Blood Wine (The Blood Bond Series Book 2) by Aimer Boyz

Author:Aimer Boyz [Boyz, Aimer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-08-26T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

IT WAS LONG ago and far away, but Symon had been forged in the Middle Ages. Under the strategically ripped jeans and black leather jacket, he was still the same vampire who’d travelled through Europe keeping one step ahead of the witch-hunting mania that had raced across the continent and into the New World. He had seen the flames and heard the screams, hidden himself and his own abilities and survived. If Michael was right, then Symon had hidden deeper than he knew, closed his eyes to the similarities between his survival instincts and what the morality police in the Middle Ages had called witchcraft.

The twenty-first century version of Symon knew that psychic ability and witchcraft weren’t the same thing, but the part of him that still huddled in the dark of the fifteenth century wasn’t so sure. The idea that he might have even a sliver of psychic ability himself made Symon uncomfortable. In his experience, the psychic shit got you dead, and he was already as dead as he ever wanted to be.

“Think about it,” Michael said, climbing off the bed.

“You’re not staying?” Symon asked, the words out there before he could hold them back.

“Yeah, no.” Michael pulled his briefs on, his non-reaction saying he thought Symon had asked a perfectly reasonable question. Reasonable for a human maybe, but for a vampire?

Stupid on every conceivable level.

“Crawling out of here before first light,” Michael said, pulling his sweater over his head. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

Symon nodded, banished the saccharine image of himself sitting in bed, working on his laptop while Michael slept beside him.

Stupid on every conceivable level.

“Kind of a pain,” Michael said. “Our body clocks being out of sync.”

Symon snorted. “Out of sync? This is more than a bad case of jet lag, Michael.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. I eat food, you drink blood. I have an expiration date, you don’t. We’re a bad idea,” Michael said, stomping into his boots, and standing. “Text you at sunset,” he added, flashing Symon a smile, and walking out of the bedroom.

Symon stared at the empty doorway and listened to Michael’s footfalls cross the carpeted sitting room. He heard the door to the hotel suite close behind his human and felt… happy.

Stupid on every conceivable level.

With Michael gone, Symon had no reason to linger in bed. He dragged his jeans back on and padded barefoot into the sitting room intending to get some work done before sunrise. Halfway through an email from his vineyard manager, his mind went walkabout on him Michael’s voice saying, ‘And it never occurred to you…?’

The mere thought that his instincts were a version of Michael’s psychic ability made Symon nauseous, but if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck. How the fuck had he not known this? Easily. He’d stopped questioning the how or why of his abilities centuries ago because that door led to witchcraft and Symon wasn’t going there. By the time strip malls, with their clusters of nail salons, dry cleaners, and tattoo parlours appeared Symon had become used to labelling his abilities as natural instincts.

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