Fanged Love

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  I rub the back of my neck. “It wasn’t as helpful as I hoped. He didn’t share any wine-making secrets, and their marketing seems to exclusively rest on their reputation from all their awards,” I lie. Honestly, we never got that far in the conversation.

  “We tried to win something in a few local competitions last year,” Dad says.

  “Nothing,” Mom says. “I think the judges are biased toward previous years’ winners.”

  “Ah.” What else can I say? That maybe our wine isn’t so good? “I’ll come up with something. Maybe a newly designed label to make the vineyard look like an old European estate. Sometimes perception makes all the difference.”

  “I like our label,” Mom says.

  My shoulders slump. I just feel so defeated by tonight, so damn tired. “I’ll think on it more. Good night.”

  “You’re going to bed already? It’s not even nine.” My mom glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room. It’s an old family heirloom and oddly reminds me of the stuffy, pompous jerk across the road.

  “Just need to relax and unwind,” I say and head upstairs. My only other idea is hard-core grassroots marketing. Showing up at every shop in the area to try to place our wine, calling every distributor and offering them a deal. We may lose some profit, but it could give us a foothold. Tomorrow. I’ll get started tomorrow.

  The next morning I drive off in a van full of our wine for my in-person selling campaign. I’m wearing a flowing maxi dress in a light red and white block pattern that I hope says sophisticated and professional. I’ve got my list of potential customers that I’m eager to put check marks next to with each successful sale. Just because our wine hasn’t won any awards doesn’t mean it’s horse piss. Jeez.

  Yet, time after depressing time, it’s a no. No one will even try the wine. They tell me there’s no shelf space, or they want me to pay for a display. I’m tempted to slip a few bottles onto the shelf when they’re not looking, but it’s not like we’d profit from it. The heavy pit in my stomach is growing bigger by the second, and I’m starting to feel a little desperate.

  I drive home in the late afternoon, trying to psych myself up for pitching the wine to distributors in a long cold-calling session. My parents already tried the main distributors. I’ll hit up the little guys. Any niche I can get us into is a step in the right direction.

  When I let myself into the house, the welcome scent of the twins’ famous oatmeal chocolate chunk cookies hits me. Yes, please. Exactly the sugar-filled comfort food I need before my long slog on the phone.

  I head to the kitchen, eager to dive in. “Just what I needed…” I trail off at the shock of seeing Neli sitting on a stool at the island counter next to my mom. Neli looks relaxed and refreshed—the exact opposite of me at the moment—in a white peasant blouse and white capris. Mom’s in her usual T-shirt and jeans. They’re having tea. What the hell?

  “Hi, honey,” Mom says. “Neli stopped by to see you, so I invited her to stay for tea. Your sisters made your favorite cookies.”

  Mabel turns from the sink, where she’s washing dishes. “Mom said you needed a pick-me-up.”

  Eliza nods, looking worried.

  “I’m fine,” I say firmly, mostly for Neli’s benefit. I don’t want her to know how much last night rattled me. “But thank you for the cookies.” I take one from the large cooling rack and bite into warm gooey perfection. I close my eyes, giving myself this moment of pleasure before having to deal with Neli. I’m sure she hated our wine as much as Goth Man, but was too polite to say so. Maybe she came over to apologize for him, but I don’t want to hear it. Just thinking about his insulting manner makes me angry all over again. He’s already sucked all the positive energy out of me, and I won’t allow him to drain me dry.

  I finish my cookie and take a seat at the island counter next to my mom.

  “Neli was just saying how much she enjoyed our pinot noir,” Mom says.

  I stare at Neli, disbelieving. What game is she playing? “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes, I hoped we might collaborate on a project,” Neli says cheerfully.

  I stiffen. “Collaborate?” There’s no way I’m working on anything that involves the horrible man next door. I don’t know how Neli puts up with him. He’s insufferable, insulting, indecent! So many “in” words fit that inhumane man.

  Metal cupcake pans hit the floor with a clatter. “Sorry!” Eliza chirps. “Just getting things ready for our new cinnamon bun cupcake recipe.”

