Shadow

by Christi J. Whitney

  ‘And the Romanys.’

  Francis rolled his shoulders proudly. ‘We’re the head family, and my father’s the bandoleer. His word is pretty much law around here, if you haven’t noticed.’

  I opened my mouth to ask another question, but the sound of fiddle music prevented me. It was only then that I became aware that Francis and I were the only two left under the pavilion. He stood and motioned for me to follow.

  It appeared as though the entire clan had crowded around the fire pit. A group of men were playing fiddles and drums, and several women danced around the fire, flipping tambourines against their hips. Ankle bracelets jangled under their long skirts. The scene reminded me of the Native American festivals I’d seen in Hickory Springs: a blending of old and new, traditional and contemporary. Only this world I stepped into – this Roma world – was all strange to me.

  ‘Like I said,’ Francis remarked with a shrug, ‘it’s tradition. Well, that and a lack of a decent internet connection out here.’

  The women swirled around the crowd, and I saw Phoebe, her curly hair flying around her face. Then I felt a chill. It started in the center of my belly and worked its frigid fingers into my spine. It didn’t take long to spot Quentin Marks sitting nearby, watching the entertainment. Sleek, polished charm oozed off him, and everyone seemed to feed off his presence. I felt the muscles along my neck stiffen.

  ‘A piece of advice, Sebastian,’ said Francis at my shoulder, his gaze following mine. ‘I’d keep out of his way, if I were you. The Marks take their job seriously. And after the stink you’re causing, trust me, he’s not the guy you want to mess with.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything to him.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But you might.’

  I shot him an inquisitive look, but Francis merely clapped me on the shoulder and bounded into the crowd. He was quickly swallowed up by the colorful explosion of festivities. I remained in the shadows of the tent, contemplating my next course of action. I didn’t feel comfortable joining the group, but I didn’t want to be alone, either. Before I could make a decision, another scent wafted across my nose.

  My knees almost buckled. Esmeralda was right. Even amid all the tangy smells of the Gypsy camp, I could pick out that one particular scent with undeniable clarity. Her scent. My mouth went dry as I scanned the crowd with a sudden sense of desperation. I didn’t see Josephine Romany at first. Then the strange radar I seemed to possess when I was near the Gypsy girl activated once more.

  Somehow – though I was hidden in shadows and she was buried in the crowd – our eyes met. My tattoo flared to life under my sleeve. Electricity sparked, and the pull towards her was so strong that I gripped the pavilion’s support pole to keep from launching forward.

  Her eyes darted to a grouping of trailers just beyond. She passed through the crowd looking back at me, beckoning me to follow. There was no time to think about my actions. I immediately stole out of the pavilion – keeping to the shadows – and made my way along the edge of the caravan, my eyes fixed on Josephine.

  No one seemed to notice her departure – not even Quentin, who was busy talking. I trailed after her, feeling like I was about to leap out of my skin. It was dark away from the campfire, but my gargoyle eyes had no trouble finding her. Josephine stopped in the middle of a grassy lane between the vehicles. Her back was to me, her head down. Her hair was loose and poured over her shoulders like a waterfall. I froze in my tracks, heart pounding, as she slowly turned.

  ‘Hey, Sebastian.’

  Every feeling I’d ever had for the Gypsy girl punched me hard in the chest. All those months feeling like my insides had been scraped out, aching with her loss, so incomplete and hollow. And in one moment, it all changed. I struggled to keep my emotions in check. ‘Hello, Josephine.’ Goosebumps skittered up my arms as I said her name.

  She clasped her hands in front of her – a casual enough gesture – but I could see the knuckles turning white. ‘So I hear you’re joining us.’

  ‘Your father asked for my help,’ I replied carefully. Guardedly. ‘And I couldn’t refuse. I’ve been trying to make it work with my brother’s clan, but nothing’s felt right. I was supposed to be here.’

  ‘That’s what my father’s been trying to convince Quentin for weeks.’

  ‘I have to admit, I’m a little clueless, but I really want to try and be of some use around here, if I can.’ I glanced over the caravan of trailers, remembering the last conversation we’d had and feeling the hard lump of emotion that wrapped like scar tissue around my heart. ‘But please, don’t worry. I promise I’ll keep my distance.’

