart. The horses nickered softly as they ate their nightly portion of feed, each one carefully tethered to prevent escape when the wolves howled. Her silver bangles clinked musically as she walked, and she hummed a tune to one of many folk songs her grandmother had taught her.

The faded ochre colored wood cart with its faded canvas covering was located at the end of the half circle of carts, closest to the small spring of clear water. At the ripe old age of four and fifty, she had trouble walking very far, and loved to be near any source of water. She claimed she could hear voices whispering to her of the future as the water passed over the smooth stones. Gypsy believed her. Her grandmother had a reputation in three different regions for her magic and fortune telling. People came from many villages to hear the news, buy, trade and have their fortunes told. Gypsy had the voice of an angel and would sing and dance for coin. She loved their nomadic lifestyle and wouldn’t trade it for all the gold in the world. Reaching up, she knocked on the rough wood.

“Come in, my angel,” her grandmother replied in the Romanian language they spoke.

Gypsy stepped up on the large stone placed at the entrance to the small cart and crawled inside. “Good evening, grandmama,” she said, sitting cross-legged, arranging her long skirt to cover her legs.

“There is a special man arriving for tonight’s gathering, Gypsy. I have saved long and hard, since you were born, to make a special marriage for you. This man is important to the Sultan and I believe he will be a good husband. Do you remember the special dance I taught you?”

Gypsy nodded but couldn’t keep the sadness from her eyes. She didn’t want to marry and leave their family. Her cousins had married and all had remained with their families and continued to travel. She wanted the same for herself. “Yes grandmamma.”

“Do not be sad, my angel. You will still see all of us each year. You must dance the dance of hearts for this man to win his heart.” She reached beside her and brought out a small box wrapped in cloth and handed it to Gypsy.

Gypsy took the box and opened it. Inside were two identical anklets with small silver bells attached. She lifted one out of the box and held it to the dim light. The silver was old but still shone in the light.

“Put those around your ankles before you dance for him. They are charmed with a love potion, and their special music will guarantee you a place at his side.” Grandmama smiled at Gypsy, two teeth still visible in front, most had been pulled out. Gold coverings glinted from one of them. Her hair was white as snow, and braided loosely under her scarf. Deep lines crinkled at the corners of her dark brown eyes.

“Yes, grandmama,” Gypsy said putting the anklet back with its twin. “Will you be telling fortunes tonight?”

Her grandmother laughed. “Of course, my child. Most will want to know their future. You must sing and dance until this special man arrives. Promise me you will laugh and enjoy what you love.”

Gypsy’s lips curved into a delightful, childish smile, and she nodded enthusiastically. She could never disappoint her grandmother — and she did love to sing and dance. Her grandmother made shooing motions with her hands. Gypsy climbed out of the cart and walked back to her own, where she carefully brushed out her dark, curly hair and put on her dancing skirt. The warped looking glass showed her an elfish face with high, prominent cheekbones, a small bow shaped mouth with full lips centered under a straight nose. Her chin was small and pointed. The exotic slanted eyes with their strange amber color and long, dark lashes were by far, her best feature. At five feet tall, she was perfectly proportioned, and maybe weighed eighty pounds — soaking wet. Nervousness fluttered in her belly from her grandmother’s news, but she knew the wisdom in what she had said and would never argue. After another quick check of her reflection, she climbed down from her cart and grabbed a quick bowl of fish stew, then, went down to the spring to rinse her mouth. Laughter and other unfamiliar voices cued her to the arrival of the people from the nearby villages. She went to take her usual place next to four of her other cousins preparing an old lambskin with slender pipes, a wooden flute and two animal skin drums. Patrons were gathering and sitting on provided mats on the ground all crowded near the fires.

Gypsy began a low, lilting song with only her hands and feet providing a rhythm. Her bangles clinked musically each time she clapped her hands, the small rattles she had tied around her ankles provided just the right tempo. Her voice rose in a clear, rich alto carrying on the air. The drums began to pound out a rhythm with hers and the flute took up the melody. The crowd responded by clapping their hands as she twirled and undulated to the music as the folk song came to a conclusion. Each song ended with a flourish, and the crowd begged for more. For another hour and a half she regaled them with more songs and dances, then, made her bows. Some coin was tossed in her direction and her cousins picked them up and would divide it all equally after the people had gone back to their homes.

Gypsy was enjoying a long drink of the cool spring water when one of her cousin’s wives found her to let her know that the man her grandmother had spoken of had arrived. She thanked the young pregnant woman, and quickly ran back to her cart to retrieve the anklets. She put them on and followed Selim, the young man who played the flute, to a predetermined area just outside the camp. A group of five men, she had never met, were seated on the ground on furs. Their clothing was fine and unlike any she had seen before. This man must be wealthy, indeed, she thought as she took her place behind the prepared fire where she would best be seen. Once again, she felt the nerves fluttering in her belly, but Selim’s flute began the melody to the special dance her grandmother had taught her over the years until she had perfected it.

She removed her scarf, letting her hair fly free as she began the undulating movements of her hips interspersed with the quick, neat steps of her feet that made the small silver bells add music of their own to the melody of the flute. Special hand gestures and arm movements flowed together as if telling a story, and she lowered her lashes. Her arms and body all flowed together in the firelight giving the illusion of two lovers. The men were silent, seemingly enthralled by her performance. When it was over, Selim stood up, bowed and left. He was followed by four of the richly clothed men, leaving her alone with a gentleman dressed in bright colored fabric that looked light and silky. He wore a dark cloth wound around his head; he regarded her with dark eyes. A thick moustache covered his upper lip but the rest of his face was shaved clean. He stood up and went to her, holding out his hand for hers. Gypsy placed her hand in his, and it was swallowed up by the largeness of his as his fingers closed over her palm. He dragged her closer to him and bent to brush her lips with a kiss. She did not know what happened between a man and a woman — but didn’t find the gesture unpleasant.

