Page 11 of The Vampire's Werewolf Bodyguard

Simon

Simon delights in Cody’s consternation. Like he’s been ordered to strip naked and run to the road and back. No—that might have been less disconcerting for poor Cody.

“Don’t be shy,” Simon says. Sweetly, because he enjoys being an asshole.

“I’m not a painter.” Cody’s brow knits. “I’m just going to ruin your wall.”

“Mortals,” Simon sighs. “So afraid of illusory permanence. If you paint it badly, I’ll simply paint over it.”

Someday. Maybe. Simon doesn’t like finishing his projects. It’s never the right time, and no home lasts forever.

Cody takes the paintbrush warily. His body heat breathes against Simon’s fingers. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Which wall do you want me to paint? ”

Simon’s hand tingles with proximity. “This room is fine. Pick a blank spot.”

He retreats to an armchair, where he leans. Casually. Not because he’s still so tired. He feels better now than moments ago. The question about Francisco knocked him off balance, so he knocked Cody off balance in turn. A conversational trick Simon learned from Dima, though Dima didn’t know he was teaching it. Simon feels more secure as Cody frowns at the murals.

Secure and curious. This isn’t a test, exactly. Simon’s just interested in what Cody will do.

Appearing to reach a decision, Cody crouches by the paint. Blue flakes onto his fingers as he unscrews the first tube. Next is green, poured into the tray right on top of the blue. Cody mixes them together, and the rich colors disappear into each other like a shadowed pond. The brush bristles are one inch wide. Too large for detail work, too small for covering space.

Cody’s hands are rough and oversized. The paintbrush looks like a toothpick.

Simon accepts his own terrible taste—Cody’s hands are nice. That assessment doesn’t mean anything, as long as Simon remembers those fingernails can sharpen into claws.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Cody says, rising with the tray and brush. He might even think he’s sincere, but reluctance thuds clearly in his heartbeat.

Simon lifts his chin in challenge. “Paint the fucking wall, wolf.”

“Sure thing, bloodsucker,” Cody says with a grin, and sets down the tray at the closest blank patch. Between a broken windmill and a convenience store, each rendered in blurry impressions. Memories .

Simon had imagined a table there, where someone might sit with coffee and paper. He never decided who to draw. A bit hypocritical mocking Cody for hesitation, perhaps.

Ten years of indecision break when Cody touches the brush to the plaster. A firm line down, pause, then across. Up. Across, six inches by six inches. Cody fills in the square without lifting his brush, then dips for more paint and starts a new square.

Another, a foot above. Another, overlapping.

Simon watches, strangely riveted. This isn’t a test, exactly, but Cody has passed it. He fills the space with form and control but not order. The overlapping squares are as much about texture as color, which changes slightly from stroke to stroke. The blue and green aren’t perfectly blended.

Cody doesn’t step outside his ability. No attempt at a figure, nor at matching Simon’s style. Just square after square, until Simon isn’t off-balance anymore.

“Three hundred years ago,” Simon begins quietly. “I was living with my brother, Francisco, and my sister, Tania.”

Cody pauses, long enough that paint drips from his frozen brush, then continues without speaking.

Annoying. Simon would have liked to scold him.

“We traveled to Spain, because Francisco wanted to visit his childhood home.” Simon doesn’t remember the year, exactly, or even the weather. He and Tania disagreed about it later. He remembers the catacombs they slept in when they couldn’t find safer lodging. “I told him it was foolish. Two hundred years after he was gifted, everything would be different, and he would be long forgotten. But Francisco was sweet, and we indulged him.”

Simon hesitates this time, sorting out his words. The events aren’t a secret, but he hasn’t told the story in centuries. Not since he told Dima, who comforted him. The first time Simon had seen Dima in years, and he’d been so desperately grateful for the affection.

“His hometown had changed,” Simon continues. “A pack of werewolves had moved in. They caught Francisco alone, and their alpha claimed him by force.”

Cody jerks around. “Claimed? You mean with a mating bite?”

“You’re dripping paint on the floor,” Simon points out, taking comfort in his own pettiness. “Yes, with a bite. Nearly tore his throat out—all for a sip of immortality.”

The crack of wood echoes. Cody shivers, like he’s about to sprout fur and fangs. Then he takes a deep, obvious breath, controlling himself. Drops the broken paintbrush on the palette.

Part of Simon tenses, wary of the furious werewolf. Another part of him is soothed by the anger. “Did your pack tell the old stories?”

Simon used to envy the werewolf mating bond, when he was young and foolish. Chosen magic, binding souls in strength and comfort. Werewolf mates always know where the other is, and they can speak telepathically when in wolf form. Mated werewolves are more stable, even without a larger pack. The bond is sealed with a bite that doesn’t heal like a vampire’s bite. It leaves a scar as visible proof.

If Simon had a bond like that, Dima never would have left him.

The trouble comes when werewolves look outside their own kin. If a werewolf mates to a regular human, that’s usually for love. But mating to a witch can grant the witch’s magic to the werewolf .

