by Aimer Boyz
“Ah, the man of the hour.” Julian tucked his arm into Symon’s, led him into the centre of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, the nightwalker who has redefined the possible, the blood drinker who has given us a wine of our own, the genius who created A Little Blood, Symon Bradewey.” He signalled and waiters moved among the crowd, offering wine in delicate glasses.
Symon was trapped in a storm of handshakes, congratulations, and thank yous. Julian steered him from one vampire to the next, introducing him to people he had no intention of ever seeing again. Council members from Montreal, Vancouver, New York, and Chicago. This wasn’t just a local gathering which explained the numbers.
From trained seal to prize cow, not much of an improvement, Symon thought, answering the usual questions by rote. How long had it taken to create A Little Blood? How had he come up with the idea? He’d come here expecting a rap on the knuckles and an order to behave. He hadn’t expected this, whatever the fuck this was.
Introductions over, Julian ushered Symon into his study. “As agreed,” he said, pointing to a document on the desk. “The council receives twenty-five percent of A Little Blood’s profits for the next hundred years. And in return—”
“The council stays the fuck away from me and mine.”
“As you say,” Julian said, with a flourish of lace, and an easy smile.
Symon rounded the desk, picked up the silver handled knife, and nicked his wrist in one swift flash of the blade. “Run out of ink?” he asked, touching the nib of the matching silver fountain pen to his wrist.
“Written in blood. A sacred covenant.”
“It better be.”
***
Symon was tempted to stop by Etienne and Andrew’s before heading back to Niagara, but he decided to call from the road instead. One thank-you text didn’t mean Michael was ready to see him. Once on the QEW, he hit the call icon on his steering wheel.
“Sire.”
Just hearing Etienne’s voice had Symon smiling into the night. “It’s done. Signed and sealed, in blood.”
“Julian does love his drama.”
“Sacred covenant. Ass. He had this whole party waiting for me. Introduced me around like some reality show host. I’ve never seen so many vampires in one room. He’s up to some—”
“Excuse me, Symon. One moment.”
Voices in the background and then Andrew was on the phone. “Symon, Julian just sent out an email. To everyone. It’s a freaking endorsement. It’s practically a decree to buy your wine.”
“What?”
“The council wishes to thank Bradewey Wines,” Andrew said, reading the email aloud. “For their generous donation and to commend Symon Bradewey for his contribution to the welfare of vampires worldwide.”
“Christ’s Blood,” Symon swore.
“Nice graphics. The announcement’s superimposed over the Bradewey Wines logo and there’s a link to the winery’s online shop. Did you know he was going to do this?”
“No.” Julian hadn’t said a thing about this, but Symon got it. Julian wasn’t playing benevolent benefactor; he was boosting the council’s twenty-five percent.
“Eye on the prize,” Andrew said.
“Yeah.” My prize, Symon thought.
“Yes,” Etienne said, taking the phone from Andrew. “But also, Julian is a politician and it is only a decade until the next election. You have become a very popular man,” Etienne said, quoting Julian. “
No. There’s no way I’m volunteering for that.”
“Julian may feel you owe him.”
“Julian can go fuck—” Symon halted himself mid-rant. “He’s hiding a shit-ton of power under all that lace.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of anyone being able to mask their true age.”
“Sois prudent, mon ami.”
“I’m always careful.”
Chapter 29
SYMON SHOULD HAVE been on a plane back to Italy weeks ago. He stayed because a sire didn’t abandon his fledgling, because Michael’s family needed support, because he hadn’t found a winery yet. Legitimate reasons all, but they weren’t the truth. He stayed because he couldn’t leave. Not until he knew for certain that whatever Michael and he had, or had been starting to have, was over. That it had died when Michael’s truck slid into a ditch. That Symon had killed it. Only Michael could tell him that.
As three weeks became four, Symon found himself driving out to Santos Wines more and more often. He fell into the habit of spending his nights with Michael’s family, sitting around their kitchen table.
One night, Michael’s father set three wine glasses down on the table and opened a bottle of A Little Blood. Casey smiled at Symon as her husband poured. “It almost killed him to spend money on someone else’s wine.”
