Gypsy Blood: Love bloody hurts (The Gypsy Blood Series Book 1)

by Helen Allan

  “But,”

  “No buts. If he dies on your watch, with your reputation…” she let the words hang.

  “What do you mean my reputation?” although, truth be known, I knew well enough, I was the gypsy discarded by her prince, I’d brought shame on the bloodline yadda-yadda, I’d heard it all before.

  “You know that if you fail in this assignment. You will need to continue the line,” she says firmly.

  “You know, there is such a thing as equal opportunity for women now,” I laugh, “you can’t just marry me off to some dickhead gypsy and think I’ll happily breed little gypsies for you.”

  “It is our duty. You would not be the first to try to shirk it. We do not make exceptions.”

  My mind was, frankly, blown, as it always is by the fanaticism of these women. I knew the mantra, you worked as a blood gypsy, your prince’s partner and bodyguard, until they were ready to settle down and leave the hunt and continue their line, breeding little aristocrat clones, or until they died. In either case, you then went off and lived the life of a subjugated, and often poor, gypsy wife. You bred, you obeyed, you continued the line. Gypsy men expected it. The price for some of their women having freedom for a short time, and power that the men probably resented, was total and utter obedience eventually. It didn’t sit well with me. I couldn’t understand how someone like, well Evita for instance, could go from being a cold-blooded killing machine to a gypsy doormat.

  “Freely,” she says, “have you heard what I said?”

  “Do people ever shorten your name to Ass?” I snarl, before slamming down the phone.

  And that was why I was now cooped up in a hotel room with this little bastard, listening to him puke in the bathroom and threaten me with every punishment known to man.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I shout back at him. “When you are off this shit, you can resume your responsibilities as an aristocratic little waste of space, but until then, you stay where I tell you, you do what I tell you, and you suck it up.”

  He shouts back that I will pay in the end, that he and his friends will ensure my line and other lines that don’t deserve to exist will be wiped out.

  I don’t take any notice ‘bloodlines this, bloodlines that’ and eventually he comes out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a damp towel and I do feel a little bit sorry for him. I mean, he saw his family killed, his gypsy killed, he’s been left pretty much to find his own way in the world with limitless funds and no guidance. Who wouldn’t go off the rails?

  “Look, kid,” I say, “It’s been what? Three weeks? I’m sorry you had to go cold turkey, but I can’t see any other way around it unless I stick you in one of those rehab centres. Another week and we should be all good.”

  “If I do as you say,” he looks at me in a sly way, “can I go to the princess ball next month, in Vienna?”

  “Really?” I sigh, “another fucking ball. What is it with you people and waltzing?” but I can see he really wants to go, and I have to throw him a lifeline. “Ok, ok, if you be good, stay off the shit and don’t go out of my sight until then, you can go.”

  He smiles and vaults back to the bathroom for another chunder as my eyes flick to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. There are several ball gowns in there, smuggled, no doubt, into my suitcase by Henri. At least I will have something to wear.

  The ballroom is, as ballrooms are in Europe, beautifully lit and designed to give people like me a complex that they are not good enough.

  I stand at the edge of the crowd and watch my little arsehole Dane thread his way through the crowd, catching up with his mates. I’m fairly sure some of his friends were also his suppliers, so I’m keeping my eyes fixed on him when I suddenly sense someone to my right.

  He looks handsome in his black tuxedo, hair slicked back, and I am surprised at how genuinely pleased I am to see him.

  We have not spoken since the night I spent in his arms in the palace. But there had been a box of KFC waiting for me when I entered my hotel room in Denmark.

  “Henri,” I smile as he embraces me and steps back. “What are you doing here amongst a room full of prince bloods?”

  “Grocery shopping,” he smiles.

  I laugh out loud, startling some onlookers, and curb my guffaws.

  “No, really?”

  “Really I am here to dance,” he says smiling and looking at the crowd, “I am an aristocrat Freely, albeit, a vampire, and I have always loved balls.”

