Gypsy Love Magic

WARNING-DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME
Loves, I’m really excited about today’s article. Today we’ll be talking Gypsy Love Magic! As you may know, I’m working on a new novel, titled The Devil’s Elixir. The novel is a sequel to The Executioner, and it takes place in the same setting—the coast of the Black Sea in Romania. Leona, the heroine, is of gypsy descent. Since I originally come from the town where the story is set myself, I grew up among the gypsies, and I grew up with their magic. I watched people from the “high society” come secretly to a gypsy’s wretched basement, bringing pieces of clothing from the objects of their desire, and paying for the magic that would bring them said persons’ love.
How I ended up in a gypsy’s basement myself as a member of the same “high society”? Well, the path of life… The gypsy’s daughter was my best friend (which inspired the friendship between Alice and Leona in The Executioner).
The rituals per se are highly secret, and they require very thorough preparation. They can only be “stolen” by an apprentice, who assists a master in the performing of the master’s craft. I was there often enough… But, as the daughter of two scientists, I drew some unusual conclusions that we’ll be talking about in future articles.
Usually, the ritual involves fire, pieces of clothing, and blood. In most cases, the desired man/woman is to drink the blood (coming from the inquirer), which is slipped into their drink, be it coffee, tea or alcohol (needless to say, in water, things can get nasty). A special spell needs to be cast over the blood by a savvy spell-caster; without this ingredient, the ritual would be useless and have NO effect. But, against popular belief, the spell caster doesn’t need to be a witch or a sorcerer, every human has their own specific kind of energy that can be more or less suited for casting love spells; we’ll be talking more about this in a future article dealing with born talents, predispositions, and … superpowers.
Another widely spread technique among the gypsies is the voodoo love spells. Those usually involve puppets made of canvas, bound with the involved partners’ hair, fingernails or, again, blood. Again, well-mastered spells must be prepared and cast over the puppets. The problem with this type of magic is that this technique makes people slaves to each other in the best case; the love can be all-consuming and insane but, in the worst case, the object of your desire can lack will in the relationship, and they are simply dragged around like puppets indeed.
In order to win the love of their crush, people are often willing to resort even to this kind of (black) magic—which is highly dangerous, and which Leona Ignat, our heroine, does not resort to. But what if every person were born with a certain talent that, given the proper guidance, can turn into a superpower, making magic obsolete?
The Executioner is as much a love story as it is about Alice’s journey to discovering her own superpower (venusian power) and honing her skill. In The Devil’s Elixir, Leona will discover and hone her own. If you’re curious and want a sneak peak, the first two chapters of The Devil’s Elixir are available for you here (Chapter One) and here (Chapter Two). The Executioner is available in full on Amazon: The Executioner Part One and The Executioner Part Two. My third book,The Soul Trapper deals with a different superpower (hint in the title :)).
And there’s so much more to talk about! I’ll be back later in May with more articles about talents becoming superpowers, signs that he’s into you, and why do girls desire to be loved obsessively, almost “gothicly”?—the secret to Christian Grey’s and Edward Cullen’s massive success.
And since we’re talking love, let us escape and fantasize—no, visualize(higher chance that we will one day actually experience that kind of love/relationship)! How would you like to be loved? Sweetly, passionately, madly, deeply? Lay back and let yourself be carried by your innermost desires. Here is a choice of loads and loads and loads of FREE romance books—I’m sure that at least one of them will go straight to your heart, and nestle in there to one day sprout a love just like it.

 

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The Executioner – Ep. X – When Men become Beasts

In a fraction of a second my brain spat out thoughts that fell into place like dollar signs on slot machines. Out, we had to get out, but my mouth didn’t bother to open. Not a soul would listen to me, a flimsy creature with a little voice, it didn’t take a genius to know that. I didn’t even present enough interest for anybody to attack me.

Damian was my best hope of making myself heard, but he wasn’t easily reachable. He’d placed himself between two of his friends, whose fists already balled by their thighs, ready to jump at each other’s throats. He’d taken the posture of a bouncer, his gaze sharp as he tried to talk sense into them. The men turned red with violent impulse against him. Months or even years as adulating Betas and Omegas had accumulated bitter envy that now fought its way out. Still, even under the influence of whatever substance floated unperceivable in the air and put them into fight mode, they didn’t dare move against him. They knew better.