  “Maybe we should take this to the patio,” Mom suggests.

  I shake my head. “Actually, that won’t be necessary. I’m not interested in collaborating. We’re going in another direction.” I stand. “Excuse me, I have some calls to make.” I walk out.

  “Stella, what’s wrong?” my mom calls after me. “Don’t you even want to hear her idea for collaborating? She waited all this time to tell you.”

  I keep walking, heading toward the stairs. “No, thank you.”

  “Stella!”

  “I’ve got work to do,” I say.

  I’m halfway up the stairs when Neli appears in the front hall below. “Stella, wait. Can we take a walk?”

  I grip the handrail tightly, trying to rein in my temper. I don’t want to lash out at Neli when I’m mad at him. “I’m really very busy.”

  “Five minutes, okay? I think you’ll find it worth your while.”

  I clench my teeth, pride and curiosity battling it out within my mind. “Okay, five minutes.”

  I go downstairs and lead her through the front door. We take the brick path toward our flagstone patio, where we host tastings. It’s set back a ways from the vineyard. My sisters and I used to play in the grassy yard next to the patio, on a swing set that’s long gone.

  I gesture for Neli to take one of the cushioned swivel chairs under a large patio umbrella. I deliberately choose the chair that will keep my back to the castle across the street. I know the reminder will just piss me off.

  “First, let me just say your wine is not horse piss,” she says.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Boz shouldn’t have said that. He’s going through something right now. Some massive, uh, life changes, and it’s made him a little loopy. We’re both very sorry about the way things ended last night. He asked me to come over today and make it right.”

  “You did nothing wrong, Neli. There’s nothing to forgive. As for him, he can apologize for himself if he really means it.”

  “He’s sun sensitive because of some…medication, but maybe he can stop by one night to do just that.”

  I instantly feel bad for despising the man. He has a sleepwalking condition and he takes heavy-duty medication. My brows draw together, thinking a little more about his eccentricities. Neli also said he works a lot at night too. So many things that don’t quite fit—avoids sunlight, works nights, sleepwalks in the early morning, on heavy medication. He sounds like an oddball nocturnal animal. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “What’s not wrong with him is a better question,” she replies.

  “Sorry to hear it.” I lean forward. “I appreciate you coming over to follow up, but I don’t feel comfortable collaborating on anything. I don’t think it’s in my best interest to spend any more time with Mr. Bozhidar.”

  “I see.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Okay, well, I tried. So, uh, nice chatting with you. Sorry it won’t work out. Bye.” She stands abruptly and heads back the way we came.

  I stare at her rapidly retreating back. Funny. She didn’t sound sorry. She sounded kind of cheerful when she left. I shake my head. What an odd pair those two are.

  Guess we didn’t miss anything never spending time with our neighbors.

  Boz

  “What do you mean she’s not interested in spending the evening with me?” I roar. This is the gravest insult. And I put on my new velvety cape for this? After a wonderful slumber and an arduous time selecting the perfect outfit for Stella’s visit this evening, Neli has brought n
othing but disappointment. “Did you tell her the pinot noir doesn’t taste like horse piss?” I gave Neli strict instructions to say just that.

  “Yes, Boz, I did exactly as you asked. And I said we were sorry about the way things ended last night.”

  “Did she forgive you?” A vampire never apologizes, so Stella had better appreciate the gesture.

  Neli looks to the floor, finally submissive, as my servant should be. “I think so.”

  “Then what is the problem? I demand you bring the virgin here tonight.”

  Her head jerks up. “Boz, it’s different now. You can’t just summon a virgin. And how do you even know she is a virgin? A modern woman in her twenties probably isn’t.”

  My nostrils flare. “It’s in her scent. Roses.”

  “Roses,” she mumbles.

  Does she not recall the distinct odor of purity? Perhaps she’s forgotten after sleeping with so many men over the centuries. I politely decline from mentioning her open-toed shoes and whoring ways with those three men. Three! Quite scandalous. The important thing is that Stella shows up as I’ve planned.

