Gypsy's Blood

by C. M. Owens

  GYPSY BLOOD

  All the Pretty Monsters

  Book 1

  C.M. Owens writing as

  Kristy Cunning

  This entire series is a work of fiction and should not be looked at for historical accuracy. A vast amount of creative liberties have been taken to forge a world of fantasy and escapism. Almost all coincidences, names, and places are simply that—a coincidence.

  Gypsy Pride:

  (1A) Only maintained if a gypsy doesn’t stray too far from the Code.

  (1B) A gypsy with gypsy pride is known to draw in the gypsies who’ve lost their own.

  The song of a Gypsy’s Pride:

  The tea leaves warned of blood and death.

  Four gypsy first-borns breathed the last breath.

  War! War! Beyond the double-dutch doors!

  Sing, sweet gypsies, who will be mistaken no more.

  Six gypsy families all stood nigh.

  Five gypsy families for one sacrifice.

  Four gypsy families broken apart.

  Three gypsy families turned cold of heart.

  Two gypsy families couldn’t back down.

  One gypsy family went underground.

  Forever is such a long time to bleed.

  Worst are the gypsies brought to their knees.

  Sing, gypsies, sing of your lies.

  Never trust a gypsy with no gypsy pride.

  Sing, gypsies, sing of your truths.

  The apples have all rotted; the oranges just bruised.

  Prologue

  VIOLET

  There’s a lot to being a Portocale gypsy. There’s an entire cult devoted to wiping out the last of our bloodline for a “Forsaken” deity of some sort. That’s just the beginning of our bad luck.

  Sounds fun to be me, huh?

  Don’t judge me for not having the details. This cult doesn’t give many details when they’re attempting to kill you and stuff. Maybe their parents didn’t love them enough and it made them stabby?

  Most Portocale gypsies fake their deaths young and don’t come out of hiding until much later on. I’m sketchy on those details too, since Mom always said she’d tell me when it was time.

  It’s hard to rely on the stories I’ve heard, because gypsies are natural-born storytellers, and you never know which stories are fact or fiction.

  Most people think it’s because we’re constantly exposed to the semi-undead and have to contend with the wild stories the dead tell. The ‘dead men tell no tales’ thing is a total load of crap, by the way. Ghosts never shut the hell up, and it’s hard to believe half the shit they say.

  I didn’t even start seeing ghosts until this past year or so, but my crazy-level grows with each new one that pops into my life.

  They whine more than I have this week. I’m not usually a whiner, but today is the exception. Today is the day I’m watching them carry my mother’s casket into a viewing room, and I clutch the program in my hand a little harder than necessary.

  “The chick in the coffin has a total hot mom vibe. Yours, I presume,” the ghost riding my mother’s casket says just as I break a gypsy’s number one rule: Never make eye contact.

  I suck at that rule. Again, the ghost thing is new for me, so I deserve a break.

  A grin curves the red head’s lips as she hops off the coffin and struts toward me. “Well…I think we should talk, since I know you can see me. Tell me, does this bra make my boobs look disproportionate?”

  When I don’t answer the disrespectful ghost, who is dressed only in her skimpy bra and panties, and won’t stop probing at her phantom breasts, she moves right up beside me. My focus is on the casket as they lift the end that shows my mother’s face, and I have to lower myself to the chair when my knees try to wobble.

  A single tear rolls down my cheek as the ghost takes a seat beside me.

  “Man, if you’re her daughter, you guys must get hotter with age. Because she is way hotter than you. She’s tanner too…and she’s dead.”

  The dead aren’t a sensitive people once they’ve lost their physical foothold in the world of the more sensitive living.

  “You’re totally cute, though. Your lips are definitely a fun feature about you. I’d kiss you if I could, just so I could feel those lips, and I’m not even particularly into girls.”

  “Do you mind?” I hiss, giving her side-eye.

  When she grins, I glare at her and look back over at the door, wondering if someone—anyone—else is going to show up. I’ve never met another Portocale gypsy, but Mom always swore we had family out there.

  I wish her spirit would rise so I could ask her all the really important questions wadding in my gut.

  “How’d she die?” the ghost asks.

  Since I’m now alone in here with her and simply waiting on my mother’s spirit to emerge, I answer. “There was no definitive cause of death.”

  “Oh, that sucks,” she answers with a firm nod. “How long’s she been down?”

  “Four days.”

  “Well, at least they were quick with the funeral stuff.”

  “Too quick,” I mutter under my breath.

  “So…why are you staring at her like you expect her nose to wiggle? Do you not see that she’s dead?”

  “I’m waiting on her spirit to detach. It sometimes takes up to five days. There’s a reason wakes once lasted a lot longer.”

  “There’s no spirit inside that body,” she tells me like I should know this already.

  “Yes. There is,” I state tightly.

  “No. There isn’t. I’m a ghost. We know these things.”

  An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. If the cult got her, they wouldn’t be able to also capture her spirit. So does that mean a spirit hunter is also after her? There’s no other way she’d be anywhere but right here right now, otherwise.

  I told her I could see ghosts now. She knows I could see her too.

  I check my phone, seeing my father has left a message.

