Gypsy's Blood (Page 23)

“…but he really does need to work on his left. I’ve told him this. None of them ever listen,” is all I catch from Vance’s conversation just before his phone rings.

He excuses himself and goes to the back of the room to answer, as the man at my side continues speaking, answering the question I don’t have to ask.

“Damien’s curse is cruel,” he informs me.

“He’s cursed?”

“They’re all cursed, gypsy girl. Surely you don’t think being a monster is a blessing,” he states as though he’s educating me.

“But Vance is a monster hunter,” I remind him very quietly.

Vance turns and glances over his shoulder, looking around, eyes passing over me like he heard me speak and is searching for who I may have spoken to.

Great. Super hearing. Just freaking awesome.

“Yes. His hearing is exceptional,” the ghost states as though he’s reading my mind.

“Who are you?” I mouth.

“I’m your Ace, sweetheart. When you want to really fuck them over, I’m your key to success,” he informs me.

Ace seems to be making assumptions about a predictable future, which just sets off my wary alarm again as I redirect my attention to Vance. I’m not sure why I thought it was cool to cozy up to a monster hunter on day two.

It’s like trying to tackle a problem head-on and not seeing the danger present because it’s wrapped in a pretty package with a disarming smile and boyish sincerity. I start wondering why Damien is taking so long, and dread the possible answer.

Ace said they wouldn’t—

Damien walks in, and I weirdly blow out a breath of relief, happy no one has died because of me today. I’m still struggling to believe the immortal thing.

His eyes flick over to mine and he rolls them while giving me a bitter smile. “I won’t come into your home unannounced again,” he tells me, causing my eyes to dart over to Vance’s back, as the Van Helsing continues to stay really quiet on his phone.

“She healed the wolf who was hurt. The wound was no longer bleeding profusely or quite so fatal when he limped off with his tail between his legs. Some pride is hurt,” I hear Vance grinding out. “Their grievance is with me.”

Damien glances over his shoulder, distracted by Vance as well, since he’s getting louder.

“It’s your wolves. Do something about it then. It may mean doing more than fucking your omegas, drinking yourself into a stupor, getting high on gypsy spice, or running around as your wolf, you lazy mutt,” Vance says before hanging up.

“Emit’s all patched up and liking you about as much as I do right now, eh?” Damien asks with a cold smile.

Vance just gives him a bored look before returning his attention to me.

“The question of why he was in my room has remained unanswered, and that’s the entire reason for this trip,” I remind Vance, who exhales harshly and shakes his head like he dreads what’s about to come out of Damien’s mouth.

“Because I wanted to, of course. Needed to know you’re not full of shit,” Damien says with a shrug. “You could still be dicking us around, since my investigation has been temporarily halted.”

“You came into my room while I was sleeping,” I start, a modicum of calm barely staying in place, “because you wanted to?”

He nods like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve been doing it since you stopped in at my house and did that saucy sex scene flash in my head without an ounce of modesty. No Portocale thinks of sex with me when I touch them,” he goes on, as though he’s explaining. “Obviously, I was intrigued.”

I blink. Several times.

Vance just steeples his hands and presses his mouth into a thin line, though I swear he looks amused.

They’re certifiable.

“I may seem harmless to you, but I am a Portocale gypsy, as you’re all apparently already aware of.”

“Portocale blood is very easy for us to scent,” Damien tells me in an unconcerned tone as he takes a seat, lounging as though he has nothing to apologize for.

“But Portocale gypsies have gifts,” I go on.

“If you don’t want him intrigued, you should probably stop talking,” Ace says, amused as he leans up and watches me with rapt attention.

Damien seems over it by this point, as though now that he’s gotten caught, the fun is over and there’s nothing left to discuss.

“Your sad little gypsy gifts, sweetheart, are comparatively rubbish next to mine,” he says as he lights a cigar and puffs from it, not even glancing at me now as he rubs his bruised jaw. “You make potions and gypsy drugs.”

