Welcome to Gaia! ::

So I know that not a lot of people read Ms. Feehan's Carpathian Series, but that doesn't matter too much for this story. All the back story you need is that Carpathians survive on blood, Vampires are male Carpathians who kill in the act of feeding and are wholly evil, Josef is currently living with his Uncle and his family at the Scarletti Palazzo in Italy.

I hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think!
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Italy was beautiful at night. Not nearly as romantic as Paris or as macabre as London, but it definitely had charm, Josef mused. He artfully painted a menacing shadow with black eyes behind a swooning blond woman in the park.

Vampire. That was his inspiration. It was the darker side of his heritage, and the mystery of it had enchanted him until many of the older Carpathians thought him delusional. Still, while they demonized the darkness, Josef wanted to embrace it.

“She's too pale,” a voice said behind him.

Josef whirled, started and unnerved that someone had crept up on him without his awareness. Uncle Byron would box his ears for this. It was a girl, maybe 17 years old, with straight dark hair cropped roughly at chin length and held out of her face with a wealth of sparky butterfly clips. Her clothes were colorful, striped shirt, patched jeans, fingerless gloves, and a purple lace garter belt on her left thigh. She also wore a wealth of bangles on her wrists, a torrent of silver chains hung from her neck, and large hoop earrings. Her skin was soft olive, her features belying Greek heritage. Her eyes were soft teal, not green or blue or even a mixture of the two, but a unique color reminiscent of the Aurora Borealis.

“She's just been seduced and fed upon by a vampire,” Josef replied indignantly. “She's supposed to be pale.”

“Then make her skin gray-ish instead of cherry-blossom pink,” she suggested. “And her lips are still too rosy. They should be almost black and her eyes need to be more sunken.”

“Then she'd look like a corpse,” he protested.

“Well, what do people who have been seduced and fed upon look like if not a corps?” she asked reasonably.

“You wouldn't know anything about vampires and their prey,” Josef sniffed haughtily. “And you obviously know nothing about art.”

“I know plenty about vampires and art,” she said with a shrug, uncaring if he acknowledged her or not. She tilted her head and peered at the picture closer. “You know, she could almost be Snow White. But then that shadow would have to be Prince Charming, wouldn't it? It would be a kick if Snow's mother had sent her away for her own protection, and not out of jealousy.”

Josef looked at his own picture with new eyes. Lips as read as blood, hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow—his painting did seem to fit the classic requirements. And a turned prince charming was deliciously dark.

“Well, later,” the girl said as she turned away, her bangles jingling conspicuously.

“Wait—I didn't catch your name?” Josef cried.

“I didn't drop it,” the girl called back over her shoulder.

Irritated, he swept her mind to find out who she was only to come up against bone-jarring defenses. “Come back to me,” Josef commanded, filling his voice with as much compulsion as a young fledgling Carpathian could manage.

“You'll have to do better than that!” her voice came out of the darkness.

It was strange, even though his night vision was excellent, he couldn't see her in the darkness. She'd vanished, and he couldn't sense her anywhere. Unnerved, he turned back to his painting.

The more he looked at his picture, the more he wanted to make his nameless victim Snow White. Carefully, he started to paint snow in melting drifts around the girl, frost and icicles, and an apple-shaped patch of blood beside her hand. After an hour of careful re-painting, he was pleased with his image. His father would not like the vampire theme, but his mother would appreciate the twist on the classic tale. With luck, even Uncle Byron might not hate it.

Snow White Betrayed. It had a nice ring to it. With a flourish, Josef signed his name at the bottom of the painting before calling a small breeze to help him dry the paint as he packed up his things. He wished he knew the girl who'd suggested the change in theme. She was...intriguing.

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The next evening, Josef was painting in the exact same spot in the park. He hoped the mysterious girl would come back. His paintbrush seemed guided by his curious loneliness, because his composition turned into a girl barefoot on an empty beach, gazing at the dark ocean lit ominously by a golden hunter's moon. Oddly, he didn't feel the need to put a red-eyed monster in the painting. Instead, he wanted the loneliness to be the monster.

