Gypsy's Blood (All The Pretty Monsters Book 1) Page 12

  He smiles as he takes a seat next to me, crossing his arms over his chest as he props his feet on the table, giving the illusion of a flesh-and-blood man lounging comfortably next to me.

  “What makes you so fascinating, Violet Portocale?”

  “Anna keeps asking me the same thing. Really, you two should meet,” I state dryly, massaging my temples to stave off the impending migraine.

  “If you’re planning to be around them, you should know this is how they usually interact. You should also know they won’t ever actually kill each other, no matter how bad those fights may get,” he adds.

  “Really, talk about anything else,” I tell him tightly with an edge of warning in my tone.

  “Very well. Do you know what sort of computer a fellow should buy if he was in the market?” he muses.

  I give him an incredulous look. “No,” I state simply, and then let my head fall back as I try to ignore the crashing sounds outside.

  I can feel his weird grin.

  “Your dad doesn’t have gypsy blood?” he asks next.

  “No. He didn’t even know magic really existed until my mother. He fell in love with her because of how amazingly seductive it all was. Caught up in magic’s thrall, is what he calls it.”

  “Sounds like a great guy,” he tells me, seeming much too amused for a confession I don’t mind telling the dead.

  They don’t like it when you’re the one whining. At least not usually.

  “He actually is,” I tell him on a quiet breath. “I took too much energy out of a person. My mother was the only one I know who could have ever handled a daughter like me.”

  “Which is why you’re searching for her killer,” he states in a pleasant tone.

  Narrowing my eyes, I face him a little better. “How do you know that?”

  “All they do is talk and obsess over you, and all I do is stalk them. Usually. To be completely honest, you’re starting to ensnare my attention now, simply because I’m fascinated by how fascinated they are.”

  “To be fair, I’m not at all fascinating,” I assure him, brow furrowing. “And I don’t know how I feel about the fact they’re discussing me so much.”

  “You’re a puzzle. Live long enough, and the world stops producing things that are truly puzzling. Usually they obsess for a moment, figure it out, and then move on. Yet here we are, almost a month later, and they’re still obsessing,” he goes on just as a loud curse is shouted and something shatters in the distance.

  “They always fight?” I ask instead of chasing him down that rabbit hole.

  I have enough to process. I don’t need to wonder why immortal monsters and a monster hunter are finding me to be puzzling or obsessing over me. It’s simply too much too soon.

  “Do you always have your world turned upside down and just carry on like it’s a small hitch in the road?” he volleys.

  I glance over at him. “I grew up in a house where I waited for my mother, with sick knots in my stomach, to return from her jobs, knowing they were dangerous, because she came home bruised and battered. She dealt with hostile spirits.”

  As if cued, something shatters, and he turns to face me more. If he’s been watching them, then nothing I can say will even phase him.

  “But she always came home,” I go on. “You start taking it for granted, growing less sensitive to the word dangerous. My mother built a separate set of rules for survival for me than she lived with for herself, but on both our lists there was one rule.”

  “Which is?” he asks, seeming genuinely intrigued as he props his elbow on the back of the couch, angling his body toward mine.

  “You lose when you take time to fall apart just when things are starting to unravel around you,” I tell him in an almost muted tone. “You can eventually have your moment of weakness; you just have to be patient.”

  “Sound advice that isn’t so easily followed,” he murmurs as though he’s lost in thought. “How do you pause fear?”

  I wish I could answer that, but I’m scared of my answer right now.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to answer, because we both hear the absence of things breaking. It doesn’t take long for Vance to walk in, nursing his split lip.

  It looks like he’s already washed up somewhat, and there’s only one drop of blood on his otherwise immaculate, blood-approved T-shirt. The shirt looks brand new, so I’m not sure why it was considered a toss-out.

  Which isn’t the important part…

  “Damien is just changing. He’s always messy when he fights,” Vance says in a disapproving, putout tone.

  “Common occurrence between you two, then?” I muse.

