Sounds almost stout enough.

Emit is smiling a little too knowingly when I return.

“This really isn’t how I pictured this trip going,” he tells me.

“I’m curious to know exactly what you expected,” I say as I take one of the chips and dip it into the salsa, before the man even gets both bowls lowered to the table.

Emit’s grin only grows.

“Fury and fire on the worst end of the scenario spectrum,” he informs me.

“It feels too hypocritical, especially when you’ve been paying for it this long,” I say quietly, remembering we’re in a public place.

“Well, when people live long enough, they start overlooking their hypocrisies, because they become too abundant,” he says as my very blue and pretty drink slides in front of me.

It tastes as pretty as it looks.

The second the waiter leaves, Emit levels me with an intense look.

“She faked the blood with Portocale orange juice mixed in. We wouldn’t have just smelled Portocale blood the way we thought we could in that moment,” he says without any sort of warning, which is honestly a little jarring.

“She beheaded her entire family before pulling the ribbon on her neck, and she killed one solitary Portocale gypsy to leave in the room for a visual. She was calculated, cunning, and lethal. And that’s when she was still young and mortal. The same age as you are now,” he adds, smiling grimly.

It’s a little unsettling that the ribbon girl story passes through my mind, though this telling is far different. What’s worse, is that now I realize Damien isn’t the only one who thought I was Idun.

I thought the same thing without even realizing it.

For very different and unrelated reasons.

Mine was a romanticized existence; a tale with no beginning or satisfying end. It was as if we were only ever given the middle of the story, and here I am, finding myself in the deeper middle of it. Only it’s not about me at all.

Fate is a ruthless bitch, who doesn’t hold back the blows of cruel irony.

I’m still mad at him until he has a damn good excuse for his reasons, other than the fact I can’t die, since it’s apparently not that rare, after all.

Put. A. Pin. In. It.

“She killed herself and her family, knowing we would avenge her and finally get her immortality she craved so desperately. The skin walkers were all on board with that,” he says as he takes a sip of the beer the man drops at the table.

I drink a lot more of my drink, guzzling half of it in one long sip. That pin is going to need a little help today.

Emit watches the liquid level rapidly drop, smiling tightly.

“She got her immortality,” he says like it’s his closing piece. “During the battle, we were different men than we’d ever been,” he says almost thoughtfully, a tired expression crossing his face.

“Rage. Fury. Desperation. Sadistic enjoyment,” he goes on, absently staring down at his drink.

“We got it all in that moment,” he adds, before lifting his drink and taking a long sip himself. “We were frozen for all time with the most brutal monsters inside us, completely unleashed during a frenzy of anger and emotion.”

He seems to get lost inside his own mind, and I decide to snap him out of it, because I need some answers.

“How are Portocale gypsies immortal? The council? Arion said I couldn’t ever be turned, because—”

“Violet, if you haven’t gained or lost a pound in over two years, it’s not a plateau—it’s immortality,” he says as though that’s not some serious information.

I’m undying. Sure. I’ve accepted that. But immortal?

Sheesh, they circle around things they think I’ll freak out about, and then throw shit such as this at me like it’s a live grenade.

Unsurprisingly, I don’t do well with grenades! Things always blow up eventually!

Put a pin in it.

“You’ve been frozen in time like the rest of us. However, instead of having a death cycle before you’re reincarnated, you truly cannot die. Given how unique you are, I can’t help but wonder if you were frozen the day you were beheaded.”

“Wait, I thought you said Neopry gypsies couldn’t be killed. So that means I’m similar to them, right? Not all that unique,” I point out.

He fumbles his drink, almost spilling it, and clears his throat rather suspiciously.

“Not so loud, Violet,” he says, tugging at his collar.

Oh, so that’s why he’s panicked. I really was too loud.

“So I spent months killing myself to lose ten pounds, and it was all for nothing?” I ask him in deflection, because…I need more of the explosion drink before I can tackle this in its entirety.

He chokes on his next sip of beer and coughs, that deep rumble of laughter seeming to vibrate from him and oddly soothe me.

I’ve been putting off the immortal bits he’s alluded to toward me. He says all this like it’s a casual, guaranteed thing. These guys make assumptions, not realizing how severe these things really are to someone who doesn’t find it all so normal just yet.

“All of this happened at least a thousand years ago, given the fact Idun is overdue for a raising,” I say, carrying on with the point of this entire kidnapping-slash-story-time-road-trip adventure we’re on. “How long was this punishment meant to last?”

