by Callie Hart
My teeth feel like they’re about to crack as I slam the grate on the burner closed and I face her again. “Is there anything you want to tell me about my banishment? Any…” I shrug my shoulders. “Any pertinent information about my crime you might have skipped over at the time?”
“Please, Pasha. Grow up. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
The accusation pulses through me with every beat of my heart. “Well. Three years was a pretty long banishment. For ending a rapist’s life. For protecting the children of the clan.”
Shelta rolls her eyes. “Jesus. I really did spoil you too much as a child, didn’t I? Three years is nothing. You were free to go wherever you wanted. You could do whatever you damn well pleased. What do you think your sentence would have been if you’d been tried in a gadje court of law? They would have thrown you in a prison cell, locked the door behind you and thrown away the key.”
“Would they have done that if I hadn’t actually killed anyone?” I ask. I wait for it. The shadow in her eyes. The stunned expression that flits across her face. The moment where I see the truth: that she knew Lazlo didn’t die at my hands at all. The moment doesn’t show itself on her face, though. It’s her hands that give her away. They both reflexively curl into fists, my mother clenching so tight that her knuckles turn white and bloodless. Aside from this tell, her composure remains entirely intact. She’s a fucking professional at this. If I’d blinked, if I’d missed the moment when she’d tensed, then I might even believe she didn’t know Lazlo survived when she says, “Pasha, I’m not sure what the point of this conversation is, but you did kill a man. You were responsible for someone’s death, and you were punished according to our traditions and our beliefs. That’s all there is to it.”
“If that is true, then please. Enlighten me. How the fuck could Lazlo have broken into a Russian mob boss’ house two weeks ago, stolen a five-year-old little boy and murdered him? AND HOW THE FUCK COULD HE HAVE JUST KIDNAPPED KEZIA?”
My voice echoes around the gathering hall, sounding more and more furious with each repetition. Shelta staggers back, white as a sheet. “What? What the hell are you talking about? He can’t have kidnapped Kezia. That’s not possible.”
Her muttered statement tells me so much. She didn’t deny again the fact that two people who were supposed to be dead are very much alive. She didn’t deny that she’s been lying to her son and her clan for fucking years. She also doesn’t seem surprised that a little boy has been taken and then murdered. The only thing she appears taken aback by is the mention that somehow Lazlo has Kezia.
Zara narrows her eyes at Shelta, taking a step forward. “You knew, didn’t you? When I came to the fair and I asked about Corey, you knew that piece of shit had him.”
Shelta unleashes a scathing bark of laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Or you at least suspected. That’s why you kept that print out of Corey. You wanted to ask your own questions. Find out for yourself.”
My mother has maintained the illusion that Zara isn’t even here since we walked into the gathering hall, but now she lets the pretense slip. She rounds on her, her eyes narrowing into hate-filled slits. “You do not come here and speak to me like that. You do not even address me. Get out.”
Many people would falter under such livid scrutiny. Many have, myself included, when I was much younger. But not Zara. She straightens up, returning Shelta’s gaze, and huffs down her nose. “You could have done something. You could have said something. Even if it was only suspicion, you could have acted. You could have saved him, but you didn’t. You threw me out, and that little boy died. His blood is on your hands.”
Zara is judge and jury. She is righteous hellfire, and she’s raining down on my mother’s head. Shelta just stands there, gaping at her as if my glorious, amazing, awe-inspiring Firefly has just appeared, materialized out of thin air, and has the audacity to speak to her like she’s something unpleasant she’s just scraped from the bottom of her shoe.
“You might think you know him.” My mother’s eyes dart to me, sharp as knives; they flit right back to Zara. “But you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into right now. You don’t have the first clue how complicated any of this is. And if you think you’re safe here, just because Pasha brought you here, then you are sorely mistaken. It doesn’t matter what he promised you. It doesn’t matter if he swore he’d protect you. You’re not welcome here, and you will feel just how keenly I mean that very soon. My advice to you—”
“You can keep your advice. I don’t need it.”
