Blood Wine (The Blood Bond Series Book 2)

by Aimer Boyz

  Michael turned into a row full of vines and free of people, dropped his crate in the snow. “You pull the netting out of the way,” he said, showing Symon how to peel back the veil protecting the grapes from hungry deer. “And snap the grapes off. The vines are frozen so it’s easy,” he said, snapping off a cluster, and motioning for Symon to do the same.

  Symon cradled a cluster of frozen grapes in one hand. “They’re heavy.”

  “Yeah, it always surprises me,” Michael said, palming a cluster of his own. “They look delicate, but they’re solid. It’s the ice, makes them dense,” he added, snapping his cluster off the vine. “You going to stand there all night, perving on grapes?”

  “I’m in the present,” Symon said, working the holier-than-thou attitude. “Experiencing the now.”

  Michael snorted his opinion of that comment. “Kind of new age for a Lord of the Night, isn't it?”

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Pick. I’ve got a case of wine to win.”

  “You? What about me?”

  “I could share. No, wait. I can’t,” Michael said, grinning at him.

  Despite the hideous hat and the monster-in-the-deep headlight on his forehead, possibly because of them, Symon found himself smiling back. That come-out-and-play look in Michael’s eyes? Something Symon had never thought to want and now suspected he was going to have trouble living without. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll take my share in—”

  “Blood? Nope, sorry, wrong accent. That hint of England in your vowels doesn’t work. You need a cheesy Hollywood take on a Transylvanian drawl for a line like that, and a long black cloak. Yeah, definitely a cloak.”

  “I’ll tell Google to add one to my shopping list,” Symon said, feeling for the stem holding his grapes to the vine, and tugging. The cluster broke away from the vine with a satisfying crack and he felt an absurd sense of accomplishment. “Easy,” he said, dropping it into his crate.

  “You don’t need a light?” Michael asked, moving to the next vine.

  “Nocturnal hunter,” Symon said, snapping off another cluster.

  “Night owl, huh?”

  Symon saw himself as more of a Jaguar, but he kept that thought to himself. Fido was bad enough; he didn’t want to know what nauseating cutesy name his prey would come up with for a cat. “When you send out your SOS,” he said, shoving his crate along the ground to the next vine. “How many people show up?”

  “Twenty, maybe twenty-five, depends who’s around. This is a volunteer gig, family, friends, neighbours.”

  A cluster of grapes forgotten in one hand; Symon stared at Michael. “They’re doing this for free?”

  Michael laughed. “We’re a mom and pop winery. There’s no way we can afford to pay all these people.”

  “Why?” Symon asked, looking around at the icy ground, the vines looking naked and sad, their leaves frozen. In the midnight dark, the vineyard looked haunted, bulky shadow figures shuffling from vine-to-vine, the lights attached to their heads blinking in the night. “Why would anyone volunteer to do this?”

  “You’re doing it.”

  “Because I’m getting into the business,” Symon said, leaving out the part about this being his first opportunity to experience a harvest without the sun melting the skin off his bones.

  “I don’t know about anyone else, but Dani and I,” Michael said, breaking a cluster off his vine. “We started doing this when we were kids, when staying up all night was a big deal. I still get a kick out of it,” he said, looking at the long rows of sleeping vines under the night sky. “Working in the dead of night while most people are tucked away under the sheets. It’s different, special,” he added, rubbing his hands together, and stamping his feet. “Even if it is fucking cold.”

  And there it was. The truth Symon couldn’t escape. The aching, empty chasm between them. Michael lived in the light and Symon didn’t. Tonight, working through the dark, rushing to beat the sunrise was a fun blip in Michael’s routine, but it was Symon’s normal. “Yeah, special,” he said.

  Something in his voice must have been off because Michael went still beside him. Symon pretended not to notice, concentrating on his vine. He snapped stems, dropped grapes, hoping that Michael would let it go.

  “Do you miss it, the daytime?”

  “No.”

  Symon had repeated the lie so often, he almost believed it himself. Six hundred years, and the hurt was still there, an open wound of snarling snakes and bitter tears. If he ever stumbled across his sire, he would rip his fucking head off.