Everything in the room suddenly turns white, and I can’t see anything except for Ace at my side.

“He’s being an ass because he just got his ass kicked by Vance. It’s a pride thing, you’ll learn,” Ace informs me around a bored yawn.

I swallow thickly, trying not to act too jarred by the fact everything, for as far as I can see, looks like a vast white room.

“Would you like to finish your threat now?” Damien’s voice echoes all around me. “Or have I proven my point?”

Ace’s eyes dart to the side as I close my eyes, remembering the room, remembering my blindfolded sessions that my mother and I used to have.

“Learn to stay calm when blind, Violet. Sometimes opponents always go for the eyes first,” my mother’s voice chants in my head.

“Portocale gypsies just make damn good clothes and damn good potions,” Damien continues.

A tickle of power rolls through my fingertips as my lips tug up on one corner of my mouth.

“Oh, I certainly like you a little more now,” Ace says just as a strangled sound causes my eyes to spring open, finding the white-room illusion fading quickly, as Damien is slammed against the wall behind where he was sitting.

The unraveled strings of the draperies are pinning him in place, slipping tighter around him, binding him as the circulation around his limbs and throat grow more constricted.

His eyes widen as his jaw tics, but I swear I see an eerie tint of dark amusement glimmer in his gaze as he narrows his eyes on me.

“Generally speaking, illusions are just illusions. Cut off the head of the illusionist, and they disappear,” I say with a saccharine sweet smile I use just for show, and wipe it away before my next words. “Stay out of my house.”

The threads all snap at once, and he’s dropped to the floor with a groan.

“Ass kicked by a young Portocale gypsy. You really have reached an all new low,” Vance says with a barely restrained grin as he steps over Damien and comes to nudge me toward the door.

Damien coughs on air, and slowly climbs to his feet, eyes glued to me like I’ve renewed his interest. But at least now he should think twice about just how vulnerable and young I am, since my youth keeps getting tossed around like an insult. They act like I’m some kid who has lived a sheltered lifestyle.

Cults have tried to kill me on more than one occasion. My mother hunted ghosts and fought like a badass. And…I’ve got something dark and lethal trapped inside me. I’m twenty-five.

I’m not a freaking kid.

“Told you you’d just intrigue him more. Hell, I’m half tempted to be clingy now,” Ace states from behind me, entertained as he bounces his gaze between us.

Shit.

Vance puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door.

“Well, when Vance isn’t pretending to be some sort of modern-day gentleman, he’s staring through your bedroom window,” Damien says from behind me as a chill spreads up my spine.

“You tattling little twat. It was only in the initial observations,” Vance bites out like he’s still arguing about an entire conversation that apparently went on when they were out there tearing down yet another house.

My eyes cut to Vance, and I let out a huff as I turn and stalk out the door on my own.

The door slams behind me, and I pull a potion bottle from my bra, tossing it over my left shoulder. I hear the glass shatter just as two heavy thumps slam into the door.

“I’m not adjusting this fast!” I shout over my shoulder as I walk quickly, knowing that won’t hold them back for long, unfortunately.

“Well, now I’m just downright intrigued. Tell me, did you place Vance firmly in the friend-zone because he painted your toenails for you, or do you know he’s gay?” Ace asks me as he joins me at my side.

I dig around in my bra for the tiny little ball of caged salt and toss it over my left shoulder. I don’t hear him speak again, so I assume it’s done the trick.

I’m halfway down the street when an obnoxious red sports car screeches to a halt beside me, making this moment nauseatingly cliché. The “savage,” as Anna calls him, fortunately doesn’t have on a leather jacket or dark sunglasses to knock the cliché over the top, or I’d vomit right now.

“Get in,” Emit snaps.

“Really not adjusting this fast,” I say under my breath, exhaling heavily. “I’d rather not. I have issues with all three of you now, so I think I’ll just cut ties and leave town while I’m just a little behind. Besides, I think you want me dead.”

I start walking, but he revs the car and cuts me off.