by C. M. Owens
Annoyed, I open the bathroom door to find her smiling.
“I’m not going to sugar coat it and let you carry on with your head in the sand. We had vampires and zombies—”
“No zombies,” I sigh, leaning up against the doorway.
“We had vampires and flying monkeys—”
I shake my head, and she stops mid-sentence again.
“We had vampires try to kill you,” she says, waiting to see if I agree or not, and at my nod, she continues on. “You have some mortal cult of some sort who hunts Portocale gypsies and kills them as some sort of sacrifice to some Forsaken idol or something.”
At my impatient sound, she hurries on.
“The point is, you need to start being realistic. You don’t die, and you can somehow sew yourself together even when you’re unconscious.”
“The charms help the ribbons to hurry, but most of the ribbons have been trained to work on their own now,” I explain.
She blinks like that makes no sense.
“Heart wounds and head wounds usually result in unconsciousness instead of purposeful fainting,” I add.
“So how do the girls get their heads back on after the guy loosens the thread?” she asks curiously. “Or is that not a head wound?”
“Those are just one portion of the story. Shera is probably a vampire, based on what I’ve learned, yet I’ve her out during the day. She wasn’t in direct sunlight, but she wasn’t sizzling in the shadows either. Werewolves were out on a night other than the full moon.”
“You just lost me.”
“I’m saying the truth doesn’t have to identically match the myth. Only certain parts are stronger because of mind power or whatever.”
“Are you lucid?” she asks me with a dubious expression.
Ignoring her, I decide to stick to the simplest answer. “The ribbon girls from the stories could have had charms that sew them up when they sleep, like I do. Or someone else sews them up. Or, like me, they’ve trained the ribbons to work on their own.”
Her lips form an O.
“So that’s what your charms do.”
“Some of them. Believe it or not, I do have survival training. Just not the standard-issue kind,” I say as I turn my back and head toward the shower, leaving the door open for once so she can talk.
“Do you think they’re so fascinated because you’re a ribbon-girl monster?” she asks as I step under the spray of water.
“I think I’m the perfect storm,” I mutter as I tip my head back.
“Well, if you are a monster, maybe you should do what monsters do.”
“What’s that?”
“Make monster allies, study other monsters to learn their secrets, and have lots of sex.”
I groan for a second when she goes off on a tangent about my ignored needs, but then something she says sort of clicks.
I’m worried about hiding as they work twice as hard to pick me apart. What if I become boringly unoriginal, therefore lose their interest, while also making some allies? Winning situation all around.
It’d be stupid and dangerous if I could die, but that’s a nonissue for me. I’m allowed to take reckless chances.
So long as they don’t know my secrets, I have the secret upper hand.
“You should try the ribbon trick with Van Helsing, see if he’d be curious enough to break your rules and untie the ribbon from your neck. I’d bet he’d pass inspection,” Anna says, breaking back into my thoughts.
“Oh, Vance isn’t like that, so I have a better angle to work for him,” I tell her, bringing her into the middle of my thought process.
“Like what?” she asks like she’s confused.
“Vance is into guys,” I say as I shampoo my hair.
“What?” she shrieks. “Noooooo! He was still my top pick to use your vagina on when I snatch your body.”
“It makes sense, now that I think about it. He’s sort of obsessed with designer clothes and stuff. It’s not a common trait among heterosexual men,” I go on.
“Did he tell you for certain he’s into men?” she asks with a heavy huff of disappointment.
“No. A ghost who stalks him told me. It helped me realize the window-watching, at least on his part, really was sort of innocent. And I think it’d be smart to be friends with a monster killer who has an ironic urge to protect me, now that I know he’s not a creep staring through my window with his hand down his pants.”
“This is just terrible. Is this ghost you’re cheating on me with a reliable source of information? I met a pirate ghost in Jamaica, and I tell you, he really led me for a loop. Woke up in China with no clothes on and haven’t been the same since,” she informs me.
“That’s…so fucking ridiculously inaccurate,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” she shouts.
I peek my head out of the curtain and give her an innocent smile, seeing her toeing the very edge of the salted room.
“He’s more reliable than most ghosts,” I say with a saccharine tone.
“I feel like you just insulted me,” she deadpans as I put my scheming gypsy brain to work.
I have an Ace up my sleeve. I just have to wait on him to return.
He’ll know what I need to do to form allies. Anna’s not wrong about needing that.
This is my life. Time to accept it.
Chapter 22
EMIT
“The Carmine girl from the gypsy herb shop is requesting to see you,” Collin says from the doorway, poking just his head inside my bedroom as I finish tying my towel around my waist.
“Violet Carmine?” I ask, confused.
That fucking blacksmith tattled and told her I’ve watched through the window as well. Accidental confession my ass. Now she’s here to berate me.
I find it all too easy that she’s at my home just two days later requesting an audience, so I decide to just wear the towel. Maybe she’ll feel like we’re even if she gets to look her fill.
“Send her in,” I tell him as I flip on the TV, pulling up the forest fire coverage that shows the newest wildfire is getting too damn close to my woods.
“Are wildfires part of your alpha duties?” a familiar, feminine voice asks, devoid of all the anticipated hostility.
