ROMA KING: Book 1 in the Roma Royals Duet

by Hart, Callie

  I’ll be having words with her about this once I’m finally in the apartment.

  I pull on the cigarette, waiting for a sense of calm to fall over me. It won’t come, though. Ever since I stepped out of that tent and nearly collided with that little firefly, I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve slept with gadje women before. Thanks to Archie’s influence, they’re the only women I’ve slept with. Archie is more Traveler than Roma, but his beliefs about women are very much in alignment with my forebears. Women are unclean. They have to be kept as pure as possible before marriage, so the clan’s men are never allowed to sleep around with girls inside the community. Fuck as many outsiders as you like but touch a Roma woman before you’re married to her and be prepared to deal with the shitstorm that follows.

  I could screw this woman if I wanted to, and no one within my family would really care. They’d never find out. Thing is…she isn’t just some woman. She’s far, far more than that. I know it already, and so does my mother. Shelta’s known all about my dreams since they started coming to me, back in my early twenties, and she’s always told me to avoid the woman like the plague. I know it beyond all logic and reason: if I even so much as touch Zara, there will be no walking away from her.

  I’ve let the cigarette burn down to the filter without smoking most of it. I toss it into the gutter, and a river of water sweeps it away, the stub disappearing down a storm drain. Time to get this over with. Time to get in, figure out what’s wrong, and then get the hell out.

  * * *

  ZARA

  The knock at the door is louder than the thunder crashing overhead. I run to the kitchen door and hit the lights, turning them off, my pulse racing. What the fuck was I thinking?

  Garrett’s apartment is on the next floor up, but I’m pretty sure he’s at work, driving on the other side of town. Waylon’s apartment is on the ground floor. He’ll be home, but if I run down there, screaming about a guy hassling me on my front door step, he’s going to come up here armed, fully prepared to kill whoever he finds waiting for him. And when he sees Pasha, there’ll be no holding him back. He made it more than clear he didn’t like him at the bar.

  The hallway light is on; I can see the shadow of someone standing there underneath the door, and a bolt of panic spears me in the gut. This was stupid. Very, very stupid. It’s too late now, though. It’ll be fine. Everything will be okay. I tell myself this as I turn the kitchen lights back on, chiding myself for reacting so ridiculously, for thinking that I could hide from him, even though I’ve been sitting here, waiting for him to show up. I slowly walk to the door.

  I steel myself. Take a deep breath. My fingers won’t work properly as I unfasten the chain and turn the handle, pulling the door open.

  Lord almighty…

  I’m not prepared for what I find on the other side. The form of Pasha Rivin is a sight to behold under normal circumstances, but soaking wet? Drenched from head to toe? His jet-black hair is spiked and dripping, swept back out of his face, as if he’s just run his hands back through it. There’s water beaded on his skin, running in rivulets down his cheeks and the column of his neck, and beneath his leather jacket, his black t-shirt is plastered to his chest. This close, I can see the amber flecks in his eyes, contrasting with all that green—delicate filaments of gold floating on a wash of seafoam.

  Why does it feel like I just called to make a deal with the devil? And why does it feel like the devil himself just showed up in person to seal that deal? A violent shiver runs through me as I stare at him from across the threshold of the apartment.

  He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just returns my stare with one of his own, potent and penetrating. I try not to cringe under the intensity of it. I’ve put him out of my mind at every available opportunity. I’ve done everything in my power to banish him from my thoughts, but there’s something about the man standing before me that won’t be quelled. He’s burned through my mind like an unstoppable forest fire, starving the rest of my thoughts, my worries, and my concerns, until they’ve dwindled and flickered out.

  It takes an immense force of will to remind myself why I reached out to him tonight. The moment I recall that Sarah’s missing and I might have just lost my job, the job that I adore and live for, I manage to grapple back some self-control. “I suppose you’d better come in,” I murmur under my breath. Stepping back, I make room for him to pass me; he hovers a second, still unmoving, eyes burning into me, but then his chest rises, and he slides past me. He’s massive, tall and broad, but the very presence of the man seems to make him larger than life. He moves through to the kitchen, gaze roving over everything he sees—the table; the copper kettle on the cooktop; the calendar pinned to the front of the refrigerator; the myriad utensils, pots and pans stacked neatly behind transparent glass cupboard doors—and I wait, feeling incredibly small and vulnerable, for him to turn his scrutiny on me.

  “It’s not much, I know,” I find myself saying. Why the fuck am I defending my apartment? Feeling ashamed of its lack of size and luxury? The place might be small, and the furniture might not be expensive, but it’s comfortable, cozy and it’s mine. What he thinks of the place shouldn’t matter to me at all. But…

  Pasha turns around, his body stiff, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and faces me at last. “You do know what I am, right?”

  Flames lick at my insides. I don’t know where to look. “What—what do you mean?”

  “I’m Roma. A gypsy…if you’re more familiar with that term.”

  I hug my arms around myself, forcing myself not to look away. “Yes. I know.”

  “Roma people don’t typically live in apartments. We’re wanderers. We don’t collect a whole lot of stuff. At least my family doesn’t. So this?” He gestures to the kitchen. “Is a lot.”

