by Aimer Boyz
“Sure. It’s kind of nice knowing we’re not the only weird out there.”
Symon let his fangs drop, pulled his lips back. “You calling me weird?”
“If the fang fits,” Michael said, tossing a pillow at Symon, and climbing out of bed. “Time to go. No offense, but I’d rather not be here when you turn into a corpse.”
Symon snorted. “Nobody sees me when I’m a corpse.”
Jeans on, Michael shrugged into his shirt. “No cuddling in the coffin?”
“Yeah, cute. No.”
Michael sat on the bed to pull on his socks. Stamped his feet into his boots and stood. “You always sleep alone?”
“I don’t sleep, I die, but yeah.”
Michael looked down at Symon lying on the bed for what felt like forever. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
In the sitting room, Dimple Man picked his parka off the floor where Symon had flung it the previous night and pulled it on. “You don’t tell anyone about the psychic crap, and I won’t tell anyone about the blood diet. Deal?” Michael asked, holding his hand out.
Symon slid his hand into Michael’s. “Deal.”
He watched Michael walk to the elevators, watched him turn and wave, watched that dimple flash for the last time as the elevator doors slid shut.
Yep, you totally booted his ass out the door.
Shut up.
Chapter 6
SYMON TURNED HIS shirt collar up, slipped the tie around his neck. Eyes on the gilt framed mirror in front of him, he wrapped the black silk into the requisite bow. He lived in jeans and leather jackets now, but he hadn’t forgotten how to do black tie. Habit made the old moves automatic, left his mind free to obsess.
Night three post-Michael and Symon was still stuck on rewind. Pathetic. He kept seeing Michael’s face, his eyes, his fucking dimple. He could still feel Michael’s ass under his hands, around his cock. Still see those long legs that ended in oddly delicate ankles.
Ankles, who the fuck noticed ankles?
Symon snapped his shirt collar down, tugged the bow tie into place, and reached for the black jacket lying on the bed.
It was dinner, Jesus, it’s not like you’ve never eaten before.
He slipped the tuxedo jacket on, glanced at the mirror as he adjusted his shirt cuffs, and froze. His hands curled into fists at his side. Hollywood had it wrong. It wasn’t that vampires couldn’t see their reflection; it was that they didn’t like what they saw. At least, Symon didn’t like what he saw. He didn’t know about anyone else; he’d never asked. It was painful, to look in the mirror and see, not who you were, but who you used to be. Symon hadn’t been a seventeen-year-old for centuries, but the mirror didn’t know that. Life didn’t write itself on Symon’s face. No wrinkles or grey hair, no sagging jaw line. Not that he wanted to look his age, because no. Fuck no. That was a disgustingly scary thought, but sometimes, the sight of his own face in the mirror made him want to smash his fist through the glass.
Symon turned his back on the boy in the mirror, slid his wallet into his pants, his phone into his jacket pocket, and grabbed his winter coat off the couch in the suite’s sitting room. At the front entrance to the hotel, he tipped the attendant who brought his rental car around and slid behind the wheel.
The car’s headlights cut chunks out of the dark as Symon followed the sleepy curve of the Niagara Parkway to Niagara Falls. The winding ribbon of asphalt took him past stately homes with river views, quiet inns, and quaint Bed & Breakfasts before meandering into the tawdry tackiness of Niagara Falls. The automated voice of the GPS talked him through the turns to Fallsview Casino and the Xerox Icewine Gala.
The lavish black-tie event that kicked off the festival each year promised an evening of elegance, fine wines, and exceptional cuisine. None of which Symon gave a shit about. He wasn’t going for the finger food he couldn’t eat and the music he wouldn’t dance to. He was going for grapes. Preferably, a whole orchard of grapes. Someone else’s grapes. Grapes that with a swipe of a pen would be his. If he couldn’t find a winery for sale, the promise of someone else’s harvest was the next best thing.
