Her Vampire Prince (Midnight Doms) Page 5

  Before putting the cup to my lip, I bless the blood. Old habits die hard. I was ordained when I became an inquisitor. First by Pope Sixtus and again by Pope Paul IV.

  In the old days, I feasted on heretics as I tore their flesh with whips, canes, and flails. Fear and desperation gave the blood a sweet taste, like honey wine. When a victim screamed, the blood became savory. When they wept, there was a tartness to it. But fear, fear was my favorite dish.

  Humans have tortured each other since the beginning of time, all the way back to Cain. Life as a vampire wasn't hard in the middle ages with persecutions aplenty. During the Spanish Inquisition, the blood flowed in the dungeons.

  I cared not for confessions, as was my charge. I went to work solely for my sustenance. If I didn’t like the way someone tasted, they were guilty. If I wanted seconds at their veins, I told my superiors the accused was being stubborn and needed more time in the dungeons until I drained them dry. Only then did I turn them over for final punishment.

  Burning at the stake was a mercy by the time I was done with them. Vampires didn't cry over spilled milk. But we would get put out over burned blood.

  Unfortunately, the blood from the microwave is tangy, like champagne. I cringe at the thought of the bubbly monstrosity. Packaged blood is still better than that excuse of liquid. This donor was probably some sorority girl or junior executive who drank Cosmos every happy hour.

  “Good evening, Hadrian.”

  Gaius comes into the room dressed in the same slacks he wore last night and a few buttons missing on his designer shirt. There’s a fading scratch on his chest which could’ve only come from a shifter. Somehow I doubt he got into a fistfight last night.

  “You’re up late today.”

  Gaius’ meaning is clear. He hopes I missed my morning bout with the sun. If he looked down and saw the singe on my pinkie toe he’d know he was wrong. “You were out late. I’m surprised you trusted Frangelico to not turn you out at high noon.”

  “Lucius never had any quarrel with us.”

  “Oh, it’s Lucius now? What else? Did you two braid each other’s hair at your sleepover?”

  Gaius pops the cork of our signature wine and pours himself a glass. “Domitia made a lot of enemies when she was alive. Many of them were before our time. You don’t need to hold her grudges.”

  “You want me to break bread with a man who tried to kill her.”

  “She did start it.”

  I grit my teeth. It is always how these arguments go. Domitia did steal the queen’s jewels, so no wonder the guards came after her. Domitia did double-cross the pirate, so no wonder the fleet came after her. Domitia did try to assassinate the Pope, so no wonder we had to give up being Inquisitors.

  “It’s been over two hundred years, brother. Perhaps it’s time to move on.”

  This was always the next progression of the argument. “Death does not stop true love. It says so in that Dread Pirate Roberts movie.”

  “Domitia was no Buttercup,” Gaius snorts. Then immediately winces. He holds up his hands in defense before I can get my hands around his neck. “I loved her, too.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “No,” he agrees, lowering his hands. “I didn’t. I am grateful to her for the life she gave me. Including my new family. But she made her choice. She walked into the sun.”

  He was wrong again. It wasn’t her choice. It was my fault. I was supposed to save her and I failed.

  “You’re still alive,” Gaius continues. He stands and places a hand on my shoulder. His hand is a firm grip, as though he’s determined to root me into this world. “One day you’ll have to start living again.”

  I move to shrug him off. But my shoulders are too weary. My eyes feel heavy and I can’t meet his gaze. He doesn’t know what happened the day Domitia faced the sun. I never told anyone.

  Viri lumbers into the kitchen. He glances at the two of us. His only acknowledgment is a slight head nod.

  This morning he is dressed in Victorian pantaloons, an AC/DC t-shirt covering his chest, and a pair of Air Jordans on his feet. He pulls open the fridge and goes for the crisper. His hand pauses over the supply.

  “Who’s been in my stash?” says Viri.

  "You know I don't drink from the tap.” Gaius returns to his seat and his wine glass.

  Viri turns to me. I can’t deny it. Not when the evidence is still in my hand.

