Gypsy Blood_Love bloody hurts

by Helen Allan

  I sigh as his grin lights up the room.

  Chapter 9

  I enjoy the food in Denmark, you can pretty much get the same things as at home and in the States, except the Chinese is crap, and there’s no KFC. I’ve been craving that spicy chicken lately, not sure why.

  As I sit in the restaurant opposite my little prince - I can’t think of him as ‘my prince’ because in my mind, Zan still holds that title – I turn my attention from the streetscape to his meal.

  He has ordered a small salad and a white wine. I’ve ordered a lasagne, salad and chips and a coke. I ignore the fact that he’s drinking alcohol and only a kid, I think he does it to wind me up. I try not to drink when I’m on duty, I’ve had one or two slip-ups with vampires after a glass or two of wine, and I know my reflexes are way better if I don’t drink at all. Not that I’ve needed to do much fighting recently, vamps are thin on the ground in the royal haunts of the Danes, which is part of the reason why my little prince has run here. Strange though, I muse, that his name should be Dane, and we are in Denmark, a sick joke on him really.

  “So you think it is alright for me to go tonight,” he asks again.

  I nod. He wants to go to some hob-nobbing party with his little rich friends, and it galls him that I have to agree. “Yes, but I don’t see why I have to be in the background, waiting outside, I mean if you want protection ..” I let my words trail off.

  He finishes his mouthful before answering – good manners. “You know why,” he frowns, “I am aristocracy, it is not fitting to be seen in those circles, as though my gypsy is equal to me.”

  “What about your last gypsy? Is this how you thought about her? That she was ‘beneath’ you?” I suspect he just wants to do drugs and get laid; he’s only 15, that’s what most kids his age do. But he’s pulling the gypsy card, doesn’t talk to me about what he is really up to.

  He stabs his salad with his fork and shrugs. “It is the way. You are the only gypsy I have ever known who thinks it should be any other way. We are partners, not equals.”

  I grin, my mind doing evil cartwheels, ‘I fucking hate you kid.’ and resume eating my lasagne. Since I’ve been assigned to this little arsehole I’ve tried to make the best of it, but my ‘little prince’ was an up himself little git, and wearing on me pretty fast. Luckily for him, we didn’t spend too much time together.

  We leave together, his driver dropping him off to his next class and me to our digs.

  We’ve been living in a ritzy hotel by the water for the past six months; he goes to school and I spend my days studying by correspondence. I’ve resumed my degree, secretly, and any spare moment I get, I do my essays and reports.

  My decision to start studying again was almost instantaneous when Zan broke my heart. I don’t want to be a gypsy anymore; I don’t want to ‘continue the line’ whatever the fuck that means, I want to go back to my normal life. Of course, I’m going to have to make up with Tanya before that can happen. I decide, on an impulse, a not-so-well-thought-out impulse, to skype her.

  She answers the call wearing my favourite pink pyjama bunny suit, which pisses me off, I love those PJ’s.

  “Hey,” I say as she leans forward into the computer camera and gives me the dirty. “You don’t have to look at me like that; I know you are probably still pissed.”

  “Probably? Probably?” her voice rises to a screech, “take a look at my face Freely, I mean really, really look.”

  “Shit,” I say, frowning, “you’ve aged.” But truth be told, you would have to know her really well, like I do, to even notice.

  “Yes, yes I have,” she says tearfully, little streaks of blood running down her cheeks, “the queen has decreed that unless I find that fucking prince of yours, I can only eat old people, old, old, old people, like from aged care facilities Freely. So this,” she points to her face, “is me, old.”

  “You’re 19,” I say dryly, “the same age as me.”

  “Wrinkles, wrinkles Freely,” she points to her forehead, where I see no lines at all.

  “I miss you,” I smile; I can’t help it.

  “Well,” she pouts and wipes her eyes on my PJ’s, “I miss you too. Where are you?”

  “Oh har dee har,” I smirk, “and stop wiping blood on my bunny suit.”

  “No,” she sniffs, “I mean, really Freely, if I mean anything to you, anything at all, let me have that bloke. Hasn’t he broken up with you by now anyway?”

