Blood Wine (The Blood Bond Series Book 2) Read online

  Blood Wine

  Aimer Boyz

  Aimer Boyz

  A little Blood© 2019

  License Note: Thank you for buying this book. In all formats, this story is the copyrighted property of the author. It must remain in its complete and unaltered form, and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed without permission of the author.

  Dedication

  For my mother, my first and best fan.

  Acknowledgments

  Cover: James at GoOnWrite.com

  Editing: Gary at BubbleCow.com

  My daughter, Lauri for taking time out of her life to proofread her mother’s insanity.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Also by Aimer Boyz

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  DARK HAIR FELL over his forehead, and a few days’ worth of stubble decorated his jaw, but it was the dimple that caught Symon’s attention. One dimple, on the left side of the guy's face, a gift every time he smiled. Symon wanted to learn the geometry of that small hollow with the tip of his tongue, wanted to scrape his teeth over that jaw, to sink his fangs—

  Oh, yeah. I’ll have an order of that, please. Hold the onions.

  The Churchill Lounge in the Prince of Wales hotel did a good job of pretending to be a gentleman’s library. Wood-panelled walls, bookcases stacked with old hard-covers, and deep-cushioned club chairs encouraged the illusion. The designers hadn’t forgotten a single detail down to the coat rack with its clutch of umbrellas and the chess game set out on a side table.

  Symon tracked the dimpled stranger at the bar. He watched the man refuse a second drink with a shake of his head and a smile for the bartender. He watched that dimple flash, anticipation uncoiling in his gut. Each hunt was a new experience, every prey their own unique taste.

  Dimple Man enacted his little pantomime once again: check watch, check phone, and check watch again. Obviously, the man was waiting for someone. Symon decided that someone was him. He crossed the lounge and eased onto the empty stool next to his prey. “Late?”

  The man looked up from his drink. Grey eyes, Symon noted, morning-mist grey set between dark lashes. “Sorry?”

  “Whoever you’re waiting for,” Symon nodded at the guy’s watch. “They’re late?”

  The man tossed the rest of his drink back, snapped his glass onto the bar. “He's not coming.”

  The sex of the missing drinking partner didn't necessarily mean anything. Dimple Man could be waiting for a friend, a colleague, his brother. The surreptitious once-over the guy gave Symon, however, did mean something. The hunger didn't differentiate between male and female, but Symon did. He flashed his key card, nodded at the ceiling, and the hotel rooms above it. “I’m on the third floor.”

  Grey eyes checked Symon out, took in the barely adult face no number of years would ever wrinkle, the ocean dark eyes that carried the weight of his true age, and the blond hair tied at the nape of his neck. The dimple popped out of hiding. "Please tell me you're legal."

  “Legal? I'm fucking ancient.”

  ***

  Like the Prince of Wales hotel itself, Symon’s suite evoked an earlier era. The blue and yellow colour scheme lightened the dark furniture, but the deep window seats, heavy draperies, and ornate picture frames spoke of a formality that said Victorian. Not that Symon gave his prey time to appreciate the décor. The door locked behind them, he advanced on Dimple Man shoving the guy's winter parka off his shoulders. Both hands planted on the man’s chest, he walked him backwards to the sofa. Pushed.

  His prey sank into the plush cushions, grey eyes laughing up at Symon. “Control issues?”

  Symon knelt on the sofa, his knees riding Dimple Man’s thighs. “No.” He tipped the man’s head to the side. “No issues,” he said, licking the pulse point under his prey’s ear. “I'm good with control.” He struck with the speed of his kind, too fast for his prey to react.

  Symon savoured his meal with the appreciation of a connoisseur. Dimple Man’s blood carried a light-bodied, supple flavour with intriguing undertones of confidence and optimism. He tasted of sunshine after a spring rain. The human’s heartbeat faltered, the distinct stutter a warning. Symon retracted his fangs, licked the wound closed. A finger under his prey’s chin, and Symon looked into eyes still dazed from his bite.

