Erasing Faith(52)

My nerves were all but forgotten as soon as we headed into the countryside.

It was gorgeous. Green and lush. Peppered with quaint, centuries-old towns and more pastures than I could ever count. I’d never seen anything like it in my life.

We whipped along for more than two hours, but I was so enthralled by the view, it seemed a much shorter time. When we reached our distant destination of Gyula, a village at the furthest reaches of Hungary, practically straddling the Romanian border, it was late in the day and I was starving.

Wes slowed to a crawl when we reached the town outskirts. The roads were more congested with cars the closer we got to the central square. I could hear music flowing down the streets as we approached and felt my eyes widen in wonder when I saw dozens of people dressed in traditional folk costumes walking the cobbled streets. The stunning red and white fabrics, intricate embroidery, and colorful headdresses looked like they’d leapt off the pages of one of my history textbooks.

Screw Professor Varga and his boring lectures. This was the history I wanted to experience.

“What is this?” I breathed in Wes’ ear, my chin propped on his shoulder as the bike crawled down the road.

He turned his head slightly so I could make out his words. “It’s the summer festival. There’s dancing, food, crafts, music…” He trailed off. “I have to meet someone for a few minutes — work stuff. But I thought you could explore on your own while I’m tied up. I’ll find you as soon as I’m free.”

I was at a loss for words. A grin split my face as I watched two girls in matching dresses skip hand-in-hand down the road, heading for the small castle at the heart of the town, which seemed to be the epicenter of activity.

“I just thought…” Wes’ voice was casual, but there were undercurrents of unease in his tone. “If you don’t like it, we can leave. I’ll come back another day.”

“Wes.” I squeezed his torso so tight, I’m pretty sure I cut off his oxygen for a few seconds. “I love this. History geek, remember?”

“I remember.”

I felt my heart turn over. Of course he’d remembered.

“Now, will you park this damn bike already so we can go explore?” I demanded in a gruff voice, trying to avoid thinking about how perfect he was for me.

It was no use.

Wes Adams was quite possibly the best thing that had ever happened to me — and, though he might not be aware of it, I certainly was.





Chapter Twenty-Six: FAITH


GYPSY CURSE



“How much?” I asked in horribly mispronounced Hungarian, praying the young girl in the stall would take pity on me.

She smiled warmly and rattled off the number of forint I’d owe if I wanted to purchase the gorgeous bracelet I’d been staring at since I spotted it on my first pass by her table over an hour ago. As I’d wandered the festival, I’d seen all different handicrafts, from beautiful embroidery to carved horns to finely-worked leather, but nothing had captured my attention quite like the horsehair bangles, earrings, and necklaces displayed on her bright red tablecloth.

I touched the bracelet lightly, tracing the intricate, woven threads with the pad of one finger. I’d left straight from work — my wallet contained barely enough money to purchase a coffee, let alone a handmade piece of art.

“K?sz?n?m,” I murmured with a regretful smile, turning from the stall and heading back toward the square. Folk dancers were moving to traditional steps as a band of string instruments, pipes, and drums played upbeat tunes. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I watched people of all ages dancing and singing together. Song after song, dance after dance, the merrymakers showed no signs of stopping as the afternoon waned on. Hands clapping to the beat, a huge smile fixed permanently on my face, I watched for so long I lost track of time.

I’m not sure what made me glance up, but when I did, my gaze landed on a set of unwavering, dark eyes that were staring at me from across the square.

Wes.

He winked when he caught my eye and took a few steps along the perimeter of the crowd, cutting a path toward me. His movement soon drew the attention of some of the dancers, and I laughed as I watched two bold, gawky girls of twelve or thirteen grab his hands and haul him into the center of the celebration. Their leather-booted feet tapped madly against the stones as they twirled, granting Wes no mercy as they spun him in circles, maneuvering him around the makeshift dance floor like he was their personal, life-sized Ken doll. The crowd laughed and cheered as they watched his stumbling steps. I was swaying in place and laughing at him, too — until he passed close by my side of the audience, reached out an arm, and tagged me around the waist.

“If I’m doing this, you’re damn well doing it too, Red,” he growled in my ear, hauling me into the center of the square.

We whirled around wildly, locked in each other’s arms, until the crowd went blurry and the sound of their laughter faded away. All I could see was his face. Faster and faster we spun, a hysterically uncoordinated pair, making up all our own steps. Heedless of the many people watching.

We only had eyes for each other.

***

I glanced warily at Wes, entirely unsure that this was a good idea.

He grinned back at me across the small round table.

“Ala okaya, ohala okaya.” The old woman’s eyes were closed as she chanted some sort of pagan incantation under her breath. A visual sweep of the small tent, constructed of red and purple swathes of fabric, revealed all manner of strange things — candles of every shape and size, countless vials filled with liquid, small bottles containing God only knew what. Eye of newt and toe of frog, most likely.