Authors: Abigail Drake
“Why do you even let them in your shop if you hate them so much?”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I keep hoping one of them might know what happened to Andy.”
I bit my lip. “Why are you telling me this, Mrs. Burke?”
She leaned forward across the table and grabbed my hand. “I wish I’d stopped my sister from falling for Denny. If I had, she might still be with me today.”
Mrs. Burke’s eyes went to the front of the shop. Michael stood there, watching us from the sidewalk. Mrs. Burke grabbed my hand, her eyes locking with mine.
“It’s not too late for you. Stay away from him, Emerson. Stay away from Michael Nightingale and all his kind.”
Chapter Ten
She could start an argument in an empty house.
~Grandma Sugar
“What did she say to you?” It took Michael all of five seconds to get to the point.I looked around the busy street. “Nothing we need to discuss right here.”
He nodded, glancing at the crowds of people walking in The Shambles. The place was filled with tourists on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. We walked to the alley where the secret entrance to the gypsy camp was located. Michael made me close my eyes again. I nearly stamped my foot in frustration.
“Really?”
He folded his arms across his chest. I gave him one more look of extreme irritation and shut my eyes.
“You and me are going to mix. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Aye,” he said as he grabbed my hand and yanked me through the secret door. When I opened my eyes, Michael’s face was inches from mine.
“Some secrets aren’t mine to share,” he whispered, his voice husky.
A group of Travellers yelled at us from farther down the hallway. “Margaret demanded a council meeting about your friend. You need to come right now, Michael.”
He swore under his breath, still holding my hand, and began leading me down the dark hallway. The overnight bag clutched in his hand, hot pink and covered with daisies, completely ruined his whole leather-clad, tough guy, badass persona.
“Who’s Margaret?”
“She’s married to my brother, Patrick.” He gave me an odd look. “She could be trouble.”
“Oh, great. That’s what we need, more trouble.”
Michael paused. “Just try to be quiet. Can you manage that?”
When we entered the courtyard, the sun had just begun to set and an angry crowd of gypsies awaited us. I wanted to cower behind Michael like a big old scaredy-cat, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
“What’s going on?” His voice rang loud and strong.
A tall woman with long, dark hair approached. She wore shoes so high she wobbled, a teeny tiny skirt, and big, flashy earrings. Her eyes were the palest shade of blue, contrasting sharply with her dark hair. Beautiful, but the cold hostility in her eyes made a shiver snake up my spine.
“Hello, Margaret. Lovely to see you. I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Emerson yet.”
Margaret spat on the ground. “I saw her in a dream.”
The crowd gasped. “Dreams seen in autumn always come true,” whispered an older lady standing not far from us.
Michael didn’t look impressed. “And that is the basis for calling a council meeting?”
Margaret folded her arms over her ample breasts. “She stood on new grass, with lightning all around.”
Another collective gasp came from the crowd. “What the Sam Hill is that supposed to mean?”
“It means death…and a funeral. And you are the cause of it.” Margaret refused to look at me when she spoke. It took me a second to realize she was the scaredy-cat, not me. She’d even scared herself.
“Don’t you think that could be Tad’s death and funeral?” Michael asked.
Margaret and several of the other people in the crowd cowered and covered their ears. “Do not say his name. Let him rest in peace.” Margaret’s voice was a hiss.
“Oh, my. She is one fry short of a Happy Meal,” I muttered, low enough so only Michael could hear.
“Truer words were never spoken,” he said back to me, just as softly.
Michael’s father worked his way through the crowd. “Enough of this, Margaret, you’ve called the council meeting. You have the right. They’ll be here tomorrow anyway for the funeral. There’s no need to get into this now.”
The people in the crowd didn’t look happy about it, but they slowly began to disperse. Only Margaret remained, one hip jutted out and a rather pissed off expression on her pretty face.
“Da…” she began, but Sampson held up a hand to stop her.
“You heard my words, and you’ll heed them, Margaret.”
A tall man with a shaved head who looked like a slightly older and heavier version of Michael took Margaret’s arm. “Sorry, Da,” he said. He nodded at Michael. “Mikey.”
