A World Apart (Shades Below, #1)

by Oliva, L. J. K.

  Jimmy's eyes rolled back in his head. He let out a shriek that chilled her to her core, and disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The King was dead.

  Jesper MacMillian stood over the ornate mahogany coffin, and stared down at the man inside. Seeing him like this, it was harder to hate him than it should be. A slip of paper with Orthodox liturgy scrawled over it rested on his forehead. Beneath it, the man's white hair was combed painstakingly back from his leathered temples. His eyes were closed, his mouth relaxed. He almost looked gentle.

  MacMillian peered closer. No, sure enough, there it was: the faint remnants of a predatory smirk. The tightness around the eyes, the hollowness in the cheeks. Hawk-like nose and rigid brow. This was the grandfather he remembered.

  This was the man who'd ruined his life.

  A strong, bony hand clasped his arm. MacMillian swallowed his feelings and smiled down at the tiny wrinkled woman beside him. The crowds of mourners had already filed out of the little chapel. Now, it was just the two of them. "How are you, Babko?"

  His grandmother shrugged and gave him a watery smile. "Alive." She released MacMillian's arm and leaned down, placed a shaky kiss first on the Christ icon in the man's hand, then on his cheek. "Ah, ves'tacha." Her voice wavered. "You leave me too soon."

  MacMillian shifted his weight against his cane and didn't speak.

  The woman rested her forehead against the rim of the coffin, then straightened and turned. She held out her hand. MacMillian obediently took it and twined it around his arm. She nodded her approval. "It is good to see you, Pusomori. It isn't right, you staying away from us for so long."

  MacMillian didn't answer.

  His grandmother glanced down. "You don't limp at all. Your recovery is going well."

  "Yes." Though whether someone ever fully recovered from losing a limb, he didn't know. He sure as hell hadn't. It had been five years, and still there were days when the pain in his nonexistent leg was enough to drive him out of his mind.

  "And how is your work?"

  His lips twitched. "Steady." He lowered his voice and leaned down conspiratorially. "I just finished a case involving a tech magnate's missing wife. Turns out she wasn't missing at all, just on an unannounced, week-long getaway in Aspen... with her personal trainer. Her husband was quite generous with my compensation, if not exactly pleased with my results."

  His grandmother cackled, earning her a glare from the priest attending the altar. "I bet he wasn't. But it serves him right, shoving a handsome young man under his wife's nose."

  MacMillian grinned. "The trainer was a woman."

  His grandmother gaped up at him. A slow, answering grin spread across her face.

  "What are you telling your grandmother now?" A harsh voice sounded behind him. "More stories about the degenerate gaje you associate with? For shame, Jesper. She is in mourning, and this is a church."

  MacMillian stiffened, and his grandmother tightened her hold on his arm. He grimaced. If she thought she could prevent him from running, she was mistaken. But it was just as well he deal with this here.

  If he didn't, his mother would only follow him home.

  He wiped his face clean of any telling expression and turned slowly. "Hello, mámo."

  Rose MacMillian adjusted the scarf covering her head. She had been beautiful once, with her pale caramel skin, her burnished copper hair, the exotic eyes that he'd inherited. She still was, but it was a harsher beauty, whatever softness she'd once possessed long since whittled away.

  She looked him up and down. "You seem well."

  He waited.

  She fidgeted with the vibrant patchwork handbag under her arm. "Of course you will be moving back home now. Babko will take your old room. I've cleaned out the master suite, and your grandfather's office has all his files. You can take over immediately."

  MacMillian took a deep breath. It was now or never. "No."

  His mother stilled. "No?" The word seemed to bewilder her. She shook her head and tried again. "You can keep your current job as well, I suppose. You can move what you need to Papo's office. It can't have been pleasant for you, working in the gaji-kanó all this time..."

  "Pleasant enough." The thought of leaving his office in North Beach made his stomach curdle. MacMillian kept his expression blank. "Anyway, it was my choice."

  "Yes." His mother tried and failed to keep the look of naked distaste off her face. "But it will be good for you to return home."

  MacMillian crossed his arms. "No."