  In his peripheral vision, Symon caught movement, heard the rustle of Michael’s parka, the sound of his boots on the frozen earth. Arms wrapped around him, crossed over his chest. Michael nestled his head against Symon’s, the ridiculous headlight casting a halo at their feet.

  Michael held him and said nothing, but Symon didn’t need words. He didn’t trust them. He stood in Michael’s arms and soaked up the comfort in his silence. The support he’d never believed any human would want to offer.

  “Your realtor turn up anything interesting?” Michael asked, releasing Symon, and going back to his vine.

  “Maybe. He took me out to Moon Scent Winery, you know it?”

  “Yeah, they’ve been around for a while. Nice place. If you’re interested, you should talk to my dad. He’ll know the kind of stuff they don’t put in the listing.”

  “Thanks. Brian knows his job, but he’s looking to make a sale.” Symon brushed snow off a branch, pried a cluster of grapes loose. “I could use an impartial opinion.”

  True, he could use a second opinion, but Symon saw getting Santos senior’s take on Moon Scent as more of a covert reconnaissance mission. He needed to get a feel for how adamant the man was about not selling the family winery. He would much prefer to ink a deal with Santos Wines if he could.

  Side-by-side, they worked their way down the row of vines, Symon’s mind on his own ice wine and what he had to do to make that happen. Hands working on autopilot, he didn’t notice he was moving faster than he should with humans around until—

  “Hey, Fido. Leave some for me.”

  Symon came to a dead stop. He turned towards the voice that should have sounded a lot closer than it did, to find Michael still near the beginning of their row while he, himself had almost reached the end. Christ’s blood, he thought, cursing himself for his own stupidity. For the first time ever, he’d forgotten the charade, lost track of where he was and who he was supposed to be. The Eternal Secret was the reason Symon’s head was still attached to his neck, the reason a stake hadn’t pierced his heart centuries ago. It was the sole reason he was here now, with Michael. With a man he felt so completely himself with he’d forgotten the one cardinal rule of his kind—tell no one, reveal nothing.

  Shit.

  Way too fucking late, Symon took stock of his surroundings. In their row, only Michael and himself pushed crates along the ground. In the next row, a lone volunteer, headphones making him oblivious to anything but the grapes in front of him. Symon hadn’t known he was there and shit like that didn’t happen, not to him.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Michael said, at Symon’s shoulder. “He didn’t see anything.”

  “I forgot.” Symon clenched his fists, stomped on the fear that wanted to lash out at Michael.

  “Yeah.” Michael nodded and Symon saw that he didn’t have to explain how bad this lapse in awareness had been.

  “I never forget,” Symon said, alarm still skittering down his spine.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, ’cause me screwing up was your fault.”

  “Yeah, no. Most of it was you, but some of it was me,” Michael said, trying for a smile and failing spectacularly. “You take the armour off around me. You drop the pretending-to-be-human bullshit and I love that you feel safe enough to do that around me, but…Shit, Symon. The vines were shaking, your crate was filling up, and you were…remember that first night, w
hen you fucking materialized out of nowhere and I fell off the bed? God, if anyone had seen.” He wrapped his arms around Symon, held him close. “I’m sorry, Fido. I didn’t know.”

  Symon hadn’t thought about it, but Michael was right. He let himself be real around this man and it felt like…freedom. “Not your fault,” he said, sliding his arms around Michael’s back.

  “You have to be more careful, Babe.”

  Symon smothered a laugh against the collar of Michael’s parka. Insanity. A human telling him to watch his back. The fact that Symon, who had caution stapled to his psyche, needed that reminder was stranger still. “Yeah.”

  Together, they stripped the last vine in their row, and Symon emptied half the grapes in his crate into Michael’s. “So, Mikey, huh?”

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” Michael said, picking his crate up.

  Symon laughed, hoisted his own crate off the ground. “It suits you.”

  “Yeah?” Michael started back up the passage between the rows of vines, Symon at his side. “Maybe, we should rethink Fido. It’s not really you. What about—”

  “I’m good with Fido,” Symon lied. He wasn’t good with Fido, but Michael’s voice had gone all light and sunshiny. Scary.

