Gypsy's Blood (Page 5)

His eyes seem to dance with flakes of autumn embers, coming to life as I feel myself lean forward like there’s a subtle pull on my body, dragging me.

The hair on the back of my neck raises once more, while gravity plays tricks on me.

Even without touching him, I almost feel warmth from his body, and it’s like my head tries to get lost when his pupils dilate.

Anna is suddenly at my side and fanning me again.

“I just came,” she states in a loud whisper. “All from that look.”

It’s enough to defuse the weird crackles of electricity surrounding us, and I take a spacious step back while clearing my throat, as he mutters something I can’t hear.

“I’ll have your order delivered on Monday, should you still want it,” I tell him, recovering and sounding somewhat professional, even as I battle the weird chill slithering over me.

I’m so tempted to apologize for my ridiculous amount of leaning in, but I’m afraid that’ll just make it weird.

If Anna were real, I’d cut her for whatever she just did to my body.

He eyes the vials and closes the small box, before he tucks it under his arm. “Will you be delivering it yourself?” he muses.

“Yes. I’ve deemed Mondays and Fridays as delivery days. The rest of the time will be allotted to opening the store. At least until I have things caught up enough to hire some help.”

His lips thin like he finds that confusing.

I’m not quite sure what the paradox is.

“Then until Monday, Ms. Carmine,” he says before backing away.

I turn and start toward the house, unsure what to say to that, since it sort of sounds like he’s still questioning my surname.

He makes some sound from behind me, but when I turn to look back, he’s gone.

Anna is singing Ghost Busters once more and dancing on the porch, her back to me. I walk on by, ignoring her as she puts my name in the lyrics.

I’m officially the weird chick in this town, and I keep wondering why people act weird around me. Little hypocritical, I suppose.

“Why didn’t you fuck him? He gave you all the right signals, along with that smoldering look,” Anna says in utter disappointment.

“I’m almost positive you just did something to me, and you better not do it again,” I caution her.

“I won’t do it again,” she agrees, but that doesn’t mean anything. Hell, she may not even know if she did it.

“What are you doing?” Anna asks as she follows me up the stairs.

“Well, I’m going to go through more of my mother’s things, and then I’m going to see if I can rework that potion that went so wrong. But first I’m going to take a cold shower,” I answer as I start stripping, eager for some cool relief, thanks to the freaking potion that went awry.

“I could use a cold shower too. That savage man radiated barbaric sexual energy.” She makes a scratching sign like she has claws, and then adds a little feminine roar.

Groaning, I push through to the bathroom and slam the door in her face.

It’s the one room I have salted, and she can’t enter because of it.

So instead, she starts singing loudly through the door as I step into the cold spray of the shower, trying not to think about the overwhelming amount of things I need to do.

Also, I hope none of my other clients happen to be insanely gorgeous. This is getting annoying.

Chapter 4

EMIT

“Well?” Vancetto drawls as he joins me at my side. “Are we using our exceptional vision to spy on the little Portocale through her bedroom window like common perverts?”

I forgot how much I hate him. I’ve seen him twice in a matter of days now, which is two times more than I’ve seen him in over half a century.

“I suspect you’ve been visiting Damien, since I can smell his stink all over you,” I say instead.

“Ah, yes. He’s about as pleasant as you,” he answers dryly. “He doesn’t believe me either, so he’s going to do his own analysis,” he adds in a droll tone.

It’s been a while since anything has captured our interest. Most things have grown redundant or boring over the centuries, but a Portocale with no fucking clue who we are? Seemingly no clue about herself, although she certainly knows she’s a Portocale?

It’s the makings of my newest obsession.

“She didn’t have a clue who I was yesterday, which became apparent when she continued to turn her back to me like I was a harmless nobody. I’ve been watching her ever since,” I tell him, staring the thirty or so yards of space between myself and her home…and hoping she doesn’t glance this way.

