by Aimer Boyz
“Okay, yeah,” Michael said, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “If you don’t mind the drive, that would be good. Thanks.”
Symon minded that Michael was trying to write him out of his life. He minded that his fledgling was running to another vampire for help instead of turning to him. He minded that Michael’s fucking dimple had gone AWOL, but he didn’t mind driving him to Etienne and Andrew’s. He would let Michael walk away if he needed to, but he wouldn’t abandon him.
Blood of my blood, ever and always.
Symon grabbed his jacket, checked that his phone and keys were in the pockets. “Good to go.”
***
“No way,” Michael said, as Symon pulled into visitors parking at Etienne and Andrew’s condo. “They live in a church?”
The tension between them a silent passenger in the car, it had been an uncomfortable drive. Michael hadn’t spoken in over an hour, longer if you didn’t count giving Symon directions to the QEW as conversation. Not that Symon had exactly been chatty either. Funny how that worked.
“An ex-church, but yeah.” Symon locked the rental car, waited for Michael to join him on the walkway. “Etienne likes the irony.”
They followed the walkway to the front of the church, Michael taking in the thick stone walls, Gothic arches, and massive oak doors. “Etienne’s got that Old-World vibe, I can see him living here, but Andrew?”
“Old World?” Symon tugged on the wrought iron circle that opened the old church door. “Etienne’s as Canadian as you are, born and bred in Montreal.”
“Yeah?” Michael said, stepping over the ancient stone threshold and into a glassed-in modern foyer with all the requisite security cameras. “And when was that exactly?”
“Uh, he was fifteen when I met him in 1787,” Symon said, punching a code into the touch screen that seemed to grow out of a stainless-steel pillar. “So that would mean—”
“1772. You’re telling me Etienne was born in 1772?”
“Yes.” Symon said, as the foyer door unlocked, granting them access to the lobby and its elevators.
“Un-fucking-believable. Do you guys even remember your birthdays?”
“Why, you going to send me a card?” Symon said, hitting the button for Etienne’s floor. “September 17, 1403.”
The elevator walls were panelled in impressive: mirror and marble, reflection upon reflection. Personally, Symon thought the look screamed fun house, but he wasn’t a decorator. He noticed Michael staring at himself in the mirrors, sliding a hand over the buzzed hair at the back of his head, and looking over at him. No, not at him, Michael was looking at his hair. “What?”
“Your hair. Was it always like that?”
“Like what?”
“That length,” Michael said, gesturing at Symon’s head. “That style.”
“Pretty much, why?”
“You mean I’m going to have this haircut forever?” Michael asked, staring at himself in the mirror.
“That’s what you’re worried about?” Symon asked, laughing at him.
The elevator doors slid open onto a serene hallway, muted colours and high-tech lighting. Symon, Michael at his side, stopped at a high-gloss black door wearing a fleur-de-lis knocker. “Did you tell them?” he asked, as he let the knocker fall.
“No. Kind of hard to explain in a text.”
The door swung open and Andrew stood there, a smile on the slightly too wide mouth, and welcome in the leaf green eyes. “Michael, it’s…Hey, Dad. I didn’t know you were coming too.” He stepped back, letting them into the condo, and closed the door behind them. “Etienne,” he said, as his partner entered the foyer. “Two guests for the price of one.”
“This is becoming a bit of a habit with you, Symon,” Etienne said, dark eyes set to smoulder, lip curled in disgust. “First Andrew and now Michael?”
Symon shrugged. “Coincidence, maybe.”
“Want to fill me in here?” Andrew asked, looking from his partner to his sire. “Anyone?”
“Uh,” Michael raised his hand, drawing Andrew’s attention to him. “I should have—”
“Oh, shit.” Andrew’s eyes tried to fall out of his face. “Symon, what the fuck did you do?”
“Hey, not his fault,” Michael said. “He was trying to save my life.”
Symon hadn’t expected that, Michael coming to his defence. Not that he needed defending, but still, nice.