  ‘No,’ Josephine said quickly, shaking her head. ‘I don’t want you to stay away.’ Her bright eyes peered into the darkness of my hood as she continued in a hushed, rapid voice. ‘Look, I don’t understand any of this, Sebastian. And I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. You’re not supposed to be here, and yet, you are. I don’t know what to think anymore.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said as steadily as I could. Nothing seemed to be going right since I’d arrived. I’d wanted so desperately to see Josephine again, and now it all felt so conflicted. It was too much, too soon. I took a few hesitant steps backwards. ‘Maybe I should just—’

  ‘Can I … see you?’ she asked softly.

  It was the one thing I’d been dreading — having Josephine see me like this again. Her expression of horror after I’d transformed on the Sutallee Bridge was seared into my memory. But I’d never been able to refuse a request from Josephine. And, it wasn’t as if I was going to find a cure for my condition in the next thirty seconds anyway, so I grit my teeth and let my hood fall to my shoulders. Josephine’s widened eyes registered my face only briefly before she turned away.

  ‘I’d forgotten how much you’d …’ she whispered.

  Though her words trailed off, I knew exactly what she meant. Changed. She focused her eyes on a spot near the roof of one of the trailers, and my chest tightened painfully.

  Was I so grotesque that she couldn’t even look at me?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, hiding my face again with my hood. I didn’t know what else to say. Impulsively, I yanked the pendant from my neck and held it out to her. The glass was warm against my gray palm and the dandelion in the center shimmered brightly. ‘This is yours, by the way. It’s about time I returned it.’

  Her gaze went to my hand. ‘No,’ she said; her face was composed once more, and the fear was gone from her eyes. ‘I gave it to you.’

  ‘I have no right to keep it.’ I studied the sparkling pendant I’d treasured since the Circe had left town. It gleamed with a life of its own. ‘But thanks for letting me look after it for a while.’

  At first, I thought Josephine was going to refuse. But then, her fingers reached out and curled around the necklace. Her fingertips brushed against my skin and electricity crackled in the air. I felt the jolt of it along my spine. I could see that Josephine felt it too, and I held my breath as we both froze in the strange current.

  Suddenly, there was a loud shout from the campfire, and the music screeched to a halt. Josephine clutched the pendant in her hand, and the electricity fizzled. She stared at me in surprise, then hiked up her skirt and ran to the bonfire. I followed close at her heels.

  A man was on his knees in the center of the crowd. Marksmen surrounded him, their weapons drawn. The rest of the troupe hovered nearby, looking confused and wary. Nicolas stood near the fire, his face tight as he glared down at the stranger.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he demanded.

  The man’s scraggly hair framed a face that was splattered with dirt and blood. His eyes were wild. ‘Sanctuary, please,’ he gasped hoarsely. ‘I beg you … sanctuary!’

  ‘You have it,’ Nicolas replied. With a motion of his hand, he ordered the Marksmen to lower their weapons. ‘Now, tell us who you are.’

  ‘Peter Boswell,’ he sputtered.

  ‘Of the Carolina Boswells?’

  The stranger nodded, and t
he crowd murmured uneasily.

  Quentin stepped forward, his eyes narrow. ‘Why do you need sanctuary?’

  The man stared at him. ‘Because they’re trying to kill me.’

  5. A Sure Uncertainty

  ‘Who’s trying to kill you?’ Nicolas was deadly calm.

  ‘There’s no time for this!’ Peter rasped. ‘I need sanctuary now!’

  Sweat dripped from his nose, and there was a strange gleam in his bloodshot eyes: a crazy look that iced my blood. I clenched my fists, stifling a growl that was working its way up my throat. My wings strained uncomfortably against their straps underneath my jacket. I felt Josephine tense beside me.

  ‘Sanctuary from whom?’ demanded Nicolas.

  ‘Please,’ the man begged. ‘Protect me!’

  Quentin lunged forward and grabbed Peter by the shirt, yanking him to his feet. ‘You will answer the bandoleer.’

  ‘So many …’ The stranger sniveled, his eyes rolling back. ‘Came for us in the night … killed my brother. They want to kill us all!’

  An ominous, sickening feeling permeated my body. Something smelled foul in the air, and I wrinkled my nose against the scent.

