I will always find you, p.25
I Will Always Find You, page 25
Witchcraft was an intrinsic part of him, woven into his blood and spirit, unfettered by land borders or mystical ley lines. Still, he always carried a small pouch of Laziale earth on his person wherever he travelled for sentimental reasons: to honour his people, especially the ancestors who guided him throughout the ages.
The only other item he cherished as much was Aeneas’ dagger.
The Laziale earth could also act as a talisman, a foci for his spellwork, amplifying its potency should the need arise. However, he learned long ago that this effort would ultimately cause the soil to burn away to nothing. That, obviously, was not agreeable with him.
None of Aeneas’ new identities had ever travelled across the Atlantic Ocean—until now, in the twentieth century.
Alfred Hitchcock, the renowned director of films such as The 39 Steps, Rebecca, and the Romani witch’s favourite, Shadow of a Doubt—also reportedly Hitchcock’s personal favourite—was shooting his next picture, I Confess, predominantly in Québec City, Canada.
Marshall Collingsworth, the identity of the man who currently hosted Aeneas’ soul, was working on that very film.
One hundred and twenty-five years had passed between the Romani witch’s death in Madrid and his rebirth. This amount of time between reincarnations was unprecedented.
As a living being of flesh and blood once more, the Romani witch retained no memories of his time beyond the veil—no glimpse of the Elysian Fields, Heaven, the Hereafter, or whatever realm might lie beyond death for him and Aeneas. There was no tangible evidence to confirm any of these possibilities. And yet, deep within his heart and soul, he knew the truth. He had not returned from the spirit world sooner for one reason alone: he had chosen not to.
No one was punishing him. Not Hecate. Not The Fates. The Romani witch sensed this truth instinctively. He had already paid the price for his hubris and arrogance, for daring to wield the Dark Arts in defiance of the path laid out for him, for spitting in the face of providence.
He remembered promising himself never to use it again after witnessing its devastating consequences for Aeneas, who had been, at the time, Alejandro, the Black Monk, a dark wizard. Yet when confronted once more by the monstrous blood-drinker, he readily gave in to that darkness, breaking his vow and allowing his emotions, particularly his hatred, to lead him astray.
The Romani witch felt, deep in his core, that he simply had not been ready to return. Or perhaps he had not believed he deserved another chance at a life with Aeneas, not for a very long time. There had been so much shame and regret at the end of his last life, so much pain. Maybe he had not been sure he could face Aeneas, even if his beloved remembered nothing of that wretched lifetime.
Ultimately, it did not matter. He was here now, and that could only mean his spirit had finally healed. The Romani witch had forgiven himself for his mistakes and was ready to try again. And if Aeneas had come back during his long absence and lived a life without him, he chose not to dwell on it.
In this life, the Romani witch had finally found Aeneas—Marshall—only moments before the man boarded a plane to Canada. He had just a few heartbeats to take in the sight of the tall, handsome Brit with the husky build, red hair, and a closely trimmed red beard, after which he disappeared down the boarding corridor and out of view.
Unknown to the Romani witch, the difficulty in locating Aeneas’ soul in this lifetime, an effort that had taken nearly five years, was caused by Marshall’s work in the film industry. His career required him to travel constantly across continents for various projects. The Romani witch was always one step behind, arriving in a place a week, a day, even an hour too late to catch his beloved. All he ever found were traces—faint impressions of spiritual energy, fading fast.
He was grateful that both of them had survived the violence and chaos of World War II.
It was while wandering Paris for the third time that the Romani witch had finally sensed the faint lingering presence of Aeneas’ spirit once more. Following the trail, which involved a combination of train and ferry, the energy led him at last to London. This time, his pursuit had been swift and sure enough to finally catch up.
For all the good it did.
A fleeting moment. A brief spark of happiness.