“Little mermaid?” the familiar voice asked.

“Maybe,” Josef said, trying to be cool and suave the way an artist should be when his work is admired.

“You forgot the webbing between her fingers,” the girl whispered.

“Thanks,” he whispered back.

They sat in silence for a moment while he mixed green and peach to get the right color for the picture's fingers. Inspired, he used a few tiny dabs of the new color to paint a trail of scales down the mermaid's profile cheek.

“Ooh, good idea,” the girl praised him. “If she's been crying, naturally her scales will show through.”

Josef smiled. “I'm Josef, by the way,” he said. “No doubt you've heard of me as a famous artist.”

“No, not yet,” the girl replied teasingly.

“Would you please tell me your name?” Josef asked.

“Call me Kisha,” she replied.

“That's a beautiful name,” he said with what he hoped was seductive admiration.

“Oh, it's not my name,” she assured him hastily.

“Then why did you tell me it was?” he demanded, confused.

“I told you to call me Kisha,” she clarified. “That's totally different than giving you my real name.”

“Why keep your name a secret? Do you think I'm going to stalk you?” Josef tried to joke.

“Names have power,” Kisha said somberly. “So you can call me Kisha and I shall call you...Bo.”

“Bow? Like on top of a present?” Josef laughed.

Kisha smiled. “As in living. For you are living right now. In the moment. And it suits you.”

“Well, now that we have pet names for each other,” Josef said with a small bow he'd seen Uncle Byron use to placate the women of the Palazzo, “Would you accompany me for a late night refreshment?”

Josef new he couldn't eat or drink human food, but he knew how to maintain an illusion that he did. It had more to do with slight of hand than it did would actual magic.

“Sure, if you're buying,” Kisha replied. “I know this great little sushi place—totally ignored by the tourists.”

“Sushi?” Josef repeated as he packed up his art supplies to hide the sudden nausia that accompanied the thought of raw fish.

“Don't tell me you don't like sushi,” Kisha teased.

“No...I love it,” Josef tried to sound casual.

“Lier,” Kisha laughed. She spun on her heal and walked away. This time however, she didn't disappear into the night, but waited for him to follow under an old fashioned street lamp. Which he did, easel and canvas tucked under one arm, his box of paints and brushes tucked under the other. When he reached her, she reached for the box of paints. “Let me help you.”

“Thank you,” Josef replied, genuinely grateful.

“You are buying me dinner,” Kisha said. “It's the least I can do.”

So holding his paints hostage, Kisha led Josef down into the city to near the docs, and sure enough, there it was. Strange and out of place as it was, a little Japanese restaurant had it's doors wide open. Without hesitation, the girl walked in as if she always came for a midnight snack. Indeed, she was greeted with warmth from the aged Japanese hostess. The two of them were quickly seated, and without looking at the menu, Kisha ordered in fluent Japanese.

After the hostess left, Josef asked, “So what did you order?”

“Salamon, eel, and some veggie rolls. And some extra seaweed on the side for me,” Kisha said, then added with a giggle, “I crave seaweed like cats crave cream.”

Josef smiled back at her carefree ways. He was so easy around her, and somehow, her criticisms of his art didn't feel like criticisms. At least, not the way other Carpathians meant them. And not the misunderstanding way of many people at the Palazzo. She laughed as if she kept many secrets, but they were not burdensome. It was...peaceful.

“Amaya-san,” the hostess murmured as she delivered several platters of sushi rolls. She whispered into Kisha's ear briefly before moving away.

“Arigato,” Kisha called after her.

Josef was surprised to see that Kisha had ordered very little, and for one alarming moment wondered if he needed to order any of the raw fish himself, but the hostess was already gone.

“I hope you don't mind,” Kisha said as she quickly attacked the rolls with narrow sticks. “But I didn't order any for you. I know you don't eat this sort of thing.”

