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Hmmm… She does make a valid point. Blending in will be critical to my survival. Neli has already explained that our kind now lives in the shadows.
I raise my strong, manly chin to let her know who’s boss. “I will consider pretending you are my equal, but for appearances only.”
She sighs. “I guess it’s a start.”
Wrong. It is an end. To Neli’s irrational notions of vampire-human equality. Laughable. I’d sooner become a fruit bat. The faster she realizes that I am and always will be superior, the better. “And now, you must go to see that Stella woman and convince her I am a wise, trustworthy man of honor who most definitely does not want to suck her virginal blood.”
“But—”
“Do it or I will send you to the dungeon without any supper.”
“We don’t have a dungeon,” she throws back.
“What! No dungeon?” What sort of castle has no dungeon? “Where will I imprison my enemies?”
“We needed the space to store more wine. I figured with the extra revenue, you could rent a place—a mine shaft or empty warehouse—to vanquish your foe.”
I bob my head. “You are very efficient, Neli.”
She looks away, her posture rigid. I cannot deny that it makes me unhappy to see her feeling wounded, but if I do not assert myself as master, all hell will break loose. The natural order must be obeyed.
“Jeez. Thanks.”
“Neli,” I soften my tone, “I am a man. A very strong, handsome, and powerful man with a tempting sexual aura. Nevertheless, I do have compassion for the predicament you face in having such a small inferior female brain. Living in the shadow of such greatness is never easy, but I have faith. You will overcome.”
She silently snarls up at me.
I bow my head and reach for my cape hanging on a hook. “I am glad to see we are in agreement. Now, you must excuse me. I need to finish dressing and prepare to hunt a snack in town.” I am in the mood for a chardonnay. And by that, I mean a human whose bloodstream is saturated with it. “You will apologize to the virgin and have her back here tomorrow night at seven sharp.” I know I said that I should resist drinking my neighbors, but that was before I realized that Stella might just be the most delicious woman on the planet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stella
“There you are!” Mom exclaims the moment I step inside the house after my humiliating meeting across the street.
My dad hovers behind her, looking anxious from the archway of the living room. “You didn’t text, and we were getting worried.”
I let out a breath of exasperation. “I forgot. I had some of their award-winning wine and got a little tipsy.”
“You want something to eat?” Mom points over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “There’s cherry pie.”
My stomach feels sour. “No, thanks.”
“Well? How did it go with our neighbor?” Dad asks.
They both look at me expectantly. I can’t tell them the truth. That he spit out our wine and insulted it.
I rub the back of my neck. “It wasn’t as helpful as I hoped. He didn’t share any wine-making secrets, and their marketing seems to exclusively rest on their reputation from all their awards,” I lie. Honestly, we never got that far in the conversation.
“We tried to win something in a few local competitions last year,” Dad says.
“Nothing,” Mom says. “I think the judges are biased toward previous years’ winners.”
“Ah.” What else can I say? That maybe our wine isn’t so good? “I’ll come up with something. Maybe a newly designed label to make the vineyard look like an old European estate. Sometimes perception makes all the difference.”
“I like our label,” Mom says.
My shoulders slump. I just feel so defeated by tonight, so damn tired. “I’ll think on it more. Good night.”
“You’re going to bed already? It’s not even nine.” My mom glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room. It’s an old family heirloom and oddly reminds me of the stuffy, pompous jerk across the road.
“Just need to relax and unwind,” I say and head upstairs. My only other idea is hard-core grassroots marketing. Showing up at every shop in the area to try to place our wine, calling every distributor and offering them a deal. We may lose some profit, but it could give us a foothold. Tomorrow. I’ll get started tomorrow.
The next morning I drive off in a van full of our wine for my in-person selling campaign. I’m wearing a flowing maxi dress in a light red and white block pattern that I hope says sophisticated and professional. I’ve got my list of potential customers that I’m eager to put check marks next to with each successful sale. Just because our wine hasn’t won any awards doesn’t mean it’s horse piss. Jeez.
Yet, time after depressing time, it’s a no. No one will even try the wine. They tell me there’s no shelf space, or they want me to pay for a display. I’m tempted to slip a few bottles onto the shelf when they’re not looking, but it’s not like we’d profit from it. The heavy pit in my stomach is growing bigger by the second, and I’m starting to feel a little desperate.