Though initially surprised to find that Aeneas’ host body appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties while he was still in his early twenties, the Romani witch quickly accepted that the Wheel of Destiny had once again interfered. This seemed yet another attempt to keep them apart, forcing Aeneas’ soul back into the material world ten or more years before his own rebirth, which the Wheel held no sway over.
Their new lives typically began within a year or two of each other, never with a gap as wide as a decade. The Romani witch could not help but wonder if it was the Wheel’s wicked intention to drive Aeneas into the arms of another by offering him more time apart from his true love. Had that already happened, perhaps in some life lived during his century-long absence?
Across all their shared lifetimes, the Romani witch had never faced a rival for Aeneas’ affection—except once, when there was a flicker of unease over the Horned God’s one-sided lust for Aodhán. Even then, he always believed their love was true, destined, and meant for each other alone.
However, the Romani witch harboured a quiet fear: what if he loved Aeneas more than Aeneas loved him? In a new body, a new life, and with new experiences, would there come a time among all these endless rebirths when he would not be enough for Aeneas, not more desirable or preferable than another?
That specific fear of rejection, and not the kind predicated on a dark influence like the Black School, was generally buried so deep within the Romani witch’s consciousness that it never surfaced to cause him any actual worry—until it finally reared its ugly head this lifetime.
However, they had not truly reunited at the airport, not in the profound way the Romani witch yearned for. Could a fleeting moment of locked gazes across a crowded terminal floor ever encapsulate the essence of reunion? It was a mere whisper of connection, a brush of familiarity that flared briefly before dissolving into the bustle of passengers boarding a plane bound for another continent, with an ocean soon separating them.
Thanks to the torturous crawl of traffic choking the roads leading to Heathrow Airport, he arrived too late to experience a physical encounter. The Romani witch attributed this bad luck to the Wheel of Destiny, as he often did with anything that complicated an otherwise straightforward reunion.
Even with his arcane powers allowing him to slip past tedious security protocols and dash toward the departure gate, he was simply not quick enough to reach Marshall before the man boarded the plane.
But the Romani witch believed the goddess Fortuna was still watching over him, and in a small act of defiance against the Wheel, she granted him a sliver of good luck when Marshall turned around for the briefest instant, even though there was absolutely no reason to do so. At that moment, their eyes met, and warm smiles spread across both their faces.
The Romani witch’s heart skipped a beat. And that was when the name Marshall Collingsworth echoed softly in his mind for the first time.
Unfortunately, as quickly as Marshall’s smile appeared, it vanished as if a gust of wind had extinguished a flickering candle; the British man turned and left for Canada, disappearing from view.
Using a mix of mind-reading and mesmerism on the airport staff and security, the Romani witch discovered Marshall’s destination; he got aboard the next Trans-Canada Air Line flight to Montréal without incident, even without paying. There was no way he had that kind of money for airfare; he was a wanderer, a nomad, without a bank account or even a permanent residence.
His beautiful villa in Tuscany, which he had owned in one family name or another since the sixteenth century, was sadly destroyed in the First World War. The only thing to have survived the bombing was Aeneas’ enchanted dagger, hidden and protected by magic.
Fortunately, being a powerful witch had its advantages, and bypassing customs and boarding an international flight without a ticket was as easy as stealing candy from a baby.
The flight had been a tumultuous journey that the Romani witch hoped never to endure again, or at least anytime soon.
The intermittent shaking of the craft, which the stewardess referred to as turbulence and assured everyone was perfectly normal, did not sit well with the Romani witch. He told the ever-smiling woman, clad in a military-style navy jacket fastened with brass buttons, a gored skirt, an overseas cap, and white gloves, that he would stick to the ground if this were a normal aircraft experience.
If he thought sea sickness was unsettling, like the kind he experienced the first time he crossed the Celtic Sea, airsickness was double the discomfort.
The Romani witch finally concluded during the flight that this exasperating inability of his to remain uneventfully off the ground in motion, whether via a man-made contraption or an animal, without eventually getting sick, had to be mystical in origin. He reasoned he may never know the reason why; it was a vexing conundrum.