  His voice carries no inflection, so I can’t tell if my well-stocked kitchen is a good or a bad thing. I don’t ask. Pasha rubs at the stubble marking his jaw, then points his chin toward the table. “You want to sit?”

  “Sure.” I take a seat in the chair closest to the exit; a wry smirk pulls at Pasha’s mouth as he selects the chair on the other side of the table, closest to the wall. He knows why I sat where I did. That I’ll feel a little safer if I can get to the front door quickly. The reasoning behind his choice of seating is clear to me, too. He’s trying to make me feel more secure by putting himself as far away from me as possible. I give him a tight smile which I hope conveys my begrudging thanks.

  Leaning forward, Pasha rests his elbows on the table and his dark expression turns frighteningly blank. A small bead of water collects in the hollow of his top lip, and I realize that I’m staring at his mouth again.

  “Speak, Firefly.” His voice is deadly and quiet. “Tell me what happened.”

  With trembling hands, I reach into the pocket of my cardigan, and I take out the tarot card, laying it face up on the table between us. The moment Pasha sees it, his entire body goes rigid. “Where did you get that?” he asks sharply.

  “I drew it. From your mother’s deck, in her tent, after you left the other night…”

  “Fuck.” He whispers the curse word, but it’s filled with tension. And…god, what is that? Fear? The muscles in his jaw jump and pulse as he spins the card around, so that The Empress III is facing him. “You’re sure? This is definitely the card you drew?”

  My teeth grind against one another as I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not a moron. I am capable of remembering simple events. Yes, I’m sure. And I left the card with your mother, in that wretched tent of hers, and then the next thing I know, I’m being fired from my job, and this card,” I say, stabbing it with the tip of my index finger, “was in amongst the stuff from my desk that was returned to me. Shelta was rude as fuck to me after I drew this card. I want to know why. And I want to know why she would try and get me fired because of it.”

  Pasha’s jaw clenches again. His eyes pulse with anger, but there’s a stillness to him. He’s going to tell me how crazy I am. He’s
likely going to demand an apology from me for suggesting his mother would even think of doing something so vicious and unkind. I’m readying myself for an argument, knowing how unbelievable my side of that argument will sound, when he says, “Because she’s afraid.”

  I sit back in my chair. “So…you don’t deny it, then? You’re saying she did have something to do with my suspension?”

  “If she saw the card…”

  “She did. And she didn’t seem happy about it.”

  “Then yes. I’d put money on her having something to do with it. If you’re sure the accusations aren’t justified—”

  “Of course they’re not justified! I haven’t harassed anyone. Ever. In my life.”

  Pasha shrugs. “You do have a shitty temper.”

  “Oh my god! That’s a bare-faced l—” I stop myself from reacting when I see the wicked glint in his eyes. “All right.” I blow out a breath down my nose. “So, your mom is a major bitch and wants to ruin my life. You still haven’t explained why. What’s the deal with this card? I looked it up and it didn’t seem that threatening. Something about pregnancy and abundance. Why the fuck would she flip out about that?”

  Pasha’s features fall blank again. “Patrin just told me a prediction was coming true. I didn’t let him explain, though. It’s…a long story. A silly, superstitious one. A Rivin family story. Only my mother really believes in it.”

  “Yeah. She believes in it enough to sabotage my entire life. Tell me what it is, Pasha.”

  “It won’t help.”

  “Pasha.”

  “It won’t make you feel any better.”

  “I don’t care about feeling better. I care about getting my job back. And finding my friend.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Friend?”

  “I’ll explain after you tell me the story.”

  He looks like he’s going to refuse. I’m preempting him, ready with a number of retorts and threats, but…our eyes meet, and the stony, flat detachment he’s been affecting falls away. “Fine. But it’s just a story. You don’t need to freak out.”

  “The only way I’m going to freak out is if you drag this out a second longer.”

  He smiles, shaking his head. It’s not the same mocking, teasing smile he’s given me before, though. It’s rueful and exasperated. “My grandmother predicted when she was going to die. She pulled my mother aside and said she’d had a bad dream. In her dream, her skin melted from her bones. She was consumed in fire, and there was nothing she could do to put it out. My grandmother said she knew it with a certainty: she was going to burn to death before the week was out, and that would be the end of that. She asked my mother to start preparing for the funeral. Said she needed to call in the other clans for the wake right away, so they’d all be there on time. Told her she wanted to be laid to rest at the foot of Chimney Rock, Nebraska, and that they weren’t to bother with a headstone for her. Shelta didn’t believe a damn word my grandmother said, but when she refused to call in the other families, my grandmother did it herself. And sure enough, five days later, it happened.”

  “What? She burned to death?”

  “Not quite. She fell into a lake.”

  “Uhh…”

  “The lake was frozen. She fell through the ice. One of my uncles saw it happen and went in after her. She was barely submerged for a couple of seconds. Ten, maybe. It was enough, though. They brought her back to the settlement where the clan was staying back then, and they got her dried off. In warm clothes. Whatever. They wrapped her up in blankets and put her to bed, but it was too late. By the next morning, she’d been claimed by a devil.”

