Fanged Love

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “Of course I will be happy to give you my opinion,” he says, gesturing toward the great hall. His cape lifts as he moves, and I breathe in his fresh woodsy scent. “Let’s return to the table, dine, and drink your wine.”

  I smile, feeling happily buzzed, and confide, “You smell wonderful, like your wine, sort of woodsy.”

  He leans close, his lips curving up, his white teeth gleaming. “Your scent is also intoxicating.”

  “Must be the wine cellar making us all smell so good,” Neli announces as she passes us.

  I giggle. I probably should eat something to go with all the wine sloshing around in my belly. I barely picked at my dinner earlier because I was so preoccupied with my meeting tonight. And look how wonderfully it’s going so far!

  We settle back at the long banquet table in the great hall. This time Neli joins us, pouring the pinot noir I brought, and offering a glass to me.

  “Why don’t you have mine?” I say to her. “I’ve had my fill for the night, and I’d like your opinion on the wine too.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She takes the chair across the table from me. “Cheers,” she says, lifting her glass.

  “Cheers,” I say.

  She sniffs, swirls, and sips. “Mmm-hmm.”

  I wait, hoping for more.

  “Full-bodied,” she adds, setting her glass down.

  “Yes, I thought so,” I say. “Do you have any tips for improvement?”

  Neli stares at her glass. “Let me think on that.”

  That sounds promising. It’s so good, she’s not sure how to improve it. Maybe we do have a shot at winning an award for our wine.

  I turn to Mr. Bozhidar expectantly. He lifts the glass and sniffs, his brows knitting together.

  I hold my breath.

  He sips and spews the wine back in the glass. “Horse piss!”

  I gasp.

  He shoves the glass away, grimacing. “Horse piss mixed with putrid fish entrails.”

  “Boz, that was harsh,” Neli says.

  “What?” He shrugs casually. “I would not serve that swill to the prisoners in my dungeon. It is an insult to my lips. The Baker family should have stuck to their proper vocation—baking.”

  “Bakers? We’re winemakers,” I say with contempt.

  “Are you so certain? Because the contents of that bottle say otherwise.”

  My eyes and cheeks are hot, nausea rising in my throat. I stand, completely mortified, unable to make eye contact.

  “Stella, I’m sure he didn’t mean that the way it came out,” Neli says.

  “No, I asked for his opinion.” I swallow down bile and walk stiffly to the door. Only pride keeps me from bolting.

  All the good feelings that built up around the eccentric Mr. Bozhidar vanish. He doesn’t care about helping me, and he insulted our wine. I push the front door open through a blur of tears. Did he have to be so harsh? Horrible, horrible man.

  The night air is cool as I pass the moat and cross my arms against the chill, hugging myself. Horse piss? Putrid fish entrails? Our wine can’t be that bad, or my parents would’ve been out of business years ago. Right? I try to comfort myself with that thought. I like our wine, though I’m no expert.

  My limbs are heavy as I trudge toward home. My parents pinned all their hopes on me to save the winery, and I’ve got nothing. Maybe it’s time to face the hard truth. Our wine is good but not good enough. There’s no hope to win an award. There’s no hope for Stellariva.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Boz

  Stella takes her leave, and I immediately notice a shift in the air, an emptiness in the room that was not there before. The realization triggers a pang in my gut. Or perhaps I am simply peckish. Stella does smell rather delicious. And while my body may have returned to its usual masculine perfection, something inside me does not feel quite right. Call it a thirst or hunger, but the sensation goes deeper than that, as if my soul has a boundless craving.

  Must be a hangover from this goddamned sleeping curse. Whatever the reason, I now need to hunt, which means a change of clothes is required.

  I leave the great hall only to find Neli waiting for me at the base of the staircase.

  “Seriously, Boz?” Neli taps her foot with that strange little sandal. “Horse piss?”