“Well, I might want to try a piece,” Josef ventured, turning slightly green at the thought.

“No you wouldn't,” Kisha laughed. “You lie too much for your own good.”

Josef twisted his mouth in a wry smile. “I suppose it doesn't matter much now, since you've already eaten everything.” She slurped the last piece of seaweed into her mouth with obvious pleasure. “So tell me,” Josef said, lacing his causal tone with compulsion, “How do you know the hostess?”

The smile left her face and her eyes sparkled like hard tourmaline. “Ask nicely and I might tell you.”

“I did ask nicely,” he protested.

“No you didn't. You tried to make me tell you. If you're going to order me around, I'll leave right now,” she threatened.

“I'm sorry,” Josef apologized. So she could tell when he used his power, meager as it was, and she didn't like it. Well, that was no surprise; he had heard that many women disliked being told what to do. “I'm not very good at...this sort of thing.”

“You mean flirting?” Kisha's smile was back. Josef blushed. “Fumiko knows my family. We always stop here when we're passing through Italy.”

“So why does she call you Amaya?” Josef pressed.

“It's my Japanese name,” Kisha said.

“Do you have other names?”

“Perhaps.”

“So...” Josef sought a new, safe, and understandable topic of conversation. “What kind of music do you like?”

“All kinds,” she replied. “There are so many beautiful ways to create song, it's impossible to have an absolute favorite. But I do enjoy playing the mandolin and the drums.”

“I rap,” Josef said proudly.

Kisha dissolved into laughter. “Seriously?” she gasped.

“Yes,” Josef insisted, a little put out.

“Oh my...” Kisha wiped at the tears of mirth sparkling on her lashes. “That is too much.”

“What's wrong with rap?” Josef demanded, the old arguments from his elders buzzing in the back of his head.

“Nothing. It's powerful and passionate,” Kisha assured him. “Don't take this in the wrong way, but rap is for the bitter, the wounded and downtrodden. The culture that created rap is full of violence, hate, sorrow, and shallow lust. You're too innocent for rap.”

“I am not!” Josef cried.

“You are,” Kisha insisted. “You think you have all this pent up angst to fuel you, but I'll bet Rubles to Euros that you've never set foot in a 'hood' in your life.”

Josef resisted the urge to pout. “So what? My soul is as dark as any rapper's.”

“There you go lying again,” Kisha teased. “Tell you what; in exchange for dinner, I'll give you a song. Music is a kind of sustenance, only for the spirit instead of the body.”

“What sort of song?” Josef asked hesitantly.

“Meet me in the park tomorrow night and find out,” Kisha dared.

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It was just after sunset, and Josef waited impatiently for Kisha to show up. He'd left all his art supplies at home, to excited to paint.

“Bo!” Kisha whispered over his shoulder. Josef whirled, angry with himself; she'd done it again, creeping up on him without a single tinkle of jewelry to give her away. She looked like she knew her silence annoyed him and it delighted her ridiculously. “Well, come on.”

She quickly lead the way deeper into the park. Josef followed closely as Kisha took little used paths that turned into ever thinning trails. The trees changed from well tended and tall pillars to massive trunks gnarled with age. Before long, Josef heard the rhythmic clash of tambourines and the soulful melody of a violin. Kisha lead the way up behind a circle of wagons, their angular shapes silhouetted by the bonfire behind them.

Josef hesitated.

“Come on!” Kisha whispered. She grabbed his arm and hauled him into the light of the inner circle of the gypsy ring.

Men and women dressed similarly to Kisha played music, danced, knitted, cooked, suckled babies, patted dogs, and above it all, they sang.

“Gram Yagmur!” Kisha called out to an elderly woman. “I brought a guest.”

The old woman was wrapped up in three silk shawls even though the night was warm. Her hands shook with palsy even as she deftly wove a reed basket. Her face lit up at the sight of Kisha, her eyes almost disappearing under the wrinkles of her smile. She reached out with one hand and Kisha took it with a quick, loving squeeze.

