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“For the dating.”
She blows out another breath. Definitely consumption. I’d better have her call for the leecher. “The only way I’m going to arrange for you to spend time with Stella is if you help her with her family’s winery. Not bite her, not mate with her. Help her.”
“You must assist me with the dating. I command it.”
“What if we work on a wine blend from our varietal and hers? Maybe then she’d have a chance at actually making a decent wine.”
I arch a brow. I have my doubts. Mixing a fine wine with horse piss will taste like fruity horse piss, but my need to see Stella again trumps any argument against it. “And then Stella will spend time with me once more?”
She hesitates.
If I had a beating heart, it would be pounding in anticipation. As it is, every muscle in my spectacular body tenses.
Finally, she says, “If you let me help you adapt to modern times—”
I gesture impatiently, waving her on. “Yes, yes, watching your friends, but not for ten seasons, just the one night. I cannot wait ten long seasons to see Stella again.”
She makes a strange face, almost like she wants to smile except her lips are smashed tightly together. “Then yes. I think she’ll agree to spend time with you.”
Fire shoots through me, the fire of victory. I will have what is mine. Stella.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Boz
I spend the entire evening watching the tiny friends perform several stage plays through the magical window on this “TV” Neli has installed in my bedchamber near my reading chair. I do not know when they sleep or where they hide the audience, who seems to laugh every few seconds, but I find no humor in any of it. To the contrary, this group of very old adults—in their late twenties—are very peculiar. They are unwed, own no land, have no servants, and the females are well past their childbearing years. Also, apparently no one works despite claiming to have jobs.
The most shocking thing, however, is the state of these very castrated, docile men. The horror! They do not speak directly to a woman when they desire her, and instead try to woo her with polite conversation while drinking coffee. Weak coffee. With milk. What sort of man puts the juice from the teat of a lactating cow in their coffee? And, pray tell, what is the matter with simply telling a woman what you desire? Come here to my chamber, wench, I wish to plow you. Why not offer her father something of value in exchange for her? A goat. Or a pig, perhaps. I simply see no point in being a man of means if one does not wish to barter for goods and the sexual companionship of a woman. Or for handing over their tasty virgin daughters to the local vampire.
“I bid you good evening, friends,” I say with a malcontented sigh to the actors, though they stay in character even when I press the little red button on the handheld box that controls the TV’s stage curtain.
I sit quietly in my chair next to the dwindling fire and contemplate the uneasiness in my chest. What is the matter with me? It is almost sunrise, and I have not fed, yet I have no appetite. Not for the local fare I have been sipping outside the pubs. The startling truth is I only wish to sink my fangs, and perhaps another part of my anatomy, into a certain female across the road.
Hmmm… I rub my rough chin, mulling over the idea of paying her a visit. I have about one hour before sunrise. Yes. I will go in through her window and take a whiff. That should sate me for today. But what about tomorrow? Or the day after?
Another idea hits. If Stella will not agree to engage in this collaboration, then I will use my powers of suggestion. By tomorrow, she will be begging to see me.
Knowing I must be discreet if I am to sneak into her bedchamber unnoticed, I undo the buttons of my white shirt and enter my dressing room in search of something darker to go with my black leather trousers. On the shelf are soft stretchy woven things Neli calls sweaters. I hold up the dark blue one with long sleeves. Ick. It has no ruffles or fine buttons made of those iridescent seashells I favor, but it will have to do. I have not gone to the tailor just yet.
I slide on the garment—oh, very soft—and glide my hands over my torso while I gaze into the large beveled mirror mounted to the wall. The clothing nicely displays my strong muscles and broad chest.
I turn and look at my firm backside, now also on display since my long shirt no longer conceals it. Could split firewood with that ass. I still prefer formal attire, but I do believe this sort of outfit will assist me in enticing a certain human to my bed—something I would want her to do willingly. It is one thing to use my abilities of persuasion to make a human want to spend time with me, but it is very unsportsmanlike to hypnotize a female into sex. Where’s the fun in that?
