The Devouring Read online

  Casey complied, bringing her finger against the edge of her contacts and gently removing them. Deborah shined the beam into each eye, making Casey blink and wince in pain.

  “Pupil response isn’t good and they’re bloodshot,” she said to herself as she turned her attention back to Casey’s wound.

  “Sooooo … this is your chaperone?” Jack asked Casey, his eyes glued to Deborah’s imposing figure.

  “Well, I … she’s more than that,” Casey stammered.

  Jack raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m a personal assistant for the family,” Deborah said. “That sometimes entails keeping an eye on the primary benefactor of the estate.”

  “Primary benefactor? Huh?” Jack asked.

  “I told you it’s complicated,” Casey replied.

  “And she’s a ‘personal assistant,’” Jack added with skepticism.

  “OK, all done,” Deborah announced as she finished wrapping the wound. “This will do until we get you to the hospital.”

  “Hospital?” Casey asked, her voice quavering in fear.

  “Wow, that’s … pretty good,” Jack said, examining the expert work that Deborah had done on Casey’s wound. “That dressing would impress my mom, and she’s a nurse. Where’d you learn that?” he pried.

  Deborah gave him a quick glance and went back to examining Casey. She put the back of her hand to Casey’s sweat-soaked forehead. “You’re running a fever. We need to get you to a doctor,” she said.

  Just then, the last train pulled in to the station and the doors opened.

  “Jack, I need you to get back to the hotel and tell Mr. Garson that I’m taking Ms. Richards to the hospital. Tell him to send Casey’s luggage over, and don’t forget her glasses! Also, let him know that she won’t be accompanying the class to Vienna.”

  “What?” Casey asked. “No. I’m fine. Let’s just go back to the hotel. I’ll be better by… morning.”

  “Jack, you need to get going,” Deborah insisted.

  Deborah helped Casey to her feet, pulled out a flip phone, and dialed three keys. “Zulu Romeo Tango. This is Musef. Blackbird is secure but has suffered lacerations and a possible concussion and infection. Requesting a CASEVAC at Bundestag Station. Repeat, Bundestag … Yes, the next station after Hauptbahnhof,” she yelled into the phone. “Yes, I’ll stay on the line. Tell me when transport is en route.”

  “You use radio codes?” Jack continued to pry.

  Deborah ignored the question and supported Casey against her shoulder, rushing her toward the exit.

  “Ow!” Casey yelled as she put pressure on her injured ankle.

  Jack was clearly upset about the proposed separation, and even more worried about Casey’s condition. He let the last train leave the station without him, ignoring Deborah’s wishes. He tip-toed behind his new friends. “Wait up! Maybe I can help!” His voice echoed down the hall.

  “Go back, Jack. You’re in enough trouble as it is,” Deborah barked.

  “I could be another set of eyes, or hands, ya know?” Jack insisted. He ran to the other side of Casey and propped her up with his shoulder in an attempt to assist Deborah.

  “Fine, I’ll drop you on the way, but we have to hurry!” Deborah reluctantly agreed, avoiding an argument with the stubborn teen.

  “Sooo … what agency were you with before the personal assistant gig?” Jack pried in a condescending voice. “Special ops? You know, my uncle was a SEAL.”

  It was clear that Casey was not feeling well, and that her condition was worsening.

  “Please, Deborah,” Casey said. “I don’t want to make this a thing. I just need some rest. I’m really tired, and my head is pounding. Plus, you know how Uncle John gets.”

  “Do you have a gun? Licensed to kill, maybe?” Jack jokingly inquired.

  “Jack, you’re not helping!” Casey yelled.

  “I’m sorry, Casey. I’m just not buying this chaperone crap,” Jack continued as they made their way to the street exit. “It’s got to be some sort of cover story—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Casey interrupted. “Deborah is an ex-Israeli spy. My uncle brags about it all the time! Happy now?!”

  “I knew it! Israeli Intelligence? As in Mossad!” Jack said, impressed.

  “Casey!” Deborah scolded, “save your strength. You’re only getting worse. And Jack, cut it out. Let’s go!”