“Gram, this is my friend Bo,” she introduced Josef.

“Lively squirt, isn't he?” Gram Yagmur chuckled dryly as her cloudy eyes seemed to pin Josef to the spot. “Do you know what you brought into our camp?”

“Of course, Gram,” Kisha said kindly, without a trace of exasperation. “I owe him a song. He bought me sushi.”

“Your love of water weed will get you into trouble some day,” Gram Yagmur warned teasingly.

“It's my nature,” Kisha shrugged.

“Still, better to give him food for thought than to repay your dinner debt any more directly,” the old woman said approvingly. “What song did you have in mind?”

“Mountain Heart,” Kisha replied.

Gram nodded and raised a hand. Instantly, all noise in the camp stopped. All eyes turned to Josef, and he felt uncomfortably like...prey. Suddenly a large drum was thrust into his chest. He sat down on a log out of sheer surprise, the drum fitting snuggly between his knees.

“You keep the beat,” Kisha ordered. “And listen. Never forget to listen.”

From nowhere she pulled out a strange instrument, Josef amused it was a mandolin. Kisha looked around and with a slight rhythmic bob of her head, she began to play.

Her rhythmic notes twinkled up and down Josef's spine, and he found his hand almost uncontentious tapping the beat on the leather drum head. The sound was hollow and warm, deep, resonant. Like a heart beat. More instruments joined Kisha's song, some instruments, many improvised sounds. Tambourines rattled and crashed, pots clanged, more drums filled in the measures with syncopated rhythms that had Josef's feet tapping, almost dancing.

Then her song turned mournful, lonely, and a violin swept up the melody on its catgut strings, singing sweetly enough to make a toad cry. Heart rending harmonies and urgent, almost panicky beats told the story of exile, hard travel, death. But then, out of nowhere, a flute filled the night with hope. The violin and Kisha's mandolin joined the happy chorus as the entire camp celebrated in music. Finally with a flurry of notes and an explosion of percussion, the song ended.

Not until after the song ended did Josef realize he had tears in his eyes. Tears of joy, sorrow, relief maybe? He didn't know. He was sorry the song had ended, but he could still feel it pulsing within his heart. He wasn't sure if he could ever coax it out again, but the song was firmly entrenched in his soul.

“Good, you did listen,” Kisha said with satisfaction.

Josef quickly swiped at his eyes, blinking furiously. “That was amazing,” he said as he scrubbed at his face with tingling fingertips.

“That was a gypsy song,” she said softly. “Not many people get to hear one with the whole camp in attendance like that.”

“You called the song Mountain Heart?” Josef asked.

“It's about a people who were happy just to simply be. To live. Nothing but the simple joy life mattered. Then, because of their power, they were driven away, hated, scorned.” Kisha sighed, then continued. “The end of the song is a happily-ever-after for some and for others, still a dream they reach for.”

“Is that the gypsies?” Josef asked.

“It could also be the Carpathians,” Kisha said, her eyes suddenly so old and sad. Then she stood up and walked away from the campfire. “Anyway, we need to get you back to Italy.”

“Wait,” Josef called, clutching the drum as he stumbled after her. “What do you know of the Carpathians? And aren't we still in the park?”

“Of course we're not in the park, silly,” Kisha laughed. “They'd never allow a bonfire in a city park.”

Josef had to see her logic, but couldn't comprehend being anywhere but Italy—if not in the park then some older wildlife reserve near it. “Then where are we?” he demanded.

Kisha just smiled as she led the way through the dark forest until the trees diminished in size, wildflowers turned to carefully tended shrubs, and the cool glow of the park lanterns came into view.

Suddenly a dark shape descended in front of them, blocking their way. Kisha screamed and scrambled backwards. Josef sprang in front of the girl automatically protecting her even as he recognized his Uncle Byron. He could tell that Uncle Byron was angry with him, and he wanted to make sure none of that anger harmed Kisha in any way.

