Gypsy Blood_Love bloody hurts Read online

  I close the book, a pamphlet really, and try to get some sleep, but it raises more questions than it answers. Yes, I see the warning about gypsies getting involved with the princes, but that was a long time ago, when the class system was more rigid, although, in truth, I was beginning to think that hadn’t changed here in Eastern Europe. But more than that, it said nothing about the gypsies power, where it came from, how the partnerships worked, why my meeting Zan made us both stronger. Why some partnerships didn’t do that at all, but some were special.

  Where were the answers people? Were they in the lost second half of Vadoma’s diary? Were they in the briefly referred to Prince’s diary? My little journalist brain churned and churned over these questions, whereas clearly, other people just accepted the sliver of information given as gospel. I had no one to talk to this about either, all the gypsies I had trained with had been born and raised on this shit, it was like a cult, all belief, faith, no fact.

  I’m still tossing and turning and feeling shitty and cheated when I hear a knock on the door. I know it’s Zan, he always does the same beat, it’s the Morse code for SOS, tap tap tap, bang bang bang, tap, tap, tap. He thinks it’s funny, I think it’s fucked, but hey, I can’t like everything about him, right?

  I’m a bit embarrassed that I’m wearing a onesie, press studs all down the front, little prints of pink paws all over it. But what can I do? He hardly ever comes to my room. This is my private, utterly luxurious wing of his massive castle. Whole days can go by where we don’t even bump into each other; the place is so big. And I want to be comfortable; this pyjama suit isn’t as nice as the one I left behind in the US, I really loved that one, it must have been in the wash the night I hastily packed. But this one will do, especially after I’ve been straight-laced into a bloody ball gown for most of the night.

  “How about Thailand?” he asks, entering the room and flicking his eyes to what I’m reading.

  I slide it surreptitiously under my pillow and sit up, noticing he is just in pyjama pants, they sit low on his hips, and his chest is bare. The hair on his head is wet, he’s obviously just jumped out of the shower, but there is no hair anywhere else on his perfect body. Smooth as a baby’s butt, not even a snail-trail down to his you know what. I swallow hard, drag my eyes away from his hard, muscled stomach, and try to get my mind back on the job.

  “What’s in Thailand?”

  “Ah,” he is looking around the room, a faint smile on his lips. “There are some people I need to meet, another family, quite powerful. You said you were sick of the castle and the balls.”

  Balls, yes, now there’s an interesting word. I drag my mind out of the gutter and refocus.

  “Thailand,” I breathe, “warmth, delicious hot and spicy food, massages. I’m in.”

  “I thought you might be,” he smiles, totally oblivious to the fact I’ve been mentally ravishing him. “I’ll book the flight for the day after tomorrow. I’ve got a lunch thing tomorrow. After that, I’m a free agent.”

  My stomach tightens into a jealous knot.

  “This wouldn’t be lunch with a certain blonde aristocrat would it?” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

  “Yeah,” he has the grace to look a little uncomfortable.

  “I heard her talking in the toilets. ‘She wants your babies,’ She sounds like mini mouse.”

  He grins. “No, she doesn’t.”

  “She does. If I had to spend time around that voice, I’d punch her in the throat.”

  He laughs.

  “It’s just business Freely. Do you want to go riding tomorrow morning first thing?”

  I can see he is trying to mollify me. He bought me a horse when we moved to the castle. I’d forgotten all about the joke I’d made so long ago about all the things I wanted him to buy, but he hadn’t. I’d ridden all my life, and I missed being around horses. Also, there were so many places, thick forests in Eastern Europe, accessible only by horse, that it had a practical side. In many of the rural villages cars were virtually unheard of, people still used horse and cart. Riding was a good way of staying under the radar if you wanted to scope a place out. What had surprised me was that he had also bought a horse for himself; he hated riding.

  “You really want to?” I smirk, “I know how you hate it.”

  “I’ll go,” he says, “it’s good practice. Good exercise.”

  I can see what he is doing, trying to distract me from the mouse, but I’m not going to let him off the hook quite so easily.

  “Yeah,” I say, rising and stretching in my bunny suit, ignoring his grin as he takes in all my flannel glory. “I could certainly do with some exercise. And about that cabana boy…”

  He turns and leaves the room, shaking his head.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place by the way,” he turns back and nods at the room. He’s grinning as he leaves.

  I look around. I don’t think I’ve changed much, added a few pot plants maybe. There’s a clothes explosion on the sofa in the centre of the room where I’d just dumped my shopping from earlier in the day prior to the ball. I’d gone a bit overboard with underwear, to be fair, but when you had an unlimited credit card, you may as well get some sexy gear. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see me in it, but hey, I felt nice knowing I had something frothy on underneath my cammy pants and t-shirts.

  I take in what he must have seen, and blush. There are lacy knickers and bras thrown left, right and centre. A dark blue lace G-string and matching bra lie discarded on the white carpet – I’d toyed with wearing it under the ball gown, but the straps had shown. I sigh and decide I’ll pick it all up in the morning; he obviously thinks I’m a slovenly tart now, on top of everything else, great.

