by Aimer Boyz
Three nightwalkers, he decided, rolling the feel of that power around in his mind, tasting the weight of it in the tension building at his temples. Two were young, their power signature insignificant, but the third was packing some serious juice. Fang-fucking-tastic, he thought, pushing through the door to the main lobby, knowing who he would find on the other side.
A lone staff member manned the reception desk and a group of tourists hovered over their cell phones, but Symon focused on the trio of vampires waiting for him. The two lesser powers he had sensed were massive, thick with muscle their identical black overcoats didn’t hide, and he suspected, weren’t supposed to. As intimidating as these nightwalkers might be to humans, they were nothing compared to the vampire they stood behind.
Older than his two flunkies combined, older than Symon himself, Julian was a major power and a complete tool. He’d commandeered the most ornate chair in the room, a monstrosity of red brocade and carved armrests, in what Symon could only assume was an attempt to look regal. A tactical error on Julian’s part because he looked ridiculous. Granted, the chair didn’t help, but the black velvet and white lace he draped himself in deserved most of the blame. The man was a fucking cartoon and Symon found himself wondering yet again if it was deliberate. If the total-wanker persona was smoke and mirrors, a charade meant to distract?
Thick-lashed jade eyes watched him from under a set of imperious brows. Okay, yeah, Symon thought, Julian was an attractive man, or he would be, if he wasn’t such a headcase. If he didn’t dress like a character from The Vampire Chronicles. If his pomp and circumstance routine didn’t make Symon want to barf all over his bespoke Parisian shoes.
Peacock prince that he was, or pretended to be, Julian made no effort to rise as Symon crossed the patterned hardwood floor towards him, didn’t so much as offer his hand in greeting. Douche.
“Julian,” Symon said, trying to figure out why the local council mouthpiece had dragged himself away from his cooing crowd of sycophants in Toronto.
“Symon, my apologies for the intrusion,” Julian said, manufacturing a smile. “I know you are here on business and your time is limited, but I wanted to extend a personal welcome.”
This was why he stayed the fuck away from the council, they never said what they meant, and their insistence on circuitous courtesy made Symon want to stake himself. “The apology is mine,” he said, reverting to a formality he had never quite mastered. “For neglecting to inform you of my visit. I didn’t want to trouble you,” he added, matching Julian’s bullshit with his own.
“No trouble at all.” Julian waved a magnanimous hand, lace floating about his knuckles. “It is always a pleasure to see you,” he said, lips curved in a facsimile of a smile, eyes drilling into Symon.
Portentous silence throbbed between them, one second dragging into another, Symon waiting for Julian to spit out the reason for this unappreciated visit, and Julian waiting for—
Ah, fuck, Symon thought, cluing-in to the impatience on Julian’s face. “Please, allow me to offer the hospitality of my suite.”
“Thank you.” One hand settling the lace at his throat, Julian rose from his faux throne, and followed Symon across the lobby. Flunkies One and Two trailing behind them, they rode the elevator to the third floor, and took the hallway to Symon’s door. A nod from Julian as he entered the suite and his flunkies parked themselves in the hallway.
“Not the best bodyguards,” Symon said, giving himself brownie points for resisting the urge to wave as he closed the door on them.
“Bodyguards?” Julian said, trailing a hand along the wood framing the back of the sofa. “I see them more as bookends. Decorative, but useful,” he added, settling himself in the armchair set kitty-corner to the sofa, and glancing around the room. “Does your hospitality extend to a glass of the wine I’ve heard so much about?”
If there was a vampire on the planet who didn’t have a standing order with Bradewey Wines, it was news to Symon. Where the fuck had Julian been living, in a crypt? “You haven’t tried A Little Blood yet?” he asked, tossing his jacket on the couch.
“So many new fads these days, it’s hard to keep up.”
Insult and injury in one word. His pride bruised, Symon almost missed it, the quirk at the corner of Julian’s mouth. A council member with a sense of humour? “Nice.” He swiped the bottle of wine off the side table the hotel had set up as a drinks centre. “You want some or not?”
