by Meg Jackson
"Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved,
everything up to that point had been left unresolved;
try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm
Come in, she said, I'll give ya
shelter from the storm"
“You played this for me, two weeks ago,” she said. “Remember?”
Cristov nodded, leaning forward. She rose and joined him on the couch again, turning her back to him and leaning against his chest, pulling at his arm until it was pressed tight across her stomach.
“This is how I feel about you, too,” she murmured, feeling sleep beginning to take its turn on her body, already tired from the night out and the activities after. “I just want you to know, okay? I want you to know that…well, I can’t promise you forever. But I can tell you tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, I’m going to wake up next to you, and I’m not going to want to be anywhere else.”
“Okay, Ricky,” he said, and though his words were simple his tone spoke volumes.
“I just hope that’s enough for you,” she said through a yawn. The song played between them, seeming to sync with their heartbeats.
“It is,” she heard him say, as she drifted off to sleep.
22
Damon stared at the horrific display before him for a long while. Then he pulled out his phone. Kennick answered on the first ring.
“Yeah?” Kennick’s voice was drowsy on the other end of the line. It was early, after all; Damon’s 5 AM runs took place before most of the kumpania finished sleeping off their hangovers or rose to attend to business. Damon himself usually ran for an hour, then went back to sleep until he was due at the cheese shop.
“You’re gonna wanna come to the greenhouse,” Damon said, keeping his voice level. “There’s been a…development.”
The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line told Damon he didn’t need to elaborate.
“One minute,” Kennick said before clicking off. Just before the line went dead, Damon heard a female voice’s muffled protest.
This is totally fucked, Damon thought, moving forward to get a better look at the bloody mess. When he neared the trailer, he saw a note on the door. Who was supposed to be watching the trailer the night before? Harvest was nearly finished, but there still should have been someone on watch. Cristov had been outsourcing that duty to Sam and Nal as he spent more and more time in Ricky’s bed. Damon banged on the door even as he read the note.
Don’t underestimate us.
Simple. Damon could appreciate simplicity, even if he couldn’t abide the act itself, or its implications. If there was one thing he’d learned from fighting, it was that the man who talked the most was usually the first to go down. When the door swung open, taking the note with it, Damon growled deep in his throat and rushed the stairs.
“You fuckin’ backstabbing prick.”
Sam’s heel caught on the stairs leading up into the trailer and he fell backwards, his face a perfect example of surprise.
“Fuck off, Damon,” he spat, face reddening. “I don’t know what the fuck…”
Damon didn’t wait for him to finish before grabbing Sam by the sleeve and dragging him forward. The cold air wouldn’t be too friendly to Sam’s bare legs, his only clothing a pair of boxers and a white undershirt, but that would be the least of his problems. Damon threw him, stumbling, forward, and he landed on his palms right behind the horrific monument.
“Jesus Christ!” Sam howled, looking up, his eyes widening as he took in the sight before him. Kennick, arriving at a brisk trot, stopped a few feet away, his own eyes mirroring Sam’s as he looked at what Damon had found.
A large, pointed stick rose out of the ground in front of the trailer. Impaled on the sharpened top was Shep, his body limp, the stake driven through his neck, his pink tongue dangling from a mouth caked in dry blood. The scene was like some awful mockery of a child’s book about savages from distant lands, impaling their enemy’s heads for all to see. A retching sound broke the silence as Sam threw up between his hands.
“How the fuck did this happen, Sam? Did you let someone into the trailer? Did you do it?” Damon said, giving the man no reprieve from his sickness before grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling upwards. Kennick’s eyes drew away from the gruesome totem pole, attracted to the violence of Damon’s words and movements. Damon was always the cool-headed one, and this sudden spurt of impulsive rage was disturbing. He crossed the ground between them in a sprint and pulled his brother off the shaking man on the ground.
“Goddammit, Damon, cool off,” Kennick ordered, trying to get his brother’s attention. Damon stared at Sam Surry, who’d rolled onto his back and was coughing. “Sam’s one of us. Let’s fucking listen to him, man.”
