The Last Etruscan Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2011 Lyn Brittan

  ISBN: 978-1-927368-15-2

  Cover Artist: LF Designs

  Editor: Dana Horbach

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To G and O—I miss you.

  THE LAST ETRUSCAN

  Lyn Brittan

  Copyright © 2011

  Chapter One

  Fanchon Marie shoved another charred brownie into her mouth.

  “Not charred.” She corrected herself. “Just overcooked. Less than burnt, slightly more than crispy. It’s okay. Totally okay.” Determination set in. She had to make sure one thing went right today.

  She opted to disregard the throat-choking fumes that escaped her normally bright kitchen and sidestepped shards from a vase broken by a hurled smoke detector. Instead, the tawny skinned brunette forced down another piece of brownie and bit her tongue in the process.

  “Aww, come on!”

  Curses that were much more colorful followed as she took a handful of rocks nee brownies and tossed them out the window. This knocked two unlucky and totally innocent birds out of the air, like feathery missiles headed for the ground.

  “Seriously?”

  Pulling deep from her well of power, the Vodou princess pressed her hands against the humid New Orleans air, willing the birds back into the skies. Apparently, one had already joined that big ol’ mystical flock in the sky, because all of her energy channeled into one bird.

  Not good. In fact, very bad. Beyond bad. Disgustingly bad.

  Small bird plus tons of energy equals a very unpretty, splattered mess.

  Fanchon Marie, Destroyer of Baked Goods and Avian Passersby, sank against the wall of her whitewashed balcony and cried over the old city streets. She cried long, and it was the ugly type of cry that reddened swollen faces and required tissues. Or a shirt hem. The laughter of couples beneath her feet only added to her wretched feelings.

  And then it started to rain.

  Right at that point, she really lost it. Fanchon Marie let her tears flow freely for the first time in years. She’d only baked the stupid brownies today because of him. Him being that no good gypsy vermin. Her fiancé. This was all his fault: the dead birds, the near kitchen fire, her tears.

  “Oh!” She slammed her head against the wall in frustration. He ruined everything and sat primed to take her future away.

  “Speak of the devil.” Fanchon Marie shook her head at the sound of her cell phone. “The Great Prince of Europe himself rings.” She knew it was him. She’d chosen the perfect ringtone to signify their new life together: Chopin’s “Funeral March Sonata.” She considered answering this time. Really. Then she looked at the bewitched ring on her finger. “Whatever! Well, sir,” she shouted into her empty (and only slightly less smoky) townhouse. “I am unable to take your call at the moment. Leave a message after the beep. Get out of my city. Then die.”

  Fanchon Marie curled up helplessly as hysterical laughter took over her body. Her day-- her life really--moved like a tragic Shakespearean comedy. In a world of iPhones and e-readers, she found herself weeks away from a Medieval-style arranged marriage without a single way to get out of it. She’d tried to reason with him. Unsuccessfully. Bribery him hadn’t worked either.

  And her family? No sympathy from that sector. Her parents and siblings pushed it, and Lord knows, his certainly did as well. Not too many options remained.

  Okay no, it hadn’t been a secret and yes, she’d seen it on the horizon for years, but always her heart held on to a bit of hope that her family would bust out some leniency sticks. None were forthcoming.

  With purpose, Fanchon Marie attempted to slow her breaths as another call made her phone to ring out. This time, a bridal march. One of her brides. Irony is a terrible thing. At twenty-seven, she was the best and most requested florist in New Orleans and Baton Rouge and consistently listed at the top in area bridal magazines. Women rushed to her storefront to steal her few open dates.

  To be honest, they couldn’t help it. That wasn’t Fanchon Marie’s fault either...totally. She was old New Orleans, descended from the strongest lines of Yat, Indian, and African magic makers. Her twin traditions of Vodou and native earth magic made most aspects of nature bend to her will. Creatures of the Light loved her.

  When she wasn’t lobbing baked projectiles at them.

  But her magic meant that any floral arrangement her brides dreamed of, from the bizarre to the most traditional, she could breathe into reality. Certain flowers went out of their way to please her and more than one bride swore up and down that she could hear them sing. The oft whispered rumor suggested that any woman who came into her shop left with a signed contract. Pretty true. A little hex infused spritz to seal the deal didn’t hurt either.

  “Beltremieux Flowers where your word is Power.” Fanchon Marie listened to the bride drone on for as long as she could before her thoughts drifted back to Him and the first two times they met.

  He’d walked into her life when they were barely five-years-old. He’d been an amazing creature with his dark hair and bright, oddly colored eyes: one blue and the other gray. He didn’t speak English, only Italian and Romanian but they’d found some way to play, as all kids do.

  He hadn’t stayed long enough for her on that occasion, but when the time came for his second visit, she couldn’t wait for him to leave.