And mating to a vampire grants immortality—with none of the downsides. Power-hungry alphas see vampires as tempting targets.

That’s supposed to be over, now that the treaty forbids forced claims.

“I know the old stories,” Cody says, voice still rough. Tension tightens his eyes. “But claiming a mate by force isn’t right.”

“The shadow-gift is meant to be given, not taken.” Simon turns away from Cody’s furious sympathy, towards the controlled chaos of the painted squares. “Many things have changed over the years, but never that. When Dima made me, he offered his veins willingly. I drank just as willingly.”

Simon has never regretted that choice.

“What happened to Francisco?” Cody asks.

“He couldn’t stand being chained to a wolf all his nights, and he wanted revenge,” Simon says. The truth this time. “He killed himself by sunlight, thus dooming the werewolf as well. The werewolf was weak, and Tania slaughtered him easily.”

Cody’s face does something complicated. “I’m sorry,” he says, without recrimination for Simon’s previous lie.

The lie isn’t so far from the truth, anyway.

“It was long ago, before the treaty.” Simon slips from the armchair and walks towards Cody. “Give me your hand.”

Cody frowns but doesn’t hesitate this time. Simon doesn’t hesitate either, or his impulse will sprout too much meaning in the silence. This isn’t an apology for lashing out. This isn’t a sign that he cares.

Bending his head, he picks the splinters from Cody’s rough palm.

Simon regrets telling the story. He had meant it as a dagger, but instead it’s an outstretched hand. Worst of all, Simon feels better. Having someone so angry on his behalf is nice.

Dima had been sympathetic. Comforting. He kissed Simon through the tears and murmured that everything would be okay. Three centuries later, Simon finally got the reassurance that this wasn’t okay.

He slides another small splinter from Cody’s skin.

“What was Francisco like?” Cody asks. His anger is gone, like Simon has pulled it out with each sliver of wood.

Simon flicks the last splinter onto the carpet. Surely he owns a vacuum somewhere. “Francisco was very calm, which could be infuriating. Too sweet for his own good. He was Dima’s previous favorite, but he never held that against me.”

Cody tenses, pulling back. “What do you mean, favorite?”

Amusement pierces Simon’s strange, comforting regret. “What do you think I mean?”

Cody’s expression is delightfully appalled. “But he’s your sire.”

“He’s not my father or anything.” Simon grins. “I understand the term has multiple meanings, but that’s not how it works.”

“Right, of course,” Cody says hastily, then scrubs his hand over his face. “Are you still… together?”

“God, no,” Simon says—and for once, that answer doesn’t even hurt. Cody’s bewilderment is too beautiful. Simon slumps into his armchair. “Enough about my ancient romantic history. You have a painting to finish.”

Cody stands flabbergasted another moment, then digs a new paintbrush out of the box. Simon settles back to watch, feeling better than he has in weeks. Years .

Maybe Cody is the ally Simon needs after all. Which is why Simon doesn’t leave the room to dial Kimiko’s number. He’s spent enough time poring through his would-be assassin’s belongings. Time to investigate further.

“Hello, you’ve reached Mistress Kimiko’s number,” Andrea answers. “What’s your name, and do you have an appointment?”

Andrea is one of Kimiko’s assistants. Kimiko still refuses to learn how cell phones work. It means Simon can never tell her anything important via text.

He has his own audience this time. Across the room, Cody half-turns, but continues painting. He can surely hear everything.

“I don’t need an appointment.” Simon curls his feet up on the chair. “This is Simon.”

Andrea acknowledges him curtly, then there’s a flurry of closing doors. A brief beat of club music. Then quiet, and Kimiko’s voice on speakerphone. “Dear friend, are you calling to apologize for the mess you made in my basement?”

“Not until you apologize for your lax background checks,” Simon says cheerfully, not expecting any apology. They’re both old enough to know that not all incidents can be prevented. “On that note, I’d like to see your guest book for the nights of Lawrence’s previous visits.”

Lawrence’s notebooks tell the same story as his garlic-strewn bedroom. Not a hunter, not trained. A lone human, aware of vampires and terrified of them, until that terror somehow turned into an effective plan.

Simon wants to know every other vampire Lawrence might have spoken to. The Broken Cross’s guest book is the next logical lead.

“My guest book doesn’t leave my office,” Kimiko says. “But if you visit, you can look at it. As a favor.”

Disappointing, but not worth arguing. “Luckily, you still owe me two. Thanks, Kimiko.”

“Someday you’ll owe me. Someday!” she declares. Then her voice goes distant. “End the call for me, thank you, dear, and put on that podcast thing again—”

The call ends.

“Another field trip?” Cody asks, filling in a new square.

“To the Broken Cross.” The prospect makes Simon more nervous than expected. Returning to the scene of his attack, still weakened. But he won’t be alone, and having a werewolf in his shadow doesn’t seem as terrible anymore. “We’ll go three nights from now. I hope you have something to wear.”

Besides, taking Cody clubbing should be fun.