Levitating under his own willpower or by spell was easy and free of motion sickness, but the range and speed were limited, certainly not enough to cross an ocean. He still could not fly like Gian could. And he had no plans to enchant a mortar and pestle through dark magic.
While crossing the vast expanse of the ocean at an altitude of 10,000 meters, thoughts of crashing into a fathomless watery grave had stirred up the Romani witch’s thalassophobia, which he believed he had conquered ages ago. Or at least suppressed deep within his psyche enough never to inconvenience him.
After all, he had travelled to what he now knew as Great Britain and Ireland several times by boat, enduring the discomfort each time. Still, he always avoided the deck and the sight of the ocean until it was time to dock.
Apparently, like his magic, the Romani witch supposed the condition travelled with his spirit into each new body, merely waiting for the right trigger to activate it.
Aided by some miracle—and the whisky that settled his nerves during the six-and-a-half-hour flight—he managed to keep it together. And when the airplane finally touched down with a soft thud on the tarmac in Montréal, the Romani witch, with a determined furrow upon his brow, chose to forgo the connecting flight to Québec City, scheduled to depart in an hour.
Despite the stewardess’ calm reassurance that the flight would last only 45 minutes, the Romani witch nonetheless felt an overwhelming sense of anxiety. Thinking about the hum of the engines as they lifted the craft off the ground, the subsequent rocking and jostling, and the confinement of the cabin only intensified his dread. No, he had had quite enough of airplane travel to last this and several other lifetimes.
He had found an alternative means of getting to Québec City, which essentially involved mesmerizing a cab driver, knowing that Marshall and the rest of the cast and crew of the Hitchcock movie were already there.
His gleaning of information at Heathrow airport when he psychically read the thoughts of the film crew members who boarded after Marshall had revealed that some of I Confess would be shot at the iconic Château Frontenac. Trusting his intuition and the pull of Aeneas’ soul, the Romani witch had decided to begin his search for him there.
And now, standing in front of the hotel, this was the true beginning of his inevitable reunion with Aeneas.
Québec City, a captivating fortress, a walled city steeped in over four hundred years of history, enveloped the Romani witch in its rich tapestry of vintage European charm. The cobblestone streets and centuries-old architecture radiated a sense of wistful sentimentality, transporting the traveller to a bygone era frozen in time. The city’s walls, imbued with stories of the past, towered majestically, inviting exploration and discovery at every turn.
However, the only exploration and story the Romani witch wished to engage in featured him and Aeneas alone, preferably in a firm bed, embraced by soft, luxurious sheets.
First, he would head to the vibrant Saint-Roch district, having overheard fellow airplane passengers talking about its fashionable boutiques. He needed new clothes, something more impressive, something that would help him stand out. Afterward, he planned to check into the elegant Château, take a moment to freshen up, and then begin his search for Marshall Collingsworth in earnest.
Marshall sat alone at the sturdy mahogany bar in the main lounge of the Château Frontenac, nursing a beer before noon and lost in thought. He had taken only a small sip of the dark amber drink; he hated beer and had no idea why he ordered it.
He lifted his head once more, his gaze drawn to the lofty ceilings that seemed to stretch to the heavens, adorned with intricate mouldings and breathtaking crystal chandeliers. The opulence of the hotel beguiled him; each detail, from the rich fabrics draping the elegant furniture to the ornately framed oil paintings, amplified the lavish yet welcoming atmosphere. He simply could not get enough of the exquisite grandeur that surrounded him.
As England had no cohesive mythology, only folklore, Marshall thanked the good fairies and witches for getting the day off. Hitch had taken his lead stars somewhere in the Québec countryside—or perhaps to the other side of the Canadian city. To be honest, Marshall was not entirely sure where they were, nor did he really care.
