‘Sebastian, the tattoo on your wrist isn’t there by accident,’ Hugo said, releasing me. ‘If it does its job, then we’ll know. Now quit wasting time and hit me!’
‘Then what happens?’ I asked, struggling to smile though the elevating anger. My voice sounded raspy, like I was talking through a snarl. ‘I get one shot in, then you pound me to a pulp in typical big brother fashion?’
‘I’m not your brother. You’re just an orphan I took in.’
My humor died as hurt sliced through me, exposing the fear I’d held underneath for so long. Shocked tears pricked the corners of my eyes. ‘Hugo…’
‘You heard me,’ he continued. ‘Now, do something about it.’
The guys moved closer, boxing me in, leaving no escape. The muscles in my back were so tight I couldn’t hold my body upright. I hunched over, panting raggedly, glaring at Hugo as my hurt melted into anger. Fierce, gut-wrenching anger. The room, the guys, everything was coated in red. I wanted to be scared of what was happening, but the dark emotions rising inside me wouldn’t allow it. They ripped up my throat, forcing a growl.
‘Come on,’ he yelled.
This was wrong.
Hugo shoved me hard. I stumbled into the couch.
Red fury. Rage like lava.
No control.
No control.
‘Hit me, you gray-haired freak!’
I leapt at him with a wild cry. My hand shot up, fingers spread, and I swung. There was a cracking sound, followed by sharp pain in my fingers, and my body slung forward with the force of the blow. Hugo’s head snapped around, his large body flailing.
He sank to the floor.
I gasped for breath, hunched and tense, waiting for Hugo to attack. But he didn’t. Instead, he rolled over, holding his face as blood trickled through his fingers. James shifted back with a wary look. Vincent knelt beside my brother. The sight of Hugo on the floor quenched the fire in my veins and cleared my head. The emotions dropped in a sickening weight in my gut. I stared, open-mouthed and petrified.
‘Oh God…I’m sorry, Hugo.’
His hand slipped from his face. Four red gashes striped his cheek. I jerked upright, shocked at the wound. What had I done? Kris stared at me then reached down and snatched my arm, holding it out.
‘Well, Hugo,’ he said. ‘I’d say you have your proof.’
I stared, disbelieving, at my hand. Glinting in the light, in place of where my fingernails should have been, were a set of ugly gray claws.
13. Day or Night
I huddled on the couch, staring dully ahead.
Hugo emerged from the hall with a strip of gauze taped to his cheek. I looked down guiltily. I’d just attacked my brother. With my bare hands. The lack of control I’d felt was appalling. It wasn’t me. I curled my fingers tighter inside the sleeves of my jacket, feeling the rough edges of my nails – or what used to be my nails – against the skin of my palms. Like my hair, they didn’t seem to belong to me anymore.
An hour ago, I’d just wanted to talk. Now, all I wanted to do was run, straight for the door, leave this all behind and pretend none of it happened. But that wasn’t an option.
‘Sebastian,’ said Hugo, his voice low and even, as if reading my thoughts. ‘I’m sorry for coming at you like that, for saying what I did. But we had to know if everything really was set in motion. Your response had to be purely emotional and instinctive. It was the only way to be sure. Now that we are, the best thing for you is to stay here, in the shop. It’s for your own safety.’
For my safety? I’d just left marks on his face with my claws. Goose bumps broke out along my arms. It was like sitting in a doctor’s office, waiting to receive news you already knew was going to be bad. ‘Just tell me the truth, Hugo. Whatever it is.’
My brother’s jaw worked as he deliberated. I braced myself for the worst. His eyes flicked to my wrist. ‘Your tattoo isn’t just a tattoo, Sebastian. It’s a brand.’
The word hit me like a slap. ‘Brand?’ A few days ago, I’d thought Hugo inked me with a flower as some sadistic, brotherly payback. It had been a fleeting notion, a joke. But the word my brother used scraped my insides raw. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Branding is an ancient art, nearly dead to the Corsi clan. But my parents knew how, and they passed it on to me.’
