Gypsy Freak Page 2

  Glaring over my shoulder at the Portocale who isn’t even paying me any mind, I half wonder if her eggs are simply scrambled. She’s talking to creepy triplets a few minutes after encountering Arion.

  She hasn’t even let Anna see how much that terrified her, and I wouldn’t know either, had her legs not given out before she could drive off.

  I can’t tell if she’s simply that fascinating or just plain daft at this point. I’d wager a bit of both if I had to gamble, just to ensure I guessed it right.

  No one even reacts when I return to the van and climb back behind the wheel. “What’s that for?” one of the girls asks Anna, as Violet blushes feverishly and stares at the ceiling, all while holding out her phone for them to look at something on the screen.

  “It’s so he can’t get away,” Anna tells them.

  “Ohhh,” all three say in unison. “Good thinking,” the one closest to her adds.

  “Why are you red?” I ask Violet.

  “I’m reminding myself they’re actually a lot older than me and not just ten-year-olds,” she says like that makes all the sense in the world. “Why were you screaming at the ground?”

  “Because it’s like you attract chaos from all around you, and you just move right along as though it’s simply another day.”

  “There’s an entire cult devoted to wiping out my bloodline,” she reminds me, blinking. “You learn to take the punches when they come, and have your weak moments when you can afford to be vulnerable.”

  My lips twitch as I drive us on, tuning out all the ghost chatter in the back.

  “The gypsy’s pride song…is it a real thing?” she asks abruptly, turning her gaze on me.

  My amusement disappears with that question.

  “Take that as a yes,” one of the little girls tells her.

  “What does it mean when it says ‘the apples have all rotted; the oranges just bruised?’” she continues, staring expectantly at me as I park us in front of her house.

  “It means a lot of things. The simplest version is the literal one. You’re a Portocale. Surely you’ve noticed your family oranges grow bruised with bitter spots. It makes enjoying them a much more tedious process when you have to cut out the large bitter portions.”

  Her lips purse. “Every Portocale has this issue?”

  “Every Portocale. Didn’t your mother explain that when you started growing them?” I ask her, not mentioning how much I like them and want them even if they are bitter, because it’s been too long. But it’s not my turn to make it about me yet. “And the song just plays into how it all came to be. Why are you asking this?”

  “It seems more and more like Mom left out a lot of crucial information about who I am, including the fact I’m a gypsy freak.” She shakes her head and releases an audible breath. “You can take the van if you need to.”

  “I can walk, but why are you asking about that song right now?” I ask again, eyes narrowing.

  “No reason,” she says as she clears her throat and pushes open the door.

  “Deuces,” Anna says before throwing up two fingers—the wrong two fingers for that expression, I should add—and butting the sides of her fists together before she disappears.

  I watch as all the ghosts go into the house behind Violet, and I slip out of the van. Knowing it’d be pointless to try to slink in, I walk around to the side of her house, glance around to ensure no one can see me too well from this angle, and quickly climb up the bricks.

  It’s a pain in the ass to hold myself up with such a little groove over the bricks, but I manage to grip onto her window’s ledge and pull myself up just enough to see into her window.

  After all, Vance said I was the only one in the wrong for entering her house and that peeking through windows was okay.

  The sound of a man’s voice in her house causes my jaw to grind, because that is not okay.

  “Violet, are you okay? It’s not Tuesday.”

  “I know it’s not Tuesday; I’m not calling to check in. I have a question,” she says, causing me to tilt my head when I realize he’s just on the phone.

  Who the hell is she talking to? The telltale sounds of construction are muffled in the background of the call.

  “I never really have any of these answers, you know,” he tells her. “But as always, I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Did Mom ever explain the Gypsy’s Pride song to you?”

  I can tell by the way he hesitates to answer that Marta likely did say something to him, and I’m assuming this must be Violet’s father she’s speaking to.

  Violet stares blankly at the wall when he takes too long to answer.