  ‘What is it, Sebastian?’ whispered Josephine.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I could hear my voice thickening, tinged with a growl, as adrenaline seeped through my gargoyle blood. Josephine stared up at me, and I knew she’d heard the change as well. I glanced at her then back to the stranger. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  Peter squirmed in Quentin’s grasp. ‘Don’t you see?’ he wailed. ‘I need protection!’

  A biting wind whipped through the camp. It fluttered the pavilion and aggravated the flames of the fire. Old women huddled in their shawls, and a few children whimpered. Then a foreboding silence fell. Quentin released the man and shrugged off his bow, notching an arrow. Its tip sparkled in the firelight. The Marksmen copied his movements, bows at the ready as they spread themselves with slow precision out along the circle. The air was smothered with hushed anticipation and fear.

  I ground my teeth together. Adrenaline pumped hotly through my blood now, awakening my protective instincts. I immediately positioned myself in front of Josephine, breathing rapidly, struggling to maintain control of myself. My shoulders flexed, stretching the fabric of my jacket, as the disgusting smell around me grew stronger.

  Nicolas glared at Peter. ‘What have you done?’

  Suddenly, something buzzed inside my head, followed by a voice – a voice that was nothing like Esmeralda’s in my mind. It was cold and dark, barely intelligible.

  Gargoyle …

  I sucked in a sharp breath and turned my eyes to the sky. Nothing but stars and rolling clouds. But I could feel the presence of something wild in the night, something filled with hate and fire. I planted my feet and shot back an answer in my thoughts.

  Who are you?

  My head rang with harsh, static laughter.

  There was no time to think about how my presence in the circle would be taken. I had to warn the bandoleer. ‘Nicolas,’ I called out. My voice sounded eerily close to a growl. Heads snapped in my direction. I hesitated only a moment before pressing forward. I felt Josephine at my heels as the crowd parted to let us pass. Nicolas stepped to meet me. ‘Whatever’s after this man,’ I said, pointing at Peter, ‘I believe it’s very close.’

  Nicolas’ eyes found mine under the shadows of my hood. ‘How do you know this?’

  I paused before answering. ‘I heard its voice in my head.’

  The crowd shifted uneasily. Quentin moved towards me, his mouth open to protest, with a furious expression on his face, but Nicolas held up his hand, commanding silence. Peter Boswell stared at me, transfixed and suspicious as he tried to peer through the long shadows cast by the bonfire.

  Nicolas kept his gaze on me. ‘How many are out there?’

  I concentrated on the scent, really concentrated, like Ezzie had instructed, filtering through the various scents of the circus troupe. ‘It’s hard to pinpoint,’ I replied. Ignoring the wary glares from the Gypsies, I yanked off my hood and turned my face to the sky, drawing a deeper breath. A putrid, rotting smell hit me, worse than anything I’d experienced. ‘I think there’s only one.’

  Quentin whirled on Nicolas. ‘You’re seriously going to trust this demon?’

  Before the Romany leader could reply, the stranger jolted towards me, his bloodshot eyes wide and wild as he stared me down. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

  He pulled a knife from his belt. I’d seen that kind of weapon before – the same glittering, diamond-encrusted blade – the same material that coated the Marksmen’s weapons. My instincts fired a warning in my gut.

  ‘I’m here to help,’ I said, holding my hands up disarmingly.

  ‘Shadowen scum,’ the man spat. ‘You want us all dead!’

  My head prickled. The dark voice resounded in my brain.

  Mine … mine … mine …

  I hissed. ‘It’s here!’

  An inhuman shriek filled the air. Several people screamed. Something dark swooped through the camp, knocking people off their feet. The Marksmen unloaded several arrows as the thing ascended into the night and disappeared. There was another shriek. Then silence.

  The men trained their weapons upward, waiting. Gypsies crowded together, huddling under the pavilion. Marksmen surrounded Nicolas and Josephine like bodyguards. All eyes were on the sky. Everything went still.

  I shut my eyes and took a breath, preparing to focus on the scent again. Then something hit me from behind. I cried out as pain ricocheted between my shoulders, and I went down on one knee. Peter Boswell loomed over me, the knife poised over his head. It was coated with dark liquid.