My mother’s head jerks back; her eyes are wild, filled with a stunned fury that, in all my twenty-eight-years on this planet, I have never seen on her face before. Twin spots of red form high on her cheekbones. Once again, she looks at me, flustered, and I realize that the woman’s embarrassed. She’s fucking mortified that I was here to witness this. For fuck’s sake. The woman really is deluded if she thinks I still see her as some kind of all-powerful deity who must be respected and obeyed. I haven’t obeyed her for a long time now. I’ve respected her for far less than that.
I stifle a laugh as Zara steps toward Shelta. There’s a fight brewing in my Firefly’s eyes, and I am seriously fucking glad I’m not on the receiving end of her burning gaze; Shelta shifts uncomfortably as the redheaded gadje that I’ve broken all the rules for arrives in front of her.
“You’re right. I don’t know much about your son, but I do know this. I care about him. I’m attracted to him. I’ve been…” She looks up at the ceiling, shaking her head. “I’ve been finding my way to him for a long time. I want him, and I’m not going to allow anyone, least of all you, come between me and what I want. That goes for my career, too. Yeah, that’s right. I found your little gift.” Zara slides her hand into her pocket and pulls out a small piece of card: it’s The Empress. Gold leaf catches hold of the gathering hall’s light and burns in Zara’s hand for a second. The next moment, the tarot card that went missing, just as my grandmother predicted before she died, is floating down to land at Shelta’s feet.
My mother staggers back, unsteady, as if the tarot card’s about to explode and take her out at the ankles. “What the hell are you doing?” she hisses. “Why the hell did you bring that back here?”
“It belongs to you, doesn’t it?”
Shelta kicks the tarot card away, and The Empress skids across the floor of the gathering hall, disappearing underneath a large set of mahogany drawers. “Once it left my deck, it could never come back. The card’s tied to you now. It should be with you.”
“Then it’s only right that it’s here. Because I’m not going anywhere,” Zara says. Her voice is clean and loud. Dripping with defiance. Her words echo around the gathering hall, repeat themselves on a loop, and Shelta turns grey.
“You’re just like her,” she says. “Too headstrong. Too brash. Too strong-willed and stubborn. Kezia never knew when to keep her mouth shut.”
I’ve allowed Zara to handle the situation, to say everything she needs to say to Shelta, but now I can’t help myself. I have to speak. “So you don’t deny that my aunt is alive, then? That she isn’t fucking dead?”
She stares me down with cool, hard eyes. Her lips, pressed together into a tight, thin line, do not part.
“Wonderful. How the fuck could you lie to us all for so long? Or…” I huff out a breath. It sounds like laughter, but it’s not. Far from it. It’s frustration. Anger. Disbelief. “Or maybe not. Maybe you didn’t lie to everyone else. You just lied to me, right, Mom?”
“Don’t be such a martyr,” my mother hisses. “You were too curious as a child, Pasha. Incessant questions, all the time. Never ending questions. You were infuriating. If you knew Kezia was alive, you’d have wanted to know where she was. Why she wasn’t traveling with us anymore. Why I didn’t want any dealings with the woman. What happened between us. Why didn’t she visit us. On and on and on. It would
have been too much to take. So, yes. I told you she was dead. And for all intents and purposes, I was telling you the truth. Your aunt is dead. Dead to the Rivin clan. She was permanently banished. If you’d done what you were told, you would never have known any different.”
“Can you actually hear yourself right now? You’re trying to blame me for upsetting the balance, when you’re the one who’s been lying to me for my entire fucking life! You need help. Professional help. Jesus fucking Christ!”
Shelta is cast out of marble. Immoveable. A rigid, unfeeling creature.
She doesn’t move a muscle as she says, “We could do this all day, but let’s face it. I’m sure we all have better things to be doing. And the light’s fading. You’d better set off now if you want to reach the parking lot before nightfall. Say what you came here to say and leave. Both of you.”
A slick, oily blackness rises up my throat—tastes like revenge. Tastes like just deserts. Sadly, it also tastes like bitter betrayal. The acerbic tang of it bites at my tongue as I slowly shake my head. She’s right. I was an inquisitive child. I had a lot of questions about the world and a burning desire to learn everything there was to know about people. Not much has changed since then, either. I still have questions. So, so many.