  I clench my jaw. In the time I’ve known Tanya I’ve only ever had two serious boyfriends. One lasted six months, and one four months, both times I was dumped. Both times I was heartbroken, and she helped patch me up. It was bitchy of her to think I’d been dropped again.

  It also makes me think of Zan, and I don’t want to think of him. Tried not to. Although, if I was honest with myself, I did collect every scrap of information about him that I could. I knew where he was and with whom. He had been assigned Evita after he rejected me, which, apparently was a rare thing. Gypsies usually retired to marry and have babies after their prince died, I mean, after all, they had failed. And generally, that special bond was only felt once. But since her former prince was Richard, Zan’s brother, and their blood was still considered the same, Evita had agreed to be Zan’s new gypsy.

  Of course, jealousy burned me up inside when I thought about this too often. But at least I didn’t have to worry about him fucking her. He was as scared of her as I had been. And, to be fair, their reputation as hunters was pretty impressive. Together they were a formidable force. Which meant, I had to assume, that he was still strong and fast, hadn’t suffered any reduction in skills since parting, as I had. I didn’t want to dwell on the ramifications of that little mind fuck for too long. I was no longer as fast or strong as I had been when around him, he was still fine. Luckily for me, there were bugger all vamps in Denmark, so my new lack of skills hadn’t been sorely tested. But, thinking about how he had dumped me, and Tanya’s comments, reopened old wounds.

  I felt like a piece of cheese. Foreign cheese that tastes great when you first try it, but quickly goes off and stinks, and you throw it away. I was that cheese as far as the men I had dated. ‘The cheese stands alone’ and I didn’t need to be reminded.

  “You suck,” I say angrily, “I don’t even know why I bothered calling.”

  “I’ll find you, you know,” she says, suddenly ominous, “I will find you.”

  “Give it your best shot,” I smile, “we should do this again, it was fun.”

  “I’m keeping the bunny suit. So fuck you.”

  “Nope, fuck you.”

  The screen goes black.

  Strangely I feel better after the call. It was almost like old times for a second there. I sigh and put my books away, flicking off the computer. I think I’ll go for a walk; it’s several hours before I have to pick the little prince up, I’ve got some time to kill, evening has only just fallen.

  I nod to the man behind the hotel counter as I leave and glance at my watch, just to make sure I don’t lose track of time.

  Outside I make a spur of the moment decision to walk to McDonald’s, it’s only a few blocks away, well-lit street, and I feel like fries.

  As I walk, I notice a black limousine slide up beside the curb, level with me. I see my reflection in the black windows, but not who is inside the vehicle. I pause to let it drive past, but it stops, and I immediately go on red alert. Too late, I see the vamps in the reflection of the windows as one grabs me from behind and puts a cloth to my face and the other catches me behind the knees before I can hit the pavement. In one last moment of clarity I realise I’ve been drugged before I’m thrown across the back seat of the car, and we speed away.

  “Ugh, seriously?” I groan as my eyes begin to focus and I realise where I am. Deja vous, my favourite dungeon.

  I hear a slight laugh and look over to where I know I will see a red velvet settee.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” I groan, “Viktor, you are..”

  “Yes,
yes, I know,” he laughs, “such an unattractive man.”

  I snort and shake my head, but I notice that, while I’m manacled, my feet are touching the floor, so the pressure is not all on my wrists like it was the last time.

  “What? No hanging on the wall?” I snark, casting my eyes around the room. Nothing else has changed.

  “No, well, I was told that your wrists were bruised last time,” he says contritely, “and it is important to me not to mark you.”

  I consider him through narrowed eyes.

  “You know that sounds creepy right?”

  He laughs again.

  “So you are probably wondering to what you owe this pleasure,” he says, his arm sweeping to show the view of the room.

  “Well, I’m guessing it has nothing to do with my rapier wit or sweet charm,” I mutter, “or maybe you want your red dress back, in which case, you are going to be sadly disappointed.”

  “No,” he says, walking towards me and looking me up and down. “well, your wit, yes, I do enjoy our repartee, but actually I want to make you an offer.”

