Midnight

by Christi J. Whitney

  I stared back at him.

  ‘The Court of Shadows is the hub for all Outcast Gypsy activity, not only in Savannah, but for the entire kumpania,’ he explained. ‘Its location is a carefully guarded secret, so we must take precautions.’

  ‘Since when did you care about keeping secrets?’ I demanded. ‘Or care about anything to do with the Roma.’

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ Augustine answered, propping his elbows on his knees. ‘Despite my current status among the Outcasts, I continue to have a deep respect for our traditions, and for our very rich and unusual past.’

  ‘No offense, but that’s not really coming across.’

  Augustine chuckled. ‘It’s a shame we won’t be having many more of these conversations, Sebastian.’ He stood and tapped the corner of my cage. ‘I’ve quite enjoyed them.’

  As soon as he left the trailer, Quentin approached. I caught sight of a long knife tucked through his belt. The diamonds glinted like deadly sparks – a grim reminder that he knew exactly how to end my gargoyle-y existence.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t guess you’re going to tell me where.’

  Quentin whistled sharply. Thomas and Ian, my Marksmen guard dogs since the kris, stomped into the trailer. Ice exploded in my gut, but my blood heated in my veins. Quentin pulled out a key. I stared hard at the lock as it clicked. Instincts skittered up my spine like a colony of ants. Red seeped into my vision, but I ground my teeth even harder, pushing it away.

  Augustine was desperate to see the Queen. If I went quietly, maybe I could find out what was going on. I blinked everything into focus as the cage door swung open. Besides, even if I could fight them off, where would I go?

  Thomas clamped a short chain to my manacles, pinning my arms in front of me. A long cloak was thrown around my shoulders and the hood was pulled up to obscure my face. The three Marksmen surrounded me, keeping my form hidden as we stepped from the trailer into the night.

  5. Sebastian

  The narrow street where we’d parked was deserted. Streetlights cast a yellow sheen on the cobblestone and drew long shadows from between the close-set buildings. I tilted my head and glanced up as we stopped at a three-story brick storefront. A dark-green canopy stretched across the length of the ground floor. Printed on the canvas flap were the words Tea and Spice.

  Augustine came alongside me. ‘May I remind you, if you want Josephine to remain safe, you will behave yourself. We have many loyal to us within the Marksmen ranks. It would only take a word from Quentin, and her circus career would be finished. Accidents are unpredictable that way.’

  I flashed my teeth under the hood. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘Don’t give me a reason to,’ said Quentin.

  ‘See now?’ Augustine’s broad smile made me want to retch. ‘We all have an understanding. None of us wants my niece to come to harm, and she doesn’t have to. Let us simply conduct ourselves in an orderly manner, and all will be fine.’

  White-hot anger boiled inside me, heating up my protective instincts. I grit my teeth until the sensation cooled enough to answer. ‘Alright.’

  Quentin approached the green painted door with a CLOSED sign in the window. He rapped on the wood in a series of short and long knocks. I sniffed the air, catching the smell of another Gypsy. After a few seconds, the door opened. An elderly Roma woman motioned us inside.

  Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall of the sparsely lighted store, filled with assortments of cooking spices and various loose teas. The aromas made my sensitive nose burn, and mixed with the pungent scent of Marksmen, added to my headache. I switched to breathing through my mouth.

  The Gypsy woman walked purposefully behind the counter and took a long, skeleton-looking key from a peg on the wall. Without saying a word or even giving my heavily cloaked self a second glance, she pushed past the group to a door marked PRIVATE in the back of the room. She unlocked it, and Quentin pushed the door open, which was thicker and heavier that it appeared.

  Beyond was a decent-sized storage room with more shelves. A man sat at a circular table, playing a game of Solitaire with a grungy set of cards. He nodded at the woman. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. I heard the lock click into place.

  The man shoved back his chair and stood. ‘We’ve been expecting you,’ he said. He was tall, with a large nose and a buzz cut. He was dressed like a Marksman. ‘It’s good to see you, Quentin.’

  ‘And you, Donani.’