  “I’m sorry?” I can’t have heard him right.

  Mischief dances in Pasha’s eyes as he continues. “Illness is never illness with us, little firefly. When you’re sick, you’re afflicted with a devil.”

  “You really believe that?”

  Pasha drums his fingers against the table. “I do not. There are plenty of us who do, though.”

  “So, she came down with hypothermia or something?”

  “Pneumonia. She developed a fever so high, the thermometer they put in her mouth couldn’t register her temperature properly. The nurse one of my aunts snuck in to see her said it must have felt like she was burning up from the inside out. Took her two days to die. And during those forty-eight hours, all my grandmother did was rant and rave about The Empress. She was delirious. Made my mother show her the card from her deck over and over again. Said it was going to be taken. She had to protect it. Make sure it stayed safe. At the end, just before she died, my grandmother told Shelta that she could see it all clearly now. The Empress was going to disappear, but that when it returned, it would spell disaster for all of us. The traditions of our people would die. The old ways would be at an end. And not just that. She predicted that the newly crowned King would be lost forever.”

  “There’s a king? You guys have a royal family?” I’m almost embarrassed by my lack of knowledge about Roma culture right now.

  Pasha squints at me out of the corner of his eye. “We have a king. That’s about it.” He pauses, still watching me, as if he’s trying to find the answer to a difficult question somewhere in my features. The attention is almost too much to bear. “Shelta’s always sworn she didn’t believe my grandmother, but a group of clan members decided it would be a good idea to take precautions anyway. They decided that the premonition couldn’t come true if The Empress never went missing in the first place, so they made Shelta put it somewhere safe. Somewhere it could never be lost.”

  My insides twist, suddenly very, very upset. “Oh, god. They buried it with your grandmother, didn’t they? In an unmarked grave at the foot of Chimney Rock, Nebraska.”

  Pasha’s features betray nothing. He leans across the table, closer to me, gesturing that I should do the same. “No,” he whispers, slowly shaking his head. “That would have been really gross. They put it in a safety deposit box.”

  I almost slap him. “You bastard! I thought I was going to have to bleach your dead grandmother off my hands!”

  The kitchen is flooded from ceiling to floor with a sound I remember well—the sound of Pasha Rivin roaring with laughter. The same sound that echoed in my ears as I fled from the Midnight Fair. “Grave robbery is a real thing, little firefly,” he says. “And Shelta was paranoid, too. She wanted to be able to check on it every once in a while. Thirty years pass, and The Empress remains tucked up, nice and tight, in a safety deposit box. Then, five years ago, Shelta pays a visit to the bank where the card is being held, and…” He trails off.

  “It was gone?”

  “Gone,” he confirms. “She spent six months trying to find it, and then declared it was all a load of bullshit anyway and everyone was to forget all about it. So that’s what the clan did. And then you come along, and out of nowhere you pull this card from her tarot deck? A card that hasn’t been there in the deck in over three decades, that went missing, just like my grandmother predicted?” He considers something, gentle lines forming in his brow. “This actually explains a lot.”

  “How so?”

  “Shelta’s being even crazier than normal. On edge.”

  “She’s worried about the destruction of your clan, then. And she thinks I’m going to be responsible?”

  “Probably. But she’s probably more worried about the second part of my grandmother’s prediction, though.”

  “The part about the newly crowned king?”

  “Mmm.”

  “She must really love your king then? If she’s so worried about him.”

  The grin on Pasha’s face turns sour. “Personally, I’m not so sure about that, but my mother at least says she does. See, the king of the Roma is her flesh and blood. He has the misfortune of being her only living son.”

  My heart stops dead in my chest. The puzzle pieces fall into place without me even trying. I know I must look pretty dumb with my mouth hanging open and my eyes the size of saucers, but my surprise is a living, breathin
g thing, and I can’t get a collar on it to rein it in.

  “You?” I whisper.

  Pasha looks away, his eyes finding the calendar on the refrigerator; he looks genuinely interested in the fact that I have a dental appointment booked next Thursday.

  “You’re—”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t say it,” he rumbles.

  But there’s no stopping the words now. They trip from the end of my tongue, colored with disbelief.

  “You are the Roma King.”

  20

  PASHA

  THE ROMA KING

  I can see the shock on her face. The shock and the utter disbelief. She looks like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

  “You’re a king.”

  “Apparently. I don’t have much say in the matter. They’re planning on proxy crowning me.”

  “You don’t want it?”

  “You wouldn’t either, if you knew all the shit that comes with it.” The conflicts and the superstition. The constant responsibilities. The incessant buzzing in your ear, from hundreds upon thousands of people. “The perks just aren’t worth it. I’ve been lucky so far. I haven’t had to deal with most of it.”

  “Why? How?”

  God, she looks so fucking innocent, with her nose wrinkled and her head tilted to one side like that. My cock throbs, just once. A pointed reminder that it likes the girl sitting across the table and would very much like to find itself buried in that pretty little mouth of hers. I force myself to ignore it. “I was banished. For the last three years.”