“Okay, Westworld can wait,” Andrew said, shooing them into the living room and its black leather couches. “Still feels weird,” he said, pointing the remote, and shutting the flat screen down. “Not offering you anything to eat or drink. Not having a glass in my hand while we talk. Or coffee, coffee would be good right now,” he said, settling onto the couch beside Etienne.
Michael took the couch opposite, but Symon only unzipped his jacket. He wasn’t sure he was staying.
“Coffee, yeah,” Michael said. “Guess I won’t be working at Starbucks anymore.”
“Do they have any twenty-four-hour locations in Niagara-on-the-Lake?” Andrew asked.
“No, but maybe in Niagara Falls, at the casinos or hotels. Thanks, I didn’t think of that.”
“It’s a bit of an adjustment,” Andrew said. “The night life.”
Michael barked out a laugh. “Yeah.”
“Would you like to tell us how this happened?” Etienne asked, his voice gentle as he spoke to Michael.
Hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, Symon noted that Etienne had asked Michael, not him. He was looking out for Michael, as he should, as Symon had known he would.
Michael took a breath, dragged and a hand through his hair. “We were driving back from my parent’s place. Early this morning, maybe, five-thirty, six?” he said, looking over at Symon for confirmation. Symon nodded. “The roads were a mess. Wind, snow, real blizzard conditions. Out of nowhere, two deer just standing there. I hit the brakes; the truck went into a spin. That’s all I remember. Look, Symon wasn’t recruiting, okay? I was dying.”
“Sire?”
“The truck slid into a ditch,” Symon said, continuing the story. “A fence post smashed through Michael’s window. Broken glass shredded his neck. He was bleeding out. What would you have done?” he asked Etienne. “If it had been Andrew?”
Etienne raised the hand Andrew slipped into his, kissed Andrew’s fingers. “Exactly what you have done, Sire.”
Andrew shared a look with Etienne and turned to Michael. “How can we help?”
Michael flicked a glance at Symon, cleared his throat. “Uh, Symon says I can’t be wandering around out there among people until I learn to control the hunger. I was hoping you guys could give me some lessons?”
Both men looked to Symon, obviously not understanding why Michael was asking for their help instead of his.
Etienne opened his link to Symon.
What has happened between you?
Symon shook his head. He didn’t know why Michael was shutting him out. He was beginning to think Michael didn’t know either.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather have Symon…?” Andrew asked Michael.
“No.” Symon and Michael spoke together, one resounding no landing on top of the other.
“Michael thinks I’ve done enough,” Symon said, smiling as if it was a joke, but no one laughed.
“Symon saved my life,” Michael explained, to the floor between his feet. “He doesn’t have to babysit me too.”
In other words, the words Michael was trying not to say, he didn’t want Symon’s help. Andrew widened his eyes at Etienne and they both turned to Symon, pelting him with silent question marks. They didn’t get an answer. Symon didn’t have one.
“Etienne and I haven’t eaten yet,” Andrew said to Michael. “You’re welcome to join us. Get a little practice in.”
Michael’s head shot up. “Tonight? But I’ve already eaten.”
“For your first few meals,” Etienne said. “It is better if you are not all that hungry. You will find it easier to c
oncentrate.”
“If you’re starving,” Andrew explained, “it’s hard to think of anything else.”
“Okay, sure,” Michael said. “Whenever you’re ready. Thanks.”
“It is our pleasure, Michael,” Etienne said.
“Come on,” Andrew said, standing. “I’ll show you the guest room, find you some towels.” He touched Etienne’s shoulder, stopped to hug Symon on his way out of the room.
Michael said nothing. A brief nod in Symon’s general direction, and he was following Andrew into the hallway.
Symon dropped down onto the couch Michael had vacated. “So, what’s new with you?”
“I am sorry, Symon.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“He cares about you.”
“He did.”
“Non, mon ami. He cares about you still. If you did not see him step between us in the foyer, I did. He defended you. That is not the action of a man who does not care.”