‘So it’s some Gypsy symbolism thing,’ I huffed. My nerves were starting to prick at my anger again. ‘Sounds more like something you do to a herd of cattle.’
‘You’re right.’ Hugo propped himself against the front counter. There was that look again, the near-flinch. ‘And why do ranchers brand their animals?’
‘I don’t know, Hugo. To mark their property, I guess, so people know who they belong to.’ My reply echoed heavily in the room. The other guys were deathly quiet and completely still. I was growing increasingly uneasy. ‘Okay,’ I continued cautiously. ‘The dandelion proves I’m part of the Corsi clan.’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ The expression on my brother’s face was grimly composed, as if he was sitting in a business meeting he didn’t want to attend. ‘But the dandelion isn’t the brand. I chose the design for all the reasons I told you about when I inked it. The power of the brand comes from the ink itself.’
I pulled up my sleeve and rotated my wrist. The edges of the design shimmered in the light. ‘What did you use?’ I asked warily.
‘It’s made from a special powder called prah,’ he answered, his tone almost clinical. ‘We sometimes call it gypsy dust. It’s mixed with regular ink and injected into the skin using a special needle.’
I remembered seeing the strange silver ink during my tattoo session, but I hadn’t actually watched Hugo carve the design into my wrist. ‘But why did you do this?’ I held out my hands. The claws looked hideous, sprouting from my nail beds like gray teeth. ‘And what does it have to do with these? Or what just happened?’
‘I branded you because you were showing signs of emerging, Sebastian. The difficulty sleeping, the complaints about your back. And then the way you’ve been acting lately, with all your erratic emotions. My parents told me what to watch for, before they left you in my care.’
My head swam. ‘They knew about this?’
‘It’s why they took you in.’
‘You aren’t making sense,’ I growled, wishing I could remember more about my own past. Or my foster parents. ‘Emerging from what?’ I stood and moved to the counter, running my hands through my hair. As I did, I caught myself in the mirror: my thick claws, pewter hair, and pallid complexion. My breath lodged painfully in my lungs. ‘Hugo, what…what am I?’
He stared at me for a long moment.
‘You’re a guardian, Sebastian.’ Hugo retrieved a large leather-bound book with gilt-edged pages from behind the counter. I recognized it as the one he’d been looking at the night my hair had turned gray. ‘You’re the product of a blood feud,’ he continued. ‘One that started a long time ago. Being a guardian is your duty.’
It felt as though a heavy weight had fallen on me. ‘And who am I supposed to guard?’
Hugo dropped the book on the counter. It landed with a resounding thud. ‘Us.’
‘The Corsi clan?’
He nodded.
‘From who?’
‘The Outcasts have always had enemies. When I said clans don’t always get along, I meant it. Some view us as renegades, living outside Gypsy law. And believe me, stuff like that isn’t taken lightly among the Roma. But it’s not just Gypsies that we have to worry about. There are other things out there, too.’
‘You mean the visitors from the other night.’
‘It’s why we keep a low profile.’
My mind went to Josephine and the Romanys. ‘Do all the Outcasts have…protectors?’
‘Most of them, yes. But guardians like you are rare these days. You could say you’re a unique case.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘There are other people like me?’
‘You’re not
a person, Sebastian. You’re a guardian.’ He moved to the large Gypsy painting and ran his hand purposefully over the canvas, pausing near the top. Though I’d studied the scene a hundred times before, I suddenly noticed something new. Hidden in a grove of trees, so faint that I almost missed it, was a gray creature. Eyes glinted from a formless face, its gaze fixed on the Gypsy bonfire.
I backed away, catching my leg on the edge of the couch. ‘What is that thing?’
‘We’ve been keeping an eye on you, waiting to see if you were really what my parents claimed. That’s why I haven’t said anything before now. Even with your hair and everything, I wasn’t convinced, but now, we know. I’m sorry, Sebastian, but it’s only a matter of time before your body catches up to your calling.’
‘Well, can’t you stop it?’ I said, hearing panic in my voice. ‘Remove the tattoo, or ink over it or something? I don’t want to be this guardian thing!’
‘It’s not the tattoo that’s changing you,’ said Vincent. ‘It’s who you are.’