Michael gave him an understanding look. “Pat.”
Margaret wanted to argue, but Patrick gave her arm a hard tug and pulled her away. “You’ve done enough, Maggie.”
Sampson rubbed his jaw as he watched them walk away. “It was bound to happen, Mikey. And you know this isn’t just about the lass.”
“I know, Da. Thanks.”
Sampson shrugged. “Don’t thank me yet, boy-o.” A group of young men gathered, checking their weapons and chatting amongst themselves as they prepared to leave. They had identical shaved heads, black leather jackets, and dark clothing. “You won’t hunt tonight, Mikey. Stay in and rest up for tomorrow.”
Sampson walked away, and I scowled at Michael. “Well, that was fun. Y’all are just a barrel of laughs.”
He didn’t say anything. He led me back to his caravan, and then went out to pick up dinner. When he got back, he started a small fire in a pit near his front porch, pulled up a couple of chairs, and handed me a tray.
The food was delicious, a beef stew, crusty bread, and a slice of cake for dessert. He handed me a glass of hot mulled wine, and I took a long, grateful sip.
“Who does the cooking?”
The stars began to pop out in the dark, cloudless sky as we ate. It felt warmer and drier here in the compound than it did anywhere else in York. I’d slipped into a clean pair of sweats and a light jacket, and, with the heat from the fire, that was enough to keep me toasty.
“We have a communal cooking area. They make meals for everyone.”
Most of the people seemed to congregate in the center of the compound, so Michael and I sat alone. I was thankful. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Margaret or any other gypsies at the moment.
One thing I’d learned on the pageant circuit was women, in general, can be much meaner than men, and southern women, as a rule, could be downright vicious. I hadn’t been here long, but if Margaret was any indication, gypsy women took that a whole step further. Keeping my distance would be the best, and safest, policy.
The compound, located in a completely enclosed courtyard formed by brick windowless buildings and imposing walls, proved to be a private oasis in the middle of the city. I had to wonder if the people working and living in those buildings, and just beyond those walls, had any idea a herd of gypsies camped out right behind them. Somehow I doubted it.
Movement in a tree across the compound caught my eye, and I realized it was the most recently killed Moktar. Children whacked it with a stick, like some kind of macabre piñata.
“Now that looks like fun. If they hit it real hard, does candy fall out?”
Michael looked over at the children playing. “That one killed the boy who died yesterday. Not long ago, he was one of those children, and tomorrow we’ll hold his funeral.”
I jabbed at my plate, but suddenly didn’t feel as hungry anymore. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes on his food.
“Mrs. Burke was attacked by a Moktar once.”
Michael’s head shot up. “She said that?”
“She didn’t call it a Moktar, and has been trying to convince herself it was a hallucination for the last thirty years.”
The fire crackled in front of us, I was filled with good food and warm wine, and a heavy sort of relaxation descended on me. I’d been so hyped up for so long, I hadn’t realized how much I needed to just sit and chill.
I tried to keep my voice neutral as I told him Mrs. Burke’s story, but faltered when talking about Joan’s death. That particular element was hard for me, but I refused to take sides.
“When she talked about Andy being different, I understood what she meant.” I took another sip of wine. It tasted like cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice, and was the perfect drink for a cool fall evening. I just wished I’d been on a hayride instead of at a gypsy camp with a bunch of people who hated me.
“She said he was so fast, she sometimes thought she couldn’t see him for a second when he was running. He seemed to see things that weren’t there, to sense things that others didn’t. What was he, Michael? What are you?”
“I’m a Traveller.”
I swirled my wine around in my glass. “You were half a block away when the Moktar grabbed me, and at my side in a second. That’s a little faster than normal.”
Michael stared into the fire. “We call it leaping. We look at a spot, and, without moving a muscle, we’re there. In physics, it might be known as quantum teleportation, but it can’t be explained scientifically because it’s a paradox. It’s also dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” The amount of wine in my system made me very open to new ideas, even crazy ones, and much more willing to hear Michael out.
“If we aren’t careful, we can get hit by a car, or stuck in a house. I’ve even seen a person accidentally leap into another person. Both were killed instantly.”