  Finally, they burst through the street exit. The thunderstorm was now in full force, immediately drenching the group. A grid of green spaces crisscrossed by roads surrounded the station. They could see for a quarter mile, but the car was nowhere in sight. The bodyguard shifted Casey’s weight over Jack’s shoulder, stepped away, and gazed down the street, searching for their ride. She pulled her phone out again and hit redial, then yelled over the pouring rain: “ETA!”

  “Deborah! Deborah! Deborah! Something’s wrong!” Jack yelled through the tumultuous downpour.

  Still on her call, Deborah turned around to find Casey violently convulsing in Jack’s arms.

  Before anyone could react, a black SUV pulled up right beside them.

  VII

  Romani Kris

  Dense clouds the color of charcoal rolled in from the German countryside, blacking out the skies above Berlin. A chilly wind whipped through the streets and rain fell in heavy torrents. The city soon began to echo with the howls of roving packs of wild dogs. A grim omen cast its shadow.

  With all his strength, Mila shoved open the door into the small space he called home. He was soaking wet from the ride back, and he shook with chills caused by something more than his soggy clothing. The dense smoky clouds over the city were heavy, strange, and ominous. An inexplicable fear rising in his throat, he had gunned the bike to go as fast as it could. Even so, he barely escaped the slavering wild dogs that chased him through the dark, smoky streets, baring their fangs as they eerily howled.

  He stood in the doorway for a moment, catching his breath. Ever since he’d left the train, the rain had been relentless. He opened the door of the cinder block room which he shared with no one. The decrepit door read “Maintenance Quarters.” He’d found the room years ago. For a Gypsy like Mila, the bleak cubicle was a palace. He found the dingy cinder block walls—covered in layer upon layer of graffiti—familiar, even comforting.

  He began to empty his pockets, putting everything onto the floor: keys, a large stack of dollars and euro notes from his share of the palm readings, his key fob, and Casey’s cracked iPhone. He didn’t like to pickpocket. All through the ride home, he couldn’t stop himself from feeling guilty. But the enormous urge to prevent Casey from duplicating The Proclamation had been too strong to overcome.

  He remembered all three of them had been pressed together against the subway tunnel’s hard wall as the train roared by. Who’d have noticed the gentle fingers reaching in and slipping something out of an unprotected pocket? It couldn’t have been easier. “I must be going out of my mind,” Mila mumbled to himself. “Nasta’s superstitions are really getting to me.”

  For a moment, Mila thought back to the woman who’d rescued them. Who was she? Was she one of their mothers? They’d called her by her first name. Are gadje that disrespectful of their parents? he wondered. Maybe she was an aunt or something like that. But God, she was strong! And the way she talked! Like a police officer or a soldier.

  Mila let go of the thought and began to peel off his wet clothes. Whatever. Just crazy Americans, he thought to himself. His wet jeans felt as heavy as lead as he laid them over the steam pipe to dry.

  He pulled a bin from under his bed. The top portion of the contents was a stack of old American comic books, mostly from the early 1990s: the cheapest ones you could buy. He grinned at the sight of the topmost issue: Whistleblower. It reminded him of Casey, and he smiled. Then he put the comics aside and pulled out an old, moth-eaten towel. Using it t
o dry off, he went to the mirror. The gash across his muscular ribs had already scabbed over: nothing serious. Prodding it with his finger, he felt a twinge of pain, one of many little aches and pains all over his body. He’d been through a lot, it seemed.

  After changing into dry boxers and a fresh T-shirt with a BMW logo on it, Mila collapsed onto his cot. He turned onto his left side. It was slightly less sore than his back. Before he could shut his eyes, he saw the cracked iPhone light up. He grabbed it, and took a look. The time read 11:11 p.m. The kris is starting soon, he recalled. A text message had just come in: “Mr. Garson is flipping out. Where are you? With that Jack guy? He’s not even that cute! You’re going to get us in trouble.” The sender: Vivian.