“Where have you been?” Byron demanded. “You just disappeared. Your mother was worried sick about you. She was certain a vampire had taken you. You know better than to--”

“Uncle Byron,” Josef interjected. “Please meet my friend--”

“Raviv,” Kisha said, extending her hand to shake, as if she was a perfectly normal human being.

“Raviv,” Josef affirmed. “Her family is visiting.”

Byron's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he took Kisha's hand and bowed over it elegantly. “Forgive me,” Byron said softly, the anger tucked away safely. Josef knew it would come out of his hide later. “I was concerned about my nephew, but I see he was in good company.”

“Thank you,” Kisha said as she pulled back her hand. She turned to Josef and quickly gave him a peck on the cheek. “See you later, Bo.” With that she turned and sprinted into the underbrush, disappearing completely into the darkness.

Josef and Byron stood in silence for a moment. Then the older artisan asked slyly, “Do you know what manor of creature you have spent the night with?”

“A beautiful one,” Josef replied, still staring into the darkness.

“May I see your drum?” Byron asked, holding a hand out. Josef looked down, surprised to see he still held the instrument. He reluctantly passed it over to his uncle. Byron appraised the drum respectfully before handing it back. “A gypsy hart-skin drum. Quite a rare and unique gift from your friend. Gypsies do not give gifts like this lightly. What did you give her for it?”

“Sushi, I think,” Josef said.

Byron shook his head. “They do not match. Gypsy gifts always match. Come with me. I think I have something for you to give Raviv in return for the drum.”

“Why would I want to give something to Raviv?” Josef asked, then blushed at how obtuse he must sound.

“For a start, it is polite,” Byron retorted. “Also, it is not good business to be in debt to a gypsy. Come.”

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Josef waited yet again for Kisha to appear. He waited hours. Huge rainclouds roiled above him and threatened to loose their torrents upon the earth. Finally, with the dawn nearing, he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.

He turned. “Kisha?”

“No luck,” Gram Yagmur chuckled.

Josef smiled at the old woman and offered his closed fist. “I have this for Kisha, in return for the drum.”

Gram Yagmur held out her arthritic hand. Josef dropped a beautifully crafted silver locket into it. Inside was a picture he'd painstakingly painted of Kisha's fire lit face from memory. Gram's gnarled fingers closed over the treasure.

“It is a good trade,” she said softly, then she turned and walked down the path. Josef watched her go with strange affection, but sad that it wasn't Kisha. The first raindrops splashed on his head and shoulders.

“Bo,” came the familiar voice from behind him. “I think Gram has a crush on you.”

Josef turned slowly and smiled at Kisha. “I'm glad you're here,” he said. “What do you want to do tonight?”

Kisha smiled lopsidedly. “Say goodbye.”

Was it Josef's imagination or did the clouds just break open and the rain start in earnest?

“But--” Josef protested. Then he took a deep breth. “Te avio--”

Kisha's soft hand slammed over his mouth. “Don't you dare,” she said softly. “Save it for the right woman. I'm just a here-today-gone-tomorrow gypsy. And it's time for me to move on. Besides, speaking the binding words to someone other than your lifemate doesn't do any good.”

Josef pealed her hand away from his mouth. “I've never been so happy,” he said softly. “Why can't you stay? You could stay at the Palazzo. I know Toni would let you. And she's a music lover too. You'd get along great!”

Kisha smiled even as the raindrops clung to her dark hair and long eyelashes. “I'm not the sort to settle down. At least not yet.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Josef said, feeling silly and stupid, hating how pathetic his voice sounded.

“Maybe. I'll look you up the next time I'm in Italy and craving seaweed. Deal?”

“It's a date,” Josef said firmly.

“Good bye, Bo,” she said as she blended into the shadows and mist, the downpour covering her retreat.

“Good bye, Kisha, Amaya-san, Raviv. Whoever you are,” Josef whispered as he watched her vanish.

Then, softly from nowhere and from everywhere, he heard her voice, My real name has always been Rain...Josef.