  “Shit, sweetie. I don’t think so, but I’ve got to go. One of my guys just sawed his damn thumb off,” he tells her.

  I strain, definitely hearing someone shouting in the background, but I can’t make it out enough to know if he’s lying, stalling, or simply telling the truth. I could be mistaking hesitation for distraction.

  “Fine. I’ll call you—”

  The phone goes dead, and she gives a sad smile as she finishes her sentence. “—Tuesday to check in. Bye, Dad. Love you.”

  The look on her face is more dejected than bitter, as she tosses her phone aside. Then she curls into a small ball on her bed with her back to me, as the ghosts chatter from somewhere beyond the door.

  I’m curious if he even has a clue that her world has just exploded with all the scary or unknown things that go bump in the night.

  I wonder what Vance will do to me if I beat her father to a state of apology as payment for the mirror.

  Armed with a plan, I decide to go see if he’s finished fucking up Arion’s face yet.

  Dropping to the ground, I move quickly, shielding myself with an illusion to make myself invisible.

  Vance’s car is gone from Arion’s house when I reach the front, and the massive front door has been left in shambles on the front steps.

  Some of Arion’s lackies are cleaning it up, and I stay invisible as I move through the rubble and quickly change direction to the Van Helsing home. It doesn’t take me too long to race across the town.

  Margie answers the door, and I edge by her as she peers around to see who just rang the doorbell.

  She huffs out a breath before muttering, “Damn kids.”

  I quickly shuffle up the stairs to where I can smell the Van Helsing’s blood.

  When I push open the door and turn visible, Vance peers up at me, while sitting on the bench at the end of his bed. He’s holding an ice pack against the side of his face, and I glance over his shirt, seeing multiple stabs and nicks as blood pours from his many wounds.

  “This is the part where you say something about how I should see the other guy,” I tell him, eyebrows up in shock.

  I mean, he likes that shirt, and he’s bleeding all over it. And it has rips in it. How is he not having a tantrum?

  “The other guy looks a lot better than me,” he bites out as he makes a pained sound and pushes to his feet.

  “Since when is a vampire able to kick a Van Helsing’s ass after being underground for a century?” I ask, not really believing what I’m seeing as he hobbles toward some sort of silver container on his dresser.

  “It’s like he knew every move I was going to make before I made it—”

  “That’s more your thing than his, normally,” I decide to point out.

  He glares over at me with the one eye he has that isn’t swollen shut, as he puts the ice pack down.

  Shit, his face looks like hell.

  He opens the silver container, and an incredible scent wafts through the room. When a perfectly round, reddish tinted orange is picked up and tossed to me, I scramble to catch it, juggling it, worried it’s about to turn to mush in my hands.

  But it doesn’t. It’s firm and…perfect.

  “Where the hell did you find this?” I ask him as I stare down in awe at the impossibly perfect Portocale orange.

  “Arion tossed it to me like a prize aft
er he threw me out of his house and told me to return with more gypsy respect. Then he said things were changing,” he grinds out.

  He spits blood out of his mouth, and I consider stealing his orange. He’s had his ass thoroughly beaten, so it’s not like he’ll—

  “Take the orange,” he tells me dismissively like he can read my head.

  “I can’t be in debt to you,” I immediately growl.

  “You’d be in debt to Arion. Not me.”

  “Then hell no,” I say on a reluctant sigh as I toss the orange back to him.

  “Or you can put yourself more in debt to the Portocale after you return it to her and ask her to gift it back,” he says as he tosses it back to me.

  I pocket the orange with that, replaying the conversation about the oranges I had with Violet before coming here.

  That secretive little gypsy.

  “Violet mentioned prideless gypsies being drawn to those with their pride still intact, with the intent of making them fall.”

  His gaze swings over to me as he shrugs. “Sounds like a Portocale.”

  “She only knows what her mother told her,” I go on. “Her mother apparently never told her that the prideless are drawn to the prideful when the prideful have dirty little secrets.”

