The Diva (Three Goddesses #1)

Prologue

As they approached the encampment along the wood line furthest from his manor, Logan kept his eyes pinned to the gathering, only half listening to the man hurrying along beside him.

“According to the report from Magister Jones, the old woman is the one we should talk to,” Harry said, pointing to a large group in the middle of the camp by the fire.

Seated in prominence at the center of a wide circle, the old woman in question spoke with a loud, compelling voice.

The ring of dark little heads followed the motion of her arms as she signaled the end of her tale with a flourish of her hands—hands peppered with age spots and wrinkles.

They were unlike hands one would see on a woman of the Ton, where hands were always gloved, smeared in all manner of rose-scented creams and oils, and would never lift anything heavier or coarser than a fine bone china teacup.

“She had better be the one.” Logan drew his lips into a thin line when the old woman caught sight of them.

Spearing him with her sharp gaze, she rose with slow, purposeful movements and advanced toward them, the wall of children splitting to allow her passage.

Like Moses and the Red Sea, he thought, not once taking his gaze from the figure moving through the gaggle of shoddily clad children.

After a long minute, the short, gray-haired woman stood before him.

In silence, he watched, wary, as she straightened shoulders stooped and narrowed with age, and lifted her chin to meet him, eye to eye.

She was taking stock of his stature, his features, and even the air surrounding him, as though it were speaking…

and she was listening. Looking. Seeking.

Then, she tipped her head as if she were listening to someone whispering into her ear, her eyes narrowing, and a strange heaviness pressed down upon his chest.

He fought the urge to adjust his cloak, to pull it closed around him against the growing chill in the air.

Still, he waited for the woman to speak, Harry shuffling his feet nervously next to him. The man wasn’t usually the nervous sort, but it wasn’t every day they faced down tiny Romany women…with dark eyes and unsettling manner.

Long moments of silence passed. Each ticking second grated against his patience.

“You look for Esmae.” When she finally spoke, Logan lifted an eyebrow.

That wasn’t a question; the woman wasn’t surprised by his presence in her encampment.

Not for the first time, he wondered about just how much the secretive group of people knew about things going on in the corners and shadows—places most didn’t bother to look.

Tipping his head in curt greeting, Logan explained, “We would like to inquire about the sheep that have gone missing from the pastures east of here. We hope you have some information we need.”

The old woman lifted her chin a notch and, with more speed than he’d ever expected, she grabbed his cravat, pulling his head down until their foreheads nearly touched, her spindly fingers like spider’s legs, her nails like claws.

Taken aback but not intimidated, he remained still, holding his breath. Despite how little and frail she appeared, she had a tight grip. Tilting her head, she leveled her gaze with his, daring him to look away.

He didn’t.

Dropping her hands, she rested them on her walking stick, standing tall, straight, and proud.

Straightening, Logan noticed that the group that had been there moments before had disbursed into their wagons, leaving the once crowded clearing in haunting emptiness.

Esmae dragged her gaze from his face, then peered into the darkness behind him once again. Her eyes followed the swirling breeze as if she could decipher the murmuring wind. “You have strong spirit…you come, seek Esmae not for sheep.” She grinned, revealing a mouth with few remaining teeth.

Blinking, he swallowed. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Say what needs to be said and be done.

“Someone is stealing my sheep,” he repeated.

“Now, I know it is unfair to blame your people, but the thefts did not start until your caravan set up camp near my pastures.” The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

He glanced up. From all corners of the camp, dark, curious eyes watched them from behind window curtains. He cleared his throat.

I should have visited during the day….

The chill in the air intensified, and he shuddered, the thick cloak over his shoulders doing nothing to stave off the growing apprehension in his bones.

“We mean no disrespect,” he continued. “If you have any information regarding who might be stealing the sheep, we will reward you.” Despite his desire to expedite matters, he knew angering the large group of proud nomads would be detrimental to his future peace.

Unlike other landowners who saw the Romany as pests, Logan had no problem with them…as long as they kept to themselves and didn’t cause trouble in the village. They usually only stayed through the fall, picking up work during the harvest, and then moving on to warmer climes during the winter.

Before him, the woman’s expression darkened at the mention of reward.

“You gadje and you money. You not buy everything,” she snapped.

“We no need you money. But I answer what you did not ask.” Looking from side to side conspiratorially, she motioned him forward with a vigorous wave of her gnarled hand, her other gripping his cravat once more.

Already regretting his decision to visit the Romany camp, he leaned forward, eager to know what the old woman had to say if only to get away faster.

“Time spins and change comes…you must choose.”

Taken aback, he lifted his head to peer down at the woman.

Is she crazy?

Finally letting go of his clothing, the old woman’s eyes glimmered with mirth. “No, Esmae not crazy.”

His heart skipped a beat.

Is she a mind reader? He shook his head and clamped his jaw.

Impossible.

She stepped closer, her withered, sunbaked face set in a grimace. “The spirits are awake. They choose you for challenge,” she whispered.

“What challenge? I haven’t challenged anyone.” He was a fool for continuing the ridiculous conversation, but he found himself grudgingly intrigued anyway.

The old woman sighed heavily and tilted her head once again. “Spirits hear heart.”

That isn’t an answer.

Stretching to her full height, just reaching his third button, she leaned in and lifted her hands to catch his face.

Shocked, he held his breath. Her glare raked over him, exposing him, laying his soul open for her examination.