“Pour.”
Symon filled two glasses, handed one to Julian, and waited, watching as he took his first sip. One sip became two, Julian’s eyes closing in appreciation. Yeah, fad, Symon thought, taking a seat on the couch.
“As good as this is, and it is good, Symon. Thank you,” Julian said, tipping his glass in salute. “This wine you have given us, it’s about more than taste. More even, than adding variety to a limited diet. A Little Blood is a chisel, a tool that we can use to dismantle the divide between vampires and humans.”
Symon couldn’t say he’d thought about it that way, but then, he wasn’t council. The fate of all the little vampires the world over didn’t depend on him.
“You’re a very popular man, Symon Bradewey,” Julian said, setting his glass on the coffee table. “Which creates somewhat of a problem for me,” he added, twitching the lace at his wrists into place. “I am aware that you feel no allegiance to the council, that you don’t acknowledge any ties but those of your own blood, and perhaps…the human family that has been working your vineyard for generations.”
Symon’s fingers froze on the stem of his wine glass. Was that a threat? Was this asswipe threatening Gianni’s family and his own?
“I can understand the mystique of the lone hunter, the allure of independence, and so I have chosen to overlook your habit of popping in and out of my territory whenever you feel like it. I am not such a Prima Donna,” Julian said, the quick stab of his glance the only indication that he knew Symon thought he was. “That I can’t survive a little discourtesy, but…” White lace spilling against black velvet, he waved a hand, erasing his laissez-faire attitude. “Not everything can be overlooked, not even for you.”
He didn’t know, Symon assured himself. He couldn’t know, but the knowledge was there in his eyes, on his face. Julian knew and he was pissed. “Like what?” he asked, hoping he was wrong. Hoping this wasn’t about Michael.
“You know how fragile the balance is, how careful we have to be. It would not do to have the hunters outnumber the hunted.”
“The GTA has six million people, I don’t think the humans are in any danger of extinction.”
“No, because we have laws in place to prevent it. Laws which you have broken.”
Yes, he had, and he’d do it again. For Michael. “In six hundred and fourteen years, I have sired three nightwalkers. Not exactly prolific.”
“True. It is also true that you turned all three humans without the council’s approval or knowledge, without consulting—”
“Michael was bleeding out; I didn’t have time for paperwork.”
“Andrew was perfectly healthy, as was Etienne and yet, you took their conversions upon yourself. We cannot countenance such blatant disregard for the laws that protect us all.”
“You mean you can’t have me infecting others with anarchy,” Symon said. His wine had put him in the spotlight, what he did or didn’t do these days, got noticed.
“There was a time when I could have had you staked, when I would have, but we are all become more civilized,” Julian said, not sounding too happy about it.
“And, I’m a very popular man,” Symon said, quoting Julian’s words back to him.
“You see my problem,” Julian said, with a wry smile, and a flourish of hand and lace.
I do, Symon thought, starting to enjoy himself. “How is your problem, my problem?”
Julian flecked a non-existent spec of nothing off his jacket. “Not everyone you care for is as famous as you are, Symon.
“You fucking whoreson.
” Fangs bursting over his lip, Symon leapt over the coffee table—
A tidal wave of power smashed into him and Symon bowed under the weight of it, the accumulation of years crushing him.
“I am older than you know,” Julian said, the words seeming to come at Symon from a distance.
“How?” Symon asked, folding down onto the coffee table. Wrong, he’d been so fucking wrong. How had Julian hidden that much power, masked his true age?
“I apologize for the Don Corleone intimidation,” Julian said, not answering Symon’s question. “It was heavy-handed of me, but I need you to take this seriously. Help me out here, Symon. Give me something to take back to the council.”
“You threatened people I care about and what, we’re supposed to be friends now?”
