Chapter 9

“Come, Morgan,” Varujan coos in the moonlight.

My heart drums, deep and heavy, pushing against my chest. “I’m not going in there.”

“I should think not.” He points to a thicket just short of the ominous forest. “There …”

Soft azure dots of light bob and shimmer like fireflies in the thicket.

“Whoa.” A shiver passes through me from the night air.

Side by side, Varujan and I approach the bizarre flora. Turquoise bulbs glow like tiny smoke-filled orbs, their stems long and thin, their flappy leaves thick with fuzzy hairs. A rich, potent scent of citrus and mint fills my nostrils—an herbal kiss of tangy-tart coolness.

Fate lands in the grass beside us, silent and silhouetted in the night.

Varujan leans in and caresses a glowing bulb. “The only life in Romania that fully blooms in darkness. Quite fragile. It must be plucked just above the root.”

Mesmerizing.

“Fresh luminescence,” he says. “Some last for many hours, even days. Healing, calming light.”

I cup the plush petals of a bulb. “I saw the dried ones in the church. Guess they’re useful with no electricity.”

This one in my hands is ten times brighter than the one Fate brought.

“They audition for the moon.” Varujan plucks a long-stemmed thistle and hands it to me. Turquoise light brightens his face. His eyes glow white around the irises, his pupils animating into large discs. “Sometimes nature gives back what it takes.”

A cool glow swells within the bulb between my fingers. “What do you mean?”

“Repurposing light.” Varujan plucks more thistles.

With one in each hand, he extends his arms and moves them about. As if music plays, he dances. Thistles leave trails of soft blue light in the darkness, whistling like tiny flutes.

My insides make an awkward twist. His carefreeness embarrasses me and I envy it at the same tim. “What are you doing?”

“A dance for the wicked,” Varujan says matter of fact. “Your first lesson on how to break free.”

His sudden arrogance stiffens my spine, but only for a second. Once I loop my thistle through the air, the insult vanishes, and we become equals. My thistle whistles and burns.

I am an artist. I am free …

After a few moments, I ask, “Do you mean us? Are we the wicked?”

I’ve never been much of a dancer, but I allow myself to spin and feel the breeze in my hair and beneath my bare arms.

Varujan bends forward with his thistles as if painting the ground. His arms move quickly, in and out, round and round. “No one is watching, Morgan. Limitations were meant to be exceeded, even yours. ”

I twirl my thistle like a baton, close my eyes, and let the night sing me a lullaby.

My eyes open when Varujan takes my hand. He twists me around, in and out, so I sway in the moonlight. We laugh and wave thistles, our bodies drawing close, but never enough to touch, other than my hand in his. In tandem, we share a rhythm that keeps time with the beat of my heart. To the soundless music of the moon. For how long, I can’t be sure.

Caw!

The rook pulls me from my haze. Stars sink deeper into the shroud of darkness overhead. In the forested hills, emeralds flicker.

“Are those thistles too?” I point into the trees, my voice lilted, giddy.

Fate caws again.

Mid-swerve, Varujan freezes, then wraps his fingers over my arm. “Shhh. Listen.”

My entire body jerks. A chorus of crickets and cicadas crescendoes amid the flutter and buzz of other winged, voice-less bugs. The emerald flickers double, triple, quadruple in the trees, inching closer, and shadowed in the night.

A long, lonely howl pierces the night.

Next, another, and another. Wild cries of menacing music.

My heart spasms. I twitch to run.

Varujan holds me in place, his grasp firm. “No sudden moves. Their instinct is to chase.”

Blood turns to ice inside my veins. My heartbeat is harsh against my ribs, threatening to eject into my throat.

The emerald flashes turn into sets of eyes, moving closer and closer, leaving the trees behind. Once outside the canopy, moonlight outlines large heads, shaggy-haired bodies, and long, sinewy limbs.

My temples throb, sharp and stabbing.

My flesh will be ripped to shreds by Romanian wolves.

Another howl.

“I have to go.” My voice shakes.

In silence, with careful movements, Varujan removes his fedora and places our thistles inside it. He pulls me down into a crouch beside the thicket. “Your fear controls you, Morgan. They are only wolves. We are smarter.”

“They can smell us,” I whisper, paralyzed.

“We do not smell like prey. We smell like danger. Here, help me.” Varujan plucks more thistles.

“Right now? Are you crazy?”

“We must wait for the wolves to leave,” he warns. “They will not chase us if they do not see us. Unless you prefer to taunt them?”

I shake my head. Silently, he plucks. So calm and collected.

I tug at a thistle, my pulse rippling. Every other second, I glance over my shoulder. A lump hardens inside my throat.