  I raise a brow. “How else would you describe her wine?” Rancid ball sweat could work. “And would you please procure yourself a proper pair of shoes to hide your toes? I am not running a brothel.” In my village, only women open to courtship or harlots were allowed to show their toes in public. Neli is a slave and not permitted to marry. On the other hand, I was quite turned on by Stella’s pink little feet, nearly naked in her white sandals—a sinful little preview of what lies beneath her virginal white dress. She must be hinting that she wishes to offer herself to me.

  “Boz,” snaps Neli, “you need to get over the whole toe modesty thing. It died along with corsets and hoopskirts, thank God. But you know what didn’t change? Good manners. Why in the world would you call her wine ‘horse piss’? It’s really rude, and you hurt the poor woman’s feelings.”

  “Yes, about that. I think you should invite her back for dinner tomorrow.”

  “Whyyy?” Neli growls with suspicion.

  “I want to apologize.” With my fangs.

  Neli gives me one of her judgmental huffs. “You’re thinking about biting her, aren’t you?”

  “No…” Yes.

  “Uh-huh. Sure. Well, thankfully, after your insults, she’s probably never coming back.”

  The words “never coming back” reverberate through my chest. Surprisingly, I do not like that idea. Must be the allure of her untouched body and virginal blood.

  “Then you must go to her and fix it so she returns. For dinner. Tomorrow.” My mouth begins to water at the thought of watching her eat. Those lips…so full and sensual. After she dines, I will enjoy her smile as I sip from her delicate neck. I am told my bite is the best. Quite pleasurable. As long as I do not kill them. Yes, as shocking as it sounds, some women protest dying. Should they not be honored to perish in the arms of such a virile beast?

  I turn and head up the stone staircase to my bedchamber. Nothing gets me in a good hunting mood like a velvet cape and a pair of black leather trousers, which Neli stole for me today. I hope the neighbors do not realize their clothing line has been plundered by her on line shopping.

  I hear Neli’s light footsteps close in as I push open the heavy wooden door to my chamber. The room itself is quite grand with a vaulted ceiling and exquisite stonework throughout, but the real gem is a large four-poster bed made of hand-carved mahogany. Very fine quality that has stood the test of time. The blood-red curtains on all four sides of the bed are new—thank you, Neli, for doing at least one thing correctly—and are perfect for my evenings of seduction. (The red comes in handy to hide the blood.) The other notable features in the room are the paintings. My favorite is the portrait of my master, the Great Kylgorii Gillmoreanu. His pale face, with bony features and dark soulless eyes, gives me great comfort. Like home. Then there is the painting of his master, Prince Pamfilovamimivich. He died after a very large bookshelf fell on top of him. Apparently, he was knocked unconscious and did not make it to his coffin before sunrise. Poor man. The other pieces of art are all my own. I particularly enjoy painting fruit. Round fruit. Bosom-esque fruit.

  “Boz! Are you even listening to me?” Neli barks.

  “Except for that last part, no.” I continue walking toward my dressing chamber, a smaller room just behind one of the fireplaces. There is also a hidden staircase leading out to the garden. One must always have an escape.

  “I said, Boz, I am not letting you seduce our neighbor. Things aren’t like they used to be when you could just snack on anyone you like. Nowadays, they have technologies to catch criminals—satellites in the sky, home security systems, GPS tracking on phones. People notice when other people go missing or end up in a ditch, drained of blood. If you’re not careful,
you’ll leave a footprint that’ll lead the police right back here.”

  I haven’t the faintest clue what she is talking about nor who these technologenies are. They sound rather annoying. “Silly girl, I do not leave footprints. Not if I do not wish to. I am a vampire.” I do not fly, but I am quite skilled at the fine art of levitating. Take that, technologenie! “And the last time I checked, you are my slave for all eternity and must obey my every command or face shaming your family name.” I start undressing from my formal attire by kicking off my new boots. Neli says the soles are made from a tree called “rubber,” an appropriate name because I have blisters on my heels from all of the rubbing. Nothing beats shoes made by the soft hands of tiny Transylvanian orphans forced to work in exchange for bread crusts. Their attention to detail is unmatched. Hunger is a wonderful motivator.

