Gypsy Origins

“I’m naïve about a lot of things, Leiza, but I’m perfectly aware of the significance perspective plays into all parts of life,” I tell her, still uncertain why this conversation seems to make her so nervous.

She takes a steadying breath and nods.

“When he tells you everything, you should remember how much tending he’s needed,” she says to me. “Remember that this happens with every Portocale death, no matter how distant or strained the bloodline is. It can happen up to five or fifteen times a year. Every year. For a really long span of time.”

I toss out the vases closest to the window, letting them tumble to the ground outside and crash.

“By long span of time, I mean more centuries than you could ever imagine enduring,” she continues. “You and I have death as an option, and we’re programmed to fight it at every turn, like all mortals or anti-aging mortals. Ignore the ones who say we’re immortal, because they’re just referring to the fact we can’t—”

“Don’t start confusing me with too many details. I get the gist—everyone has their preferred terminology, but my head hurts,” I remind her, smiling tightly.

I say nothing about all the other, because it seems like I chase death more than I run from it. Then again, I’m never good at being the way I’m supposed to be. If I’m clearly an omega, then I’m going to have to learn what different rules apply to apples and oranges.

Before I inadvertently cause a metaphorical explosion, the way I do with all things in life.

“Alright, well, moving on then. It’s sort of an omega thing. We’re the weak. They’re the strong. The only reason I exist at all by this point, is because of the damage Alpha helped cause. But it wasn’t all his fault,” she goes on, sounding nervous and wary, like she’s broaching a hot topic that everyone in this little circle knows except for me.

“If people would stop skirting around the topic and just shoot it to me straight, we could stop all this circling commentary,” I point out, shooting a pointed look toward her. “I’m about sick of it.”

Nervously fidgeting with her sleeves, she shrugs. “It’s harder than you think. I’ve tried numerous times, but there’s just a lot to reveal, Violet. I keep chickening out. I think everyone does.”

“By this point, no matter what it is, it’s going to seem anticlimactic because of all the hype,” I dutifully point out. “If that was the goal, I’m sure it’s been achieved by now.”

She gives me a glare that clearly says she doesn’t think I’m taking this seriously enough.

“He keeps this suffering a secret from most of all the wolves. All but us, because we tend to him,” she adds, her look softening.

“If I’m in the way, Leiza, I can leave—”

“No,” she says emphatically, shaking her head like that’s not at all what she’s trying to say. “He keeps it a secret to keep from looking weak to his pack. You’ve seen how wolves can turn when they sense weakness.”

She sits down and heaves out a breath.

“It’s just that he’s stuck with this curse as punishment. All of this is because of a woman—”

“Idun, I presume.”

She nods vacantly, like her mind is traveling back. “She tricked them all into the second sacrifice, and the Portocale Council has happily let them suffer this pain all these many centuries later as punishment, since they can’t die.” Her sad eyes find mine. “I think Emit has suffered enough, and the debt should be considered paid. I would plead with you to make it stop, but I’m not certain you know how to do that.”

“If I knew how to do it, I would have already done it,” I assure her, as I turn back around and resume tossing out flowers.

“But you don’t know the story,” she says from behind me.

“I know the story is old, and Mom always said that dwelling over the past was the unhealthiest thing I could do,” I tell her vaguely, not mentioning the context that was said in.

It was more to keep me from wallowing in guilt after the first panic attack at thirteen.

“We find a way to pick up the pieces of our mistakes, no matter how cold, cruel, and sad they may be, and we patch ourselves together with them like a story quilt.”

Her brow furrows as I walk around the room, continuing to busy myself with the flower extraction when she sneezes again.

“I started my quilt when I was thirteen. It’s as hideous as you could possibly imagine in your head,” I assure her. “But it’s my quilt. It tells my story. Mom said as long as your quilt tells the brutal truth, you can look at your mistakes and find your redemption, even in the darkest of places.”

When there are no more flowers in this room to dispatch, I give her my full attention again, as she just studies me.

“She never let me see her quilt. I know her patterns and their meanings too well. Which means my mother wasn’t perfect either, or it would have hung in the front room with pride, like all her masterpieces,” I add, wrapping up my apparently bad comparison so I can do all the vague talk she does all the time.

She looks like she’s trying really hard to figure out why in the hell we’re talking about quilts.

“It’s confusing when people try to make points in the abstract, isn’t it?” I ask her as I cross my arms over my chest and give her a look.

She bristles.

“It’s hard,” she says again, sulking as she looks down and taps the ground with her toe.

