by Hart, Callie
I don’t know what to do, or where to go to look for her. It’s highly unlikely that she’s gone to seek out her sister, but if she did go to the Midnight Fair last night and she still hasn’t come back, then what does that mean? I know nothing of the issues Sarah faced with her family. The nature of their rift is still completely unknown to me. Was the cause of their estrangement so terrible that Shelta and the other members of the Rivin family would hurt her for it? Surely not.
And, try as I might, I can’t get the tarot card out of my head. I’ve half convinced myself that I must have picked it up from Shelta’s table when I was at the fair, that I must have put it in my purse or something and absent mindedly pulled it out at work, but I know the truth in my heart. Besides selecting it from Shelta’s deck, I didn’t touch it again. There’s no way it could have wound up amongst my things on my desk. Not without someone from the fair taking it to the dispatch center and purposefully leaving it there, hoping I would find it.
I am losing my fucking mind.
At three P.M., after pacing up and down the living room in my apartment for the better part of the morning and most of the afternoon, I finally sit down in front of my laptop at the dining table and open up a web page. My fingers move quickly over the keys.
‘tarot card depictions and their meanings’
Numerous web pages spring up, a long list of sites all containing the information I’ve requested. The first link I click on is no help. The illustrations on the tarot cards are nothing like the one sitting beside my laptop. According to the website, they’re contemporary cards, and the images are all interpretations on a traditional deck. The bold splashes of color and strange icons are unusual and pretty, but they’re not going to assist me in discovering the meaning of the golden lady with her crown and scepter.
I have better luck on the second site I visit. The cards here aren’t exactly the same as Shelta’s deck, but they’re similar, and bear the traditional illustrations. It takes me all of three minutes, scrolling through each card individually, to locate the one I’m looking for.
Apparently, it’s The Empress III.
My eyes travel over the information below the card, reading quickly.
‘Third card, or Major Arcana card. The Empress sits on a throne wearing a starry crown, holding a scepter in one hand. The scepter is representative of her power over life, her crown has twelve stars representing her dominance over the year, and her throne is in the midst of a field of grain, representative of her dominion over growing things.
Meaning: The Empress is traditionally associated with maternal influence. It is the card if you are hoping to start a family. She can represent the creation of life, romance, art, or new business.
Upright card: Pregnancy, Nurturing, Abundance, Maternal care, A new opportunity, Stability
Reversed card: Financial issues, Stagnation, Domestic problems, Unwanted pregnancy.
Well, shit. The card was drawn upright, so that means it represented pregnancy, a new opportunity, and abundance, all of which are undeniably off the table for me right now. I’m single. I’m not even dating anyone, let alone having sex, and new opportunities? Abundance? That’s a joke. I’ve just possibly lost my job, not been offered a new one, and what little money I have squirreled away in the bank is hardly going to allow me to live an abundant life.
I turn the card over, wondering if there’s anything pertinent on the back, but there’s nothing. Just the pretty, lacy golden pattern that covers it from edge to edge.
So fucking weird.
The card is so out there and disconnected from my own life that I can’t help but frown at it. Shelta’s attitude definitely worsened once I drew the card. But I’m struggling to understand what about the card’s meaning worried her so much that she had to ask me to leave? It just doesn’t make any sense.
I know it’s impossible and there’s no real evidence to support the idea, but I just can’t shake the feeling that Shelta has something to do with my suspension from work. Could she have done something to orchestrate the accusation of harassment laid at my feet? What about this stupid card and it’s vague-ass meaning would have driven her to do something so drastic and uncalled for?
I make myself a cup of coffee, but it sits on the dining table, untouched. The storm that was threatening to break earlier finally arrives, and rain lashes at the windows, torrential, the sound of the downpour roaring out in the street. It’s so dark, the sky a thick blanket of iron-colored clouds, that I have to turn on the kitchen light in order to avoid walking into anything as I resume my pacing.
Where is Sarah?
