Home > Gypsy Freak (All The Pretty Monsters #2)(4)

Gypsy Freak (All The Pretty Monsters #2)(4)
Author: Kristy Cunning

“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 deadening 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.

“What’s the favor?” he asks again, his grip still firmly holding me in place.

I look away, unable hold his gaze while I answer. Which I don’t get to do, because Anna is blurting shit out before I can use my very well-rehearsed, carefully worded speech.

“We want you to fuck me while I’m borrowing her body,” she says with all the ineloquence I made her promise not to use. “Because you’re pretty, gentlemanly, and have this alpha vibe I really like. Since you’re not gay, why not?”

He finally glances at her, a blank expression on his face, and…then back at me. His grip grows a little tighter as he closes his eyes and seems to be searching for patience.

I snap a glare at Anna, who simply grins at me.

“You jest,” he finally says. I notice his eyes fluttering open from my peripheral.

Toughing out the awkwardness, I meet his eyes at last and hold his gaze. “Anna, give us a second,” I tell her without looking at her.

She fortunately vanishes without argument for once, and Vance tilts his head like he’s studying me.

“Gypsies don’t allow ghosts to possess them,” he says the second she’s gone. “It’s a very dangerous road to give any ghost a powerful gypsy—”

“Since my mother died and her spirit went into hiding, I’ve done a fantastic job of consistently screwing things up,” I say quietly in interruption, swallowing thickly.

His expression grows more serious as his lips thin.

“I know it’s weird to ask something like this—”

“You have no idea just how unusual of a request this is from a Portocale gypsy. Weird is quite the understatement,” he volleys in a dry tone, even as his gaze dips briefly and his grip tightens more, pulling me even closer. “So you’re doing this because you enjoy screwing things up?” he asks, that regular condescension back in his tone.

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