Page 25 of Roma King
It had been fucking brutal.
And no one had cared that Lazlo had raped a little boy.
Feels like I’m glued to the driver’s seat as I watch Leo, Patrin’s nephew, pop up out of the stairwell that leads down to the Midnight fair. He raises the iron grating that covers the entrance and chains it to the bolt in the wall behind him. We’ve always been told not to wear bright colors, or at least it was believed we should always wear dark clothing back in the day, but Leo’s jacket screams like a beacon in the dark—bright orange and garish. I grin at the sight of him and find that I’m actually a little excited to talk to the kid again.
Last time I saw him, he was thirteen years old. Now almost seventeen, he’s grown nearly a foot and his shoulders are broader, back straighter—the posture of a young man on the brink of transcending puberty, only to find himself struggling through the first confusing years of manhood.
A group of people approach the kid, and Leo must tell them they need to wait; they shift over to one side and begin to form a line, which slowly begins to grow as Leo bobs up and down the stairs, bringing up a stool, a small side table, a small wire basket, and then a black jacket that he drapes over the stool. Finally, he brings up a flashlight and sets that down on the table next to the wire basket. I’m amused as I watch him fuss over the arrangement of the item; it’s always been Patrin’s job to guard the entryway into the fair, and Leo is obviously setting up for him now, trying to make sure everything’s perfect for his uncle before he comes lumbering up those stairs.
If there’s anything I’ve missed about the clan in the last three years, it’s the kids. Leo, and Marissa, Joy, and Selena and Pauli. I have no clue how many babies have been born since I’ve been gone, but as of right now, there are bound to be at least four or five new members of thevitsathat I don’t even know exist.
I’m not a sentimental person. Not over emotional. In fact, the only girl I dated for more than a couple of months out of the last three years was kind enough to tell me that she suspected I was a sociopath and had absolutely no feelings whatsoever. So I’m a little stunned by the pang of sadness that aches in my chest as I watch Leo disappear down the stairs again, for what looks like the final time.
Once I leave… once the fair runs its course here and the Rivin family move on, there’s very little chance that I’ll see any of the kids again. Or Maria, Lavinia, Mercy, or any of the other women who helped raise and guide me, when Shelta was too busy conducting her affairs of state.
As it begins to drizzle, light droplets of water falling to mist the windshield, distorting the world on the other side of the glass, I labor against the possibility that there might be a fourth option open to me here. But no… I shake the thought clean out of my head.
There’s no fucking way.
I can never be their king.
Fury ripples through me as I grab my leather jacket and climb out of the car. I should never have allowed such a stupid idea to form, to evenhalfform inside my head. I should know better than that by now.
The night air is damp and cold, but thankfully not even a flutter of wind disturbs the fallen leaves that have gathered in the gutters as I jog over Cross Street. Eight or nine prospective fair goers grumble at me, telling me to join the back of the line when I approach the mouth of the stairwell that leads down into the fair, but I wave them off. “Calm your shit, people. I’m not skipping your precious line.”
When I was thirteen years old, I was in a state of panic. Everyone else at the boarding school Shelta had packed me off to seemed to be growing facial hair, their bodies changing, developing muscle where there had been none before, and I started to feel a little left behind. I was still kinda scrawny and short, and my balls were still a bald as the day I was born, but one morning, I woke up and when I spoke…
There was no awkward cracking voice for me. No hilarious high pitched, then suddenly bottomed out deep oscillation to the timbre of my voice when I spoke. I simply opened my mouth and out came this dark, deep, low raspy growl of a voice, and suddenly I wasPasha.
Two of the men standing in line instantly look away when I open my mouth and that dark, deep, raspy growl comes out. If they were dogs, their tales would be tucked so far up their own asses right now that they wouldn’t be able to take a shit for a week. One of the women blushes—a pretty chick in her early twenties, with lust written all over her face.
See, this is what I’ve learned about my voice: it polarizes people. It will either turn them on or scare the living shit out of them, and which camp you fall in generally depends on your sex. Women, for the most part, find the gruff, sharp edge to my voice to be the most sexual thing they’ve ever experienced in their lives. Meanwhile, men generally find it to be threatening, some sort of challenge to their own masculinity. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule. There have been plenty of women who have been terrified of me because of my voice. Plenty of guys who have propositioned me because of it, too.
“Well, look who it is,” another voice echoes up the stairwell. My eyes adjust quickly to the dark, and I bite back a grin as Patrin stomps his way up the concrete steps toward me. “It’s fucking Bob Hope, come to amaze us all with his unique comedy routine.”
“Bob Hope?” I keep my expression in check, though the look on Patrin’s face has me dying on the inside. “Couldn’t think of a more recent comedian?”
“Think you’re so smart, don’t you, motherfucker. Shireen nearly fucking killed me when she saw that travesty on my back.”
“You have to admit, the artwork itself is pretty fucking good.”
“I could have done without the veins, you prick. Or the glistening tip.”
“Had to be anatomically correct. Sorry.”
“You arenotsorry. Don’t start lying before you’ve even stepped foot down there, you sack of shit. Shelta’s not in the mood for it, and neither am I.”
I huff down my nose, shoving my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. “I can just leave if you like? Leave you both to your miserable, humorless moods. That suit you better?”
Patrin makes a derisive noise as he glances at the line of people listening to our conversation behind me. He scowls at them, and I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. “Just get your ass down there before I knock your front teeth out,” he snaps.
I’m pretty damn impressed with myself as I hurry past him, down the stairs, still maintaining a straight face. Halfway down, I pause and call back up to him. “Hey, Patrin?”
“What?”
I toss the small tube that I’ve been carrying in my pocket up to him. He catches it, and his nostrils flare when he sees what I’ve given to him.
“You left before I could give you your tatt salve. Make sure you moisturize twice a day. Wouldn’t want that monster cock turning out all patchy and faded now, would we?”