  ‘I’ll kill you first,’ he cried.

  My hold over myself finally snapped. I surged to my feet with a roar. My jacket strained, then ripped away as my enormous wings unfurled behind me. Peter yelped in horrified surprise. His shoes skidded in the dirt as he launched forward for another attack. But this time I was ready. I knocked the knife from his hand and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you!’ I panted between growls, trying to piece myself back together. Instincts burned through me like lava, narrowing my vision. I shook him firmly. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Let him go, gargoyle!’

  Quentin stepped in front of me, his arrow aimed at my chest. I snarled at the Marksman through a film of hazy red, and bared my teeth at the Gypsy in my grasp. Peter’s bloodshot eyes bugged from their sockets. The look of insane fear on his face scared me back to my senses.

  What was I doing?

  I fought back my instincts and released my grip. Peter scrambled away from me. Two Marksmen yanked the Gypsy to his feet and restrained him. I dropped to a crouch, shaking all over. My right side – no, my right wing; it was difficult to place the sensation – was burning with pain.

  ‘Stand down,’ ordered Quentin, pulling his bowstring to his cheek.

  I rolled my shoulders, folding my wings to my back. Every eye was on me. I could hear Peter Boswell shouting curses. But my attention was on the sky. My stomach turned to ice as wind rushed through the camp. I spun and sniffed the air, concentrating on the terrible scent on the breeze. And then, suddenly, I knew.

  ‘Quentin!’ I yelled, pointing behind him. ‘There!’

  He didn’t hesitate. He whirled on his heel and aimed towards the sky. His arrow left the bow. A loud, gurgling scream split the air. The other Marksmen targeted the sound and fired. A black form dropped out of the night sky. It landed with a sickening thud in front of the fire, six arrows protruding from its misshapen body. The thing convulsed and writhed on the ground, and then, without warning, it turned to stone.

  I stared in revulsion at the lifeless form. Its winged body – jointed limbs, talons, and a snake-like tail – resembled something between a large feral cat and a reptile. The hideously deformed face was drawn tight with death, and black blood continued to ooze from t
he stone corpse.

  For several moments, no one moved. I heard Josephine’s shallow breathing and felt her fear. My instincts flickered on again, and I felt compelled to move closer, but was prevented by the Marksmen’s protective circle. Quentin approached the stone creature and knelt, examining the granite body.

  He glared over his shoulder at me, then stood and waved at the Marksmen. ‘Phillipe, take your men and patrol the woods. The rest of you, ready yourself for another attack.’

  Nicolas snapped his fingers, and the Marksmen that surrounded him backed away. He pointed at me. ‘Are there any more?’

  I blinked, feeling lightheaded. ‘I don’t th—’

  ‘I need you to be sure.’

  I steadied myself and took a deep, discerning whiff of air. Beyond the stench of the corpse, I could only smell Gypsies. I nodded stiffly, still finding it difficult to sort through the haze of adrenaline. I felt tighter than an overwound clock. ‘I’m sure,’ I replied, ‘there was just that one. And it wanted him.’ I jerked my head in Peter’s direction, my lips rippling into another snarl.

  ‘How do we know you’re not protecting your own,’ snapped Quentin, thrusting his bow at me. ‘There could be others nearby, waiting for the opportunity to swoop in while our defenses are down. In fact, how do we know you didn’t call them here yourself, gargoyle?’

  ‘Enough,’ shouted Nicolas, his eyes full of indignation. ‘Quentin, take care of the camp as you see fit. Post whatever guards you deem necessary, and send out your patrols. The rest of you will return to your trailers for the remainder of the night.’

  ‘You’re going to let that demon loose in your camp?’ exclaimed Peter, his murderous eyes on me. He wrenched in the grasp of the Marksmen who held him. ‘He’ll have a host of shadowen on your doorstep, Nicolas. Mark my words.’

  ‘You’re the one who brought danger to my doorstep,’ said Nicolas coldly. He retrieved the glittering knife I’d knocked from Peter’s hand. ‘And we have much to discuss with you as to the reasons why. Henrik, Ami … take our guest to my trailer.’ He looked at Quentin. ‘I’m calling a divano immediately. Gather the leaders and meet me there in ten minutes’ time.’