  I sigh. “Well, I kind of expected a big ring and, you know, someone on their knees begging me, but I get the whole dungeon, torture vibe you are going for here.”

  He laughs again and shakes his head, walking back to the settee.

  “No, 50 shades is not for me, not anymore anyway.”

  “You read that?”

  “Oh I read many things,” he waves his hand in the air, “but I digress. You said something, last time you visited.”

  “You mean was captured,” I interrupt.

  “Yes, yes, semantics, you are my guest, that is all,” he waves his hands in frustration.

  I notice, he does this a lot, must be a French thing.

  “You suggested that my, how shall we say, troubles, with the queen could be easily dispensed with.”

  “If you knocked her off you mean?”

  “Yes, exactly, knocked her off, I like your turn of phrase. So I was thinking about how this might happen, this ‘knocking off’ and it came to me that you might be the perfect weapon.”

  I laugh.

  “I think you seriously overestimate my killing ability. She probably has a shit-load of guards and, in case you haven’t noticed, there is only one of me.” ‘And I don’t have any powers anymore.’

  “Yes, exactly,” he says, excited now and walking back to look me in the eye. “She will never expect it, never in a million years.”

  I chew my lip and consider him through shrewd eyes. Obviously, I’m thinking about escaping, but I need to get him thinking I’m on his team to be given the leeway. He won’t be as lax with his security this time.

  “Let’s say,” I drawl, “that I would, in my wildest nightmare, consider your proposal. What’s in it for me?”

  “Oh,” he smiles, a, I have to admit, sexy grin, he really is quite attractive, “something you are going to like very, very much.”

  I pace the tower and look down at my heels. I have to give this to him; Henri has excellent taste. He’s sent up for me a deep maroon gown featuring tiny little pink flowers, hand-stitched, each with a pink rhinestone in the centre. The dress is almost Grecian style, gathered under the breasts, long and flowing and it flatters my body type. I sparkle as I walk, and, although I am a prisoner, I’m at least a prettily-dressed one.

  Henri hasn’t made the same mistake he made last time in putting me in a room I could escape from. This time, like a princess, I’m locked in a tower. The only windows are small enough for a hand to get through, nothing more. But the room is beautifully decorated with a four poster bed and a modern-plumbed bath on a marble plinth, much to my surprise.

  I hear a knock on the door and the key turning in the lock.

  Henri smiles when he sees me in the gown.

  “Beautiful,” he says, indicating with his hand I should twirl for him.

  I shrug and turn, I suspect I have the elegance of a panda, but I play along.

  “You know, you are a very beautiful young woman,” he murmurs, holding out his arm and signalling for me to leave the room.

  I blush, I rarely receive compliments, and I can’t ever recall being called beautiful. ‘My Beautiful Gypsy’ I shake my head quickly to dispel my morbid turn of thoughts. I don’t want to think about Zan.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Henri,” I say, walking out and looking down the long, spiral rock staircase. I shake my head and point to my shoes, “You better go first, if I trip in these ridiculous shoes or on the hem of this ridiculous dress, I’ll land on you, and you can break my fall.”

  He laughs as he leads the way. “I would not mind you landing on me any way you like Freely,” he says, holding up the lamp and lighting the way down.

  I don’t bother responding, but I’m surprised he agreed to go ahead, I personally wouldn’t have put it past me to push him down the stairs or stab him in the back. Then again, I didn’t have a weapon, and he could probably fly.

  As we get to the bottom of the second flight of stairs, he takes a sharp right and leads me into a beautiful dining room. The walls are covered in a red damask wallpaper, subtle prints of birds of paradise and roses. Red, of course. The table is long enough to seat at least 100, and down the centre run dozens of bowls of perfectly arranged flowers and fruit. I imagine what a dinner party for vampires would look like, and visualise the flowers and fruit replaced with naked women’s bodies, blood pooling on the white tablecloth.

  “I thought you don’t eat?” I say, pointing to the fruit.

