by Hart, Callie
“Well, look who it is,” another voice echoes up the stairwell. My eyes adjust quickly to the dark, and I bite back a grin as Patrin stomps his way up the concrete steps toward me. “It’s fucking Bob Hope, come to amaze us all with his unique comedy routine.”
“Bob Hope?” I keep my expression in check, though the look on Patrin’s face has me dying on the inside. “Couldn’t think of a more recent comedian?”
“Think you’re so smart, don’t you, motherfucker. Shireen nearly fucking killed me when she saw that travesty on my back.”
“You have to admit, the artwork itself is pretty fucking good.”
“I could have done without the veins, you prick. Or the glistening tip.”
“Had to be anatomically correct. Sorry.”
“You are not sorry. Don’t start lying before you’ve even stepped foot down there, you sack of shit. Shelta’s not in the mood for it, and neither am I.”
I huff down my nose, shoving my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. “I can just leave if you like? Leave you both to your miserable, humorless moods. That suit you better?”
Patrin makes a derisive noise as he glances at the line of people listening to our conversation behind me. He scowls at them, and I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. “Just get your ass down there before I knock your front teeth out,” he snaps.
I’m pretty damn impressed with myself as I hurry past him, down the stairs, still maintaining a straight face. Halfway down, I pause and call back up to him. “Hey, Patrin?”
“What?”
I toss the small tube that I’ve been carrying in my pocket up to him. He catches it, and his nostrils flare when he sees what I’ve given to him.
“You left before I could give you your tatt salve. Make sure you moisturize twice a day. Wouldn’t want that monster cock turning out all patchy and faded now, would we?”
He roars something unintelligible, then hurls the tube of lotion down the stairwell, clearly aiming it at my head, but he’s always been a shitty shot; he misses by a mile, and the tube hits the wall, clattering to the floor and rolling off into the dark as I run down the remainder of the steps.
I don’t need a light to guide me as I make my way to the doorway at the end of the narrow corridor. I know this place like the back of my hand. I’ve been coming here since I was seven years old, when the Rivin clan set up shop here for the very first time. As I pull open the door, stepping through into the Midnight Fair, I smile sadly upon the familiar faces of all the people I haven’t seen in three full years, busy about their work as they set up for the evening’s frivolities, and I know what I have to do.
* * *
Shelta’s never been an ordinary fortune teller. She never went with the traditional flowing garbs and the gypsy headdress, dripping with tin medallions. When I enter her tent, I find my mother sitting at her card table, dressed in a severe, restrictive-looking pant suit. The dove grey color of the material does nothing for her complexion, and she looks pale and washed out in the hazy lighting. Older. She looks much, much older than the last time I laid eyes on her.
She doesn’t look up from the deck of tarot in front of her, so I make my way across the tent and sit myself down opposite her. Crossing my legs at the ankle, I slouch into the high-backed chair, stuffing my hands in my pockets again.
“Please. Do make yourself at home,” she says softly.
I don’t reply. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to joust with her during this meeting, and this initial barb is hardly worth acknowledging. Instead, I stare up at the roof of the tent, waiting for her to put her cards away and end her nonchalant posturing.
Four minutes pass. Then another two. She’s trying to irritate me and prove her position by ignoring me, but it doesn’t work. I couldn’t fucking care less if she takes thirty minutes or five hours to finally face me. I have all night, and Shelta Rivin no longer possesses the ability to crawl her way under my skin. I desensitized myself to her bullshit games long before I’d even turned eighteen.
Eventually, she draws in a long-suffering breath, sighs heavily, and then collects the tarot cards she’s been staring at, sliding them back into her deck. “Looks like you’ve been doing well for yourself, Pasha,” she says. Her voice carries no inflection. She could be declining cashback at a grocery store right now instead of speaking to her only son for the first time in years.
“I have. Thanks.”
“Patrin tells me you’ve opened up a tattoo parlor. I never imagined you’d fill your days with such an inane pastime.”
“Really? I’d have thought becoming a tattoo artist would have been a fairly obvious choice for me, given how much ink I’ve put into the skin of the men and women out there, setting up the fair.”
At last, she looks up at me, cool, assessing grey eyes picking over me. She’s not happy. Not in the slightest. “The men and women out there, setting up the fair? Do you mean your brothers and sisters? Your aunts and uncles? Those people? The people who have been worried sick about you since you walked out of here and didn’t look back?”
I sit a little straighter, pulling myself up in the chair. “I didn’t walk out, though, did I? I was banished. There’s a bit of a difference there. Don’t act like I abandoned you all, Mother. You’re not that good an actress, and I don’t have the patience for such a weak performance.”
She rolls her eyes. “Did you speak to anyone at least? Shireen? Colm?”
“No. Everyone’s busy. I kept my head down and came straight here. No one knows I’m here.”
“Mmm.” She ponders this. “I suppose that’s for the best. Everyone’s so excited to have you back. But from what Patrin tells me, it sounds as if you have no plan of returning to lead your people. I’d hate for everyone to get excited, only to be disappointed by you.”
“The only person I seem to disappoint is you, Mother.”