Am I right about Shelta?
Has Yuri Petrov brought his son home yet?
Is my friend safe?
Who the fuck said I was causing trouble for them at work?
Is Corey getting the help and attention he needs so desperately, now that he’s safe?
My head will not let up. The gears of my mind turn and spin, metal grinding against metal, and all I can think is that everything, all of this, is connected somehow. The calls to the payphone. The Midnight Fair. Sarah. My job. Pasha. The dreams.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to chew every single nail I have down to the quick. Eventually, my racing thoughts become too much. I have to have answers. I need to know beyond a doubt what’s happening here. I take out my phone, fuming and annoyed with myself that I’m stooping to this level, but there’s no other way…
I scroll through my contacts list until I reach the letter P. Paula Harrison. Pet Care Centre. Peter Dalziel. PJ. Penny Lauder.
I go back to the beginning, double checking in case I missed the name I’m looking for.
Nope. There’s nothing there.
Uhhh…
Oh!
R!
I check to see if he stored his information via his last name, but I draw a blank there, too. There’s no contact between Rennie and Madison Roberts, where Rivin should be.
I toss the phone on the table, scowling up at the ceiling. What the hell was he talking about, then? What did his cryptic, ‘I’ll be waiting for your call,’ mean, if he hadn’t found a way to even store his number in my phone? I sink down into my chair at the dining table, and I let my head rest heavily in my hands.
When I was a child, I used to sit with my father in the mornings at the breakfast table and help him complete the crossword. I was too young to really be of help—he did all of the work, of course—but the excitement of being allowed to sit with him, to try and solve the clues, when he was usually too busy to notice I was even there, caused me to develop an early obsession with puzzle solving. I wanted to be good at it, so I could reach the answers before him, because, in my seven-year-old mind, that would make him proud of me. Ever since then, I’ve always loved puzzles. All puzzles. Loved working through the complex knots and tangles of them, unraveling them until I reach the end.
But this puzzle? There’s no end to this puzzle’s complicated mess of frayed ends and ambiguous clues. This puzzle isn’t fun in any way, shape or form. It has real-world consequences, and I don’t want to have to pluck, pull and tease at it anymore, trying to force it to make sense. This particular puzzle can go fuck itself.
A crack of lightning, blindingly bright, illuminates the sky out of the kitchen window, and the washed-out, rain-soaked street beyond flares into view for a second, bathed in brilliant white light. I start, nearly knocking over my mug of cold coffee. The liquid inside spills, splashing onto the table and landing directly onto my phone.
“Fuck!” I jump up, grabbing a handful of kitchen paper, and I furiously wipe at the screen. My hand stills when I see the contact information that I’ve missed there, displayed clear as day…
A moment ago, I looked specifically for Rivin, where Pasha’s family name should have been stored alphabetically amongst the other names. I hadn’t bothered to look at the top of the ‘R’ section. If I had, I would have noticed the odd phrase at the beginning of the section.
‘Raised b
y wolves.’
My heart jumps at the words. The words I said to Pasha, when I yelled at him in the street outside the Midnight Fair. The bastard had found a way into my phone, and he’d decided this was how he was going to pass on his number to me? For fuck’s sake. How long would it have taken me to find that, if I hadn’t accidentally stumbled on it now?
I hit the call button and hold the phone to my ear, refusing to allow myself to prepare what I’m going to say in my head. If I overthink it, I’ll end up stumbling all over my words. And anyway, this isn’t a social call. Pasha Rivin is a smart mouthed, arrogant, smug piece of shit. I’ve already decided this, and I’ve barely even spent any time with the man. He’s certainly not the kind of guy I’d want to date. Definitely not the kind of guy I’d involve myself with any way. I’m going to call him, get the answers I need, and I’ll never have to speak to him again. Still…my hands shake as the dial tone burrs in my ear.
It rings six times. Seven. Eight. Nine…
He’s not going to answer. He’s not going to pick up.
