Gypsy's Blood (Page 37)

“Are werewolves also born? Or just scratched?” Violet asks me abruptly as she puts down the terrible looking quilted covering over the package she’s been holding.

“Both.”

“Which are you?” she asks as she takes an apple from the bowl next to my bed and starts eating it. “Pure blood?” she prompts when I don’t immediately answer.

Unnerved by the peculiar quilted thing on the table, I go to it, sniffing the air, and finding something that smells really damn good.

The scent guides me as I start unzipping the uneven zipper. What is this hideous, knitted creation?

“Did you make this?” I decide to ask, since she is a Portocale, after all.

“Yes.”

“Portocale gypsies are usually known for their unparalleled seamstress abilities.” I wiggle the hellish nightmare of the horrid stitch job on the shit design.

“I’m aware,” she states dryly.

I pull out a tin can that is really warm and open it to some damn good smelling cookies in the shape of…bones. She’s got jokes, huh?

“However, Portocale gypsies aren’t usually known for their sense of humor,” I go on, unamused as I bite the dog biscuit that tastes like…something really orange and not at all like the cinnamon I was smelling.

My senses are extremely confused. Where’s the cinnamon? Is that on the knitted nightmare instead?

The cinnamon scent in the air almost feels like an illusion as it begins to fade, and the familiar scent of orange grows to replace it.

“I’m aware of that too,” she goes on.

I’m caught off guard when I actually like the surprise orange flavor, and I shove the rest of the cookie into my mouth before turning back around.

“Why the hell are you bringing me treats?” I ask around the next mouthful.

“Because she wants you to be a good dog,” the annoying ghost chirps, causing me to swallow the next mouthful and quickly wipe my lips free of crumbs.

My eyes flick to the curious gypsy in the room, as she absently eyes her pink nails. “I don’t know anything about monsters, and the alpha werewolf is the only werewolf I happen to know. Who better to fill me in on how I should or shouldn’t act in the presence of a werewolf in the future? But don’t ask me to tell people I’m a Portocale.”

“That’s Vance. He thinks the Portocale gypsies are safer when announced. More people pay attention to them, and it’s harder to get away with taking one down.”

She sits down on the couch as I mute the TV.

“I think you’re a fool for painting an unnecessary target on your back. Only alphas, such as Vance and I, truly know your blood,” I state, tossing in my two cents.

“How many alphas are there?” she asks as she clears her throat.

Deciding these are safe questions, I return my interest to the treats, feeling I deserve the rest as I pick the bowl up and move to the couch beside her.

“Better question. How did you know to bring me treats?”

“It was actually my idea,” Anna says as she purrs and moves onto my lap, sitting right on the cookies.

I have to lift the next one up through her crotch, and it’s awkward. I really wish I could salt her without the gypsy or her noticing it.

“Wolves and food. Seemed to make sense,” Violet answers with a coy smile. “It’s customary to bring a gift when stopping by unannounced.”

“Why couldn’t I have had gypsy friends when I was alive? All the pricks that stopped by unannounced to see me just wanted to take. Never give,” Anna sighs wistfully.

I swallow down the next cookie as she finally gets out of my lap and moves to lie down and…start swimming in the floor. I only notice from my peripheral.

“What do you know about yourself?” I ask Violet as I try to pretend it’s a casual question.

“That I’m the Portocale gypsy who sucks at making pretty things,” she deadpans.

“It’s because you’re a gypsy freak,” I tell her as I eat another cookie.

It gets really quiet.

“Take the bone away. Bad dog! Bad dog!” Anna shouts.

She then starts bouncing around as she barks at me, sounding like some little ankle-biting menace with more bite than bark.

Pausing a cookie at my mouth, I peer over at Violet and arch an eyebrow.

She’s giving me a blank look.

“Did you really just call me a freak?” she finally asks, and I roll my eyes.

“Not in the derogatory sense of the word. In the actual meaning. Gypsy freaks are reasonably common, and not always discriminated against. It’s just a term to explain the misfit pieces when a gypsy doesn’t perform as expected: You can’t use your threading gift to create clothing fit for royals, but you’ve managed to somehow turn it into an offensive weapon, which is a first.”

