by Callie Hart
“Nope. Never had a tattoo removed. I'm not stupid enough to get something done that I might regret later. I sure as fuck wouldn't let a guy tattoo me without signing off on the artwork first. What kind of moron would do something like that?”
Patrin spins around and leans against the kitchen counter. He's holding his glass like he might dump the water out onto the floor, smash the receptacle, and then grind the shards of glass into my face. “This is your problem, Pash,” he says. His voice is weary, tired, like he's sick of saying the same thing over and over again. “You just do whatever the hell suits you at the time. You never think of how your actions might affect others.”
I don't even try to hide the grin on my face. “Oh, come on Patrin. Sure, I’m a feckless bastard, but I knew how tattooing a giant photo-realistic cock on your back would affect you. I’m not stupid. You had three years away from me. Three years Pasha-free. I hadn't had a chance to annoy the fuck out of you in a really long time, brother. I was simply making up for lost time.”
Shireen hurries into the kitchen, looking harried. “Fuck’s sake, if you two are gonna start fighting, I'm gonna lock you in the bedroom with Albert and Evelyn. Why is it that neither of you can act like an adult? You’re far too old for this shit.” Shireen breezes back into the kitchen, dumping a plate and a dish into the sink. She’s a flurry of movement as she rattles through the cupboards, pulling out tins of food, dried goods, and cooking utensils. “If you can wait, I'll make you something to take back to Zara, Pash. But I swear to God, you two need to change the record. If I hear another word about that dick tattoo, I am legit going to fucking scream.”
“Of course, Shireen. I won't say another word about it. Scout’s honor.” There's a bark of laughter burning at the back of my throat, begging to be released, but I wrestle it back. If I laugh, Patrin's going to fucking lynch me. He looks enraged as he grunts, shoving away from the counter. He then pulls a childish face at the back of his wife’s head.
“Do you not think I have eyes back there yet, Patrin Rivin?” Shireen chides. “Do you not think I know by now when you're pulling stupid faces at me like one of our children?”
He rolls his eyes, picking up a t-shirt that Shireen must have laid over the back of the sofa for him. Quickly he puts it on, and then accepts a mug of coffee from her. She then hands one to me. “I've gotta go and make sure Connie finishes her breakfast. The old bat hasn't been eating. I keep finding plates of food underneath her bed. Do you think if I leave for ten minutes, you two can be trusted to act civilly toward one another?”
Shit, how I've missed Shireen. She's one of the only people in the world who can bully Patrin into submission. She's also one of the only people in our clan that isn't afraid of him. I've seen plenty of people let Patrin walk all over them. I'm relieved that Shireen doesn't let him get away with it. I hold my hands up, my eyebrows nearly hitting my hairline. “No problems here,” I say, “I just came for the breakfast and a coffee.”
Patrin rumbles under his breath, “Yeah, and why is it that my wife is expected to feed you and your gadje girlfriend? I don't remember you putting in any hard work at the fair recently.”
Every member of the clan shares their money and food with one another. Technically, no one family is meant to be better off than the other. Of course, that's never how it goes. People tuck a bit of money away for a rainy day. They save for an emergency, should something go wrong, as things do from time to time. No one really hoards food, though. There's always plenty to go around.
Shireen thumps Patrin in the upper arm, digging her knuckle into his bicep. “If you're gonna be a bastard, you can go and enjoy your breakfast with Shelta if you like,” she tells him. Flat, hard and distinctly unfriendly, the tone of her voice even has me cringing a little.
Patrin folds his arms across his chest like a scolded little boy. “It's a fair question, though. He’s been gone for three years. Done nothing to contribute to the safety and wellbeing of the clan. Why should he get to eat our food? He makes a pretty penny fighting in those cage matches. Gotta be ten grand a pop, right, Pash? Has he tithed? Has he brought revenue back to the clan, or given us any money from his tattoo shop? Fuck no. He bought himself that glass box up on the hill instead.”