He wanted to be by himself; he quite enjoyed his own company. Still, he sometimes felt lonely. He was human, after all. This was why he had come to the bar: to be alone but still surrounded by the energy of others.
The pervasive thought in his mind since the previous day was that something about this shoot felt off to him. As if he were missing something or something was missing. He could not put his finger on it. It felt like something was about to happen.
Generally, he loved travelling across the globe as part of Hitch’s or any director’s film-making crew, enjoying the Hollywood glam and excitement of meeting movie stars, especially devastatingly handsome queers like Montgomery Clift, John Dall, and Farley Granger.
While Marshall had never been intimate with any of those men, he did have a brief fling with former silent film star Tonio Rodrigo; however, that ultimately went nowhere due to the actor’s obsessive anxieties over his sexuality and his Roman Catholic upbringing.
Not long after the two men went their separate ways, Marshall came to realize it was more than just Tonio’s issues that broke them up; he had struggled to connect with the gorgeous, older Spanish man on an emotional level.
Marshall knew he was attracted to men, and he was okay with his homosexuality, even if society was not. He liked himself, and it made him sad that so many of his fellow confirmed bachelors struggled with their sense of identity. And he had liked Tonio well enough, but there was no spark between them, at least not on his end.
There had been no chemistry, a relatively new term he overheard a starlet use once on a set when discussing her single date with Marlon Brando.
Marshall longed to meet a man with whom he could connect on every level, not just sexually. He believed with all his heart and soul that such a man existed somewhere in the world, someone unafraid of a society that often looked down on them, labelling them as “moral risks,” “sexual misfits,” or “undesirables.”
After Tonio, Marshall had decided to call it quits on dating; he chose to invest his emotional energy in fate, trusting that, in time, serendipity would align in his favour.
If only I could meet someone like that guy I made eyes with back at Heathrow.
It had only been a moment of connection across a crowded room, but Marshall had felt something special. The man’s good looks had stirred something within him, definitely inside his pants. But it was the stranger’s dark eyes that truly captivated him.
Stop it, you’re being ridiculous. He was simply being friendly. It was just a glance and a smile in return, nothing more.
Marshall wished it could have been more, but the man who had captured his attention was not on his flight. He left that fantasy behind in London.
Suddenly, a stout glass was placed in front of him, filled with a vibrant red liquid.
A Negroni? What in the—?
This was Marshall’s favourite drink, a classic Italian cocktail known for its balanced blend of bitter, sweet, and botanical flavours, crafted with equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. This concoction was typically garnished with an orange peel; it had been. It was perfectly made. He had not ordered one when he first sat down, worrying it was too early in the day for hard liquor; it would make him look sad and pathetic, especially when drinking alone.
Again, the reason for choosing a beer as a substitute imbibement continued to elude him.
“From the gentleman sitting over there,” the bartender stated in English, yet with a sexy French-Canadian accent. Grinning, he pointed towards the large window next to an oversized framed picture of Maurice Duplessis, the former Premier of Québec. In the photo, Duplessis was standing next to his friend Bertrand Bergé, a prominent French-Canadian businessman whose family owned the Château Bergé in Fairporte, Ontario. While the Château Bergé was an impressive architectural wonder, the older and larger Château Frontenac remained the true jewel in Canada’s crown.
Marshall turned around and saw a gorgeous young Italian man with thick, black hair and sun-kissed skin smiling at him; his glass was lifted in the air as if to toast. Marshall could not help but notice that the guy was at least ten years younger than he was. He was intrigued by the way the young man looked at him, with such interest and intent, as if he wanted nothing more than to make his acquaintance.
There was nothing creepy or lecherous about the man’s gaze; he was simply too young and clean-cut for any of that nonsense in Marshall’s thinking.
Lifting his cocktail in the air and nodding, the Englishman mouthed a thank you. He smiled as widely and as friendly as he could without looking crazy. He believed wholeheartedly that this was no friendly gesture in sending him the Negroni; it was a pickup.