Before I could reach them a mass of hysteria poured my way. The noise turned deafening. I lost Damian from sight and hurried to move out of the congestion before people’s eyes fell on me along with their wrath. My heart pounded with fear, my eyes wide and my mind alert. There wasn’t a friendly face left, every single person everywhere I looked had turned into an animal. By this time maybe even Damian and Hector.

As I found refuge by the wall, I realized my hand was cramped, clutching hard to a thick handle – the screwdriver. Air, I had to let air in, aware that soon the screaming and kicking all around would either freeze me in panic, and some unseen blow would knock me out, or that I’d end up hurting someone with the screwdriver myself, maybe even causing irreparable damage in a desperate attempt to stay in one piece.

I reached the window, the one closest to the stove, gripping to the handles and trying to jerk the frame open when my eyes struck against the black pane. I let out a startled cry.

There they were again, those eyes, now clear and perfectly defined. Like the glare of an animal caught by camera flash, they glowed bright, only that the color was clear as light – Blue. The pane broke instantly with a splintering sound, followed by a sharp pain in my knuckles. Without realizing, I’d punched the window. Then the fog of shock dissipated, stripping the truth.

Mine. Those were my own eyes. I squeezed my hand above the cuts to numb not only the pain, but also the dizzying swirl of automatic connections in my head. Luminous eyes – was it an effect of the gas?

The next thing I knew, a furious groan cracked in my ears. In the blink of an eye George gripped the pointy shard that hung from the frame like a lonely fang, and stabbed his opponent in the throat with it. I screamed as thick, dark red blood poured from under the hand the Wretch took to his wound, between his fingers and down his wrist. He opened his mouth in distorted awareness that life drained out of him, the nerves in his eyeballs exploding like red lightning while he rattled. Dying.

Maybe there was still time. I flung the coat off me and jolted to him, intent to press it on his wound and stop the bleeding, but bumped into George’s arm that punched into my stomach like a barrier of bone. Struggling for breath, I managed to pull myself up. It was too late. The Wretch crouched on the floor like a squirming pretzel, coughing out blood. The sound drilled through my brain.

Time lost meaning. I stood there, watching transfixed how this young man died. I didn’t want to see, nor could I look away. Every second of his suffering imprinted in my adrenaline-fueled heart as everywhere around fists punched, windows broke, men and women growled like beasts.

Windows break. My fault. This boy’s death was on my hands. Trying to stop the mayhem, I’d only fulfilled the prophecy. This time too, some peasant would find the place torn apart, windows broken, blood smeared on walls and rags that parents would clutch to their chests as they’d fall to their knees and cry out to heaven in despair.

Exposure. Exposure was the only chance to get the angry beasts everybody had become out into the open, out into the cold winter air that would slap their wits back into their heads. It was a long shot. But it was the only shot. Enough planning.

I turned on my heels and sprinted to the main door, grabbing coats, jackets and arms in my way, pulling hair, bumping into brawling bodies, as many of them as I could in order to draw attention. I don’t know by what miracle fists hit only the air behind me, by what newly surfaced instinct I ducked down before anybody could grab me. Maybe fear had really kicked my adrenaline level so high that my feet moved like propellers and my reflexes sharpened of their own accord.

I threw the main door open and cast myself into the raging blizzard that felt like needles against my skin. Sight instantly blurred, visibility reduced to inches, but my legs kept running as if a whole murderous army chased me.

I hoped it did. I hoped they’d gotten out of that slaughterhouse disguised as a lonely cottage, a wooden ghost in the Carpathians. I hoped I’d angered them enough to have them rush after me, screeching their teeth, thirsty to see blood drain from my body like it had from the poor Wretch. Thirsty to see me squirm in dying pain. But I also hoped that, by the time they caught me, they’d be themselves again. This wasn’t supposed to be a suicide mission, but a wake-up action.

The snow was quicksand to my legs, sucking me down, but despair fueled my otherwise lazy muscles and propelled me forward. Every glance I threw behind revealed nothing, the storm a wall both in front as well as behind me. It roared loud, swallowing all other sound. There might have been wolves just meters away, I wouldn’t have known, I wouldn’t have heard them howl or growl.

Suddenly, something thick, heavy and metallic closed around my ankle like an iron fist and jerked my leg from my hip, causing such pain that my heart stuttered out of rhythm. I fell flat on my face. Before I could spit out the snow in my mouth, a force yanked me in a pull. I snaked backwards, dead trees, roots and stones rushing by, while I desperately tried to hook my fingers in the ground.