But then the dial tone cuts off abruptly, and I’m met with a tense silence on the other end of the line.
Then…
“Firefly.”
My heart tries to catapult itself out of my chest. Rich like honey, coarse like the surface of unfinished wood—the sound of Pasha Rivin’s voice rocks me to my core. It is the same voice from my dreams. I know it now. I can deny it all I want to, but I feel the truth of the realization, sinking deep down into my bones. My tongue feels like cotton wool against the roof of my mouth as I say, “You think that’s cute, don’t you? If you’re going to address me by a name, then perhaps you could do me the honor of using the one my parents gave me.”
“Mmm.” The timbre of his voice is so low, it vibrates in my ear and makes the skin on my neck prickle. “I told you at the bar, didn’t I? Names have power. You shouldn’t give yours out so freely.”
“I didn’t give it to you. You took it from my phone, I’m sure. And then Andrew confirmed it for you.”
He doesn’t deny this. “What’s so wrong with Firefly?”
“Nicknames are for friends. People you know. People that you like.” People that fuck you senseless in your sleep.
“Come on. You like me well enough, little firefly.”
I’m riled by the sound of the amusement in his voice. “Really? What gave it away? Was it the part where I screamed at you and punched you in the arm? Or was it my complete and utter contempt for you in the bar?”
He doesn’t even take a second to think about it. “Both. I know when a woman’s attracted to me. You’re like a little girl, spitting and kicking at the boy she has a crush on in a playground.”
Oh…my…god. I wish I hadn’t punched him in the arm. My aim should have been a little higher. A black eye would only add to his bad boy smoldering good looks, I’m sure, but so what? I’d be feeling a little better about myself right now. My temper flares, and it takes everything in me not to hang up the phone. “I didn’t call to massage your ego, okay. I called because I need to talk to you. Something’s happened, and I…”
Damn. How do I even begin to explain any of this? He’s going to think I’m crazy.
Pasha’s voice has lost that infuriatingly playful edge. His words are sharp as he says, “Something good? Or something bad?”
“What do you think? Something bad. I wouldn’t be calling you to tell you I’d won the lottery, believe me.”
“Okay. So tell me.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes, exhaling hard. I don’t even know where to begin. Unbidden and unwelcome, tears prick at my eyes as I try and find the right place to start.
Pasha waits.
I listen to his even, calm breathing on the other end of the line.
My chest feels like it’s being crushed. The walls feel like they’re closing in.
I hear other sounds, then: the gentle clink of a set of keys. Fabric rubbing against fabric.
I haven’t spoken for a full minute, when he whispers quietly into my ear. “Tell me where you are, Firefly. I’m coming to you.”
19
PASHA
BLOOD
I’ve only just arrived at the sports bar, but it looks like I’ll be leaving already. I exit the bathroom, jacket already on, keys already in my back pocket. Patrin glowers at me from the other side of the bar, the woman he was talking to a moment ago gone now. He’s holding two beers, one in either hand, one of them obviously for me, but by the look of displeasure on his face, he knows I won’t be drinking it.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snarls. “You can’t fucking bail now. Jamus and Sam are being arraigned. We need a fucking plan.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “I’m sorry, but I know all about your plans. They’re usually insane and involve breaking the law.”
Patrin’s eyes flash with steel. “You might have resigned yourself to being trapped in a cage, but at least you can walk out of that loft of yours whenever you feel like it. Jamus and Sam…their cage is infinitely smaller than yours. And they can’t just open up the door and leave whenever they feel like it. They’re looking at life, Pasha. Life. It’ll fucking kill them.”
I hear him. I know what he’s saying is the truth. Prison is just about the worst thing that can happen to a Roma who is used to wandering wherever they please. Even we don’t lock people up in our own legal system. Banishment is the most severe punishment we ever sentence anyone with. But there really is nothing I can do here. Bowing my head, I stare down at my sneakers.