  He doesn’t answer as he goes to pour himself a drink. It’s really too early to drink, but since I considered it myself, I decide to not be a hypocritical/judgmental twat about it.

  “Not so much anymore,” the dark haired, tall ghost says from beside me as he leans in closer, as though he’s getting ready to deliver some juicy gossip. “In fact, Damien hasn’t even had the urge to fight anyone in far too long. This is why I’m finding you more interesting by the second, gypsy girl.”

  I watch as Vance turns to face me, sitting down in a chair across from me.

  “Damien and I hate each other a little more coldly these days,” Vance states tightly.

  “Damien’s pride is suffering because he begged Vance to kill him a few centuries back, apparently,” the gossiping ghost from beside me informs me, causing me to clear my throat. “It’s theorized that a Van Helsing could truly kill any alpha with the right conditions, weapon, and mentality of focused intent.”

  Vance is also speaking, but I’m more interested in the man at my side, who is still whispering in a conspiratorial tone.

  The single-word question that really is getting redundant gets swallowed down, since Vance is still speaking.

  “…but he really does need to work on his left. I’ve told him this. None of them ever listen,” is all I catch from Vance’s conversation just before his phone rings.

  He excuses himself and goes to the back of the room to answer, as the man at my side continues speaking, answering the question I don’t have to ask.

  “Damien’s curse is cruel,” he informs me.

  “He’s cursed?”

  “They’re all cursed, gypsy girl. Surely you don’t think being a monster is a blessing,” he states as though he’s educating me.

  “But Vance is a monster hunter,” I remind him very quietly.

  Vance turns and glances over his shoulder, looking around, eyes passing over me like he heard me speak and is searching for who I may have spoken to.

  Great. Super hearing. Just freaking awesome.

  “Yes. His hearing is exceptional,” the ghost states as though he’s reading my mind.

  “Who are you?” I mouth.

  “I’m your Ace, sweetheart. When you want to really fuck them over, I’m your key to success,” he informs me.

  Ace seems to be making assumptions about a predictable future, which just sets off my wary alarm again as I redirect my attention to Vance. I’m not sure why I thought it was cool to cozy up to a monster hunter on day two.

  It’s like trying to tackle a problem head-on and not seeing the danger present because it’s wrapped in a pretty package with a disarming smile and boyish sincerity. I start wondering why Damien is taking so long, and dread the possible answer.

  Ace said they wouldn’t—

  Damien walks in, and I weirdly blow out a breath of relief, happy no one has died because of me today. I’m still struggling to believe the immortal thing.

  His eyes flick over to mine and he rolls them while giving me a bitter smile. “I won’t come into your home unannounced again,” he tells me, causing my eyes to dart over to Vance’s back, as the Van Helsing continues to stay really quiet on his phone.

  “She healed the wolf who was hurt. The wound was no longer bleeding profusely or quite so fatal when he limped off with his tail between his legs. Some pride is hurt,
” I hear Vance grinding out. “Their grievance is with me.”

  Damien glances over his shoulder, distracted by Vance as well, since he’s getting louder.

  “It’s your wolves. Do something about it then. It may mean doing more than fucking your omegas, drinking yourself into a stupor, getting high on gypsy spice, or running around as your wolf, you lazy mutt,” Vance says before hanging up.

  “Emit’s all patched up and liking you about as much as I do right now, eh?” Damien asks with a cold smile.

  Vance just gives him a bored look before returning his attention to me.

  “The question of why he was in my room has remained unanswered, and that’s the entire reason for this trip,” I remind Vance, who exhales harshly and shakes his head like he dreads what’s about to come out of Damien’s mouth.

  “Because I wanted to, of course. Needed to know you’re not full of shit,” Damien says with a shrug. “You could still be dicking us around, since my investigation has been temporarily halted.”

  “You came into my room while I was sleeping,” I start, a modicum of calm barely staying in place, “because you wanted to?”

