by Debra Dunbar
He was right. I put my arms around his neck and leaned into him, feeling his cock stir against me. It was sticky. I was sticky. My floor was sticky. And damn, I was so glad to see him again.
“Still mad at me?”
He grinned, his hands moving downward to grip my ass. “After that? No, I am most definitely no longer mad at you.”
My fingers brushed the hair at the nape of his neck. “Good. Let’s take this show into the bedroom then, and see what kind of mess we can make in there.”
He picked me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist, tucking in my knees as he carried me through the narrow doorway that led to the tiny bedroom. From the edge of the bed he tossed me onto the mattress. I knew I wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except having Irix next to me once more and spending the night in his arms.
Chapter 4
I awoke before dawn, carefully crawling my way down to the end of the bed and sliding off to make my way to the tiny bathroom. The joy of working in the fields meant I didn’t have to dress up, put on heels or make-up, or do more than stuff my hair up into a pony tail. In ten minutes I was ready to go, giving one last look at the sleeping demon in my bed before I headed to work.
Irix had kicked the sheets off and was sprawled naked, taking up the entire width of the bed with his outstretched arms and legs. I had a clear view of his muscular legs and arms, his angular face, so innocent and peaceful in sleep with a sable lock of hair curled on his forehead and the shadow of stubble on his face. His chest rose and fell with each breath, pecs and abs clearly defined, a dusting of dark hair leading downward between the sharp edges of his hip bones to his cock draped lazily across one thigh. How I wanted to crawl my way back up that bed and make it stand at attention, to see his eyes open, lust in their sleepy, golden-brown depths.
But work. Yeah. That thing I’d spent four years studying for. I’d beat out thousands of applicants for the opportunity to get up at dawn, sweat in the sun and dig in the dirt, vines scratching my skin until the sun went down. With a reluctant smile and one last longing glance, I left Irix to sleep the morning away, and quietly shut the door behind me.
I walked the half mile through the fields, eyeing the rows of young vines tied to their posts and strings. DiMarche had its share of issues, as did any agricultural concern, but in the last few days I’d begun to wonder at the sudden outbreak of a surprising variety of pests and diseases. Downy mildew. Leafrollers that laid clusters of eggs on the leaves, then fed on stem, foliage, and fruit, leaving exposed areas that allowed bacteria to infect the plant. Spittlebugs. Chlorotic spots and tissues that withered and died. Infected canes. Stunted growth. And that was just the plants themselves. The soil required constant monitoring for adequate and consistent moisture as well as any sign of fungus, root boring insects and larvae, molds and mildews. None of these would take out an entire crop, but any plant or fruit losses reduced yield and thus ate into the vineyard’s profit margin. When a winery such as DiMarche operated on volume and sold on a mid-range affordable price point, Eutypa dieback could mean the difference between happy shareholders or a painful drop in stock price.
I met up with Jorge, the field supervisor for my assignment of the day. He handed me a set of clippers and pointed me toward field eight with mature vines. “Thinning and tying today, Amber. Be careful, we’ve got a few issues with black measles in those rows. Note any plants that show signs of infection, and seal any open pruning wounds.” He looked up from the clipboard and raised an eyebrow. “You know what to look for?”
Of course. “White grape varieties will show yellow patches on the leaves, while red varieties show reddish ones. Look for dieback at the cane tip and dropped leaves as well as dark spots on the berries with a purple ring.”
Black measles tended to crop up when temperatures in the summer were high, especially in certain areas of California and Arizona. The infection was thought to come through large pruning wounds and related to a type of wood-rotting fungi. What Jorge didn’t know was that I could sense the outbreak in the plant even without the outward signs, and with enough time, I could eradicate it and heal the vines. Sadly, I didn’t have the luxury of that time in this internship. In spite of the thesis that got me this job, I’d been assigned low-level, laborer work after a brief tour of the winery. It was frustrating. I could heal the diseased vines, but that meant I wouldn’t get the trimming and tying done, and would wind up reprimanded or even fired. How ironic that they weren’t using me to my potential, that what I could do to heal these vines wasn’t part of my job description. But that’s what happened when I had to keep my supernatural abilities hidden from the human world. Now that elves were being slowly introduced into the human world—or not so slowly in places like Iceland—I might someday be able to come out of the supernatural closet. Maybe. As a half-breed I still had to worry that one of the elves finding a job among the humans would discover my succubus half and stick a knife in my back.
