Gypsy's Blood (Page 36)

“Or maybe, since she doesn’t really die, she’s just a horrible person who’s sick of boning the old dude and is ready to move on,” she counters.

“Why are you so lucid?” I ask, for once not happy about it, since within a few seconds, she’s managed to shatter the semi-romantic illusion I’ve spent years piecing together to explain my existence in the least disturbing way.

“If I’m lucid and we’re really having this conversation, then the world has gone to hell in Grandma’s handbasket,” she states with critical seriousness.

“You’re unbelievable,” I grumble as I start packing away everything again, my hands shaking as I do so.

“Why does it look like you’re about to burst into tears?” she asks as I sniff and ignore her, lacing the box back together with the charm.

“Because you’re the first person I’ve ever shared that with, outside of my mother, and you just made the girl with the ribbon around her neck sound like a sadist monster, judging me before I barely skim the surface of my darkest secrets,” I add quietly as I wipe away a stray tear and slide the box back under the bed.

“Or, I’m simply pointing out that the girl with ribbons is just a pretty monster,” she calls to my back as I walk into the bathroom. “Like all of them,” she adds as I flip on the shower and hesitate.

Annoyed, I open the bathroom door to find her smiling.

“I’m not going to sugar coat it and let you carry on with your head in the sand. We had vampires and zombies—”

“No zombies,” I sigh, leaning up against the doorway.

“We had vampires and flying monkeys—”

I shake my head, and she stops mid-sentence again.

“We had vampires try to kill you,” she says, waiting to see if I agree or not, and at my nod, she continues on. “You have some mortal cult of some sort who hunts Portocale gypsies and kills them as some sort of sacrifice to some Forsaken idol or something.”

At my impatient sound, she hurries on.

“The point is, you need to start being realistic. You don’t die, and you can somehow sew yourself together even when you’re unconscious.”

“The charms help the ribbons to hurry, but most of the ribbons have been trained to work on their own now,” I explain.

She blinks like that makes no sense.

“Heart wounds and head wounds usually result in unconsciousness instead of purposeful fainting,” I add.

“So how do the girls get their heads back on after the guy loosens the thread?” she asks curiously. “Or is that not a head wound?”

“Those are just one portion of the story. Shera is probably a vampire, based on what I’ve learned, yet I’ve her out during the day. She wasn’t in direct sunlight, but she wasn’t sizzling in the shadows either. Werewolves were out on a night other than the full moon.”

“You just lost me.”

“I’m saying the truth doesn’t have to identically match the myth. Only certain parts are stronger because of mind power or whatever.”

“Are you lucid?” she asks me with a dubious expression.

Ignoring her, I decide to stick to the simplest answer. “The ribbon girls from the stories could have had charms that sew them up when they sleep, like I do. Or someone else sews them up. Or, like me, they’ve trained the ribbons to work on their own.”

Her lips form an O.

“So that’s what your charms do.”

“Some of them. Believe it or not, I do have survival training. Just not the standard-issue kind,” I say as I turn my back and head toward the shower, leaving the door open for once so she can talk.

“Do you think they’re so fascinated because you’re a ribbon-girl monster?” she asks as I step under the spray of water.

“I think I’m the perfect storm,” I mutter as I tip my head back.

“Well, if you are a monster, maybe you should do what monsters do.”

“What’s that?”

“Make monster allies, study other monsters to learn their secrets, and have lots of sex.”

I groan for a second when she goes off on a tangent about my ignored needs, but then something she says sort of clicks.

I’m worried about hiding as they work twice as hard to pick me apart. What if I become boringly unoriginal, therefore lose their interest, while also making some allies? Winning situation all around.

It’d be stupid and dangerous if I could die, but that’s a nonissue for me. I’m allowed to take reckless chances.

So long as they don’t know my secrets, I have the secret upper hand.

