Gypsy Origins (Page 31)

“The skin walkers, yes. But the Simpleton monsters—”

“Simpleton monsters?” I ask on snort. “Isn’t that a bit hypocritical to say?”

He bristles once more, sitting up like he’s feeling defensive. “There wasn’t another label for them. The ones who weren’t skin walkers were the original monsters, Violet—the larger men, anyways. They were soft, gentle, and very simple-minded people who sometimes bordered on…stupid,” he says like he’s hesitant to use any words right now.

“Yeah,” I state dryly. “They sound exactly like monsters.”

He gives me a slight side-eye, before turning his attention back to the road, as a muscle jumps along his jaw. “It’s possible they received the curse,” he says, giving up the endeavor to dig himself out of the hole he’s made.

“What sort of monsters were they?” I prompt, needing to know why they were so horrible in his eyes.

“Bobo was probably the nicest, simplest man I ever knew, but his speech was slurred when he spoke. He was large and had a slight hunch on his back. Being who he was in those times painted him a target. When a cruel, unchecked group of Portocale children almost stoned him to death one day, he panicked and arose a man of indescribable strength, and he ripped them apart.”

I try really hard not to have a reaction to that, as he exhales again.

“He sobbed and rocked on the ground when he came to his senses, crying out that he just wanted to make them stop, and apologizing over and over and over.”

I’m almost surprised when we pass a sign warning us that Shadow Hills is coming up, because we made it back a lot quicker than we made it out there.

It’s only momentarily distracting me from the recapping of a horrifying tale.

“He was mortal then, and the Portocale gypsies ensured he hanged for what he’d done to those children. As an immortal, he could rip apart ten or so immortals and handle any wounds he sustained, unless you knocked his head off.”

“I thought he was hanged,” I say, confused.

“It was after the altar,” he lets me know. “They all died and came back, even Bobo. The Neopry skin walkers and Simpletons are the only ones who can’t die for even a little while. But the Simpletons were gentle-hearted monsters with savage strength beyond comprehension when their hearts stopped beating,” he adds, delivering the final bomb that seems to come out of nowhere.

My chest gets heavier, because I realize Emit would have already probably deduced this. Damien too.

They’re keeping it a secret from me…

“My mother once told me I didn’t want to be the ribbon girl,” I say quietly, tears teetering on the edges of my eyelids.

“What?” he asks, turning on another road.

“It was such a short, dark, convoluted tale with seemingly endless possibilities. The only tale that truly suited me,” I go on, glancing out the window. “She told me that above all else, to keep my secret. Now I see why,” I add very quietly.

“You’re not making sense,” he says in a worried tone that suggests he’s keeping a wary eye on the semi-unnerving girl in the seat next to him.

“Do the Simpletons feed on lightning?” I ask, hating the punch to the gut.

I ruled this possibility out so very, very long ago when I was marking off the types of monster I could be. I got too wrapped up in the myth that didn’t align well enough to my reality.

“Yes, they do, but what does—”

“Let me see if I’ve got the gist,” I state, interrupting him as my chest only grows unbearably heavier. “Bobo was dead before the second sacrifice. For quite a while. All the others were already dead as well. The only natural thing powerful enough to grant life to the dead was the lightning,” I go on, letting my eyelids flutter shut.

I wasn’t creative enough to have ever come up with this scenario for myself.

“Why in the bloody hell do you insist on knowing everything there is to know about the Simpletons? What’s come over you?” he demands, doing his best to keep his patience, but letting me know it’s strained.

“Even the movies portrayed them as monsters with no name. They were someone else’s monster—Frankenstein’s monster. The laughing stock of all the monsters, really. Portrayed in some lights as a dopey fool with childlike temper tantrums,” I say as I slowly cover my face with one hand and softly shake my head. “In truth, they’re the Neopry Simpleton monsters, the laughing stock of all the monsters—as they rot underground for crimes they didn’t commit, and suffer a curse from my mother’s side of the family because of their surname.”

