Call 555-5555. Our work tended to come by word of mouth . . . from either Promise or Robin. “He, huh? Did he say what he wanted?”
“No. Think of it as a surprise.”
It was a surprise. A helluva surprise.
One: It wasn’t a man.
Two: She was human . . . in the Ninth Circle and not afraid.
Three: We knew her. And maybe she was human, but she was also one of the scariest humans I’d come across. A hundred if she was a day and a greedy, manipulative, borderline psychotic witch . . . and I didn’t mean the Wizard of Oz kind. The only thing magical about her was the level of her pure vile nastiness. She liked me—I think because I’d been a little psychotic myself when I’d first met her.
Abelia-Roo.
Head of the Sarzo Clan. Rom. Toothless, wizened, maybe four foot ten, and didn’t give a rat’s ass who died as long as she got money out of it. She’d once sold us something we’d needed as ransom in a hostage situation and hadn’t bothered to mention that activating it took the blood of a gypsy. That blood had turned out to be Niko’s and that I definitely gave a rat’s ass about—a giant rat’s ass; big, furry, and pissed. It made me wonder how socially unacceptable it was to break the kneecaps of an old lady with her own intricately carved cane.
She leaned that cane against the bar, sat her tiny frame on the stool next to Niko, and arranged the red fringed shawl over her sacklike black dress. “Niko and Caliban Leandros of the Vayash Clan.” Her black eyes glittered. “You enjoyed our hospitality once. I expect to be as well treated.” She knotted her gnarled hands on the bar and rattled off something in Romany, which neither Niko nor I spoke. Sophia had never bothered to teach us the language. She had left her clan before we were born and when the clan had found out what she’d done to produce me . . . well, they hadn’t exactly welcomed us with open arms.
Abelia-Roo grinned, showing her gums. “But I forget. You do not speak your own tongue. A disgrace. I will have a glass of your best wine. And if it is not your best, I shall know.”
“I’ll have to get a wineglass and scoop some water out of the toilet. Give me a sec,” I growled, my eyes slits. “Or better yet, haul your wrinkled old ass back to Florida or wherever you’ve set up camp. And tell Branje hey.” I’d threatened to slice off the nose of Abelia-Roo’s main muscle man. Then again, when you had him on the ground, knee in his gut, the tip of your knife up a nostril and you fully intended to do it, I guessed it wasn’t a threat.
The gums showed again, this time specifically in my direction. “Still a real man. It’s difficult to believe the Vayash Clan ever produced one.” The Vayash Clan also hadn’t seen the need to spread around that they gave birth to a half-breed Auphe. The rest of the clans would’ve had serious words to say about that. She still didn’t know about me then. “If I were ten years younger, my boy, I’d give you the ride of your life.” She patted the white bun at the back of her head with a coy hand. It didn’t do anything to cover up the pink-brown skin that peeked through the strands covering her scalp.
It was hard to stay pissed when you were trying not to spew all over yourself and the bar. I managed. I liked to think of pissed as number one in the repertoire that made up my general crapfest of moods. I was really, really good at it. Pulling in at the last of that emotional list would be forgiveness. “That’d still put you at nine hundred,” I said with distaste. “No thanks. The only thing I want from you is to get the hell out of here. Thanks to your not telling us about the Calabassa, my brother almost died, you evil bitch.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Samyel blink at my laying the b- word on what looked like a sweet old granny. But this sweet old granny would’ve drugged Samyel and sold his feathered butt to a chicken farmer. As a poor egg producer, he would end up an
“No. Think of it as a surprise.”
It was a surprise. A helluva surprise.
One: It wasn’t a man.
Two: She was human . . . in the Ninth Circle and not afraid.
Three: We knew her. And maybe she was human, but she was also one of the scariest humans I’d come across. A hundred if she was a day and a greedy, manipulative, borderline psychotic witch . . . and I didn’t mean the Wizard of Oz kind. The only thing magical about her was the level of her pure vile nastiness. She liked me—I think because I’d been a little psychotic myself when I’d first met her.
Abelia-Roo.
Head of the Sarzo Clan. Rom. Toothless, wizened, maybe four foot ten, and didn’t give a rat’s ass who died as long as she got money out of it. She’d once sold us something we’d needed as ransom in a hostage situation and hadn’t bothered to mention that activating it took the blood of a gypsy. That blood had turned out to be Niko’s and that I definitely gave a rat’s ass about—a giant rat’s ass; big, furry, and pissed. It made me wonder how socially unacceptable it was to break the kneecaps of an old lady with her own intricately carved cane.
She leaned that cane against the bar, sat her tiny frame on the stool next to Niko, and arranged the red fringed shawl over her sacklike black dress. “Niko and Caliban Leandros of the Vayash Clan.” Her black eyes glittered. “You enjoyed our hospitality once. I expect to be as well treated.” She knotted her gnarled hands on the bar and rattled off something in Romany, which neither Niko nor I spoke. Sophia had never bothered to teach us the language. She had left her clan before we were born and when the clan had found out what she’d done to produce me . . . well, they hadn’t exactly welcomed us with open arms.
Abelia-Roo grinned, showing her gums. “But I forget. You do not speak your own tongue. A disgrace. I will have a glass of your best wine. And if it is not your best, I shall know.”
“I’ll have to get a wineglass and scoop some water out of the toilet. Give me a sec,” I growled, my eyes slits. “Or better yet, haul your wrinkled old ass back to Florida or wherever you’ve set up camp. And tell Branje hey.” I’d threatened to slice off the nose of Abelia-Roo’s main muscle man. Then again, when you had him on the ground, knee in his gut, the tip of your knife up a nostril and you fully intended to do it, I guessed it wasn’t a threat.
The gums showed again, this time specifically in my direction. “Still a real man. It’s difficult to believe the Vayash Clan ever produced one.” The Vayash Clan also hadn’t seen the need to spread around that they gave birth to a half-breed Auphe. The rest of the clans would’ve had serious words to say about that. She still didn’t know about me then. “If I were ten years younger, my boy, I’d give you the ride of your life.” She patted the white bun at the back of her head with a coy hand. It didn’t do anything to cover up the pink-brown skin that peeked through the strands covering her scalp.
It was hard to stay pissed when you were trying not to spew all over yourself and the bar. I managed. I liked to think of pissed as number one in the repertoire that made up my general crapfest of moods. I was really, really good at it. Pulling in at the last of that emotional list would be forgiveness. “That’d still put you at nine hundred,” I said with distaste. “No thanks. The only thing I want from you is to get the hell out of here. Thanks to your not telling us about the Calabassa, my brother almost died, you evil bitch.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Samyel blink at my laying the b- word on what looked like a sweet old granny. But this sweet old granny would’ve drugged Samyel and sold his feathered butt to a chicken farmer. As a poor egg producer, he would end up an