“You should try the ribbon trick with Van Helsing, see if he’d be curious enough to break your rules and untie the ribbon from your neck. I’d bet he’d pass inspection,” Anna says, breaking back into my thoughts.

“Oh, Vance isn’t like that, so I have a better angle to work for him,” I tell her, bringing her into the middle of my thought process.

“Like what?” she asks like she’s confused.

“Vance is into guys,” I say as I shampoo my hair.

“What?” she shrieks. “Noooooo! He was still my top pick to use your vagina on when I snatch your body.”

“It makes sense, now that I think about it. He’s sort of obsessed with designer clothes and stuff. It’s not a common trait among heterosexual men,” I go on.

“Did he tell you for certain he’s into men?” she asks with a heavy huff of disappointment.

“No. A ghost who stalks him told me. It helped me realize the window-watching, at least on his part, really was sort of innocent. And I think it’d be smart to be friends with a monster killer who has an ironic urge to protect me, now that I know he’s not a creep staring through my window with his hand down his pants.”

“This is just terrible. Is this ghost you’re cheating on me with a reliable source of information? I met a pirate ghost in Jamaica, and I tell you, he really led me for a loop. Woke up in China with no clothes on and haven’t been the same since,” she informs me.

“That’s…so fucking ridiculously inaccurate,” I mutter under my breath.

“What?” she shouts.

I peek my head out of the curtain and give her an innocent smile, seeing her toeing the very edge of the salted room.

“He’s more reliable than most ghosts,” I say with a saccharine tone.

“I feel like you just insulted me,” she deadpans as I put my scheming gypsy brain to work.

I have an Ace up my sleeve. I just have to wait on him to return.

He’ll know what I need to do to form allies. Anna’s not wrong about needing that.

This is my life. Time to accept it.

Chapter 22

EMIT

“The Carmine girl from the gypsy herb shop is requesting to see you,” Collin says from the doorway, poking just his head inside my bedroom as I finish tying my towel around my waist.

“Violet Carmine?” I ask, confused.

That fucking blacksmith tattled and told her I’ve watched through the window as well. Accidental confession my ass. Now she’s here to berate me.

I find it all too easy that she’s at my home just two days later requesting an audience, so I decide to just wear the towel. Maybe she’ll feel like we’re even if she gets to look her fill.

“Send her in,” I tell him as I flip on the TV, pulling up the forest fire coverage that shows the newest wildfire is getting too damn close to my woods.

“Are wildfires part of your alpha duties?” a familiar, feminine voice asks, devoid of all the anticipated hostility.

My eyes dart to the door to see Violet standing there, a package of some sort tucked under her arm, and a gypsy’s smile on her lips.

I don’t like that look. What’s she up to?

“Anything close to my woods is part of my duties. But you really shouldn’t be running around and talking too much about the small amount of knowledge you’ve acquired. You’ve been told things Portocale gypsies are privy too, but that doesn’t mean just anyone knows these things.”

“How will I know what I’m allowed to know and what a Portocale knows?” she muses, her reasonable tone only causing me to use more caution.

Her ghost is marching back and forth behind her like she’s guarding her back. I have to pretend not to notice, but it grows increasingly difficult when the peculiar ghost starts running around the room and shouting.

“The ants! General, the ants are in my pants!”

Violet rolls her eyes and grinds her jaw. “Do you have any salt?” she asks me.

“I’ll stop, Gov’nah!” Anna shouts with a faux Southern accent. “Please don’t throw salt in my vagina again!”

For fuck’s sake… “I have an entire drawer full of salt if you need it,” I say with an annoyed smile. “Did you come out here to borrow salt? Most neighbors ask for sugar.”

Her lips twitch, and I find a certain uneasiness within me at her burst of notable confidence.

“No, she came to wax your giant dick,” Anna says from right beside me.

Fuck my life, now that image is in my head, and no Morrigan should be thinking of any Portocale that way. Especially not one as infuriatingly intriguing as this potential menace.