The seeds he had casually planted with his realtor should have blossomed into full-blown rumour by now. Rumour that said Symon had practically grown up in an Italian vineyard. That he was in Ontario representing his family’s interests, looking to get into ice wine. That he wasn’t the seventeen-year-old, he appeared to be, but a twenty-year-old with an open wallet. This wasn’t an evening out; it was a polite dance around naked capitalism. Smiles, handshakes, and shop talk would veil the hunt, hide both predator and prey. Thanks to the rumours he had started, estate managers and winery owners would stalk him at the Gala tonight, as he stalked them.
No one would hesitate to do business with a young man whose family owned a successful wine operation in Italy, not when he dangled a cheque in front of them. Money made humans blind to what they didn’t want to see, and Symon had lifetimes of money to dull their eyesight.
Fallsview Casino wasn’t hard to find, it towered over the smaller hotels and restaurants around it. Red lights screamed Casino down the side of the building, fountains splashed water into the night, and cars lined the driveway to the front entrance. Symon left his car with valet parking and followed the trail of people to the Grand Hall. He checked his coat, grabbed a glass of wine he couldn’t drink, and surveyed the room.
Themed décor, dance floor, DJ, the Icewine Gala was the typical corporate party event, with one major difference. There was wine everywhere. Red wine, white wine, sparkling wine, and of course, ice wine. Wine on tables, in glasses, dribbled over desserts, pouring through ice sculptures, and floating raspberries in little shot glasses.
“Symon, excellent. Glad you could join us.” Dollar signs behind his smile, Symon’s realtor, Brian Weston, shook his hand. “There are some people here I think you should meet.”
The hunt was on.
***
“We devote a third of our crop to ice wine. The yield is lower, of course, and the fermentation process slower, but ice wine…”
Stephane Desjardins didn’t seem to be aware that conversation was meant to be an exchange between two people. Symon’s attention wandered to the dance floor and the humans gyrating to a volume of sound that hurt his ears. Dark hair in an undercut style hovered over a sea of shoulders and every cell in Symon’s body went on red alert. The head disappeared back into the crowd of bodies and Symon wanted to charge onto the dance floor, toss people aside until he found—
Ass. Like every third guy doesn’t have that haircut.
“You’re thinking of buying here?” Stephane asked, dragging Symon’s attention away from the dance floor.
“Yes, I considered the Okanagan Valley in B.C., but I have friends here.”
“What are you looking for? Winery, vineyard, both?”
“Not a vineyard, no. I don’t have the patience for that. A small winery, a turn-key operation. Everything I need to be up and running next season. Do you know anyone looking to sell?”
Stephane thought about it, shook his head. “No, sorry. I’ve heard that,” he said, lowering his voice, and glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “Santos Wines is having a rough time, but we’ve all been through a patch of bad luck. Doesn’t take much with…”
Over Stephane’s shoulder, Symon saw a breath of shoulder and length of back that sped his heart. Hidden behind his eyeteeth, his fangs throbbed, and he told himself to calm the fuck down. He scanned the swirling mob, eyes jumping from one black jacket to the next. In formal wear, the men all looked the same except for their height. Symon narrowed his focus to the heads bobbing above the others.
You’ve fucking lost it. You know that, right?
Michael’s an art history student, what would he be doing here?
“Stephane, how are you? I see you’ve met Symon,” Brian said, joining them, the inevitable glass of wine in his hand. “Have you tried this one?”
Stephan
e noting the closest tasting booth, asked, “Jackson-Triggs?”
“Yes, Fumé Blanc. Nice, fresh.”
A cheer went up from the dance floor and they turned to see a huddle of black tuxedos open out into a semi-circle. Five men, arms linked, hands on each other’s shoulders, dancing to Greek folk music. Five men, but Symon only saw one.
Michael looked amazing, his open jacket revealing the trim waist and forever legs that Symon remembered all too well. His dark hair bounced off his forehead and that smile, even from the edge of the dance floor Symon could see the flash of Michael’s dimple.
Christ’s fingernails.
The ancient curse floated up out of Symon’s human past, a testament to how freaked out he was. He hadn’t been mistaken. That had been Michael earlier. Symon had picked him out of a crowd by the set of his shoulders, the line of his back. Vampire senses or not, he shouldn’t have been able to do that.
Fuck.