‘When the Outcasts fled Europe, back in the day,’ continued Hugo, ‘a lot of knowledge about guardians was lost or reduced to stories. And what resources we do have aren’t very reliable. For instance, you shouldn’t have been able to hurt me once I branded you.’ Hugo touched his bandaged cheek. ‘But obviously, you did. So there’s something missing in the process. Something I haven’t figured out yet.’
‘But…’
‘I’m trying to get some answers,’ said Hugo, cutting me off. ‘I want to help you, but you’re going to have to trust me.’
There was that word again. ‘Hugo, I’m trying to believe that. But all these secrets…’
‘Are for your own protection.’ Hugo’s voice went cold. ‘You don’t know what you’re capable of.’
I glanced at the gauze on Hugo’s face. I remembered the way my body had reacted to his threats. The dark emotions that built up inside me until they exploded. The surge of instincts I couldn’t control. I hadn’t felt scared then, but I did now, so much so, that I couldn’t stand anymore. I sank down onto the sofa. ‘What am I capable of?’
Vincent stood. ‘You need to show him, Hugo. You can’t protect him anymore.’
The two friends faced each other. My brother’s glare was dark, commanding. But Vincent stood his ground. I could sense the unspoken agreement of the others. Hugo’s hand strayed to the book, his finger tracing the edge.
‘What’s with the art book?’ I asked.
‘It’s not art,’ he replied, his voice was a heavy, resigned sigh. ‘It’s history.’ He opened it, flipping through several pages. I watched in hushed expectation. He stopped somewhere in the middle and turned the book around. ‘Here, Sebastian,’ he said, holding it out to me. ‘This is who you are.’
I hesitated a moment, then moved forward. I took the book in my clawed hands and retreated to the far wall. The decorated pages were old, many of them torn. The section Hugo had indicated was filled with ornate pictures and flowing script. Some of the writing was in French, but the other languages were unfamiliar. At the top of the left page was a header.
Gargouilles et Chimera
Directly below were several drawings, all depicting ancient cathedrals and cemeteries. The largest picture – old and painstakingly done – was of the famous Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, looking up.
‘Turn the page.’
I grasped the paper gently and flipped it over. Pictures of the cathedral’s legendary gargoyles filled the page, a collection of strange animals and grotesque faces.
I turned the page again.
While the previous images had been somewhat familiar, the next set of drawings was not. These statues weren’t animals, but human. Some sported large wings. Others had brutal horns, sharp claws, and thrashing tails. All wore the same fierce expression as they stared down from their pedestals and ledges like frozen guardians.
Guardians.
Gargoyles.
‘What is this?’ I whispered, my throat constricting.
Hugo’s gaze was steady. ‘Your brethren.’
I slammed the book closed. ‘A gargoyle?’ I stared in disbelief. ‘You think I’m a gargoyle?’ The others stared levelly back at me. I shoved the book into Hugo’s hands and pressed against the wall. ‘You guys have been sniffing ink way too long.’
‘So says the guy with gray hair,’ muttered Kris.
My knees gave way and I slid to the floor. ‘No,’ I said hoarsely. I shook my head back and forth, trying to rid myself of the images I’d just seen. I was sick. I wasn’t some stone-faced beast. ‘That’s impossible.’
Hugo knelt in front of me. ‘No, it’s not. Guardians have been around for centuries. They’re an important part of our history. They’ve always protected us.’
‘I’m not a gargoyle, Hugo.’
My brother kept talking. ‘There’s a reason my parents brought you to us. A reason we need protecting. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m going to find out.’ His voice sounded distant, as though he was underwater. ‘Do you hear me, Sebastian?’
I leaned against the wall. The paint felt cool against my skin, but the rest of me was on fire. This was worse than going insane. This was a nightmare. I clenched my hands, then jerked in surprise. I raised them to my face. The claws had disappeared. I stared, refusing to believe it at first, and I flexed my fingers tentatively, afraid they would suddenly return. But they didn’t. I had normal fingernails again. I breathed a ragged sigh of relief. ‘They’re gone…’
‘I told you,’ Hugo said. ‘The process has just started.’