Snow was scraping glass to my palms, and I knew exactly when a couple of fingernails sprang off. The pain was there, but just so severely unimportant that it didn’t stop me from grabbing on to every dead branch, from hooking my fingers into the frozen ground again and again. Still, I let go fast of anything stable, or the pull would’ve ripped the leg from the rest of my body. The ride was dizzying and my screaming automatic. I didn’t hope for help, nor was I scared, I just did things out of instinct. My reason shut down, and autopilot kicked in.

Only when I came to a brusque stop I began to realize the burn all over my skin. Not the face, since I’d kept it up to detect any means of saving myself, but the arms and belly. I waited a few moments for the pull to start again and, when it didn’t, I rolled on my back. My flesh was stiff. I couldn’t flex my muscles to get up, I only managed to lift my head. Torn clothes, the skin on my stomach and breasts looking like beaten meat. I cried before I touched myself, expecting pain. But there was nothing, nothing except the burn, as if everything under skin level was completely numb.

Whimpering, I put snow on the reddest places with a stiff hand, but even that small amount of wit fled off when a pair of legs in earth-gray pants and rubber boots emerged from the white storm. The face cleared from the curtain of snow only when it was really close above mine. A face withered by many winters, with ashen stubble and a rotten grin. A face that might once have been peasant’s, but belonged now to a blood-thirsty animal. Not for a second did I have hope. I knew he was there to hurt me, I saw it in his eyes.

He said something, but I didn’t hear it. The storm’s roar covered the sound. He pressed his fingers on my stomach, grinning with expectation, hungry for the pain. But, when nothing came, he tightened his lips in anger and threw himself over me. With sadistic appetite, he crushed his fist into my face.

The blow felt like lightning in the most literal sense. Then it all went black for moments, until the next one came. Then the next one, until I tasted blood in my mouth. He wasn’t going to stop. He’d beat me to death, leaving my corpse disfigured.

In a surge of despair sight resurfaced, bringing the madman’s face in sharp focus. That ugly face with a bad, stinking grin. The face of an evil maggot who didn’t deserve to live. Who thrust himself at a helpless woman, taking her for an easy prey, for a chunk of meat on which to unleash his killer instincts.

Anger fueled my blood, pumping like frantic petrol in my veins, making me feel as strong as a machine gun. I let out a cry of rage and sank my fingers in his eye sockets, pushing my thumbs hard in the jelly of his eyeballs and wishing for the rusty screwdriver I’d dropped at the cottage. He grabbed my wrists and tried to pull away, but I didn’t let him. I wound my legs around his waist, sticking to him as a leech.

“Oh, no, we’re going all the way, asshole!” I could only hope he heard me. I wanted him to feel the fear. To be in the victim’s shoes. To become the victim to the very marrow of his bones. I could not let him live. I would not let him live.

“I’ll fucking suck the life out of you!” I screamed.

He fell to the ground with me, wriggling like a stabbed snake, but went smart enough to move his hands from my wrists and grab my shoulders. He rolled over me. Applying more strength, I felt the fingernails I had left pierce his eyeballs, but just a moment later something made of fur knocked him hard from my hands. He flew to the side, followed by more stripes of fur that leaped after him. I got up on my buttocks and squinted through the blizzard. Though I didn’t see anything, I did hear his cries and faint animal growling. Wolves, those strings of fur were wolves.

For some reason fangs felt more threatening than the rusty chain that still coiled around my ankle, more threatening than the man’s sadistic glare, than his blows. I got up to my feet, slowly walking backwards, my eyes darting left and right, careful for the rest of my body not to make a sudden move. They could still have been very close. I bled, which placed me far down the food chain and would make them put up a fight for my flesh.

I dragged my leg with the heavy chain until one wrong step sent me stumbling backwards. My body smashed against rocks. I fell for long moments down some endless slope, blow after blow hard in my ribs and crack after crack loud in my ears. I didn’t even get to feel any pain. It all stopped with a knock in the back of my head, and light began to close in on a small moon. That face again. Those eyes. The brightness fizzed in them like flickering neon and I was sure this was it. My muscles relaxed and my lungs gave out one last, resigned breath.

***

Enjoyed this? Find the previous episodes here: Prologue, Episode I, Episode II, Episode III, Episode IV, Episode V, Episode VI, Episode VII, Episode VIII, Episode IX. More coming up next week! Until then, keep enjoying the goodies on this site, from personality tests to online stories – check out the dark mysteries of The Marquis here.