She bristles, and I carry on.

“You quite frankly suck at killing things, and you’re entirely too sloppy, unlike the typical Portocale, but you manage to scrape by because you’re a true old-blood gypsy, regardless of how bad you are at it.”

“I’m actually quite good at being a gypsy. Just not at being a seamstress or a vampire slayer, one of which isn’t supposed to be in my genetics,” she corrects, causing my grin to lift.

My grin falls as I continue speaking after finishing another cookie.

“The main reason you’re a gypsy freak, is the fact you don’t actually seem to need ghost spirits to stay alive,” I go on, tasting the orange on my tongue and the urge to eat the next cookie.

“What do you mean?” she asks as she moves closer, brushing some crumbs off my beard.

Her fingertips feel just a little cool to the touch, because it’s apparently her default setting when snow’s on the ground. Still, every time she touches me, it’s like a jolt of electricity through my bones, and I pause, my gaze darting back over to her.

“You lost a lot of blood in Martin’s house. Care to explain what you were doing there now that you’ve had a few days to calm down?”

“I did lose a lot of blood, but I’m a gypsy, as you said. We scrape by. I’m better now. Tell me about the ghosts,” she goes on, but I get very damn distracted as she gently pushes a crumb from my lip into my mouth.

“He’s so out of your league,” Anna says on a sigh. “But he’s eating out of your hand. Literally. How do you do it, sensei?”

My lips lightly close over the gypsy’s thumb as my eyes stay fixed to her unusual ones. Green with a violet rim, no doubt the reason she has her name at all.

Then my gaze dips to her lips as she pulls her thumb back, leaving just the hint of orange in my mouth again.

I find myself leaning forward as if my body is thinking for itself, and she gently stops me with her hand at my chest. “Why would I need ghost spirits to stay alive?”

“Because it’s the Portocale curse. You learn your curses starting at age thirteen,” I answer as she lifts another cookie to my mouth.

I take a bite as my eyes stay locked on hers.

“What Portocale curse?” she asks me, gently running her slightly cool hand up my cheek as she inches closer.

“The curse that kills Portocale gypsies. The curse that keeps Portocale gypsies from living in true hiding so they can be hunted down like cattle. The curse that—”

Something chimes, and I blink as I look over, wondering if Vance is right and I really am fucking stupid. I glance down to the empty bowl with only some crumbs remaining.

It’s my dignity alone that keeps me from licking the crumbs out of the bowl right in front of her.

“If you decide you want more treats, knock on the front door. No more slinking around my windows. I’m not the one who bites,” she says as she stands.

I find myself unnaturally riveted to her ass as she turns and struts out, confusing the hell out of me.

What just happened? Why do I already want more cookies?

I glance down at the bowl of crumbs, and I quickly decide it’s okay to the lick the bowl now.

Chapter 23

DAMIEN

Why is there a gypsy smiling at me through my window? Our lunch isn’t until tomorrow.

I smile back, since women love my smile, and I go to swing open the door, wondering if this is going to be far easier than I anticipated. Sort of sad, really. She seemed like the type to finally give me a challenge.

It’s been so long since there was a fun challenge.

“I got your roses,” she says with a smile, referring to the roses I sent yesterday when I decided to channel my energy into my new endeavor.

Took a whole twenty-four hours to achieve my goal.

“Did you?” I drawl, using that charm I know she’ll enjoy.

She lifts a small, hideously knit stocking, and I warily accept it. I think that color is called vomit green.

“Where in the hell do you find these ugly shades of colored fabrics?” I ask on an exasperated exhale.

“My mother’s trunk had a lot of faded yarns in it, and for the record, it’s rude to make someone stand outside in the cold while you criticize the wrapping of the gift they just gave you.”

My lips twitch as I glance back over at her disapproving look, along with a slight blush hitting her cheeks.

“You wrapped my gift in a stocking?”

“Seemed fitting. I peg you as the Grinch type. An early Christmas present would certainly irritate the Grinch.”