Blood of the Maple (10 page)

“Say the magic word.”

“Please!”

“Yes!” Parker collapsed next to her. “I doubt you’ll make fun of my Southern accent ever again.”

He thickened his accent so much she started giggling all over again.

His fingers danced over her skin, not quite tickling her once more.

She latched on to his wrists. “No! Uncle. I give. You’re the epitome of a Southern gentleman.”

“Thank you.” He folded his arms under his head and crossed his ankles, totally relaxed. His cock bobbed against his stomach, still hard. “By the way. Why are you wearing your shirt?”

She glanced down and, sure enough, her shirt and bra were still in place. She took them off and tossed them over the side of the bed. With a jaw-cracking yawn, she turned on her side and curled up against him, ready for a nap.

“Sleepy, sweet?”

“Yeah.” She was, more than she’d thought. The man had managed to wear her out.

Parker rubbed the spot he’d bitten her, all traces of humor gone. “You need some orange juice first?”

“Mm-mm.” She didn’t want juice. She wanted Parker. When he went to get out of bed, she grabbed him and held him down. She draped herself over him, one leg between his, one arm over his stomach. She wiggled until her head was under his chin. “Stay.”

He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her close. “My pleasure.”

Amara drifted off, serene in the knowledge her vampire would be there when she woke up.

Parker waited until he knew for certain Amara was sound asleep before slipping out of the huge, Craftsman-style four-poster bed to explore the room. He had to bite back a grin at that.
Greg was right. Chickie has a four-poster.
The simple, elegant bed rested on dark hardwood floors and was topped with a pearl-gray, checkered comforter. The walls were a grayish-purple, the ceiling painted a paler shade. Double doors led out to a Juliet balcony currently covered over by thick blackout curtains and a turquoise wing chair and white table sat by the window, the table piled with books.

He liked it. It suited her. It was simple yet feminine, uniquely hers. The only thing he could see changing was the overdose of purple; he’d love to see some other, more masculine colors. The turquoise chair would be an excellent starting point since he favored blues and greens and, apparently, so did she.

“Parker? Can I talk to you for a moment?”

The whispered voice of Brian, through the door, reminded him that he had some apologizing to do to his poor Renfield. The man must have been terrified when Parker went feral. He’d have to make sure to make it up to him. He glanced ruefully at his torn pants. No way would they stay up.

“Here.”

He looked up at the soft whisper to find Brian’s arm sticking through the partially open door, a pair of jeans dangling from his fingertips.

“Thanks.” Parker pulled them on and stepped into the hallway. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Brian was grinning. “You saw me touch your
singele sotiei.
Of course you lost it.”

“How did you know?”

“The same way I knew the words of the
casuta.
I’m a Renfield. It’s my job to know.”

Parker was impressed. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Parker shook his head. “I haven’t heard those terms from someone else’s lips in years.”

“Being a Renfield in Maggie’s Grove is an honorable profession. We’re trained in how to take care of our vampires. We all learn that
singele sotiei
are precious. We understand that and your reactions to them and how to deal with you when you’ve gone too far to control yourself.”

“What’s he talking about? And why the fuck did you go all Bram Stoker on us? You’ve never done that before.”

“He’s never had reason to before, has he?” Before Greg could respond, Brian continued. “
Singele sotiei
means blood wife, literally. The one person Parker’s beast can bond to, who will be with him for eternity. Sometimes that relationship is sexual. Sometimes it’s less. Sometimes it’s more.”

Parker had the feeling that with Amara it would be more.

“And
casuta?
What does that mean?”

Parker winced. Greg was going to love this one. “Obeisance. It’s the ritual soothing of the beast, lets him know the person being viewed as a threat isn’t one at all.” It also let the beast know the person chanting was his vassal, his to protect, but Greg didn’t need to know that. It was a holdover from when vampires ruled territories in places like Transylvania and the Carpathian Mountains. Legend had it the gypsies who’d served them had come up with the
casuta,
and the beast responded to it in ways Parker didn’t understand but was grateful for. Especially now.

“Under normal circumstances, the chant and the display of submission would have returned Parker to normal, but I’d touched his unclaimed
sotiei.
I’m lucky Amara didn’t fight him, or I’d be passing through the Veil.”

“Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.” Parker’s smile was rueful. “How do we stop this from happening again? I have no desire to harm you.”

“You’d better not.”
Greg sounded seriously pissed.

“I don’t. I actually like the little bugger.” Brian coughed, and Parker realized what he’d said. He flipped them both the two-finger salute. “Sod off.”