  "You know that's my favorite,” he says.

  "I'll replace it," I say, downing the last tart droplet.

  "That's not the point," says Viri. "I put my initials on it."

  "Oh?” I frown. “I thought that was the donor."

  “I need to move out and get my own place." Viri slams the door of the fridge shut, cradling the lot of B-negative bags in his arms.

  Fat chance he’ll move out. Viri is barely a functioning member of the paranormal world. He would never pass for anything close to human. Not when he couldn’t even get the fashions of the century correct.

  "Children," says Gaius. "Can we talk shop for a minute?"

  I take a seat beside Gaius. Viri begins opening blood bags and dumping the contents into a thermos.

  “I’m growing concerned about the soil content here,” says Gaius. “Our grapes aren’t progressing as they should.”

  What has kept Serrano grapes a top wine for centuries is the consistency of the taste. Our berries are the exact same from my parents' vineyard from four hundred years ago. The grapes were the only thing in my life, aside from my blooded brothers, that haven’t changed.

  “I’m worried the soil and the temperature are changing the taste,” said Gaius.

  I feel a discussion of soil pH, fertilization methods, and vine health coming on. Even though I grew up on a vineyard, handling the grapes was not my job. Nor my passion.

  Gaius was born a slave. After Domitia turned us, Gaius took his newfound freedom and his knowledge of vinting to amass an empire. An empire he could wax quixotic upon for hours.

  “That’s not our department,” I say, rising before he can get going. “You’ll figure it out.”

  "Fine," says Gaius, glaring at my disinterest. "Just have the new barrels ready. And make sure the destemmers are clean for the harvesting.”

  “Since when do I not do my job?” says Viri around a mouthful of blood.

  Gaius threw up his hands, clearly finished with the both of us. “My work here is done. I’m headed back to Club Toxic.”

  “You just got home,” I say.

  “Wasn’t aware I had a curfew, Dad.”

  I give him a two-fingered salute, the Roman sign for fuck you.

  Gaius rolls his eyes and straightens the cuffs of his crumpled shirt. "Fine. I'm off to the land of the living. You two can stay here stuck in the past."

  Works for me. And, by the looks of Viri’s Air Jordans kicked up on the table, it works for him, too.

  Chapter 12

  Cari

  Speed limits. They were just a suggestion. Right?

  The sign mentioning fifty miles per hour whizzes past me as the needle of the speedometer crosses over eighty miles per hour.

  I press the gas pedal of my car. The flip-flop I’m wearing dangles. It’s being held between my big toe and the second one –what’s that one called? The index toe? The pointer pinkie? It's not like it points to anything.

  I know driving with open-toed and open-heeled shoes can be dangerous. There's always the possibility of the sandal footgear slipping between the toe thumb and the index toe and getting wedged under the accelerator. Or the brake. Which would be dangerous. Especially at excessive speeds.

  A yellow sign indicating a bend in the road barely comes into focus before it’s miles behind me. A second sign, indicating lowered speed is hazy as well. I take the curve with one hand on the steering wheel. The other checks the text messages popping up on my phone.

  Up ahead a semi enters the highway. The driver is minding the speed limit. I should call the number on the back of his t
ruck and let his boss know that his driving is indeed good.

  Instead, I take my time running my foot from the gas pedal to the brake of my Miata. The pavement between me and the sixteen wheeler is decreasing but not my speed. My flip flop dangles between my toes.

  The sixteen wheeler is in front of me now. Close enough that its wheels kick dirt directly on my windshield. A few of the tiny rocks strike my cheek. A few specks get into my hair because the top of my convertible is down.

  I can smell the exhaust of the diesel fuel. I can hear the tinkling of tiny rocks rain down on the hood of the car. The paint job is probably scratched.

  I jerk when the blow horn of the semi sounds into the night. It breaks me from my numbness and I brake, hard.

  My chest jams into the steering wheel as the speedometer flatlines. Seatbelts are just a suggestion, too. Right?