  He nods like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve been doing it since you stopped in at my house and did that saucy sex scene flash in my head without an ounce of modesty. No Portocale thinks of sex with me when I touch them,” he goes on, as though he’s explaining. “Obviously, I was intrigued.”

  I blink. Several times.

  Vance just steeples his hands and presses his mouth into a thin line, though I swear he looks amused.

  They’re certifiable.

  “I may seem harmless to you, but I am a Portocale gypsy, as you’re all apparently already aware of.”

  “Portocale blood is very easy for us to scent,” Damien tells me in an unconcerned tone as he takes a seat, lounging as though he has nothing to apologize for.

  “But Portocale gypsies have gifts,” I go on.

  “If you don’t want him intrigued, you should probably stop talking,” Ace says, amused as he leans up and watches me with rapt attention.

  Damien seems over it by this point, as though now that he’s gotten caught, the fun is over and there’s nothing left to discuss.

  “Your sad little gypsy gifts, sweetheart, are comparatively rubbish next to mine,” he says as he lights a cigar and puffs from it, not even glancing at me now as he rubs his bruised jaw. “You make potions and gypsy drugs.”

  Everything in the room suddenly turns white, and I can’t see anything except for Ace at my side.

  “He’s being an ass because he just got his ass kicked by Vance. It’s a pride thing, you’ll learn,” Ace informs me around a bored yawn.

  I swallow thickly, trying not to act too jarred by the fact everything, for as far as I can see, looks like a vast white room.

  “Would you like to finish your threat now?” Damien’s voice echoes all around me. “Or have I proven my point?”

  Ace’s eyes dart to the side as I close my eyes, remembering the room, remembering my blindfolded sessions that my mother and I used to have.

  “Learn to stay calm when blind, Violet. Sometimes opponents always go for the eyes first,” my mother’s voice chants in my head.

  “Portocale gypsies just make damn good clothes and damn good potions,” Damien continues.

  A tickle of power rolls through my fingertips as my lips tug up on one corner of my mouth.

  “Oh, I certainly like you a little more now,” Ace says just as a strangled sound causes my eyes to spring open, finding the white-room illusion fading quickly, as Damien is slammed against the wall behind where he was sitting.

  The unraveled strings of the draperies are pinning him in place, slipping tighter around him, binding him as the circulation around his limbs and throat grow more constricted.

  His eyes widen as his jaw tics, but I swear I see an eerie tint of dark amusement glimmer in his gaze as he narrows his eyes on me.

  “Generally speaking, illusions are just illusions. Cut off the head of the illusionist, and they disappear,” I say with a saccharine sweet smile I use just for show, and wipe it away before my next words. “Stay out of my house.”

  The threads all snap at once, and he’s dropped to the floor with a groan.

  “Ass kicked by a young Portocale gypsy. You really have reached an all new low,” Vance says with a barely restrained grin as he steps over Damien and comes to nudge me toward the door.

  Damien coughs on air, and slowly climbs to his feet, eyes glued to me like I’ve renewed his interest. But at least now he should think twice about just how vulnerable and young I am, since my youth keeps getting tossed around like an insult. They act like I’m some kid who has lived a sheltered lifestyle.

  Cults have tried to kill me on more than one occasion. My mother hunted ghosts and fought like a badass. And…I’ve got something dark and lethal trapped inside me. I’m twenty-five.

  I’m not a freaking kid.

  “Told you you’d just intrigue him more. Hell, I’m half tempted to be clingy now,” Ace states from behind me, entertained as he bounces his gaze between us.

  Shit.

  Vance puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door.

  “Well, when Vance isn’t pretending to be some sort of modern-day gentleman, he’s staring through your bedroom window,” Damien says from behind me as a chill spreads up my spine.

  “You tattling little twat. It was only in the initial observations,” Vance bites out like he’s still arguing about an entire conversation that apparently went on when they were out there tearing down yet another house.

  My eyes cut to Vance, and I let out a huff as I turn and stalk out the door on my own.

