Gypsy's Blood (Page 18)

“Why do they hunt us? Mom always said it was an ancient cult with no motivations beyond prejudice. And until she brought me to a town of monsters who all somehow know I’m a Portocale—without so much as warning me—I believed every word from her mouth,” I tell him with a false bravado as I fight back any emotion that wants to surge forth.

He lifts the tub when he sees me struggling, and I’m thankful to breathe in the steam full of the drug that shoves back the panic, enabling me to speak, without fearing what I might reveal in front of the monster hunter.

He puts the tub back down when he views me calming once again.

The lavender seems to be seeping into my bones, and I moan a little again when he gives my feet one last massage.

“That’s part of the story I can’t yet give you.”

“Why not?” I ask as he begins carefully and slowly painting my toenails.

A legendary monster slayer is painting my toenails. Maybe I’m a ghost and I’ve truly advanced to the delusional stage that causes me to be a pathological liar, because this is insane, even by my standards.

“It’s too complicated right now,” he answers, staying cryptic. “However, I can explain the ins and outs of being in monster territory. And I’ll expand little by little, so as not to overwhelm you, so long as you learn to trust me.”

“He says after drugging the daft girl,” comes a new male voice. “It’s not surprising, really. You always were a fool with women, old chap.”

I’d startle if I wasn’t so heavenly sedated.

My gaze flicks to the wall when motion catches my attention, but I’m too relaxed to really react. The new man is perched at a lean against the wall, and though I should probably find that unnerving, I’m not exactly motivated to demonstrate the proper amount of fear.

Must be a ghost, so no fear is necessary. Vance doesn’t even glance in the direction of the man or acknowledge his presence.

“Are you seriously painting the girl’s bloody toes, mate?” the man asks with genuine horror in his voice, loudly talking over whatever Vance is saying.

It makes it really hard to focus, given my current headspace.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales harshly, and shakes his head as though he’s embarrassed for Vance.

As though he can’t bear another second of this, he turns to walk through the wall, but pauses. I cock my head, studying his back, curious as to what period the clothes he’s wearing belong in so that I can date his death.

Early nineteen hundreds? The ruffled edges of his collar are soft, flat, and open on his smooth chest. Anna will be pissed she missed out on this particular ghost.

He must not use his ghostly powers much if he’s not showing symptoms of the final decay.

Then again, I’ve met some ghosts over two hundred years old who still haven’t even started the final decaying process.

My mind continues to wander for so long that I don’t even realize I’m staring directly into his eyes. When did he turn back around? How long have I held eye contact? Does he know that I’ve seen him?

“Violet, are you too high to listen?” Vance asks on a sigh, causing my eyes to snap away from the new ghost and back to the man who has started on my other foot.

“Bloody fucking hell,” the other man says on a harsh whisper. “You can see me,” he adds as I pretend I certainly cannot see him.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask Vance. “I saw a distracting bug on the wall,” I tell him.

I think the man looks at the wall to check out my lie, and I keep my expression neutral.

“I was just telling you about some of the ways to protect yourself,” Vance goes on, his eyes dipping back to his task.

He’s not very good at coloring inside the lines, I notice, but since his trade is putting down the things that go bump in the night, I decide not to critique him.

“How can you see me?” the other guys goes on. “Wait, don’t answer that in front of him. How about you ask him about Emit, the werewolf who tore apart his house tonight.”

“How do I protect myself?” I ask Vance, actively ignoring the ghost I stupidly made eye contact with. “I have a ton of charms.”

I lift some of my necklaces.

“Gypsy charms won’t do you any good. Wearing those is nothing but redundant. As I said, this town is safe and dangerous for gypsies.”

“Yeah, he’s a bit of an obnoxious dick when he talks in circles that way,” the guy says from directly beside me, causing me to swallow back a sound of surprise as he studies Vance with me. “Telling you something and nothing at all in the same breath. You need to ask him specifics.”

“I don’t understand,” I say to Vance, hoping the ghost thinks it was a fluke that our eyes met and moves on soon.

The last ghost I made eye contact with is enough for one gypsy to handle. And I’m starting to worry about her, since she’s been gone for so long.

“If vampires or wolves approach you, just tell them you’re a Portocale,” Vance goes on as though it’s no big deal, as he streaks up the side of my pinky toe.

His foot and leg massages might be heavenly, but his painting skills lack—

So not important right now.

Straining to focus, I open my mouth to speak, but the other ghost speaks first.

“That’d be stupid. Then your enemies will find you if you start claiming to be a Portocale gypsy in the same town where everyone knows monsters lurk. I can be vague too, Portocale gypsy, if that’s your thing,” the ghost says really close to my ear.

For a second, I almost swear I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck, but that’s impossible, because ghosts don’t have breaths.

“Ask him what Damien is,” the ghost goes on, and for whatever stupid reason, the words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Damien Morpheous…what is he?”

Vance pauses, polish brush stopping mid-stroke, as his eyes come back up to meet mine.

“He’s going to give you a bullshit answer, but at least now you can’t pretend not to hear me,” the unnamed ghost says as he takes a seat on the floor, grinning like he’s won a prize as he stares at me.

I only notice him from my peripheral, as I make a vain effort to continue ignoring him.

The new ghost seems entirely too amused with me now.

“Damien is a complicated one to understand, considering he’s a mixture of lores that bleed together and fuse a creature that exists only as him. His creations—”

“His creations?” I ask incredulously.

“Like vampires and werewolves, he can turn humans into something. Though he turns them into things different from himself,” he answers, literally telling me something and nothing at all, just as the annoying new ghost I’ve collected said.

“Such as?”

He finishes painting my toes at last and puts down my foot as he twists the cap back onto the polish.

“Explaining would take up too much time, and your pedicure is finished. Tell people you’re a Portocale,” he goes on.

“Told you his answer would be shite. Don’t worry, love. I’ll fill you in later,” the ghost says as he stands and mimes dusting his hands off, though the sound is absent, obviously.

My gaze flicks to him on reflex, seeing the front of his shirt tucked into a pair of what I think are some kind of old-school bad boy trousers, with somewhat puffy sides, and a narrower ankle on them that slips seamlessly into a pair of tall, leather hunting boots of some sort.

What was he doing when he died? Why does this damn drug keep leaving me vulnerable enough to stare at a ghost I would easily ignore under normal circumstances?

He gives me a smirk and a wink before vanishing from sight.

Vance glances to the vacant spot and then back to me.

“Are you okay?”

“Not even a little bit,” I confess, not bothering to look back at him. “And if I tell people I’m a Portocale—”

“The ones who hunt you are mortal. I can dispatch them easily enough,” he says dismissively.

My eyes do come back to him.

“Then why didn’t you save my mother while she was living here?”

His eyes hold mine for a long moment. I’m positive he’s not going to answer, but he finally does.

“Because your mother would have rather died than ever accept my help under any circumstances.”

“Why?”

“There’s going to be a resounding why to follow up every question I answer, because it’s not as simple as one direct answer. The questions and answers are threaded through some very lengthy, complicated histories that will take a lot of time to sort through. The only thing I can hope is that your ignorance makes you wiser than her.”

That’s not confusing at all.

He struts over to the couch and starts lying out a blanket.

“What are you doing?”

“Making my bed.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m sleeping here tonight,” he answers without turning around.

My lips prepare to parrot my constant question, when another voice startles me.

“There really is a resounding why to follow up every answer he allows,” Anna says from the corner of the room as she swoons a little.

“How long have you been there?” I groan.