  I shake my head, I’ve lost sight of my little prince momentarily, but I’m sure I will find him. I have no idea how Henri can skate under the radar without anyone noticing he is a vampire.

  “Where does a king stay when he visits Vienna?” I ask, a little distracted as my eyes scan the room.

  “The Dauphin, of course,” he smiles.

  “I am staying there too,” I frown, “sixth floor.”

  “What a surprise,” he says drolly, and I look back at him.

  “Let me guess; you are on the same floor?”

  “Well,” he shrugs, “it pays not to draw too much attention to oneself in these situations. Best to blend, Room 666 if you must know.”

  “Of course,” I roll my eyes. ‘And of course, it’s an accident you are on the same floor – not!’ “I hope you are not planning to kidnap me again, cos I’ve got to say, that didn’t turn out so well for me last time, and I won’t come without a fight.”

  He chuckles.

  Still not seeing the little arsehole prince I’m supposed to be guarding, I glance back to Henri, irritated, and see he is holding his hand out to me.

  “May I?” he asks, bowing slightly.

  I smile widely. I’ve been to numerous balls now, mostly with Zan when I was still his gypsy, but I hadn’t had the opportunity to strut my stuff. I’d taken ballroom dancing lessons as a kid, made it right up to my gold medals actually, so I knew how to dance, and I loved to slow waltz and jive – but only if my partner could. And so far, in this life at least, I hadn’t met anyone who could. I had a feeling though, that Henri might change that, and I felt confident as he led me onto the dance floor that I could match him.

  I was wearing one of the dresses he had chosen, floor-length cream silk, tight around the strapless bodice and waist, straight skirted, but flaring at the knees so that when I twirled it would fan out. It had a tiny, barely discernible edging of white rhinestones around the top of the bodice and the hemline that sparkled as the light hit them – he likes me to sparkle.

  As the orchestra struck up the Viennese waltz, he pulled me close, full contact, his long, lean body pressed to mine. When I first learnt to dance like this my instructor used to put a vinyl record between our stomachs – if it slipped out, we were not close enough. There was no chance of that tonight, Henri and I were very close.

  “Relax Freely,” he says gently into my ear, “let me lead.”

  “I am relaxed,” I smile.

  “No,” he runs his hand down my back and presses me into him tighter, “you are not.”

  As the music starts, he moves, directing my body with his own, with the slightest of motions, and as the dance continues and we glide across the dance floor, I realise that I have never danced with anyone so wonderfully rhythmic, so gentle, and yet so strong. Slowly, I do relax and allow him to lead and he twirls me and dips me and spins me around the room as though we are one little piece of paper, half blackened, rising in the puff of smoke from a fire, twirling in the heat, pirouetting in the updraft.

  When the music finally ends I am breathless and flushed.

  Henri bows to me, his face unreadable, and leads me to the refreshment bar.

  “You look lovely, by the way,” he says quietly, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.

  I smile and, turning, nod to the waiter to pour me a glass of punch, before turning back to scan the room, and my heart skips a beat as I see a tall man with dark hair amid the many, many blonde ones. I would recognise that hair anywhere. It is Zan, and he is h
eading my way.

  I’m thinking of escaping to the toilets, but he reaches me before I can run.

  “Freely,” he says quietly, stopping close enough for me to touch him. “Can I have this dance?”

  I blush, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair, it’s an angry blush.

  “I don’t think so Zan,” I turn to move away but he grips my elbow.

  “Please, I need to talk to you.”

  I sigh and turning back, nod. He takes me by the hand and leads me to the dance floor. I want to cry, I’m angry, I’m sad, but I hold it together as he puts his hand on my waist and pulls me towards him, gently, not full contact, but I am aware of every part of his body being near mine.

  The music begins, and he leads, but I am stiff in his arms.

  “Talk,” I say, not meeting his eye.

  “I’m sorry,” he starts, “I’m sorry about the way things ended Freely.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and concentrate on my steps. It may have ended for him, but I’m still living it day by day. His next words surprise me.

