by C. M. Owens
His jaw relaxes slightly, and I note that he looks late twenties or early thirties as he allows his sinfully playful lips to curve in a secretive grin. “No reason.”
Great. He’s a weirdo with soulful and secretive eyes, distracting lips, and vague responses after asking me probing questions. Does he have to wear a sleeveless shirt? Why does he have to have arm porn?
Those athletic pants should not look that sexy. He’s one of those annoying people who make slouchy clothes look fashionable, while also looking like…well, a sexy savage, as Anna has pointed out. I’m not telling her that, though.
Shaking off the silly distraction, I jog up the steps and through the house, coughing a little at the lingering vapor.
Quickly, I retrieve a small box with my sample work, and bring it back out, ignoring the slight burning in my veins and the urge to strip again when I emerge.
Really glad he didn’t come in now. I’d probably have lost the account.
If the lingering vapor is working that strongly on me, a normal person would probably be running around and screaming in pain.
He accepts the box of vials, but he’s still staring at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. It’s the way Vancetto stared at me.
“I can’t believe you’re doing a drug deal in broad daylight,” Anna says on a horrified gasp.
“Try it out and see if it’s close enough. The three on the right are your recreational—”
“Drugs,” Anna says like she’s finishing my sentence, and I clear my throat before continuing.
“—orders. The ones on the left are for healing.”
“Healing?” he asks, sniffing it and wrinkling his brow.
“My own recipe.”
“Interesting,” he says with a growing grin, his eyes once again raking over me. “You don’t have the traditional Portocale eyes.”
“Well, I’m not a Portocale.” I’m not sure why he’s making this an issue, but again, I trust Mom wouldn’t do business with men who would kill her.
She wasn’t taken by surprise because she turned her back on the wrong person. She was hunted down. That much I know, due to the vague voicemail she left me the night of her death.
“Your eyes are very unique,” he goes on, taking a step too close for my comfort, staring at me so intensely, as something almost palpable in electric energy moves between us.
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 mus
t 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.
“Sucks when you don’t see it coming, doesn’t it, Blacksmith?” I call down.
“I’m going to kill you this time!” he emptily threatens.
“Make sure she doesn’t go into the woods tonight.”
A dark smile curves my lips as I turn and head to the back of the courthouse in a town that is quiet this evening.
After all, it’s Shadow Hills.
Everyone knows to stay in on a full moon. The wolves always howl.
Chapter 5
VIOLET
“Ah, Honey, Honey,” Anna sings as I knock on the door of the Arion household.
Weirdly, the only name on the order is Shera Ward. No Arion.
My best paying clients call their homes House of insert pompous rich name here. Four families do this. House of Arion is my first delivery. I confirmed over the phone, and since I’ve not yet made a fool of myself by being caught off guard, I’m putting my best foot forward.
The door swings open, and an elderly woman greets me with a weighted smile when her eyes dip to the Portocale Magic box in my hands.
“Are you working for the Portocale shop, dearest?” she asks me.
“Actually, I own it. My aunt left it to me in her will.”
Her eyes widen as her heavy smile falls completely away. “Why would you come here?” she asks in a worried whisper, looking behind her and back at me. “You know better than to cross the gates right now. Our alpha is still—”
“What do we have here?” a woman drawls from behind me, interrupting the older lady’s weird ramble.
I whirl around, feeling a prickle up my spine as the redhead’s eyes pass over me.
“Tell that bitch you already have a redheaded sidekick, and to get lost,” Anna chimes in from…somewhere.
“I’m just dropping off an order. I confirmed last week that the House of Arion would still be getting their supplies from Portocale Magic,” I state with a strange uneasiness gathering in the pit of my stomach.
The new chick’s eyes meet mine.
“Yes, but since when are Portocale gypsies brave enough to step foot on Arion land?”
This again? Really?
“I’m not actually a Portocale. Marta was my aunt by marriage,” I explain, my eyes darting from her to my van…then back to her.
Why does her brow crinkle? More importantly, why does she sniff the air really loudly?
Hesitating for only a second, I manage to keep my poker face in place.
“Her ex-husband’s niece is more exact, but I was all the family she had in the end,” I resume, pretending not to be attached to my mother while playing the part of an estranged niece.
I’m not really sure why she licks her lips, nor do I understand why her pupils seem larger than they did a minute ago.
My gaze darts to my van, and then back at her again, double-checking the distance. Everything about this is incredibly weird, and if I had a spidey sense, I bet it would be tingling.
Anna appears behind her, sniffing her like she has a sense of smell. “This girl smells like a sour whore. Maybe she smells herself and thinks it’s you? That’s gonna be awkward later when she peels those tight pants off and realizes what she was really smelling.”
It really doesn’t help to adopt a ghost these days.
“I wasn’t aware there was any conflict with my name, since the orders came from my aunt’s shop and I’m using as many of her same recipes as possible,” I go on. “I called to confirm,” I say again, just because she’s not speaking or even blinking, as those pupils dilate more.
She looks utterly stunned for a flicker of a second, but then she schools her features. “Fascinating,” she says, her eyes going studious on me. “Well, Ms. Carmine, allow me to take that heavy package off your hands. Would you care for some tea?” she asks, doing an abrupt one-eighty that I really don’t feel comfortable with.
“I have a lot of deliveries to make, so I’ll graciously have to decline this time, ma’am,” I say.
The ma’am being said to a woman, who’s about my age, just makes it all…weirder, but I’m not really sure what else to call her.
“Will you also be visiting the other Houses today?” she asks idly, but for whatever reason, I think she’s hoping I’ll say yes.
Shrugging like she’s not freaking me out a little, I nod. “I’m visiting a lot of houses.”
She con
tinues to eye me like she’s expecting a trick, as she takes the box from my hands. “Well, then. I won’t keep you. Let me know if you decide you want tea sometime.”
Anna has disappeared, but I can’t exactly wait on her.
I just give this slightly creepy woman an awkward goodbye and start toward the van.
Anna lands in the seat beside me just as I start up the van, still feeling the weight of that woman’s gaze on me.
Pretending not to notice, I back out of the driveway and head in the direction of the next house, hoping it won’t take too long to get the store back on its feet and into hiring territory.
“Deliveries are officially my least favorite thing,” I mutter.
“Yeah, well, you’re delivering goods to vampires. There was some serious blood drinking going on in that house,” Anna states in a dead-serious tone.
I groan, wishing the last fifteen potions had done at least a little to alleviate her urge to constantly lie.
“I was a vampire once, until a bitch staked me through the heart. They called her Buffy,” she manages to add with a straight face, appearing a little bitter. “She looked more like a Sarah to me, though, if I’m being honest.”
Ignoring her, I turn up the music for the next few miles until I reach the massive estate similar in size to the last one. These people love their creepy, slow-opening gates and long, ominous driveways.
“I could be reading into things, but the people here seem a little dangerous and far too interested in you,” Anna says as we both lean over the dash to stare up at the massive house I’ve just parked in front of.
I catch sight of a curtain shutting upstairs.
“I’m a Portocale. People always seem dangerous,” I tell her absently.
“These people seem pretty certain you’re a Portocale. It’s like no one believes you’re not. Are you sure you’re safe here?”
“Mom wouldn’t have left me everything if she didn’t want me coming here.”
“Sure. Makes perfect sense, since she died here,” she states with dramatic sarcasm. “And you call me crazy.”