“I honestly don’t know,” he tells Tom, before glancing over at me and gesturing subtly toward the door.
I walk out first, since it’s clear he doesn’t want to turn his back and leave Tom at my mercy.
“Violet has something stuck to her that is draining the ghosts she comes into contact with for any amount of time. This town is full of ghost energy,” Emit says quietly to me once we’re outside, and he looks around like he’s searching for prying ears. “What if she sent Violet here because this much energy would give her an even bigger head start into another gypsy’s body the second another Portocale died?” he asks.
My eyes flick to his.
If Marta Portocale has truly found a way to gypsy-hop early…fucking hell. It’d make me hate that bitch that much more.
“One just died,” I remind him very quietly. “I haven’t even gone under yet.”
“It’s been weeks since that death, and Marta certainly hasn’t shown up to stab something through our hearts for putting our hands all over her daughter just yet. I’m wagering that body came too soon, with any luck,” he adds tightly.
It’s clear we’re both giving a lot of merit to the supposed impossible. With the lucid horde and various other impossible things happening all around us, I can tell we’ve both gone off the deep end, because we’re considering this to be possible.
I astral projected from my undead grave, got to secretly spy on them for a bit, and decided to forsake Idun until death comes to our very lovely, possibly truly forbidden gypsy.
In short, I’m not ruling anything out these days.
I’m going to have a migraine or my head is going to explode. One or the other. It’s been too long since I’ve had to take in quite this very many things in all at once. I usually stay fairly well on top of things, but a hundred years is a lot to catch up on.
I snort derisively, deciding to sort through the fresh mess later. “Violet has always been forbidden. If this is really true…”
I let the words trail off, not even willing to think it.
“Then the daughter who follows her mother’s orders with blind trust will be reunited with that horrible fucking cunt soon enough, and life is going to get difficult,” Emit says as though he’s finishing that sentence, despite my decision to leave it incomplete.
I give him a dead look, feeling it all slipping away like sand through my fingers. I planned for everything; everything but this. How could I have possibly seen this coming?
“If she’s truly an impossible child from the original Marta Portocale, it’s not difficult, Emit. It’s truly, undeniably, irrevocably forbidden.”
“Violet is more amendable than that. She’s—”
“If this is true, then she’s not born from some future generation, wolf. Don’t be stupid,” I grind out. “She’d no longer be detached from the situation. It’d become her mother’s story. It’d become her mother’s family. It’d become—”
“So why is it that the one Portocale gypsy who doesn’t know the story behind the Gypsy’s Pride song…is the daughter of Marta Portocale herself?” he interrupts.
I stop talking, because I can’t even conceive of a plausible answer. Which just sends everything I thought I had figured out to a screeching halt, since it’s such a damn good point that calls into question this ludicrous suggestion.
“Maybe Marta Portocale’s dead heart started beating again when she had a child that shouldn’t have been possible. And there’s something else I should tell you, since this just got far more complicated,” he says on a sigh.
“What?” I grind out, waiting on the next bomb.
His eyes flick to mine. “Violet’s not a temporary solution, Arion.”
“Of course not. That’s what I just said. Marta would never allow it, and it’d be a daily struggle to get Violet to even acknowledge us. This whole plan is shot to—”
“Violet isn’t going to age and live out a mortal life,” he randomly interrupts, causing the words I had on my tongue to die.
I look over to see how very convinced he is of what he’s saying, as if he knows it for a fact.
A sensation of guarded realization washes over me.
This is the secret they’ve been keeping…
He’s telling me. Just him. Not all three of them. Not after the fact.
“W-what are you talking about?” I ask him, needing to hear the words.
He exhales a breath that’s clearly weighted with indecision, as though he dreads being the one to break this news.
“She hasn’t gained or lost a pound in over two years,” he finally says, eyes flicking to mine.
My feet move back a few steps, that confession nearly knocking my knees out from under me.
The sound of my heartbeat drums in my ears, as the two of us stare eye-to-eye for several silent minutes. It takes a lot of effort to absorb something like that so suddenly.
“How long have you known this?” I decide to ask, my mind rushing to process, while my heartbeat climbs.
Can’t have been long. Violet’s barely been in town a wink.
“Since the night I killed my wolves,” he tells me, his face bearing no expression.
Running a hand through my hair, I try to recall anything I missed from that night.
“I didn’t kill those wolves, Arion.” He pauses like he’s waiting on me to catch up, and I come to a very slow mental jog when I do.
My mind flicks back to the scene in question, remembering the gory, beautiful mess…
“How could she have—”
“She’s apples and oranges,” he says in a near whisper, glancing around again, likely ensuring we’re safe from prying ears. “She’s Neopry Simpleton and…now possibly the daughter of Marta Portocale. That last part is still rather new to me, and I’m still uncertain whether or not I believe it. Regardless, she’s certainly a strong-blooded Portocale of that family’s branch…and a Simpleton.”
The breath I finally release is so heavy that it leaves my chest with an ache.
I lean against the wall behind me and simply stare out in front of me. He’s bloody deranged, because that is most certainly impossible. It’s too much. Too many laws cross and break if it’s true, and the universe doesn’t allow for such mistakes to happen naturally.
“She hasn’t gained or lost a pound in two years. She’s had her head removed and didn’t die. Her execution has been attempted numerous times, with no success stories, obviously. She’s undeniably immortal, Arion.”
He pauses as though he’s just thought of something else, while my mind stalls, stumbles, and reels.
“Neopry Simpleton…” He lets the words trail off, his mind clearly working something out when his gaze drifts to a spot on the wall, absently staring there.
Then his head snaps back to mine, and his eyes widen as though he’s figured out something crucial.
“Marta Portocale didn’t tell her the story, because she didn’t want her to hate her when she caught up to present-day events,” he says very quickly. “Especially since Marta was all too happy to put the Simpletons underground. We’re not the only ones at fault in this particular mess.”
“This is why you knew Violet would demand the Simpletons get raised,” I note, still staring ahead, as a dark grin begins to tug at my lips. “I take it back. Violet’s more perfect than ever. Fuck Marta Portocale.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place. My gaze flicks from it to his very intently trained eyes.
“Tread carefully, Arion. I want you away from Idun so badly I’m willing to play your game,” he says like he’s cautioning me. “But Marta—”
“If Violet’s immortal, she’ll outgrow her mother’s influence. I’m a very patient man, Emit. Now there’s time to be patient,” I say with a shrug.
“I can’t help but be suspicious when you make things too easy,” he tells me warily.
“You’re all just finally giving me something to agree with. Maybe it’s I who should be suspicious,” I say as I turn and start walking away, rethinking absolutely fucking everything. “We should probably call the others.”
Chapter 23
VIOLET
Shera walks into my shop just as I finish closing out the register, after finally getting to work in my own store. I even got to make some new tubes of toothpaste today.
“Well, now that you’ve opened your house to the public, any vampire can just walk in,” she says a little primly.
“So long as the OPEN sign is on the door. I’ve learned the loopholes. You’re in luck. You made it in one full minute before closing,” I say with a smile. “If I flip the sign, will you be ejected by some phantom force or just catch on fire?”
I’m surprised there’s not a witty retort or snappy comeback.
She just sort of drags around the shop, glancing from thing to thing, not saying anything.
“Are you going to make me ask?” I say to the quiet Shera, who is apparently picking me up for yet another date I never actually agreed to.
And she’s thirty minutes early.
“I’m sorry, are you interested in my life? That seems like a friend thing, and you haven’t even invited me inside your house,” she says very petulantly, as she pretends to check out some of the products on my shelf.