“Nice.” Jorge nodded approvingly. “Make sure you note any diseased plants and symptoms so we can send a team out to spray.”
I made a face, hating the thought of spraying pesticides on plants that I could heal on my own. Maybe if I got a bit ahead of schedule, I’d at least be able to fix one or two plants and spare them the toxic spray.
Shouldering my clippers and sticking the smaller tools along with the twine into my belt, I headed to field eight, nodding to other workers as I passed. We were spread pretty far apart, so socializing during the day was pretty much impossible. Beyond that, only a handful of the field workers spoke English, and in spite of my demon heritage, I hadn’t inherited a demon’s ability to quickly and easily learn languages. English was it. I’d failed high school Spanish, and Nyalla’s attempts to teach me Elvish had been hilariously unsuccessful.
By noon I’d managed to cure two small incidences of downy mildew, repair some leafroller damage, and trim and tie two long rows of vines. I was soaked in sweat, my hair sticking to the back of my neck. I’d skipped lunch to try to get ahead, and my stomach was growling loud enough that I was sure Carmen two rows over could hear it. At the end of the third row I saw something that nearly brought tears to my eyes. The vine there was the worst, with small, circular, light green circles with dark bulls-eye centers on the leaves. Black veins had stretched out and cracked, leaving seeping wounds on the cane stems. Young grapes were beginning to rot and shrivel. I went to the adjacent rows and found signs that the infection had spread. Phomopsis cane and leaf spot. The odd thing was this type of infection happened during very wet summers, and we’d had very little rainfall the past month. Black measles I could see based on the temperature we’d had this year, but Phomopsis? This shouldn’t be happening.
I noted the affected plants on my clipboard and headed in. Jorge took one look at my notes and wrinkled his nose. “Are you serious? Tell me you’re not serious.”
“I’m serious.” When I’d first been assigned to field work, Jorge had questioned every infection I’d logged, assuming that a freshly graduated student with a BS in botany wouldn’t know a mealybug from a cutworm. Within two days, he realized that I was spot-on with every diagnosis, pun intended.
“We haven’t had enough rain for this.” Jorge made a frustrated growl. “I swear this year it’s one thing after another. It’s gotten so bad that Richard is hiring an expert.”
I was an expert. But I was also not quite twenty-two years old, and didn’t have the sort of credentials that would land me that kind of job, no matter how good I’d proven myself to be at identifying fungus and bacteria and insects. It was frustrating, but I needed to pay my dues, show that I could be of value to the organization and slowly move upward in my career.
Although, as much as I loved this internship, I didn’t see myself working for vineyards long-term. The money was in commercial enterprises like DiMarche, but my heart was in environmental work, like what Jordan did. I was most enthusiastic about the prospect of joinin
g her in New Orleans, making my home with Irix there and working with Jordan to rebuild the wetland areas in the Gulf States. But even in the low-paying world of non-profit, grant-funded studies, I needed to have credibility. And jobs like this built that credibility, even if I spent most of my day thinning leaves and tying vines to the strings and posts.
“When does the expert get here?” I asked Jorge as he finished calling the pesticide crew and telling them what to spray where.
“Tomorrow morning. We’re having a meeting of all the field hands first thing to do introductions. Everyone will be expected to cooperate.” He gave me an odd look, as if he didn’t expect me to cooperate. What was that about? I’d proven myself to be a team player, getting along with everyone from the field hands to the snooty production manager.
“Looking forward to it,” I told him. “Anything to help us bring in the best harvest we can.”
Okay, that was a bit of a suck-up, but I really wanted good references when I put this job on my resume.
