She already knew the answer to that. Carida had been too young when she had taken the throne, but she had been the strongest of all of the Tribe’s spell-casters. At that time, the Tribe had numbered in the tens of thousands and had had branches all across the world. Back then, their bloodlines had been purer, more magical. The entire world had been more magical then.
Now the Tribe was falling into disarray, the old traditions being forgotten as many settled into lives that were no longer nomadic. They assumed the traditions of the regions they settled into, the caravans died away and the new children were born and raised without circles or sacred rites. Non-Tribe members had been brought in and their blood had diluted the lines even further. Of all the descendants of all the Queens, only the Kris tribe had never allowed their bloodline to become diluted.
Only she had the purest of blood in her veins. Of all the women in all the Tribes across the world, Cara alone had the power to be as great a Queen as Carida.
Only she didn’t want to be Queen.
She wanted to be a lawyer.
She didn’t want to use magic to rule, she wanted to use the law to create justice.
The roar of the coming motorcycles filled the air. They were at least a block or two away but that unmistakable roar was as familiar to her as her own skin. She had grown up on that sound, had gone to sleep to the vibrations of a deep-throated, chromed-out bike rumbling in the driveway or even below her body.
The roaring bikes grew nearer. She could hear the higher-pitched whining of the imported racing bikes some of the younger Tribe members preferred below the thicker growl of the heavy American choppers. She went to the window, her eyes narrowed against the growing darkness gathering in the sky and yard.
“It looks like they all made it back.”
The mass of bikers swung into the driveway of the house that sat far back on a low hill. Cara turned away from the windows and began to stack her books up carefully to keep her mind off the vision (no, dream) that had swept her away earlier.
The word Kris meant dispenser of justice and for a very long time the family had done just what they had been destined to do, they had been the judges of the lands. But over the centuries, that had changed, and the men who came trooping into the large kitchen of the old farmhouse were rough men with eyes that said they had seen and done many things.
They were thieves and drug dealers, gun runners and criminals. Some had pasts so dark that their very auras glowed with a baleful yellow-green shimmer that hurt Cara’s head. They were ordinary men, for the most part, not born of the Tribe. The Tribe was special, different from other mortals, because they had been born by a promise and from the very earth.
Of all the Tribe families, it was the Kris who still held the most power. They had settled here in this city and they had found a way to create a sphere. They surrounded themselves with men whose lives were filled with brutality and enigma.
These ordinary men were necessary because their presence kept the Kris’ enemies at bay. The hardcases that rode with the Kris thought that the name “Tribe” on the back of their vests was just a club name. They had no idea that the men they rode beside came from an ancient lineage, one that had survived millennia.
They were as loyal as men like them could be, but they had no idea what genuine loyalty was. The Tribe had withstood centuries of hatred and persecution — it was part of their destiny, and one they had accepted so long ago they never even questioned it now. Their only loyalty was to the Tribe and its various families — at least, what families still stood. Many had assimilated into the world and were extinct now.
The men who rode with the motorcycle club that called itself Tribe had no idea of what really happened within the powerful inner circle of that club. They were there for the drugs, the money, the women and the power. They were there because the Kris needed humans to block and shield them; their very presence dulled the shine of their power from those who would seek them out for it.
And if any of those men ever found out who the Tribe’s inner circle really were, they were disposed of quickly. This was necessary.
Nico was the first to enter the house, as always. None would walk in front of him for any reason. To do so would have been to demean him, to disrespect his place as the leader.
Jaelle and the other women had cooked and the food was already being set out on the table where Cara had fallen asleep. She grabbed her books before Jaelle could set a steaming pot of food on her copy of Levi’s An Introduction to Legal Reasoning.
She hugged her father and poured him a cup of the strong, hot coffee that had been set out in a carafe.
“Nais tuke,” Nico said, thanking her in Romani as he sipped the brew.