‘Since when did you care about keeping secrets?’ I demanded. ‘Or care about anything to do with the Roma.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ Augustine answered, propping his elbows on his knees. ‘Despite my current status among the Outcasts, I continue to have a deep respect for our traditions, and for our very rich and unusual past.’
‘No offense, but that’s not really coming across.’
Augustine chuckled. ‘It’s a shame we won’t be having many more of these conversations, Sebastian.’ He stood and tapped the corner of my cage. ‘I’ve quite enjoyed them.’
As soon as he left the trailer, Quentin approached. I caught sight of a long knife tucked through his belt. The diamonds glinted like deadly sparks – a grim reminder that he knew exactly how to end my gargoyle-y existence.
‘Time to go,’ he said.
‘Don’t guess you’re going to tell me where.’
Quentin whistled sharply. Thomas and Ian, my Marksmen guard dogs since the kris, stomped into the trailer. Ice exploded in my gut, but my blood heated in my veins. Quentin pulled out a key. I stared hard at the lock as it clicked. Instincts skittered up my spine like a colony of ants. Red seeped into my vision, but I ground my teeth even harder, pushing it away.
Augustine was desperate to see the Queen. If I went quietly, maybe I could find out what was going on. I blinked everything into focus as the cage door swung open. Besides, even if I could fight them off, where would I go?
Thomas clamped a short chain to my manacles, pinning my arms in front of me. A long cloak was thrown around my shoulders and the hood was pulled up to obscure my face. The three Marksmen surrounded me, keeping my form hidden as we stepped from the trailer into the night.
The narrow street where we’d parked was deserted. Streetlights cast a yellow sheen on the cobblestone and drew long shadows from between the close-set buildings. I tilted my head and glanced up as we stopped at a three-story brick storefront. A dark-green canopy stretched across the length of the ground floor. Printed on the canvas flap were the words Tea and Spice.
Augustine came alongside me. ‘May I remind you, if you want Josephine to remain safe, you will behave yourself. We have many loyal to us within the Marksmen ranks. It would only take a word from Quentin, and her circus career would be finished. Accidents are unpredictable that way.’
I flashed my teeth under the hood. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘Don’t give me a reason to,’ said Quentin.
‘See now?’ Augustine’s broad smile made me want to retch. ‘We all have an understanding. None of us wants my niece to come to harm, and she doesn’t have to. Let us simply conduct ourselves in an orderly manner, and all will be fine.’
White-hot anger boiled inside me, heating up my protective instincts. I grit my teeth until the sensation cooled enough to answer. ‘Alright.’
Quentin approached the green painted door with a CLOSED sign in the window. He rapped on the wood in a series of short and long knocks. I sniffed the air, catching the smell of another Gypsy. After a few seconds, the door opened. An elderly Roma woman motioned us inside.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall of the sparsely lighted store, filled with assortments of cooking spices and various loose teas. The aromas made my sensitive nose burn, and mixed with the pungent scent of Marksmen, added to my headache. I switched to breathing through my mouth.
The Gypsy woman walked purposefully behind the counter and took a long, skeleton-looking key from a peg on the wall. Without saying a word or even giving my heavily cloaked self a second glance, she pushed past the group to a door marked PRIVATE in the back of the room. She unlocked it, and Quentin pushed the door open, which was thicker and heavier that it appeared.
Beyond was a decent-sized storage room with more shelves. A man sat at a circular table, playing a game of Solitaire with a grungy set of cards. He nodded at the woman. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. I heard the lock click into place.
The man shoved back his chair and stood. ‘We’ve been expecting you,’ he said. He was tall, with a large nose and a buzz cut. He was dressed like a Marksman. ‘It’s good to see you, Quentin.’
‘And you, Donani.’
My brows lifted in surprise, until I remembered that all Marksmen were from the same clan. It made sense they would know each other – something Quentin seemed pleased with as well.
The Marksman named Donani turned his attention on me. ‘So this is the gargoyle.’ He gripped my hood and yanked it back. My shoulders flexed, but I kept my eyes on him and breathed in slowly. Controlled. He smelled like charred wood. ‘Interesting,’ he said, regarding me with a calloused expression. He returned to the table and retrieved a belt full of weapons from the chair. He strapped it on and drew out a particularly nasty-looking blade – sharp, diamond encrusted, and probably capable of slicing me up like a block of cheese. ‘We’ll take the creature from here,’ he continued. ‘You and your Marksmen are welcome to join us, of course.’ Donani kept his eyes on Quentin. ‘Oh, and tell your marimé companion that we will return for him tomorrow.’
‘But,’ started Augustine, visibly ruffled, his gaze settling on the blade. He hesitated, then clamped his mouth shut and straightened, arranging a smile that mirrored Quentin’s.
It seemed this turn of events wasn’t exactly what he had planned.
Donani clapped his hands once. Two Marksmen appeared from behind a single shelf, where they’d been stationed, I supposed, all along. They took hold of the shelf and rolled it out of the way. Behind it was a paneled door made of ancient-looking planks held together with rusty metal braces.
A weird, uncomfortable sensation took up residence inside me as they unlatched the door. Just beyond, I saw stone stairs, leading downward in a spiral, concealed by a brick wall.
Augustine gripped Quentin by the shoulder and pulled him aside. My gargoyle hearing picked up their conversation.
‘Do not forget all we’ve spoken about, Marks.’
Quentin shrugged him off. ‘I won’t.’
Donani made his way down the stairs. Quentin, Thomas, and Ian went after. I followed, after being kindly persuaded by a spear in my back from one of Donani’s men.
The staircase wound in a circular pattern, weaving down farther than I would’ve thought possible. It smelled damp and pleasantly earthy. I shifted my body sideways as my bound wings scraped against the narrow walls. After descending in silence for a full minute, we reached the bottom. It opened into a circular tunnel, several feet taller than my head and lined with packed dirt and cobblestone. A heavy gate of the same shape barred the entrance.
‘It is with God I have arrived,’ said Donani.
A bearded man peered through the gate. ‘It is with God you are received.’
The gate opened, and we made our way along the tunnel for several yards before it suddenly veered left and opened into a gigantic room. The chamber could have easily held several hundred people. The jagged stone ceiling loomed twenty feet above us, and a railed balcony ran the length of a second level.
This had to be the Court of Shadows.
The Marksmen pushed me hastily through the room and another, shorter tunnel. On the other side was a smaller room, filled with long tables and benches. Soft light filtered through the space, provided by a mixture of electric and gas lanterns.
At least a dozen Gypsies chatted noisily around me, drinks in hand. Food and spiced smells perfumed the air. Donani increased