“It’s only an hour until your day ends. There’s no sense in your going back out into the field.” Jorge reached into the back of the Gator he drove and pulled out a spade and a small rake. “Head over to the retail store and tasting room and spruce up the beds out front.”
He had to be joking. No he wasn’t joking. I was a half-elf who’d spent a week genetically modifying crops in Hel to be drought resistant and to thrive in both high heat and an acidic soil, and I was being sent to pull sorrel and broadleaf out of the geranium beds. I took a deep breath, bit back what I truly wanted to say and smiled. “Sure. No problem.”
Without even the slightest bit of grumbling under my breath, I headed to the retail store. The brick facing had been beautifully and artificially aged. The huge oak double doors sported brass handles and hinges, with stained-glass inserts. Little sprinkler heads protruded from the black mulch in between carefully spaced annuals. I eyed them, hoping that if they were on a timer, they weren’t set to go off until after my shift completed.
It was boring and uninteresting work, and I was surprised when, after an hour, two other farm hands approached, each carrying hedge clippers. Scotty and Manny. The pair waved at me and got to work trimming the sharp lines of the boxwoods that lined the front of the tasting room and the pathway that led to the parking area. Either they’d finished their rows early, or they’d also found an alarming infestation that prompted them to report it immediately to Jorge. It was a disturbing thought that things were going so very wrong in the fields this year. One virulent strain of black measles or fungus was upsetting, but it was to be expected. These things happened, even in large, well-maintained operations. But in the past week, we’d all observed at least six distinct diseases, and over a dozen insect infestations. No wonder Richard was bringing in an expert. Such a mixture of problems, all persistent and recurring in spite of herbicides and pesticides…it made me wonder. I hated to suspect the influence of paranormal beings of magic around every corner, but after what had happened in New Orleans and in Maui, I didn’t feel comfortable ruling it out.
But why would someone target a well-known, stable vineyard this way? I could see a hostile stock takeover, but this kind of sabotage was weird. Although given what I’d seen in the past year, weird wasn’t so weird. In New Orleans, magic groups had used spells to alter the flow of the river and control the ley lines. In Maui, a farmer had invoked an ancient goddess to assist him in his failing agriculture business with disastrous results. Was this what was happening here? Had the executives and board of directors of DiMarche gotten so greedy that the healthy profits they made weren’t enough? Had they tried to increase production only to have a spell backfire on them?
Or was I just imagining it all?
My wandering thoughts took a hard right turn as a familiar energy signature grated along the edge of my awareness. I felt him before I saw the shoes at the corner of my vision, dress loafers sinking into the loamy dark earth. Stabbing my spade into the soil I looked up and saw Harkel. The demon was haloed by the sun behind his head, inky black hair in a neat man-bun, face the familiar warm, dark gold I’d remembered. He was dressed in black slacks with a white button-down shirt, a jacket slung casually over one shoulder making him look like Attila-the-Hun on his way to a stockholders’ meeting.
My heart stuttered, and I battled the very conflicting urges to jump up and flee like a crazy person with the desire to jump him and screw him right on the well-manicured lawn of the tasting room.
“What…what are you doing here?” Fear was giving way to curiosity. And desire. There was nothing threatening or menacing in his expression or stance. Actually for a warmonger, he seemed rather bashful looking down at me as I crouched in the black mulch.
“Amber Shania Lowry.” He bowed, his voice deep and gravely with a heavy accent. “I trust you received my proposal? I know it is uncivil to expect a response this soon, but thought it would be better received if I made my offer in person.”
He’d learned English. Was that effort for me? I felt the energy from our tie, felt something stir within me at the memory of our night together. Normally sex for a succubus was a one-time thing, but I’d learned there were exceptions to that rule—individuals who meant something to me. Like with Kai, I still wanted this demon, and in spite of all Irix had said about the dangers and how I needed to be cautious, I was delighted to see him.
