Gypsy Origins

“So I have to change, but not you?”

“I’m whining about the fact I feel like a substitute for some woman I’ve never met, but was so horrible you all put her underground for a thousand years, with the exception of Arion, of course. I’m still figuring out what to change to get out from under that dark cloud, Vance. I’m not whining about getting my ass kicked. You have an obvious solution.”

His lips actually work to resist giving any sort of smile, and it seems to annoy him.

“The only one who would consider you a substitute for Idun is Arion. The rest of us moved on long before Idun realized we were finally done. That’s when things got particularly nasty—the day she figured out we weren’t taking her back again.”

It thunders overhead, and I get a little worried the lightning is next. Fortunately, no such bad luck. The thunder just adds eerie ambience to the dark drive instead of a warning.

We’re still going faster than I’m comfortable with, but not so fast that I’m sick.

“Damien never understood why she expected to have all four of us, but we were only allowed to have her. So he strayed. Quite often,” he continues. “Hence the reason for his nasty curse. Idun wanted to keep him loyal.”

“I agree with Damien. It’s hypocritical. She should have just ended it if it wasn’t working out for her or him.”

Vance’s lips tug in a sad smile. “Idun letting go of anything is almost as ludicrous as expecting Arion to have a soul again.”

He takes a turn onto an even darker, more wooded road, and sniffs the air before driving along at our fast but casual speed.

“She actually used Damien’s debauchery against him, and he’s the one who talked us into being okay with the sharing in the first place. Damien was always more open-minded when it came to sex. Arion didn’t care one way or the other, so long as he kept his Victoria—the first and only woman he’d ever loved or had in any capacity. He was blindly faithful until she got that ribbon on her neck and became obsessed with obtaining immortality. That ribbon was a symbol of her mortality. One pull, one snag, one snap of fabric, and she was gone forever. She lived in constant paranoia of making one minor mistake that would come at the cost of her life.”

“So Edmond’s pride started this, because he felt like an idiot when the perfect woman he’d given up the sweet Caroline for turned out to be a big fat phony.”

“Edmond’s pride triggered it. It certainly didn’t start it. She’d been looking into blood magic and had befriended a blood witch long before that ribbon was on her neck. It just became the only thing she sought after that fact.”

“What ever happened to Caroline? If the families were all turned immortal, wouldn’t she have turned as well?” I ask as I look over at him.

He says nothing. For several long beats, I wonder if I’ve asked something too severe for an answer.

“Caroline did turn immortal,” he tells me quietly. “She doesn’t look the same as she did for reasons I’ll spare you from hearing. She’s currently underground.”

“What? Why? What’d she do?” I ask in rapid-fire succession.

He hesitates, before clearing his throat. “The only way to get Idun down was to weaken her. The only way to weaken her enough for our three families and the Portocale Council to put her down was to weaken her entire house.”

“So Caroline was buried because she somehow made Idun stronger?”

“Blood magic tied us to our families and their strengths for all eternity as the first-borns. She stole from the weaker members and used the family collective strength as her own to compensate for not being the Neopry first-born. There wasn’t any choice, and Caroline, along with the other Simpletons—”

“Simpletons?” I interrupt, giving him a horrified look.

“Different times, Violet,” he reminds me.

“Sounds just as derogatory now as it probably did then,” I point out.

His jaw tics, but he finally concedes a nod. “Maybe it did. They just never really were the type to sit around complaining,” he adds quietly. “Stark contrast from the rest of the Neopry household. Her younger brothers and some cousins were skin walkers like her. Caroline was a cousin they’d taken in after her parents died in a village raid. She was a part of the Neopry house when the altar was built and the families voted. Her vote didn’t particularly matter, since the majority was for immortality.”

He pauses as though he’s trying to figure out how to best recap this story as quickly as possible.

“She lost her parents, the man she loved, and was looped into immortality against her wishes. Then she was put underground because none of you could get Idun under without weakening her. It sounds like Caroline was wronged worse than the Portocale gypsies, yet this debt isn’t paid to her,” I cut in.

He bristles, clearing his throat again.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says a little sourly. “Portocale gypsies wanted a pound of flesh and have taken more than their share over the long years. Caroline, along with all the Simpletons, agreed to go under for a thousand years to keep Idun under. They did so without complaint.”

“And they’re still under, even though the sentence has ended. Why?” I ask him directly as I turn in my seat, feeling too many things bubble up to my chest at once.

“Because no one could figure out how to bring them up without raising Idun, and we…”

He lets the words trail off, and I glare at him.

“You opted to let them suffer alongside her, despite having done nothing wrong,” I suggest as an optional ending to the suspended comment.