“His fuckin’ cousin’s not one of us,” Damon answered through gritted teeth, finally meeting Kennick’s gaze. The look in Damon’s eyes scared Kennick to his core.
“We can’t talk about that now,” Kennick growled, glancing at the man behind them, who was rolling towards a sitting position.
“I just got drunk,” Sam said, his speech thick and gurgled. He spat onto the ground beside him into the modest puddle of vomit he’d managed to avoid falling into. “It’s so fuckin’ boring, I just got drunk…”
“Doing your fucking job is boring?” Damon roared, and slammed open the door to the trailer, disappearing inside with a crash. Kennick went to Sam’s side and helped him up, muttering into his ear that he would take care of Damon, that he wasn’t thinking clearly and just to answer his questions and it would all be fine.
Sam, not the most timid of men by a country mile, was shriveling at Damon’s wrath. That was due, in part, to his hangover; as Damon emerged holding an empty handle of vodka, Kennick surmised that Sam’s hangover was pretty serious.
“You drink all this by yourself, Sam? Who else was here with you? Who the fuck did you let in here?”
“Damon,” Kennick barked, increasingly agitated by his brother’s erratic behavior. “Call Cristov. Let me deal with Sam.”
Damon seethed in the doorway but, after a long moment, he dropped the bottle to the ground and pulled his phone out, muttering as he went back into the trailer.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” Sam asked, his breath returning in heaving bursts. “He’s out of his damn mind!”
“I don’t know,” Kennick said honestly, staring at the now-closed door. “But I’ll deal with it. Sam, was anyone else here last night?”
Sam nodded and gulped.
“Just Jenner and Nal. We got drunk, they left, I passed out. That’s it. Shit, man…”
Hearing Jenner’s name, Kennick’s suspicions rose – but he couldn’t go hollering at the guy for drinking with his cousin, even if he did have every reason to believe Jenner was up to no good again. But could Jenner really be involved in the biker gang? It was hard to believe, but stranger things had happened. Like the time Jenner set fire to one of our own damn homes, Kennick thought bitterly.
“How often do you drink on the job, Sam?” Kennick asked, keeping his suspicions to himself. The man shrugged and looked away, guilt on his face. When he looked back at Kennick, his eyes were imploring.
“It’s really fucking boring, Kennick,” he offered by way of excuse. Kennick sighed. He couldn’t blame the guy. Sam didn’t know about the bikers, didn’t know about their threats. All he knew was that they were upping security because of the fire. He and his brother had been told to look out for shady characters, specifically anyone riding a motorcycle or in leather, but not the extent of the danger.
Kennick mused on the accuracy of foresight; he should have told Cristov to spread the word to Nal and Sam and trust their confidence. The reason for secrecy had been to suppress premature panic in the kumpania; now, a few more wary eyes would have come in handy.
“And you didn’t hear anything? See anything?” Kennick asked. What he really wanted to ask was whose idea it had been to drink a whole b
ottle of vodka. If Jenner had said anything weird that night. If Jenner had drunk as much as his cousins. But, for the moment, he had to keep those questions to himself. If he was wrong, he could create a rift in the kumpania that would tear it apart forever.
Sam shook his head and, looking at the dead dog again, leaned over and heaved.
“You’re gonna help me get rid of this,” Kennick said, and when Sam looked up at him, eyes pleading, he stayed firm. “You let this happen by drinking on the job. I’m not going to have Cristov show up and see his dog like this.”
Kennick remembered how pale Cristov had been a few months prior, when he’d come across the dead body of a local girl in the woods. One thing his brother didn’t need was another corpse; specifically, the corpse of a dog that Cristov was fond of.
Damon emerged from the trailer and watched as Sam kicked the stake over, the dead body falling to the ground with a heavy thud. Kennick trotted into the trailer and came out with two pairs of gardening gloves. Throwing one pair to Sam, they shared the burden of pulling the dog off the wooden stake and dragging the body around the trailer, where it wouldn’t be the first thing to greet Cristov.