  Forget.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  The amused sarcasm came at Symon like a cannon ball, demolished his concept of reality. Prey resistant to vampiric influence? Inconceivable. Six hundred and fourteen years of chewing on humans told him it was impossible. Even with the evidence sitting right in front of him, Symon didn’t, couldn’t believe it.

  He grabbed the human’s jaw, locked their eyes together.

  Forget.

  “I heard you the first time,” Dimple Man said, trying to jerk his head free.

  Symon’s hand dropped off the human’s face. He watched it fall for what seemed like forever, saw it finally flop onto his thigh, the blood-red stone in the antique ring on his index finger filling his vision.

  “Holy fuck.” Dimple Man slid his fingers along his neck, searching for a wound that was no longer there. “That was epic, totally badass,” he said, tugging Symon down onto his lap, onto the bulge under his zipper.

  Symon wasn’t surprised the guy was sporting wood, he was a generous tipper. If the meal was good, and tonight’s dinner had been exquisite, he left a commensurate percentage of pleasure for his prey. Usually, he’d be happy to help the guy out, but not tonight.

  One hand already tugging his zipper down, Dimple Man watched Symon climb off the sofa and get to his feet. “You just going to stand there and watch? Works for me.” He freed a cock flushed and ready to play. “That was off the scale terrifying and so fucking hot. I can’t believe…”

  Symon wasn’t listening. His ego bled out on the floor, haemorrhaging disbelief and humiliation. He was dancing in the dark, baffled. Prey didn’t ignore his mental commands. Unless, but no, the guy didn’t look psychotic. Erotic, yes, with his fist wrapped around his cock and that invitation in his smile, but still, he seemed sane enough. “You heard what I said?”

  The hand paused. Grey eyes challenged Symon. “No, I heard what you thought.”

  Fuck.

  “So, you’re what, psychic? Seen any little green men lately?”

  “Right, I’m the impossibility here?” The human said, tucking his cock back into his jeans. “That’s what you’re going with, Vampire Boy?”

  Symon’s hands curled into fists, tension locking his spine. It had been so long since he felt this flash fire of emotion, he had trouble recognizing it for what it was, anger. This guy seriously pissed him off. Angry or not, the Eternal Secret had to be kept. This human had to be convinced he had imagined the bi
te, that Symon guzzling at his neck was some alcohol infused fantasy.

  “Vampire Boy? Been sitting at the bar for a while, huh?”

  “Nice try,” the human said, laughter in the grey eyes. “I was drinking rum and coke, minus the rum.”

  This was so not Symon’s night. Who sat in a bar and didn’t get wasted? And exactly when had he lost control of this fuck-up of a feeding?

  Dimple Man hooked a hand into Symon’s belt, towed him between long jean-encased legs. “I didn’t come here to talk.”

  Symon looked into the eyes looking up at him, pinned the man’s hands to the back of the sofa. The guy melted, not one hint of resistance in him. He smiled up at Symon with come-fuck-me all over his face. Smiled like Symon couldn’t rip his fucking head off. “Why aren’t you clawing at the door and screaming for the cops?”

  “Oh, my God. Lunch bag let down,” Dimple Man said, trying to twist out from under Symon’s hands.

  Symon released his prey’s wrists, tried to make sense of the non sequitur. The older he got, the harder it was to keep up with the way humans used language. Case in point, he had no idea what lunch in a bag had to do with anything. “You’re hungry?”

  “No, I’m disappointed. You flash your room key at me,” Dimple Man said, curling a hand around Symon’s hip. “And all you want to do is talk. Well, eat and talk. Did I get less attractive somewhere between the bar and your room?”

  “Seriously? That’s what you’re complaining about?” This guy was colouring so far outside the lines he was fucking off the page. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Me? You’re the one who drinks blood, bro.”

  “And that doesn’t freak you out? You get a lot of guys noshing on your neck around here?”

  “Noshing on my neck, cute. You Jewish?”

  Symon was starting to re-think the not-psychotic thing. “I’m Vampire.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Dimple Man said, touching the pulse point where Symon had bitten him. The grey eyes met Symon’s: clear, intelligent, calm. Too calm.