For the first time since I entered the trailer, a spike of anger begins to warm my temper. It takes real effort not to tear the fucker a new one as I round on him. “Are you fucking kidding me right now, asshole? I got my hands dirty protecting a clan member, and I got myself banished for three fucking years as thanks. And now you're standing here pissing and moaning because I haven’t sent you any fucking money?”
Shireen senses the rising tension; she must, otherwise she wouldn’t slide herself in between me and her husband, using her body as a five-foot-five, one hundred and thirty pound barricade. “That's enough. Patrin, that really was a stupid fucking thing to say. What were you thinking? I'm leaving now, but if I come back and there are holes in any of these walls, I am gonna be furious, do you hear me? Both of you?” She looks from one of us to the other, a challenge written all over her face. I've battled against seasoned fighters in the cage. Fought guys twice my weight, and taunted men that have one hundred per cent murdered plenty of people in their time, but even I wouldn’t be stupid enough to fuck with Shireen.
“Just go make sure Connie hasn't died in her sleep,” Patrin grumbles. “We're not fucking children. We'll be fine.”
Shireen gives him a withering look that makes the man clear his throat, averting his gaze. She exits carrying a Tupperware box full of scrambled egg, a carafe of steaming hot milk, and both of Patrin’s testicles in her back pocket. Patrin doesn't say another word until the door to the Winnebago slams closed.
“Well then.” He arches an unhappy eyebrow at me. “Spit it out. You could have gone anywhere for food, but you came here. Why? I can already guess, but I wanna hear you say it yourself.”
He’s right—I could have gone anywhere else. Shireen’s a fucking saint, but she's a terrible cook. Cleo would have happily had us feasting on eggs and bacon, roasted mushrooms and grits, plus that woman's coffee is unrivaled. But I did need to speak to Patrin. Coming here this morning is killing two birds with one stone. I stick my hands in my pockets staring up at the, surprisingly, high ceiling.
“I want you to step down tonight,” I tell him. The request doesn't come out easily. It sticks in the back of my throat, making it difficult to push the words out. He's fucking loving this. Has to be. How many times has he come to me recently asking for help? At least three times, and each time I've turned him away. Now here I am, cap in hand, asking him for a favor and a big one at that.
Patrin's been gunning for my title since we were kids. This constant power play between us is nothing new. At every available opportunity, he's tried to outsmart me, outthink me, outrun me, and overpower me. While I was gone, he wormed his way into Shelta's good books and became someone she relied on. He made it easy for her to lean on him, not because he wanted to help her or assist with the running of the clan in my absence. No doubt he did it to get close to her, to figure out her secrets and her weaknesses so he could use them later against her when he made his move to become king.
The disbelieving smile on his face now really does say it all. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, brother. You've come here because you know there's a chance you might not win tonight. Our people have fallen out of love with you while you've been gone. You can see it on their faces. Hear it in their voices. And now you're worried that I might be able to take this from you. Finally.”
Shaking my head, I smile as I take a sip out of my coffee cup. “Fuck, your ego is ridiculous. You really think you have a chance? There isn't a plane of reality or parallel universe in which you might actually beat me in this vote. Let's be real. You're strong. People like you. You can fix things. You can fight. Build things. Protect people. But you can't fucking lead. You weren't blessed with the patience, the insight, or the vision to be king and everyone knows.”
>
“If you really believe that, then why did you come here?” he demands.
I shrug, trying to downplay how important this might be. “You're right. People did forget me while I was gone. There are a handful of people in the clan who probably would choose you over me. They feel like they know you better now. There are far more people who have aligned themselves with Shelta over the years, though. Far more people who’d rather see things continue as they have been than to accept a new ruler. If you were to throw your weight behind me, though, those who support you would likely follow as well. And that could easily be enough to tip the scales in my favor against my mother.”