  The door slams behind me, and I pull a potion bottle from my bra, tossing it over my left shoulder. I hear the glass shatter just as two heavy thumps slam into the door.

  “I’m not adjusting this fast!” I shout over my shoulder as I walk quickly, knowing that won’t hold them back for long, unfortunately.

  “Well, now I’m just downright intrigued. Tell me, did you place Vance firmly in the friend-zone because he painted your toenails for you, or do you know he’s gay?” Ace asks me as he joins me at my side.

  I dig around in my bra for the tiny little ball of caged salt and toss it over my left shoulder. I don’t hear him speak again, so I assume it’s done the trick.

  I’m halfway down the street when an obnoxious red sports car screeches to a halt beside me, making this moment nauseatingly cliché. The “savage,” as Anna calls him, fortunately doesn’t have on a leather jacket or dark sunglasses to knock the cliché over the top, or I’d vomit right now.

  “Get in,” Emit snaps.

  “Really not adjusting this fast,” I say under my breath, exhaling heavily. “I’d rather not. I have issues with all three of you now, so I think I’ll just cut ties and leave town while I’m just a little behind. Besides, I think you want me dead.”

  I start walking, but he revs the car and cuts me off.

  I have a loaded bra full of small but powerful potions, and he’s tempting me to use them all on him at this moment.

  “You want to see a spot on my land, and I need to hold my own private audience with you, since it seems to be the new normal,” he bites out. “I’m sure Vance has told you why you’re safe with us,” he adds.

  “Actually, no, he hasn’t. If I go based on what he’s said, this is a safe and dangerous place, and you’re all safe and dangerous. It doesn’t make sense. I’m seconds away from losing my shit, and I’d really rather no one be around to observe it. So either try to kill me, or be safe and go the hell away, because I need a fucking second!”

  I’m breathing heavily by the end of my tirade when my voice breaks. My hands are shaking, and my lip trembles for the first time since this all dropped in my lap. And it’s really pissing me off that I’m trying to be patient and save my impending breakdown for a more appropriate time, yet slipping so soon.
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  Mom made it always sound so easy, and it seemed so rational and wise.

  He shakes his head and exhales harshly. “Get in,” he says with a slightly gentler tone.

  “Fuck. Off,” I state with a firmer tone.

  He glares over at me, but I hear a door crashing in the distance, and decide I’d rather gamble than deal with either of those perverted lunatics right now.

  So I get in the car.

  He smirks as he continues the cliché with an old-fashioned burnout, and darts off at a nauseating speed. Why couldn’t they be speed limit monsters at least?

  Chapter 15

  VIOLET

  I decidedly hate sports cars, but at least I don’t feel like I’m about to burst out in tears anymore. However, I do stare a little blankly at the familiar barbed wire fence before me.

  “Did you bring me out here to kill me as some sort of sick joke?” I ask dryly.

  “Vance said you think your mother was found out here. I can assure you she wasn’t, but you can get a glimpse right now. Until the snow melts, there’s a window,” he tells me as he gestures out to the thick blanket coating the ground. “I’m sure you can use me to tap into that window.”

  I’m not really sure why I’d need to use him.

  “Last time I stepped out there, wolves attacked. You weren’t happy about the outcome, and now I’ve been trying to avoid a downward spiral ever since. So why bring me back?”

  He stares out in front of him. “Vance pointed out that you healed one of my wolves,” he says a little coldly. “After a quick inquiry, I found out which wolf. He said you genuinely thought he was a simple animal only doing what nature intended, and you left your throat exposed in the process of saving him. I got in the car after that,” he says like he’s annoyed with the entire thing.

  My fingers quickly touch my throat in reflex, and I swear he almost smiles in reaction.

  “Never do that again—expose your throat to a wolf. He was one who’s fortunately old enough to fight his instinct,” he says as he gets out.

  “I can’t catch a break,” I say in frustration as I push my own door open. “There’s way too much happening all at once. This is insane!”