They laid the bloody stake beside the dog and Kennick said a short Romani prayer over the body. They’d give Shep a more formal burial later; it wasn’t customary to give pets funerals, especially since the trailer park was damn near overrun with mongrels of all types and ages, but Shep had been like an employee, and Cristov would want to see him honored in some way for giving his life for the kumpania.
Damon and Kennick let Sam go then, much to the man’s relief. He raced from the greenhouse to his own trailer, leaving the bloody gardening gloves in a pile at Kennick’s feet. Damon dropped to his haunches and seemed to study the gloves.
“What the fuck was that, Damon?” Kennick asked, needing the clear the air before Cristov arrived. He’d have enough to deal with without worrying about Damon’s mental state.
“I like dogs,” Damon answered enigmatically, offering an answer as thin as the air that surrounded them.
“Bullshit,” Kennick said. “I like dogs too, but I wasn’t inches away from beating up an ally because he made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” Damon growled, looking up at Kennick. “He was drunk on the job.”
“He didn’t know the severity of it,” Kennick rebuffed. “That’s not what I’m talking about anyway, Damon. You went crazy back there.”
“I got mad,” Damon said. “I’m a fighter, Kennick. I fight. Sue me.”
Kennick sighed and prepared to prod further, but Damon rose to his feet.
“Did you see the note?” he asked before Kennick could speak.
“Yeah,” Kennick said, looking at the note that still hung from the door. “I did.”
“Not exactly cryptic,” Damon said. “We knew they were trouble, but we didn’t know how much trouble, did we?”
“No,” Kennick agreed. “We sure as hell didn’t.”
“Is Kim gonna come sauntering out here?”
Kennick shook his head.
“She went back to sleep. Sleeps like a rock, too.”
Their voices sounded loud despite their muffled tones, the early morning quiet surrounding them on all sides. A car’s rumble preceded Cristov’s arrival, and he tumbled out of the late-rising fog after parking his car on the road.
“Where’s Shep?” he shouted, trotting forward. Kennick glared at Damon.
“You didn’t tell him on the phone, dude?”
“He did,” Cristov said, teeth grinding together as he approached, cheeks red and eyes blazing. “I want to see the body. I want to see what they did to my fucking dog, so I know what to do to them when I find them.”
23
“We have to go to the cops now,” Kennick said, watching Cristov pace back and forth in their kitchen.
“Fuck that,” Cristov grumbled. “We go to the cops, we’re all going down.”
“I don’t think so,” Kennick said, shaking his head. Damon drummed his fingers on the table across from Kennick, brooding. Kennick held his tongue on that account; Damon’s sudden fit of rage was tabled until they finished discussing the matter at hand. “We already sold most of the harvest and we can scrub the place clean.”
It was true that the majority of Cristov’s crop had already been doled out to their customers, sold for much less than it was worth in order to get rid of it. There was another pound or so left of Purple Gypsy Dream in the greenhouse, but it could be tossed or given away in a heartbeat. The gypsies were good at covering their tracks, and if times called for it, they could get themselves as squeaky clean as a toddler in a bathtub.
“And what happens when they start putting the squeeze on our clients?” Cristov snapped. “Think Junior is gonna keep our secret when Officer Fuck-a-Duck comes calling?”
Kennick sighed.
“Then what?” Damon asked, eyes following Cristov as he paced the tiny room, his strides so long that he took three steps before turning.
“I don’t fucking know,” Cristov seethed. “You’re the smart ones, aren’t you?”
“I have to tell Kim now,” Kennick said.
“You’re gonna tell Kim before we even talk to the kumpania?” Damon said. “We’ll have a diwano first.”
A diwano was a meeting of the kumpania, where the gypsies could have an open discussion about an issue or conflict. It was clear that the Volanis brothers could no longer keep the Steel Dragons a secret. Kennick felt guilty for keeping it secret for so long already. The idea had been to keep things calm. Now, it may be too late.