  “I wanted to thank you for saving my brother.”

  I look up at him, into those eyes and my heart lurches.

  “How did you find out?”

  “He told me he had been saved by ‘a smart-mouthed Aussie girl’ - I figured there could only be one.”

  I nod, I don’t know what to say.

  “Freely he told me you were tortured. I,” he pauses and swallows hard. “If I’d known you were in a dungeon, I would have come looking for you. You have to know that. But I was in NZ; there’s been a, a situation.”

  The music has stopped. I try to extricate myself from his arms, but he doesn’t let me go. I imagine he is planning on continuing into the next dance, and I can’t endure it, he’s killing me in increments, but he’s oblivious to it. Just as I am about to demand he let me go, mini mouse approaches and stands close to us, putting a hand on his upper arm. I have an urge to bite her hand, tear it into little pieces, finger by finger, but I restrain myself.

  “Zan, darling,” she pouts, “you promised me this one.”

  I pull myself out of his arms and look the girl up and down. A little blonde princess, very like his mother might have looked at that age, that annoying squeaky voice. Did she call him ‘darling’? She looks through me, up to Zan, as though I am invisible.

  He nods and smiles at her, but his eyes change minutely, just a flicker. He is annoyed, but you would have to know him very well to see this. She doesn’t notice.

  “Can I talk to you later Freely?”

  I give a curt nod and move aside as the music starts and he takes her into his arms.

  Leaving the dance floor at close to a run I race to the toilets, to catch my breath and, truth be known, hide. This was the first time we had spoken since the night he had delivered me to the hospital, on horseback, and left me with a note. And the only glimpse I had of him since then, was through the hospital door window as he spoke to a nurse about Richard. I had worked hard to convince myself I could get over him, would get over him. But seeing him again now, being held in his arms, I knew I’d been a fool to think I was over him, my heart was in my throat, and it threatened to choke me.

  I take my time, washing my hands in cold water, patting some water on my flushed neck and cheeks. I don’t have to worry, like some women do, about smudging my makeup. I only ever wear eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick. I have sensitive and clear skin; it had never coped with foundation or powder and, fortunately, I had never needed it. I was happy with this.

  I’d seen some women come into the bar when I lived in the States and they looked gorgeous, all barbied up and slick. But I’d bumped into some of them in real life in grocery stores, doctors’ offices, playgrounds, and seen them without make-up and it was like they were different people. I kind of felt sorry for men who picked women up in bars who were so made-up, they probably woke up next to them in the morning and tried to chew their arms off when they saw what their conquests really looked like. Although now, seeing how red in the face I am, I wish I did have a thick mask of makeup to hide my natural colouring.

  I hide for another 40 minutes. I know, I’d like to say it was less, but I was feeling about as brave as one of Dorothy’s companions in the Wizard of Oz, except, not only did I need bravery, the song that was going round in my head belonged to the Scarecrow; ‘if I only had a brain,’ I know it goes against all logic to still feel the way I feel. Eventually, I take a deep breath and walk back out to the dance floor.

  And my world falls apart.

  Zan is standing on the edge of the dance floor, not far from where I am standing, his arms wrapped around mini mouse, and they are kissing passionately.

  A sob bursts from my throat and I rush past blindly. I think someone calls my name as I race out, pushing past the crowd, and burst onto the street. It is pouring down outside, and the rain is so heavy it blinds me for a second, or maybe it’s my tears, I don’t know. I’m not sure which way to turn, but remember at the last minute the way to the hotel and run, headlong, in that direction.

  Half an hour later I make it into the lift, the mirrored walls show me my mascara has run down my face, and my hair has tumbled from my bun in a wild frenzy of long wet strands and curls - I look like a bedraggled racoon. I would wipe my eyes on my sleeves, but I don’t have any. As the elevator bell dings, I step out into the long, carpeted hallway, and walk past my room, to room 666.

  Henri opens the door, his bow tie undone, white shirt unbuttoned, and takes in my appearance with solemn eyes. He says nothing, just draws me in, lifting me and carrying me to his bed as I wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him passionately, desperately.