That worried me. Irix had said to keep my distance, to avoid both giving a response and any chance of encountering this demon again, but Harkel had risked everything to come across the gates to see me. It was flattering, and I was excited to see him again, even if in my head I knew the danger I was facing. He thought I was a succubus, but here I was at a winery, digging in the dirt. What if he suspected my half-breed status? What if he guessed the truth?
“Harkel, I…I…I” My words completely failed me. All I could do was crouch there like a rabbit in the briars and eye him nervously.
His brows came together, but an expression that should have been fearful and menacing seemed instead as if he were merely perplexed. “I have crossed a line of protocol, and upset you. That is not what I wanted at all. I haven’t offered a breeding proposal in tens of thousands of years, and I apologize if my etiquette is a bit rusty. I did not mean to rush or pressure you in any way. Please take all the time you need to consider my offer—centuries if that is what you wish. I only wanted to see you again, to assure myself that you weren’t a figment of an old warmonger’s imagination.” His dark eyes grew intense, and I felt the pull of attraction between us. “I relive that night together. I close my eyes and feel your hand stroking me as I assisted you with that wagon. I remember the way your fingers tugged at my fur as we sat under the moonlight. I remember your sweet mouth on me, giving me the joy of release and a feeling of connection that I have not experienced since my banishment from Aaru so long ago.”
I stared up at him, also relieving those moments with his words. I’d been on my knees before him, his hands on his hips, letting me take the lead and bring him to orgasm. It was so hot, such a turn-on. And Harkel was one impressive demon, whether in human or in lion-bear form. Quiet. Strong. Stoic. A deep river of power under a calm exterior. Damn, I was hot for this guy.
“Amber, in my eagerness I fear I have committed an indiscretion more expected of youthful demons than one of my age. Please tell me that my sudden appearance here has not ruined any chance I have at a recurrence of our encounter. Please tell me that you are as delighted to see me as I am to see you.”
I was. And the expression on his face was so adorable, so endearing on a demon of this level and power that I couldn’t help but be flattered. “I’m surprised, Harkel. Shocked. But I’m not…dismayed.”
He smiled, and it looked oddly natural on a warmonger’s face. “Then perhaps I can have an enthusiastic greeting?”
He spread his arms wide and I couldn’t resist smiling back. I jumped up, not even wiping the dirt from my hands before throwing my arms aroun
d him and planting my lips on his. He hesitated a second in surprise, then wrapped me in his arms, pulling me close and returning the kiss with an intensity that sent heat pooling down between my legs. I liked this demon. I really, really liked this demon. Irix wasn’t going to be happy, but I couldn’t deny that I was delighted to see Harkel once more.
His lips left mine to quirk up in a questioning smile. “Does this welcome mean my proposal is under consideration?”
Uh, no. It meant I was thrilled to see him, wanted to fuck him. It didn’t mean I wanted to have babies with him. Besides, from what Irix said, he’d be sadly disappointed that baby-making with me wouldn’t be the same as baby making with a full demon, although from the erection I felt pushing against me through his pants, maybe not.
But as displeased as Irix had been to see Harkel’s breeding contract, he’d counseled me to delay. Giving a negative response right now would be insulting, and it wouldn’t be wise of me to insult a war demon as highly placed as Harkel. I’d take Irix’s advice, partially because I liked Harkel far too much to give him the cold shoulder or send him packing back to Hel.
“It’s a very flattering offer, but there is much I need to think about. I’m young, and I’ve never had offspring before.”
“Of course. It’s only natural for you to want to take time to reflect upon what legacy you would like to leave as a demon and what traits you value, as well pondering the connections you will choose to make.” He stroked my back, his hands wandering downward to grip my ass. “I’m flattered that a talented young succubus such as yourself had unreservedly accepted a tie, an intimate and significant link with me. I know I can be intimidating, and I find your open and giving nature to be refreshing.”
Uh oh. I needed to tread carefully and never forget that under this attractive exterior lay an ancient and powerful warmonger, who thought that my affiliation with him held far more significance than I’d planned when I agreed to it.