My eyes dart to the door to see Violet standing there, a package of some sort tucked under her arm, and a gypsy’s smile on her lips.
I don’t like that look. What’s she up to?
“Anything close to my woods is part of my duties. But you really shouldn’t be running around and talking too much about the small amount of knowledge you’ve acquired. You’ve been told things Portocale gypsies are privy too, but that doesn’t mean just anyone knows these things.”
“How will I know what I’m allowed to know and what a Portocale knows?” she muses, her reasonable tone only causing me to use more caution.
Her ghost is marching back and forth behind her like she’s guarding her back. I have to pretend not to notice, but it grows increasingly difficult when the peculiar ghost starts running around the room and shouting.
“The ants! General, the ants are in my pants!”
Violet rolls her eyes and grinds her jaw. “Do you have any salt?” she asks me.
“I’ll stop, Gov’nah!” Anna shouts with a faux Southern accent. “Please don’t throw salt in my vagina again!”
For fuck’s sake… “I have an entire drawer full of salt if you need it,” I say with an annoyed smile. “Did you come out here to borrow salt? Most neighbors ask for sugar.”
Her lips twitch, and I find a certain uneasiness within me at her burst of notable confidence.
“No, she came to wax your giant dick,” Anna says from right beside me.
Fuck my life, now that image is in my head, and no Morrigan should be thinking of any Portocale that way. Especially not one as infuriatingly intriguing as this potential menace.
“Are werewolves also born? Or just scratched?” Violet asks me abruptly as she puts down the terrible looking
quilted covering over the package she’s been holding.
“Both.”
“Which are you?” she asks as she takes an apple from the bowl next to my bed and starts eating it. “Pure blood?” she prompts when I don’t immediately answer.
Unnerved by the peculiar quilted thing on the table, I go to it, sniffing the air, and finding something that smells really damn good.
The scent guides me as I start unzipping the uneven zipper. What is this hideous, knitted creation?
“Did you make this?” I decide to ask, since she is a Portocale, after all.
“Yes.”
“Portocale gypsies are usually known for their unparalleled seamstress abilities.” I wiggle the hellish nightmare of the horrid stitch job on the shit design.
“I’m aware,” she states dryly.
I pull out a tin can that is really warm and open it to some damn good smelling cookies in the shape of…bones. She’s got jokes, huh?
“However, Portocale gypsies aren’t usually known for their sense of humor,” I go on, unamused as I bite the dog biscuit that tastes like…something really orange and not at all like the cinnamon I was smelling.
My senses are extremely confused. Where’s the cinnamon? Is that on the knitted nightmare instead?
The cinnamon scent in the air almost feels like an illusion as it begins to fade, and the familiar scent of orange grows to replace it.
“I’m aware of that too,” she goes on.
I’m caught off guard when I actually like the surprise orange flavor, and I shove the rest of the cookie into my mouth before turning back around.
“Why the hell are you bringing me treats?” I ask around the next mouthful.
“Because she wants you to be a good dog,” the annoying ghost chirps, causing me to swallow the next mouthful and quickly wipe my lips free of crumbs.
My eyes flick to the curious gypsy in the room, as she absently eyes her pink nails. “I don’t know anything about monsters, and the alpha werewolf is the only werewolf I happen to know. Who better to fill me in on how I should or shouldn’t act in the presence of a werewolf in the future? But don’t ask me to tell people I’m a Portocale.”
“That’s Vance. He thinks the Portocale gypsies are safer when announced. More people pay attention to them, and it’s harder to get away with taking one down.”
She sits down on the couch as I mute the TV.
“I think you’re a fool for painting an unnecessary target on your back. Only alphas, such as Vance and I, truly know your blood,” I state, tossing in my two cents.
“How many alphas are there?” she asks as she clears her throat.
Deciding these are safe questions, I return my interest to the treats, feeling I deserve the rest as I pick the bowl up and move to the couch beside her.
“Better question. How did you know to bring me treats?”
“It was actually my idea,” Anna says as she purrs and moves onto my lap, sitting right on the cookies.
I have to lift the next one up through her crotch, and it’s awkward. I really wish I could salt her without the gypsy or her noticing it.
“Wolves and food. Seemed to make sense,” Violet answers with a coy smile. “It’s customary to bring a gift when stopping by unannounced.”
“Why couldn’t I have had gypsy friends when I was alive? All the pricks that stopped by unannounced to see me just wanted to take. Never give,” Anna sighs wistfully.
I swallow down the next cookie as she finally gets out of my lap and moves to lie down and…start swimming in the floor. I only notice from my peripheral.
“What do you know about yourself?” I ask Violet as I try to pretend it’s a casual question.
“That I’m the Portocale gypsy who sucks at making pretty things,” she deadpans.
“It’s because you’re a gypsy freak,” I tell her as I eat another cookie.
It gets really quiet.
“Take the bone away. Bad dog! Bad dog!” Anna shouts.
She then starts bouncing around as she barks at me, sounding like some little ankle-biting menace with more bite than bark.
Pausing a cookie at my mouth, I peer over at Violet and arch an eyebrow.