She gives me a sad, condescending smile. “If only that were true.”
“You’ve been back in Spokane for a month already, Shelta. If you truly gave a shit about me coming home to accept my role, you would have come and seen me yourself the moment you arrived, wouldn’t you?”
She blinks at me slowly, catlike and calculating. The lines around her mouth are much deeper than before. They aren’t laughter lines, from years spent carousing and playing with the children, or sharing jokes with the other members of the clan. Those lines are a direct result of the many years she’s spent grimacing at everyone and everything in her path. “Yes. Well,” she clips out. “I thought I’d give you the chance to come to me first. As it should have been. But it looks like the stubborn streak you inherited from your father has widened substantially during our time apart.”
I shake my head, tutting under my breath. “Dad gave me the boyish good looks, the massive dick, and the gift of the gab. If I am as stubborn as you say I am, then I inherited that trait from you.”
Shelta’s hair, full of thick waves, is still dark, but there is a touch of grey at her temples now. She smooths a hand over it, taming back an invisible rogue strand as she sends a withering pout in my direction. “No need to be crass. You really think I care about the contents of your pants?”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“I didn’t come to you sooner, because I thought there’d be more time, but the clan’s growing more and more restless by the day. It’s time to stop being so childish, Pasha. Time to put away childish things and accept your responsibilities as a man. As the head of this clan, and all other clans on the western coast.”
I frown at her, trying to read through the austere, stiff exterior. “What do you mean, they’re growing more and more restless by the day?”
“Exactly that. It’s not just the Rivins who want their king to step up and take the helm. All five of the clans are waiting for your return, and they want it to happen soon. The banishment’s over. You’ve atoned for your crimes. You’re suppo—”
I tip my head to one side, eyes narrowed into slits. “
My crimes?”
“Urgh. Why insist on playing stupid? You know what you did, Pasha. Lazlo was loved by everyone around here. He walked on fucking water. You killed him. You took a knife and you sank it into his stomach.”
“You think Leo loved Lazlo?” The challenge in my voice is bold and clear. “What about Sammy? Or Danior, or Motshan? The man wasn’t just sticking his fingers up the asses of gadje boys while we were on the road. He violated plenty of our own, too. If I hadn’t walked in and found him pinning Leo to that bed with his pants around his ankles, I know what would have happened. So do you. I think you knew about Golden Boy Uncle Lazlo’s penchant for little boys long before any of the rest of us did. And what did you do about it? Nothing.”
I’ve made a hobby out of learning to bury my anger and my disgust over my lifetime. I’m seriously fucking good at it. But right now, I feel like my insides are filled with boiling acid, and I can’t keep it down. Shelta’s cheeks turn a feverish shade of red—two twin spots of pure, unadulterated fury that mark her skin, the way an animal marks itself to warn others that it’s dangerous. “Watch your tongue. Lazlo had his faults. Who doesn’t? He was drunk the night you found him with Leo, and I’m sure—”
I launch myself forward, slamming my fist down onto the table as hard as I fucking can. “DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING DEFEND HIM! He was a rapist. He was a pedophile, and I committed no fucking crime!”
Cool, calm, unshakable Shelta nearly shits herself. She rocks back in her seat, holding a hand to the base of her throat. “Pasha, control yourself. Perhaps…” She swallows. “Perhaps it’s better to leave the past where it belongs. In the past. I am trying to talk to you about the future. Your future, and ours. You’re nearly twenty-eight-years old. You’ve had plenty of time to shirk your obligations and run amok. Now, I’m your mother, and I’m telling you that you have to come back.”
“Ha!” I get to my feet, lacing my fingers together behind my head, elbows in the air. “I don’t know how the fuck you think you can order me to do anything, Shelta, but you are so fucking wrong. So fucking blind. I almost feel sorry for you.”
“You’re angry at me for letting them banish you. You’re taking that anger out on the entire clan, and it’s hurting them.”
“How am I hurting them?” I’m verging on hysteria. She’s so fucking manipulative. So fucking sneaky. She will literally say anything to get her own way.
“You are destroying this family! You’re destroying this clan. The Rivins have been head of the Roma for generations, and you’re about to ruin it all. If you’re not coronated and married by the end of the winter, the clans are going to appoint a new a king. They’ll take the title away from our family, and we’ll have to bow down to one of their men. You want that? Is that what you want for us, Pasha? For me to be stripped of all rank and title? The other clans still keep to the old ways. Women are nothing but chattel. Unclean. Good for nothing but cooking, cleaning, and pumping out babies.
“You used to love the fact that we were different,” she continues. “You enjoyed the freedoms your father and I introduced to this vitsa. And now you’re willing to throw all that away on some point of pride? Because I hurt your feelings? Get a grip, Pasha!” Her anger subsides just as quickly as it rose. “Just listen to me. We can do this together. You and I. Very little has to change. It’s nothing but a title and a pretty woman by your side. You can still do what you want. Be who you want. I can continue to make the decisions for this family. I can still be its head.”
Oh.
Wow.
So, there it is.
Crystal fucking clear.
Now it all makes perfect fucking sense.