Where did things go wrong for my mother? What happened to her to make her so heartless? Was she just born this way, or did she transform into this lying, ruthless, calculating bitch over time? I scour my memory, trying to remember a single moment in my youth where she might have softened. Shown a little kindness. Smiled, even. But…I’m come up blank. Fuck. Talk about depressing. “Like Zara said, she’s not going anywhere. And neither am I. We’re staying here for the night. You should be happy, Shelta. I’m giving you want you wanted. I’ll be king, if the people will have me.”
A victorious light flares to life inside my mother’s eyes. She is happy now, because she thinks I’m giving in. She is sadly mistaken, though.
“Things are going to change around here,” I say flatly. “Everything is going to change, Mother.”
Her spark of triumph gutters out. “What does that mean?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”
Shelta’s mouth opens. She closes it again, so quick and so hard that I hear her teeth cracking together from across the gathering hall. “You hate me then. You must, if you’re willing to throw this in my face so blatantly. If you’re planning on taking everything from me.”
I look at her. Really look at her. When I was a child, she was such a force to be reckoned with. So strong. So powerful. Now I see that she was never strong. She was just angrier than everyone else. And the power she radiated, inspiring everyone around her to bow down to her will and her desires, obeying her in everything? That power was never truly hers. It was merely borrowed, and now she can feel it slipping away from her, disappearing into the ether.
I tut under my breath as I take Zara’s hand and lead her from the gathering hall. “I don’t hate you,” I say over my shoulder. “I fucking pity you, Shelta. There’s a world of difference.”
Seven
ZARA
As soon as the door to the gathering hall closes, I grab hold of Pasha’s hand and clench hold of it, using him as an anchor. I need something to keep me rooted to the ground. To keep me sane. I’ve never been so angry in all my life. In the past, I’ve had to deal with plenty of shit that’s driven me to the point of seeing red, but that exchange with Shelta…I’ve never had to face such a hostile, terrible…just plain bad person before. I doubt many people have. The pure wrath fizzing away inside my head is making it hard to breathe properly.
“I know,” Pasha says grimly under his breath. “She’s a law unto herself. I can’t fucking believe she lied about Kezia. And she didn’t seem to give a shit that Lazlo has her right now. Hey, are you okay? You’re looking a little…squirly.”
He turns to me, all concern, his free hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair back out of my eyes; I want to throw myself into his arms, bury my face into his shirt and fucking scream until all the anger has poured out of me, but I can’t. It would be inappropriate as fuck, since we seem to have attracted a crowd during the time we were inside with the clan’s fortune-teller.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I glance over Pasha’s shoulder and notice the throng of people there, all watching, waiting, whispering to one another behind their hands or directly into each other’s ears. Old women; gnarled, ancient old men; women with heavily kohled eyes, bouncing babies on their hips; men in waistcoats, sweatshirts, t-shirts; football jerseys; a handful of young, teenaged boys, clustered together, watching Pasha with excited grins on their faces: it seems as though everyone has come out to witness the return of the prodigal son. Shrieking children run through the crowd, laughing and tugging at each other’s clothes as they chase one another, oblivious to the tension that has fallen over the camp.
I can feel it, thick as honey but nowhere near as pleasant: these people are conflicted. It’s very obvious that they’re happy to see Pasha again, but me? Hmm, not so much. Pasha throws a glance over his shoulder and stiffens when he sees his family, his people, all hovering around a large fire that someone must have lit while we were inside. “Ah, fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “I was hoping this wasn’t going to be a…thing.”
The people separate, clearing a narrow pathway, and a man emerges, dressed head to toe in black. It’s Patrin. His expression is dark and unwelcoming to say the least. Bastard looks like he just swallowed a bee and it’s stinging his insides all the way down his throat. When he reaches the front of the group, he nods to Pasha, and I can tell he’s doing his best to avoid looking at me. “Didn’t know we were allowed to bring friends over now,” he says. He’s adopted a jesting, light tone, but I’m no fool. The shadow of annoyance in his voice when he speaks is enough to darken the entire camp.