  My chest colliding with the steering wheel doesn’t hurt, much. Not much can hurt me anymore. I am invincible.

  I pull off my exit. As I slow the car, my heartbeat kicks up. It doesn’t race. It’s probably beating at a regular click, like a normal person’s.

  Looking out the windshield, something approaching warmth fills my chest. There are vines as far as the eye can see. They are arranged in neat rows. Equidistant apart. Equidistant in height.

  My father would have it no other way. He was meticulous about this vineyard. When he wasn’t at the breakfast table in the morning, he could be found out in the vineyard, picking grapes before the first worker showed up.

  Gazing out at the fruit of his labors brings me joy. Though the feeling is only lukewarm. My emotions are a tea kettle left on a cool burner. I need a spark to heat them up.

  But I’m on the ground, going at a normal speed. There’s no match down on the ground. There’s no fire sitting still.

  Still, I hold onto the tiny ember of joy the memory brings me. My dad used to walk me through the rows on his shoulders. He was a tall man. So I got a bird’s eye view of the red and purple of the berries set against the brown of the vines in the sea of green leaves.

  "Good, you're here." My sister Marechal comes up to my parked car.

  I can’t remember parking. I barely remember the drive here. I get out and allow her to hug me, wishing I could feel her warmth.

  Mare is always warm. When she let me sleep in her bed as a little girl, I would always kick off the covers and snuggle into her side. We haven’t slept in the same bed for over ten years.

  Mare is ten years older than me. I was one of those surprise babies, had later in life when my mother was in her forties. Another impossible feat I’d come through.

  Mare looks me up and down. She wears a tailored business skirt showcasing her curves, a buttoned-up blouse more than hinting at her D cups, and Louboutins at her feet lengthening her already long legs. She would look like a hot librarian, except for the lab coat over her ensemble. That white coat and the prescription glasses turn her into every nerd’s fantasy of a sexy scientist.

  After the hug, Mare doesn’t let me go. She tilts my chin up and delivers a double-cheeked kiss. We are second-generation American, but you couldn't take the French out of our veins if you tried.

  "Arneis and the lawyers are here,” she says. “The sooner we get this done, the better. I've got a mountain of lab work. You ready?"

  Mare takes my hand like we are a united front. Her expensive heels click on the floors as we head through the house into our dad’s old study. My flip-flops clack the marbled floors of my childhood home.

  "I don't see why you guys even need me," I say.

  “Papa left us equal shares in the vineyard."

  I didn't deserve the share of the empire my father had built. Not when I was the reason it’s all come crumbling down.

  "Just let them know you want to keep the vineyard running,” Mare says. “You want to keep it in the family. You know what this place meant to Papa. We can get it back to its glory again. Wait until you taste my new wine mix.“

  I always let Mare boss me around. I idolized her when I was a little girl. I wanted to do everything she did. Be everything she was. But I am not.

  I suck at science. I have no head for numbers. And I screw up everything I touch, yet always seem to come out unscathed. Case in point, I’m responsible for my father’s death, but neither of my siblings seems to blame me.

  My father’s old study looks the same as the last time I was in here, for the reading of the will. It’s even filled with the same people. They asked me questions then, questions I was too scarred to answer. Now my time is up.

  "Hey, ma petite fille.” My big brother Arneis pulls me in for a hug. He does not bother with the two kisses. He’s fully assimilated into American life. So much so that he’s taken office in the local government.

  Arneis pulls me aside, away from Mare and the lawyers. "I know you've had a rough time this year. But it's almost over. Say the word and you don't have to deal with any of this anymore. We can sell the vineyard and make a nice profit to set you up so you don't have to do anything for the rest of your life."

  Arneis wants to sell the vineyard. Marechal wants to keep it going. Me? I don't care one way or the other. But it all comes down to my vote.

  No matter what I decide, someone I love will get hurt and I will walk away without a scratch. Again.

  Arneis takes a seat on one side of me and pats my knee. Mare sits on the other side and rubs my arm. The suits begin talking technical legalese that goes over my head. Because I am in over my head.