Patrin laughs softly, clenching and unclenching his hand by his side. “You really are a dick, you know that? Maybe you're right, maybe I don't have enough of a following to win just yet. But you have to be crazy to think I would turn against Shelta. She's given me a position within this clan. Given me power I didn't have before. If you expect me to turn my back on that, just give it all up at the drop of a hat because you asked me to, then you've got another thing coming.”
Urgh. He’s so damn selfish. Not uncommon in people like us, but he has no idea how to serve an idea greater than himself. He only wants to rule to stroke his own ego. I’m going to have to make a concession, a compromise, and it’s really going to fucking suck. Patrin's so desperate to rule that I'll never be able to trust him, not fully. I will always be waiting to feel the point of a knife in between my shoulder blades as he prepares to stab me in the back, but at this precise moment, the ends justify the means. I need him, which means sacrifices that must be made.
Sighing heavily, I put my coffee mug down. “You won't be turning your back on your position within the clan. You’ll have a place with me. You’ll have just as much power as you enjoy now. Your role within the clan will remain the same. You’ll just be serving a different master.”
“Hah! You’re really not selling this well,” he says bitterly. “If you were smart, you wouldn't be calling yourself my master.”
“Whatever. Your king, then. That make you feel better? I’ll be your king, and you’ll be my second-in-command.”
Patrin shakes his head; from the crimson color rising in his face, this is going just about as well as I'd hoped. “Your mother’s one cold bitch, but I can tolerate her. She also doesn't make it her personal mission to fuck with me every waking hour of the day. We can’t stand the sight of each other most of the time. I'm afraid you're going to have to sweeten the pot, brother.”
I knew this was coming. I've prepared for it. Even so, the weight of what I'm about to promise bears down on me like a ten-ton weight. “If you stand down tonight and support me,” I say, taking a deep breath, “then I’ll help you. I'll give you what you came to me for back in the tattoo shop. I'll help get Sam and Jamus out of the steaming pile of shit they've buried themselves in, and I'll make sure they walk free from jail. Yeah. That's it. That's my offer. You can take it or leave it.”
Patrin thinks. He angles his jaw, staring me down, and then he says, “Alright. Fine. You have yourself a deal. But, by God, Pasha Rivin, you'd better not fucking break it.”
Twelve
ZARA
I'm fully dressed and putting my socks on when I hear the sound of boots coming up the small set of steps that lead to the vardo door. Pasha’s going to be miserable that I found a clean set of clothes in my pack and put them on, but even with the small fire I managed to get started in the grate I was freezing my ass off and couldn't wait any longer. There's a teasing reprimand on the tip of my tongue. I'm ready to give him grief for taking so long, but when the vardo door opens ...
Oh.
The man standing in the doorway is not Pasha. I recognize him immediately, though. The worn, heavy, woolen coat with the sheepskin lapel is new. But the faded, threadbare, silk waistcoat and the pinstripe shirt beneath it are all too familiar to me, as are the brown corduroy pants he's wearing, which are soaked from the snow, the material darkened all the way up to his knees. His shock of silver hair is even more unruly now than when I first met him. He narrows his eyes at me, his mouth falling open as he sees me sitting on top of the blanket box, my foot half shoved into a sock.
“You,” he says in an accusatory tone. “How can it be you?”
It's stupid of me really. The fox from the Midnight Fair with the cup game; I should really have put two and two together by now. Shelta even mentioned his name when we were talking, back at the fair. What were her exact words? “Hmm, yes. I suppose Archie does look like a fox.” Pasha's mentioned the name Archie numerous times since we arrived at the camp. Made it clear that we were staying in the man's vardo. There's been so much going on, though, so many different moving parts to this scenario, that I haven't really had time to fit any of the puzzle pieces together.