Pasha tsks. “You guys can bring whoever you want wherever you want. You’re adults, right?”
With measured, slow movements, Patrin fold his arms across his chest, his face unreadable. “This place has been a Rivin family haven for a long time, Pash. I hope you have a good reason for bringing an outsider here.”
The man next to me, a dark-haired angel with eyes the color of a cold Scandinavian sky, rolls back his shoulders and takes a step down from the porch that wraps around the gathering room, bringing him closer to the crowd. “I do,” he says. Even though they are not particularly loud, those two words carry across the entire camp.
The children have stopped shrieking. All hints of laughter are gone.
Everyone is silent as Pasha regards the faces of those who have come to see him, their eyes bright and alert, their chests rising and standing proud as they all hold one collective, burning breath.
“Three years ago, I was banished from the clan for killing a man. My banishment’s served now, and I’m here…” Pasha’s scans the horizon for a second, a small frown creasing his brow. “You should know, I told Shelta I wasn’t going to come back to the clan. I told her I wanted to stay here in Washington and continue on with the way things have been since I was cast out.”
An uneasy murmur ripples through the crowd. A number of eyes shoot to me, narrowed and unhappy, as if I am the cause of Pasha’s reluctance to return to the clan. Pasha has to notice this; he holds up a hand, clenching his jaw, the corner of his mouth pulling down as he sighs.
“This woman, Zara,” he says, gesturing to me, “has nothing to do with the decision I made. I hadn’t even met her when I told Shelta I was refusing the crown. Our paths crossed afterward, and since then a lot of things have happened. I discovered that Lazlo didn’t actually die three years ago. He survived, and I think Shelta helped him. I think she arranged for him to be cared for, even if she didn’t nurse him back to health herself, and she knew I wasn’t responsible for his death even when she was pushing for my punishment.”
At the back of the crowd, a voice pipes up, female, old yet steady and strong. “And wh
y on earth would your own mother do that Pasha Rivin?”
Pasha searches for the owner of the voice and finds her, locking onto her amongst a blur of faces. I follow his gaze and find her, too—a surprisingly tall woman with steel grey hair, elegantly swept back and pinned out of her face by shining gold berets. She’s wearing green corduroy overalls and a pale blue shirt underneath, which is rumpled and stained on the left shoulder with what looks like engine grease. The woman’s quick, warm brown eyes slide over me, a brief, casual assessment, and I don’t see any anger there. Just a gentle curiosity that mirrors my own.
“You really need to ask, Cleo?” Pasha laughs, his deep, booming voice made light as it carries on a frigid wind across the plateau. “You all voted for me. Fifteen years ago, and then again, ten years ago. Each of you voted for me to rule when I was old enough, not her. Shelta’s been a caretaker and nothing more. But in my mother’s mind, she is the rightful leader of this vitsa. Of all the west coast vitsas. A three-year banishment for me bought her more time on the throne. It’s that simple.”
A grumble goes up. Confused expressions are traded. None of the Rivin family clan members seem stunned by this revelation. They’ve been living with Shelta for years, after all. They all know the woman very well. It would be impossible to spend any length of time around the fortune-teller and not believe her capable of such a thing.
On the horizon, the sun has begun to sink below a distant, jagged ridgeline. Overhead, any hint of cloud cover has disappeared, and the pale, stark winter blue of the sky is deepening, bruising, tinged a violent shade of violet as small pinpricks of light puncture through the mantel of the heavens. The cold sinks its teeth into my skin, deeper, deeper, until it penetrates my bones.
“How many of you knew Kezia?” Pasha calls out. “Do any of you remember my aunt when she traveled with the clan?”
Feet shuffle against the hard-packed earth. A number of people frown, younger members of the vitsa, clearly not recognizing the name. Others nod, though. Two thirds of the crowd, by the looks of things. “Of course,” the woman in the overalls, Cleo, says. “She was my friend. A friend to all of us.”