  He rocked back on his heels and waited. Sure enough, Rose's face reddened. She opened her mouth, closed it. Finally, she found her voice. "But you must! It was your papo's last act on this earth. You are rom baro now. He appointed you."

  MacMillian shrugged. "And I told him not to. I begged him to choose someone else." To choose a better Rom. "He may have refused, but that isn't my concern. The kris will just have to name someone in my stead."

  "That is not the role of the kris, and you know it." Rose spoke through clenched teeth. "There are those in the community who are in need of your services. You cannot leave us without a big man. You will not abandon us. Not again."

  MacMillian pressed his lips together. Fury rose in his chest. Of course she would try to manipulate him with that. He dug deep for self-control. "I didn't abandon you. I moved on with my life."

  "Is that what you call it? Where were you after the accident?" Her accusing eyes sliced at his restraint. "Wasn't it enough I lost one son?"

  "You forget I also lost a brother." Not to mention a leg, and what little self-respect he'd ever had. "Don't talk to me about loss. Or family, or loyalty, for that matter. Where were you after the accident? How is it I never saw you when I was lying broken in that hospital bed?"

  His mother looked away. MacMillian leaned forward. "Where were you when they were peeling the flesh off my back and piecing my bones back together, mámo? Did you only come when I was unconscious? Maybe you just weren't there at all." He firmed his hand over his grandmother's. "The only member of our family I ever saw was Babko. She's the only one of you who has the right to expect my loyalty."

  Rose looked back at him, her dark eyes fierce, her lips thin and white around the corners. "How much longer do you think you can keep ignoring our laws? Sooner or later, your actions will have consequences. For all of us." She lifted her chin. "You have responsibilities now."

  MacMillian growled low in his throat. Before he could answer, his grandmother laid her other hand over his. "Actually, Pusomori and I were just speaking about that. He's agreed to look into something for me."

  MacMillian's eyebrows went up. Rose's eyes narrowed. "Has he, now?"

  "Yes, he has." His grandmother shot him a pointed look. "Istvan and Sonya Vaspurkan. Their eldest boy has turned up missing."

  "Right." He forced the word through clenched teeth. "The Vaspurkans."

  Rose's gaze shifted back and forth between them. "How have I not heard of this?"

  The older woman lifted her shoulder, and let it drop again. "Istvan's mother and I crossed over together from the old country. We speak quite often."

  Rose hesitated. The obstinate expression on her face wavered. "If that's true, it is something the baro should look into."

  His grandmother let out a frustrated noise. "Of course it's true! As if Viona would lie about such a thing. Jesper will look into it." She firmed her hand over his. Her eyes grew hard. "As he said: I have the right to expect his loyalty."

  MacMillian bit back a groan. She knew she had him. He could have tried to refuse her, but they both knew he wouldn't.

  All he wanted—the only thing he'd wanted since the accident—was to live his life in peace. Come and go as he pleased. Leave his shoes on in his apartment. Drink when he felt like it, and fuck when the urge struck him. He'd almost managed it. He'd almost escaped.

  But now his grandfather was dead, and he was baro.

  The church bells began to toll, slow, steady intonations, and the small
choir started the requiem. MacMillian pinched the sore spot between his eyes. "Fine. Yes. Have them stop by my office. I'll look into it."

  ←↑↓→

  "When are you going to quit coming to work looking like shit?"

  MacMillian raised his head off his desk, groaned, and dropped it back down. Morning sunshine flooded through the window of his office. The room was spinning, and the inside of his mouth tasted like stale whiskey. The old man's wake had been a rousing success.

  Not that he ever needed an excuse to drink.

  "Maybe when you finally quit shouting. Jesus, Darius, you know I hate it when you shout first thing in the morning."

  His partner snorted and started across the room. "I'll do worse than that, you don't pull yourself together. We got clients, and I don't think they want to talk to me."

  MacMillian groaned again, and sat up. "Clients?"

  "Yeah. You know, people who'll give us money in exchange for work."

  MacMillian scowled. "Asshole. Fine, let them in."

  Darius was already at the door to his adjoining office. "I look like your fucking secretary? Let them in yourself." He disappeared inside. The door shut behind him with a decisive bang.