  I shut the door quietly and, holding my shoes in my hand; my dress only half zipped up, I turn to head back to my room and freeze.

  It is two in the morning, I have been in Henri’s arms for several hours, and waiting for me, sitting on the floor in his white dinner shirt, no jacket, with his back against my door, is Zan.

  He looks up as I walk down the long, carpeted hallway, my hair is wild, and all around my face, which is now, I know, drained of all colour.

  “Zan,” I say, my voice a monotone, as he moves aside and I unlock my door.

  “Freely,” he stands and follows me in, quietly shutting the door, “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you keep saying that.” I frown, dropping my heels on the floor. I’m momentarily distracted by my room - it is filled to the brim with roses, every single surface has a giant bouquet of blood red roses sitting on it, the bed looks like a garden.

  I turn to face him “What in particular are you sorry for now Zan? For going on with your life? For forgetting about me? I don’t blame you, how can I, you made it clear you were disgusted by me. I feel sick just thinking about it,” I quote the line from his letter back to him.

  He shakes his head and walks towards me, but I hold up my hand.

  “Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me,” I say firmly.

  “I was never disgusted by you Freely,” he groans, “I was disgusted by my own behaviour, by how I was risking your life, didn’t you get that?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I sigh. “It’s history. We are history.”

  “I didn’t expect you to be here,” he says, as if that explains his behaviour with his little blonde creature, “In Vienna. I’ve wanted to see you, to thank you, for over a month, but I was caught up with.”

  I interrupt him.

  “Well, you’ve thanked me. Great. Ta, you can go now.”

  “Freely I want to tell you so much, so much has happened.”

  I shrug. I don’t honestly know what to say. I’m tired; I’m drained, I’m a little bit embarrassed about sleeping with Henri, although seriously, he was the best fuck I have ever had. I pull a rose out of one of the bouquets and sniff it; it’s obviously hothouse, no smell.

  “Whoever it is doesn’t know you very well,” he says, looking around, “you prefer frangipanis.�
��

  My heart takes another hit.

  “How is Richard?” I ask, wanting to know despite myself. The more I know, the harder it is.

  “He’s gone back to New Zealand, to his wife,” he says, I see something cross his face, he wants to tell me something, but I’m not in the mood. I don’t want to solve any more of his problems; it hurts too much.

  “You need to leave,” I say, walking towards the door.

  “I saw you on the dance floor,” he says quietly, “before I asked you to dance. You looked, amazing Freely, stunning. I didn’t know you could dance. Who was your partner?”

  “No, well, you never asked me before tonight,” I smile sadly, “and there’s a lot you don’t know about me Zan.” ‘Like I just fucked the bejeezus out of a vampire.’ “My partner’s name is Henri.”

  I see him stiffen.

  “Not Henri as in, Henri, the king of all the vampires, Henri?”

  “Yes,” I sigh, “that would be the one.”

  “Fucking hell Freely, why are you dancing with a monster?”

  I suddenly see red. I’ve barely contained my anger about him kissing mini mouse, in public, shaming himself, shaming my unrequited love for him, and now he judges me.

  “That monster,” I shout, “is responsible for this.” I walk towards him and raise his arm, the gold bracelet with the green stone revealed clearly under his white shirt. “That monster has ensured you will never be hunted again.”

  “I don’t understand,” he shakes his head, “were you the one who brokered my amnesty?”

  “Yes,” I spit the word out, “yes I did Zan.”

  As I say this I see his eye drift to my bedroom hair, and to my neck and I know he can see little bite marks. Bite, not suck. Henri likes to nibble in the throes of passion, not to draw blood of course, because my blood, in particular, would kill him, just to add a bit of oomph, and, truth be known, I didn’t know how much I liked it until I tried it. Of course, I liked a lot of things Henri did. The marks were not deep, but they were red and visible.

  “Whose room did you just come out of,” he asks quietly, his voice deadly.