“I don’t have friends,” Julian said, standing, and presenting Symon with his hand in the manner of popes and kings throughout the ages. Palm down, the council ring with its distinctive black stone awaiting Symon’s lips.
“Fuck off.”
Julian laughed. “I have faith in you, Symon. You will find a solution to my problem, something we can both not-live with,” he said, skirting the coffee table and walking to the door. “Give my best to your Michael.”
Yeah, because that didn’t sound ominous at all, Symon thought, watching as the door closed behind Julian. He waited until the taste of power faded to nothing, telling him Elvis had left the building, to pull out his phone. Etienne’s number on the screen, his thumb hovering over the call icon, Symon hesitated. What good would it do to warn Etienne and Andrew? They couldn’t stand against Julian, not the Julian who had revealed himself tonight. And Michael, he thought, fingers tightening around his phone. Newborn to the night, Michael was helpless. He couldn’t—
Symon’s phone vibrated against his skin, trilled out the tone he’d set for text messages.
Two words. Only two words, but Symon’s smile tried to split his face open. Julian and his problem forgotten for the moment, he read the text again.
Through Etienne, Symon knew that Michael’s family had taken his advice, that they’d reached out to Michael through texts, that just last night Michael had accepted a video chat from his parents. Andrew had reported that Michael wasn’t spending most of his time holed up in the guest bedroom anymore. They had both told Symon that Michael was eating well, that he’d taken to using vampiric influence like a duck to water, and that he no longer needed them to monitor his prey’s heartbeat.
What Symon didn’t know, what he hadn’t asked, what had him staring out at the night until the sun put his brain on hold, was how Michael felt about him. Did he blame Symon for turning him? Is that why he left? Did he want to hear from Symon? The answer to that last question stared up at him now. Two words.
‘Thank you.’
Symon would like to think Michael was thanking him for turning him into a blood sucking fiend, but his imagination wouldn’t stretch quite that far. ‘For what?’ he tapped into his phone.
‘Talking to my parents. I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.’
It wasn’t just that Michael’s family was close, or that Michael himself, preferred the up-front approach. Now that Symon had met Michael’s brother and sister, he understood there was no way to keep a secret in that family. ‘Your sister’s a little scary.’ ‘
Baby brother, remember?’
Symon remembered a lot of things. He remembered the scent of Michael’s hair, of his skin. He remembered the way Michael felt under him, the soft sighs, and the urgent pleas. Mostly, he remembered that the night was brighter with Michael at his side.
‘They care about you,’ Symon sent, thinking I care about you.
Before Symon was ready to let him go, Michael ended the chat. ‘Night.’
Symon slipped his phone away, telling himself that a few sentences didn’t mean they were good. That Michael had said what he felt obliged to say and Symon probably wouldn’t hear from him again. He beat back the flare of hope, damped it down to an ember, but he didn’t extinguish it. Not entirely.
He couldn’t.
Chapter 28
SYMON GRABBED A quick bite the following night, but it was hard to enjoy his dinner with Julian’s problem on his mind. He sent the young man he’d nibbled on back to his friends at the bar and took the stairs up to his room. The more he thought about it, the more he believed Julian had been trying to do him a favour last night, that his unorthodox visit had been meant as a warning. Julian was giving him a chance to wiggle out of the noose he’d set about his own neck, but a hint as to how to do that would have been nice. Symon didn’t think sending an I’m sorry emoji was going to cut it.
He swiped his key card at his door, locked it behind him, and pulled out his phone to find he’d missed a text from Andrew. He’d had his phone on mute during dinner, interruptions tended to make prey nervous.
‘WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US?’ Andrew screamed at him in all caps.
Because he didn’t—
His phone rang, and Symon swiped the call open. “Beloved.”
“Sire, how can we help?”
This, Symon thought, was exactly why he hadn’t told them. He didn’t want them caught in the crossfire. Bad enough they were in the council’s sights because of him. As were Michael, and Gianni and his family. He had to fix this.
“Symon?”
“How did you know?”