  DAD: Can’t get out of here early enough to get out there before the funeral procession. Sorry.

  Instead, of replying, I simply drop my phone into my purse.

  “My name’s Anna, by the way,” the ghost tells me.

  “Anna, if you start stalking me, I will salt you at every given opportunity,” I warn her while sighing and pinching the bridge of my nose.

  “Do you have salt right now?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Good to know,” she chirps as she glances around the otherwise silent, empty room.

  “Your mom was popular, huh?”

  I shrug a shoulder, not letting the next tear fall. Mom would be pissed if she knew I was crying in front of her casket right now.

  “When you’re a Portocale gypsy, it’s hard to keep friends,” I answer absently.

  “Why?” Anna muses.

  My eyes cut away from my mother’s body as I sigh. “Because we never know who wants us dead.”

  “I hope you don’t think that makes you interesting,” she calls to my back as I stand. “Just wait until I tell you about how awesome I am. You’ll never let me go.”

  Chapter 1

  VIOLET

  Tearing the covering away from the couch, I look around and start swatting at the dust plumes. It takes less than three months for an entire home devoid of life to be covered in dust.

  Fortunately, I’ve yet to see any pests. I’d probably be tempted to burn the place down if something with fur or scales scurried across my foot right now. This day is shitty enough.

  “You could totally pay someone to do this,” Anna says as she follows me through the home.

  “I totally could not,” I remind her absently, lifting a picture of my mother and me, swiping a finger through the dust that carries over our faces, reve
aling hidden smiles.

  Mom’s eyes have always held soulful secrets. She said it was a Portocale thing. But my eyes never seem to hold soulful secrets, so I’m starting to think that gaze must skip a generation.

  Clearing my throat, I put the picture down.

  “You could be rich. With a curvy body like that, I’d be rich,” Anna states candidly, still following me through as I push open the three doors on this side of the stairs.

  “I guess I was born in the wrong era,” I state distractedly.

  More things are covered. More daunting layers of dust are still left to contend with.

  “It’ll take me months to get this house clean,” I groan.

  “Or you could use your ass and get rich,” Anna unhelpfully counters, as I continue tearing away the many coverings. “Better yet, use your gypsy magic!”

  “That’s not how gypsy magic works.”

  “Okay, so how does gypsy magic work?” she volleys.

  “I’m not entirely sure, but I do know it doesn’t allow you to circumvent manual labor,” I say as I move into a different room that has a sickly feeling trickling up my spine.

  “I think I was a gypsy once,” she says on a sigh. “Traveling the road, tempting male travelers with debauchery, as my shady brothers cleaned out their pockets. I didn’t know I was setting a fashion trend that would catch fire in the twenty-first century,” she says on a wistful sigh.

  “That is the romanticized version of it,” I tell her absently. “You’re not a gypsy if you think that’s the truth of it, though.”

  “Well, consider me an honorary gypsy and tell me the truth,” she says as I lift some fallen books from the ground and place them inside the bottom cabinet before me.

  “The word gypsy is actually used as a racial slur in most countries still to this day. I’m fortunate to live in a time and place where gypsy culture is appreciated and even embraced by a lot of gadjo—”

  “Gadjo?”

  “Non-gypsy,” I state dismissively. “Can be an offensive term, depending on the tone,” I add.

  She pops her head out of the curio cabinet suddenly, and I groan while working around her, as she pretends like she’s trying to find a comfortable place to sit.

  “Anyway, gypsies have lived through religious persecution, unprovoked violence, unrepentant prejudice, and unapologetic massacres that rarely get more than a footnote’s mention in the history books. And in some parts of the world, they’re still facing all the same barbaric problems.”

  “Bummer,” she states. “Anyone ever tell you that you shouldn’t piss on rainbows? Are you still cranky because of the dead mommy issues?”

  I’m not really sure why I try to tell her things.

  “What does the town look like?” I ask her, lifting a cushion on the sofa in Mom’s office.

  This room hurts the worst so far. It has so much of her in it.

  “Lots of ghosts are out there. Seems like the town is full of them,” she answers dryly.

  It’s getting more and more difficult to figure out when she’s telling the truth.

  “Great,” I state instead of grilling her to see if she’s being truthful.

  No, I’m not some special person because I can see ghosts. It’s a gypsy thing. Sometimes you can see glimpses of the future, and sometimes you see remains from the past.

  “Oh, and there are some major hotties in town, so there are a few perks. I can watch you like that one time when we invaded the frat house and you started that orgy,” Anna goes on.

  I palm my face, groaning internally. “I did not start an orgy. I’ve never even been to a frat house. And you’re getting more ridiculous by the second,” I snap, before I turn away and blow out a long breath.

  I constantly remind myself to be patient with her, because she can’t help the lies or the scattered way her mind works. But my patience is waning today.

  “Have you ever started an orgy other than that one time?” she asks, clicking her tongue, completely infuriating me as she abruptly appears in front of me.

  I hate it when she does that.

  I level her with a cold look. “I’ve never and will never start an orgy!” I shout. A little too loudly.