  “Did you tell her I summoned her here this evening, yes or no?” I demand.

  She holds up a palm. “In so many words.”

  “How many words does it take? It is a simple phrase. My master summons you.”

  She grimaces, most likely at the reminder of her incompetence. “People don’t say summons nowadays. I mentioned collaborating.”

  “Collaborating.” I try the word out on my tongue, not liking the feel of it. “What does this mean?”

  “Never mind.” She takes a deep breath. “Bottom line—she says it’s not in her best interest to spend time with you, and I have to say she’s not wrong.”

  “You speak in riddles, woman! I am never at the bottom. I am on top. I am the Great Prince Bozhidar Alexandru and must be obeyed.” I flash my fangs in displeasure.

  She backs away, cringing at my display of power. This doesn’t make me feel as good as I hoped. The Stella problem harps on me. For some reason, her abrupt departure last night made a hollow ache in my chest area. I thought her virgin blood would help the ache, but perhaps it is her presence I crave too. Why else would I feel like howling at the moon like a lowly werewolf? They don’t know their head from their ass the way they chase their tails.

  “Neli, you must solve the Stella problem.”

  She lets out a long breath that I assume is necessary for her to summon the strength to face me again after I intimidated her so with my fangs. “Why her, Boz? She’s got enough troubles without adding a hungry vampire to the mix. Her mom says their winery isn’t doing well, and they’re hoping Stella’s marketing know-how is going to bring them back from the dead, so to speak.” Zombies? At my horrified expression, she adds, “Not literally.” Most unnatural the way decaying corpses walk the earth.

  Neli blows out another harsh breath.

  I am beginning to wonder if Neli has contracted consumption. It would explain her unusually insolent behavior lately. That would be most inconvenient. Not that she would die, since she is practically immortal, but that does not mean she can fall ill. Who would brush my hair before bed?

  She adds, “I feel like you need to catch up with modern speech. Maybe I’ll have you watch all ten seasons of Friends. That’s where I learned the most about current dating customs.”

  I cock my head. “Dating customs? Is there some sort of exchange of fruit? I don’t believe we grow dates anymore.”

  She laughs and promptly quiets at my glare. “I’m talking about how modern men and women spend time together.”

  Finally. She is fixing the problem. “That is what I need. Bring me these friends of yours, and then tomorrow I will be prepared for Stella.”

  “To do what?”

  “For the dating.”

  She blows out another breath. Definitely consumption. I’d better have her call for the leecher. “The only way I’m going to arrange for you to spend time with Stella is if you help her with her family’s winery. Not bite her, not mate with her. Help her.”

  “You must assist me with the dating. I command it.”

  “What if we work on a wine blend from our varietal and hers? Maybe then she’d have a chance at actually making a decent wine.”

  I arch a brow. I have my doubts. Mixing a fine wine with horse piss will taste like fruity horse piss, but my need to see Stella again trumps any argument against it. “And then Stella will spend time with me once more?”

  She hesitates.

  If I had a beating heart, it would be pounding in anticipation. As it is, every muscle in my spectacular body tenses.

  Finally, she says, “If you let me help you adapt to modern times—”

  I gesture impatiently, waving her on. “Yes, yes, watching your friends, but not for ten seasons, just the one night. I cannot wait ten long seasons to see Stella again.”

  She makes a strange face, almost like she wants to smile except her lips are smashed tightly together. “Then yes. I think she’ll agree to spend time with you.”

  Fire shoots through me, the fire of victory. I will have what is mine. Stella.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Boz

  I spend the entire evening watching the tiny friends perform several stage plays through the magical window on this “TV” Neli has installed in my bedchamber near my reading chair. I do not know when they sleep or where they hide the audience, who seems to laugh every few seconds, but I find no humor in any of it. To the contrary, this group of very old adults—in their late twenties—are very peculiar. They are unwed, own no land, have no servants, and the females are well past their childbearing years. Also, apparently no one works despite claiming to have jobs.

