Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel (27 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

OBLIVIOUS

After six hours of uninterrupted riding, we arrive at the field where the gypsy caravan was. From there, we spend four hours following tire treads in the mud, left behind by the dozens of trucks and trailers—dozens of families that will soon be dead.

It’s early morning when we catch up with the mobile caravan—the sun not yet over the horizon. The trailers are dark, asleep, but the truck drivers are awake, driving no faster than a brisk walk. When I ask Mel why there are no roads in Theria, he explains to me that there are no cars in Theria—that cars violate therian law. But constantly moving the whole caravan, all their homes, their old and their young, would be impossible with horses alone.

“Old and young?” I ask.

“Forty-five children. I’m not sure how many seniors—maybe twice that? Probably more, even.” Mel says.

Forty-five children and one hundred seniors; that’s the price of my freedom.

We ride along the caravan’s side and catch up with the leader. The train comes to a quick halt when Mel explains the situation. The announcement travels down the line of trailers quickly, and soon enough, every light in every mobile home is lit. Everyone, still half-asleep, gathers for an emergency meeting. I’d spent the whole ride from Vianna honing my story, perfecting my lie, but no one asks me anything. No one questions my tale. Everyone believes what Mel tells them—what I told Mel.

When Mel announces Nicky’s death, the gypsies become silent, save for one older woman who collapses to her knees and begins bawling into her hands. She screams, “Why?” over and over. A teary-eyed man, probably her husband, sinks down to comfort her. He keeps his composure and reminds her that there will be time to cry later, but not now. There’s no time to cry over their dead son because now, the caravan is changing direction, and it’s a group effort to get the trucks and trailers onto a new course.

Before the crowd disperses, I recognize Freddie’s face in the crowd. His face quickly elicits memories of Pesconi’s cement dungeon, crawling through rat shit, teetering over the giant turbine, and swimming through glacial waters. I did all of that for a chance to see his face again, to punch it as hard as I could. I couldn’t wait for the chance to get my satisfaction. Now, I couldn’t muster up that same vengeful hatred. No matter how hard I tried, guilt was all I felt. I’d hoped that I would see his face and feel better about my decision, about my freedom.

Nope—just guilt. He turns away from me to help a small girl find her way back to her trailer.

My guilt isn’t helped any when the gypsies vacate and set up a trailer for me, complete with a big bed, clean sheets, private bathroom, and baskets of fresh food. Once the caravan is started in its new direction, the gypsies take turns visiting my trailer, thanking me for my selflessness, apologizing for holding me captive.

Mert helps the older grief-ridden woman into my trailer, tears still pouring down her face. She springs free from Mert’s hold, towards me, wrapping her arms around my body and nestling her face into my shoulder.

“Thank you so much,” she says. I can feel her tears seeping through my shirt. “Thanks to you, my boy didn’t die in vain.” My gut turns. Faking a smile for the woman is impossible.

In her tear-glazed eyes is the reflection of my evil face. “He told me to tell you that he loves you very much,” I say. In my mind, it seemed like the right thing to say. Hearing it aloud makes me feel vile—lying to her face, a mother who just discovered her son is dead, oblivious to her own impending death, with her blood on my hands. I hold back my own tears—tears that would only bring more pity, and more guilt.

Even Mert gives me a hug and says, “M’ sorry.” He leaves, helping the emotionally-crippled woman out as he goes.

I begin preparing for bed, slipping into the clean pyjamas left for me by the gypsy welcoming committee. Before I lay down, there’s a knock at my door.

It’s Freddie, dressed in a heavy coat and holding a hefty duffle bag. With the trailer now moving, he stands on the small platform and holds a rail to keep his balance. “Hey,” he says, with his gaze pointed at his feet.

“What do you want?” A small part of me wants to push him off the platform and watch the train of trailers drive over his body. Another part of me wants to tell him about Porsha, and the credit card that now sits in my trailer. I don’t act on either impulse.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

I step aside and he steps in. I don’t know what he wants and I don’t really care. I just want this to be over with, so I can get on with grieving about it. He places his bag down and looks around.

Did he just come in to look around? Is he investigating me? “Well?” I say.

“Sounds like ya had an adventure,” he says, letting one of his little smirks slip. I watch him pace around the room, looking at everything curiously as if he’s never seen the inside of the trailer before.

“You could say that,” I say.

He laughs and looks back down at his feet. I anticipate an apology. Instead, he says, “Ya know, I never got my territs back.” It’s not the topic I expect him to bring up, though I don’t know why. Of course that’s all he cares about—money—a handful of dumb, gold coins.