The dance was a combination of athleticism and grace, the men taking turns stomping, jumping. The music got faster, and the men moved with it, their steps a coordinated attack on the dance floor, beating it into submission. As Symon watched, Michael leapt into the air, came down in a crouch balanced on the soles of his feet, his black pants taut over muscled thighs.
“These guys are good,” Stephane said, bracketing his mouth with his hands, and hooting his encouragement.
“Yeah,” Brian said. “They’ve been dancing since they were kids. Used to compete. Now, it’s a Gala tradition.”
“Is that Russian?” Stephane asked. “Polish?”
“No, Greek. It’s a harvest dance. Appropriate, considering we’re all here drinking the fruit of the vine.”
The music slowed and the men separated, beckoning to the guests to join them. “Audience participation time,” Brian remarked, finishing off his wine.
“When in Rome,” Symon said, excusing himself with a shrug and a smile. He ditched his untouched drink and headed for the dance floor, inserting himself between Michael and a woman overflowing the top of her strapless dress.
Michael found Symon at his side and his whole face smiled. “Hey, Fido,” he said, throwing an arm across Symon’s shoulders.
Symon had never understood why Etienne allowed Andrew to call him Dracula. Andrew called it a pet name; Symon called it disrespect. Etienne mostly ignored it, but Symon had often caught a look between them and wondered at it. Now, his left arm slipping around Michael’s waist, he finally got it. Pet names were a code of sorts, a private emoji that expressed a connection between two people. Not something Symon would have known; he didn’t play well with others. Also, he hadn’t been part of a couple in a hundred and fifty years.
“Hey, prey,” he said, clamping a hand on Michael’s left shoulder.
Michael grinned, slid his hand from Symon’s shoulder to the back of his neck. With only centimetres between them, they moved as one, Symon’s hand locked on Michael’s shoulder. Eyes on each other, they traded smiles. The dance ended and the circle broke apart, people drifting back to their tables and their wine. “I was hoping I’d see you here,” Michael said, as they walked off the dance floor together.
Symon couldn’t say the same, it had never occurred to him that Michael might be here. He hadn’t even been sure that he lived in the area, because of course, he’d never asked. “Networking.”
“Meet, and greet, and grab a bite?”
Symon didn’t have the statistics at hand, but he thought he’d laughed more since dining on Michael than he had in the last decade, possibly two. “More like meet, and greet, and you show me your contact numbers and I’ll show you mine. One of these,” Symon said, tapping the breast pocket that hid his phone. “Is going to get me a crop of grapes next season.”
The perimeter of the Grand Hall was littered with display booths and tasting stations. Symon and Michael wound their way through the drinking hordes to a small oasis of quiet, shielded from the masses by an enormous wine bottle carved out of ice.
“Puzzle pieces?” Symon asked, adjusting Michael’s bow tie. In contrast to the stark black and white of his tuxedo, the tie was a vibrant kaleidoscope of colours.
“Life is the ever-unsolvable puzzle.” Michael’s delivery was professor perfect, but laughter lurked around the corners of his eyes.
“Right. You just like the colours.”
“Yep. And, you know, puzzle pieces. Geek, remember?”
Symon smiled his predator smile. “I remember.” Right now, with Michael standing in front of him, that didn’t seem like such a bad thing.
“Yeah?” Michael locked eyes with Symon. “Me too.”
Symon could practically taste the want on Michael’s face and his dick throbbed in response. He savoured the feeling, Michael’s need stoking his own. Lust didn’t often play out this way, not for him. It was rare that he got to experience physical desire as its own separate pleasure. Cock and cum got second billing after fangs and blood. Not that Symon was complaining. Feed and fuck made a nice combo. They were a matched set, like salt and pepper, meant to go together. Still, this was nice. With his tank still running on full, Symon was free of the insistent demand of the blood lust. Free to focus on his dick. He wrapped a hand around the back of Michael’s neck, pulled him down into a kiss.
Michael inhaled Symon like he was an essential nutrient his body needed to exist. Their tongues fought; their teeth clashed, Michael’s hands slipping under Symon’s jacket to find his ass. His leg climbing Michael’s thigh, Symon’s fangs descended, and—
A wolf whistle sliced through their haze of lust. “Get a room guys,” someone called from the real world.