  My brows lifted in surprise, until I remembered that all Marksmen were from the same clan. It made sense they would know each other – something Quentin seemed pleased with as well.

  The Marksman named Donani turned his attention on me. ‘So this is the gargoyle.’ He gripped my hood and yanked it back. My shoulders flexed, but I kept my eyes on him and breathed in slowly. Controlled. He smelled like charred wood. ‘Interesting,’ he said, regarding me with a calloused expression. He returned to the table and retrieved a belt full of weapons from the chair. He strapped it on and drew out a particularly nasty-looking blade – sharp, diamond encrusted, and probably capable of slicing me up like a block of cheese. ‘We’ll take the creature from here,’ he continued. ‘You and your Marksmen are welcome to join us, of course.’ Donani kept his eyes on Quentin. ‘Oh, and tell your marimé companion that we will return for him tomorrow.’

  ‘But,’ started Augustine, visibly ruffled, his gaze settling on the blade. He hesitated, then clamped his mouth shut and straightened, arranging a smile that mirrored Quentin’s.

  It seemed this turn of events wasn’t exactly what he had planned.

  Donani clapped his hands once. Two Marksmen appeared from behind a single shelf, where they’d been stationed, I supposed, all along. They took hold of the shelf and rolled it out of the way. Behind it was a paneled door made of ancient-looking planks held together with rusty metal braces.

  A weird, uncomfortable sensation took up residence inside me as they unlatched the door. Just beyond, I saw stone stairs, leading downward in a spiral, concealed by a brick wall.

  Augustine gripped Quentin by the shoulder and pulled him aside. My gargoyle hearing picked up their conversation.

  ‘Do not forget all we’ve spoken about, Marks.’

  Quentin shrugged him off. ‘I won’t.’

  Donani made his way down the stairs. Quentin, Thomas, and Ian went after. I followed, after being kindly persuaded by a spear in my back from one of Donani’s men.

  The staircase wound in a circular pattern, weaving down farther than I would’ve thought possible. It smelled damp and pleasantly earthy. I shifted my body sideways as my bound wings scraped against the narrow walls. After descending in silence for a full minute, we reached the bottom. It opened into a circular tunnel, several feet taller than my head and lined with packed dirt and cobblestone. A heavy gate of the same shape barred the entrance.

  ‘It is with God I have arrived,’ said Donani.

  A bearded man peered through the gate. ‘It is with God you are received.’

  The gate opened, and we made our way along the tunnel for several yards before it suddenly veered left and opened into a gigantic room. The chamber could have easily held several hundred people. The jagged stone ceiling loomed twenty feet above us, and a railed balcony ran the length of a second level.

  This had to be the Court of Shadows.

  The Marksmen pushed me hastily through the room and another, shorter tunnel. On the other side was a smaller room, filled with long tables and benches. Soft light filtered through the space, provided by a mixture of electric and gas lanterns.

  At least a dozen Gypsies chatted noisily around me, drinks in hand. Food and spiced smells perfumed the air. Donani increased his pace, and we swiftly passed through another room. I felt the stares of the inhabitants, and I was glad for the cloak and hood the Marksmen had provided as my disguise. From the next room, corridors broke off in many directions. The entire underground area must’ve taken up three bl
ocks of the city above.

  But the tour wasn’t over yet. Donani led us down eight stone steps and an extremely narrow passage. My nose wrinkled. It reeked of mold, dirt, and stale air. Even before we entered, I knew I wasn’t going to be a fan of the next room. Barred walls lined each side of the corridor, separated into individual cells, like an old, underground prison.

  The Marksmen prodded me into the nearest one. The dirt walls absorbed the clanking of the metal as the iron-gate door slammed shut after me.

  ‘Could I request a different room?’ I asked. ‘I’m not really feeling this one.’

  ‘Ah, it speaks,’ said Donani.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Quentin replied.

  Donani leaned on his spear. ‘Well, listen up, gargoyle—’

  ‘The name’s Sebastian.’

  ‘—I suggest you behave like a good little beastie and shut your mouth.’