“We stop it by you claiming your
sotiei.
” Brian shrugged. “Or I learn yoga, because I’ll be in that position a lot.”

“Naked yoga?”

Brian bit his lip, a shudder passing through him. His eyes closed to half-mast. Parker had no idea what Greg was doing, but from the smell of lust, he’d bet Greg had his metaphysical hands down the Renfield’s pants. “People. Not in front of the children.”

Brian jumped and moved quickly to the right. “Um. Anyway. You need to finish what you started, or the beast will become even more aggressive as time passes.”

“What about Terri?”

“We deal with her, one way or another.”

“We finally get to kill the wicked witch?”

Parker leaned against the wall, his thoughts racing. “Looks like. The sooner the better.” Terri would not harm Amara, not now. Not ever.

“Down, boy.”

Brian’s eyes were wide, his knees partially bent. Parker licked his lips and realized his fangs had descended. He bet his eyes had begun to turn red, the color of hunting. “We’ll keep Amara safe, I swear.” Brian frowned, his expression darkening. “I think it’s time you met the mayor.”

Parker looked at his bare chest and feet. “Perhaps I should be dressed when I do.”

“I’ll make the call. You get the clothes.”

“No. You get the clothes. I’m not leaving Amara alone.”

Brian nodded. “Pick up the receiver and say
Dragomir Ibanescu.
I’ll be back in ten minutes.” The Renfield raced down the stairs and out the door.

“This town is very strange.”

He followed at a slower pace and took the opportunity look at the rest of Amara’s home. The wood of the ornate Victorian banister was smooth under his palm. Parker approved, even as he disapproved of the first room he stepped into.

Amara’s living room was much different from her bedroom. This room droned
gloomy
and
period
from the camelback couch to the dark wainscoting and rose wallpaper. Tufted leather armchairs with clawed feet flanked the green velvet couch. The couch faced an ornate fireplace, the carved mantle done in the same wood as the wainscoting. Brass and crystal sconces did little to lighten the atmosphere. Spindle-legged mahogany tables held porcelain lamps with heavy, gold-fringed shades. A cream ceiling completed the overly done Victorian look. The only truly good thing about the room was the nine-foot ceiling, and even that was barely noticeable with the dreary colors.

Unlike her bedroom, this room would require a complete makeover. He could live with the wainscoting. He could even live with the green couch. But the rose-pink walls, those sconces and…were those naked women on the lamps?

He wandered to the dining room, mentally flinching from the horror of naked brass women draped in fringe. Now, this room wasn’t nearly as bad. The Queen Anne table had the simple lines Parker preferred, and the chandelier, though dripping in crystals, didn’t make him want to break out in hives. Though the wainscoting remained, the color of the walls, a turquoise a shade or two lighter than the chair in her bedroom, managed to keep the room both formal and cheerful.

The kitchen was much more his style. Here were her Craftsman roots, with mission-style cabinets, Carrera-marble countertops and rubbed-bronze appliances that said
old-fashioned
without croaking out
old.

So maybe the living room was a holdover from when the home had been Glinda’s. If this was more Amara’s style, he could definitely live with it.

He found the phone and picked up the receiver. “Dragomir Ibanescu.”

He heard a faint click. “Yes, Amara?”

Parker stared at the phone in shock. “This isn’t Amara.”
Amara has the mayor on magical speed dial?

“Ah. You must be our resident vegetarian vampire, Dr. Parker Hollis. A pleasure to hear from you.”

“Thank you. My, um, Renfield suggested we meet to discuss a problem I have.”

“Very well. I’ll be there shortly.”

“That won’t be—” the dial tone cut him off, “—necessary. Bugger. I hope Brian hurries with those clothes. I’d look ridiculous in Amara’s.”

Parker sat down to wait for the town’s mayor, not entirely certain what he’d say to the man. Or even what kind of supernatural the man was. Neither Brian nor Amara had told him, and he found himself curious about what type of person the mayor was.

“Dr. Hollis?”

Parker whirled around to face the man standing behind him. The black-haired, gray-eyed man was a few inches taller than Parker and radiated power on a level he’d rarely felt. His gray suit and crisp white shirt were set off by a slightly askew bloodred tie. This man was much older than Parker’s two hundred years.

He was also a vampire.

Parker’s beast reacted, his only thought to protect his sleeping
sotiei.

Dragomir held up his hands in the universal sign of peace. “I mean no harm to your
sotiei,
Parker, nor do I intend to steal her.”

Parker eased up. This must be the mayor. How the man had gotten here so quickly was—

Wait.