They pried themselves apart, Michael sketching a flamboyant bow for their audience, but Symon turned away, his hand covering his mouth.
“You okay?” Concern in his voice, Michael put himself between Symon and anyone who might still be watching them.
“Yeah. Give me a minute.”
What the fuck?
Symon didn’t lose control, ever. His body was still swimming in the blood he had siphoned off Michael. His fangs should be tucked up behind his eyeteeth where they belonged.
Shit.
Symon counted backwards in his head, concentrated on calm. He went to his Zen place. Palm trees, waves lapping at the sand, stars overhead. New age bullshit, but it worked. His fangs slipped back behind his eyeteeth and Symon let himself breathe again.
What the fuck is wrong with you? You don’t drop fang in the middle of room full of humans.
Symon didn’t understand it. He didn’t screw up like this. “You didn’t do any of that…?” he asked, taping his temple.
“No. No.” Michael tried for a smile, but his eyes were worried. “Wasn’t really thinking. At all.”
Symon believed him. The protective way he stood, blocking Symon from prying eyes, the worry written on his face said he was telling the truth. Also, Michael was a read-only kind of talent, he couldn’t edit shit, or could he? “This sometime ability of yours, it’s strictly an eavesdropping kind of thing, right? No altering what’s there?”
“No. I can’t do what you can. I can’t influence anyone. Jesus, Symon, what happened? Can I get someone for you? Do you guys even have doctors?”
“Doctors? No.” Symon had to smile at the very idea. “We don’t get sick.”
“Right. Yeah.” Michael scrutinized Symon’s face. “You’re good?”
His eyes on Michael’s, Symon pulled the tie out of his hair, shook the blond out over his shoulders, and sent Dimple Man a half smile. “Thought you remembered?”
Michael’s face went tight, his eyes intense. He became the hunter and Symon learned what it felt like to be prey. Michael slid his hand up the lapel of Symon’s jacket, pulled him close. “I remember this,” he said, and covered Symon’s mouth with his own.
It had been so long since he had done this, kissed a man because he wanted to and not because it was the easiest way to his jugular. This felt innocent, felt…human. The H wo
rd pranced into his mind and Symon kicked it back out again. “Too many people here,” he said, sneaking a hand under Michael’s open jacket. “My hotel room is empty.”
Michael sighed. “Sorry, I can’t, not tonight. I promised the guys. We do this thing every year after the Gala.” He pulled his phone out. “Give me your number.”
That was a no. He said no.
“Symon?”
“Three, six, seven. Four, nine, two. Five, seven, three, five. It’s an Italian number. You have to dial zero, eleven, thirty-nine first, then my phone number.”
“Got it.” Michael tapped his phone and Symon’s pocket vibrated. “That’s mine. Text me,” he said, slipping his phone away. “I’d—"
“Been looking for you,” a man said, appearing at Michael’s side. “Alex is getting the car.” He smiled at Symon, offered his hand, and Symon recognized him as one of the folk dancers. “Hi, Dani Petrakis.”
“Symon Bradewey.”
Symon felt Michael’s eyes on him and realized that while they had exchanged various body fluids three nights ago, they hadn’t gotten around to last names.
“Symon Bradewey, why do I…?” Dani focused on Symon as if the answer was written on his face, grinned. “Hallowe’en, A Little Blood. Bradewey Vineyards. That’s you, right?”
“We sell more in the two weeks around Hallowe’en than the rest of the year combined,” Symon said, not even trying to keep the pride out of his smile.
“That YouTube thing last year. Epic. You saw it, right?” Dani asked Michael. “Spooky shadows, castle vibe, one hand with long fingernails picking up a wine glass. The voice over was all Bela Lugosi. A Little Blood: A Wine for Eternity,” Dani said, aping an Eastern European accent.
“Yeah, not into the whole vampire thing. Too Twilight,” Michael said, flicking a glance at Symon.
It was nothing, and everything. A shared look, a secret kept, and they were suddenly a team. Batman and Robin against the world.
Except Robin has better things to do tonight.
Chapter 7