  It seemed Marksmen were pretty much the same, no matter where.

  ‘Or what,’ I shot back. ‘Let me guess, you’re going to beat me up and throw me in a cage. Oh, wait.’

  He rammed his blade through the bars, just missing the side of my face. ‘Trust me,’ he replied. ‘I could make it worse.’

  The laughter of the Marksmen echoed down the passage.

  ‘So what now,’ asked Quentin.

  ‘Now, we get some breakfast,’ Donani replied. ‘This gargoyle’s not going anywhere for a while.’

  Quentin smiled at me. ‘Enjoy your stay.’

  I’d lost track of the amount of times the two of us had stared each other down between a set of metal bars, but it had gotten old a long time ago. I’d been ignoring my hunger and pulsing adrenaline. Now my nerves and my will were both on the verge of snapping, but I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

  ‘Enjoy yours,’ I said, forcing every word. ‘While you can.’

  6. Sebastian

  I really missed lying on my back.

  If I was honest, I missed a lot of things from my old life, but I refused to dwell on any of them at length. Instead, I put my energy into finding a comfortable spot along the wall to prop myself against. My jeans and shirt were filthy. I smelled of blood, dirt, and sweat. My eyes burned hot when I closed them, and my stomach felt deeply hollow in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

  What would happen when it was time for me to stand before the High Council? Would they let me speak, or would they kill me on the spot? I didn’t know the rules and laws for the Outcasts, much less the shadow world.

  There was no possible way this was going to go well.

  Something wet fell against my cheek and I reached up to brush it away. Tears. I hadn’t even realized I was crying. Now, I was conscious of them rolling down my face, one after the other.

  I thought of the stares I’d gotten the day I arrived at the Circe. The way people avoided me when I approached. The way I’d just been hustled through the Court of Shadows like I had the plague.

  I scared people. I scared myself. Maybe I really was the demonic abomination so many Gypsies feared. But as I sat on the dirt floor, shackled and trapped, I just felt like a helpless little kid; frightened, alone, and …

  Hungry.

  Visions of meat scrolled behind my eyelids. I struggled to concentrate on something else. On anything else. But I was too tired, and nothing worked. My teeth throbbed beneath my gums. I groaned inwardly and let the feelings cloud my head, turning my thoughts to unintelligent jumbles, diminishing my sense of time.

  *

  Ice solidified in my stomach, jerking me from the incoherent haze. I sniffed the air and sighed. They were back. Donani and Quentin were alone this time. I noted the Romany’s head Marksman had resumed his full arsenal of weaponry, complete with a full quiver of arrows strapped to his back.

  I also caught the smell of meat. My stomach lurched greedily. I licked my dry lips, pricking my tongue on my jagged teeth and tasting blood. As the Marksmen neared my cell, I shuffled to my feet.

  ‘Listen guys,’ I said, stretching as much as I could. ‘I really need a bathroom. Seriously, this hotel sucks.’

  ‘Still running your mouth,’ said Donani. He pointed to the rudimentary latrine in the corner. ‘Your accommodations are better than you deserve, demon.’

  Quentin produced a brown paper bag. I tried not to sniff, but I couldn’t help it. Instantly, my brain registered hamburgers. I swallowed several times as my mouth began to water uncontrollably. The Marksman thrust the bag through the bars.

  ‘I brought you dinner.’

  I moved aside, putting as much distance as I could between us. ‘You know, I was really craving some pancakes, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass. Thanks for going to all this trouble, though.’

  Quentin’s usually composed expression suddenly cracked. He threw the bag into my cell. ‘You idiot,’ he said, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘Do you think starving yourself will do you any good? Why won’t you eat?’

  I gave him a steady look. ‘Because you want me to.’

  ‘I’m trying to keep you functioning. Do you wish to stand trial as nothing more than a slobbering beast, or do you want the capacity to defend yourself to the Council?’

  ‘What difference does it make to you?’

  ‘I want the Council to hear from Sebastian Grey, the proclaimed guardian of the Romany clan. And then I want them to see that you’re no different than the rest of your brethren, despite all your protests: a gargoyle who would and did kill someone of Roma blood.’

