Page 8 of Roma Queen
Shiiiiit.
Sixteen-year-old Zara, sitting on a bench in a church, watching a rape victim being carried out on a stretcher: I imagine the scene, and in my head I’m there too, somehow, a couple of years older than her, standing behind her, lowering my hands over her eyes, shielding her from the violence, whispering into her ear.Don’t look, Firefly. Don’t look.I can’t travel back in time and protect her from it, though. It’s too late. “Christ,” I hiss through my teeth.
“Yeah. He was there when it happened,” she says, giving me a twisted smile. “God, too. I was so confused as to how a caring, benevolent creator had allowed something so violent and cruel to happen right under his roof. And so sitting there, watching the medics take care of that woman, I came to the realization that there was only one simple explanation for such a thing. Therewasno god. An all-powerful deity didn’t step in and help that woman. A couple of medics at the end of a twelve-hour shift stemmed her blood and kept her alive until she could get to a hospital.Theyare the ones who saved her life.
“Trapped in that church, surrounded by police and EMTs…that’s when I decided that I didn’t believe. That’s also when I realized I wanted to be a dispatcher. I hated the sight of blood back then, so there was no chance I was ever going to be an EMT or a doctor. And the cops were never going to take me because of the whole child arson thing. So I decided that being the person on the other end of that phone was important. A dispatcher’s the very first person to hear someone’s cry for help and to answer it as best they can. I figured if there was no god to answer that call…then I could certainly try. I went to college to please my parents, but the moment I was done, that was it. I bought a plane ticket out of New York, and I traveled as far as I could in the opposite direction.That’show I found myself living in Spokane, taking 911 calls, and drinking apple juice with a group of people nearly twice my age.”
Four
ZARA
I’ve never toldanyone about the church before. Even thinking about what I saw that day usually sends me spiraling into a panic attack, so I generally do my best to avoid the memory altogether. Pasha asked, though, and I wanted to tell him the truth, even if it was unpleasant.
“We’re gonna be there soon,” he says softly. “Grab that bag from the backseat. I got you a few things.”
I’ve forgotten all about theNorm’s Outdoorsbag. I’ve forgotten he even went inside the store until now. Pivoting, I grab the bag and pull it through to the front, dumping out the contents onto my lap. “Oh, wow. Ugly red socks. You shouldn’t have,” I say, whacking his arm with the socks in question. “Oh, and…now you’re really spoiling me. Thermal underwear. Are you trying to tell me you have some secret fetish and you’re really into long johns? ’Cause I have to say, these arenotsuper attractive.” They’re really not. Thick, beige, ribbed material that looks pretty shapeless—I’ve never seen anything less sexy.
Pasha’s grin is boyish and mocking at the same time. “Wanna know what’s even uglier than thermal underwear?”
“Please. Enlighten me.”
“Frostbite. We’re gonna be out here overnight. Maybe even two or three nights, and our camp doesn’t have the benefit of vented heating. You are going to be thanking me for those hideous gifts in about two hours. I promise I’ll try not to actually use the specific words, ‘I told you so,’ but you’d probably better be prepared for some gloating. Now put them on.”
I donotlike the sound of this. For close to three hours, I’ve been absentmindedly staring out of the window, watching the world fly by, cold and stark, the trees dressed in shawls of silver frost, the edges of the road glittering with ice, and not once have I given any real thought to what’s going to happen when we arrive at our destination. Or what our destination will actually be like.
Pasha’s been pretty clear about how his family live. I just haven’t paid much attention to the details up until now. It’s winter, and we are not headed for a Four Seasons Resort and Spa. I’ve been camping plenty of times, and I love roughing it in the outdoors, but…in this weather?
I drop the thermals into my lap, arching an eyebrow at him. “Pasha?”
“Yes?”
“Are we going to spending the night in a tent? In the heart of a national park? In the middle of winter? In the State of Washington?”
He bursts out laughing, loud and raucous, and for a second I’m relieved. Itislaughable that I’d think something so ridiculous, after all. But then he says, “No. Not a tent. Not exactly. I’m betting Archie will bunk in with Gil and loan us hisvardofor the night.”
“And…what is avardo, exactly?”
Pasha’s pale green eye flash with mischief as he breaks the news to me. “A caravan. A gypsy caravan. Don’t worry. I think Archie’s set up his place with a wood burner or something. If not, we’ll just huddle together and share body heat.” He makes that option sound scandalous, and almost preferable to the possibility that there will be a wood burner.
We pull off the small, winding road we’ve been driving up for the past thirty minutes, and we find ourselves in a dirt parking lot. Invisible from the road, I would never have guessed the cleared patch of land was here, or that there were already fifteen other vehicles here, either. Pasha parks the Mustang at the end of a row of trucks and trailers and kills the engine.
“We have a walk ahead of us,” he says. “The Shedroof Divide. A three-hour hike to the camp. Not afraid of a little physical exertion, are you?”
“No, of course not! I work out. I’m not afraid of breaking a sweat. I love hiking. But…how the fuck did the camp get set up withvardosif we have to go on foot from here?”
Pasha opens up the driver’s side door, climbs out and twists his body into a stretch that lifts his t-shirt, treating me to a brief glimpse of his toned stomach. He bends down, bracing himself against the side of the car so he can look down at me, still sitting in the passenger seat. “Most of the caravans and trailers are left here year-round. No one even knows they’re here, and those that do know don’t fuck with them. Everything else is hauled here by hand before the weather changes. My cousins will have made the trip up here a month ago and brought supplies to last six weeks, if not ten. Maybe twelve, depending on where Shelta’s planning on heading next.”
That makes sense, I suppose.
It isn’t even midday yet, and the sun is weak and insubstantial in the sky overhead, a low orb of pale white light, shrouded in clouds. The cold knifes through me as I get out of the car, muttering under my breath. Pasha makes himself busy, wordlessly pulling things from the trunk and repacking them into two backpacks as I slip out of my clothes, shivering hard enough to give a survivor of the Titanic, just pulled out of the Atlantic, a run for their money.
It takes ten seconds to tug the thermal vest on over my bra, but I can feel Pasha’s eyes on me for every single one of them, and his attention numbs me to the elements. For those ten seconds, I no longer feel the cold. I only feel flames licking at my skin, and the sensation is dizzying. Is it wrong that I want his hands on me as well as his eyes? Sarah’s being held captive, Corey Petrov is dead, we’re being blackmailed by a murderer, and yet I can’t seem to focus on what’s important right now. Reaching the Rivin camp should be at the forethought of my mind, if only because of the fact that I’m going to have to face Shelta, but instead of worrying about the sour-faced old bitch of a fortune teller, all I can think about is her son.
Selfish.
I am being so fucking selfish, but I’ll be damned if I can stop it from happening.
I quickly remove my jeans and sit on the passenger seat of the Mustang, battling with the hideous thermal tights, when Pasha slams the trunk closed and dumps a bag by the rear wheel of the car. His eyes lock with mine, then travel down…
