Gypsy Truths (All The Pretty Monsters Book 6)

by Kristy Cunning

  “Go ahead and fucking hit me, wolf,” I tell him quietly, my eyes not leaving hers, as a single tear rolls down her cheek. “I just realized she’s going to see our entire history playing out in his mind.”

  My eyes turn to Damien, who is panting in exhaustion, clearly too tired to launch himself at me the way his lethal glower suggests he’d like to.

  “I didn’t think you’d be able to actually do it,” I confess to Damien, sinking lower on the floor. “I just expected it to drain your power and the absurd ego trip along with it. You weren’t supposed to be able to do it, but you did it too easily.”

  He grinds his jaw, hands working into fists, as his pupils dilate and his heartbeat quickens, his monster near its edge. If he had the energy, his monster would be clawing me to bits right now.

  “Because I really was that juiced up, Arion. I was even stronger than I thought, and I wasted it all to put Violet in our glorious past, all because I couldn’t break her heart. You backed me into that corner, after I just took her as my Flame, and you used all of that against me. Sometimes I forget why I hated you so much. Until you make me remember,” he bites out.

  “She’s a weakness you can’t extort, Vampyre,” Emit snarls, glaring over at me. “She didn’t know what she was begging for, but you did.”

  “I didn’t think it’d bloody work!” I snap, my own monster damn near edging out.

  “And you said nothing the entire time,” Damien says, eyes moving to Emit. “All because you don’t want to upset her any more than I do right now. You had my back on this decision, but as always, you turned indecisive when it came down to executing the plan. Some things never change.”

  Emit’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t argue.

  “Can you get her out?” Emit asks instead of provoking Damien.

  “If I could, she’d already be out,” Damien mutters almost too low to hear, as all our gazes swing to Violet, seeing another tear streaming down her cheek.

  “What are the odds she can break the curse?” I ask, gaze moving to Emit.

  His lips thin, and he keeps his gaze trained on her.

  “She said something about needing rescuing. Even if she has done her Violet-math and come up with a way to break his curse, she can’t be rescued among memories. She’s stuck there for the duration of the curse.”

  Scrubbing a hand over my face, I study our monster. I don’t confess it aloud, but I half hope she finds yet another way to prove we’ve all underestimated her once again.

  Even if it is impossible.

  Otherwise, they’re all going to kill me when she wakes up, devastated and broken by the truth, for no reason at all.

  And I won’t even put up a fight.

  Chapter 14

  VIOLET

  Bodies.

  A sea of bodies.

  Blood spraying through the air.

  Death weighing down the entire area so heavily my chest hurts.

  Severed body parts haphazardly strewn about as though the scene was staged just to really stun me silent and stupid.

  I…don’t even know how to react or feel right now, aside from a little queasy and mildly freaked out.

  My feet tangle under me, and I struggle to stay upright. My body feels heavy, and every action I have is sluggish, as I struggle to walk on the ground that is damn near blanketed by bodies.

  The scent is what staggers me. I wasn’t expecting my senses to be so sharp in here. The blood is ripe, and it’s still freshly oozing from the massacre that stretches on and on for as far as the eye can see.

  I turn, nearly falling over a corpse with eyes frozen wide, when I hear voices behind me.

  Idun shouts something in a language I can’t distinguish, as Emit barely shoves himself up from the ground, managing to make it as far as leaning up on his knees.

  His hair is much longer here, and plaited in braids that are tied down his bare, marred back. Deep gashes are all over his body, and it seems to be taking all his strength to even stay conscious.

  I’m sprinting to his side before I even realize what I’m doing, stumbling over the dead, but no one sees me. My hand touches his skin, but there’s no reaction from him, as tears fill up in my eyes.

  An ache fills up in my already heavy chest, the two working against me in unison.

  Turning to glare at Idun, my blood starts boiling in my veins, and my hands shake with the rage I’m barely containing.

  I watch as Arion licks blood off his fingers, smiling with a drizzle of it running down his lips.