She can try and dress it up any way she likes, but here is the truth, bold as brass, staring me right in the face. She wants me crowned and wed, so she won’t have to give up any of her power. She wants me to secure the title for the Rivins so she won’t lose her position as queen regent, or have to defer to any of the other clans.
Un-fucking-believable.
I should have known. I should have been able to figure this one out all on my own. It’s no surprise that the other clans would push to have one of their own representatives crowned king. Why wouldn’t they, if I appeared, for all intents and purposes, to have abdicated and abandoned my family? The sneer on my face feels ugly as it contorts my features. “You’re a real piece of work,” I whisper. “You really think I’d ever agree to marry some stranger and tie myself to this family, just so life can carry on as normal for you? You’re fucking insane!”
Her eyes cloud over with contempt. “Sit down, Pasha.”
“I will not fucking sit down!”
She sets her jaw, turning her attention to the tarot deck in front of her. “You’ve been dreaming, haven’t you?” she says. “I can smell it on you.”
I blast out a breath down my nose. “Everybody dreams. So what?”
“The same dream? The girl. You’ve been dreaming about her.”
“None of your damn business.”
“Sit down, Pasha.”
“I told you. I’m not going to sit down. I’m not going to subject myself to any more of this bullshit. I’m a grown man. I can and will do whatever the fuck I want, and I sure as hell won’t be giving up whatever peace and happiness I’ve found here for you.”
Shelta’s nostrils flare, as if she really is smelling something on me. “This woman you’re dreaming of. Nothing good will come of it. Your interactions with these gadjes will only bring you unhappiness. They aren’t like you. They’ll never be like you. This woman will never be able to understand you. If you get involved with her, the two of you will end up regretting it for the rest of your lives. I will personally make sure of it.”
If there was anything breakable inside this tent, I’d pick it up and hurl it at her. I’ve had enough. Seriously. My very last nerve is frayed and tattered. “You really believe this shit, don’t you? You really believe you can look inside my head and tell me what’s coming. You’re fucking delusional.”
Clasping her hands together in front of her on the table, my mother looks down at the tarot deck in front of her. “Draw three,” she commands. God knows how she can listen to the things I’m saying to her and blatantly ignore every single word. She’s always been that way, though—never paying attention to anyone else’s thoughts or feelings, unless they align with what she wants. She’s just threatened me, and she’s pretending like nothing fucking happened.
“I’m not touching that deck. You can keep your fucking parlor tricks. I’m leaving.”
“Fine. I’ll draw them for you.”
“You can’t fucking draw them for me—”
She’s not paying the slightest bit of attention, though. She quickly selects three cards from the deck and lays them face up on the table.
First, the Devil. Reversed, so that the satyr on the card is facing me. Meaning: freedom. Release. A restoration of control.
Second, Justice XI. Upright. Meaning: Justice. Natural law. Righted wrongs.
The last card is the Ace of Pentacles. Upright. Meaning: Prosperity. Opportunity. Fresh starts.
I choke back my own laughter as I peer down at the images on the table. “I’d say that was a pretty clear reading, wouldn’t you? The cards are telling you the same thing I’m telling you. I’m out of here… and I’m going to be a hell of a lot better off for it.”
Shelta hisses like a feral cat, her lip curling as she stares down at the cards she’s drawn on my behalf. She’s probably regretting ever teaching me about the tarot. If I was as blissfully ignorant to their meanings as most of the people who walk into her tent, she would have spun me a line, no doubt, making something up about the reading to try and bend me to her will.
Looking up at me, she digs her finger nails into the grain of the wooden table, her fury roiling off her like smoke. “You will obey me, Pasha. You will accept the crown. You will be married. And you will stay away from that woman in your dreams. She’s not for you, do you hear
me? She’ll be the ruin of us all.”
11
ZARA
THE MIDNIGHT FAIR
Sarah won’t be stopped. No matter how hard I try to reason with her, she won’t go with us. Her face is white as a sheet as Garrett and I see her back to her car; Garrett gestures for us to get in with her, but Sarah shoos us away.
“Don’t be stupid. You’ve come all this way. You’ll be safe if Garrett’s with you, but don’t stay down there too long. Don’t get drunk. And for fuck’s sake, don’t accept any favors. You’ve no idea what kind of trouble that will lead to.”
As the car burns off down the street, Garrett and I exchange puzzled glances. “Any idea what that was about?” I ask.
He shrugs, scratching the back of his head. It was a stupid question, really. Even if he did have a clue what spooked Sarah so badly, he wouldn’t be able to tell me. During the walk back to the entrance to the subway, I mull over what just happened and a tight knot forms in my stomach. Sarah’s known for her dramatics, but this seems different. She was shaking like a leaf.
The rain grows heavier. My hair is drenched, right along with the insides of my sneakers, and my thin jacket is next to useless. Garrett didn’t even bother with a jacket, and his white shirt is plastered to his shoulders, almost transparent now.
When we reach our destination, we find that a line has formed while we were gone. At least ten people are waiting to enter down the steps into the subway tunnel, and a short, balding man is arguing with a tall, tattooed guy at the mouth of the stairwell.