Page 11 of Roma Queen
When we arrive at the small, sandy shore by the edge of the river, she’s doubled over, collecting water in a giant four-gallon container, the cuffs of her massive, over-sized beige cardigan trailing in the water. Her feet are bare, submerged in the water, and her skin looks like it’s turning blue beneath the clear, rippling surface of the river.
She doesn’t look up from her task. “Figured you two would show tomorrow,” she says. “Connie’s going to be pissed. She hasn’t had time to make hersalmaiayet. Never on time, are you, Pash? Always too early. Always too late.” She shakes her head as she stands, lifting the huge container, and a second later I’m there, standing next to her in the river, water rushing around my ankles as I take the container from her, relieving her of its weight.
She grins, flashing teeth as she finally turns and faces me. Seven years older than me and as bossy as a mother hen, I’ve always considered Shireen the big sister I never had. I also felt fucking sorry for her ever since she finally gave in and agreed to marry Patrin. Her skin is so pale that it’s luminous, the color of milk and porcelain. Her eyes are such a light blue, they’re almost no color at all. She slaps her hands on my upper arms and hugs me, the bulk of the container crushed between our bodies as she laughs loudly in my ear.
“Bastard,” she says. “Three years. We lost three fucking years, and you take four extra months to come home? I should boil your head.”
For the first time, I experience something close to guilt. I could have reached out and spoken to Shireen at least. Connie. Archie. I don’t hate any of these people. I fuckinglovethem, but the life I’m supposed to live with them, the responsibility, the sacrifices I would have to make to lead them…
“Sorry,Stafie. You can’t boil me alive yet. Give me a week and you can go to town, though. Deal?”
She glowers at me—at the use of her nickname—then bumps me with her hip, pointing with her chin over my shoulder. “See your time away hasn’t improved your manners any. You just gonna leave her standing there like a spare part, or are you going to introduce us?”
I feel like a teenaged fucking boy as I turn and hold my hand out to Zara. This is a new experience for me. Like,brand new. The number of girls I’ve brought back to introduce to the clan is a big fat zero for a damned good reason. There’s no telling how the rest of my family are going to react to the fact that I’ve brought agadjewoman home with me, but I’m not worried about Shireen. She, at least, I can count on to be civil and friendly, which makes my stomach twist a little. I’ve prepared myself both mentally and physically for the fight I’ll have on my hands when I tell people I plan on tying myself to Zara. But I haven’t given much thought to what I’ll do or how I’ll feel if any of them accept her, and I’m left a little paralyzed by the way Shireen steps forward and smiles broadly, offering out her hand.
“You’ll have to forgive him,” she says, winking at Zara. “He’s a wild beast of a boy. A little wolf cub. Always has been. I’m Shireen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Zara accepts her hand, shaking it. A small frown creases her brow. “Likewise. I’m Zara. I’m sorry, I thought…” She casts a confused look from me to Shireen. “I thought Pasha called youStafie?”
Shireen makes a show of growling under her breath. “That’s just my brother being an asshole.Stafieis a nickname. An unkind one, at that.”
I slap a hand to my chest, feigning horror. “I’d never be unkind to you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You’re full of shit. I’m so pale, Zara, that our family call meStafiebehind my back. It means ghost. Or vampire. Something in the middle. Not quite astrigoi. They think I don’t know what they call me, and I play along. Pasha, here, thinks it’s funny to call me that to my face, though.”
“Hey. Sue me. I don’t believe in calling people names behind their backs.”
She smiles sweetly. “Neither do I, little brother. That’s why I callyouasshole toyourface.”
“Touché.”
Zara smiles at our easy exchange, and for a blissful, amazing moment, everything is normal. No crazy fucking murderer blackmailing us. No dead child. No lost jobs, no cousins in jail for armed robbery, no kidnapped aunts you’ve always believed dead. This is what it must feel like for regular guys who bring girls home to meet their friends and family: a little weird. A little uncomfortable. A little frightening. But also a little exciting, too. I’m unexpectedly proud of Zara. Proud to be standing next to her right now. This brave, funny, intelligent, sharp-witted, beautiful woman has chosen to stand next tome, even though the odds are stacked against us, and the world seems determined to both push us together and tear us apart at the same time, and that feels…fuck, it feels amazing.
“You’re nervous,” Shireen says, grinning at Zara. “I don’t blame you. But you’re strong. I can see that. Showthemyou’re strong. Keep that chin held high. Be fierce. Don’t back down, and they’ll accept you without question.”
I could fucking hug the life out of Shireen right now. She doesn’t need to do this. I’ve told Zara the same thing, that everything’s going to be okay if she just rides out the storm, but it probably means a lot to her to hear the same advice from someone else. Another woman. A member of my family who isn’t me.
Zara nods slowly, staring down at her shoes. “Thanks. It’ll be fine, though. I know what I’m doing. I got this.”
Shireen grins, deep dimples forming in her cheeks. She looks delighted by Zara’s fiery, determined words. However, when she looks at me, her eyes briefly landing on mine before her gaze quickly dances away, I recognize the silent message she sends me:
‘Christ above and all the angels in Heaven, Pasha Rivin. I hope you know what thefuckyou are doing.”
* * *
ZARA
“Pasha!”
“Pasha’s here!”
“He’s back!”
A chorus of excited whispers rise up around us as we enter the camp. Numerous fires burn in front of thevardosPasha mentioned—brightly painted, colorful wagons with bowed rooves, decorated with small leaves and flowers. Most of them are red, their bracings a dark evergreen. The protruding eves, creating a kind of porchway over the narrow ladders, that are propped against the wagon doors, are almost nearly all painted a rich cream. While the color schemes are practically identical, eachvardois different in some way. Unique in its own right. Small, round porthole windows on one. A large skylight on another. A squarer, more boxy shape to a couple of them, while others are more curved and circular in their design. They are everything I have imagined they would be—so archetypicallygypsythat I feel like I’m walking into some kind of story book.
What I haven’t been expecting, though, are the regular trailers. Winnebagos. Airstreams. A bright yellow VW camper van—one of the twenty-seven window models, in pristine condition. The thing is probably worth close to a hundred grand all by itself. At the far end of the camp, two doublewide trailers, side by side, loom over the settlement, smoke pouring from the chimney at the back of the cobbled together structure. Children dart and weave in between thevardosand the trailers, skirting the fires, chasing one another in a mad game of tag as their parents all stop what they’re doing, their conversations dying on their lips as they all turn to stare at us.
Pasha slides his arm around my waist, huffing under his breath, and I realize that I, too, am staring and my mouth is hanging open. “Not what you expected?” he asks. His eyes, so, so green right now, green as laurel, and moss, and myrtle, are shining, and I can’t decipher the emotion I see within them. Pride? Fear? Concern? It could be any one of these things. It could be all three.