Anger flared inside me.
‘And I told you,’ I replied, pushing myself to my feet. ‘I’m not a gargoyle, and I don’t want anything to do with your superstitious Gypsy lore. Whatever you did to me with that ink, I want you to fix it.’
‘I can’t,’ he said lowly. ‘Not until I find out exactly what’s going on. I went up to Chattanooga today, looking for answers. It was a dead end, but I’m not done. We’re going to help you through this.’
I bit my lip, staring at the floor. The tone of Hugo’s voice held finality. My simmering anger fizzled as quickly as it had come. ‘All right, so when you do, when you find out what’s going on with me, will I be…okay…again?’
Hugo didn’t blink. ‘You’ll be fine.’
His assurance rang hollow in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut with such force that my sockets ached. But when I opened them, the nightmare remained. The guys looked at me with expressionless faces. How could things possibly be fine after this? Was I supposed to learn how to tattoo while dealing with disappearing and reappearing claws? Find a way to explain my stupid anger management issues to a client if I suddenly lost control?
The book seemed to glare mockingly at me from Hugo’s hands. My head ached. I just wanted to look normal, to feel normal again. But could I trust my brother after the way he’d been acting?
Did I really have a choice?
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I asked wearily.
‘Go to bed,’ he replied. He tucked the book under his arm and moved to the doorway. ‘The best thing for you now is to remain with us. Stay here until I’ve had a chance to get some answers. Don’t worry, Sebastian,’ he said as he crossed the room, ‘you belong to us now.’
His words echoed ominously in the room.
14. To Be or Not To Be
‘Lights up! Lights up!’
The stage manager flew by, barking into his headset. I recoiled into the shadows to avoid any unprovoked verbal abuse. I couldn’t believe we were well into our performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But the demanding pressure of the show had been one of the best things to happen to me over the last two weeks. It kept me busy at school.
And away from the shop.
Hugo insisted I stay at home and, for the most part, I did. I knew he felt better when he could keep his eye on me. But there’d been no more incidents since that night. The cla
ws hadn’t reappeared, and as long as I wore my hood and mumbled excuses about lingering health issues, I could pretend none of it had happened, which is exactly what I’d been doing. Because there was no way I was going to let this condition, or whatever it was, keep me from the school play.
Or the chance to see Josephine.
Being near her was the only thing that felt right. Not that I’d talked to her. I didn’t really talk to anybody. Not anymore. I couldn’t explain what was going on with me, so it was easier to function as a shadow: going to school, attending rehearsals, and hiding at home. It was amazing how quickly people were willing to leave me alone. But it was awful. I didn’t want to be this person I was turning into: the freaky recluse. I felt lost.
‘You don’t look so good.’
I whirled around, almost hitting Brandon who was dressed to the hilt as Lysander. He swept back his cloak, proudly displaying his costume, which included a very cool theatrical sword. He was the poster boy for confidence, something I was seriously lacking these days.
I pushed down a twinge of jealousy. ‘What?’
‘You look like you’re about to puke your guts out, man.’
‘Oh.’ A bead of sweat trickled down my neck. I was just a few scenes away from being onstage with her. My face twisted, and Brandon shot me a look that bordered on alarm. ‘Just stage fright,’ I insisted.
‘Okay,’ he said, as if he wasn’t totally convinced. ‘Well, break a leg. I hear my cue.’
He slipped through the curtains, and I sighed in relief. But as I peered through the opening, air hitched in my throat. Josephine was gliding across the stage.
Her hair was curled and woven with green ribbons that spilled down her back. The dress she was wearing – her Titania costume – rolled off her shoulders like a Greek toga, falling in gentle folds, clinging to every curve.
I was scared to move, afraid I would miss something she did or said. I wanted to be near her, wanted to feel that chaotic tranquility again. The more I thought about being around her, the more I felt my emotional control slipping, like when Hugo had threatened me. My breathing grew shallow, the edges of my vision blurred with a strange tunneled effect. I gripped the curtain for support.
Grey (The Romany Outcasts Series, Book 1) Page 13