You know, I’ve gotten used to getting funny looks from friends and family over the years. I used to play role-playing games (known as RPG’s) like Dungeons and Dragons and Rolemaster. I was sometimes the Dungeon Master (which is not nearly as kinky as it sounds, trust me). In the course of my campaigns I’ve broken more than one player by taking something “cannon” and turning it on its ear. I’ve done horrible, horrible things, like taking the Phantom of the Opera and turning him into a cross-dresser; given a barbarian warrior a talking, enchanted greatsword that was prim and prone to handing out unwanted advice; and taken someone who had negative skill in diplomacy and forcing her to speak to her Queen, in front of the entire court, the results of which caused even Dusty, my husband, to laugh so hard he started crying.
So it shouldn’t be any surprise to anyone who knows me that I was expecting the question, “He drinks what?” It’s usually followed by the usual oh-my-God-she’s-crazy looks and, “How did you come up with that? See, Parker Hollis, also known as Our Hero, is a vampire living with an interesting curse. The poor man crossed the wrong witch back during the days of free love and Janice Joplin concerts, and now he can only drink green, leafy blood.
Go ahead. Ask it. I’ll wait.
(Insert whistling here, if I could actually whistle.)
So. I bet you want to know how I came up with the idea. It’s simple, really. It goes back to the time when I was playing RPG’s. It all started when a friend of ours started ditching our college game because of his girlfriend. Our Dungeon Master, my future husband, became… displeased over this. So he decided that RC should suffer, and suffer mightily. An evil witch kidnapped the poor mage, brainwashed him, and cursed him with so many things that by the time we rescued him he was forced to remain under cover, literally. He inspired unhealthy levels of lust in anyone who gazed at him; he could no longer run, only walk; and best of all, he could only eat green, leafy bread. And those are only the curses I can remember.
Needless to say, RC got the hint, took these curses as a challenge, and made the most memorable character I’ve ever seen played.
Fast forward a few years, and RC, his wife, Dusty and I are playing cards and enjoying some frozen mudslides, when the subject was once again brought up. RC’s wife wasn’t around back then, so we were telling her why the name Akki would send us into spasms of laughter. And suddenly the little vampire story I’d been toying with clicked with the green, leafy bread story, and Parker was born. But who do you pair with a vampire who has such a restricted diet?
Replied RC, “Why, a dryad, of course!” Then he poured me another mudslide and grinned, knowing full well I’d take that idea and run in my own direction with it. It’s good to have friends who know you that well. So, needless to say, Parker’s dryad isn’t your average, run of the mill tree-hugger. Oh no. Like I would make it that simple…
~Blood of the Maple~
A seduction-gone-wrong leaves vampire Parker Hollis with a new vegetarian lifestyle and on the run from a vengeful witch. Moving to small-town Maggie’s Grove, Parker meets a redheaded dryad with green, leafy blood that draws him in a way he hasn’t experienced in decades. His new neighbor smells divine, and it isn’t long before craving gives in to need.
In a unique community of supernaturals, tree-loving outcast Amara Schwedler has never quite fit in. She’s scarred by a traumatic incident and feared by the local townsfolk. She’s convinced Parker will look elsewhere for a mate once he discovers she’s not one of the O-positive set, and can’t believe it when Parker finds her irresistible.
When the witch who’s been plaguing Parker’s life discovers the newfound attraction between Parker and Amara, she takes out her anger on the town. Can the supernaturals of Maggie’s Grove accept Amara and band together in time to withstand the assaults of the enraged witch?
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“Incoming.”
“Who are you?”
Parker whirled around. Someone had sneaked up on him. Damn, his senses were dulling if people could…do… Hell-o.
Parker found himself staring at the most incredible redhead he’d ever been privileged to lay eyes on. Something about her scent tantalized him, teased him. For the first time in decades his mouth watered over a person rather than a salad. “The new owner.” He took a step forward and held out his hand, juggling the urn. “Parker Hollis. Are you one of my neighbors?”
She stared at his hand, a frown marring her lovely face. “You’re dead.”
Parker’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“You’re a vampire.” She said it with such authority that he couldn’t deny it.
Parker checked his fangs with his tongue. Nope, his teeth felt human. “What would make you say that?”
“You’re unnaturally pale, you’re carrying around another dead guy, which is freaky even for a vampire, and your eyes are glowing ruby red.”
He laughed, but even to his ears it sounded awkward. “Vampires don’t exist.”
She poked him in the stomach. “Funny. You feel real enough.”
Want to feel some more? “Whatever would give you the idea that there are vampires?”
“You mean besides the fangs poking your bottom lip?”
Parker blushed. That hadn’t happened in years. These days they only descended at the sound of a blender. Made going into a smoothie shop a real chore. “Oh. Sorry about that.” He forced his beast back and away from the pretty, pretty girl.
“Don’t worry about it. One of my best friends is a vampire.”
“That explains a lot.” Humans and vampires rarely became friends, but if it could happen to Parker, it could happen to his lovely neighbor. “For a moment there I thought I was wearing a sign.”
Her frown smoothed out into a shy smile. Her lips made a lovely cupid’s bow, tempting him to sample them, to see if they tasted as rich as they looked. “I don’t know. You could be. Have you looked in a mirror lately? Oh wait, would you even see the sign?”