  “Yeah, about that, Boz. I think it’s time to renegotiate.”

  I lift my brows and get to unbuttoning my fine lacy shirt.

  She continues. “Look, times have changed. People just don’t go around owning other people.”

  “I am not a people. Neither are you.” Neli’s soul is bound to mine—I have had her blood, and she has had mine. As long as she remains loyal to me in mind, body, and heart, she remains alive and, more importantly, ageless. If she were to betray me or walk away, she would suffer immeasurable pain and feel as though she were being burned alive. Another fun fact: Only I, her master, can give her the true death. Death by any other hand, including her own, will turn her into a vampire. Her choice. But until then, if I perish, she perishes. Therefore, my survival is critical to her own well-being, and by that, I mean she can continue to eat human food for sustenance. She can live forever, have children, walk in the sunlight, and do everything a regular human does without having to become a vampire. Perhaps Cornelia requires a reminder of this.

  I add, “Neli, if you are no longer satisfied with our arrangement, I could offer to release your soul from its tether and send you on your way.”

  Neli narrows her green eyes. “Of all the vampires my parents had to donate me to, they chose the only one incapable of evolving.”

  “Do not be so damned dramatic, woman. We both know I was the only dark-prince game in town. I killed all of my rivals in my country.” Good times.

  “Maybe so, but I’ve come across quite a few vampires while you were snoozing, and trust me, you’re an unchanged relic compared to them. I mean, you’d hardly even know they were hundreds of years old. They embrace change, and you’ve always resisted it. Even before you took your lengthy siesta, you were like an unmovable rock—always blabbing about the good old days and tradition and beheadings. You don’t know how to grow as a person, and that, my friend, is a problem.”

  “Or, perhaps, it makes me a fine wine—better with age.” Has she not seen how handsome I look with my long black mane and pale skin? It is very elegant. Then there are my eyes with their silver flecks, like a moonless night twinkling with stars. Finally, there is my physique. A Roman statue but without the baby-sized pecker. I am all man, all stallion. And all vampire!

  “Boz, you’re not listen—”

  “Cease your complaining, Cornelia.” I flick my wrist. “You have enjoyed centuries of life thanks to me. And might I remind you that when it comes to masters, you could have done worse. I never beat you, did I? I never made you wash my genitals or shave my scrotum during the hot summer months. I never forced you to lie with me when I felt the need to blow off a little steam.” I am a gentleman, and a gentleman never forces a woman to his bed. Besides, I never felt an attraction for Cornelia.

  “Thank God for small favors,” she mutters under her breath.

  “I heard that.”

  “Sorry, Boz. Not that you’re unappealing or don’t deserve to have a tender touch when it comes to manscaping your undercarriage. And yes, we all know there’s a reason your looks are legendary—people once sang campfire songs about your ass in those leather pants—but frankly, I’m attracted to men who don’t force me to lure young women to their deaths and then make me hide the bodies.” She crinkles her pert nose.

  She should be honored to do my evil bidding. It is all part of the fun. “I did not see you complaining when my protection afforded you your pick of cocks in the village.” Neli had quite the sexual appetite. She slept with at least three different men over two hundred years—very provocative for a woman in the 1400s. Yet, did I call her a whore? No. I did not. Not until she started flaunting her toes all over the goddamned place.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that men like sleeping with me because”—she holds up a finger—“they’re men, and men are horny. And B”—she holds up a second finger—“I’m hot. But that’s not the point of this conversation. I have more than served my time, Boz. I saved your castle, I built a small empire, and I kept you safe. For five centuries! Not including all the years before you pissed off that witch.”