  Chapter 7

  I would have whined as we settled into the economy class seats, but I was sitting next to Zan, and we had hours and hours of flight together to look forward to, pressed up close like sardines, so there was a silver lining to the cloud.

  “So, run out of dosh already huh? Guess I’m more high maintenance than you imagined.”

  Zan chuckles and buckles his belt, stretching his long legs out as far as he can, which isn’t far.

  “I couldn’t get any first class tickets at such short notice, pulled all the strings, no dice, and in hindsight, it’s probably better that we don’t make a splash entering the country. Most vamps travel first class; we might get noticed.”

  “Are there many in Thailand?” I frown.

  “Hope so,” he grins.

  I return his grin, but I don’t share his enthusiasm. I know he is meant to hunt vampires, and I am expected to help him and protect him, hell, we’d trained for months in that fucking camp for just this purpose, but personally I was torn about the whole, kill vampires for no reason thing.

  I still had nightmares occasionally about the vamp I’d killed in Singapore, and I couldn’t talk about that with Zan, or anyone, because to Zan, the only vampires he knew were Tanya, who had tried to eat him, and the ones that he was hunting who had killed his brother. But to me, vampires were still people, after all, Tanya was my best friend. Sure she was a psychotic killer, but she was also a person, and she was trying to be a better vampire, didn’t actively seek to kill people, usually, so why should Zan, or me for that matter, seek her out to destroy her? I was struggling with this, I really was.

  Now, hearing Zan’s enthusiasm about killing vampires, I begin to squirm a little. Sooner or later this would come to a head, and I didn’t think what was going to be revealed would be pretty.

  “Are you uncomfortable,” he asks in a low voice, seeing me wriggle and frown as the plane takes off.

  “Huh? Oh yeah, of course, I bloody hate plane seats. Usually, I’d lay down across two or three and stretch my back; it’s going to kill me again after this flight.”

  “You didn’t lay down when we flew from the States,” he says, frowning.

  “Well, we weren’t exactly on talking terms at that point where we,” I snap, “so I don’t t
hink you would have appreciated me saying I wanted to lay my head in your lap and stretch out.”

  He looks at me, his face serious, I have no idea what he is thinking when he raises his hand and asks a stewardess to bring me a blanket and pillow.

  Of course, she brings them toute de suite. All he has to do is flash those baby blues and women do anything he wants, but I don’t have time to be shitty about this because he lays the pillow on his lap and pats it.

  “Go on,” he smiles, “I know you can sleep anywhere, and if this makes you more comfortable, stretch out. I’m going to watch one of the crap in-flight movies.”

  I frown. I’m not sure this is a good decision, I’m so tempted, it does look a hell of a lot comfier than sitting in this reclining torture chair, but still.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s just a nap, Freely.”

  “Ok.”

  I undo my belt, lay my head down on his lap, and curl my legs up on my chair, but I need to rearrange the pillow a few times before I’m comfortable. I face towards the seat in front, away from his body, and close my eyes. But the pillow just isn’t comfy; it’s digging into me. I groan in frustration and try rearranging it again when I see, or feel rather what the problem is. I look up to see him staring at the roof of the plane, his jaw clenched, and I start to giggle.

  “Sorry. I’ll try not to wriggle around.”

  “That would be best,” he says, through gritted teeth.

  I’m still smiling as I fall asleep. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered what was wriggling on his lap, after all, he’s a healthy, virile young male, but the fact was, he was hard for me, and that was a very good sign.

  The hotel he booked us into made up for the crappy plane seats. It was six star luxurious.

  He spent the first day in meetings all afternoon in the restaurant. I stayed out of the way, nursing a wine and a book at a nearby table, but I appreciated that he introduced me to every prince that came in.

  Now, we were making our way, via the elevator, to the top storey for massages. It was the first chance I had to talk to him about how things were progressing, and I was hanging out to get my back stretched and pounded. Although I’d slept well on the plane and, most embarrassingly, dribbled all over the pillow, my back still ached.

  He hadn’t mentioned if it was uncomfortable having a dead weight lying across him the whole flight and, remarkably, he must have a pretty strong bladder, because he only needed to get up once during the flight.

  When he came back from the loo, he leaned over and pulled me back onto his lap. I was mostly still asleep and dropped back like a floppy cat. I thought I felt him playing with my hair, but I think that was just part of a dream. In my dream we were doing it big time in the plane toilets, I’d always wanted to join the mile-high club, and apparently my subconscious was keen to run with that, even though in practicality I thought aeroplane toilets smelled strange and were way too dirty and crammed for sex. It was a very good dream.

  I look over at him now, his face serious, and wonder what is going on in his brain. He is right. He has changed from the man I first met in the pub. He is more serious, more driven; it takes a bigger effort to drag the light-heartedness that used to be so evident, back to the surface.

  “So are they going to work with you?” I ask as we rise, storey by storey. I know he has been trying to convince prince bloods to toe the line and work in a coordinated way to destroy vampires. I also know that many are glad to be free of the ruling family’s direction, now that Richard is no longer around, and that a small power vacuum has developed, leading to dissent. We had discussed during our horse ride what his strategy could be, coming into these meetings.