She’s arguing with the mostly naked ghost about yet another insane lie. It seems to be how she spends most of her free time.

“Careful, mutt. As I said, she’s still a Portocale,” he drawls.

My fist grinds. He could have damn well warned me about the temptation a clueless Portocale would bring. He knows my instincts are crazed right now with the full moon rising tonight, and my baser urges are just as jacked.

“You can certainly fucking tell she’s a Portocale, even without some of the more telling features. She smells just as good and forbidden as they all do,” I bite out.

He makes an amused sound that has me resisting the urge to punch his pompous face.

“She’s only half gypsy, which means she’s weaker,” he points out. “But the strongly gifted Portocale blood is definitely in there, even without it having a second gypsy bloodline to feed on,” he adds.

“I can’t believe Marta had a child outside of gypsy blood,” I say with a shudder. “She must be insane.”

“Or she’s simply tired of her people continuing to suffer and is trying to kill off her bloodline by diluting it until it’s gone,” he says a little quieter. “It hasn’t worked before, but…everything changes on occasion, as we’re well aware.”

He scrubs a frustrated hand over his face.

“If the mortal Portocales all die out, we lose our chance at ending the fucking nightmare of our life debt curses,” I tell him like he’s an idiot, the way he always talks to me.

I snarl at him when he just gives me a dry look, flipping the you’re-an-idiot stare back at me.

“It’s amazing to me that you manage to run your House with all that keen instinct,” he states in a bored tone.

“It’s amazing you don’t have any friends,” I state with as much sarcasm, causing his eyes to roll.

“Someone needs to leash Shera. She needs to keep her mouth shut if she can’t stow her fangs,” he states with less amusement as he gets back on topic. “This Portocale is planning to make house calls.”

“I’m aware,” I say through clenched teeth as my spine prickles, the beginnings of the moon’s cycle tugging at me.

“You should probably go frolic in your forest now, mutt. Leave the perverted window-watching to those of us who don’t have to grow a tail on a full moon,” he says like the condescending prick he’s always been.

“Come visit me tonight. See how much I frolic, blacksmith,” I say with my own smirk, even as my canines begin to elongate.

“One day, I’ll take you up on it. Don’t think I won’t.” His eyes narrow like he’s baiting me, a blade peeking out of the jacket of his suit coat.

The last time he stabbed me, it took the damn wound a full day to heal. He won’t be stabbing me today.

“I’ve been waiting on it to happen for centuries, yet all you ever do is stab me when I’m not looking,” I say with a smug grin as I turn and start walking away.

He snorts, and I glance over my shoulder one last time to see Violet, as she coughs out her window, another pointless potion going awry.

I pause and glance at Vance, just as his gaze come back to mine. Exhaling harshly, I turn back to face him fully.

“She’s trying to save that ghost,” I tell him.

His lips thin. “Then she really doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on right now.”

“Gifted Portocale blood with no gifted Portocale knowledge,” I state a little quieter.

“What the hell was Marta thinking?” he asks on a frustrated breath.

“Marta lived longer than any Portocale before her. Maybe she figured out something and never planned on not being around to see it through herself,” I suggest.

“Leave the thinking to me, mutt. I’ll call you if anyone needs to be ripped to shreds,” the tosser says dismissively.

Without a second thought, I blur to him when he turns his back, and hear him curse when I slam my fist against his side. My knuckles almost break on impact, but it’s bloody well worth it when he yelps in pain and gets launched forward from the force.

He topples off the side of the roof, and I soak in the satisfying crunch I hear when he crashes into the pavement below.

Proud of myself, I peer over, not seeing any witnesses. He slowly starts popping his bones back into place, making a frustrated sound when manages to flop to his back and reaches a hand up to feel his mangled face.

That’s going to take some work and some re-breaking. Now I feel better about life, and the moon’s tug isn’t quite so imposing with that off my chest.

“Oh, you stupid fucking mutt,” he growls.