  Shrugging at the message, Mila flipped back to the home screen and scrolled through the apps. At last he found the Photos app. He opened it and started looking through the pictures. He passed a few images of some famous Berlin tourist spots, pausing when he came across a picture of Casey holding the phone while snapping a photo of Jack kissing her in front of a chunk of the Berlin wall. “Complicated, my ass,” Mila muttered. He finally reached what he was looking for: several photos of The Proclamation. One was a close-up of the scepter. Mila stared at it a moment. He gazed deeper at the gilded object, trying to see what was so special about it. The hairs on his neck began to rise. Vulnerability mixed with passion tingled throughout his body as his ears began to ring louder and louder until it became deafening, paralyzing him. Summoning all his strength, Mila used his thumb to erase the photo. Instantaneously, he regained control of his body and the ringing ceased. What the hell was that? Mila thought as he wiped his brow, which was now drenched in sweat.

  Bang, bang, bang! “Mila! Are you in there? Open the door!”

  Is that Korey? Mila wondered, snapping back to reality. The twins’ voices could be hard to tell apart, but Korey’s was usually the louder and more exuberant of the two. With a groan, Mila quickly shoved the cash and phone into the pocket of his black denim jacket and then sleepily trudged to the door. Sure enough, there was Korey on the other side. “They’re ready for you now, Mila. Everyone has assembled. The priest is there, too,” Korey announced, looking up at Mila.

  Mila had never been called to a kris before, but he understood why he was being summoned now. Even without ever attending a kris, Mila knew its importance and necessity. We do things our own way, Mila thought. It was one of the things he respected about his community. We have our own traditions, our own language, our own laws, and we have our own way of enforcing those laws; things the rest of the world would never understand.

  “Come on,” Korey said, seizing Mila’s hand and pulling him into the hallway.

  “Hold on, little man!” Mila exclaimed. “Let me get some pants on!”

  Mila yanked his jeans from the steam pipe. They were still quite damp, but they’d have to do. He tugged them on, threw on his jacket, then followed Korey out the door.

  They made their way down the first-floor corridor by the dim streetlight peering through its cracked, dusty windows. Turning to look outside, Mila nearly jumped out of his skin. Outlined by the window’s shabby frame was the wide face of a snarling dog, its teeth bared and its fur bristling. Its huge forepaws rested on the sill outside as it growled through the glass at the two boys. Many people in the camp took in stray dogs for company and protection. But this was no pet. A mangy mongrel, it was lean, fierce, and hungry-looking: more like a wolf than a dog.

  “Come on, they want to see you now!” Korey insisted, giving Mila’s arm a tug. This was no time to worry about a dog. The elders did not like to be kept waiting.

  Together, they hurried to Lolo’s apartment, now filled with Rom. The living room sofas had been moved to stiffly line one wall of the room. Half a dozen men sat talking on them. Young Romani boys sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couches, facing the opposite side of the room. Korey found his twin and joined him. The women were gathered nearby in the kitchen, except for Nasta, who stood in the doorway listening quietly.

  A row of teenage boys stood with their backs against a sidewall. Mila scouted the room for Simon or any of his gang, but they were nowhere to be found. Father Leichman was there too, sitting in a battered armchair (the best seat in the house, Lolo would say). Father Leichman was a wiry old man with a few strands of thin white hair clinging to his head. He wore the long black cassock and white clerical collar of a Catholic priest. He also had on soft black gloves. Rumor had it that they covered burn injuries. His trusted dog, Drago, lay curled up at his feet. It was very unusual for the priest to be there, but Mila felt protected by his presence. Father Leichman was always kind to him. The German holy man was responsible for bringing the entire community to Berlin for a better life. Since then, he had been watching over the camp like they were his own people.

  Stephan picked up a simple wooden chair and carried it to the center of the room, where he set it down so it faced the men on the couches. He looked at Mila, who stepped forward and sat down in the solitary chair. As he looked into the severe eyes of the assembled men, he felt for the first time the seriousness of the situation. He sat up straighter, tall, and strong even when sitting down. I am on trial, he thought. But I am guilty of nothing.

