Gypsy Truths (All The Pretty Monsters #6)- Kristy Cunning Page 0,53

moving my eyes back to Vance, as he goes to step in front of Emit, clearly taking a stand against Idun.

These are dead wolves, meaning this was Emit’s problem that clearly got out of hand. His eyes are so defeated, and his jaw wobbles with fury and heartbreak.

He hates killing his wolves. Thousands are dead all around him.

I find myself desperately wishing I could console him retroactively.

That old song enters my mind, because I’m too distracted by all the dead things to remember what the hell I’m supposed to actually be doing.

“The tea leaves warned of blood and death,” I sing into the air when my mind starts feeling overwhelmed.

Just before I start to sing the next lyric, the world around me wavers, and I stagger into a new setting.

For just a brief glance, I catch sight of a woman, seeing her speaking to the air as if someone is there. There’s a cup with tea leaves, as though someone’s been reading them.

I don’t know the pattern, the art, or the practice, but it’s clear what it represents. This is the start of the song.

Seconds before the image wavers again, I spot Vance, spying on the woman from behind a tree, with Damien right behind him.

Suddenly, the scene shifts, and I’m once more surrounded by bodies. The abruptness of it damn near steals my breath. What breaths I do catch sends bile to the back of my mouth, because of the overpowering medley of stenches this one is putting off.

My eyes widen when I see throngs of people fighting with swords against wolves and various other creatures.

I can’t tell who is on what side, because it’s utter chaos. I’m not even sure if they’re aware of whom they’re supposed to be fighting.

Jerking my head away from a spray of blood, my gaze lands on Vance, as he and Arion war with each other.

The image wavers, and suddenly we’re on another battlefield, only this time, Vance is fighting at Arion’s side against Emit and Damien.

Fangs are bared. Eyes are wild. Rage is fierce.

This is different from the half-hearted bouts of combat I’ve witnessed.

This is real.

What I’ve witnessed is mild anger and a few tantrums by comparison.

Emit spins, biting down on Arion’s arm, sending the vampire to the ground.

Vance bats down Damien’s sword, knocks him to the ground, and manages to slam his foot into Emit’s side hard enough to knock him away. Arion struggles to his feet, just as the image wavers yet again.

Over and over, I end up on one bloodstained battlefield after another, watching them war with each other over corpses. In some, Arion is dancing with glee, laughing as he enjoys every moment. In others, he struggles. In fact, it’s the same with all of them, as though their power ebbs and strengthens in any given frame.

Vance is the only one who stays consistently strong, but it’s a lot of effort coming from him each and every time, sometimes straining more than others.

After seeing too many fields and forests full of corpses, tears start filling up in my eyes, and that weight on my chest grows to be unbearable. I can’t take it any longer.

“Four gypsy first-borns breathed the last breath,” I sing, hoping it works.

This time when the image wavers, we’re suddenly in a brightly lit meadow full of wildflowers. The air smells so clean and fresh—a stark contrast from the death and decay.

I breathe in so deeply that it physically hurts. I’ve never missed clean air so much in all my life. Even smoggy air was better than that.

Turning, my newly found breath freezes in my lungs when I spot four familiar people walking toward a woman. At least I think it’s a woman, since the figure is clad in an odd, almost Egyptian style dress full of gold dangly things.

There’s a veil connecting to a headpiece that leaves very little visible on her face—her eyes, the bridge of her nose, and a peek of her forehead. The headpiece is made of the same silky material as the dress, keeping every piece of her hair hidden.

There’s so much to take in all at once.

Aside from the veiled woman, the people are familiar, because my mother had a framed painting with their images. It’s been in all her homes. She simply said it was family she wasn’t close to anymore whenever I asked about them.

My brow furrows, because realization dawns.

These must be the Portocale first-borns. One of these is Mom…in her original face. I wish I knew