“Ha-ha. That’s a myth, I’ll have you know.” He stuck his hand out again, wondering why the woman wasn’t more freaked-out. She knew what he was; did that mean she too was supernatural? He couldn’t detect any scent of were, none of the sparkle the fae had. The only odd thing was that utterly delicious scent wafting from her. She smelled like the highest-quality syrup mixed with the rarest of greens, combined with that hint of copper every vampire craved. “You are?”
“Amara Schwedler. I live next door.” She pointed toward the lavender Victorian with a sad smile. “My friend Glinda left it to me.”
“Left it to you?”
“She passed away a year ago.”
Parker frowned. “I’m sorry for your loss. I recently lost a good friend myself, so I know how much it hurts.” He set the urn down on the front porch. He had no desire to crack Greg’s final resting place, but damn, he wanted to get closer to the sweet-smelling female standing at the bottom of the steps.
“Aw, how sweet.”
Parker ignored Greg, glad no one else could hear him. No matter what Greg thought, watching him die had been painful, almost as bad as his conversion.
Parker ignored Greg, glad no one else could hear him. No matter what Greg thought, watching him die had been painful, almost as bad as his conversion.
“Why didn’t you change him?”
He took a chance and prayed Greg would forgive him. “He was a witch.”
“Parker!”
“Ah. Of course. He’d have lost his powers if you changed him. No witch wants that.”
He dared take a step closer to her. “You seem to know a great deal about witches as well as vampires.”
“Mm-hmm. Glinda was one.”
He nearly laughed. Some witch had dared name their daughter after the Witch of the North? “I guess she was a good one.”
“Oh yes, she was the best.” Amara grinned cheekily. “She let me help create the garden behind your house.”
Parker blinked. “I have a garden?” Damn. He had plans for his backyard. Knowing his delicious neighbor lady had already taken care of it was a serious conundrum. What if he didn’t like what she’d done and decided to rip it out? Would she refuse to let him crawl inside her the way he wanted to?
“Oh yes. It’s beautiful. One of the best we’ve ever done.”
“Would you be willing to show it to me?” He’d forgo entering his home for a chance to spend some time with Amara.
She bit her lip. “May I?”
“Please.” Please please please. Anything to get her to stay close to him. He waved toward the back garden. “After you, m’lady.”
She giggled. “I like your accent.”
“Thank you.” She wasn’t the first woman to tell him they liked his British accent. American women went bonkers for an accent, even one as faded as his, and he used that to his advantage when the urge for sex became too great to satisfy with his hand.
But he’d been forced to learn caution. Terri had a habit of finding out when he’d slept with someone. The last woman he’d been with more than once had died horribly, strangled by vines in her greenhouse. The cops had called it a bizarre accident.
Parker knew better.
Parker frowned. Maybe…maybe instead of trying to end the curse, he should be trying to end Terri. After all, the curse wasn’t so bad.
Terri, on the other hand…
“Here, let me open that for you.” He reached over her head and unlatched the gate, then pulled it open and followed her inside.
He stopped dead, arrested by a wonderland of flora.
“What do you think?”
Meandering pathways led to secreted benches, perfect for sitting and enjoying a quiet evening. A patio, complete with fireplace and outdoor kitchen, was close enough to the house for entertaining, but far enough away to create its own vignette. Statuary peeked out here and there from under leaves, satyrs and dryads and faeries of all types. Trees were positioned to provide shade for all but the hottest of days. But best of all was the view of snow-capped Big Savage Mountain behind the garden, part of the Valley and Ridge Appalachians, framed by two towering oaks. “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
Amara blushed. “Thank you.”
He walked around, dazed at the beauty of his secret garden. He fingered each plant, naming them as he went. “This rhododendron is exquisite. And columbine!” He pointed toward a flowering bush. “Look at that baptisia! That’s a Carolina Moonlight, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Amara nodded enthusiastically. “How did you know?”
He grinned. “I’m a botanist.”
“A vampire botanist?” Amara’s lips twitched.
He shrugged. “Long story.” One he might be willing to tell her someday. “I’m impressed with what you’ve done here.”
That blush raced across her cheeks once more, and he was in serious danger of having his socks, and other parts of his apparel, charmed off. “Thank you.”
“Someone’s planning on gettin’ some.”
“Shut up, Greg,” he muttered.
“Greg? Was that the name of your friend?” Amara seemed illuminated by the moonlight, fey and shy and so beautiful his heart lurched.
“Yup. Some days it’s like he still talks to me.”
“Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”
Parker gritted his teeth against the cheesy bump-and-grind noises.
“I know the feeling.”
~About the Author~
Dana Marie Bell wrote her first short story when she was thirteen years old. She attended the High School for Creative and Performing Arts for creative writing, where freedom of expression was the order of the day. When her parents moved out of the city and placed her in a Catholic high school for her senior year she tried desperately to get away, but the nuns held fast,and she graduated with honors despite herself.
Dana has lived primarily in the Northeast with a brief stint on the US Virgin Island of St. Croix. She lives with her soul-mate and husband Dusty, their two maniacal children, an evil ice-cream stealing cat and a bull terrier that thinks it’s a Pekinese. She’s been heard to describe herself as “vertically challenged” and “a lapsed brunette.” Dana also suffers from osteoarthritis, and can be seen walking with a cane or tooling around in her mobility
scooter.
You can learn more about Dana at:
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