“Walk a little ways with me,” he said in perfect Romanian.

Gypsy nodded and fell into step beside him. He asked her questions about her life. She answered cheerfully. He was so tall next to her, that she felt her diminutive size and missed the protection of her male cousins. Other than his size, he didn’t appear to threaten her as he questioned her further on her travels and her family. Before she knew it, they had walked a good distance from the encampment, and the moon had begun to cross the great sky. She mentioned that it was late and they should get back to the others, but he ignored her.

She tried to pull her hand from his but he held it firm. Something more than nerves began to gnaw at her belly. He pulled her body against his and held her tightly, exploring her small, shapely form with his other hand. When she tried to get him to stop, he hit her hard across the face. Gypsy didn’t know what stunned her more, the blow, or the blood she tasted on her tongue. Tears began to cloud in her eyes. Never had she ever been treated so poorly. She began to struggle against him in earnest, but was rewarded with more blows. One landed solidly across her eye and she couldn’t open it after that. He pushed her roughly so that she fell to the hard ground knocking the air from her lungs, then, she felt him on top of her. Fear rose in her throat choking her as she tried to fight him off. More vicious blows from his hard fists pummeled her face and body as he forced her legs apart and she screamed out her agony to the darkness when his body ripped into hers as he raped her. He laughed at her puny attempts to free herself and grunted with pleasure as he emptied himself into her. He called her horrible names in her language and in Hungarian, then, removed himself from her. She tried to rise, crawling miserably in the dirt but fell to the ground again as he began to kick her mercilessly in her stomach, ribs and back. He laughed at her attempts to ward off the blows and only responded with crueler kicks until she could no longer move. The last thing she remembered before the blessed blackness claimed her was his spit on her battered face.

Chapter I

Gypsy stood on the balcony of her Manhattan penthouse apartment watching the sky begin to lighten. Her mind lapsed back to that horrible night over six hundred years ago. She had awakened curled in the dirt with a man standing over her. He had kneeled next to her, his unnaturally bright green eyes looking at her, full of compassion. His long blonde hair had hung loose over his broad shoulders. He had given her the warmest smile she had ever seen and introduced himself as Vladimir Bora. She realized that she was no longer in pain but had a hunger that burned in her body that she didn’t understand. When she asked who he was, he had told her that he was a vampire. Gypsy remembered the fear that filled her at those words, yet she sensed that he had no wish to harm her. Then, he told her that he had turned her to the immortal life, her beauty too great to waste in death. She had stood up, feeling a power that she never had before; all her senses had been heightened. The burning in her quickly overrode the positive. He had explained what she needed. Immediately she wanted revenge on the man who had hurt her so badly, leaving her to die. She wanted to go and talk to her family and invoke justice. Vladimir told her that she could never go back, but he was willing to help her get the revenge she wanted. He showed her that she could fly — and it was marvelous. The air rushing past her was cool and invigorating. The landscape fell away beneath her as she headed higher up. She could not help but laugh at the sheer pleasure of that first, incredible experience. Vladimir had led her into Constantinople where the man lived in a luxurious apartment in the Sultan’s palace. There had been no door so they landed easily and quietly just inside his bedroom where she found him asleep on his soft, warm bed.

Her mentor encouraged her to ease her hunger, to go to him and she would know what to do. She approached the bed and shook his shoulder, waking him. He had turned to her with those dark eyes that widened as he recognized her. There were no bruises, no cuts, no broken bones; only the perfection that her transformation had caused. Gypsy had watched him begin to tremble, then, she was on top of him sinking her newly sharp canines into the artery in his throat. As his life force flowed into her, the burning subsided, and she felt a rush of power and a sensation of eroticism that she had never imagined. He had struggled against her but her strength was much greater than his, and he finally went limp as she drained him. Gypsy heard his heart stop. The breath left his lungs and his dark eyes glazed over but she would never forget the horror on his face. Vladimir had urged her to go with him, and had spent nearly four years with her, teaching her all she needed to know to survive, gain wealth, and succeed in her new life. They had parted as friends. She thanked him for his gift, even though she wished with all her heart that he hadn’t come across her that fateful night.

The revenge Gypsy had exacted hadn’t been so sweet after all. She would never walk in the sun again or see her beloved family, and the hunger was always there. Now, six hundred years later she was even more miserable than ever. Rules had been put in place for all vampires that no mortals were to be harmed on pain of death; however, they could still feed from them planting false memories so that the mortals never knew they had been a victim of vampirism. She was actually glad that she didn’t need to kill again but she wanted to be part of their lives and hated the aloneness she suffered every night.

She turned her bright amber colored eyes toward the horizon, as it turned from steel gray to light blue. She felt the heat begin to grow in her veins, hot and uncomfortable. Her eyes began to sting and her body began to cramp. Gypsy couldn’t do it and turned back, retreating to the darkness of her apartment. So many times, she wanted to greet the dawn and end her existence, but the pain was too great and slow. She didn’t have the courage to complete the ritual that would end her misery forever. Instead, she closed the balcony doors and went to bed in the dark, cool room she had specially commissioned to keep out the sunlight. The heaviness of the death like sleep claimed her. Gypsy closed her eyes and succumbed. She dreamed of the life she had dearly loved, dancing and singing around the fire for the villagers as they cheered her on and tossed their coin at her feet. Ever since that night, she had sworn to herself that she would never sing or dance again. She had been silent ever since, only revisiting the life she had adored in her dreams.