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The Executioner – Ep. IX – Hellish killing techniques

I froze. “What?”

“Yes. The police ascribed the massacre at the inn to a criminal corporation, BioDhrome. They allegedly dissolved soon after the R.I.S. started on their trail, but Marius is convinced that’s bullshit. They were a corp, much too big to evaporate in thin air just like that. He’s convinced they used their power and money to . . . transform. Based on his later investigations he’s also sure there was more than organ trafficking involved.”

“More?”

“Experiments on humans. It was these experiments that became a matter beyond police competence, a matter of national security. A matter for the R.I.S., the Military and Defense. Marius tried to go deeper on this, but, as I said, he eventually hit a dead end. The R.I.S. silenced all his leads.”

“And you believe him?” I said, grinning like an idiot. This isn’t happening was on replay.

“And why not, Alice? His account fits so well with what Svetlana said that night at the Bourbon. Now she acts crazy, people try to kill us with no obvious reason and Damian’s acting all mysterious. What else could explain all this, if not that they’re after unfinished business with Cezare Lupan, as well as our kidneys and livers?”

I stared blankly at her as she went for a bag of snacks. She looked as if she chewed on her own nerves.

“It can’t be,” I shook my head. “It can’t be happening.”

“You’re in denial,” she sneered through loud gnawing.

“Cezare . . . Is that his real name?” It sounded so out-of-this world, even coming from my own mouth.

“Could be. The R.I.S. might’ve put him in a witness protection program and given him a new one.”

“Witness protection program? You’ve seen too many American movies.” Or I was indeed in denial. My reason switched to pause.

“The R.I.S. is the best disciple of the K.G.B., Alice. They do it much better than Hollywood.”

The grip of shock on my brain started to loosen against my struggles to remain under its anesthetic effect, and my mind began to wrap around the hideous reality bit by bit. A paralyzing fear gripped me.

“This is some mind-blowing shit, Ruxandra . . . Some serious shit.”

“You bet your ass.”

I was pretty hard to surprise when it came to crime, since burglars, armed gangsters, pimps and hookers were an issue in Constanta as they were in as good as all cities of Romania. I was used to walking among such people every day in the streets. I’d gone to school and played hopscotch with their kids until they’d gone rogue, like their parents.

Ruxandra herself was the daughter of a gypsy shylock with a belly like a balloon and a threatening dark frown, who’d insisted that Ruxandra remain illiterate, and planned her marriage for the age of twelve. Luckily, her mom had run away with her and her sister, and fought for their education. Whenever Ruxandra disclosed her roots – which happened as often as a solar eclipse – jaws dropped and eyes popped. I guess we both strived to bury our origins, and that had welded our bond. Her sister, Carla, on the other hand, was not at all ashamed with her heritage, but she didn’t wear it printed on a t-shirt either.

Yet organ trafficking and illegal medical experimentation were a completely different level. Derailing trains and making people disappear without a trace meant power. A whole lot of power. Something we couldn’t fight. A hydra, its claws drilling deep in the Romanian underground.

“If they want our kidneys and livers they’ll get them, Ruxandra!” I squeaked, “We don’t stand a chance!”

“Pull yourself together.” She slapped my back, then jumped up and grabbed one of the metal objects from the counter. Only when she pressed it in my palm did I realize it was a short, rust-adorned screwdriver.

“What are you doing?”

“Keep it under your sleeve,” she said, tucking a knife under her own.

“But Damian said – ”

“I don’t care what he said. Right now, I don’t trust anyone in this place any more than I do People out there.”

“Rux, you’re losing it.” The words were careful to leave my mouth. She looked as manic as Svetlana had just a few hours earlier, save for the dark circles around the eyes and the sucked cheeks.

“Oh, you think?” she snapped, her face red and her brows scrunched. “There are three people here who knew about BioDhrome – Damian, Marius and Svetlana. Now you mark my words: one of them has drawn us in this trap. One of them works with those butchers hand in hand. So I’m not following a suspect’s orders. And neither are you.”

As soon as she finished her sentence she grabbed my wrist – rather roughly – and dragged me out.

The main room was loud and crowded, but she elbowed our way close to the center, where Damian and Hector answered questions worse than in a press conference with the President. George tried for the anchor role, appointing the next questions, but no one minded him. He looked overwhelmed and utterly useless. Ruxandra shot a few of her own arrows in the mix, but they didn’t hit anyone’s ears, not until she managed to clasp Hector’s arm.

