Romancing The Crown: Drew and Samira. Eileen Wilks
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over. It’s time I went home.’’
He shoved his chair back and stood, too, reaching across the table to grab her wrist—as if he had to anchor her to keep her from vanishing as suddenly as the snuffed candle flame. ‘‘A thousand years?’’
When she lifted her eyebrows that way, she reminded him of his grandmother, who was capable of depressing pretension at twenty paces with just such an expression. ‘‘Roughly that. Twenty-seven generations, to be precise, traced through the female line. I could recite my begats for you.’’
‘‘Twenty-seven generations’ worth?’’
‘‘I had to memorize them as a child. Look, Drew, this evening hasn’t gone as either of us intended. I think it’s best I saw myself home.’’
‘‘That isn’t happening.’’ He moved around the table, transferring his grip from her wrist to her hand. ‘‘Does your aunt believe all this, too?’’
‘‘Of course. She taught me a good deal of the lore.’’ Rose didn’t protest his hold on her hand as they left the bistro. She ignored it.
The mist had deepened, thick enough now to dampen his face when he stepped outside. Overhead, the sky was lost in the drizzling darkness; on the street, lights from shops, cafés, the piazza and lampposts were draped in gauzy drifts. It was still early, barely ten o’clock, and the weather didn’t seem to have discouraged anyone. The sidewalk held plenty of others with their own goals for the night.
Drew wondered at himself. Why did he keep seizing her hand? It would have been reassuring to put the urge down to desire, but it wasn’t a woman’s hand he usually wanted to hold. ‘‘Does your aunt have one of these Gifts?’’
‘‘Yes, though hers isn’t strong. She’s Earth-Gifted—a healer, among other things.’’
‘‘What other things?’’
‘‘Oh, children and puppies adore her, plants grow for her and she loves to cook. She can take a headache away, ease a fever or speed the healing of cuts, breaks, burns, scrapes or scratches. She also acts as my…but that wouldn’t be of interest to a confirmed skeptic like you.’’
The way she cut off whatever she’d been about to say left Drew a bread-crumb trail he intended to follow. When they reached the street corner, though, where an awning kept the mist out, he stopped. ‘‘The car’s about four blocks away. Why don’t you wait here while I get it?’’ She’d be safe. He’d glimpsed Roberts in the crowd, hanging back in an effort to be unobtrusive. He’d tell the man to stay with her.
‘‘But there’s no need for that!’’ Rose tipped her face up into the dampness, letting it dew her cheeks. ‘‘This feels good.’’
‘‘Your affinity for fire doesn’t make you dislike getting wet, then.’’
‘‘It doesn’t work that way. I enjoy the ocean.’’ She started walking again, so he kept pace with her.
The street beside them was busy with buses, bicycles, cars and taxicabs, but traffic in Montebello was leisurely compared to the frenzied battle of Italian streets. For the most part the people, too, ambled along with a lack of haste typical of this city, an easy flow of workers in wrinkled cotton, young men in neatly pressed shirts with their arms around women in bright dresses, teens of both sexes in jeans and Reeboks, old men in stiff shoes and black pants, and old women with shawls and full skirts. Here and there he saw a uniform—police or army. Most of the faces held the sun-kissed duskiness of the Mediterranean peoples, though a few were tourist-pale or African-dark. He didn’t see a single umbrella.
‘‘So you like the water?’’ he asked after a moment.
‘‘My family’s lore says that a Fire-Gifted who fears or dislikes water is out of balance. It’s rather like the Chinese system of feng shui, in which the elements have a constructive and a destructive or balancing cycle. Fire without water to cool it becomes purely destructive.’’
‘‘I’ve heard of feng shui,’’ he said neutrally. He wasn’t interested in it, any more than he was in fortune-telling or numerology. But people told him things. ‘‘The astrological signs are divided along similar lines, too, aren’t they? And, ah, what’s it called—the witchcraft religion. It refers to earth, air, fire and water, too, doesn’t it?’’
‘‘Wicca, you mean? There are similarities in most of the mystical or magical systems, probably for the same reason religions all over the world value the same qualities—like love, kindness, courage, loyalty, honesty. Some things are universal. As for astrology… Drew, you don’t believe that nonsense, do you?’’
He delivered his line with appropriate shock. ‘‘You mean you don’t?’’
‘‘I don’t mean to criticize anyone who does believe in it, but it seems silly. Though I suppose a half-awake seer might be able to use horoscopes to tap into her abilities,’’ she conceded. ‘‘It can’t be worse than using a crystal ball.’’
‘‘You don’t believe in astrology or use a crystal ball. My illusions are shattered.’’
‘‘You’re teasing me,’’ she said resignedly.
‘‘So why don’t you use a crystal ball?’’
‘‘Real crystal can be useful, but those glass globes people call crystal balls aren’t of much use, except as a neutral focus. Glass is a psychic insulator. Drew, do you really want to hear all this? I feel as if I’m delivering a lecture in Psychic Studies 101.’’
‘‘I want to hear it.’’
‘‘All right.’’ Her attention seemed fixed on the sidewalk in front of her, or else on an interior landscape. ‘‘Many materials hold psychic impressions. Some contain or insulate them, some disperse them, like water or salt—that’s why they’re used in cleansing rituals. Gemstones intensify whatever is impressed on them, which is probably why they’ve often been thought to have magical properties. Being Fire-Gifted, I’m especially sensitive to the emanations of materials that have been through fire, such as metal or pottery.’’
‘‘I see. Your abilities aren’t limited to visions.’’
Her sudden tension revealed itself in the way her fingers tightened, then relaxed in his, telling him he’d followed the trail correctly. ‘‘I do pick up impressions from objects sometimes. From animals and people, too. But not the way an empath or telepath would, so I don’t see how I could help.’’
‘‘What kind of impressions do you get from people?’’
‘‘I feel their ‘‘I feel their èsseri—call it their essence, or their auras. When I’m close to someone, it feels as if the air is denser, slightly resistant. And I get a sort of blunt sense of who this person is. Like a smell, I guess. Just as dogs recognize a person by scent, I recognize people by the way their auras feel.’’
‘‘But you don’t pick up actual thoughts? I can see why you didn’t think you could help. But,’’ he added thoughtfully, ‘‘I don’t understand why you were so reluctant to tell me about this.’’
‘‘Don’t you?’’ Her mouth twisted. ‘‘But then, right now you don’t believe any of this is real. Think about how you’d feel if you did believe it, or just started wondering if it was true. Would you want to be around someone you thought could read your mind?’’
‘‘I suppose not. But this business of feeling people’s auras isn’t like reading their minds.’’
‘‘No. I don’t pick up thoughts. Sometimes I can tell when someone is lying, if I’m close enough. Well—almost always,’’ she corrected herself reluctantly. ‘‘But a lie detector does the same thing, and that evidence would be admissible in court. My testimony wouldn’t.’’
‘‘And