Dissection. He cleared his throat, making to step back, but she held him in place.

“Yes, chosen and unprepared.” She dropped her calloused hands, hissing as if she’d been burned.

He liked a challenge as much as the next red-blooded male, but he wasn’t keen on being challenged by the spirits. He’d heard enough. The woman knew nothing.

He spun on his bootheels and strode from the clearing. Harry followed.

Mounting his horse, Logan spurred it into motion, leaving the old woman behind. Relief washed over him…if only for a moment.

Despite his resolve to put the Romany elder’s maniacal words out of his mind, they echoed between his ears, leaving trails of chills in his blood.

“Chosen and unprepared….” What did she mean?

The old Romany woman’s shrill cackle interrupted the echoes in his head. A tremor of trepidation raced uninvited up his spine.

As the glow from the campfire gave way to the night, the Sixth Duke of Caspire raced hell-bent across the moonlit pasture, unaware that something dark, sensual, ageless, and relentless in its hunger was in heated and gleeful pursuit.

The shadows cast by the darting flames danced across the ceiling above the bed, like harem dancers moving seductively, desperate to appease their wrathful master.

Though the fire in the hearth roared, a chilling breeze skittered along the floorboards and slid over Logan’s feet.

Despite the chill making its way up his legs, he couldn’t stop the compulsion to go somewhere, do something—but what?

The drink in his hand forgotten, he paced between the foot of his towering four-poster bed and the back of the chairs facing the fireplace.

The floor, covered in expensive handmade Moroccan rugs, was soft, plush, and utterly unwelcome beneath his feet.

He didn’t want soft. He wanted to pound on a surface that wouldn’t give under his blows. Clenching his jaw, he growled.

The force of his grip on the glass of brandy made his knuckles ache, but even that didn’t stop his pacing. The invasive chill made its way over his chest. A violent shiver hit him, and the glass slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor, and rolling to a stop against his toes.

“Damn.” He recovered the glass and replaced it on the table beside him.

Dizziness overwhelmed him. He stumbled to the back of the chair and closed his eyes to aide in the fight to keep the brandy from revisiting his throat.

His shadowed room, black shapes, blurry faces, bright cascading stars, and swirling blue lines flashed and spun within his vision.

Grimacing against the flittering images, he took a deep, calming breath before he straightened and turned in the direction of his bed.

One foot in front of the other, slow and methodical, unwilling to fall and let the haze overtake him.

After long, groaning minutes, the hard edge of the bed pressed against the front of his thighs.

Heaving a breath of relief, he let the surging darkness swallow him.

He was unconscious before he hit the bed.

Her eyes captivated him. Brilliant jade stones, burning bright beneath slashing blue-black brows.

Above her brows cascaded a crown of hair so luxurious his palms tingled in anticipation of threading through the lush, black locks.

He couldn’t see her face clearly; a churning, smoke-like mist danced between them, throwing most of her into silhouette.

Behind the smoky veil, she wore nothing but a seductive playful look in her eye.

Between swirls of mist, her hand emerged and her fingers crooked in a motion to ‘come closer.’

He didn’t understand, but he didn’t want to. It was a dream, but the mist sliding along his naked chest teased the wiry hairs, and coaxed tingling bumps from his heated skin.

Before he could take a step forward and touch her as he ached to do, the smoky veil closed around her like a gray silken sheet.

He groaned in protest and struggled to move closer, but the mist at his feet bound him like steel manacles.

His own dream held him prisoner, but he didn’t care.

As long as the sheet between them parted again and he could catch one more glimpse of those glorious jade eyes, he would gladly stay bound for eternity.

He stared into the haze, praying she would reappear.

“Please, come back! I have to know who you are,” he cried out, his voice thick with need and edged with sharp desperation.

Need didn’t come close to the depth of emotion, the absolute desolation of his soul as it cried out.

Finally, the veil parted at his words, and her silhouette…moved.

She danced, her arms strumming the air above her, playing the swirling haze like a harp.

The captivating motion of her arms didn’t compare to the luscious, sensual movements of her hips. Desire became flesh and twisted, thrust, and undulated its way into his blood.

From the distant echoes of this erotic world, a slow and stirring beat teased him. She moved her arms, head, and body—not in response to the beat, but as part of it. His breath quickened. She molded the mist around her into a haven of deep and aching desires…alive and real.

The tempo quickened and she followed it, enticing him even as his chest ached from the pounding of his heart.

He didn’t want this dream to end. He had to—needed to—know her, this woman behind the veil, this woman who’d drawn him from real life and made him ache for a living dream.

As suddenly as it began, the beat faded and the silhouette withdrew into the swirling gray.

“No, come back!” he bellowed, anger twisting with despair as he struggled to escape where once he’d been happily shackled. But he couldn’t move, no matter how he tried or how his muscles strained.

As if to toss him a thin safety line in a sea of anguish, the woman in the smoke and mist turned, casting him a sultry look, and then disappeared. Those jade eyes were gone, snatched from his sight, like precious gems stolen by merciless traitors.

He awoke with a gasp and then let out a strangled shout, his chest heaving as though he’d just surfaced from a near drowning.

He pushed up from the bed and turned to squint at the golden morning sun as it spilled across the horizon.

The fire smoldered in the hearth, the brandy glass still sat on the table; nothing had changed—except him.

He would never be the same again; from that night on, whenever he closed his eyes, the memory of a green-eyed seductress would tempt his soul.