Gypsy Rising (All The Pretty Monsters Book 5)

  Gypsy Rising

  All the Pretty Monsters

  Book 5

  C.M. Owens writing as

  Kristy Cunning

  Copyright 2019 Kristy Cunning

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the author. This eBook is licensed for your enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  The story in this book is the property of the author, in all media both physical and digital. No one, except the owner of this property, may reproduce, copy or publish in any medium any individual story or part of this novel without the expressed permission of the author of this work.

  This entire series is a work of fiction and should not be looked at for historical accuracy. A vast amount of creative liberties have been taken to forge a world of fantasy and escapism. Almost all coincidences, names, and places are simply that—a coincidence.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter10

  Chapter11

  Chapter12

  Chapter13

  Chapter14

  Chapter15

  Chapter16

  Chapter17

  Chapter18

  Chapter19

  Chapter20

  Chapter21

  Prologue

  Ten years ago…

  JANUARY (VIOLET)

  “January! January!” Mom shouts in a way that lets me know she just heard that potion go bad and she’s not far away.

  “Coming!” I call back, looking around at the scorch marks on the ground, as some burning embers float back down from the sky.

  I quickly grab my arm, and the threads start lacing it back to my elbow. Obviously, I hurry, since I’m trying to get it sewn on before Mom makes it out here.

  Damn, that shit hurts.

  But…no pain equals no gain.

  “What blew up?” she demands.

  She runs that two miles from the house very fast when she’s worried.

  “Just a little mistake!” I assure her as I glance down and see I’ve sewn my arm on backwards. “No need to worry,” I add, frowning.

  Before my arm can start healing backwards, I quickly let the threads drop.

  A cracking limb startles me, and I whirl around…as my arm drops to the ground. Mom is releasing a frustrated breath while palming her face when I spot her.

  “I’ve already told you I want to start going by Violet. It suits the new me better than January,” I remind her.

  “You can’t just change your name because you’re going through a phase. I’m supposed to have to worry about chasing away boys after curfew at this age, January. Not you blowing yourself up in some random spot on our property,” she states very calmly, as her somewhat trembling hand lowers. “My heart is more fragile than you seem to realize.”

  I grin at her, gesturing around at all the damage done to the ground. “But I withstood the worst of that. I wasn’t expecting a phantom tail whip to—”

  “Get cleaned up and go to the movies, or mall, or something. You haven’t spent two hours doing your teenage things like you promised,” she states as she turns and walks away.

  “Do I really have to?” I call back on a groan. “I almost got it this time.”

  “You just blew yourself up trying to make shampoo, January. Yes, you really do have to go be a normal teenager for a little while. You’re just a few years older than—”

  Her words stop when she chokes up a little. Any time she almost revisits my late brother’s memory, she gets that solemn, regretful look in her eyes.

  He died before I was ever born, and apparently something awful happened to him. I’d understand her constant paranoia, and certainly be more sympathetic…if I could die.

  “Well, I can’t die. We’re pretty positive of that by now, and I’m getting so much closer to success. It was just the arm,” I tell her one last time, finding her completely unreasonable when it comes to things like this.

  “You need to be careful not to lose your head, dear. Quite literally,” she grinds out. “It could end you even if nothing else ever does, or something far worse could be brought about if not. Two. Hours.”

  She really is melodramatic. It’s more dangerous to be on the roads with people who drive like maniacs, and show major disrespect and offense to those of us who drive the speed limit and follow the law like responsible human beings.

  “It’s terrifying when the horns blow. You know how much I hate surprises.”

  “When you’re doing thirty in the fifty, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that someone honks at you!” she snaps, and then says a lot of Spanish words that make no sense to me.

  One day, a foreign language will make sense to me, and I’ll know all the shit ways she’s cussing me out. Then I can surprise her by cussing her back.

  “The minimum is thirty! It’s still legal! I’d come closer to losing my head in a car crash than I would making shampoo,” I argue.

  “Then walk to the bowling alley with the boy across the street who keeps asking you to stop by when he’s working,” she says, jabbing a finger in my face.

  “I’m content with making shampoo in the backyard and you’re shoving me at a boy? What mother wants her daughter to throw it at any cute boy who offers free rental shoes as incentive to stop by? Is this because I have no womb? You feel like there doesn’t have to be a high standard for me because you don’t have to worry about what the grandkids will be like?”

  I can’t believe her. I never thought she’d stoop this low. She wants me miserable. It’s her goal in life.

  She exhales harshly, pinching the bridge of her nose, as she shakes her head…and I think she prays for patience. Mom didn’t used to pray. She seems to be doing more and more of it these days. Especially since around my fourteenth birthday when we learned you don’t need a period or living womb…to have PMS.

  “Two. Hours. And then straight to your room to watch TV, or read, or anything that will limit the potential for losing a body part. Do you understand?”