  “This is not news. She’s packed full of secrets, one being the oranges,” he growls. “Arion is a much bigger concern at the moment, don’t you think?”

  The note of sarcasm in his tone makes me think he believes that’s a rhetorical question.

  “Arion is a Van Helsing problem. Not mine,” I remind him before vanishing from his sight.

  “Don’t tell Emit he’s back yet. Leave that to me,” he says, looking around the room like he’s searching for a sign I’m still in here.

  I slip out the crack and shut the door behind me, letting him know I heard his order.

  He curses and something breaks as I leave. I suppose now he’s finally having his tantrum.

  What happens to Shadow Hills when the bitter, vengeful vampire with no soul is kicking the ass of the resident Van Helsing?

  It’s probably not good.

  I palm the orange in my pocket, trying to decide if I want to be in debt to the vampire or the secretive gypsy.

  “Deal with Dorian before I get my hands on him!” Vance barks from inside his room, his voice booming and rattling the precious mirrors around me.

  “Not my problem either,” I call out in reminder as I stroll down the hallway, checking my reflection in all the helpful mirrors as I go.

  I toss the orange up and catch it.

  “Secretive little gypsy,” I mutter to myself.

  Chapter 2

  VIOLET

  Margie answers the doors, and her eyes widen on me.

  “You shouldn’t be here. He’s not—” Something loud shatters, and I hear Vance shouting, as something else breaks next.

  “He’s attacking the mirrors upstairs,” three chime-like voices say in answer to the unspoken question, as the triplets appear behind Margie like my newest creepy entourage.

  “I’m afraid this can’t wait,” I say while shouldering by Margie, prepared to face whatever consequences there are for raising a banished alpha vampire.

  I can’t even remember why I did it. Hell, I can’t even remember the vampire’s name…

  But I know it’s my fault, and that’s all that matters.

  Margie just sighs, not trying to stop me as I hurry up the stairs. Glass crunches under my feet when I finally reach the demolished hallway.

  Very few mirrors remain intact on the wall, and I hear the sound of more crashing somewhere in the distance.

  All the noise ceases when I start walking toward it.

  The door that’s ajar is the one I push through first, and I find Vance’s back to me as he jerks his face to the side, showing me his profile, as he stares at the broken wall to his right.

  “Now’s not the best time, Violet,” he says tightly.

  “I know, and I know it’s my fault…but I can’t remember how it’s my fault. But—”

  “Not your fault, Violet,” he says in a quiet voice, his jaw ticking. “This was coming long before you ever came to town.”

  “Now that you have that out of the way, tell him about what we need,” Anna says, suddenly appearing at my side in her usual cardiac-arrest sort of way.

  It’s a good thing I don’t need my heart beating to regular rhythms.

  “It is my fault. I think…” My words trail off as the conviction in my belief begins to fade.

  I was so sure it was my fault, but now I can’t recall any reasoning as to why.

  He sighs harshly, dropping his head so that I can’t see the side of his face anymore.

  “I know you can see me,” Anna tells him with a weary sigh. “So stop ignoring me now.”

  I know he’s a gypsy, but I can’t remember why I know. It’s all confusing, and my head hurts from trying to sort through what’s going on.

  “Of course he told you,” he bites out.

  “Who told me?” I ask, confused.

  Vance only makes another sound of frustration instead of answering.

  “The big gorilla at the zoo,” Anna dutifully informs me, phantom-patting at my arm like I’m the crazy one.

  “You know I can’t feel that, right?” I ask her, darting my gaze to her as my own exasperation wells up.

  Shaking out of my thoughts, I look back over at Vance.

  “I know you have your hands full with…with…”

  Damn it, I knew what was going on a few minutes ago when I came in here. Didn’t I?

  “What do you need?” Vance finally asks as he turns around.

  My eyes widen, and Anna whistles under her breath when I see how bruised and battered the other side of his face is.