“Can’t have you sitting here empty handed while we’re drinking,” Stavros said, lifting his glass, and inhaling the aroma. He took a careful sip. “Not bad.”
Casey laughed. “That means good.”
Another night, Casey greeted Symon at the door eager to show him the pictures Michael had sent. Toronto night scenes, Etienne and Andrew’s condo, a few of Andrew clowning around on the ice rink at Nathan Philips Square, and one of Michael himself that Andrew must have taken.
Symon stared at that last one forever. Long enough for the screen on Casey’s phone to go dark, several times. Long enough for Casey to wander over to the sink and fuss with some dishes to give him privacy. Long enough for Symon to embarrass the shit out of himself.
He spent a lot of time with Michael’s father, learning what it took to win the war between the yeast and the high sugar content in the pressed must. It occurred to Symon, as he walked through the winery building at Stavros’ side, that he was wasting time and money trying to reinvent the wheel. Michael’s father already knew his way around ice wine, and he loved the business. The man didn’t want to sell, but Symon wondered if Stavros would be open to the idea of a partnership.
Back at his hotel, Symon sent off an email to his lawyer. If she didn’t have the answers, she’d find someone who did. He wanted a heads up on the tax situation for foreigners before he ran the idea of a partnership past Michael’s father. Glass of wine in hand, Symon settled in to read Gianni’s report. By read, he meant scan the statistics and scroll down to the summary. Looks like we’re going with the Riesling, he thought, opening an email to Gianni—
Symon’s head snapped up, senses searching…finding. He was at the door, pulling it open before the knock ever landed. “Michael.”
“Hey, Fido.” Michael smiled, but he looked nervous. “Going to let me in?”
Symon stepped back, throwing the door wide. He took a breath as he closed it behind Michael; donned his Sphinx mask before turning to face the man he had missed at every sunset, wanted at every sunrise.
Michael unzipped his coat, a sleeker and more form-fitting version of the parka that had died in the accident, tossed it on the couch.
“Nice coat,” Symon said.
“Thanks, Etienne took me shopping.” Michael intercepted Symon on his way to the sofa and went to his knees before him. “Blood of your blood,” he said, kissing the pulse point in Symon’s wrist. “Ever and always.”
It had been centuries since Symon had seen anyone kneel to recite the pledge. Etienne and Andrew never had; the custom having been long abandoned before he’d turned them. He didn’t know if Michael was aware of the old school ritual and had decided to adopt it as his own, or if this was just Michael being Michael. Either way, it was nicely done. Michael did the kneeling thing like no one else. He worked a unique alchemy of submission and pride that triggered every possessive streak Symon had. And where Michael was concerned, Symon had a lot of streaks.
Even as his blood pulsed to the beat of mine, mine, mine, Symon didn’t miss the fact that Michael had recited the pledge exactly, no spontaneous add-ons. He didn’t know why Michael had ditched the personal addendum, or if he even remembered saying it. He d
id know he liked Michael’s original version better.
Symon slipped a hand to the back of Michael’s neck, set his thumb over the pulse under his ear. A purposely possessive hold, it said everything Symon was afraid he might never get to say. “Blood of my blood,” he said, completing the oath. “Ever and always.” He tugged on a lock of hair that was longer than it used to be. “Guess you’re not going to be stuck with the same haircut for eternity.”
“You could have told me,” Michael said, getting to his feet. “That the hair and nails hang onto life for a while.” He flashed that dimple, and reaching out, played his fingers through the fall of blond grazing Symon’s shoulders. “Think my hair will get as long as yours?”
Symon didn’t know and he didn’t care. He shook his head, freeing the blond strands from Michael’s fingers. A pretty tableau on bended knee wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, to make him forget that Michael had gone AWOL without a word of explanation, or how much that desertion had hurt. Did he want Michael back? Yes. Was he going to make it easy for him? Fuck no.
Michael searched his face, but Symon gave him nothing. Nothing, but the fact that he’d opened the door in the first place knowing who was on the other side of it, that he’d let Michael into his suite, that he was talking to him at all.
