Gypsy's Blood (Page 3)

My mother’s most important rule? Never grow fond of the dead. They still have a worse death coming for them.

Chapter 2

VANCE

“A Van Helsing is truly walking onto my land,” Emit says as I step onto his patio.

He’s bloody naked under the robe that he hasn’t bothered to tie shut. Some things never change, no matter how many centuries flit by.

“It’s always puzzled me why you think your dick is really worth showing off,” I drawl, pocketing my hands as I lean against the side of his house.

He gives me a crooked, smug grin, as he drinks from a glass of wine.

“It’s always puzzled me why you have to look at my cock before my eyes,” he fires back.

I almost forgot why I hate speaking to the mutt. The only one looking at his dick is himself. Matter of fact, that’s where his eyes are now, as he grins down at it.

Neanderthal.

“Why the hell did you ask to speak with me? I rather prefer our arrangement of sticking to our own corners of town,” he says more seriously, eyes finally up.

“Violet Carmine is in town,” I tell him, watching for his reaction to see if he’s visited her yet.

“Marta’s niece? So? We knew she was coming to take over her aunt’s shop,” he says, eyeing me like I’m an idiot.

Definitely hasn’t gone to see her.

“She has Portocale blood.”

He looks caught off guard, frowning. “Okay. Most Portocale gypsies use fake names, so it’s not a shocker. But another Portocale comes to live in Shadow Hills? Is this one also willing to supply us?”

“Indeed. She said she’d have orders running soon.”

“Marta was a unique Portocale. She hated us but didn’t mind taking our money and giving us the things we need. As unusual as it all is, I don’t see how this second one is so special as to warrant a face-to-face conversation,” he states distractedly as he flicks through his phone. “We all actively avoided Marta after observing her for a brief day or so.”

“This new little Portocale had no idea who I was,” I tell him, waiting on his slow wheels to start turning and catch up.

I’m worried smoke is about to plume from his ears when he continues to stare at me like he needs more information and is overworking that canine brain of his.

“She’s lying about her name to me…and about her gypsy heritage. However, she’s certainly not lying about the fact she doesn’t know me. I gave her my name, and she never blinked an eye. Had I not made a minor oversight in wording, involving this era’s version of manners, she very well may have stayed pleasant,” I explain.

He still looks confused.

Fucking idio—

“It sounds like you’re trying to tell me that a Portocale met you and still posed as a non-Portocale and has no idea who you are, but that makes no sense, unless she has no idea who you are…”

“You really do overcomplicate things,” I dutifully inform him.

“Whoever she is, Marta left her everything, and Marta sure as hell knew who you are. Every Portocale does. How long have we been alive?” he asks, sounding genuinely baffled.

“It got a little depressing to keep count, so I stopped trying for the sake of my health,” I say in a droll tone and a roll of my eyes. “You just simply can’t count that high.”

He growls, and I give him an unimpressed glare.

“The point is, there’s no such thing as a Portocale who doesn’t know you.”

“Or you,” I point out, since he’s making it sound as though I’m in this on my own.

He gives me a bored expression before sipping more of his wine.

“Is she playing you by any chance?” he asks as he sits back.

“I’m not sure what the point would be. We certainly don’t pose a threat to Portocale gypsies—anymore. With Marta dead, her fake niece-by-marriage just likely became someone’s new prime target, if they even know she exists.”

“You’re sure she’s a Portocale?” he asks seriously, and I nod in response. “Marta had a daughter that died a couple years back. January Portocale. Is it her?”

I smirk. “January Violet Carmine—Marta’s ex-husband’s surname,” I tell him. “She didn’t bother to be too creative, which means her faked death must have been really convincing.”

“Some details were that it was gory and bloody, but I never got specifics. Someone tried to cover it up, and I’m leaning toward it being the ones behind her death as opposed to Marta, if that’s the case,” he continues.

“I’d toss you a treat if I had any,” I say with thick condescension, as he scowls at me. Rolling my eyes, I add, “Yes, someone thought they covered their asses, but Marta was damn powerful. She could have easily manipulated minds, or possibly had Damien to do it as payment for his life debt.”

He snorts from behind me. “That debt will never be paid. The Portocale gypsies love our punishment too much.”

I shrug a shoulder.

“If this is her daughter, why didn’t she instill that same traditional hatred?” I point out, causing him to bristle. “See, Wolf? It’s possible Damien paid her mother a life debt, though he’d never share that information with us.”

Even though the chance of Marta being able to do that is lower than what could be considered minimal…it’s still something Damien could be persuaded with.

He sits back, seeming lost in thought. This time, I think I smell his brain smoking.

“There’s something else, though, which is another reason I’m here,” I tell him idly.

He puts his glass down and leans forward, finally covering himself…somewhat.

“I’m listening, but I’m not known for my patience, so save your typical, theatrical pauses for Damien,” he says on a sneer.

I smirk. “She has a ghost hanging around her. Rather attractive one too,” I tell him.

He arches an eyebrow. “Glad you’ve got a boner for a dead chick, but I thought there was an important—”

His eyes widen like he finally gets it, being the slow, daft bloke he is.

I decide to set the record straight while he finishes putting together the obvious. “I’m not quite so easy to get erect; a pretty ghost didn’t do it for me. It’s hard to impress me these days,” I say as I pick off a piece of lint from one of my lapels. “But she must have died in her underwear. Terrible waste. Could have met her in her time—”

“Stop talking about the ghost. This Violet girl can’t be a Portocale. She’d be sucking the life right out of that ghost.”

“Her pet ghost has reached the phase of pathological liar, and still, she’s perfectly well, instead of a pile of salt. No ghost that far along in the final decay could be in the presence of a Portocale for that long, and it seems like they’re rather familiar with each other,” I continue.

“Then she’s not a Portocale,” he says again. “You just don’t want to admit you’re wrong, per the usual.”

“I know perfectly well the scent of Portocale blood. You’re not the only one with that particular curse,” I go on.

“My head hurts,” he says on a groan, leaning forward to massage his temples.

“Doesn’t take much, does it, mutt?”

When he gives me a feral growl, I grin and push off from the house.

“I’ll be the true test. She’ll hate me worse than even you,” he says as he stretches his arms above his head. “I’ll do my own lie detection test, while making sure you’re not just full of shit, which you probably are.”

“Have fun with that. When you realize she’s an anomaly by being a clueless Portocale, don’t let her in on the secret just yet,” I pointedly tell him, since it’s possible he’s stupid enough to open his mouth.

“Like I’m that stupid,” he growls, almost prompting me to slip up and grin too much as I turn to walk away.

“Watch your manners, since she’s a stickler like that,” I call over my shoulder. “But remember, she’s still a Portocale, even if she doesn’t know what that means.”

“What the hell kind of fucking thing is that to say?” he gripes at my back.

I continue grinning as I turn around, deciding not to give him the true warning. Violet Portocale has all the subtle Portocale beauty without the Portocale bitterness foaming from her very intriguing lips. There’s a certain vulnerability about her that I’ve not had to see in a Portocale’s eyes for too many centuries to count, and it’s unnervingly distracting.

Emit should be as caught off guard by that as I was.

“She doesn’t know we can see her ghost. Good luck keeping a straight face,” is what I say instead.

“Bullshit. She’s faking it or you’re pulling my dick,” he says to my back, when I turn and walk away again, leaving him to think whatever he wants.

It’ll have more humorous charm when he sees for himself.

Chapter 3

VIOLET

The vapor engulfs the room, and I cough like my lungs are trying to hack their way up my throat. I can feel the bruises forming as I blindly stumble and fumble my way around the unfamiliar hard edges of the furniture in the cluttered house.