  He sighs.

  “It’s a hard one. My brother seems to have been a kind of a benevolent despot. I mean the families did what he told them, but he led by example. He was at the front line for vampire slaughtering in all the major capitals of the world whenever a family called for aid. I don’t have that credibility.”

  “Yeah, well that’s what got him killed,” I say, as we step out of the elevator. I realise I’ve been a bit flippant, and immediately feel bad, but he doesn’t react.

  “I know,” he frowns, “but I can’t expect these people to follow me if they think I’m hiding behind my ivory tower.”

  Our conversation is interrupted by the approach of two Asian masseuses. One looks to be about 65, the other, an attractive 22-ish.

  We are led to the massage tables. Naturally, the young one goes for Zan, leaving the older one to me. I hope she’s not too rough, but I hope she has experience and can fix my back, it’s really starting to ache from all the sitting; I’m wondering if I might actually have a disc out.

  The women direct us into separate change rooms and hand us little black paper knickers; I laugh out loud as I hear Zan groan.

  Before he can come out, I bolt to the first table and lay face down, and the masseuse covers my lower body with a white towel. I turn my head to watch Zan come out of the change room and give him a low wolf whistle. The young masseuse giggles behind her hand.

  “I blame you for this,” he mutters, as she directs him to lay on the table. I notice his eyes fixate on the small bit of side boob he can see as I lay with my hands above my head. ‘Are you actually admiring my tits? Do you still want me? Please, please say you do.’

  I close my eyes as the masseuse works her magic, but open them again at her first question.

  “So how many babies?”

  “Huh?”

  “You and your husband, how many babies?”

  It’s Zan’s turn to laugh; I can see his body rocking on the table next to me, his guffaws smothered by the table. He knows I am the least maternal chick on the planet.

  “Uh, no, we are - no babies,” I say quickly, trying to cut the conversation short.

  “Ahhh,” she says looking across to Zan and shaking her head knowledgably. “Bad fucking. You very bad fucking, young man.”

  Now I really piss myself. Zan raises his head in indignation and stares at me as I laugh and laugh, “yes, he is very bad fucking,” I say through my giggles.

  Nothing more is said after that, but I periodically burst into laughter. And after half an hour of blissful and sometimes painful kneading, we are told we can rise and have a spa and sauna.

  Walking through to the room next door, wrapped like a burrito in my thick, white towel, I see we are on the very top storey, the room is completely glass, and we have a 360-degree view of Bangkok. I notice, secondly that the spa is round and small, and there is only one. A Nordic-inspired pine-clad sauna sits on the back wall, again, it looks tiny, room for two at a squeeze. There are two shower cubicles next door to the sauna. Personally, I’m not opposed to the idea of sitting in a dark, sweaty little box with Zan, but I have a feeling he won’t like it, and for much the same reason as he won’t like sharing a spa – too intimate.

  “Ah,” I say, turning as he as walks in, “we don’t have to spa.” Truth be told, I really don’t want to get in there, but I don’t share why. Spas do funny things to me, turn me super horny, I might not be able to control myself as all those little bubbles start tickling all the right places. I’m fairly sure Zan would rebuff me if I jumped him. I think I’ll bow out. “I’ll go straight to the sauna,” I add.

  “No, no,” the old woman shouts through to us from the other room, “wash off oils, soak muscles, then sauna, then shower.”

  “Jeez,” I roll my eyes.

  “You first,” he says smirking. I’m wondering if he can read my mind, his eyes look kind of calculating. ‘Is this a test?’

  “Ok turn your back.”

  “Why. Won’t make any difference. Bad fucking, remember?”

  I grin.

  “Just turn your back.”

  He laughs and turns, and I slip the towel off. I’m naked and terrified that once he gets into the spa, the bubbles won’t hide my body and also I won’t be able to sit far enough away from him without touching him. �
�Touching, very bad, self-control, not good’ my inner Yoda monologue reminds me. I dip my toe in, the water is hot and the bubbles very frothy. Taking a deep breath, I lower myself in and as I do I catch the reflection of his face mirrored in the windowed walls. He may be facing the other way, but he can see everything.

  “Hey! That’s cheating!”

  He laughs and walks to the spa, dropping his towel and facing me, completely nude and shameless.

  I swallow and look up from what I have only ever imagined prior to this, ‘and believe me I’m not disappointed,’ to his eyes. They are dark and unreadable.

  Lowering himself into the water, he sits opposite me, back straight, as far away as he can, and regards me solemnly.

  “Do you still want me?” I ask quietly, the words just slipping out of their own volition, “the way I want you?”

  He looks pained, and at first I think he is not going to answer me, but finally, I see his shoulders relax. “Yes,” he groans, “as much as I try to fight it. I still want you.”

  I don’t know what to say as he reaches for me and I slide over to his side of the spa. He draws my legs up, so I’m straddling his thighs, and I hold my breath. Slowly, carefully, he pulls out the chopsticks that I use habitually now to secure my hair into a bun, and releases my curls.