“Violet, I’m not sure why we’re still discussing the Neopry Simpletons. As tragic as it is, we can’t raise them without raising Idun by default. She won’t remain locked up if they’re free. She’s not weakened like a normal immortal. At most, she’d be up within a week, and we would be—”

“They’re awake, Vance,” I say quietly, letting those words really sink in. “Arion awoke when a Portocale died, and I’m sure they did too. They’ve been up for a helluva lot longer, if so.”

“They can’t be awake.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I ask him, admittedly growing increasingly agitated, my emotions swelling.

He looks both confused and put off, even as I struggle to put some big-ass pins in things. But it’s all slipping out of my control little by little. One rug after another keeps getting yanked out from under me without any warning or cushioning between blows.

“Because they can’t be. We disassembled them to ensure an unconscious state—”

I hiccup out a sound as I swallow back bile, and he shuts up abruptly. His mouth opens and closes a few times, like he’s trying to find a way to make this sound less brutal than it does.

“They felt no pain, Violet. For beings who couldn’t die, we needed them as close to death as possible to keep Idun under,” he says like he’s somehow being reassuring.

“Get them out of the ground,” I grind out through clenched teeth.

His own jaw grinds. “If I could, I would. You’ve made me feel like this is actually the worst thing I’ve done, and I hadn’t given it a single thought until now. Why are you so fixated on the damn Simpletons? After all you’ve learned, why is this the part you focus on?”

“You’re a really smart man, Vance. I’m sure you are,” I tell him as I look away, my hands beginning to tremble.

“I’m not being condescending, Violet. I’m trying to unravel you before I lose my own damn mind. What’s going on? How did you survive the cult?”

We pass by my house that has all the lights off as dawn encroaches, and I continue staring away from him.

“Why is it you don’t eat unless reminded you need food? Why is it you seem so submissive and fearful, yet reckless and resilient?” he drones on.

My heartbeat practically echoes back to me with each heavy thump.

“I’ve actually survived the cult three times,” I say on a shaky breath, as though it’s not a big deal. “The first time they surprised me in my home. The second time I saved my mother. The third time I let them find me.”

“What? Why would you let them find you?” he asks, his tone almost emotionless, as though I’ve just thrown him into the same uncharted stupor he keeps unceremoniously tossing me into.

“Because I wanted to prove to my mother I could stop them. She only listened to me when I proved stuff, and I backed off when it scared her. I laid low instead.”

“How?” he insists.

Instead of answering, I continue. “The first time was horrifying. The second time was…slightly invigorating and then horrifying. The third time I’d practiced for. I’d paid attention. I’d learned. I wanted to know more about myself, and it was safer to learn alone. So when the third time came, I proved to my mother I could keep us safe.”

I look over at him, still finding him surprisingly clueless for such a smart fellow.

“It terrified her when I told her I plotted for that third attempt,” I explain very quietly as a slow, sort of wary, disbelieving wrinkle forms on his brow and his eyes narrow.

“She stayed gone a lot more after that, before finally separating us and moving us along our own paths. She loved me. She spent every birthday with me. She called me regularly and showed up somewhat often. But we were still apart, and the distance was felt, even after I promised her I’d never do it on purpose again,” I tell him as one tear rolls down my cheek.

He stays silent.

“Now, I get it,” I go on, clearing my throat as more and more realization tries to form, but he just needs a little more of a push, “I terrified her, because that room had over sixty cult members in it. I walked away with my head fused to my neck by the ribbons I always wore. It was my only injury, and I let them swing the axe.”

I see it the moment it fully clicks into place, and his pupils dilate, as his nostrils slightly flare.

“Tell me, do subtly tart and semi-sweet green apples mean something as crucial as a slightly sweeter orange?” I ask him.

It’s like he tries to shut down all his expressions, but a few sneak by.