“Your mother grew up not that far from here. Did you know that?”
Well, no. I hadn’t. And while there was an itch under my skin to go find Ryan, to make sure he and the others were okay, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see where she’d come from. Because regardless of what had brought us here or why she’d left to begin with, this was my history. And I was immersed in it for the first time. Granted, this place and its people hadn’t made the best first impression, what with the racism and the general sense of coercion for me being here at all, but still….
“She did?” I asked.
Ruv smiled at me. “I didn’t know her, obviously, as she was gone before I ever came to be. But I’ve heard the stories. People speak of her with much love and respect.”
I frowned. “I thought they weren’t allowed to speak of her at all. Isn’t that the point of being shunned?”
“She followed her heart,” Ruv said. “And while tradition is important, there is something romantic about it that sparks the imagination. And here you are now, returning to where she left. It’s like a circle has been completed.”
In a weird way, it was. This place didn’t feel like home—it would never feel like home, I was sure of that—but there was something about it. Something that felt familiar. And it wouldn’t take long, right? The others probably wouldn’t even notice I’d been gone by the time we’d get back. And to think about what I could tell Mom I’d seen when I got back to Lockes….
So I said, “Yeah. Sure. Okay. Lead the way.”
And the Wolf’s smile widened.
MASHALLAHA WASN’T big, certainly not compared with Lockes or Meridian City, or even compared to the Port. But it was bustling in a way the others weren’t. Lockes always carried with it the divide between the classes, the rich and the middle and the slums. In Meridian City, the heart that beat within it was diseased and corrupted, and it was every man (or woman) for themselves.
Mashallaha was different in that there was a thrum to it, an order to everything everyone did. There didn’t seem to be any disparity in wealth, no sense of desperation or deviousness. There were no nobles. There were no working whores on the street corners. Oh sure, people hawked their wares, shouting in bright, colorful voices—that was something similar, something I thought was universal in almost every market. But it was the way the people went about it. There didn’t seem to be any slick solicitation, no shifty-eyed I’ll make you the best deal I can. People came, people bought what they needed, and they left.
It was… different.
It didn’t mean it was better, though.
Because I could see the curiosity on their faces, the barely disguised looks in my direction before the gazes turned away and the whispers began. It made sense, really, because while there wasn’t a specific division in say, the affluence of the people around me, there was a major difference between those from Mashallaha and those that weren’t. Those that were from Mashallaha were dark skinned and dark haired, dressed for the desert. Most were barefoot in loose clothing made of thin, sheer material. Both men and women wore colorful scarves around their heads to protect them from the sun above.
Then there were the tourists, the light-skinned people who wore clothing perhaps not best suited for the desert, sweat on their faces as the women cooled themselves with large ornate gypsy-made fans, the men wiping away excess moisture with small embroidered gypsy-made kerchiefs.
And then there was me. Stuck somewhere in the middle. I was not as light skinned as the tourists. I was not as dark as the gypsies. I was somewhere in between. That coupled with the fact that my grandmother was the leader of most of the people around me no doubt added to whatever mystique they thought I had, for better or worse.
It was uncomfortable, that feeling.
I was used to being stared at these days.
But not to the point of where I knew I was being judged for something I really had no control over.
As if he could read my mind, Ruv said, “They don’t hate you. Not really.”
“That’s not as assuring as you think it is,” I muttered as we made our way through the crowd.
He shrugged. “They just don’t understand, I suppose.”
“Understand what?”
“You. Your heritage. The choices made. You are not your mother, but you come from her. She left the roma. Or, more formally, the vitsa. The clan.”
“She left because she loved.”
“And some think she should have loved her people more.”
“Really,” I said. “Because that doesn’t seem fair.”
“Why?”
“Because it shouldn’t be either or. You shouldn’t have to give up one for the other.”
“But life is choices,” Ruv said. “And what is love but a choice? You love your unicorn. And your half-giant. What if the choice came between them or your parents? Who would you choose?”
“Easy,” I said, curling my lip. “I would fight the person forcing me to make a choice.”
“Violence.” Ruv shook his head. “It’s not always the answer.”
“No, but it sure feels good to kick a villain’s ass.”
“And Ryan?”
“What about him?” I asked, tone flat.
“If it came down to saving his life—”
“I would fight the person forcing me to make a choice,” I repeated.
Ruv grinned at me. “You care for him.”
As if there was any doubt. Ryan was a pain in my ass, and I in his (literally), but I wouldn’t change a godsdamned thing about it. Except for him being a jerk right now. And the fact that I was probably also being a jerk.
“Ah,” Ruv said. “How fortunate.”
“I don’t get you,” I admitted.
“You don’t know me,” he said, leading us away from the market. The noise of the crowd behind us gave way to the creaking of the walkway under our feet, the lap of the water beneath the city. The buildings that rose around us cast the path in shadow. It was cooler here.
“And I’m not going to. Not like Vadoma wants.”
“What Vadoma wants is to help the world survive.”
I snorted. Because that sounded terrible. “She also wants you and me to get funky.”
He laughed brightly. Even I could admit it was a nice sound. “Yes. There is that. Funky.” The word sounded strange from him, like he was tasting it for the first time. “She spoke of you. Often.”
“She doesn’t know me.”
“Perhaps not. But her blood is in your veins.”
“You all keep saying that. But blood isn’t everything. It doesn’t define us.”
“No?”
“No,” I said. “Because Tiggy and Gary and Kevin aren’t my blood, but they’re mine. The same with Ryan. And the King and the Prince.”
“And Randall and Morgan? Even after their secrets?”