She’s giving me a blank look.
“Did you really just call me a freak?” she finally asks, and I roll my eyes.
“Not in the derogatory sense of the word. In the actual meaning. Gypsy freaks are reasonably common, and not always discriminated against. It’s just a term to explain the misfit pieces when a gypsy doesn’t perform as expected: You can’t use your threading gift to create clothing fit for royals, but you’ve managed to somehow turn it into an offensive weapon, which is a first.”
She bristles, and I carry on.
“You quite frankly suck at killing things, and you’re entirely too sloppy, unlike the typical Portocale, but you manage to scrape by because you’re a true old-blood gypsy, regardless of how bad you are at it.”
“I’m actually quite good at being a gypsy. Just not at being a seamstress or a vampire slayer, one of which isn’t supposed to be in my genetics,” she corrects, causing my grin to lift.
My grin falls as I continue speaking after finishing another cookie.
“The main reason you’re a gypsy freak, is the fact you don’t actually seem to need ghost spirits to stay alive,” I go on, tasting the orange on my tongue and the urge to eat the next cookie.
“What do you mean?” she asks as she moves closer, brushing some crumbs off my beard.
Her fingertips feel just a little cool to the touch, because it’s apparently her default setting when snow’s on the ground. Still, every time she touches me, it’s like a jolt of electricity through my bones, and I pause, my gaze darting back over to her.
“You lost a lot of blood in Martin’s house. Care to explain what you were doing there now that you’ve had a few days to calm down?”
“I did lose a lot of blood, but I’m a gypsy, as you said. We scrape by. I’m better now. Tell me about the ghosts,” she goes on, but I get very damn distracted as she gently pushes a crumb from my lip into my mouth.
“He’s so out of your league,” Anna says on a sigh. “But he’s eating out of your hand. Literally. How do you do it, sensei?”
My lips lightly close over the gypsy’s thumb as my eyes stay fixed to her unusual ones. Green with a violet rim, no doubt the reason she has her name at all.
Then my gaze dips to her lips as she pulls her thumb back, leaving just the hint of orange in my mouth again.
I find myself leaning forward as if my body is thinking for itself, and she gently stops me with her hand at my chest. “Why would I need ghost spirits to stay alive?”
“Because it’s the Portocale curse. You learn your curses starting at age thirteen,” I answer as she lifts another cookie to my mouth.
I take a bite as my eyes stay locked on hers.
“What Portocale curse?” she asks me, gently running her slightly cool hand up my cheek as she inches closer.
“The curse that kills Portocale gypsies. The curse that keeps Portocale gypsies from living in true hiding so they can be hunted down like cattle. The curse that—”
Something chimes, and I blink as I look over, wondering if Vance is right and I really am fucking stupid. I glance down to the empty bowl with only some crumbs remaining.
It’s my dignity alone that keeps me from licking the crumbs out of the bowl right in front of her.
“If you decide you want more treats, knock on the front door. No more slinking around my windows. I’m not the one who bites,” she says as she stands.
I find myself unnaturally riveted to her ass as she turns and struts out, confusing the hell out of me.
What just happened? Why do I already want more cookies?
I glance down at the bowl of crumbs, and I quickly decide it’s okay to the lick the bowl now.
Chapter 23
DAMIEN
Why is there a gypsy smiling at me through my window?
Our lunch isn’t until tomorrow.
I smile back, since women love my smile, and I go to swing open the door, wondering if this is going to be far easier than I anticipated. Sort of sad, really. She seemed like the type to finally give me a challenge.
It’s been so long since there was a fun challenge.
“I got your roses,” she says with a smile, referring to the roses I sent yesterday when I decided to channel my energy into my new endeavor.
Took a whole twenty-four hours to achieve my goal.
“Did you?” I drawl, using that charm I know she’ll enjoy.
She lifts a small, hideously knit stocking, and I warily accept it. I think that color is called vomit green.
“Where in the hell do you find these ugly shades of colored fabrics?” I ask on an exasperated exhale.
“My mother’s trunk had a lot of faded yarns in it, and for the record, it’s rude to make someone stand outside in the cold while you criticize the wrapping of the gift they just gave you.”
My lips twitch as I glance back over at her disapproving look, along with a slight blush hitting her cheeks.
“You wrapped my gift in a stocking?”
“Seemed fitting. I peg you as the Grinch type. An early Christmas present would certainly irritate the Grinch.”
“And you endeavor to irritate me, gypsy girl?” I muse as I step back and let her into the house.
Even though the chase has ended quickly, she does make this part enjoyable when she’s being fun and prickly at the same time—my favorite combination.
After shutting the door, I set the gift aside and take her coat, since Vance mentioned something about her expecting a certain decorum of manners.
The concept alone is amusing—a monster with manners.
“So this is actually Vance’s house, right?” she asks as she looks around at the tacky floor-to-ceiling fabric walls.
“No art. No color. Just bland. Like the owner. And if I change something in his home, he changes something in mine. I want my house exactly the same when I return,” I gripe.
Just thinking about that smug prick lounging in my Jacuzzi in the Japanese garden—that I bet he hasn’t pruned—pisses me off.