  “You don’t want me to have any fun,” I petulantly mutter, as I stalk toward the bowling alley to get my free rental shoes.

  “He better give me a free lane too, or you’ll reimburse me,” I call out.

  “I’ll give you an extra twenty if you stay out for three hours,” she volleys. “And change clothes! You can’t show up with scorch marks and a terribly sewn-on arm!”

  I could make twenty dollars for a bottle of shampoo, and I wouldn’t have to go through the hassle of primping for an unwanted date.

  Hurriedly, I clean up, and get on something semi-decent to wear that matches my favorite choker. Then I walk all the way to the bowling alley, ignoring the stench of sweaty bodies and smelly feet.

  My date for the evening smiles at me from behind the counter.

  “Is January Carmine really standing in front of me, in a public place meant for fun right now?” he drawls, propping up in front of me, as his grin stays fixed to his pretty face.

  “I’ll take those shoes you offered,” I tell him, watching as his smile only spreads.

  “You’ve got good timing. I’m just finishing up my shift,” he says as he glances at my feet over the counter.

  Then he grabs me some rental shoes without asking my size. “Let’s
have some fun. It looks like you could use it,” he adds with way too much enthusiasm, while spraying my shoes with disinfectant stuff.

  I was having fun until I had to go on a date. However, at least he seems…nice.

  ***

  “…then I could turn my shampoo into a legitimate business line for my mom’s store. It’s just really hard to get the specifics of the ingredients right without risking some lost eyebrows and stuff,” I tell him on a sigh. “So far, toothpaste has been the only thing I’ve managed to nail down with perfection.”

  He stares off at some other girl, who is lining up her shot, and his attention remains there.

  “Why are you spending so much time talking about shampoo and toothpaste?” he finally asks when his eyes lazily return to meet mine.

  “Because you asked what was on my mind. And I’m not talking about it; I’m talking about all the work that goes into producing those things,” I clarify.

  “But why?” he asks again, no longer seeming as nice as he did forty-five minutes ago when I walked in.

  “Because I find it interesting,” I say, wondering why I have to explain this at all. “And you asked.”

  His lips purse before me makes them pop, and he stands, stretches, and glances down his nose at me.

  “Right, well…I find bowling more interesting than shampoo, so I’m going to go talk to that girl who is here bowling all alone. At least we tried, right?” he asks me, smiling to cushion the blow of rejection.

  It’s so sudden that I’m stunned into momentary silence with no reaction at the ready.

  I’m being rejected? By the guy who has pestered the hell out of me to the point of bribing me with free rental shoes? After my mother forced me to come?

  This is why shampoo is more fun than boys.

  Shampoo leaves me with more dignity.

  “Yeah. She seems cute,” I say before I can stop myself, feeling too idiotic for words.

  He grins and turns to go, while I sit here wondering why in the hell I couldn’t have said something a little snider and much less encouraging.

  I glance around, noticing the bowling alley has filled up with people. Feeling embarrassed, I stand, suffering some really pointless dejection, since I didn’t want to be here to begin with. Now I can tell my mother how awful this was, and she will feel guilty for ever making me endure this.

  Winning all around. Silver lining, see?

  It’s not like monsters need to risk dating guys who like something as normal as bowling.

  I glance back over my shoulder at the pretty girl, who is already clearly more engaging to him than I was. She smiles and blushes, batting her lashes as though today is her lucky day. She appreciates his company far more than I did.

  Good for them.

  Good. For. Them.

  I don’t understand why anyone at all would want to date. This sort of sucks.

  Shoving through the doors, I stalk back home. Literally, the whole way, I’m doing some mega heavy stalking, because I’m gonna let Mom have it.

  That was humiliating.

  And mortifying.

  I was chased until I opened my mouth, and then I was rejected.

  I’m a monster, so I have no idea why Mom thinks dating normal guys is even an option for me. Normal guys would shit themselves if I had a panic attack. Or I could kill them.

  Rejecting me was likely the smartest thing he’s ever done. It feels more life-saving and less embarrassing when I think of it that way.

  And I’m going to find a way to force her to call me Violet. January was the child. Violet is the adult I am now. It really does suit me better.

  I stop midway down the road when I hear Mom’s soft singing voice carrying gently over the winds, like she’s singing just for herself. It’s weirdly that old double-dutch song.

  “The tea leaves warned of blood and death. Four gypsy first-borns breathed the last breath…”

  CHAPTER 1

  Now…

  VIOLET

  “What are you doing?” Mom asks as she walks into the kitchen where I’ve got four pots on.

  “They’re going to need everything, so I’m working with what I have to give them all the things they need to make them feel clean, after being disassembled and buried for over a thousand years,” I tell her absently, testing the thickness of the shampoo batch. “I had to work with the fruit extracts Damien gathered for me from town, but when I get home, I’ll use my stockpiled apple products that no one else seems to want. The orange stuff is flying off the shelves, though. Including my toothpaste.”