  “You knew. You knew what I was before I fed on you. How?”

  “In the elevator. I heard what you were thinking.”

  Symon really wished he would stop saying shit like that. There were only two individuals on the planet who could walk through his mind. Etienne, whom he had sired over two centuries ago, and his partner Andrew, still a fledgling. They were his sons, his family, vampires born of his blood.

  “Right,” Symon challenged, sitting beside his prey. “What am I thinking now?”

  “You’re thinking I’m lying, or crazy, or both.”

  The dimple flashed, and Symon found himself smiling back. “You have a crystal ball at home?”

  “Does a Magic 8 Ball count?”

  “I don’t know. What’s a Magic 8 Ball?”

  “Don’t get to Toys-R-Us much, huh?”

  Symon had driven past the stores, but he’d never been inside one. The very idea made him laugh. “No, never.”

  Dimple Man curled one knee onto the sofa, turned to face Symon. “I’m not psychic or clairvoyant or, you know, crazy. It’s just…it’s more like I’m the seventh son of a seventh son.”

  That piece of folklore had been around even longer than Symon, mythical powers attributed to birth order. He didn’t believe it any more now than he had the first time he’d heard it. “You have six brothers? What are you, Mormon?”

  “Yeah, funny. No. I mean our family, we’re sensitive to some things…some of us… sometimes. It’s no big deal.”

  No big deal. This human had ignored Symon’s mental command, blocked it somehow, and he knew what Symon was. No, it wasn’t a big deal, Dimple Man had that right. It was a huge, fucking cataclysmic deal.

  “You’re not psychic, but you knew what I was thinking in the elevator?”

  “Yeah, that was weird. I get flashes of a thought or a feeling, but it’s hit or miss, mostly miss.” Head tilted a fraction, Dimple Man considered Symon. “You touched me,” he said, raising a hand to the nape of his neck, imitating Symon’s touch. “And wham. Like I was sitting inside your mind. Weird.”

  Weird? No, weird was an adult who liked bubble gum ice cream or a person walking in Los Angeles. A ringside seat inside his mind was not weird, it was a personal invasion and it pissed Symon off. He closed the space between them, curved a hand around his prey’s neck, and felt…nothing. Nothing other than the man’s pulse beating under his fingers.

  Knew it, total bullshit.

  “It’s not bullshit,” Dimple Man said, offering his hand. “Symon, right? I’m Michael.”

  Chapter 2

  “NO FUCKING WAY,” Symon rasped, even as his hand slid into Michael’s, a ship slipping into its berth.

  Home.

  Symon snatched his hand away. He didn’t have a home. Didn’t want one. He had zero interest in a white picket fence. He liked his not-life exactly the way it was. Passport in hand, he followed where his curiosity lead. Symon’s current interest lay in creating fang-friendly wines. After decades of experimenting, he’d hit on a formula for a red wine that vampire physiology would accept. A Little Blood had become an unexpected hit with humans, but Symon wasn’t in Niagara-on-the-Lake for them. Vampires had an affection for winter, for the dark comfort of its long nights. Symon was betting he could translate that preference into a market for an ice wine. An ice wine they could drink. He was here, in this snow globe of a town, because the Niagara region was known for the quality of its ice wines. He wasn’t looking for a home, he was looking to expand his label.

  “Relax,” Michael said. “I didn’t sneak a peek. You’re deep, dark secrets are safe.”

  Relax?

  Prey did not tell Symon Bradewey to relax. That was his line.

  “Holy shit,” Michael gasped around the hand at his throat. Flat on his back, he stared up at Symon. “I didn’t even see you move.”

  Symon read surprise on his face, awe even, but no fear.

  Michael slipped his hand around the wrist at his throat, grinned up at Symon. “Guess we’re not going to be running partners, huh?”

  What was it with this guy? Symon needed a manual just to understand him, Dimple Speak 2.1. He released his grip on Michael’s throat and sat back, his knees bracketing Michael’s thighs. “What?”

