by Aimer Boyz
“No, I thought ESP was something on the Space channel before I met you. And vampires can’t read minds.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know maybe because you were just inside my fucking head.”
Symon waved a hand, swiping Michael’s comment into the inconsequential. “Doesn’t count. I can only skim your mind when I’m feeding.”
“Doesn’t count? What about that first night when you told me to forget?”
“Vampiric influence. We can project a thought, a command. That’s not mind reading.”
“No, of course not.” Michael’s snort didn’t need a lot of interpretation. “And when you talk to Etienne, you know, all silent. What’s that, ventriloquism?”
Symon laughed. “FYI, Etienne’s the dummy.”
No laugh from Michael, not even a smile.
“It’s not mind reading. I can only send and receive thoughts with Etienne and Andrew. It’s part of the bond between a sire and his blood children.”
“I don’t remember you talking to Andrew like that. Did I miss something?”
“No. We can mind speak, Andrew and I, but we don’t.” Symon shrugged. “He’s never said, but I know he doesn’t want to. I think the idea makes him uncomfortable.”
“Like father, like son.”
“Please. Andrew’s a fledgling, he’s still got human behind his ears.”
“Maybe, but he’s uncomfortable with the psychic stuff, and so are you.”
“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” Symon said, hands slipping around Michael’s waist.
“Not me, Fido,” Michael said, prying Symon’s hands off him. “The psychic stuff. You’re a closeted sensitive. No, it’s worse than that. You’re not just lying to me; you’re lying to yourself. You’re in denial up to your fangs.”
“Denying what? I don’t do the psychic bullshit you do.”
“Bullshit? I felt your orgasm melt you down from inside your head and you fucking know it.”
“Okay. You’re right. It’s not bullshit, not for you, but I’m not psychic.”
“No?” Michael held one hand up. “One,” he said, striking a finger, ticking off his points as he spoke. “You read the minds of your prey.”
“Only when I’m feeding, I can’t—”
“Two,” Michael said, ploughing right over Symon’s protest. “You, what do you call it, influence? You influence your prey. Three, you talk to your kids without saying a fucking word. Want to tell me again how you’re not psychic?”
“I’m not. That’s natural ability, survival instincts.”
“Un-huh. And it never occurred to you that your survival instincts were psychic in nature?”
No. Not ever. Not once in six hundred and fourteen years.
Chapter 17
IT WAS LONG ago and far away, but Symon had been forged in the Middle Ages. Under the strategically ripped jeans and black leather jacket, he was still the same vampire who’d travelled through Europe keeping one step ahead of the witch-hunting mania that had raced across the continent and into the New World. He had seen the flames and heard the screams, hidden himself and his own abilities and survived. If Michael was right, then Symon had hidden deeper than he knew, closed his eyes to the similarities between his survival instincts and what the morality police in the Middle Ages had called witchcraft.
The twenty-first century version of Symon knew that psychic ability and witchcraft weren’t the same thing, but the part of him that still huddled in the dark of the fifteenth century wasn’t so sure. The idea that he might have even a sliver of psychic ability himself made Symon uncomfortable. In his experience, the psychic shit got you dead, and he was already as dead as he ever wanted to be.
“Think about it,” Michael said, climbing off the bed.
“You’re not staying?” Symon asked, the words out there before he could hold them back.
“Yeah, no.” Michael pulled his briefs on, his non-reaction saying he thought Symon had asked a perfectly reasonable question. Reasonable for a human maybe, but for a vampire?
Stupid on every conceivable level.
“Crawling out of here before first light,” Michael said, pulling his sweater over his head. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Symon nodded, banished the saccharine image of himself sitting in bed, working on his laptop while Michael slept beside him.
Stupid on every conceivable level.
“Kind of a pain,” Michael said. “Our body clocks being out of sync.”