  She gestures to the bodies, calling out something again.

  Glancing around me, taking in the sheer volume of bodies, I’m guessing this was a bad bloodline massacre. The omega wolves have talked a lot about these. The gruesome picture they painted is very vividly displayed here.

  “One bad bloodline can turn thousands in days, and all bad bloods have to die, before the world is left in ruins,” I murmur, remembering Tiara’s exact words.

  Ingrid is a bad bloodline. This is why she hides in the walls and never comes into contact with humans.

  One scratch.

  That’s all it takes.

  Arion picks up a violin, and smiles as he starts playing an upbeat melody, while dancing over some of the dead wolves, laughing as though he’s enjoying himself.

  He’s dressed in thin, black armor that moves too freely for what has to have been a really long time ago.

  Damien is dressed in the exact same armor, helmet haphazardly cast aside, as he puffs something in a pipe, seemingly unconcerned with anything going on around him.

  His eyes are flat, lifeless, and devoid of any sort of emotion at all, as he glances into a mirror. His hair is short along the sides, with a long ponytail in the back. It’s weirdly a good look for him.

  Not exactly the sort of thing one focuses on in a moment like this, but the Damien I know just sort of married me. I think. My head’s a bit scattered.

  Just then, Vance emerges, and my heartbeat kicks in my chest, because I very abruptly remember this is all their past, and I’m not here to pick through it. I’m here to set him free.

  It’s not until this very moment, when I glance down to ensure I’m in my un-sexy underwear, that…I realize I’m not in my underwear at all. This is not how I was supposed to be dressed.

  “Why the fuck do I look like I raided Shera’s closet?” I demand to a bunch of memories who can’t hear me, while staring in horror at the tight leather outfit I’m in.

  No wonder I feel sluggish. This thing is so damn constricting that it’s ridiculous. And it’s a jumpsuit! I think that’s what they’re called.

  I hurriedly check to ensure that there’s no embarrassing—

  Oh fuck my life. I have a camel toe problem. I have a leather jumpsuit camel toe problem.

  I’m not the sort of girl who can rock the toe with confidence.

  This just got mortifying.

  Quickly, I start unzipping it, only to realize, I’m not wearing any underwear.

  “Damien Morpheous, I’m going to knee you in the balls when I get out of here!” I tell the memory of Damien, who doesn’t even glance my way.

  He leans over, searching a dead man’s pockets, and pulls out a few coins he shoves in his own pocket. Then he stands, and starts going from body to body, absently searching them all for money, presumably.

  I shake my head from the distraction, moving my eyes back to Vance, as he goes to step in front of Emit, clearly taking a stand against Idun.

  These are dead wolves, meaning this was Emit’s problem that clearly got out of hand. His eyes are so defeated, and his jaw wobbles with fury and heartbreak.

  He hates killing his wolves. Thousands are dead all around him.

  I find myself desperately wishing I could console him retroactively.

  That old song enters my mind, because I’m too distracted by all the dead things to remember what the hell I’m supposed to actually be doing.

  “The tea leaves warned of blood and death,” I sing
into the air when my mind starts feeling overwhelmed.

  Just before I start to sing the next lyric, the world around me wavers, and I stagger into a new setting.

  For just a brief glance, I catch sight of a woman, seeing her speaking to the air as if someone is there. There’s a cup with tea leaves, as though someone’s been reading them.

  I don’t know the pattern, the art, or the practice, but it’s clear what it represents. This is the start of the song.

  Seconds before the image wavers again, I spot Vance, spying on the woman from behind a tree, with Damien right behind him.

  Suddenly, the scene shifts, and I’m once more surrounded by bodies. The abruptness of it damn near steals my breath. What breaths I do catch sends bile to the back of my mouth, because of the overpowering medley of stenches this one is putting off.

  My eyes widen when I see throngs of people fighting with swords against wolves and various other creatures.