  “I don’t,” he says, motioning me to sit in a chair a few down from him, his chair obviously at the head of the table, “but I like beautiful things, natural things,” he pauses and gives me a long look.

  “Huh,” I say, waiting while a servant pours me a glass of wine.

  Henri is also drinking something in a dark purple wine glass; I don’t inquire what.

  “So,” I say, sipping the wine and appreciating its fruity fullness, “let’s talk business.”

  “Come, Freely,” he laughs, “let us eat first. Pleasure, then business. Or pleasure, business and then more pleasure, if you like.”

  “Don’t flirt with me Count Drac,” I say, eyeballing him over my glass. “You kidnapped me. You haven’t invited me on a date.”

  “Would you have come?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Well then,” he shrugs, his expression a little pained. I feel a tad contrite, I know I’m being a bitch, but, well let’s face it, he is a blood-sucking monster.

  He looks up as a waiter brings in a spread of plates. Soup, salads, mains, seafood arranged in mountainous heaps, highly organised and detailed patterns of gourmet treats on beautiful platters.

  I gasp.

  “Just how much do you think I can eat?”

  “I didn’t know what you would like. So I ordered a range for you,” he says, watching me as I pick up my fork.

  “I like Chinese,” I mutter, “and lately, KFC.”

  “I will remember that,” he says quietly, sipping his wine. ‘I’ll pretend its wine and not the blood of some plump virgin.’

  “So,” I gesture to him with a chicken leg, having decided I was too hungry to bother with a fork, and I don’t feel like being well-mannered tonight, “you talk, I’ll eat.”

  “Oh very well,” he sighs, “since you are determined to be uncivilised.”

  I snort and hoe into the food.

  “The Queen,” he begins, “keeps a prince in her dungeon. She has had the latest one for about 14 months, maybe longer, soon he will die, as they all do, and she will need another one.”

  “Hang on,” I interrupt, casting the chicken bone aside and cracking a crab claw with my fist before looking up, “I thought princes were drained, all their blood drunk straight away, to give immortality.”

  “Yes, yes,” he sighs, waving his hand for me to be quiet.

  “And I thought,” I add, just to be perverse, “that she wanted to give immortal
ity to her new lover – hence wanting to drain you.”

  “Yes,” he says, more firmly now, “but if you shut your pretty mouth for a minute, I will tell you why.”

  “Ok,” I say, shoving some crab meat into my mouth and talking with my mouth full, “no need to be rude.”

  He rolls his eyes and continues.

  “God forbid. Now, where was I? Yes, so, the queen does want to give her new lover immortality, but keeping him waiting is just another way of ensuring his loyalty. She won’t keep him waiting forever, but she likes to be in control. She will want to drain a prince before long, or me,” he grimaces, “otherwise her lover will become petulant. In the meantime she keeps a prince always, in her dungeon, to sip. You see the queen loves power more than anything, and prince blood contains power.”

  “What kind?” I interrupt again.

  “Mon Dieu, don’t they teach you anything in gypsy school?”

  “Didn’t pay much attention,” I grin. This isn’t quite true, I paid careful attention, but I didn’t recall ever being told the blood contained anything other than immortality.

  “Prince blood, a whole prince, can give us immortality, but little sips can give us power for a short time. Additional strength, attractiveness, skills we would like to cultivate, many, many things, even an addictive euphoric feeling.”

  “Like a nice wine,” I add, taking another sip of my red.

  “Yes, but more intense,” he says, “like a drug.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the Vadoma Diaries?” I ask, keeping my voice nonchalant.

  He smiles. “I know you gypsies only have one half. If that is what you are getting at.”

  My eyes widen, “do you know where the other half is?”

  He shrugs, “perhaps, but that is not what we are focussing on right now, Freely.”

  I’m disappointed but file this information away for another day.

  “So,” I summarise, “the queen keeps a prince on the side to, what? Take a bite out of each night until there is nothing left?”

  “Not exactly,” he frowns. “She drains a small amount of blood every day and distributes that to her court. Those who are closest to her benefit the most. In this way she retains their loyalty and love because the blood is so rare, one might go many, many centuries before finding some outside of the court.”