  “So?” This is Neli’s job. Do you see me seeking a pat on the back for culling the weak from the human population? No. I serve. I kill. I move on.

  I kick off my cloth trousers and slide on my leather ones. The leather is easier to clean after I hunt. And they emphasize my manly endowment. This is something that never goes out of style with women. You’re welcome, ladies.

  “So,” she says, “I want more freedom. I want to be treated like an equal partner.”

  I stare at her oval face and then explode with laughter. “Very amusing.”

  “But, Boz—”

  “But nothing!” I bark, my patience snapping like a twig. “I am your master. I will always be your master. And you will obey me, or I will find another—”

  “Person who’s the key to accessing all your money? Will you find another business-savvy human who puts up with your bullcrap too? How about a manager for your award-winning winery that pulls in millions of dollars each year?”

  “What is a dollar?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Help me, Jesus.”

  “You keep him out of this!” I look over my shoulder and then the other. She knows I fear anything that rises from the dead. Besides other vampires. It is very unnatural. Why does she think vampires fear the cross? We do not wish to summon him.

  “Sorry.” She holds up her hands in the surrender position. “All I’m saying is that if you want to appear as a normal man in this day and age, then you have to treat women as equals, starting with me. Otherwise”—she shrugs—“I’m afraid Stella won’t be the last woman to run out of here, hating you with a fiery passion for your rude, antiquated, caveman-like ways.”

  Hmmm… She does make a valid point. Blending in will be critical to my survival. Neli has already explained that our kind now lives in the shadows.

  I raise my strong, manly chin to let her know who’s boss. “I will consider pretending you are my equal, but for appearances only.”

  She sighs. “I guess it’s a start.”

  Wrong. It is an end. To Neli’s irrational notions of vampire-human equality. Laughable. I’d sooner become a fruit bat. The faster she realizes that I am and always will be superior, the better. “And now, you must go to see that Stella woman and convince her I am a wise, trustworthy man of honor who most definitely does not want to suck her virginal blood.”

  “But—”

  “Do it or I will send you to the dungeon without any supper.”

  “We don’t have a dungeon,” she throws back.

  “What! No dungeon?” What sort of castle has no dungeon? “Where will I imprison my enemies?”

  “We needed the space to store more wine. I figured with the extra revenue, you could rent a place—a mine shaft or empty warehouse—to vanquish your foe.”

  I bob my head. “You are very efficient, Neli.”

  She looks away, her posture rigid. I cannot deny that it makes me unhappy to see her feeling wounded, but if I do not assert myself as master, all hell will break loose. The natural order must be obeyed.

  “Jeez. Thanks.”


  “Neli,” I soften my tone, “I am a man. A very strong, handsome, and powerful man with a tempting sexual aura. Nevertheless, I do have compassion for the predicament you face in having such a small inferior female brain. Living in the shadow of such greatness is never easy, but I have faith. You will overcome.”

  She silently snarls up at me.

  I bow my head and reach for my cape hanging on a hook. “I am glad to see we are in agreement. Now, you must excuse me. I need to finish dressing and prepare to hunt a snack in town.” I am in the mood for a chardonnay. And by that, I mean a human whose bloodstream is saturated with it. “You will apologize to the virgin and have her back here tomorrow night at seven sharp.” I know I said that I should resist drinking my neighbors, but that was before I realized that Stella might just be the most delicious woman on the planet.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Stella

  “There you are!” Mom exclaims the moment I step inside the house after my humiliating meeting across the street.

  My dad hovers behind her, looking anxious from the archway of the living room. “You didn’t text, and we were getting worried.”

  I let out a breath of exasperation. “I forgot. I had some of their award-winning wine and got a little tipsy.”

  “You want something to eat?” Mom points over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “There’s cherry pie.”

  My stomach feels sour. “No, thanks.”

  “Well? How did it go with our neighbor?” Dad asks.

  They both look at me expectantly. I can’t tell them the truth. That he spit out our wine and insulted it.