Page 15 of Toadstools and Vampire Kisses

A warm hand suddenly slips into my own, and I glance over at Fran in surprise as she gives my hand a squeeze.

“Don’t worry about it. As long as you don’t hyperventilate at getting pumpkin guts and dirt all over your clothes, you’ll be fine. Believe it or not, my cousin Astrid, that one over there with the pink hair,” she nods to a woman standing with her hands on her hips at the edge of the pumpkin patch, “she brought a date last year and was so worried about impressing him that she wore one of her best outfits to do this. No one is going to think twice about you wearing this unless you freak out like she did and sit down in the middle of the field and cry because you ruined your designer shoes.”

She squints at me with concern. “You won’t… right?”

I am aware that I should be insulted that she would assume there was even a chance of me feeling faint over a bit of dirt, but I chuckle instead and squeeze her hand in return before releasing it to open my parasol. Positioning so that it shades me comfortably from the midday light, I smile down at Fran.

“I think I will survive,” I assure her.

I have endured countless human parties over the ages. I held my own well in the past among the theatrical performances, games of chance, dull, unending lectures, and tedious conversations among what humans called “polite society.” I doubt carving gourds and a quasi-theatrical dance at the end of the day is going to break me.

I offer her my arm and feel a moment of self-doubt returning when she briefly gives it a puzzled look. I begin to consider retracting my offered arm when she slides her hand into its crook, and I have to restrain myself to keep from smiling in delight. Arm in arm, we walk toward the pumpkin patch, Beast darting among the pumpkins nearest us as we enjoy the pleasantly overcast sky and cool breeze.

We do receive a few curious glances from her coven and a few families that I did not encounter yesterday, but I think little of it. They must be the locals here for the Jack-o’-Lantern Dance that Fran mentioned since they all seem to have children among them, a gaggle of older children gamely helping their younger siblings. They seem to watch us with an expression of surprise, though I do not consider our pairing so terribly unusual.

Not that we are not an awkward pair. I will admit that much. We fail to match in any sort of conventional way that make sense to the casual onlooker, but I am finding my time with Fran to be delightfully refreshing and genuine compared to my brief encounters with vampiresses in the past who knew exactly to play the seductress game for their maximum satisfaction. While it had scratched an itch, those pairings were always about achieving our own selfish desires and in the end left me cold.

There is a small tug on my arm as Fran slows at my side. “Who is that with Jack?”

Frowning, I turn my head in the direction she points and sigh at the sight of the slightly shorter young man standing at Jack’s side with his head slightly bent forward as if listening intently to what my cousin is saying to him.

“Edward,” I say. “It seems that Jack has managed to convince him to attend to him.”

Her brows knit together. “I don’t understand. Isn’t he with your group?”

“He is,” I confirm, suddenly uncomfortable with having to explain our relationship with the human. “But he is not a part of our company representing our coven. He is a galkin—a human feeder.”

Her eyes shoot to mine in surprise. “Say what?”

I thin my lips a little out of habit at that ridiculous turn of phrase born of this age and explain. “A galkin is a human who volunteers to supply blood to vampires. We typically don’t need much if we aren’t preparing to feed a mate, and vampires in their prime, such as myself, tend to feed maybe once a week at most, so it is not uncommon to see one galkin serve several vampires. A mated pair might have a one who visits their home a few times a week, but the relationship otherwise functions the same. It is contractual, often worked out among certain human families. It is much safer than hunting, which we would never do when we are guests somewhere.”

Fran’s brow remains furrowed, but a light of curiosity has entered her eyes when she looks back at Jack and Edward. “And what sort of benefit does Edward get from this?”

I shrug. “Several. The tiniest amount of vampire blood they are allowed when swearing their services extends their youth and life well past other humans, and they do not suffer any kind of illness. Then there is the matter of wealth. A galkin who is intelligent with his investments and not a spendthrift can amass a small fortune by the time he is of age when he might wish to retire.”

“You say he… Are there female galkins?”

I smile at her perceptiveness and nod. “Many. For many vampire families, because blood exchange is closely related to mating, many prefer to take blood from a human to whom they are not sexually attracted. The taking of blood is an intimate act alone, and so it is not fair to them to add a sexual component either. Because of this, the gender of the galkin depends on the involved parties and is decided before anything is signed.”

“That makes sense,” she says slowly, the lines of her face relaxing. “And despite the strangeness and a whole slew of legal factors I would never have suspected, admirable.”

“Yes, well, we would not be vampires if we did not make things overly complex and ritualized,” I say dryly. “There are quite a few among us who enjoy pomp and ceremony to the point where all becomes insufferably theatrical.”

She chuckles at that, warming my soul.

“Sadly, not all families keep to these values,” I say, adjusting the parasol to shade her eyes against the brightening of the sky as the clouds shift above us.

“It helps knowing that there are those who do,” she says, her head tipping up to smile sweetly at me.

I am so taken by her loveliness that I stumble over something unseen in my path, and a wet sloshing sound meets my ears as I somehow manage to put my foot through a large orange pumpkin. I glare down at it balefully, though I experience a moment of gratitude that I wasn’t wearing the modern footwear that my cousin prefers. Jerking my foot free from the sloppy innards, I can’t help but sigh at the slime covering the leather. I’m about to reach for the silk kerchief in my pocket when Fran reaches into her bag, pulls out a rag, and presses it into my hand with a giggle.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.” She muffles another laugh behind her hand and I find the corners of my own mouth curling in response.

“I do not see why not. You did warn me, however, so I swear I shall not shame you. Thank you for the rag,” I reply before bending forward to inspect the damage.

My lips twitch further with amusement at yet another muffled giggle coming from the human at my side as she relieves me of my parasol and holds it above me. My boot is a mess. There is no nicer way to describe it. The thick slime and pasty innards that came up from the pumpkin with my foot are unattractive in the extreme. There is simply so much of it that I am not sure if a rag will be enough.

Mercifully, Fran remains by my side the entire time rather than leave me to my embarrassment alone, holding the parasol above me, and even Beast circles back to investigate. I must wave him off a few times as he tries to lick at my boots, but I cannot say I do not appreciate his companionable attempt to help. It makes me feel like I fit in—at least a little—rather than a spectacle I might otherwise have been. The few brief looks we garner are filled with a warm amusement, though I am not sure how much they see since Fran has inserted herself in their path to hold the parasol over me. Whether it sufficiently blocks their view or not, this position does make me increasingly aware of her full breasts tipping forward in their support garment like ripe offerings. It stirs something deep within me that awakens and stretches toward her with a voracious hunger.

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