Gypsy Origins (Page 30)

Movement has me jerking my gaze to the right just as a deer darts in front of us. Vance easily maneuvers the vehicle, never slipping or sliding on the ice, and misses the deer.

“I was a hunter who always found his bounty or his prized prey—a trophy hunter, some would call me. I tracked the Portocale gypsies faster than I’ve ever tracked anything or anyone. I led them to the battle to kill the monsters who’d killed the woman we’d loved, along with her entire family.”

I forget about the icy roads and eerie woods as I keep my attention trained on him, noticing the haunted, distant gaze in his eyes.

“I’d dropped two men before I heard screams, and I raced along the edge of the river until I found a hidden shack covered by branches.”

He once again clears his throat and blinks.

“I’ll spare you the details, but I found two Morpheous men—one of which couldn’t bear the family name—who’d taken our vengeance to a more monstrous level. Killing is one thing. Forcing yourself on a woman is an entirely different matter, and that’s what Dorian was doing as Amos kept a lookout.”

“Dorian Gray?” I ask, a sick feeling now accompanying his name, possibly forever.

He nods once, seeming lost in thought as his jaw grinds. “The women and children had been hidden, and Amos kept them in line while Dorian…” He stops and shakes his head, exhaling harshly. “I cut off both their heads and led the women and children to safety, before I returned to battle.”

“But the altar brought Dorian and this Amos guy back, right?” I surmise.

“Unfortunately,” he says with a firm nod. “And left the Morpheous men deadened inside to an extent, while turning them all into sexual deviants for all eternity. They’re the only monsters who can be their worst while their hearts are beating. Usually, the heart stops when one loses control and gives into the monster.”

“That’s why Damien hates Dorian,” I say in understanding.

“That’s only one portion of the complicated reasons Damien despises Dorian. Idun used Dorian to make Damien jealous on more than one occasion, and Dorian is eager to forever take away anything Damien loves or cares about.”

“And you became the man in charge of slaying the monsters when they stepped out of line as a result,” I say softly. “Forever putting the burden of their faults on your shoulders.”

“It’s not so bad as long as the other alphas do their jobs and don’t abuse their power,” he states dryly.

“So you really are very tired,” I go on, understanding him a little more.

“More than you could know, Violet. Emit can sink into oblivion. Arion can go insane and cause massacres. Damien can let his heart stop beating and throw himself pity parties. But I can’t do anything but track, hunt, and ensure survival. It’s my curse, and not adhering to it leaves me with a great number of physical and mental ailments.”

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely, knowing the fact he can’t even close his eyes right now is because he’s still being punished by my Portocale ancestors for sins he committed as another man with more hypersensitive, less cautious emotions in a time that sounds like it tried to leave even the gentlest souls hardened.

“The hunts get longer and more easily derailed these days, because I have so many unresolved ones still evading me. Time is taking its toll on me with all the added burdens of picking up their slack and punishing them when they step out of line,” he goes on, almost as though he’s defending his slower hunts. “They used to care enough to help me out. Now they see my curse as miniscule as my heartfelt, shallow sacrifice for that altar. Resentment is a festering, powerful thing.”

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, his tics slowly beginning.

“Emit not only offered to go on this hunt with me, but he organized it and handled a replacement for his short absence to keep things from getting murky at home. He acted more like the alpha he’s supposed to be than he has in too long for me to remember. Killing as many as wolves as we did has alleviated some of the misery.”

He fixes his hair at last, smoothing the dark blond locks into place, until he looks as perfectly polished as usual.

“The only stipulation was that you come as well. Why is it he was convinced you should be there?”

“I have no idea,” I tell him honestly.

“He’s searching, Violet. He’s found something that feels right. He seemed more like himself these past couple of days than he has in centuries. He needed you there for that, and I know this because I know him. I know all of them. Arion is the only unpredictable factor.”

He tugs at both of his long sleeves and drums his fingers again, though the rapping sound is so quiet I barely hear it.

“Though I don’t know Arion’s motives, he’s certainly not wrong when he says we do need you. Damien alone is proof of that. He grows more virile daily, and is increasingly turning back into the alpha I could really use right now. I can’t put Dorian in line. It’s not my place. I need Damien to do that.”

“How in the hell does that involve me?” I ask on a sigh.

“Because Emit is putting wolves in line at last. He’s already launched investigations into mutinies, stopping them before they progress for a change. Damien is griping at me for stepping on his toes with two kills, something he hasn’t bothered to concern himself with in ages. And Arion is sticking to his fucking corner and focusing on his own House, instead of making my life ten times harder than it already has to be. Retaliation may come yet, but for now, he’s fucking content to go on with this notion of getting the forbidden gypsy girl and playing nice,” he explains…like it makes all the sense in the world.

The drumming on the steering wheel stops, and he doesn’t touch his hair. He sits perfectly still.

“The burden is easing just enough for me to focus on my hunts. I took care of two forgotten and happenstance hunts along the way without getting a single drop of blood on my nice clothes,” he says tightly. “And you didn’t bat an eye when you heard the story. I don’t know if you’re a godsend or the final blow that will render us all pointless and mad. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit trying to find a way to turn you immortal.”

I’m…surprised.

It’s now I realize what a bottled up bag of emotions Vance really is.

He seems so stoic, so dignified and condescending at the same time. I never pegged him as the internally struggling type.

It’s sort of heartbreaking.

“You stayed quiet during that entire attack,” he goes on, not making any move to look at me, as though this has all been incredibly hard to say and he hates me a little for making him say it. “Damien loses control on you, yet you don’t break. He knows something I don’t, because of all his little cryptic mutterings that just tease me with something he wants to tell me but can’t.”

He gives me a sidelong glance, as I exhale and slink back in my seat.

“Emit slaughtered a roomful of wolves in front of you, and still, you invited him into your body near the full moon, never once feeling pain, from what I observed,” he adds, adjusting himself very noticeably, which is super un-Vance-like and weirdly sort of wrongly hot.

The distraction is brief.

“A flower pot cracks your bloody head open and makes you bleed,” he goes on, sounding disbelieving and maddened at the same time. “You don’t die when the cursed Morpheous loses his spend in you—”

“Can you not word it like that? That whole situation is still a little surreal. I mean, cursing a guy’s junk to be a tool of death is serious overkill. I hate overkill,” I tell him, rambling a little, as I chew on my thumbnail and start tapping my foot.

Now I’m the one with the nervous tics, because I get the gist of where he’s going with this. He’s told me his secrets; now he’s about to ask me for all of mine.

“You know about the cult hunting you, but not the Portocale Council.”

“I’ve met the cult. Not the council,” I explain.

“Portocale gypsies don’t meet the fucking cult, Violet. They simply die when the cult comes for them. Idun’s handpicked betas are leading and training the ones hunting for you, even though it technically defies her official order.”

“What’s her official order?”

“Never kill a Portocale gypsy. Same as all our number-three orders—we don’t want it to look like the most important,” he explains. “But Idun’s unspoken orders are top priority, and we never know—”

“She’s hit with the curse too?” I ask, a sinking sensation hitting me with a painful distraction.

“Violet, I’m losing my mind trying to figure out how you seem resilient and fragile in the same breath, and how—”

“Were the Simpletons hit with this same curse?” I ask a little urgently.

He frowns. “I don’t really know, to be honest. It’s not like I sat around jawing with them. They were a little…different. It’s hard to carry on an intelligent conversation with that sort. They didn’t play a part in the sacrifice, but—”

“That sacrifice was also done in their name. Did all the Neopry family members suffer the curse?” I ask, getting sicker by the second.