“He can’t even look at me,” Symon said. He slouched down on the couch, tipped his head back against the black leather and stared at the ceiling. “I miss him.”
Etienne walked around the couch to stood behind Symon, placed his hands on Symon's shoulders. “Blood of your blood.”
Symon reached for Etienne’s hand. “Ever and always.”
***
Symon didn’t say goodbye to Michael. He didn’t want to watch him pretend that everything was okay when they both knew it wasn’t. He trusted Etienne and Andrew to keep Michael safe. That was all Symon could do until Michael said otherwise.
The drive back to Niagara was quiet, the highway a soothing darkness lit by the taillights of transport trucks. Symon scanned through various radio stations from rock to talk, only to snap the radio off. The silence that settled over the car cuddled around the emptiness he felt inside. Back in Niagara, he entered a suite that still had Michael all over it. His coat in the tub, his wine glass on the night table, and the sheets tossed back where he’d climbed out of bed.
Symon dropped his jacket on a chair and set about removing all evidence of the man who had become so much more than prey. He made the bed and washed the wine glasses, setting them back on their tray next to the ice bucket. He squashed the blood-stained clothes into the hotel’s laundry bags and carrying them out to one of the trash cans, he burned them.
He pulled his thoughts away from Michael, from his smile and his smirk, worked his way through the emails that had accumulated while he’d been busy saving the man’s life, and losing him. He purchased two cases of ice wine online, had them shipped to his vineyard in Italy. He’d get Gianni to run some preliminary tests, figure out whether the Riesling or the Vidal was the better candidate for them. He stared at an email from Brian Weston, wanting to know if he was still interested in Moon Scent Winery. Good question.
His cell buzzed on the coffee table and Symon pounced on it, swiping open a text from Etienne. ‘We are back from dinner. Your fledgling did well.’
Andrew’s text came through as he was tapping out an answer to Etienne. ‘Michael likes his food with a dash of blond. Something missing in his diet? ☺’
Chapter 25
SYMON STEPPED OUT of the hotel the next night, intending to grab a bite at the Angel. The air had a nip to it that felt crisp, clean. The streetlights sparked diamonds in the snow and Michael was alive. He was alive and hiding out in Toronto.
Symon had been blindsided by Michael’s decision to seek out Andrew. He’d assumed Michael would turn to him, would want his help. Obviously, he’d assumed wrong. He could see how Michael would feel comfortable with Andrew, the two were close in age and the redhead was relatively new to the night life himself, but he’d thought Michael was comfortable with him. He’d thought they were, what exactly? After a week?
Symon didn’t know what they were, what he’d thought they were, but he knew he wanted Michael here, with him. Not that anyone was asking. Michael was a free agent because Symon had made no effort to put him under contract. Beyond discussing a possible side trip to Verona whenever Michael made it to Italy, he’d steered clear of any talk of a shared future. He hadn’t thought they could have one. Now, however…
Symon could easily imagine wandering Europe with Michael, giving him the Bradewey history tour, sharing with him the kind of context his textbooks couldn’t. He wanted to be there when Michael stood at the Acropolis, or toured the Colosseum, for the first time. Wanted to introduce Michael to Newgrange, watch the wonder on his face when light flooded the ancient Irish tomb. In Germany, there was a medieval ritual bath that Michael would love. He didn’t believe in forever, but a handful of decades, Michael’s hand in his? Yes, Symon wanted that, but Michael…?
Michael wasn’t talking to him.
Symon couldn’t forget, didn’t want to forget the postscript Michael had added to his ritual pledge. Yours. That one word gave Symon hope. Hope that Michael was hiding from himself, more than from Symon. That Michael could find happiness in the night. That maybe, just maybe, Symon would get to see that dimple again.
At the corner of Picton and King, one lonely carriage sat waiting. The driver stood beside the carriage, talking to his horse, adjusting his harness. He noticed Symon watching, nodded a greeting. “Nice night.”
Symon found himself walking over, reaching up to rub the horse’s nose. He’d almost forgotten what that felt like.
“You have the touch,” the driver said.