“They should have thought about that before they got pinched, then, shouldn’t they? It’s one thing, tricking someone out of their money if they’re gullible enough. But a fucking bank?” I shake my head. “There’s no negotiating with the gadje legal system.”
Fire burns in my friend’s eyes. We’ve traveled all over this country together, side by side, always had each other’s back, brothers in arms, but things are different now and he knows it. “You’re not going to do anything, then?” he fumes.
“Like what? Break them out? Send them a fucking birthday cake with a spoon baked inside it? Tell me one sane thing I can do in this situation, and I’ll do it. But I will not drive up to a maximum-security prison, back a fucking van through the wall, and go hunting for two incredibly dumb needles in a very large, well defended haystack.”
Patrin puts the beers down onto the bar, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. I know he’s going to try and hit me now. I sigh, canting my head to one side, giving him a reproving look. “Don’t, brother. Just…don’t.”
He’s a brawler. A bruiser. His right hook has knocked whole rows of teeth out in one go before, but he’s no match for me. We’re both well aware of this fact. I watch as his anger dissolves into hurt. “When you cut the head off a snake, brother, two more do not grow back. We’re all waiting for you. We’re all holding our breath, but soon we’re gonna run out of air. If you don’t get your shit together soon, it won’t just be your mother who has to live with the shame. It won’t just be me, because I keep defending you. It’ll be the whole clan.” He narrows his eyes. “Can you live with that?”
My ribs cinch tight beneath my skin. A sharp pain lances through my heart. I place my hand on Patrin’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “You don’t need to defend me anymore,” I growl. “I don’t need it.”
“You don’t understand,” Patrin says. “Something’s happened. Something Shelta hasn’t told you. The predictions are coming true.”
“Whatever’s happened doesn’t affect me anymore. Turn my blood. Make me gadje. I don’t care anymore. I’m not the man you need right now.”
Patrin’s horror is painful to behold, so I turn away from it. A coward’s move, maybe, but I’m getting used to that shame-filled sting; I’ve turned my back on a lot of things over the past three years. It was supposed to be like ripping a Band Aid off, short and sharp and unpleasant, but then it would have gotten easier. Easier for me, and eas
ier for them, too. Except letting go is not the Roma way, and I was a fucking fool to believe they would ever allow me to walk away for good.
“Turn your fucking blood? Have you lost your goddamn mind, Pasha? You’re the fucking king!” Patrin yells over the sound of the football game that’s playing on all of the bar’s TVs. “Pasha? PASHA! Where the fuck are you going?”
I doubt he hears me, but I do answer him. “To try and fix something that’s not completely fucked.”
* * *
The rain’s almost blinding as I take a left on Baker and hurtle through the night. She hadn’t wanted me to come, but she’d relented in the end. The girl with the fiery hair had been close to tears; there was nothing she could have done to stop me from showing up on her doorstep. Not two hours ago, I managed to convince myself that staying away from Zara would be the best thing for her, and I wouldn’t have broken that vow. I would have steered clear of her, if it meant her life would be easier on her. Kinder.
But I’d heard the pain in her voice. She’d been upset. Afraid, even? And I can’t walk away from her if she’s in trouble. No fucking way. Especially if she’s upset or afraid because of me, indirectly or otherwise. And why would she have called me if I’m not responsible for whatever is troubling her in some way?
I park the Mustang opposite her building, outside the bar where she was drinking fucking apple juice the other night, of all things, and I get out, placing a cigarette in my mouth as I stare up at the third story window. I don’t feel the rain. I need a moment to gather my thoughts, so I light the smoke and I inhale, shielding the paper from the downpour with my hand. The lights are on up there. She’s maybe in the living room or the bathroom, worrying about what’s going to happen once I show up. She’s probably freaking the fuck out. She must have been really upset to have agreed to meet here, at her place, instead of somewhere more public. I could be anyone. I could be a murderer. I could be the type of man to strangle a woman, skin her and wear her like a coat.