  ‘And me scarfing down a couple of burgers is going to prove your point?’

  ‘There isn’t an Outcast Gypsy in our kumpania who hasn’t witnessed the destructive nature of the shadow creatures. Grotesques and chimeras are an evil curse, a scourge to our existence. But gargoyles.’ He stepped closer, his voice lowering as he continued. ‘Your reputation as guardians has kept you safe over the decades. But the loyalty the Old Clans held for gargoyles is long dead. And soon, the same thing will happen among the Outcasts. You’re not guardians. You’re a threat. But when you’re convicted of murder, I promise you, it will be open season on all of your kind.’

  ‘That’s why you’re working with Augustine.’

  ‘We have an arrangement.’

  I tried to smile, to keep the conversation going so that I could think clearly. ‘Well, since I’m doomed anyway, could I at least brush my teeth and take a shower? I want to look my best before my trial.’

  Quentin’s black eyes narrowed. ‘Sorry, but that’s not on the agenda.’

  Suddenly, the smell of exotic flowers wafted through the passage. For the briefest instant, I thought it was Josephine. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, it was immediately negated. The scent was similar, but definitely not her. I moved to the front of the cell for a better look.

  A tall woman stood at the passageway entrance, with Augustine at her side. I knew at once it was Josephine’s aunt – which meant I was staring into the face of the Queen of the Outcast Gypsies. She wore a multicolored dress and an elaborate head wrap that concealed her hair. Heavy makeup outlined her eyes, and gold jewelry sparkled at her neck. Just behind her, four men, armed with diamond-coated spears, lined the inside of the corridor.

  The woman scrutinized me with eyes like cold emeralds.

  ‘This is the gargoyle.’

  ‘Yes, Rani,’ said Augustine. ‘Just as I—’

  ‘Silence,’ said the Queen. ‘You are not to speak directly to me. Marimé is marimé, no matter the bargain that was struck with the Council. If you wish to address me, you will speak through the Marksman.’

  Their eyes met for a single, tension-saturated moment. I glanced between the two. If Augustine hadn’t told me his family connection to the Romanys, I never would’ve guessed he and the Queen were siblings. She reminded me of Nicolas. But Augustine shared nothing with them, apart from his tall, lean frame.

  The Queen turned her attention back to me. Something within me felt her Roma authority in a way that hummed through my
guardian blood. Before I even realized it, I had bowed my head respectfully.

  ‘Very well,’ said Augustine, his tone curt. ‘Quentin, if you would tell the Queen that I have brought this gargoyle to be placed on trial for the death of Karl Corsi, of the Romany clan, as requested by Nicolas Romany.’

  She continued to look at me – not with fear, disgust, or pity as I was accustomed to, but with something that bothered me a lot more. Something emotionless.

  ‘The gesture seems honorable,’ she said. ‘But the man once known as Adolár Romany has no honor in him and does nothing without seeking his own gain. So why is he really here?’

  Augustine rolled his shoulders back in a slow, fluid motion. Only the hardened edges around his eyes betrayed his irritation. ‘Quentin, if you would please relay to the Queen my request for a private audience with her.’

  The strange emphasis he put on the woman’s title sparked my curiosity. It was heavy with a meaning I didn’t understand, but one that seemed to heighten the tense air between them.

  ‘I have already given the marimé access to the Court of Shadows, which is against our highest law. And yet, he still has the audacity to ask for more.’

  ‘The Queen will benefit greatly from this meeting,’ said Augustine.

  Quentin repeated his sentence. The Marksman’s expression hovered somewhere between smug and annoyed, however he kept his eyes lowered respectfully. The Queen hesitated, turning her gaze from me to the ceiling.

  ‘Because I am in an amiable mood,’ she said finally, ‘I shall grant the marimé a thirty-minute audience with me, but he must be accompanied by my Marksmen and an appointed liaison to speak through.’

  ‘Surely I could have an audience with you alone, for only—’

  ‘If he speaks to me again,’ said the Queen, ‘he shall have nothing.’