“This is crazy,” she yelled, “What’s the plan?”

“There is no plan,” Hector yelled back. “We just get out of here as soon as Damian and I have checked the area.”

“Out? Fucking out? Into what, chains, knives or bullets?”

Angered, Hector pushed her into a mass of bodies. I was in the front line, her shoulder squashing my face.

“Stay here, if you prefer gas.”

“What do you mean, you troll?” she shouted after him, but he was already too far. He talked to George and pointed in our direction, making the latter nod. Proud to have gotten a direct assignment, George hurried over and led us to the putrid sofa by the stove.

“Gas, yeah,” he said as if he’d lived through this before himself. I couldn’t decide if his composure was admirable or just plain ridiculous. “Gas that doesn’t smell or burn, but that’ll blast our adrenaline levels so high, that we’ll jump at each other’s throats.”

“We’ll fucking kill each other?” Ruxandra shrieked.

“Some would end up dead, others severely wounded,” he cut her off, dropping the loaded meaning on us like a bedrock. “In any case, it would go fast. When no one, or just too few still stand, they’ll barge in. They’ll shut down the survivors and take the bodies.”

Hellish killing techniques.

“Novac told you that? Why didn’t he fucking do it from the start?”

“You use that word a lot,” George admonished. Both he and Rux seemed to be growing furious for no real reason, as if they barely waited for a pretext to catch fire.

“Oh, don’t you try to educate me, George, I’m too old for that shit!”

“Mind your fucking tone!” Before I knew it, he slapped her hard with the back of his hand. Ruxandra’s head snapped sideward. Out of instinct, I jumped up and shielded her with my palms up, bitten by George’s violence that showed in his face as if his arms had never been around her and his lips never on hers.

“For Christ’s sake, what’s gotten into you, George?”

He skirted around me, grabbed Ruxandra’s shoulders and pushed her against the wall.

“You started this, bitch! You talked too much in front of too many, now look at the panic around you. They assaulted him with questions, he gave them answers, and all hell broke loose.”

“At least you know the shit you’re in, you slobbering moron.” Her knee found a quick way between his legs. George crouched in pain, with both hands on his jewels. His face was a swollen red, his eyelids wrinkled as he pressed them shut. Ruxandra clutched his nape and the same knee kicked his mouth, while I watched dumbfounded.

The next instant George got hauled into the wall. The attacker immediately flung himself into the picture too, hands stiff like claws, hair messed up, his nostrils almost fuming – the Wretch. No longer a zombie, but a crazed animal, holding its prey in place and looking eagerly around for something to grab, something to hurt with. Ruxandra had taken care of him when he’d come back from the horror blizzard, so he must’ve felt protective of her and furious of George. Out of reflex, I followed his scowl. Nothing, there was nothing around us.

It hit me. There was nothing weapon-like, because Damian and Hector had gathered everything in piles, which were nowhere within reach. The measure was never meant to provide us with easier access to weapons, but to keep us away from them. Like a logical wire leading to it, my next thought led to the gas. One glance around the room was enough to see a number of heated arguments and fights had started everywhere. So the poison was already in. It had been in, probably in smaller check-doses, all along, maybe even on the train. It had been in yesterday, when Marius had punched those boys and provoked Damian. Tonight, when Svetlana had plunged into fits of hysteria and attacked me. It hadn’t been the alcohol consumption that had led to those clashes, but the gas. And now it poured in full power, with no color and no smell, unlike anything we’d ever experienced before, and very effective.

But where did it come from? I spun in place, getting dizzy as I searched for the source all over the room. Windows closed. The door to the corridor open, most certainly the ones to the bunkroom and kitchen too, but the entrance door was surely shut. No draught. Gas that doesn’t smell or burn. Stoves. It was the stoves.

***

Enjoyed this? Find the previous episodes here: Prologue, Episode I, Episode II, Episode III, Episode IV, Episode V, Episode VI, Episode VII, Episode VIII or buy the entire book here, to enjoy fully. And there’s more good news: The Executioner Part II is already in the fine-tuning phase, and it’s due to come out 3 – 5th of July, when we’ll have a grand promotion that will last three days – like all miracles and good things : ) Until then,

enjoy the next personality test that will reveal what your Death Quotes say about you tomorrow, and a new episode of The Marquis on Friday. Stay tuned!