“The Portocale gypsies used the same magic, only they sort of flew in behind our coattails with the explosion of power we’d unleashed into the world, forever upsetting the natural balance,” he starts.

I lean back, and he stops talking, as they drop off our food.

The second we’re alone again, he says, “Four remaining Portocale first-borns took a family vote, and cursed their future generations, adding to the chosen sacrifice. Family was the most important thing to them, so they stole years from the future generations. However, the crafty gypsies they were…they gave them an out.”

“Kill spirits and live longer,” I say without needing it spelled out.

“The lengths we’d all go to back then for revenge…” He lets the words trail off, almost hesitantly, like he’s treading carefully so as not to offend.

“I only know my mother. Before the four of you, I’d never heard of a Portocale Council, and I never had relatives on Mom’s side. Dad’s side, they were here and there.”

“None like you?” he muses, tipping his drink back.

It’s the subtle way he asks it, with no real reasoning as to why he’d ask that question…that gives me pause.

“On my dad’s side? My mom’s the gypsy,” I tell him, watching his expressionless face that usually has way more expressions on it.

Why is he wearing a poker face?

“But you’re not just gypsy,” he says, his eyes saying more than his words.

“I know. We’ve established I’m an immortal gypsy freak with no species classification. I’m going to need therapy if next year is this life-altering as well,” I point out very seriously.

That expressionless face turns into more of a blank expression—two totally different looks for him. He stares at me with it for so long that it gets awkward, before he finally nods like that’s an acceptable ramble.

“My dad freaked out and left because my young monster scared him that much. I can’t even be mad about it, because I don’t blame him. I’m grateful every day that my mother was a badass, even when she was a pain in the ass. She didn’t bail. She didn’t blink. She made me a plan, and her plans usually pan out.”

“When do they not?”

“When she died,” I answer, causing him to clear his throat and nod again.

“Right. Right.”

“So am I this accidental monster because of what the Portocale council did to become immortal?”

“No,” he says, shrugging. “I don’t know. I mean—”

“Let’s go,” Vance says, startling me as he walks in, giving us a tight, impatient smile, as he gestures to the door. “I’ve got a trail.”

“This close to where we’re staying? They’re supposed to be farther out,” Emit says with a frown.

“I’m driving,” Vance says as he swipes the keys from the table, and then puts out a hand like I need help up.

I grab a to-go box from the stack on the service table behind us, and start putting my food in it.

“Let the girl eat first,” Emit says to Vance.

“It’s fine. I can eat on the way,” I say, since Vance isn’t twitching right now, and I’d like to keep it that way.

I hand Vance my food instead of my hand, and I grab another box to start putting Emit’s food in.

“I’m staying and eating here, off a plate,” Emit tells me in an amused tone.

“You’ve already eaten burgers for breakfast, and not really all that long ago,” I remind him as I finish up and hand him his own box.

Vance tosses more than enough money to the table to cover the tab, before he smirks over at Emit for whatever reason.

Fortunately, it’s all finger foods.

Vance follows us out, as Emit guides me toward the door. Everyone is staring at the two of them now. I get a few which-one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-others looks.

My hair’s barely brushed, my outfit is cringe-worthy, and I’ve definitely had better days. I can understand the perplexing visual as they see it.

“The full moon is less than a week away,” Emit says like he’s defending himself when we reach the car. “I need a lot of calories.”

We all get in, and Vance carefully reaches back to hand me my food, as I prop my feet up in the middle and get comfortable again.

“What does the full moon do to you? I mean, clearly you turn wolf more than just on the full moon, but the moon seems to be mentioned to the point of redundancy,” I point out.

“Purebloods—wolves born from other wolves—”

“Werewolves,” Vance interjects like he’s making a correction. “He calls them just wolves, but there are a lot of differences between wolves and werewolves, because wolves are animals—werewolves are monsters. Something to remember, Violet. Monsters always downplay their darker sides.”

Emit narrows his eyes at him again, and I bristle a little for reasons Vance doesn’t understand. My monster scares the shit out of me, so I never downplay it.

“Depends on the wolf,” Emit argues.

“I thought you hated hurting your wolves, but we’re off to hunt them down,” I say, using Emit’s preferred verbiage and drawing a bored look from Vance in the mirror.

The asshole Van Helsing speeds up a little, just enough to make me quickly buckle up, feeling punished for choosing Emit’s side on this. He eyes that too, lips curving in sadistic amusement.

“Unregistered wolves are not my wolves,” Emit explains. “Usually, it’s for two reasons: One, they had no idea werewolves existed until a rogue one scratched them after midnight—”