Symon snorted. “Out of sync? This is more than a bad case of jet lag, Michael.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. I eat food, you drink blood. I have an expiration date, you don’t. We’re a bad idea,” Michael said, stomping into his boots, and standing. “Text you at sunset,” he added, flashing Symon a smile, and walking out of the bedroom.
Symon stared at the empty doorway and listened to Michael’s footfalls cross the carpeted sitting room. He heard the door to the hotel suite close behind his human and felt… happy.
Stupid on every conceivable level.
With Michael gone, Symon had no reason to linger in bed. He dragged his jeans back on and padded barefoot into the sitting room intending to get some work done before sunrise. Halfway through an email from his vineyard manager, his mind went walkabout on him Michael’s voice saying, ‘And it never occurred to you…?’
The mere thought that his instincts were a version of Michael’s psychic ability made Symon nauseous, but if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck. How the fuck had he not known this? Easily. He’d stopped questioning the how or why of his abilities centuries ago because that door led to witchcraft and Symon wasn’t going there. By the time strip malls, with their clusters of nail salons, dry cleaners, and tattoo parlours appeared Symon had become used to labelling his abilities as natural instincts. The cutesy shops with the pink neon signs blinking psychic hadn’t encouraged him to change his opinion. The recent wave of scientists and psychologists hidden away in their labs studying human psychic ability hadn’t made much of an impact either. What had any of that to do with him? Nothing, until tonight.
Fucking dimple.
Symon tapped his screen back to life and forced himself to focus. He finished reading Gianni’s report and checked the time, 3:30 AM which made it 9:30 AM in Italy. Gianni would be at his desk working on his second espresso. Not something Symon had ever witnessed himself; he never saw the man in the morning. He never saw anyone in the morning.
From the beginning, from the first planting of the first vine, Gianni’s family had worked for Symon. He had walked the land with Faustino Venturi, Gianni’s great-grandfather. Over the years, the Venturi family had become synonymous with Bradewey Vineyards. When Gianni was born, Symon had made the Venturi family part owners of the business they had been managing for decades. If the family thought it odd that Symon was an exact replica of his own father and grandfather, they never said. If they noticed that there had never been a Bradewey wife or mother, they pretended not to. You could overlook a lot when your family was healthy and happy thanks to a man you never saw in the daylight.
Gianni picked up on the second ring. “Buongiorno, Symon. How’s Canada?”
Symon smiled at the distinct clink of a china cup settling into its saucer. “Cold. But the ice wine here, you should…”
They talked ice wine, the coming season, and their plans to produce the brand’s first rosé wine. When Gianni ran out of coffee, they both went back to work. Symon suffered his way through several detailed reports from his accountant, each one more riveting than the last. He replied to the emails Gianni thought needed his personal touch, then turned his attention to the information packet his realtor had sent. Moon Scent Winery had just come on the market and Brian had arranged an appointment for them to view the property. The winery looked good, but they all looked good on paper.
Dawn encroached along the outer boundaries of his consciousness and Symon shu
t his laptop down. In a nightly ritual that had saved his ass on more than one occasion, he checked that the windows in the bedroom were completely covered. The cleaning staff here at the hotel were excellent. They knew to keep the blinds and curtains closed, but shit happened. Symon didn’t intend to be barbequed in his bed because someone had been in a hurry to clock out. He set his phone on the night table, pulled his clothes off on the way to the washroom. Mouth full of toothpaste, he found himself wondering if Etienne and Andrew were as oblivious to the nature of their abilities as he had been until Michael shoved the truth in his face.
Symon settled into the mess he and his prey had made of the bed, snagged his phone off the night table, and sent the same text to both men. ‘Vampiric influence, mind speak between sire and child. Psychic abilities?’
Andrew answered first, not a big surprise. The redhead had an intense and personal relationship with his phone. ‘I guess. Why?’
Etienne’s response came a few seconds later, but then he texted the same way he spoke. That old-world flavour took a little longer. ‘I believe so. Yes.’