  “Holy shit,” I say as I quickly start rummaging through my bra. “What happened to your face?” I ask, even as I fumble out two very small healing vials and start walking toward him.

  “I’ve actually already used some of your healing potions. It looks better than it did,” he says through furious restraint.

  “Did Damien do this? Or Emit?” I ask as I look around, spotting a small bench off to the side. “Sit down. You’re too tall,” I add.

  Blowing out a breath, he seems to sit down merely to humor me, as he remains distracted.

  “No and no. As much as I hate that he made you forget, it’s probably for the best.” He mutters that last part so low I barely hear him.

  “Who made me forget what?” I ask incredulously.

  “Not the important part,” Anna stresses. “Tell him about the debt payment.”

  “Debt payment?” Vance asks, even as I try to remember why it doesn’t feel like he owes me any debt.

  I can’t remember him doing anything to repay me for the watch he said he couldn’t accept. Now I know why he doesn’t like debts, but…it’s all so confusing.

  “Did we decide anything about the timepiece?” I ask, shaking my head free of the fog there when I try to grasp at blank memories to the questions I have.

  My eyes move to the damaged side of his face as I start gently dabbing the solution directly onto the wounds. He doesn’t even flinch.

  “I’m afraid not. I’m still in debt,” he says, his eyes narrowing as I pull a suture kit from my purse.

  Sometimes the satin isn’t enough to close up the wounds, and sometimes it’s too much.

  “Time is ticking on by,” Anna says on a huff.

  There’s no good angle to stitch the large cut on his forehead, so I plop down in his lap, straddling him as I pull out the sterile, already threaded—

  He tenses under me, and my eyes fly up to his. “I’m so sorry. Do you have anything to deaden the skin with? I can’t believe I was just about to—”

  “I don’t need anything,” he tells me, still feeling tense. I suppose he doesn’t like needles.

  I forget normal people don’t stitch themselves together so often without any dea
dening agents. Then again, he doesn’t fit the criteria for normal either, given the obvious.

  Giving him a small warning, I make the first pass with the stitches, and feel better when he doesn’t even blink. I guess he’s been desensitized to pain as well.

  “Is this something you usually do from someone’s lap?” he asks me flatly as I lean forward, concentrating solely on what I’m doing.

  “Not usually,” I state, realizing now why he’s so tense. “I’ve never done this on someone else before, aside from my mother on occasion.”

  He remains a block of stone under me, and now I see it’s because I’m in his lap and making him really uncomfortable.

  “Are you really gay or was that a lie like everything else? That’s the important question she can’t remember to ask, apparently,” Anna states, causing his brow to furrow and makes the stitching process harder.

  “Anna,” I groan, hurrying the stitches along so I can get up and help him be comfortable again.

  Why does she think he’s gay? Is that why he’s so uncomfortable with me in his lap? It’s not a sexual thing; I’m stitching him up.

  Vance’s lips twitch, even as he scrubs a hand over his mouth to make them stop. “I’ve given men a whirl to try and appreciate sex again with something new. Not my cuppa,” he answers.

  “Okay, now that I have a mental image of him in my head with another man, I’m extremely turned on. Ask him for the favor,” Anna states dreamily.

  I don’t. I’ll have to find someone else.

  “What favor?” Vance asks, sounding genuinely curious.

  Absently, I answer, “If you’re this uncomfortable with me just sitting in your lap, I doubt you want me asking you for this favor.”

  I finish the stiches and tie them off before cutting away the needle. When I start to stand, he grabs my hips and drags me against him, forcing my legs to spread wider. I end up abruptly straddling him more thoroughly.

  Swallowing a little thickly, I try to ignore the fact he’s certainly into women. Now that I’m pressed right against him, I can feel how hard he’s grown under me, and my breaths come out a little shaky.

  Straddling him in this way leaves my eyes lower than his, so he has to look down at me. I’ve never seen a more cunning look so close, and it’s…intense.