  They’d been sixteen, and he’d spoken near perfect English. Back then, she’d thought everything about him screamed perfection. A sharp jaw, a glorious accent, and those eyes appeared even more brightly colored than they had in his youth. The only thing not perfect? His holier than thou, Euro-brat attitude. Born into the role of prince to both the Italian and Romanian Roma, he acted every bit the part He was here in her city. Again. He’d been here for two years, though they’d taken care to avoid each other. For good reason. He’d been otherwise engaged. The last couple of years of Prince Nicolae Luca Djordi Dobrogea’s life were spent claiming New Orleans for himself, increasing his family’s holdings as he’d been ordained to do since birth. Through some tragic twist of magical fate that involved her and she’d run out of time. The wedding was imminent.

  Fanchon Marie twirled the large art deco engagement ring around her finger. A two and a half carat diamond sat surrounded by twelve smaller ones and four French-cut emeralds. What an absolutely beautiful mark of future imprisonment. Several times she’d tried to remove it, but for as much power as she had in her little body, nothing could get the damned thing off of her. Fanchon Marie held up the damned ring finger in the New Orleans sun. She still couldn’t figure out how he did it. Gypsy ensorcellement had a history of being tough – it caused physical, often mind numbing pain to break it, but she could get it done. Usually.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” The urgent voice on the other end of the phone brought Fanchon Marie back to the present.

  “Yes, of course. Stop by the shop so we can review all of these details in person. Once you see what I’ve worked up for you, you’ll fall in love with it.” For the fifteenth time, she added to herself. The doorbell rang, and it removed a bit of the guilt she had about forcing the woman off the phone. “I’m actually in the middle of something, but again, I’d love to speak to you about this fac
e to face. Tomorrow at five then? Very good.”

  She ran, tripped on the antique rug that covered the stairs then rolled to a stop on the second to last step. “Hold on a minute!” Correcting herself, only to slide against across the last bit of fabric on the floor, she reached for the door handle and received a jolt of static electricity for her efforts.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

  Fanchon Marie leaned her head against the door for a quick breather. “Please, please, please don’t let anything bad wait for me on the other side of that door. Please.” She just needed to get through this day without any additional drama.

  With one final deep breath, Fanchon Marie opened the door in a slow movement and gently lifted up her eyes to see...not Him, not a crazy bride, but...her neighbor, Sarah. “Oh, hi.”

  “Umm, hello there, Fanchon, sorry to disappoint.”

  “Fanchon Marie. And no disappointment, I’d prefer to see you over someone else right now. What’s up? Anything I can help you with?”

  “Well, I wanted to return your salt,” Sarah explained.

  “Huh?”

  “You see, last night you were so tired that you must have left the door unlocked. I tiptoed right along in to borrow some salt while you were sleeping there on the couch. I hope you don’t mind?”

  Oh my God! Salt? The one thing that any good Vodou princess knows not to lend out is salt. To borrow salt, to have it taken even, didn’t do much but invite bad luck. That’s when it became absolutely official. Everything that could go wrong, did. Every freaking thing. How much more bad luck could she get in one day?

  “Anyway,” Sarah said, as she pushed her way into the house. “I’ve been taking a class in tarot cards. Care to try it out?”

  “Uh, no thanks. It’s not really my thing.” As in, women of the Vodou don’t mess with any magic not of their own, type of thing. Nope. Not to be done. Fanchon Marie could do some interpretation, but you needed to be a real master of it. The cards either called to people, or they didn’t. And if they didn’t, you’d best leave them the hell alone. Couldn’t tell her that. No, Sarah was one of those people who dabbled in magic, readings, and various forms of mysticism, while she dived head first into the deep end of a pool she had no prior knowledge of. If popular culture went against it, the woman ran towards it, to hell with the consequences. Which, tragically, brought her here.

  “Ahh, come on!” The fool marched over to Fanchon Marie’s table and plopped down a series of cards. It was a Gilded deck, easy to find and easy to read, but no less powerful. A quick look at them and Fanchon Marie fought to keep control of her face. There were more than the normal 78 cards here. Somehow Sarah’d managed to sort in various cards from an Oracle deck. “Sarah, did you know—”

  When the first card fell, she slammed her mouth shut. Something in the bottom of her stomach lurched, and she knew she wouldn’t like whatever came next.

  “Let’s see,” Sarah said. “First we have the...oh...that doesn’t look good.” Not something you want to hear anyone say about your future. “The Fifteenth Trump. Bondage? Anxiety? Futility? Perfect.

  “Never mind that card.” Her puerile voice continued, “Probably a fluke. Now the next is the...uh...these things never work.” The chick stood up so fast that she nearly hit Fanchon in the nose with her elbow. “Maybe I’ll sign up for that belly dancing class instead. Anyway, gotta go. Thanks for the salt!”

  The whirlwind of a woman picked up her cards, trying to recover the last one with the hem of her skirt. Fanchon Marie let her leave without calling her out. She didn’t have to. Only one card in the deck had the ability to chill a person to the core like that: La Fouldre, the Tower of Lightning and Death. According to that card, Fanchon Marie faced certain destruction. She looked to the clock on the wall -- it wasn’t even noon yet.