So much for father knows best, Symon thought, snapping his phone onto the bedside table.
***
“It’s perfect.” Brian tugged his leather gloves on even though his BMW, and its heated steering wheel, was parked a whole fifteen metres away. “Everything you were looking for. State of the art equipment, tasting room, gift shop. This place is the real deal. I’m not even going to mention the peach orchard.” He pulled out the practised smile that went with the three-hundred-dollar haircut and fake tan. His realtor put the oil in slick, but he wasn’t wrong. Moon Scent Winery looked good, and with the exchange rate between the Euro and the Canadian dollar working in Symon’s favour, the price tag was reasonable.
Symon opened the passenger door to Brian’s car and took a last look at the winery they had just toured. The property included a thirty-seven square foot wine-making facility with tasting room, a small house, wine shop, four acres and yes, a small peach orchard. It was located on Niagara’s wine tour route which meant tourists, which meant sales. If there was anything wrong with Moon Scent Winery, Symon couldn’t see it. He even liked the name, still. “Where are you on Santos Wines?” he asked, clicking into his seat belt.
Brian’s gloved hand froze on the gear shift and Symon almost felt sorry for the guy. He’d probably already started to count his commission, but Symon wasn’t giving up on Santos Wines. Not yet.
“Yeah, Santos Wines.” Brian cleared his throat, put the car in drive. The headlights bounced across snowbanks as he turned the car and started back down the winding driveway towards the street. “I talked to Stavros Santos and he’s adamant. He’s not interested in selling.”
“From what I hear, he’s struggling, and his kids aren’t interested in the business. Why not sell?”
Brian shrugged. “He’s not ready to retire.”
“He said that?”
“That was the gist. There was some rather pointed language about lounge chairs and Florida right before he hung up on me.”
Obviously, that conversation hadn’t been the high point of Brian’s day, but it made Symon smile. Without ever having met the man, he already liked Santos senior. Anyone who hung up on Mr. Slick here was Symon’s kind of guy. Plus, he was dating the man’s son.
Dating.
And just like that, Symon’s smile got bigger. “Adamant?”
“Final.”
Symon nodded, he understood that Brian was done with Santos Wines, but he wasn’t. Moon Scent Winery was a sweet property, but Santos Wines was both winery and vineyard. Symon wouldn’t need to buy anyone else’s harvest. He would contact Stavros Santos himself. Brian was a good realtor, but he was all about the dollar signs. Michael’s father might have other priorities. Death was the only finality Symon recognized, everything else was open to negotiation.
Brian rattled on, gushed about Moon Scent Winery and the number of tourists the winery pulled in every summer. Symon tuned him out, checking his watch and frowning at the slow crawl of cars in front of them.
“Plans for tonight?” Brian asked, looking over at Symon.
“Yes. I’m meeting someone,” Symon glanced at his watch again. “At eight.”
In an exchange of texts just after sunset, Symon had agreed to meet his human in the hotel lobby. Michael’s text had been short on detail. ‘Meet me in the lobby. 8:00. Dress warm.’
Dress warm? Symon had thrown maybe ten items in his carry-on and not one of them was thermal. He didn’t even own a pair of gloves, that’s what pockets were for. There was no way he was going to like any activity that required him to bundle up, but Michael had planned this evening and Symon was—No one made plans for Symon, but Symon. That Michael had thought of him, of them…
“The main roads will be ploughed. You’ll make it back on time.”
Symon nodded. His eyes on the falling snow and the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers, his mind drifted back to Michael’s second text. ‘Going out for dinner. Figure I’ll eat for the both of us. What are you in the mood for Italian or Chinese?’
The text was total nonsense, and entirely Michael, and had Symon smiling at his phone as he tapped out three letters and hit send.
Michael had responded with, ‘Good choice. I’m organic.’
Brian turned onto Niagara Stone Road. The tires riding on black pavement instead of packed, grey snow, he put his foot on the gas.
***
Symon wasn’t late, Michael was early.