Varujan stands erect, stashes his thistles in his hat, and peers around the thicket as if it were only beetles stalking us from the edge of the woods.

“They left.” He brushes off his vest with his free hand.

Beside us, the rook caws. A swath of clouds pass over the bottom half of the moon.

Varujan whispers something in Romanian to Fate, then to me, he says, “Come.”

I eye him tentatively from my crouch. What if he’s wrong?

“You must trust me,” he says. “Wolves lose interest quickly, but they are masters at stealth. We must not lose the light of the moon.”

Holding my breath, I leap up beside him. We all but run across the meadow. I have little control over my lopsided steps. Nerves snap beneath my skin. “I can’t believe you brought me out here. Have you ever seen wolves there before?”

Varujan side-eyes me. “The wilderness is home to many dangerous creatures. It is why shadow thistles come so dear.”

“You assured me it was safe to come out here.” I glance behind me again. “Are they gone?”

“Have I not kept my promise?” Varujan motions toward Fate overhead. “Rooks make trusted alarms. You would know if you were being chased.”

“What is it with that bird anyway?” I can’t hide the annoyance from my voice. “It’s like a dog the way it follows you. You act like you don’t know why or don’t like it, but you do.”

“I have grown accustomed to Fate’s presence. I cannot lie, in some way, he is a monster of my own making.”

Finally, we reach the gravel road.

“There, you see?” Varujan slows his pace. “Wolves will not come this close to town. Mankind has seared its threat into every canine generation.”

My shoulders inch back from my neck. A little of my anxiety simmers, but adrenaline still careens through my blood. My thoughts explode into a million what-ifs and how-coulds. I know nothing about this bohemian, who I danced barefoot in the meadow with with only minutes ago like festival hippies.

An ironic chuckle escapes me, and soon, it becomes a deep belly laugh I can’t contain.

Varujan grins. “It is good to see your spirit.”

Maybe. Is this what freedom feels like? Is this empowerment?

Overhead, the rook lowers its wings on the wind against the distant moon.

“Marguerite and Carrick could not stop speaking of your art,” Varujan says.

“Really?” My face flushes with heat.

“They told the others, and everyone is eager to meet you—the displaced American who will design album art for us.”

“Dope. I’m ready to meet them, too, and hear you play.” I glance around. “How’d you get here from Veseud anyway?”

“A friend dropped me off. It is not always easy to find transportation. I am afraid I do not drive.” He pauses. “Come and spend the day with us. Cordial Maladies will play for you. We will show you the secrets of our muse.”

“After I hear you play we could talk design or branding.” I veer right toward the cabin. Maybe together, we could release their debut album into the world. How hard would it be to produce it on my own?

If they’re any good.

Varujan fixes his gaze on the gravel road that leads into the town of Varig. “The inn that I told you about in my village. You will know it by the tall green gate. It has a satellite. Meet me there tomorrow. Show me what you can do with Internet, and I will show you what we can do with music.”

With one hand on the picket gate, I pause. “I have to work with my dad tomorrow.”

Varujan flicks a brow. “All day?”

I shrug. “I may be able to get out early. Could I call or something?”

He starts down the driveway. “Just come. I will look for you after lunchtime. They serve food at the inn.”

I enter the gate and let out a full-body sigh of nerves and exhaustion. “I’ll do my best.”

“We are counting on you, Morgan.” Varujan’s back at the gate, extending a glowing thistle over it.

Creepy, but mysterious … and romantic.

I snatch the thistle from him and graze his fingers. He smiles. My insides flutter. All fear and anxiety from before fades away.

There is only desire.

I avert my eyes to the thistle. Turquoise light burns brighter than before. “Is this one …”

When I look up, Varujan is farther down the road, fedora on his head, hands in his pockets like a hipster hobo. Step by step, he gets further away. “Tomorrow,” he calls. “You will see that Fate brought you to us.” He turns with a backward step. “You will see that our partnership is written in the stars.”

I don’t see his lips, but I hear the smile in his voice, and I can’t help but smile to myself. Every moment with him is a carnival ride, every encounter a skydive, and I’ve never felt more alive.

“I want to see you again, Morgan,” Varujan calls, his head turned toward the moon. “Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.”

My body tingles with electricity and I can hardly move my feet. I don’t want this residue, this hangover to end.

Finally, I sneak inside where I can’t get to my phone fast enough.

iPhone Notepad:

Lost in a stare. Nocturnal memories.

Time stands still inside Obscurity’s cloak.

Freedom feels like the wind, but only when danger threatens

A waltz of thistles invites moonlight again.