Kennick cursed himself; he should have opened himself to advice and suggestions from his elders, who knew far more about the world than him. A good rom baro considered all sides before making a decision that would affect everyone.
While Kennick and Damon discussed their next steps, and how to go about revealing what had been happening, Cristov stewed. He’d let this happen. He should never have left the damn greenhouse in the Surry’s hands. He should have been there every night. If he wasn’t so damn hung up on Ricky, he would have been.
All he ever wanted was to prove himself to be as good as his brothers, and what had he done instead? Proved he was as much of a stupid kid as everyone treated him. Even when Kennick had been wrapped up in Kim, he’d never let his loyalty to the kumpania flag, never abdicated his responsibilities. Ricky didn’t even treat Cristov as well as Kim treated Kennick, and he’d ditched his duties – and his people – for her time and time again. How could he have been so stupid and blind and immature?
If it wasn’t for her, Shep would still be alive, and I could have shot those trespassing motherfuckers right where they deserved it, he thought, storm clouds brewing behind his eyes. The world was starting to blur around its edges. His brother’s voices were like a distant soundtrack to his muddled thoughts.
Well, he wasn’t going to let it happen again. This was it. This was the sign he needed that he was barking up the wrong tree, that he was never meant to be with Ricky. She’d been half lit, anyway, like always, the night before, when she’d finally said the words he wanted to hear. So maybe she didn’t deserve his love. Whichever way it was, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d end it. He’d never let a woman come between him and his people again. If that meant he’d be alone forever, so be it. Fuck women. Fuck love.
“Call the fucking diwano,” he said, interrupting his brother’s conversation. “I’m going to take care of something. I’ll be back.”
“Wait,” Damon said, holding his hand out. “What are you taking care of? Don’t do anything stupid, Cristov. Nashti zhas vorta po drom o bango.”
"You cannot walk straight when the road is bent"; Cristov had no patience for old wisdom. His eyes burned as he held Damon’s stare, his shoulders bristling.
“I’m doing the only smart thing I’ve done since all this shit started,” Cristov hissed.
“You’re angry. People don’t do smart things when they’re angr
y,” Damon said softly but firmly. Kennick raised an eyebrow; Damon was one to talk about anger.
“I’ll. Be. Back,” Cristov said, breaking the stare and heading towards the door. Damon rose quickly, grabbing his brother by the arm.
“Don’t,” Damon said. “You’re gonna get yourself shot or…”
“You don’t know what I’m doing, Damon,” Cristov yelled, shaking himself free. “I have to take care of this before it gets worse, before someone else gets hurt because I’m too fucking distracted to take care of my own shit.”
“Tell us where you’re going, Cristov,” Kennick said, rising at the table, his eyes demanding an answer. Cristov realized, through the fog of anger, what his brothers were worried about. Growling, he decided he would put them at ease before making his own life hell.
“I’m going to Ricky’s.”
“Cristov, wai…”
But Kennick’s voice was lost behind the slamming door. The cold, gray air only made Cristov angrier. It was right that it should be cloudy and bitter on a day like that. It was right that the sky should take the color of his own heart.
24
She sounded eager on the phone when he called and said he was coming over. And why shouldn’t she be? If she’d been confused and concerned when he’d run out of the house that morning, she sounded relieved to have him back in her arms.
But he wouldn’t let himself into those arms. He wouldn’t even let himself want to be in those arms. He blinded himself in a mask of rage, determined to make good on the promises he’d made himself, his brothers, his kumpania.
All the long drive over, which wasn’t very long at all, Cristov felt like he was in a dream. A nightmare, the sort where you’re constantly running away from something but never gaining any ground. Or where the thing you needed – that would save your life, your brother’s life, your sister’s life – was just at the end of the road, but no matter how fast you ran, the landscape never changed. Rig’s type of nightmare.