The lobby was relatively quiet, a few people hanging around the concierge desk, making reservations, and a group of senior citizens gathered in the lounge area waiting for stragglers. Symon barely noticed them, all his attention on the man standing next to a potted plant in a blue and white Chinoiserie vase. As if he could feel Symon's eyes on him, Michael looked up from his phone. And there it was, the dimple that had become Symon’s personal sunrise. The smile that made him want things he couldn’t have.
“This is dressing warm?” Michael asked, slipping his phone away.
Symon glanced down at his unzipped leather jacket. “It’s a winter coat.”
“For where, Miami? At least zip it up.” He reached out to do just that, but Symon dodged his hand.
“Who are you, my mother?”
Michael laughed. “Too much?”
Symon snorted and headed for the hotel entrance, Michael falling into step at his side. “Most guys try to get my clothes off.”
“I’m not most guys, Fido,” Michael said, sliding his hand into Symon’s.
No, he wasn’t. Symon didn’t invite most guys to visit him in Verona when they were in Italy, not that he’d invited Michael. Yet.
The lone pickup truck parked amid the luxury cars across the street from the hotel, turned out to be Michael’s. “What?” he said, catching Symon's unimpressed look as he unlocked the doors to the battered, filthy truck. “What do you drive, a Lamborghini?”
“You afraid to wash this thing in case it falls apart?” Symon asked, climbing into the passenger seat.
Michael swung himself into the driver’s seat. “You're going to need these,” he said, tossing a hat and mitts at Symon.
Symon frowned at the bundle of red wool in his hands. “I’m not wearing these.”
“You like your body parts attached?”
“It’s not that cold.”
“Not in the truck it’s not, but we’re not staying in the truck.” Michael put the truck in gear, checked his sideview mirror, and made an illegal U-turn in front of the hotel.
“This would probably be a good time to tell you,” Symon said, shoving the mitts inside the hat. “I don’t ski.”
“Okay.”
“Or skate.”
“Noted.”
Michael turned off King Street, the ghostly glow of a lamp post lighting the interior of the truck, and Symon saw the smile. Obviously, the man had no intention of telling him where they were going, and Symon would
n’t give him the satisfaction of asking. Plus, he liked this game. He’d never played it before.
“Please tell me we’re not going ice fishing.”
“At night? Would I do that to you?”
Symon let his fangs drop. “Not if you like your body parts attached.”
Michael laughed, but he shifted in his seat, one hand tugging at the inner seam on his jeans. “Put those away, I’m trying to drive here.”
“These?” Symon asked, touching a fang with the tip of his tongue.
Michael flicked a glance at Symon, grinned. “Get thee behind me, Satan.”
Symon laughed, sheathed his fangs. “Temptation incarnate, I like it,” he said, checking the street names as they drove, but nothing looked familiar. He had no idea where Michael was taking him.
“Snowboarding?”
“Nope.”
Michael turned onto a quiet side street, snowmen on the lawns, no dance clubs, restaurants, or pubs in sight. Symon was starting to wonder if Michael understood the concept of date when the man pulled into a parking lot in front of the public library.
“We going to make out behind the stacks?” Symon asked, raising an eyebrow at Michael.
“Nice, but no. The library closed at eight.” Michael unlatched his seat belt, opened the driver’s side door. “Bring the hat and mitts.”
Symon grabbed the bundle of red wool and climbed out of the truck. “I like you better when you’re all yes, Symon, please, Sy—What the…? This,” he gestured at the five-foot-long sled Michael was hauling out of the back of the truck. “Is not a dating activity.”
“Like you’d know,” Michael said, snapping the tailgate shut. “Sledding is a time-honoured tradition.”
“Where, in the arctic?”
Michael laughed, started down a path that lead around the side of the library. “Such a wuss. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Symon didn’t move. “Fun?” he called after Michael. “It’ll be freezing.”
“Not if you put the hat on.”
