Gypsy's Blood (All The Pretty Monsters Book 1) by C.M. Owens

Author:C.M. Owens [Owens, C.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

VIOLET

A loud knock at my door has me groaning as I turn over in the bed.

“Breakfast!” a woman sings from the other side.

“She doesn’t want breakfast. She wants to hide from her life,” Anna tells the woman who can’t hear her.

“Go. Away,” I say over my shoulder.

“Are you okay, Ms. Carmine?” she asks as she knocks again.

“No. She’s terrified of sexy monsters because she doesn’t like stepping outside of her comfort zone,” Anna answers.

“Fine,” I snap.

I’d normally be nicer, but that Do Not Disturb sign has been getting ignored for the past three days, because that woman knocks breakfast, lunch, dinner, and sometimes in between—just to check in.

“You should have chosen a hotel instead of a Bed and Breakfast if you don’t want fairies tinkling in your coffee cup,” Anna goes on, her attention riveted to the TV as she watches American Werewolf.

“Maybe if she knew you only had a bra and panties to wear out in public, she’d leave you alone,” Anna adds on a drawl. “That stolen toga you wore in should suffice, though.”

The curtains start unraveling, the threads quickly dropping into a heap, and light spills inside the room, causing me to squint. When the threads start forming a very floral jumpsuit, Anna scoffs.

“Just because you can make clothes out of curtains without getting out of bed doesn’t make you interesting. You lack the wow factor I have in spades,” she states, jutting out her chin.

The zipper and zipper tracks unravel from the cushion of the sofa, and it pops onto the new one-piece, hideous jumpsuit that will have to do, because the bedding here is too thin. And the comforter is…even more hideous with little kittens on it.

The stolen toga is one of those thin sheets I snatched from a basket near the window when I walked in.

“My ancestors once made robes and gowns for royalty. Does that make me more interesting?” I ask Anna, happy for the distraction.

“No. That simply makes them marginally more interesting. I bet they’d be proud their descendant is a gypsy drug dealer,” she states dryly.

“Stop calling me that,” I groan.

“Stop being that and I will. And stop selling polka dot pajamas on the side. Polka dots haven’t been cool since the early nineteen-hundreds when I was commanding the British army.”

I pull a pillow over my head as she begins to devolve into a spiral of absurd lies.

“We should sell rainbows instead of gold. The gold should be a prize at the end of the rainbow,” she resumes.

“The leprechauns beat you to that already,” I grumble from under the pillow, just as there’s another knock at the door.

“Go away,” Anna and I both say.

The knocking grows more insistent, because Ms. Bleaker, the owner of this particular B&B, is very persistent about getting me to eat, even when she has to hand-deliver the food.

Making a frustrated sound, I stand up, pull on the new hideous jumpsuit, and yank open the door, expecting to find the short little woman with a huge bun on her head.

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