“No, Violet,” he says on another harsh exhale. “To be perfectly and completely honest, they haven’t crossed my mind in these long years. Not until you came about and dredged all this shit up.”

“Sounds like it needs dredging if you’re forgetting about people who were true victims in all this, just because their name was Neopry.”

“You’re innocent and naïve,” he counters.

“You’re cruel and unapologetic,” I volley.

He jerks his gaze to me, still driving, and glares. “Do you truly feel that way?” he asks me seriously.

“On this matter, yes. In general, no. Which is why I’m bothering to point it out. Out of everyone, you’re the one who seems to seek redemption the hardest.”

He turns to face the road again, slowly shaking his head. “It’s not redemption I seek. I’ve given up more than a pound of flesh by now. It’s some semblance of a less tiresome existence. Our curses were forged that night—the monsters we became for that battle were the monsters we became for all eternity. The true curse, however, is being the alphas. Once they started creating monsters, it opened up a new set of problems, to which a lid can never again be sealed over again. The only thing to do is maintain and strategically turn people with purpose.”

“How did you end up with the Van Helsing curse?” I ask softly, growing curious.

“I hunted the Portocale gypsies that night. The perfect storm had been set into motion,” he says, irking me a little with that phrasing, since Mom always called me the perfect storm. “First the Portocale orange juice that had been mixed into blood fooled us. One dead Portocale gypsy fooled us. Because tensions were already high, the Portocale family had gone into hiding. From us. It made them look guiltier.”

Movement has me jerking my gaze to the right just as a deer darts in front of us. Vance easily maneuvers the vehicle, never slipping or sliding on the ice, and misses the deer.

“I was a hunter who always found his bounty or his prized prey—a trophy hunter, some would call me. I tracked the Portocale gypsies faster than I’ve ever tracked anything or anyone. I led them to the battle to kill the monsters who’d killed the woman we’d loved, along with her entire family.”

I forget about the icy roads and eerie woods as I keep my attention trained on him, noticing the haunted, distant gaze in his eyes.

“I’d dropped two men before I heard screams, and I raced along the edge of the river until I found a hidden shack covered by branches.”

He once again clears his throat and blinks.

“I’ll spare you the details, but I found two Morpheous men—one of which couldn’t bear the family name—who’d taken our vengeance to a more monstrous level. Killing is one thing. Forcing yourself on a woman is an entirely different matter, and that’s what Dorian was doing as Amos kept a lookout.”

“Dorian Gray?” I ask, a sick feeling now accompanying his name, possibly forever.

He nods once, seeming lost in thought as his jaw grinds. “The women and children had been hidden, and Amos kept them in line while Dorian…” He stops and shakes his head, exhaling harshly. “I cut off both their heads and led the women and children to safety, before I returned to battle.”

“But the altar brought Dorian and this Amos guy back, right?” I surmise.

“Unfortunately,” he says with a firm nod. “And left the Morpheous men deadened inside to an extent, while turning them all into sexual deviants for all eternity. They’re the only monsters who can be their worst while their hearts are beating. Usually, the heart stops when one loses control and gives into the monster.”

“That’s why Damien hates Dorian,” I say in understanding.

“That’s only one portion of the complicated reasons Damien despises Dorian. Idun used Dorian to make Damien jealous on more than one occasion, and Dorian is eager to forever take away anything Damien loves or cares about.”

“And you became the man in charge of slaying the monsters when they stepped out of line as a result,” I say softly. “Forever putting the burden of their faults on your shoulders.”

“It’s not so bad as long as the other alphas do their jobs and don’t abuse their power,” he states dryly.

“So you really are very tired,” I go on, understanding him a little more.

“More than you could know, Violet. Emit can sink into oblivion. Arion can go insane and cause massacres. Damien can let his heart stop beating and throw himself pity parties. But I can’t do anything but track, hunt, and ensure survival. It’s my curse, and not adhering to it leaves me with a great number of physical and mental ailments.”

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely, knowing the fact he can’t even close his eyes right now is because he’s still being punished by my Portocale ancestors for sins he committed as another man with more hypersensitive, less cautious emotions in a time that sounds like it tried to leave even the gentlest souls hardened.

“The hunts get longer and more easily derailed these days, because I have so many unresolved ones still evading me. Time is taking its toll on me with all the added burdens of picking up their slack and punishing them when they step out of line,” he goes on, almost as though he’s defending his slower hunts. “They used to care enough to help me out. Now they see my curse as miniscule as my heartfelt, shallow sacrifice for that altar. Resentment is a festering, powerful thing.”