  My hand starts shaking as I stir the second pot, and her hand comes down on my shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

  “That’s very thoughtful, Violet,” she says quietly.

  There’s a moment my mind drifts back to how overwhelming it all was. The screams inside my mind, the various languages, the song they sang in unison…

  “I felt their pain so real like it was all my own, and then I felt their relief. I don’t feel peoples’ emotions like that,” I go on, focusing the vast majority of my attention on the pots. “The guys keep saying I’m empathic, but I’m not even sure what that means.”

  “It means a lot of things for a lot of people,” she says quietly. “In your particular case, you don’t actually have a strong empathic trait. It just feels strong when you do have overwhelming emotions, because they’ve not felt very many emotions at all these long, long years. Some people feel less and less with age. Monsters really grow numb,” she adds on a murmur, releasing a heavy breath. “Some of my family carries empathic traits. I’ve taught you to handle yours, even if you don’t realize it.”

  “Yeah, that makes no sense to me, since I genuinely don’t feel very empathic and never have. My question is…how did I feel them so deeply, when I’ve never once felt anything at all like that before?” I ask her, glancing over to meet her eyes.

  “Because they are very, very empathic. We were so close and they channeled all they had at us,” she explains, her eyes filling up with tears. “They empowered you.”

  She turns to face me more, almost hesitating before her next words.

  “Pandora’s box opened. My family flew in on the coattails, and seven new monsters were born. However, that still left hope at the very bottom. We all received a piece, Violet. It was the tricky box-maker’s design. Every monster was both blessed and cursed with hope.”

  She swallows thickly, her eyes glancing out the window. I wonder if the shred of a soul Arion has is not his soul at all. What if it’s just his piece of hope?

  “Out of seven alpha monsters—vampires, werewolves, deviants, sadistic skin walkers, Van Helsings, soul-eating Portocales, and the gentle, forgiving Simpletons—who do you think has treasured and cherished their piece of hope? Who do you think has sullied theirs to a diminished existence by consistently hoping for a chance to reap more bloodshed?”

  I don’t say anything, and she gives me a tight smile.

  “My hope was somewhat cleansed when you were born, regardless of my many mistakes. Still, it’s nowhere nearly as powerful as the hope they’ve remarkably maintained. All that beautiful hope is likely the real reason Idun’s House is so much stronger,” she continues. “That’s something I only deduced after remembering what it felt like to have hope at all—the very day I held you in my arms.”

  It’s too much to deal with right now, and way too heavy.

  “I should have brought apple products with me to begin with. Not that they’d have survived the plane crash I caused.”

  I’m rambling at this point, but I passed out before I could meet them, and now it’s been four hours, and we’re just waiting on the mother to wake up in a few days, since she’s second of the Neopry House and Idun is still in the wind…

  I don’t really know what’s going on. I’m just catching bits and pieces in between me zoning in and out. If my purpose is concluded, why do I still feel incomplete?

  “It’s going to take them a bit to hydrate Nadine.
She’s not nearly as strong as Idun and can’t do these things herself. For now, they’re more focused on just being free. They won’t care what products get them clean,” she assures me.

  She abruptly sniffs the air, and whirls around, just as Emit steps through the door. The gorgeous savage tosses a small smile in my direction.

  “Vance’s travel team has just arrived, and some very concerned omegas stowed away on that flight,” he tells me, and then steps aside, as Leiza bursts forth first, followed by Tiara, Lemon and Mary.

  My smile grows when I feel a slight tapping under my foot, signaling that Ingrid is also here and hiding under the floorboards already.

  “What’s this?” Mom hisses, snarling at the wolves, who quickly all lower their eyes.

  “My friends. Be nice,” I caution her, which only elicits another groan.

  Mom says a few words in yet another language, and I pointedly ignore her, while returning my attention to the omegas.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask Leiza, as Tiara carries in a large bag of what is likely more clothes for Emit and me, since they know we lost ours.

  Emit takes the bag, and I let my eyes follow his bare ass into the next room where he shuts the door.

  “What do you mean? Why would they know where your father is? What are wolves doing with your father, Violet?” Mom asks, interrupting my thoughts with what sounds suspiciously like her panicky, Violet’s-blown-herself-up-again tone.

  “Long story,” I say to Mom, too emotionally exhausted to tackle that conversation right this second.

  “We left him with Shera, since she’s been staying at our house during Arion’s absence to avoid Emily and Isiah,” Tiara says, managing not to gag on Shera’s name.

  I actually feel better knowing he’s in Shera’s hands, rather than theirs. They’d run off and leave him to die because they can’t help themselves, and then they’d be wracked with guilt.

  “Shera?” Mom asks in an unusually high octave, staring at me in horror, as Emit walks out with twitching lips, dressed in a muscle shirt and thin athletic pants.