  MacMillian sneered at it and dragged himself to his feet. Mornings like this, he almost wished he had a business partner who didn't scare the hell out of people. Almost. Darius deCompostela was as hard-nosed and brilliant as he was intimidating, and he'd never seen him back down from a fight.

  Combined, those things were worth having to conduct an interview with a pounding hangover.

  MacMillian took the walk across his office slower than was strictly necessary, paused in front of the door to fish a breath mint out of his pocket. He popped it into his mouth, slapped what he hoped would pass for a friendly look on his face, and opened the door.

  The couple seated on the sagging couch in the reception area looked up in unison. The woman shrank back a little, and MacMillian stifled a grimace. Apparently he needed to work on his "friendly" face.

  He leaned against the door frame. "I'm Jesper MacMillian. How can I help you?"

  The couple glanced at each other. They both rose to their feet. The man cleared his throat. "You're Jesper MacMillian?"

  "Last I checked."

  "You're the new rom baro?"

  MacMillian pressed his lips together. Thank god Darius hadn't heard that. "Just keeping the seat warm. You must be the Vaspurkans. My grandmother sent you, didn't she?"

  The man nodded. "I'm Istvan, and this is my wife, Sonya. Vali Vasa and my mother are old friends. The two of them seem to think you can help us."

  "Maybe." MacMillian retreated into his office, jerked his head for them to follow. He didn't turn back around until he reached his desk. The couple hovered in the doorway, eyes flicking around the room. They reminded him of a pair of nervous moths.

  He sank into his swivel chair and motioned to the two seats across from him. "Guess you'd better sit down." He waited until they complied, then leaned back until the chair's ancient springs creaked. "So, Babko mentioned a missing son?"

  Istvan nodded, and Sonya's face twisted like she was going to cry. MacMillian braced himself, but she quickly recovered. "That's right. We haven't heard from him for nearly a week now."

  MacMillian pursed his lips. "Is that unusual?"

  "Yes!" Sonya took a deep breath. "Jimmy's a good boy. He's had his troubles, but he would never just... just..."

  Istvan took over. "Jimmy was never what you would call devout. He was always curious, always wanting to spend more time in the gaji-kanó than at home. I saw what he was doing, but I thought he was just a young man, doing what young men do. I thought he'd grow out of it."

  MacMillian didn't speak.

  Istvan dropped his gaze. "But then he started spending more and more time away. When he was at home, he scarcely even acknowledged the taboos. About a year back, he was finally found marime and expelled from the kumpania."

  MacMillian rocked a little. His chair squeaked in protest. "So if he's been gone for a year, why are you coming to me now?"

  Sonya shook her head. "It wasn't like that. He might have been expelled, but he still kept in contact. We would see him several times a week." Her lips twisted. "If anything, we saw him more after he left."

  MacMillian leaned forward and fished a notepad and pen from the top drawer of his desk. "What can you tell me about his life outside the community? Friends, girlfriends, where he lived, his job..."

  Sonya wrinkled her nose. "He invited us to where he was staying once, one of those filthy hotels in the Tenderloin." She shuddered. "I wanted to soak in holy water for a week after we left that place. I have the address somewhere." She snapped open her faded purse.

  Istvan watched her for a moment, then looked up. "He didn't spend much time there. You see it, you'll understand why. But the last time he came around, he mentioned he was doing odd jobs at a tea shop in South Market."

  Sonya paused. "Cross Your Teas. He was helping the owner repair some of the kitchen equipment. Jimmy's a good tinker." Her eyes misted. "His grandfather taught him."

  Istvan took her hand, and turned to MacMillian. "Maybe he took a different path than we'd hoped. Maybe the kris has decided he's not officially Romani anymore, but he's still our blood. Our firstborn. Find him." His dark eyes were suspiciously bright. "Please."

  ←↑↓→

  "I should hex the IRS."

  Lena set down the receipt she was scrutinizing, and stared at the woman across the table from her. "You're not serious."

  The woman blew a wisp of dark brown hair out of her face, tugged off her plastic-frame reading glasses, and stretched. The movement made her deep violet lowlights shimmer. "Why not? It might distract them for a while, and we could take a break from sifting through all this bullshit."