  Especially since my eyes lock onto a man’s mystic blue peepers, when my gaze darts over Anna’s slightly shorter head.

  She whirls around, her eyes going round, as she moves closer. “Hubba Hubba,” she stage whispers.

  I hate her so hard right now that I’m tempted to salt her.

  The man with blondish hair and the beginnings of an intentional beard is grinning at me, as he arches an eyebrow with flawless condescension.

  “Well, that’s possibly the first time anyone has ever shouted that at me before we even made introductions,” he drawls, letting his eyes rake over me before they meet mine again.

  His suit-and-tie look isn’t usually my thing, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man wear a suit the way he does. Anna starts fanning me, which fortunately debunks the electrical current in the air.

  I should probably look into fumigating the house for residual magic before I do something stupid…like attack a man for being indecently tempting in a suit while I’m still emotionally vulnerable.

  “Tell him I spent the thirties as a gangsta’s prostitute, so I learned a few things. Tell him now,” Anna says a little dreamily.

  Pretending not to see the horny ghost at my side, since he can’t see her and I already look insane, I try to play it off. “I find it best to leave the most memorable first impression possible, no matter how outrageous the memory may seem.”

  His grin only grows.

  “So another Portocale gypsy is in town?” he muses, taking a step closer and perching at a lean on the wall as his arms cross over his really impressive chest.

  “Tell him the prostitute thing,” Anna says like she’s still in a lusty trance.

  “I’m actually Marta’s niece by marriage, so there’s no gypsy blood in me,” I lie easily, weirdly causing both his eyebrows to bounce up in confusion. “I’m Violet Carmine,” I add tightly.

  He straightens and adjusts his tie, his facial expressions closing down like he’s turning into an entirely different man before my eyes.

  “I don’t think he was expecting that,” Anna rhetorically points out.

  “Violet Carmine?” he asks as though he’s struggling to believe that, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “Yes,” I state warily, wondering why he seems to believe otherwise.

  The man before me distracts me from my silent concerns when he runs a hand over the back of his neck, smiling tightly. “I’m Vancetto Valhinseng. Head of House of Valhinseng,” he tells me, his eyes meeting mine expectantly.

  “Valhinseng…oh! You’re one of my aunt’s clients,” I say with a breath of relief. Mom wouldn’t be collecting enemies as clients to pass onto me. “I’m taking over the business, so I’ll start sending your supplies within a week or so, unless you’ve already made other arrangements.”

  He cocks his head, his eyes studying me even more intently. “My current arrangements have been temporary and by far less sufficient than your aunt was capable of. You carry the gypsy gift?”

  Very few people even believe in gypsy magic—or any magic, for that matter—anymore. Shadow Hills is one of the few exceptions. It’s a tourist town for the believers, the curious, or the weekend fixers.

  “No. I’m not of gypsy blood, but I do have the recipes, and a gypsy friend who helps out with the more majestic side of things,” I state vaguely, using my rehearsed lines like the seasoned liar any gifted gypsy should be these days.

  His lips almost give into a curve of amusement, but his eyes are no longer playful. They’re full of guarded intrigue and wary curiosity.

  The eyes, in case you’re wondering, are the answers to the thoughts in someone’s mind. Though, it’s never easy to accurately read them. It’s all an educated guess, based on context and observable information regarding one’s surroundings.
>
  I’m not exactly a pro at it…

  When he just continues to stare like he expects more, I add, “You may have to use a little more of my recreational products for it to be as potent as Aunt Marta’s, but it’ll be closer than anything else you can find.”

  “You are so a gypsy drug dealer, you sassy little fiend,” Anna scoffs, causing me to inwardly groan.

  Vancetto scrubs a hand over his jaw, eyes locked like he’s lost in thought as he presumably tries to unravel me. It’s unnerving, because it feels like he thinks I’m hiding something.

  I don’t like it when people seem to see right through me.

  “Will you be taking over her medium clients as well?” he muses, almost as though he followed my train of thought and decided to bait me.

  “I’m afraid not. Medium work is more advanced and incredibly dangerous without proper training or at least gypsy blood,” I answer, smiling tightly as I once again reiterate my lie and leave it at that.

  I get a vibe from him that has the hair on the back of my neck raising, even as the rest of my body seems inclined to appreciate the very sight of him.

  He nods like that’s acceptable and claps his hands together. “Well, then, Ms. Portocale, don’t let me keep you from getting set up. If you find yourself in need of assistance, I’d be happy to let you pick a few of my maids to help you along.”

  “My name is Carmine. And are you offering to let me pick some of your workers as if they’re property, Mr. Valhinseng?” I ask a little bitterly, smiling a little less friendly.

  From sexy to douche in under ten minutes. Not a new record, but definitely close. I’ve dated the ones who snap their fingers and bitch about the temperature of their soup, when I’m just happy it’s not scalding my tongue right out of the microwave.

  “My panties are still wet. I don’t care if he is an unapologetic rich prick,” Anna states seriously.

  I really do hate her as much as I love her.

  His lips twitch again. “I pay them generously. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’ve got this,” I tell him, reminding myself I know his name because he was a big-spending client of my mother’s.