Archie's glaring at me like he's just seen a goddamn ghost and he's none too happy about the visitation. “If you've come to get that key back, I'm afraid I can't help you,” he tells me. “It's long gone. I traded it. I mean, I lost it,” he says. He doesn't seem too sure what happened to the key I left lying on the table with him back in the fair. Whatever happened to it, whether he does still have it in his possession or not, he clearly doesn't want to return it. So fucking weird. The whites in his eyes are showing as he takes a step back down the staircase that leads up to the vardo. If I'm not mistaken, the man is actually frightened. I get to my feet, holding out my hands.
“Shit, I'm sorry. I haven't come back for the key. You can keep it. I came here with Pasha. He said you wouldn't mind if we slept in here last night. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. If you can give me a few moments, I'll get our stuff together and we'll be out of your hair.”
At the mention of Pasha's name, Archie's expression transforms into one of pure disbelief. “Pasha? He's here? And you're here with him?” He sounds pleased that the heir to the Roma people has found his way back to his clan. Conversely, he does not sound happy that he brought me back with him as his guest.
“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath. “The boy's heart’s been pricked by a redheaded gadje. I knew there was going to be trouble the moment I saw that owl this morning.”
“I'm not here to cause trouble, I promise. We're trying to help. Sarah's been taken hostage by Lazlo. He wants Pasha to accept his role as king. If he does, then Sarah goes free.”
Archie shoves his worn coat back into his hips, placing both of his hands on his sides.
“Lazlo. Lazlo is alive? And he has Sarah?”
I should be used to the shocked reaction by now. It’s getting annoying having to explain this, though. A cold knot of guilt tightens inside me as I nod. “He also killed a little boy.”
The lines that bracket Archie’s mouth deepen as he grimaces. “The little boy you were looking for at the fair that night?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I'll be damned.”
Archie studies the floorboards in front of him, a deep frown on his face.
“What a mess, then,” he says. “What a complete fucking nightmare.”
Something occurs to me as I look at the old man, his eyes distant and unfocused as he presumably tries to process this information. “Wait. You didn't ask who Sarah was.”
His eyes snap up, piercing through me with an intense gaze. “I know Sarah. I know her true name. And I know why she changed it, too. I've been keeping tabs on her, off and on, over the years. Not this visit though. Not yet. I planned on going by her place next week.” He rubs his hand over his mouth as if he's trying to wipe the tension away from his face. I think he's going to say something more about Sarah's kidnap situation, but instead he says something completely unrelated.
“My coin. The cup you chose at the fair. The coin wasn't underneath it. It wasn't underneath any of the cups. What do I have to do to get it back?”
“I'm sorry. Coin?”
“Yes. The game we played, little gadje. The coin in the cups. When you walked away from my table, that coin went with yo
u, one way or another. I'd like the opportunity to claim it back.”
“I'm sorry?” I pat my pockets, as if the damn thing’s going to be on me, here, in the vardo. “I don't have it. I watched you put the coin inside the cup and that was the last I saw of it. I promise.”
For a horrible second it looks like Archie's about to burst into tears.
“It was a silver dollar, right? What was it worth?”
Archie squints at me as if I just posed the question in a foreign language. His face then smooths out, his confusion melting away. “Oh, I don't know. Thirty dollars. Forty. Not much. It had sentimental value is all. And a Roma coin is worth a Roma favor. Not smart to go around losing things like that.”
Poor Archie. He looks genuinely distraught at the concept of his missing silver dollar. I really don't have a clue where it is though. I was severely annoyed by his theatrics back at the Midnight Fair. I hadn't really cared where the coin had disappeared to, only that he had seemingly tricked me. By rights, I should have asked for that key back. It was a weird thing to have to pony up as collateral in the first place. It was nothing. A simple mailbox key, completely useless to me now, but that really isn't the point.
Archie railed against answering my questions from the get-go and made our entire exchange incredibly difficult. Then, when he did answer my question, he was vague at best and sent me on my way without so much as a by-your-leave. After the way Shelta then treated me that night, I haven't given much thought to Archie and his coin, or my key, but now that he's standing here fretting over the damn silver dollar like I stole it from him or something, I’m beginning to feel a little irked again.
