Rohan tried unsuccessfully to smother a grin. 'Be that as it may, phral, the word 'fertilizer' should probably be left out of a letter to a lady.'
'Don't call me that.'
Rohan started down the hallway. 'Come with me. There actually is an errand I want you for.'
'Not interested.'
'It's dangerous,' Rohan coaxed. 'You might get to hit someone. Maybe even start a brawl. Ah… I knew that would convince you.'
One of the qualities Kev found most annoying about Cam Rohan was his persistence in trying to find out about the tattoos. He had pursued the mystery for two years.
Despite the multitude of responsibilities he shouldered, Rohan never missed an opportunity to delve further into the matter. He had searched diligently for his own tribe, asking for information from every passing vardo and going to every Romany camp. But it seemed as if Rohan's tribe had disappeared from the face of the earth, or at least had gone to the other side of it. He would probably never find them-there was no limit to how far a tribe might travel, and no guarantee they would ever return to England.
Rohan had searched marriage records, birth and death records, to find any mention of his mother, Sonya, or himself. Nothing so far. He had also consulted heraldic experts and Irish historians to find out the possible significance of the pooka symbol. All they had been able to do was dredge up the familiar legends of the nightmare horse: that he spoke in a human voice, that he appeared at midnight and called for you to come with him, and you could never refuse. And when you went with him, if you survived the ride, you were changed forever when you returned.
Cam had also not been able to find a meaningful connection between the Rohan and Merripen names, which were common among the Rom. Therefore Rohan's latest approach was to search for Kev's tribe, or anyone who knew about it.
Kev was understandably hostile about this plan, which Rohan revealed to him as they walked to the hotel mews.
'They left me for dead,' Kev said. 'And you want me to help you find them? If I see any of them, especially the rom baro, I'll kill him with my bare hands.'
'Fine,' Rohan returned equably. 'After they tell us about the tattoo.'
'All they'll say is what I've already told you-it's the mark of a curse. And if you ever find out what it means-'
'Yes, yes, I know. We're doomed. But if I'm wearing a curse on my arm, Merripen, I want to know about it.'
Kev gave him a glance that should have felled him on the spot. He stopped at a corner of the stables, where hoof picks, clippers, and files were neatly organized on shelves. 'I'm not going. You'll have to look for my tribe without me.'
'I need you,' Rohan countered. 'For one thing, the place we're headed to is kekkeno mushespuv.'
Kev stared at him in disbelief. Kekkeno mushes puv, translated as 'no-man's-land,' was a squalid plain located on the Surrey side of the Thames. The open muddy ground was crowded with ragged Gypsy tents, a few dilapidated vardos, feral dogs, and nearly feral Roma. But that wasn't the real danger. There was another, non- Gypsy group called the Chorodies, descendants of rogues and outcasts, mainly Saxon in origin. The Chorodies were truly vile, dirty, and ferocious, without customs or manners. Going anywhere near them was virtually asking to be attacked or robbed. It was hard to imagine a more dangerous place in London except for a few Eastside rookeries.
'Why do you think anyone from my tribe could be in such a place?' Kev asked, more than a little shocked by the idea. Surely, even under the rom baro's leadership, they wouldn't have sunk so low.
'Not long ago I met a chal from the Bosvil tribe. He said his youngest sister, Shuri, was married long ago to your mm baro.'' Rohan stared at Merripen intently. ' It seems the story of what happened to you has been told all through Romanija.'
'I don't see why,' Kev muttered, feeling suffocated. 'It's not important.'
Rohan shrugged casually, his gaze trained on Kev's face. 'The Rom take care of their own. No tribe would ever leave an injured or dying boy behind, no matter what the circumstances. And apparently it brought a curse on the rom baro's tribe… Their luck turned very bad, and most of them came to ruin. There's justice for you.'
'I never cared about justice.' Kev was vaguely surprised by the rustiness of his own voice.
Rohan spoke with quiet understanding. 'It's a strange life, isn't it?… A Rom with no tribe. No matter how hard you look, you can never find a home. Because to us, home is not a building or a tent or vardo… home is a family.'
Kev had a difficult time meeting Rohan's gaze. The words cut too close to his heart. In all the time he had known Rohan, Kev had never felt a kinship with him until now. But Kev could no longer ignore the fact that they had too damn much in common. They were two outsiders with pasts full of unanswered questions. And each of them had been drawn to the Hathaways, and had found a home with them.
'I'll go with you, damn it,' Kev said gruffly. 'But only because I know what Amelia would do to me if I let something happen to you.'
Chapter Ten
Somewhere in England, spring had covered the ground with green velvet and coaxed flowers from the hedgerows. Somewhere the sky was blue and the air was sweet. But not in no-man's-land, where smoke from millions of chimney pipes had soured the complexion of the city with a yellow fog that daylight could barely penetrate. There was little but mud and misery in this barren place. It was located approximately a quarter mile from the river and bordered by a hill and a railway.
Kev was grim and silent as he and Rohan led their horses through the Romany camp. Tents were loosely scattered, with men sitting at the entrances and whittling pegs or making baskets. Kev heard a few boys shouting at one another. As he rounded a tent, he saw a small group gathered around a fight. Men angrily shouted instructions and threats to the boys as if they were animals in a pit.
Stopping at the sight, Kev stared at the boys while images from his own childhood flashed through his mind. Pain, violence, fear… the wrath of the rom baro, who would beat Kev further if he lost. And if he won, sending another boy bloodied and broken to the ground, there would be no reward. Only the crushing guilt of harming someone who had done no wrong to him.
What is this? the rom baro had roared, discovering Kev huddled in a corner, crying, after he had beaten a boy who had begged him to stop. You pathetic, sniveling dog. I'll give you one of these- His booted foot had landed in Kev's side, bruising a rib-for every tear you shed. What kind of idiot would cry for winning? Crying after doing the only thing you're good for? I'll drive the softness out of you, big bawling infant- He hadn't stopped kicking Kev until he was unconscious.
The next time Kev had beaten someone, he had felt no guilt. He had felt nothing.
Kev wasn't aware that he'd frozen in his tracks, or that he was breathing heavily, until Rohan spoke to him softly.
'Come, phral.'
Tearing his gaze away from the boys, Kev saw the compassion and sanity in the other man's eyes. The dark memories receded. Kev gave a short nod and followed.
Rohan stopped at two or three tents, asking the whereabouts of a woman named Shuri. The responses were grudging. As expected, the Roma regarded Rohan and Kev with obvious suspicion and curiosity. The Roma's dialect was difficult to interpret, a medley of deep Romany and what was called 'tinker patois,' a slang used by urban Gypsies.
Kev and Rohan were directed to one of the smaller tents, where an older boy sat by the entrance on an overturned pail. He carved buttons with a small knife.
'We're looking for Shuri,' Kev said in the old language.