I shake my head. “Well, then they’re gone. I don’t know what you want from me.”

He smiles. “Ya think I’m a bad person, don’t ya?” Is he serious? I don’t think he’s a bad person, I know he’s a bad person. With all his people’s struggles, all he cares about is money. “It took me five years to earn those territs,” he says.

“That’s funny. It took about the same amount of time to save up everything you took away from me.”

“I can’t help that you’re a shit gambler.” He grins.

I wonder what I would have to say to convince Freddie to take Porsha’s card and run in the other direction. “Well, I can’t help that you were dumb enough to put five years’ worth of savings into a backpack.” I grin right back at him.

His smile disappears. Apparently, I found a soft spot. He steps towards me and raises his finger, pointing it at me. “Do ya have any idea why those territs were in that bag?”

“No, and I don’t care, either.” And I don’t.

“Y’ aren’t even a little bit curious why I was carryin’ three-hundred thousand territs? Or why Pesconi happened to be in town?” Until Freddie point out the connection, I hadn’t wondered. Now I’m curious. Freddie’s face is red. “I was payin’ off a debt. That debt’s the reason we’ve been on the run for five fuckin’ years. They killed my sister over that debt. Now, they’ve killed Nicky, too. They’re gonna keep killin’ ‘till they get their money back. I was hours away from clearin’ that debt. We could’ve stopped runnin’. Ya think we like drivin’ across the country? Hidin’ all our lives?”

I have nothing to say back to him. I’ve already maxed out my guilt. Apparently, I’m not only the hand of death, but I’m the nail in the coffin, too. I’m the murderer and the mortician. What am I going to do with my freedom that’s so important?

“Look. I’m sorry I sold ya to Pesconi,” he says. I look up at him, confused. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say the word ‘sorry.’ “They offered me fifty thousand for ya. Couldn’t say no—I thought maybe I could flip it into three hundred somehow. Thought I could pay off our debt. Here.” He reaches into his coat pocket and reveals a hefty velvet sac. “Take it.” He tosses it to me.

The bag is heavy, filled with golden coins—big crown territs. I was wrong about my guilt being maxed out. Even Freddie’s managed to make me feel like a pile of shit.

“It was nice knowin’ ya,” he says, turning back to the door. He picks up his duffle bag. Duffle bag? Heavy coat? Freddie is taking off, ditching the caravan. If Pesconi comes and wipes out the gypsies, and Freddie isn’t even around—I don’t think I could handle that.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, reaching for the door handle.

“No.” I storm to the door and slam it shut before he can leave.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Where are you going?” I ask in the form of an accusation.

He scoffs. “Why do you care?”

“You’re just ditching your family?”

“I’m doing what I gotta do.” He reaches for the handle again but I keep my palm planted on the door. “Let me out,” he says.

“You’re a selfish prick.” Hearing my own words makes my stomach drop. The accusation doesn’t hold much weight, coming from the queen of selfish bitches.

“Ya don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. Lemme out.” He gives the handle  a firm shake. I slam my body into the door to counter his strength.

“You can’t go. Your family needs you.”

“I’m goin’ for my family, Olivia.” Going for his family? What is he talking about? “I’m turnin’ myself into Pesconi. Hopefully then he stops comin’ after my family.” I’m not sure if I should believe him or not. Knowingly on his way to his death, that smirk is still on his face. What about that is that funny? “Now, can ya let go of the door?” he says.

My instincts speak for me. “No.” My hand remains planted against the door as I decide what he’s up to, what he’s really doing. But my mind turns up blank. For once, I believe him. Freddie, the most egotistical ass I’ve ever met, is about to sacrifice himself for his friends and family. “That won’t stop them,” I say.

“You’re probably right. Gotta give ‘er a try anyway.”

I hand him the velvet sac. “Here. Let’s take the fifty thousand. We can go to Ilium, make a fix, and turn it into three hundred.”

He laughs. “I almost forgot how stupid ya were. Took me five years to get three hundred thousand. Y’ know how much three-hundred thousand is worth in human money?” He stares at me, waiting for me to say ‘no’ before he tells me. I don’t, but he tells me anyway. “Millions. Way more money than you’ll find in any little fight bar. It’s hopeless, Olivia. I’m gonna turn myself in.”

My instincts speak for me again. “No.”

He collapses his shoulders and sighs. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

Freddie’s mouth opens to respond, but as my words finally process through his brain, he hesitates and freezes, mouth still open. Hearing my own words, my reaction is the same. What did I just say? I try to take it back, but the lump that’s now in my throat prevents me from speaking.