  The first person to speak was Merikano. He stood up, revealing his towering height, his mustachioed lips in a stern frown. Like Mila’s Uncle Lolo, Rosa’s grandfather was a baro. Literally, the word meant “a big man,” and big Merikano surely was. But in reality, the title stood for much more. It commanded the ultimate in respect and authority as well as bringing with it great responsibility. The most important duty of the powerful group of baré was to solve any problem that arose in the camp—or outside the camp, among the outsiders, the gadje. Merikano had a fierce reputation, and Mila couldn’t help flinching at the accusation coming from the old man’s eyes. The baro spoke in formal, old-fashioned Romani, which Mila knew was reserved for serious occasions such as this.

  “First, I would like to thank Father Leichman for staying up at this ungodly hour and for his assistance in calming the police so that we may have our own tribunal before turning anybody over to the authorities.” Father Leichman nodded with gratitude at Merikano.

  Merikano then turned to Mila. “Mila, chava,” he said, using the Roma word for ‘son’,

  “it is of great importance that you speak honestly to us today. There are many accusations against your character. The police are asking that we turn you over along with Simon and his gang. They are suggesting that you have been committing crimes all over Berlin.”

  “Mila didn’t do nothing!” Nasta interrupted from the doorway.

  The room of men shushed her. Everyone knew it was forbidden for women to speak at the kris. Merikano continued his questioning.

  “Mila, listen to me. Father Leichman managed to convince the police not to arrest anyone. As you know, he’s been protecting us, may God bless him, for years.” Merikano paused to make the sign of the cross. “However, in order for us to stay in the camp in peace, they are demanding that the guilty parties be deported back to Romania. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Mila looked over at Nasta for guidance but found none. The thought of him being sent away from the only family he’d ever known frightened him deeply. He managed to summon some words to offer to the tribunal. “Uncle Merikano, it is true that I helped Simon escape the police, but I had nothing to do with him hurting that old lady or any other crimes.”

  “How do you know it is an old lady that was injured?” asked Father Leichman.

  Mila stumbled for an answer.

  “This kris is foolish,” Nasta yelled. “The whole camp has been talking about it! That’s how he knows!”

  Merikano turned to Lolo and glared. “Your old lady is insulting the kris,” Merikano said accusingly.

  “Shut your mouth, Merikano. I have been coming to the kris since before you were bor
n,” she told him harshly.

  “Enough,” said Uncle Lolo. “Mila, how do you answer this charge?”

  “I barely know Simon,” Mila explained. “I assure you, I have not helped him to steal. He tricked me into helping him escape from the gendarya. He told me he was innocent. My only mistake was believing his lies. That’s it.”

  The whole room went still for a moment. Father Leichman broke the silence. “Mila, I have known you since you were a baby. Can you swear in front of almighty God that you did not help Simon or any of his gang commit any crimes?”

  “I assure it!” Mila responded quickly.

  “Bring out the witness!” belted Merikano.

  Everyone’s eyes moved toward the door. To Mila’s joy, he recognized his distant cousin Jolly. For sure Jolly will vouch for me, Mila thought.

  Stephan brought another chair and put it next to Mila. Jolly took a seat. Mila nodded respectfully at Jolly, and his cousin returned the gesture.

  “Jolly,” Uncle Merikano said, “Are you friends with Mila?”

  “Yes, Uncle Merikano, very good friends,” Jolly replied. “We grew up here in the camp, and as everybody knows we are distant cousins.” His genial remarks gave Mila more assurance that things would turn out all right.

  “Is there any reason for you to falsely accuse Mila or lie about his character?” asked Uncle Merikano.

  “No, sir! I would not lie to the kris or make up stories about anyone, especially my cousin and friend!” Jolly assured him.

  “Okay, good. Then why don’t you share with the kris what you shared with me earlier today.”

  Again, the room fell silent. Suddenly Mila’s joy turned into fear as the hairs on his neck rose again.

  “I ran into Simon and his gang in the train station earlier today. Simon told me that Mila has been helping them commit crimes all over Berlin,” Jolly said.

  “This is a lie! What is your evidence?” Uncle Lolo asked.