“It’s been a while. Busy night?”
“Nah, it’s too cold for most people. Summer’s our busy time and Christmas, of course. Something about a carriage ride and Christmas, the tourists seem to think they go together.”
“You put one of those Santa hats on the horse, don’t you?”
“Yep. Bolero here,” the driver said, patting the horse. “Doesn’t it like it much, but the kids do.”
Symon looked around at the quiet streets, decided to skip the Angel and dine al fresco. “Do you take Visa?”
The thirty-minute tour came with a narrated history of Niagara-on-the-Lake and Symon found out more than he’d ever wanted to know about the War of 1812. The driver stopped the carriage in front of the only building still standing from that era. “When dawn broke the next morning,” he said, his voice suitably solemn. “The British troops found women and children frozen to death in the burnt-out shells of what used to be their homes.”
Symon leaned forward to get a better look at the historic house, the shift in position placing him conveniently close to the driver’s neck.
***
On the walk back to the hotel, Symon texted Etienne. ‘Heading out for dinner?’
‘Not yet. Andrew and Michael want to watch the hockey game first.’
His mouth a tight line, Symon stared at his screen. He should be happy Michael could get out of his head for a bit, kick back and watch a game with Andrew. He should be, but he wasn’t. ‘Text me later.’
He could use a break himself, Symon thought, slipping his phone away. Get his mind off Michael. In a matter of minutes, he was behind the wheel, on his way to Niagara Falls and its poker tables. At least, that was the plan, which didn’t explain why he took a left off Niagara Parkway onto Line 3.
You sure about this?
It wasn’t his job to make things easier for Michael, not anymore. He’d been fired.
Blood of my blood. Ever and always. Shit.
Symon walked up the steps to the old farmhouse, wiped the snow off his boots on the welcome mat, and knocked on the door. He knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that Michael wouldn’t tell his parents he’d acquired two new, dangerously sharp teeth and he couldn’t imagine a more difficult conversation. He was Michael’s sire. He would tell Michael’s parents so that Michael didn’t have to.
“Symon,” Casey said, opening the door. A smile lighting up the eyes that were so like her son’s, she urged Symon inside. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. Come on in.”
She closed the door behind Symon, held her h
and out for his jacket. “Let me take that. What can I get you? Oh, shoot, sorry. Never mind,” she said, opening the closet door. “Sit yourself down.”
Symon didn’t sit himself down. He waited for Michael’s mother to finish hanging his jacket and followed her into the living room. The last time Symon had been in this house, he hadn’t seen much more than Michael’s bedroom. He found himself looking around now, curious about the place Michael still called home. The furniture looked well-used and comfortable. A mix of styles and eras, the room had been put together over the years, a cohesion of time and family. One look at the sofa, and Symon knew Michael and his siblings had jumped off it as children. Family pictures papered one wall and an easy chair sat in a corner, a book overturned on its arm rest, an afghan tossed over its seat, and a cup of tea on an end table beside it.
“I’m sorry,” Symon said. “I should have called.”
“Nonsense,” Casey said, taking one end of the sofa, obviously expecting Symon to take the other. “Nothing I can’t get back to.” She tucked one leg under her, levelled a look at Symon. “I take it Michael isn’t joining us?”
“No.” Symon had to look away from eyes that saw too much. This was a lot harder than he’d thought it would be. How did he tell this woman he’d killed her son?
Christ’s blood. It was an accident. You didn’t kill anyone.
Symon knew that. Of course, he knew that. He was there. He could still see Michael crumpled against the truck’s door. Still feel the panic when he’d thought—
“Symon?” Casey said, dragging him back to the present. “Just tell me.”
“Right, yeah,” Symon said, steeling himself for her reaction. “The night before last, after the harvest. We—”
“Spent some time in Michael’s room,” Casey said, mischief dancing in her dark eyes. “Don’t look so surprised. He’s not as stealthy as he thinks he is.”
Symon Bradewey didn’t get embarrassed, but then he’d never had a conversation like this before. “You heard…?”