  I can’t tell who is on what side, because it’s utter chaos. I’m not even sure if they’re aware of whom they’re supposed to be fighting.

  Jerking my head away from a spray of blood, my gaze lands on Vance, as he and Arion war with each other.

  The image wavers, and suddenly we’re on another battlefield, only this time, Vance is fighting at Arion’s side against Emit and Damien.

  Fangs are bared. Eyes are wild. Rage is fierce.

  This is different from the half-hearted bouts of combat I’ve witnessed.

  This is real.

  What I’ve witnessed is mild anger and a few tantrums by comparison.

  Emit spins, biting down on Arion’s arm, sending the vampire to the ground.

  Vance bats down Damien’s sword, knocks him to the ground, and manages to slam his foot into Emit’s side hard enough to knock him away. Arion struggles to his feet, just as the image wavers yet again.

  Over and over, I end up on one bloodstained battlefield after another, watching them war with each other over corpses. In some, Arion is dancing with glee, laughing as he enjoys every moment. In others, he struggles. In fact, it’s the same with all of them, as though their power ebbs and strengthens in any given frame.

  Vance is the only one who stays consistently strong, but it’s a lot of effort coming from him each and every time, sometimes straining more than others.

  After seeing too many fields and forests full of corpses, tears start filling up in my eyes, and that weight on my chest grows to be unbearable. I can’t take it any longer.

  “Four gypsy first-borns breathed the last breath,” I sing, hoping it works.

  This time when the image wavers, we’re suddenly in a brightly lit meadow full of wildflowers. The air smells so clean and fresh—a stark contrast from the death and decay.

  I breathe in so deeply that it physically hurts. I’ve never missed clean air so much in all my life. Even smoggy air was better than that.

  Turning, my newly found breath freezes in my lungs when I spot four familiar people walking toward a woman. At least I think it’s a woman, since the figure is clad in an odd, almost Egyptian style dress full of gold dangly things.

  There’s a veil connecting to a headpiece that leaves very little visible on her face—her eyes, the bridge of her nose, and a peek of her forehead. The headpiece is made of the same silky material as the dress, keeping every piece of her hair hidden.

  There’s so much to take in all at once.

  Aside from the veiled woman, the people are familiar, because my mother had a framed painting with their images. It’s been in all her homes. She simply said it was family she wasn’t close to anymore whenever I asked about them.

  My brow furrows, because realization dawns.

  These must be the Portocale first-borns. One of these is Mom…in her original face. I wish I knew which one.

  There’s a stone slab covered in blood, and the woman in the ornate clothing wordlessly stands behind it, while holding some type of slim, gold, rectangular box.

  The two women approach the altar first, and the two men hang back, while the woman in the decorative clothing chants something. The Portocale women start chanting something as well, while I idly glance around, wondering where Vance is, since these should be his memories.

  There’s no sign of him, and I half wonder if I haven’t tapped into Portocale memories, given the fact his mind is trapped inside a Portocale curse…

  Not important.

  The important part is the fact this must be Pandora.

  My eyes immediately bounce back to the box.

  The legendary box.

  The box people all around the world have referenced, though most lost belief in its existence.

  It’s more royal and less little-box-of-horrors, which is slightly unexpected.

  The lid is an oddly shaped piece of metal with a small-but-distinguishable ruby in the middle.

  Easing closer, I take in the scene and the quiet fury resting in all their eyes, aside from the woman who is presumably Pandora. Her eyes look eager and excited.

  No words are exchanged. It’s as though they’ve already rehearsed the steps that follow.

  The men slice their hands with two separate knives, and they hand the blades to the women, who’ve knelt before the altar. The men kneel on either side of them, as the women slice their hands. No one flinches. No one reacts.

  It’s as though they’re too numb to feel anything.

  This…is after the massacre. I think.

  As they move their hands to bleed over the box, it pops and sizzles. Pandora leans over, fingers gripping the ruby to lift the lid, and an audible breath that almost sounds like a whisper escapes from the crack.