  “Oh, one more thing,” her neighbor called up to her from her door. “If you need a ride to work, you let me know. Don’t be shy. I couldn’t help but see what happened to your car last night.”

  Huh? Awww no. “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you know? It got towed!”

  Chapter Two

  Prince Luca checked his watch and sighed. He’d been up since the sun made an appearance though little had been accomplished. Luca shrugged out of his black Armani jacket and tossed it over the seat in his study before grabbing a stack of papers. Mercifully, someone had the brains to shove a brandy into his empty hand. Luca stomped towards the ceiling high windows in the room, following another vain attempt to call her.

  Yes, Her. Her being the Queen Bitch from the Plant Bitchron.

  “No luck?”

  He didn’t bother to turn around. “Of course not, Gregorio. You know how she is. Little witch.”

  “Look, Cuz, you have to make her understand that this is—”

  A half-turn and arched eyebrow shut him up. “Make her understand something that has been in place since the moments of our birth? Make her understand something that she had surely been prepared for her whole life? That we were born for? That both our grandmothers saw in visions separated by thousands of miles? Is that what you deign to suggest to me, Gregorio? Because if you are, thank you. The thought had not yet occurred to me.”

  “Well, I was, but I guess I’m not now, Grumpy.”

  “Quiet. Do you not have enough to do?” He knew he did. In addition to Gregorio’s duties as his lieutenant in the clan, he also was the head of staff for his actual business. To have claim to the title of Ram Baro had its benefits, namely tribute from his people and the inherited wealth of several small kingdoms, but he still had to work. In exchange for all of that power and money, he had to protect his people and the city they lived in. It was the Roma way. For his family, they specialized in rare coins and antique jewelry. Through Luca, some of the most collectible and expensive items on the East Coast were funneled into the country.

  “You want me to send her more chocolate? Diamonds? Diamonds dipped in chocolate?”

  “I told you to shut your mouth, Gregorio.”

  “Some silks? You need to up your game, as they say here.”

  “Be quiet, cousin.” Luca’s voice dripped with venom. Gregorio got away with a lot, but Luca’s patience with his second-in-command ran shorter and shorter these days.

  “Soooo....”

  “Gregorio!”

  “Right, if I may speak about other matters....” Luca felt something press into his side. “Here’s the data on the latest from the Morlena Clan. They’ve ramped up the aggression. The magic in the city grows darker, but we can’t pinpoint the cause.”

  Luca sighed as Gregorio scrolled though an endless series of slides on the iPad. With each tap, another image of Morlena-caused trouble popped up on the screen. He had an idea of what they were doing, and it was so disgusting that he’d only shared it with his younger cousin. Luca mentally eased out of the conversation. He’d had heard similar reports since claiming command over the New Orleans Roma population.

  “Sir?”

  “Formalities now, Gregorio?”

  His cousin wrung his hands before he stuffed them into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Figured I needed to try something extreme to get your attention. Look, I’ll send out Stephan to report any updated movements. These people, they won’t let up. They want our land.” Luca watched his cousin’s face take on a more piteous look. “As for the other issue, well, good luck with that.”

  He’d need all the luck he could get. Luca said nothing as the door closed behind the man and turned back towards the window. His mind traveled at supersonic speeds. This new city of his stood on the cusp of civil war. While most of the Roma clans in the Southeastern area subjected themselves to his authority, one renegade group outside of Baton Rouge had it in their heads that they should rule the region: the Morlena. Well, tough. Luca’s blood ran blue with the blood of Romanian and Etruscan kings of magic. Theirs fell well-short. They’d had more than enough time to help the cause of the Roma here. Instead, they
hadn’t even been able to help themselves.

  This was his domain, and New Orleans was its home base. He would fight like hell to keep it. Besides, his older brothers would never let him hear the end of it if they had to be called in to save the day. Luca shuddered at the thought. No. He would handle the situation his own damned self.

  First, he would have to cement his claim of magic on the area. To do that, he needed to seal the deal with his magical New Orleans bride. He intended to start today. The Rom Baro had waited on her long enough.

  The floor of the old monastery, turned home, creaked beneath his purpose driven feet, and his voice bounced off the walls. “Gregorio, have a dinner tonight prepared for two. I have a woman to collect.”

  Chapter Three

  “Open the door!”

  Nothing.

  “Fanchon Marie Cosette Beltremieux, open this door right now!”

  More silence.

  “Fine!” Luca pressed his hands against the metal locking mechanism over the latch. Within seconds, the steel twisted, cried then finally melted in a puddle at his feet. Right onto his custom Berluti shoes. Damn.

  “Fanchon Marie, I am coming into this house. We will sit down and engage in a little conversation. Like adults.”

  A stained shoe nudged the door open. It gave no resistance after his little attack. There, in front of him, stood his blushing bride-to-be, ready to pounce with arms stretched out wide in an offensive position. She wouldn’t. “What in the hell do you think you are doing?”

  “Take one more step and I’ll make you regret it.”

  She would.

  “Listen, Fanchon, I understand my tactics have been a little high-handed, but—”

  “High-handed? You just broke into my house!”