Layla
I feel like you should be insulted, but I'm not sure why," Sally states thoughtfully. "Or maybe it was a compliment?"
I wait until I hear the front door close before saying, "I hate you."
"You didn't tell him I was a gangsta's prostitute in the thirties," she says accusingly, turning an annoyed look on me. "It's I who hates you."
I'm back to the forgotten face-palming. "Because you were a lounge singer in the thirties. We've gone over this. You weren't ever an astronaut, nor were you a prostitute, nor did you kill Hitler, since Hitler didn't even die in the thirties!"
"Or so they want you to think," she states in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, pointing her finger at me.
"Why am I feeding your delusions? I'm supposed to be ignoring you unless you're telling the truth," I grumble as I turn and start down the stairs.
"Rude!"
"No, it's called therapy. No ghost comes back from this phase, but I'm determined to make you the first," I call over my shoulder. "Step one is getting you to focus on what is really happening."
For whatever reason, I happen to like the pretty redhead who died in her prime when her boyfriend got jealous and shot her in the bedroom after catching her with another man.
She's stuck in ghost limbo, unable to move on.
And sadly, she's the closest thing to a real friend I've ever had.
My mother's most important rule? Never grow fond of the dead. They still have a worse death coming for them.
Dorian
"A Van Helsing is truly walking onto my land," Kier says as I step onto his patio.
He's bloody naked under the robe that he hasn't bothered to tie shut. Some things never change, no matter how many centuries flit by.
"It's always puzzled me why you think your dick is really worth showing off," I drawl, pocketing my hands as I lean against the side of his house.
He gives me a crooked, smug grin, as he drinks from a glass of wine.
"It's always puzzled me why you have to look at my cock before my eyes," he fires back.
I almost forgot why I hate speaking to the mutt. The only one looking at his dick is himself. Matter of fact, that's where his eyes are now, as he grins down at it.
Neanderthal.
"Why the hell did you ask to speak with me? I rather prefer our arrangement of sticking to our own corners of town," he says more seriously, eyes finally up.
"Layla Rivers is in town," I tell him, watching for his reaction to see if he's visited her yet.
"Marta's niece? So? We knew she was coming to take over her aunt's shop," he says, eyeing me like I'm an idiot.
He definitely hasn't gone to see her.
"She has Thorne's blood."
He looks caught off guard, frowning. "Okay. Most Thorne gypsies use fake names, so it's not a shocker. But another Thorne comes to live in Haunted Valley? Is this one also willing to supply us?"
"Indeed. She said she'd have orders running soon."
"Marta was a unique Thorne. She hated us but didn't mind taking our money and giving us the things we need. As unusual as it all is, I don't see how this second one is so special as to warrant a face-to-face conversation," he states distractedly as he flicks through his phone. "We all actively avoided Marta after observing her for a brief day or so."
"This new little Thorne had no idea who I was," I tell him, waiting on his slow wheels to start turning and catch up.
I'm worried smoke is about to plume from his ears when he continues to stare at me like he needs more information and is overworking that canine brain of his.
"She's lying about her name to me…and about her gypsy heritage. However, she's certainly not lying about the fact she doesn't know me. I gave her my name, and she never blinked an eye. Had I not made a minor oversight in wording, involving this era's version of manners, she very well may have stayed pleasant," I explain.
He still looks confused.
Fucking idio—
"It sounds like you're trying to tell me that a Thorne met you and still posed as a non-Thorne and has no idea who you are, but that makes no sense, unless she has no idea who you are..."
"You really do overcomplicate things," I dutifully inform him.
"Whoever she is, Marta left her everything, and Marta sure as hell knew who you are. Every Thorne does. How long have we been alive?" he asks, sounding genuinely baffled.
"It got a little depressing to keep count, so I stopped trying for the sake of my health," I say in a droll tone and a roll of my eyes. "You just simply can't count that high."
He growls, and I give him an unimpressed glare.
"The point is, there's no such thing as a Thorne who doesn't know you."
"Or you," I point out, since he's making it sound as though I'm in this on my own.
He gives me a bored expression before sipping more of his wine.
"Is she playing you by any chance?" he asks as he sits back.
"I'm not sure what the point would be. We certainly don't pose a threat to Thorne gypsies—anymore. With Marta dead, her fake niece-by-marriage just likely became someone's new prime target, if they even know she exists."
Elias and Lucien will choke on their aged asses if they find out I found her first.