  “You sure? If you don’t like it, we can think of something else. As soon as we dump these grapes, I’ll get my phone out. Do a Google search. The ten most popular dog names. What do you think of Rex? No, right, a bit pretentious. Maybe—”

  Okay, Symon got it. No Mikey. “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Michael shut the fuck up, but his grin lit up the night. They passed the guy with the headphones and Michael said, “Hey, Charlie. How’s it going?”

  Charlie pulled his headphones off, hung them around his neck. “Hey, Michael. What’s up?”

  “This is Symon,” Michael said, shifting his crate in Symon’s direction. “New recruit. Symon, Charlie. Veteran volunteer.”

  “Charlie.” In lieu of the handshake the crate in his arms made difficult, Symon nodded.

  “Symon. You’re the guy from…” Charlie smirked at Michael. “Italy?”

  Obviously, Michael’s parents weren’t the only ones who’d seen pictures. Symon’s fingers itched to get at his phone. Just a guess, but he was betting he and Michael were front and centre on the Gala’s website. “Verona, yes.”

  “What do you think of Niagara?”

  Symon glanced around the winter-white vineyard. “It’s cold.”

  “This is nothing, you should be here in February.”

  Symon could be here in February. There was nothing dragging him back to Italy. He could—

  “Gotta dump these,” Michael said. “They’re getting heavy. You staying for the pressing?”

  Charlie looked up at the night sky, shook his head. “Don’t think so. Have to work tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for coming out.”

  “No problem,” Charlie said. “Me and my tunes, a few hours of peace and quiet. It’s therapeutic.” He slipped his headphones back on, waved Michael off.

  “What do we do now?” Symon asked, as they made their way back to the main house.

  “Now, we find my mother.”

  Chapter 20

  CASEY SANTOS WASN’T hard to find. Stationed beside a truck with its freight door rolled up, Michael’s mother manned a table with two enormous coffee urns and a collection of mugs. “Coffee?” she asked, as they walked up.

  “Nah, we’re good,” Michael said, slotting his crate into an empty space in the back of the truck, and stacking Symon’s crate on top of his. “Write us up.”

  Mrs. Santos grabbed an iPad, tapped at the screen. “Michael and?”

  “Symon. We were sledding when Dad called,” Michael said, nodding at Symon. “He volunteered.”

  “I was conscripted,” Symon said, smiling at the woman who had to be a foot shorter than her son. Michael’s dark, wavy hair spilled out of a turquoise knit headband, fell onto shoulders encased in a navy down jacket. No psychedelic colours or bizarre designs for Michael’s mother, she obviously left that to the men in her life.

  “Mom, Symon Bradewey,” Michael said. “Symon, my mother. Casey Santos.”

  “Symon.” Her iPad forgotten, Mrs. Santos came around the table, holding both hands out to Symon. “You’re very photogenic.”

  Symon, his mitts shoved in his pockets, hesitated, trying to decide if he should take both her hands in his or—Casey solved the problem for him, taking his right hand in both of hers. No dimple, but her smile was welcoming, and her eyes…Michael’s grey eyes looked up at him. Michael’s eyes, but not. Casey’s were a darker grey, deeper. Symon found himself thinking he could fall into them and never find his way out.

  Casey looked directly at him, into him, then turned his hand over. “Long lifeline.”

  She knew. It was in her eyes, in the punch of surprise on her face. Casey Santos knew what he was. Michael had said the psychic voodoo came from his mother’s side of the family, but Symon hadn’t understood what that meant. Hadn’t once considered that he might be outed by a handshake. A heads up would have been nice, he thought, giving Michael the evil eye, but the man just grinned at him, told you all over his face.

  Smartass, Symon thought, turning his attention back to Casey and the questions piling up behind her smile. Questions she couldn’t ask if—Symon gathered his power, looked into the eyes so like Michael’s.

  Forget.

  “Sorry,” Michael’s mother said, patting Symon’s hand. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  “Mom,” Michael said. “Don’t freak him out.”