  The world shakes beneath my feet so abruptly that I stagger forward, stumbling against the altar that bangs the side of my knee. Wincing against the pain, I idly wonder why I can feel and touch things in here.

  I was expecting more of a ghostly presence, but…then again, Damien certainly doesn’t feel ghostly when he does a full-on invasion.

  The Portocales tip their heads back, drawing my attention back to them, as the world continues to quake all around us. Their eyes go white, and ice spreads under them, as a grayish-colored smoke is funneled into their mouths.

  Pandora’s eyes beam with menace and mayhem, and I find myself watching her instead of them.

  The box disintegrates, turning to ash on the altar, as the metal lid melts into an infinity symbol. Pandora takes the gold infinity thingy and pulls her dress up to her thigh, while the smoke continues funneling.

  She presses the symbol to her thigh, and I suck in a breath of surprise when it sizzles and melts into a tattoo on her leg. The ruby melts as well, glistening like fresh red paint when it finishes.

  It dries almost immediately, and I see the smile in the blood-witch’s eyes when she stares to clearly admire it.

  “So you needed people willing to handle all the hardships and sacrifice that came along with that box just so you could gain your own immortality,” I say to Pandora, narrowing my eyes.

  Obviously, she gives no reply.

  The smoke finishes, and the Portocales rise, pupils dilated.

  Pandora turns and melts into the wind, her smile disappearing last of all. What the actual fuck can a blood witch do? Someone did say she’s not a threat any longer, right?

  It’s hard as hell to find information on Pandora to see the truth for myself, and now she’s sort of creeping me out. Everyone has their own way of summing up things, when it involves her and if she’s still a threat, and sometimes one contradicts the other.

  “War! War! Beyond the Double-Dutch doors!” I sing into the air.

  The image ripples, and in the next instant, two doors are blowing open in front of me to the massacre that is most decidedly the night of the sacrifice. Since Neopry heads are all over the floors.

  I spot the guys, all of them clearly burning with misery and anguish. Anger comes next.

  I admit, I have no emotion seeing them so upset, since
I feel sort of bad for them for being so painfully manipulated by the woman they trusted and loved, no matter how many times she tricked them.

  I know what comes next.

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

  I land in the middle of a forest that is brightly lit by a full moon, even through the canopy of limbs and leaves, and my breath comes out of me in a rush.

  Because…an army is rushing toward me, coming so quietly and swiftly that they barely make a sound.

  Before my very eyes, Vance leads the charge, the lead hunter of the fierce pack.

  My next breath is painful, because I spot Emit behind him, dressed in his wolf’s fur, likely as a show of what he considered respect. He looks the angriest, which explains all the wolf aggression.

  Now he’s with his wolf every day because of this choice, but it’s taken a long damn time for him to stop hating himself for it.

  Damien is hot on his feet, still looking nothing like the Damien I know. His eyes are just so dead, even here and now. I’ve seen those eyes on him from time to time, and now it’s sort of sad to see how long he’s truly had them.

  That’s a shitty eternity.

  This time, I feel too much emotion, and a persistent tear slips out. Arion is behind them, catching up and passing some others, moving faster and faster, the most determined and sadistic gleam in his eyes.

  He wants vengeance and bloodshed.

  Desperately.

  I start singing before they can pass through me, because I don’t want to see more.

  “Six gypsy families all stood nigh!”

  The image ripples, and the impending massacre flips to a new scene that could give someone the warm-and-fuzzies. You know, if not for all the obvious.

  I’ve yet to be able to get Vance to acknowledge me, and I’m too scared to tempt it in the frames where he’s holding a weapon or looking murderous. Seems like a bad idea to jar him out of a dream during those moments.

  My breath is nearly stolen with the next shift in scenery.

  I’ve been transported to a time where everyone is toasting, dancing, cheering, and behaving a little badly under a full moon. But I can tell just by the bible in Arion’s hands that this is before immortality.