“I’m not tortured every day for the dark places I’ve had to visit,” I tell her on a sigh. “I don’t need to know the past to know that no matter what he’s done, he’s paid the debt, just as you said. Everyone is punished for the things they do at some point, even when you don’t see the karma yourself. The fact of the matter is that the universe hates a debt even more than gypsies do,” I continue. “He doesn’t need the universe and the Portocale gypsies reminding him of his crimes anymore, I’m sure.”

She gives me a wary nod, like she’s unsure about how easily she’s accomplished what she set out to do.

“From the very beginning, they’ve alluded to somehow wronging my family and ending up with this curse,” I go on. “I’ve never been disillusioned. They’re really bad monsters at the top of the food chain, Leiza. It’s clear there’s some bad shit that’s gone down. They only withheld the details, because that’s where the devil always lies. The fact that they’re monsters…it’s really the thing that’s kept me in this town. What does that tell you about me?”

“That you have a death wish?” she guesses, and then her eyes widen. “Not that they’d be—”

“I’m scared of them to a degree. But I’ve been more intrigued by all of them than they’ve ever been of me. Until them, I didn’t know different sorts of monsters could exist, because I didn’t expect to stumble across an entire civilization of them. My life was dodging ghost eyes and watching television, when I wasn’t screwing up new potions and blowing myself up here and there.”

“Metaphorically speaking?” she cuts in, looking confused.

“Of course,” I lie with a nod. “There’s a certain sense of satisfaction when you create the perfect volatile potion that you know could really do some damage with.”

“You carry things like that in your bra?” she hisses.

I gently pat my left breast, smiling at her. “It makes me feel safer. But in truth, I never really use them. I always worry about who I might accidentally hurt in the process.”

“So why carry them in your bra?”

“It makes me feel safer,” I tell her again, and her eyes gleam with more understanding this time.

She nods like that makes perfect sense. Omegas understand fear and comfort.

“So we’re on the same page? You’re going to help find a way to mark the debt paid?” she asks me with wide, hopeful eyes. “A lot of curses can never be undone because they’ve been paid for with blood. But some—”

“I’ll talk to Damien tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be in a chatty mood, since I’ve been dodging his calls. And that’s if he hasn’t already been watching us,” I say as I stand back up, ready to resume my flower removal task throughout the rest of the home. “I doubt he’d be opposed to me ending this curse for them if I’m capable. In fact, I think it’s the reason they were intrigued with me at all. Now I get it,” I say as I stand and brush out the wrinkles of my shirt.

“Violet, that’s surely not all that’s—”

“An oblivious Portocale gypsy who doesn’t know the brutal past? Make her care about you and then lift this awful curse. I don’t blame them one bit. I’d go after mercy too,” I tell her, batting a dismissive hand. “I wanted to know what was so special about me that made them so…fucking creepy.”

I smile a little, cutting through the tension with some humor. This is still a touchy subject for me, so it’s hard to keep my emotions in check when I’m tired and haven’t even had a chance to shower in two—or is it three?—days.

It’s touchy since, you know, they only seemed so curious until they got ahold of me. Then they realized I didn’t live up to expectations, obviously.

First Vance.

Then Damien.

My smile falls, and I turn to walk away before she sees the stupid, embarrassing hurt in my eyes.

Now I get it.

Chapter 2

DAMIEN

I try to play it cool when Violet walks into my house without any warning, not even the sound of her rattling van outside. Sitting up, I put out my cigar and drop my paper, tossing aside my tie that makes this a worse cliché.

“What a pleasant—”

“How do I break the Portocale gypsy curse that forces that sort of suffering?” she asks with zero preamble.

I drop back in my chair, staring at her cold, determined eyes.

“The only way to do that is to get the gypsies who cast the curse to consider the debt paid. You’d have to appeal to stone-cold hearts of the Portocale Council—four firstborns from four threads of the same family, like the four of us. If they have any honor left, they’d hear their new generation’s plea. Supposedly, their questionable honor is how they keep from being monsters themselves. This is considered punishment—not sacrifice.”

She nods, even though I can tell she doesn’t understand a word of what I’ve said.

“I don’t know the Portocale Council. Or anything about them,” she says in a rush. “I don’t think Mom knew about them either, or that’s something she would have mentioned.”

I shrug, unsure what to tell her on that. “Usually, the council finds you. They’ve never let one slip through the cracks before, but I think even they’ve grown tired of the tedious task punishing us has become. They still hate us with a fire though, and their bitterness aides in their relentlessness.”