  “We can’t work out together,” Michael said, setting a hand at Symon’s waist. “You’d be halfway to Toronto and I’d still be tying my shoelaces.”

  Symon almost, almost laughed. “Vampires don’t work out.”

  Michael moved his hand up, stroked along Symon’s side. “So not fair, but then I get to eat ice cream and you get…Yuck. It all evens out.”

  “You didn’t sneak into my mind?”

  “No,” Michael said, truth on his face, in his eyes.

  “Why not?” Symon asked, sliding one hand under Michael’s sweater. He circled a nipple with the tips of his fingers and the eyes watching him went dark, the lids falling to half-mast. He wasn’t going to get an answer out of Michael, not if he kept touching him. “Michael, why not?” he asked again, slipping his hand out from under the sweater.

  “Fuck off.” Michael tried to twist out from under him. Symon had to hand it to the guy, he didn’t give up without a fight. Michael rocked and kicked, pried at Symon’s arms, and tried to push him off. Useless, of course, dislodging Symon was about as likely as moving the parliament buildings, but it was an admirable effort. Perched atop Michael’s thighs, Symon waited the human out.

  Body rigid in defeat, baby death rays in his eyes, Michael answered Symon’s question. “Because you don’t break into someone’s mind when they’re shaking your hand, okay? My mother taught me some manners.”

  His mother? Oh, right, seventh son of a seventh son. Jesus. Who was this guy?

  Symon climbed off his prey, moved back to his side of the sofa. “So, you can control it?”

  His mouth a tight line, Michael sat up and Symon struggled to keep the smile off his face. Dimple Man was pi
ssed, but it wasn’t because he’d held him down.

  “Sort of. If I have time to…Shit. This never happens to me. I’m the spaz in the family. Everyone, even my eighty-four-year-old grandmother, is more sensitive than I am. My brother works with the cops. He gets vibes from crime scenes. My sister’s a big deal on Bay Street, she gets flashes that help her pick the right stocks. Me, I can’t do shit.”

  Family, the genesis of all therapy, Symon thought, hearing the years of frustration in Michael’s voice. He walked into the adjoining bedroom, returned with a wine bottle and two stemmed glasses. Michael wandered over to the fireplace while Symon played with the cork. He flicked the switch beside the mantle and flames danced behind the glass barrier. One eye on the unhappy camper staring into the fire, Symon poured the wine. He wouldn’t admit it under threat of stake or torch, but he much preferred Michael’s smile to his frown. Because of the dimple. It’s not like he cared if his prey had issues.

  “This never happens to me either,” Symon said, handing a glass to Michael.

  “The psychic crap?”

  “Yeah, that was a first, but I meant this,” Symon said, gesturing between them. “I don’t hang out with prey, not prey who know what I am.”

  “Prey?” Michael grimaced. “You might want to work on your social skills, dude.”

  Symon laughed. “You’re insulted.”

  “No shit.” Michael nodded at the glass in Symon’s hand. “What’s with the wine? I thought you guys were all about the haemoglobin.”

  “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Anything you want,” Michael said, settling back on the sofa with a grin. Glass in one hand, he spread his arms out along the back of the couch and let his legs fall open. He was about as subtle as a neon billboard.

  The billboard was a problem. True, Michael could shout Vampire Attacked Me in Hotel Room all over Twitter and no one would believe him, but Symon didn’t like the idea of a human knowing the Eternal Secret. Centuries watching humans slaughter each other had taught him just how violent they could be. Considering how intolerant they were of even the smallest differences among their own kind, he didn’t think they’d be all warm and fuzzy about fangs. No, Symon wasn’t comfortable with Michael knowing who and what he was. Unfortunately, he wasn’t one of Anne Rice's dashing and deadly men of the night. He couldn’t litter the city with bloodied corpses, not with the plethora of security cameras and cell phones around these days. It wasn't smart to go all big bad Dracula on your prey. Plus, of course, it wasn’t right. You had to take care with prey, they were like pets, defenceless. Symon preferred to leave murder to the humans. They were good at it.