Was he wearing a fucking sign? “How did you know Amara is—”

“Parker!”

Greg’s bellow was so loud the crockery rattled. “Greg?”

Dragomir whirled around, searching the room.

“Help!”

Parker was out the front door in the blink of an eye. “Where?”

“Terri’s here, and she’s going after Brian!”

Shit, there was only one place they could be, and he doubted it was the dryad’s garden. Not even Terri had the bollocks necessary to confront a dryad in her own space. It had to be his. Terri needed greenery to work her magic. He raced around the back of his house, certain he would find the Renfield deathly injured, or worse.

What he found instead shocked him. His garden had come alive. The great oak waved its branches in front of Brian, caging him, protecting him from the encroaching weeds threatening to choke him. The philodendron whipped its thin branches around so quickly that they severed bits of the weeds away like a weed trimmer. Even the flowers were protecting the Renfield, forming a root barrier the weeds could not cross.

His garden looked nothing like it had earlier, and Parker couldn’t be happier. “Amara is somehow protecting him.”

“Amara is powerful, indeed.” Dragomir dodged a whipping branch. “When the Renfield is safe, I expect an explanation.”

“Behind you!”

Parker turned to find a single thick stem racing toward the elder vampire. He pushed the man out of the way and took what would have been a lethal blow to Dragomir’s heart on himself. The stem embedded itself in Parker’s arm. Parker screamed in pain as his arm broke, the bone snapping in two.

From Amara’s house, a low rumbling sounded.

“Fuck.” The mayor stared at Parker in astonishment. “Why did you do that?”

“It would have killed you.” Parker winced and tried to pull the weed out, but it was taking root, burrowing into his body. What fresh hell was this? “Damn it. Get this thing out of me!”

“Parker.” A vaguely familiar, deep, echoing voice filled the air.

Parker looked toward Amara’s house. Something told him his dryad was very,
very
angry. “Amara.” He gasped as the roots of the weed twined around his broken bone. Bloody hell, this was going to
hurt
when it was removed. If it had gotten into Dragomir, it would have wrapped around his heart; any effort to remove it would have killed him instantly.

“There are weeds in your garden, Parker.”

Parker watched in astonishment as a much-altered Amara stepped into his garden, covered in what looked like brown bark. Instead of being rigid, the bark moved with her. Reddish leaves blew around her in a nonexistent wind. Her green eyes glowed with angry intent, the whites completely obscured. And she was at least three feet taller, towering over the privacy fence, Parker and everything but the oak tree.

Amara shrieked, the sound filled with fury, the creaking and groaning of a thousand trees filling it with an inhuman rumble that shook the windows facing into the garden. She reached for his arm from across the garden, extending hers until her knobby fingers caressed his wound. “Weeds need to be pulled.”

Parker braced himself and was glad afterward that he had. The pain when Amara pulled was immense. It felt like she was ripping his whole arm off. He blacked out.

The fire in her belly burned even hotter as Parker fell. She pointed at Dragos. “Guard him.”

Dragos took a fighting stance, batting away anything that came close to touching Parker.

Amara was free to turn her attention to the weeds destroying his garden. She waded into the fight, ripping and tearing, searching for the woman who’d attacked Brian and injured Parker. The plants acted with a higher degree of awareness than usual, reacting to her attacks with lightning speed. That level of control told her Terri had to be close by, controlling their actions. No witch could command this many plants so easily without being able to see exactly what was going on, and a scrying spell wouldn’t give her the reaction speed she’d need, since it would take up most of her concentration.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she crooned. She grabbed a vine and tugged, pulling it from the weakening oak. “I know you’re here, Terri. Are you too frightened to face me?”

The moss beneath her formed distorted lips. “I’ll face you on my own terms, dryad, when I’m good and ready.” The odd voice echoed, and Amara couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it came from.

Amara grabbed the thorny weed and yanked it from the ground. “Bring it on.” She shrieked her challenge and began laying about her with the weed, using it as a spiked whip.

“Parker is mine. Stay away from him or suffer the consequences.”

A root tripped Amara up, and the whip got tangled in her legs. She righted herself before she landed on the mossy lips. “Fuck you. He’s
mine.
” She cracked the whip over her head, shearing off the edges of the vine that had dipped down almost to her hair. She moved faster, cracking at the vine until nothing was left but green paste.

More vines ripped the whip from her hands. “No, thank you. You aren’t my type.” Thorns tore at Amara’s side, unable to penetrate her bark. Something almost broke through the cage the oak had wrapped around Brian, but a shimmering light in the shape of a tall, broad man suddenly appeared, forcing it back.