“What else can you do?”
“Travellers are better fighters, faster than the average person and faster than the average Moktar, too. We have quicker reflexes, and heightened awareness. A Traveller can smell danger coming, hear things far away. Some of us have a certain level of psychic ability, although it varies from person to person.”
“You can’t read my mind, can you? Because that might be a problem.”
“No.”His lips twitched. If he found me amusing now, he would have really enjoyed taking a peek inside my thoughts. My mind was a scary place. “Sometimes it’s just a feeling we have, a sense of unease.”
“So you are kind of like super people?”
“Not exactly. Don’t try to make us into heroes. Have you ever heard of the burakumin of Japan?”
I frowned, feeling fuzzy from the wine. “You’re Japanese?”
He gave me the signature Michael Nightingale glare. “No. Originally, we all came from Ireland, but that’s beside the point. The burakumin are the outcasts of Japanese society. When Japan was a closed country, they did the dirty, thankless jobs and their reward was to live in squalor, like lepers.”
He poured some more wine into both of our glasses. I had a feeling I might need it.
“Even today, burakumin aren’t given good jobs or allowed to marry outside of their caste, simply because of the work their ancestors performed hundreds of years ago.”
“How does that relate to Travellers?”
He looked up at the stars. “We’re an ancient race of nomads. People don’t trust those who wander. They are even less fond of those who are different.”
“And you are very different, aren’t you? But I still don’t understand why.”
He sighed. “If you know anything about Travellers, you know most can’t read or write. The only history we have is oral, handed down through stories. Those stories tell of a time when darkness invaded the earth, and monsters roamed freely. Rom was the gypsy name for heaven, and the gods of Rom took pity on the poor humans and came to help them in chariots made of fire and lightning. They killed the monsters and rewarded the faithful with a gift.”
“What was the gift?”
“Powers given from the gods to protect their people if the monsters ever came again. There is a little more to it than that, a lot of prophecy and other such nonsense, but that’s the main idea.”
“Okay.”
Michael blinked. “That’s all you are going to say? ‘Okay’?”
“Well, yes. What else do you want me to say? I got up close and personal with a Moktar the other day, and sure as shoot never saw one of those before. And I saw you and your men fight. Y’all are a little west of normal, Michael.” The more I drank, the thicker my accent became. I started to sound very southern now.
“I’ve studied the data carefully, and I’ve done my own research. There are only a few small differences between Travellers and Dwellers, most of them physiological.”
“Huh?” I squinted at him. “Please don’t tell me you have an extra ding dong.”
Michael laughed, throwing back his head. An unexpected pleasure. I’d never heard him laugh before.
“No. The difference is just a tiny tweak in our DNA. It’s both a blessing and a curse. In ancient times, people thought we were either gods or demons. We were hunted and killed and blamed for everything from crop failures to lunar eclipses. Like the burakumin, we were outcasts, but we chose our path. We decided to avoid contact with Dwellers, and it worked for hundreds of years.”
“What happened to change that?”
“The monsters returned. And whatever it is in our DNA that makes us stronger and faster, it also makes us more desirable to the Moktar. The hypothalamus in our brains contains a substance that is extremely addictive to them. It’s sort of like crack for Moktar, but a million times more pleasurable. They call it HT. They crave it with an intensity that borders on insanity.”
A log snapped on the fire, the flames warming my face as the wine warmed my stomach. I held out my glass, and Michael poured more in. He didn’t comment on how much I drank, which was wise.
“Do they like to eat our brains, too?”
“Unfortunately, yes. They prefer to dine on Travellers because the effects last much longer, but a Dweller will do in a pinch. It’s sort of the difference between steak and a beef burger.”
“I’m hamburger. How nice.”
Michael swirled the wine in his glass, a faraway expression in his eyes. “We formed a secret alliance with governments all over the world. We take care of the Moktar, and they take care of us, providing us with a place to live and a salary. We’ve managed to isolate the Moktar to a few island countries, mainly the UK, Japan, and the continent of Australia. The Moktar have nests and are good at hiding, but they hate crossing water. The problem is now contained, and we spend our nights hunting them and hunting them until we die.”