“I shouldn’t have run out on you like that,” Michael said.
No, he shouldn’t have, and Symon still didn’t know why he had.
Michael opened the link between them.
Symon, please.
That word on Michael’s lips had always turned Symon inside out, bound him more completely than any collar or cuffs. But now, that same plea directly from Michael’s mind to his…? Symon fought to control his response, but it was like trying to hold back the ocean. He was caught up in the undertow, flailing…
I’m sorry. Please.
Symon lunged. A hand at Michael’s throat, they fell in a sprawl of limbs, hit the floor together. Michael didn’t put up any kind of a struggle, but Symon pinned him down anyway. Pushed his shoulders into the floor and held him there. Because he wanted to, because Michael wanted him to, because Michael was his. He bared his fangs, stared down at the man under him.
Michael Mine.
“Yes, God. Please,” Michael answered, his own fangs breaking free.
Symon ate the knowledge that Michael was already so lost he couldn’t send his thoughts to Symon’s mind. He supped on it, sucked it down like the finest blood.
It wasn’t an easy thing, kissing with fangs. They nicked each other’s lips and tongues, the taste and scent of their combined blood only driving them against each other harder, faster. They grappled as they rolled, grabbing at shoulders and ass, wanting skin, wanting more.
Michael pushed Symon onto his back, ripped his shirt open. He nuzzled into Symon’s neck, set his mouth to the pulse under his ear and found himself flat on his back looking up into ocean dark eyes.
“We can’t feed on each other,” Symon said, shrugging off what was left of his shirt. “Too dangerous.” He leaned down, licked at Michael’s lips. “As fucking hot as these look on you, maybe you should put them away,” he suggested, his own fangs back in hiding.
“Shit, sorry,” Michael said. He closed his eyes, concentrated until his fangs retreated to the pockets behind his eyeteeth. “I knew that, I just…
“Couldn’t help yourself,” Symon interrupted, face full of smirk. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“Shut up,” Michael said, flashing the dimple Symon had thought he might never see again. He came up off the floor, tumbled Symon onto his back. “I’m a lot stronger now,” he said, reaching for Symon’s zipper.
Symon caught Michael’s hand, threw his body into Michael’s, rolling them both over. “Not strong enough,” he said, trapping Michael’s wrists over his head.
Michael was stronger, yes and he would get stronger still. Symon’s dick was all over that idea. He’d had to be careful when Michael was human, temper his own strength. Not a problem anymore. This new and improved Michael was unbreakable.
Symon straddled Michael’s thighs. “Off,” he ordered, pointing at Michael’s sweater.
Michael did a half-crunch, ripped his sweater over his head. Symon stroked, and kneaded, and pinched. He pushed angry red blotches into Michael’s skin, marking him. Michael arched his back, digging his fingers into Symon’s thighs, grunting his approval as Symon tormented one nipple after the other.
One hand flat on Michael’s chest, Symon asked, “You listening in?”
“No,” Michael said, his hands roving over Symon, as if he couldn’t stop touching him. “You want me to?”
“Yeah, I want you with me.”
Symon wanted what they’d had before, when he’d been fangs deep in Michael’s neck, and had told Michael to let the voodoo loose. That had exploded Symon’s mind, each of them feeling what the other felt. He’d never had that with anyone else, never known it was possible. It might not be possible now, now that he couldn’t feed on Michael anymore.
Michael dropped his shields, going all Seventh Son of a Seventh Son on Symon. His pupils pushed the grey back until his eyes were two black holes pulling Symon in. It was the best kind of frightening; exhilarating, liberating. Symon was trapped in Michael’s gaze, seeing Michael, letting Michael see him.
As a test, he dragged a hand down Michael’s treasure trail, and they both shuddered. Not the feeding then, it was them. Something in the combination of Michael’s voodoo and vampire instincts gave them this. This double whammy of sensation that Symon never wanted to give up. He grabbed the bulge under Michael’s zipper, palmed him through his jeans. Exquisite torture, touching Michael, feeling what Michael felt, knowing that Michael felt what he felt. Symon pressed a hand to his own cock, but that only made it worse or maybe better. He couldn’t tell anymore.
