Prologue

Bottle Conjuror Book One: Stefan

Wise to the ways of the night, Cassandra slipped unafraid through the forest, basket in hand. Moonlight filtered through the dark trees, the mist glowing like ghosts as it floated above the forest floor.

Bent over, her worn shawl wrapped around her to ward off the night chill, Cassandra crept slowly between the trees.

“Where are you?” she whispered. She stopped and with a slow wave of her hand parted the mist as though it was solid. “Ah, there you are. So lovely.”

She knelt to pick the white mushrooms and place them in her basket. Then, murmuring words known only to herself, she carefully dragged a finger in a circle around the spot where the mushrooms had been. In only a few minutes little caps of white began to poke through the mossy ground, reaching up until a cluster of new mushrooms stood gleaming in the moonlight. Her brother Belasco's favorites. She picked them and put them in the basket. She'd cook them for him when she returned to camp.

Looking up to the night sky, she said, “Thank you.”

She eased herself up, realizing with a pang that she was beginning to age and was not as spry as she had once been. She picked up the basket and continued her search.

An owl hooted, startling her, not in fear, but with the ominous portent of impending death; she recognized that warning and blessed herself with the sign of the cross.

She started back for camp but then froze, her head cocked to one side, listening. What was that? From somewhere far off, she heard a wolf howl but that wasn't what had stopped her. No, something else.

There! A plaintive cry, definitely human. The Shaitaan! And again. No, a woman's cry of pain.

She dropped the basket, the precious mushrooms spilling onto the ground, and ran toward the sound. She heard the woman call out in agony just as she reached her. On the banks of a creek a young woman lay on her side, her water bucket overturned in the grass. Her eyes were wide with fright, her breathing labored.

“Anna!” Cassandra dropped to the ground beside her and rolled the woman onto her back.

“Get . . . Belasco,” the woman said, fighting for breath.

“No time, Anna,” Cassandra said, as she pushed up the woman's skirts. Oh, merciful angels! So much blood!

“Please . . . my baby!”

“Be strong. I'm here for you,” Cassandra said, even as the baby's head began to crown. Her hands slick with blood, she guided the baby as Anna screamed. “Hold fast, Anna!”

Finally, the baby dropped into Cassandra's hands, squealing like a banshee. She grabbed the knife from her belt, cut the umbilical cord and tied it off. She placed the baby on the grass and turned her attention back to the mother. But the blood, the blood! How could she stop it?

Anna's eyelids fluttered, then closed. Cassandra shook the woman by her shoulders. “Don't you go away on me, Anna! Your baby needs you!” No response. She pressed her fingers against the woman’s throat, just below her ear and felt a feeble pulse. Once. Twice. Then, nothing. She sat back on her heels, staring mutely at the young woman's face turned marble-like in the cold moonlight. She wiped the tears from her face with her bloodied hand, feeling the blood leaving a sticky trail on her skin.

The squalling baby brought Cassandra back to her senses. She picked up the baby and as she wrapped it in her shawl, noticed for the first time the deformed leg. A tear fell from her eye, anointing the baby’s forehead. “Poor little boy! The Fates are already playing you false.”

Cassandra slowly pushed herself up, the baby a burden in her arms, and walked toward the camp.

Over forty Romani wagons nestled in a fortress-like circle in a forest clearing. Belasco, a tall, handsome Roma with hair dark as a raven’s wing, was sitting on a stump. He took a deep breath, the sweet night air reminding him that nothing in his world could stop him from enjoying his magic, performing his juggling, and being rewarded for his talents. How easy it was to have gorgers toss their coins in appreciation of his talents!

Belasco laughed loudly, catching his friend, Rafael, by surprise. Belasco looked at his stout friend and took a long, cool drink from a wine bottle with a crude label portraying a juggler entering a similar bottle. He placed the near-empty bottle on the ground.

Rafael picked it up for yet another swig, and slurred, “You know Belasco, the more I drink, the more the juggler on this bottle reminds me of you.”

Belasco smiled. He wiped the bottleneck with his billowy sleeve and took a drink, when the distant cry of a wolf split the quiet night, worrying Rafael. “It's just a love-crazed wolf. Not to worry, my old friend. Here,” said Belasco, handing him a coin. “Tell me, what is on the coin?”

Rafael held the coin up to the light from the campfire. “It's the face of the king, the bastard that he is.”

“And on the other side?”

Rafael turned the coin over. “Britannia sitting on a throne.”

“Now,” said Belasco, “give me back the coin.”

Hesitant, Rafael obeyed and handed it to Belasco, who flipped the tarnished coin high into the air.

“Catch it, Rafael!” He stumbled from his seat but caught the coin before it hit the ground. “Take a look, Rafael. What do you see?”

Rafael looked at the coin resting in his hand. “Why, it's the image of a coiled snake!” Curious, he turned the coin over. “And it's the same on both sides!”

Belasco sat back and smiled while his astonished friend grabbed the wine bottle and took another drink. Belasco was about to reach for the bottle, but something stopped him. He looked around the camp as the fire burned brightly, making it difficult to see into the surrounding woods. He heard twigs snapping in the darkness, as if a large animal was rapidly approaching.

Rafael jumped up. “Did you hear that?”

Belasco felt a cold breeze, turned, and stared into the dark forest. “Hush, my friend, something is in the wind this way.”

A silhouette of a woman emerged from the dark and was illuminated by the campfire. For a moment, the woman neither moved nor spoke as she struggled to catch her breath.

“Cassandra? Is that you?” Belasco said.

She walked toward him, carrying something bundled and twitching in her tattered shawl. He saw the distraught expression on her face. Now, only a few feet away she held out the bundled baby.

“Cassandra! What . . .?” Looking at the baby, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Where's Anna? What’s happened?” She sadly shook her head, fighting back tears, and held the baby out to him. At that moment he understood. “No! That can't be! She can't . . .”

Cassandra again attempted to place the child in his arms. “It's a boy, Belasco. My dear brother, you're all he has now. Here, take him.” As she moved closer to him, holding out the child, her shawl fell away, revealing the baby's deformed leg.

Belasco backed away, horrified. He looked to Rafael, who didn’t understand what was happening. Belasco turned back to his sister and stared at the child's left leg, crooked and bent to the side. “No,” he said, almost whispering, “I can't.”

“He's your son!” she said.

“And born with the Devil's mark! No, I won't care for him. I won't!” The anguished father suddenly grabbed the wine bottle from Rafael, shoving him out of the way, and ran out of the camp, to be swallowed up in the darkness of the forest.

As tears slid down her cheek, Cassandra called after him, “Belasco! Come back!” Her cry became an echo. The wolves howled in reply.