  Lena snorted. "Hey, I said you didn't have to help me. My business, my-"

  "Responsibility. Whatever." The woman rolled her eyes. "We both know you're shit with numbers. Hand me that calculator."

  Lena bit back a grin, and obediently passed it over. "Have I ever told you you're like some kind of occult superhero? Georgia Clare: bookkeeper by day, badass biker witch by night. Seriously, you should put that on your business cards."

  Georgia scowled, but her sharp green eyes twinkled. "Well, as your bookkeeper, I'm hereby suggesting you set up a network for this place. Are you kidding me with all this paper? If I didn't know your family, I'd swear you were Amish."

  Lena shrugged. "I'll get to it."

  The bell above the door jingled, and a small posse of women trekked inside. Lena flashed them a smile. "Welcome! Take a seat anywhere. I'll have someone right with you." She set down the receipt she was holding and stood. "I need to go find Connie. Thanks again, Georgia."

  Georgia was already tapping away at the calculator. She waved without looking up.

  Lena left their table in the corner, wove around the other tables and scooted behind the counter. The women were ogling the scones and tiny cakes in the pastry case. Lena nodded to them, pride warm in her chest. She pushed open the swinging doors and stuck her head into the kitchen. "Hey, Tiburcio! Have you seen Connie back here?"

  Her head chef popped up from behind one of the stainless steel counters. "No, señora, not yet. Do you know when Jimmy is coming in? He was supposed to take a look at the stand mixer."

  Lena's good mood immediately deflated. "I'm afraid we won't be seeing Jimmy around anymore."

  Tiburcio's eyebrows went up, and she prayed he wouldn't press her for answers. Mercifully, he merely gave a single, short nod. "Qué pena. Nice guy."

  She swallowed hard. "Yeah. Yeah, he was."

  With Connie nowhere in sight, Lena backed out of the kitchen again, and turned to the group at the counter. This time, her smile felt tight. "Sorry about the wait, guys. Just pastries today?"

  She forced herself through the motions, and heaved a sigh of relief when they finally headed out the door, already picking bits of scone fro
m their crisp white paper bags. Lena allowed her gaze to wander to the park across the street. Maybe she'd head over there for lunch. For some reason, the shop felt smaller than usual. Some fresh air would be nice.

  Maybe it would help dislodge the painful knot from her throat.

  She was still staring into the park when a dark green, classic-looking car rolled up to the curb. The throaty engine rattled the shop's windows, then shut off. A tall, dark-haired man climbed out. He paused, turned, and looked directly at her. The bottom plummeted out of her stomach. Lena shook herself. Of course he wasn't looking at her.

  He was looking at the shop.

  Sure enough, he squinted at the sign, slammed the car door and started across the street. He walked with a barely noticeable swagger, his well-built body encased in a dark gray suit. She looked closer. No, not quite a suit: instead of a blazer, he wore some sort of belted military jacket.

  She braced herself. The bell above the door chafed her already strained nerves. The man filled the narrow doorway. Lena swallowed hard.

  She knew a wolf when she saw one, and this man was definitely a wolf. He loomed in the doorway for a moment, then started towards the counter. His gait swayed, and she realized what she'd thought was a swagger was actually an injury. An old injury, judging by the practiced grace with which he wielded his curved black cane.

  Lena relaxed slightly. A wolf was bad news, but a wounded wolf? That, maybe, she could deal with.

  He reached the counter, and leaned against the glass. Lena frowned. "Can I help you?"

  His eyes flicked over her face, and he straightened. "Maybe. I'm looking for the owner of this place."

  "You found her. I'm Powonia Alan." Lena crossed her arms. "If you're looking for a job, I'm afraid we're not hiring at the moment."

  The man blinked. "I'm not here for a job. I'm looking for a friend of mine. His parents told me he'd been working here."

  Something started to ache in the pit of her stomach. "Is that so?"

  The man arched an eyebrow. "Jimmy Vaspurkan. You know him?"

  She didn't know what made her open her mouth. Maybe it was the man's eyes, too heavy on her face. Maybe it was the way his voice reached deep into her gut and made her insides quake. Maybe she just needed to talk to someone.