Michael pulled Symon down, ate at his mouth. He grabbed handfuls of Symon’s ass and Symon could feel himself coming apart. Too fast, too soon. He cursed; the words lost on Michael’s tongue. A whine caught in Michael’s throat. Symon knew that whine, it meant more, now. Right now.
Symon pried himself off Michael’s mouth, sat back on his thighs. He fumbled with his own zipper, freed his cock. With Michael following every move, Symon stroked himself, caught a drop of pre-cum on one finger and fed it to Michael. The Twilight Zone eyes latched onto Symon’s…
Boots hit the floor, clothes falling after them, and Symon was back on top of his fledgling, kneeling over his face.
His hands spreading Symon’s ass open, his fingers sliding over Symon’s hole, Michael took Symon over, owned him with tongue and lips. The only way this could be any better? Symon pulled away and Michael seeing the thought in his mind, had his zipper down and his cock out by the time Symon spun himself around.
With a mouth full of Michael, Symon opened their link.
Better than blood.
He felt Michael’s response in the mumble around his cock, saw the laughter in his mind.
They fed on each other. Every swirl of tongue and glide of lips felt by both. Each sensation doubled. Mirror images of each other, they came as one. Linked as they were, body and mind, it would have been impossible not to.
Symon flopped over onto his back, lying beside Michael, but in the opposite direction. Separate again, orgasms fading to memory, they lay there in uncertain silence. The questions Symon’s cock had decided were irrelevant pounded at his brain, demanded answers he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. Part of him hoping Michael wouldn’t hear him, he opened their link again.
So…You don’t hate me?
Michael came up off the floor, all confused grey eyes and stunned expression. “What the fuck, Symon? Why would you think…what?”
“You wouldn’t even look at me. You were so desperate to get out of here you were going to take a fucking bus. What was I supposed to think?”
“Jesus, Symon,” Michael said. Hand rubbing at the back of his neck, he searched for words and found his jeans and underwe
ar snarled around his thighs. “Uh, maybe we should get dressed.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.” Symon got to his feet, held his hand out to Michael, and pulled him up. “You can explain yourself to me in bed.” He did want an explanation; he’d wanted one for weeks. The porn phrasing was unintentional, a happy accident that spilled laughter onto Michael’s face.
“We’re playing Hot for Teacher now?” Michael asked, tugging briefs and jeans back over his hips. “Do I get a detention?”
“Detention?” Symon knew this game well. He’d been in and out of high schools for decades before he’d arranged documentation that proved he was older than he looked. “What you did merits a suspension.”
“From your bedpost?” Michael teased, following Symon into the bedroom.
Symon snorted. “Like that would be a punishment for you,” he said, climbing into bed. “Talk.”
Michael didn’t climb in after him, he stood at the end of the bed, did that hand at the back of his neck thing again. “I did want to leave, you got that right,” he said, dropping the hand, and looking at Symon, the length of the bed between them. “I didn’t want you to be stuck with me just because you saved my life.”
“I didn’t save your life.” Symon heard the guilt in his own voice and told himself to get the fuck over it. It’s not like he hadn’t tried.
“No, you gave me a new one,” Michael said, flinging his arms out, and flashing that dimple at Symon. “A definite upgrade. Version 10.0 with the longest battery life ever.” He walked around the end of the bed, sat down next to Symon, and leaned in, all stealth and drama, like he was sharing a secret. “Dinner? Five stars. Gordon Ramsay dreams of making something even half as good.”
That was one of his questions answered. Michael liked his food. “You don’t miss the day?” It had been so long, Symon had almost forgotten, but there were nights when the images haunted him. Sunshine glinting on water, throwing shadows on sidewalks, bathing fields of wildflowers.
Michael shrugged. “I’ve been busy, but yeah, if I get a major case of SAD, I’ll duck into Best Buy and splurge on some high-tech sunshine. Large screen, mega lighting system. Should work.”