  “Me? He’s the one with the…” Casey looked around, confirming they had command central to themselves. “Eternal timeline. Guess I can stop worrying about whether or not you’re using condoms or taking PrEP, huh?” she said, teasing her son, her smile including Symon in the joke.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Whatever Mrs. Santos saw in Symon’s expression wrote concern on her face, poured comfort into her voice. She stepped into Symon’s space, touched his arm. “You didn’t let the team down, I’m a sensitive. It’s not like you violated the Prime Directive or anything. We already knew.”

  They hadn’t known, not even close. They’d passed down a family legend, told a bedtime story to their kids. “You’re not supposed to know.”

  “You’re not supposed to exist,” Casey countered, but she seemed inordinately pleased that he did. “Michael, bring the man to dinner. BYOB, I don’t think Loblaws carries blood.”

  Dinner? She was asking him to dinner? What was wrong with these people?

  “Nothing’s wrong with us,” Michael said, slipping his hand into Symon’s. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”

  Symon pantomimed the gagging that bit of psychobabble deserved, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He knew there was nothing wrong with him, now, but it had been a battle in the early years. Nights of hunger and fear, years twisting on the rack of self-disgust. It had taken Symon longer than he would ever admit, to accept what he was, to find peace in the night, and joy in the hunt. So, yes, he knew there was nothing wrong with being who he was, but he hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that affirmation from someone else. To hear it from Michael…Symon tightened his grip on his human’s hand.

  “Mrs. Santos.” A man all but hidden under a bulky coat, the hood pulled over his head, dumped a loaded crate into the back of the truck. “Crate number three. Write me up.” He pushed his hood off and Symon recognized him as the friend of Michael’s he’d met at the Gala.

  Dani nodded at Symon, grinned at Michael as he passed them. He read Casey Santos’ iPad over her shoulder, punched a gloved hand into the air. “Two crates ahead of you, dude. Suck it.” He filled a mug from one of the coffee urns, cradled it between his hands, more heat source than drink. “Took you guys a while to get here?” In case the smirk accompanying his question hadn’t made his meaning clear enough he added, “Busy?”
<
br />   “We were at the hill.” Michael said, ignoring the smirk, and the insinuation.

  “What are you, ten?” Dani asked. “You know a drive down the 401 takes you to the big city and some serious clubs. You’ve heard of clubs, right? Dark places filled with people, drinks, music?” He shook his head. “Absolutely no game.”

  “Remind me again,” Michael said. “When was your last date, hook-up? Yeah, real player.”

  “I date. I was at a sports bar when I got your SOS.”

  “Uh-huh, at a sports bar with your brother.”

  Dani’s shrug said Michael was right, his smile said he didn’t care. “He likes football.” He sipped at his coffee, looked at Symon. “Italy, right? You a soccer fan?”

  “Soccer? Oh, you mean football. No. Guys falling on top of each other and no one’s naked? Don’t see the point.”

  “Dude,” Dani protested. “You can’t say shit like that. You’re gay.”

  Me? Symon didn’t think of himself as gay. He didn’t think of himself as straight. He didn’t give a shit about the labels humans slapped on each other. The divisions humans created among themselves meant nothing to Symon. He was Vampire.

  “What the fuck, Dani? Ignore him,” Michael said to Symon. “He listens to talk radio.”

  “How do you not get this?” Dani argued. “When a gay guy says he hates sports, it plays into the stereotypes you guys are trying to change. What?” He sent a help-me-out-here look to Michael’s mother. “I’m right, right? No making assumptions based on sexual orientation?”

  “You’re right,” Casey Santos said, smiling at the young man she’d watched grow up. “No making assumptions.”

  “Plays into the stereotypes,” Michael said, drenching the phrase in scorn. “Stay away from girls with psych degrees, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “Sociology degrees, moron and I’m just saying—”

  “That Symon can only say he hates sports if he’s straight?”

  Dani had to think that one through. “I guess, ’course if he was straight, he wouldn’t say that.”

  Symon laughed, but Michael groaned. “Because all straight guys like sports?”