  The most shocking thing, however, is the state of these very castrated, docile men. The horror! They do not speak directly to a woman when they desire her, and instead try to woo her with polite conversation while drinking coffee. Weak coffee. With milk. What sort of man puts the juice from the teat of a lactating cow in their coffee? And, pray tell, what is the matter with simply telling a woman what you desire? Come here to my chamber, wench, I wish to plow you. Why not offer her father something of value in exchange for her? A goat. Or a pig, perhaps. I simply see no point in being a man of means if one does not wish to barter for goods and the sexual companionship of a woman. Or for handing over their tasty virgin daughters to the local vampire.

  “I bid you good evening, friends,” I say with a malcontented sigh to the actors, though they stay in character even when I press the little red button on the handheld box that controls the TV’s stage curtain.

  I sit quietly in my chair next to the dwindling fire and contemplate the uneasiness in my chest. What is the matter with me? It is almost sunrise, and I have not fed, yet I have no appetite. Not for the local fare I have been sipping outside the pubs. The startling truth is I only wish to sink my fangs, and perhaps another part of my anatomy, into a certain female across the road.

  Hmmm… I rub my rough chin, mulling over the idea of paying her a visit. I have about one hour before sunrise. Yes. I will go in through her window and take a whiff. That should sate me for today. But what about tomorrow? Or the day after?

  Another idea hits. If Stella will not agree to engage in this collaboration, then I will use my powers of suggestion. By tomorrow, she will be begging to see me.

  Knowing I must be discreet if I am to sneak into her bedchamber unnoticed, I undo the buttons of my white shirt and enter my dressing room in search of something darker to go with my black leather trousers. On the shelf are soft stretchy woven things Neli calls sweaters. I hold up the dark blue one with long sleeves. Ick. It has no ruffles or fine buttons made of those iridescent seashells I favor, but it will have to do. I have not gone to the tailor just yet.

  I slide on the garment—oh, very soft—and glide my hands over my torso while I gaze into the large beveled mirror mounted to the wall. The clothing nicely displays my strong muscles and bro
ad chest.

  I turn and look at my firm backside, now also on display since my long shirt no longer conceals it. Could split firewood with that ass. I still prefer formal attire, but I do believe this sort of outfit will assist me in enticing a certain human to my bed—something I would want her to do willingly. It is one thing to use my abilities of persuasion to make a human want to spend time with me, but it is very unsportsmanlike to hypnotize a female into sex. Where’s the fun in that?

  “Eh-hem! And just where do you think you’re going?” Neli snaps, appearing in the doorway of my dressing room, wearing a very unusual fuzzy robe with animal print. Women’s fashion is very strange in these times.

  “Out for a little stroll.”

  She raises one red brow. “So close to dawn?”

  I pull back my long hair and grab a piece of leather from my grooming drawer to tether it. I do not want it in my way when I scale Stella’s home. Wait. “Is Stella’s bedchamber on the first or second floor?”

  “Boz, no!” Fire shoots from Neli’s green eyes. “Don’t you dare go over there.”

  “Calm your feathers, little hen. I am merely going to treat myself to a whiff of her delicious scent before I go to coffin.” I finish tying off my locks and glance once more in the mirror at my pale face. The high cheekbones are nice, as is my strong jaw and brow line; however, I have been told by many women that my full lips are very sexually enticing. Perhaps I should use this to my advantage and draw more attention to them.

  “Do you think I should cut my hair and go for a more modern look?” I ask Neli. “Like those Joey and Ross men?” I also cannot help noticing the lack of chalkiness of their skin. In my time, being supremely pasty was a sign of grandeur and influence. Or the bubonic plague? In any case, people of stature did not spend their days outside, working the fields or tending to cattle. The paler the better. Now, after seeing these friends perform their daily peasant duties, I am beginning to understand that the common man of this era spends his days inside very large buildings, slaving away on their electronic devices. The outdoors is reserved for those with free time, wishing to relax. “I also understand there is a product to give a man’s skin the darkened appearance of one who enjoys leisurely afternoons by the ocean or on a yacht. Do I have a yacht? If not, please procure five before I wake, and ensure they are very glamorous.”