  I’m walking on a tight rope between the last two pillars of my foundation. My balance is precarious. At any moment I’ll fall off. Would there be anyone there to catch me? Perhaps a green-eyed man who makes me want to spill all of my secrets?

  "Carignan? What's your decision?"

  Chapter 13

  Hadrian

  I wrap my bare hands around a cherry tree. With a heave I uproot it. With my nails, I cut the tree’s top above the last branch. My skin tears and chaffs. I don't ignore the pain. It's part of my process.

  When the work of picking grapes became backbreaking for me as a young man, I moved on to become a cooper, the person who crafts the barrels that help give the wine its distinct flavor. It isn't just what grows on the vine that gives flavor. It’s also how the wood is chosen, how it is fired, and molded into shape to hold the wine.

  Oak was the tried and true wood for barrels. But I wanted to try cherry bark here in Patagonia. I also experimented with hickory, maplewood, chestnut, and walnut. I heard of Japanese winemakers using cedar for a minty taste. That was a step too far.

  I love pounding the wood, the smell of the bark toasting over the fire. It is a lost art. I have heard tell some winemakers put their wine into cardboard boxes to serve. Where is the Inquisition when you need it?

  Using the edge of my hand like a blade, I split the wood into quarters that will become the staves that will create the shape of the barrel. I dig my fingers into the wood, shaping the staves into the curved dimensions I want. With that done, I put the pieces into the cellar to dry. There they'll stay for three years so that the wood is waterproof. Winemaking is a long game. The three of us have nothing but time.

  The machines are all clean, meaning Viri is done for the night. He is a cellar rat. He does all the grunt work below the ground that transforms the grapes into liquid ambrosia. Like me, he prefers to work in solitude. Life has not been kind to either of us in the love department.

  I walk past the ancient torture devices which have been shoved into the corner. But as I walk by I get a vision of a body being stretched over the rack. Dark nipples straining as her back bends. Honey-wine eyes wide as the pleasure wracks through her body.

  I bring my thumb to my mouth for the tenth time tonight. Her taste is long gone, but the memory lingers. No, that’s not true. My thoughts of her replace my first taste of honey or cherries. She becomes the new litmus test by which I will judge a dessert.

  "You thinking of her?"

 
I look up to find Gaius. He's out of the denim work clothes he wears when he works with the grapes. He stands before me in slacks and an expensive shirt.

  Am I that transparent? I wasn’t aware he saw Carignan earlier the other evening. Perhaps those shifters Frangelico sent over woke him. Or perhaps Frangelico told Gaius about the favor I asked of him.

  "It's been two hundred years, Hadrian."

  Oh. He isn't talking about the human. He’s talking about Domitia, my one true love.

  “I’ve tried to hold my tongue for the last two centuries, but I think it’s time you move on.”

  “Move on?” I turn the words over in my mouth. They don’t taste as bitter as they should.

  “I know you believe she was the love of your life…”

  The way he rolls his eyes and sighs at the end of his sentence belies his assertion.

  “But your relationship with Domitia was tumultuous on its best days. Turbulent on the normal days. Homicidal on the worst days."

  I would be the first to admit Domitia and I had our ups and downs. But that is how passion works. Love is a raging storm, not a calm sea.

  “I know we’ve never talked about this.” Gaius comes up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Men didn’t talk about things like this in our time. Hell, they don’t talk about these things today.”

  “What things?”

  “You are an abuse survivor.”

  I knock his hand off my shoulder. That is just too far. “She and I both enjoyed it rough. You of all people should know that.”

  Despite what the religious books might say, monogamy wasn’t as prized a relationship status in ancient times. Domitia certainly didn’t believe in the practice. She had many lovers, including Gaius and Viri and an army of others. Literally. She once boarded a warship for the Spanish Armada and offered herself up to any sailor who was willing.

  Me? I suppose I was ahead of my time. I was faithful from the beginning to the end.