Page 66 of Roma King
I take a second to process. “Herdebt?”
“Hers and yours.”
“Tell me what that means.”
“It means the boy is gone. The woman will be gone soon, too. Her friend. Your mother’s sister.”
“She wrote a note. She’s safe.”
A low, wet rasping sound fills my ear. Takes me a second to realize that it’s laughter. “She wrote what I told her to write. Now, your impatience has pushed up her execution. I won’t be sorry to see her go.”
Fuck.Fuck, fuck, fuck.I pinch the bridge of my nose, screwing my eyes shut. “What do you want?”
“I want you to do what you were supposed to do years ago. I want you to fulfill your obligations. Take responsibility for your actions. I want you to wear the crown.”
An iron fist clenches in the base of my throat. “How do you know about that? How do you know aboutme?”
“Oh, I’ve always known you, Pasha Rivin. Just as I’ve always known her. I’ve pulled countless strings in order to finally see you side by side. You’ve no idea the lengths I’ve gone to.”
“Then explain. Tell me.”
“Because, blood of my blood, that would be far too easy. I think I’ll let you figure this one out on your own.”
“What is he saying?” Zara asks.
I can’t answer her right now. I need to get more information out of this freak before he hangs up. I have a worrying, disgusting suspicion tying itself into knots at the back of my mind, and I’m almost too afraid to voice it. I have to, though. There’s no other option here. “Shelta?”
The same wet, rattling laughter echoes down the phone. “That’s charming, Pasha. Your own mother? You think she’d have the balls to do something like this, just to get her own way? That’s shameful.”
“Who are you, then? What debt do we owe you? And why the fuck do you want me to wear the crown?”
“Too many questions, Pasha. Far too many questions. You can have the answer to one. Choose wisely.”
My body is vibrating with rage. If only I could reach down the phone line and grab this fucker by the neck, I’d tear his head clean from his fucking body and I’d piss down his motherfucking throat. He’s offered me the answer to only one question, but each are interconnected, related. Which do I choose? It quickly becomes obvious—the one answer that will probably unravel everything, shedding light on the entire situation. I try to stay calm as I force myself to ask again: “Who the fuck are you, asshole?”
The monster on the other end of the line chuckles darkly. “If Zara Llewelyn is your dream girl, Pasha, then I am probably your worst nightmare. These days I’m known by the name Marius… but once upon a time, I went by the name of Lazlo.”