“Everyone knows,” Andrew said, Etienne’s phone on speaker. “Julian leaving his swanky condo on Lake Ontario and driving out to Niagara has his coterie of suck-ups all atwitter.”
“Julian wanted my help with a problem.”
“You are so full of shit,” Andrew said, “What problem?” Etienne asked.
“Me. I’ve become a little too popular.”
“This is about Michael,” Etienne said. “You did not have permission to turn him.”
“What?” Andrew asked.
“We cannot sire nightwalkers without the council’s permission,” Etienne explained to Andrew.
“Since when? You didn’t get anyone’s permission before you turned me,” Andrew said to Symon. “Did you?”
“No, but A Little Blood hadn’t hit the market yet.”
“No one knew,” Etienne said.
“No one knew,” Symon agreed.
“They don’t like the optics,” Andrew said. “You’re castrating them.”
“But you have become the new messiah, mon ami; they can’t stake you.”
“Not with the council’s name on the stake,” Symon said, knowing the council could easily order his death in private, and weep at his funeral in public.
“What did Julian say, exactly?” Etienne asked.
“He said that he had faith in me, that I would find a solution to his problem.”
“Generous,” Etienne said. “He is giving you the opportunity to appease the council.”
“Yeah, he’s a real sweetheart,” Andrew muttered.
“You have any idea what appeasing the council would look like,” Symon asked. “Because I don’t.”
“I am sorry, Symon,” Etienne said. “But I do not. I can ask, see if—”
“Money,” Andrew said. “Human or vampire, politicians all talk the same language, dollar signs.”
“You think I can buy my way out of this?” Symon asked.
“It would have to be a serious chunk of change,” Andrew said. “Enough to make you look like a good little vampire.”
“What is mine, is yours, Sire,” Etienne offered.
“My bank account’s a joke next to you guys, but anything you need, Symon, it’s yours,” Andrew said.
“Blood of my blood,” Symon said, his voice suspiciously hoarse.
“Ever and always.” The words came back to him in stereo.
***
Of course, Julian demanded a show. While he was more than happy to drain Symon’s bank account, an interact deposit didn’t have the flair he deemed appropriate. It wasn’t enough for Symon to make
good on his many, according to the council, mistakes. He had to be seen to make good. The council wanted a circus act.
And I’m the trained seal, Symon thought, as he entered the lobby of Julian’s building. Marble pillars and hushed silence, the place felt more like a shrine than a reception area with the concierge’s desk substituting for an altar.
“I’m here to see Julian,” Symon said, to the human behind the desk.
“Is Mr. Duvernay expecting you, sir?” In the manner of gatekeepers everywhere, the man was both polite and forbidding.
Duvernay? If Julian had a last name Symon had never heard it. “Could be. Dark hair, long, wears a lot of lace?”
The human didn’t smile, too well trained for that, but he thawed. The shoulders under his grey suit jacket softening a fraction. “And your name?”
“Symon Bradewey.”
A swipe at one of the monitors and the man nodded. “May I see some I.D. please?”
Really? Symon flipped his wallet open, presented the I.D. that claimed he was twenty.
“Thank you.” The human checked the I.D. and handed it back, nodding at the bank of elevators to his left. “The third elevator will take you to Mr. Duvernay’s suite. Welcome to Harbour Terrace.”
There were only two buttons inside the elevator, door open, door close, and one security camera staring at Symon from the corner. Julian might dress like he’d gotten lost in the eighteenth century, but his security obviously, wasn’t as antiquated as his sense of style.
The elevator doors opened on more vampires than Symon had ever seen gathered in one place. The combined power beat at his brain, turned his eyes to flame. Fists clenched, fingernails cutting into his own skin, he forced his fangs back and thanked every God who had never existed that he’d convinced Etienne not to come. The thought of Etienne or Andrew, fledgling that he was, in this group made Symon cringe. Michael had needed no convincing because he didn’t know his conversion had been the straw that broke the council’s back. Symon didn’t want him to know.