Page 50 of Bad Luck Vampire

“Aye,” Inan agreed with a frown. “Ha’e ye ne’er heard o’ courtly love? That’s what we were raised with, lad. And it didn’y include clubbing or laying siege.”

Tearing the now empty second bag from his mouth, Alasdair snapped, “Well, what did it include, then?”

His uncles were old relics. Hell, he was an old relic, they were ancient. He found it hard to believe they knew anything useful about gaining the heart of a modern woman.

“In our day ye’d learn to play the lute and serenade her,” Inan told him. “I won many a heart that way. No’ a life mate’s o’ course. I’ve no’ been lucky enough to encounter mine yet. But I did win hearts,” he assured him, and then asked, “Do ye play any instruments, lad?”

Alasdair traded Sam the empty bag for a new one and popped it to his fangs before shaking his head. He’d never been musically inclined.

“Hmmm,” the four uncles muttered as one, and then Connor brightened and said, “Love poems.”

When Alasdair’s eyebrows flew up in horror at that, he nodded firmly.

“Many a warrior would write love poems to the lady they were enamored of. That worked a treat too. At least it did fer me,” he added with satisfaction.

“Do ye think ye could write a—?” Inan began to ask, but paused when Ludan nudged him and pointed out, “The lad can barely speak. Ye can’y be thinkin’ he’d be any good at writing poetry.”

Alasdair scowled at his uncle over the bag of blood at his mouth, offended despite the fact that the man was probably right. He didn’t speak much, and wasn’t much of a letter writer either. It was doubtful he’d be much good at writing love poems, even for Sophie, who certainly deserved them.

“Hmmm,” his uncles said as one again, and took a moment to think.

“Love tokens,” Odart said suddenly.

Inan immediately began to nod and explained, “We used to exchange love tokens durin’ courtship. Things like mirrors, girdles, rings, washbasins—”

Alasdair couldn’t help himself, ripping the now only half-empty bag of blood away from his fangs, he squawked, “Washbasins!”

“Alasdair!” Sam snapped, leaping up to take the bag away from him as the blood sprayed everywhere.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and scowled at his uncles for causing him to make the mess he had. “A washbasin as a love token?”

“Well, it was at the time,” Inan said with a scowl of his own.

“Well, now we have sinks instead. Shall I send her one of those?” he asked sarcastically, a little frustrated because he was starting to worry that winning Sophie’s heart was going to be harder than he’d feared.

“Out,” Sam said suddenly, dumping the torn blood bag in the cooler where it couldn’t damage anything. Straightening, she scowled at all of them and then directed her attention to his uncles and said more kindly, “I know you’re trying to help Alasdair, but right now you’re just upsetting and distracting him from feeding. He needs to feed, so he’ll heal, and I need him to heal so that I can get back to the things I need to do, so you four need to leave.”

“Or,” Inan said, “ye could go do what ye need to do and we could make sure he feeds.”

“Or, you can all go and leave me to deal with him,” Marguerite said from the door, making them aware of her arrival. Smiling sympathetically at Sam, she moved farther into the room and added, “I came to see if you knew how Alasdair and Sophie were doing and Mortimer told me what happened. I’ll sit with him while you get back to work. I know you’re busy right now with various legal issues for Mortimer and Lucian. I’m happy to stay and help so you can get back to it.”

“Thank you,” Sam said with obvious relief. She gave the other woman a quick hug of gratitude, then turned to Alasdair’s uncles. “Come on, you four. I’ve got some raw steaks in the fridge you can gnaw on for a bit while you think of more modern ways for Alasdair to win Sophie’s heart.”

The four men got reluctantly to their feet, but Inan said, “We had meat at the wedding, lass. We’re good for a bit.”

“Well, then, maybe you could go to the Night Club and try some of their specialty blood drinks while you think,” Sam suggested as she walked to the door. “I hear sweet tooths are nice.”

“The Night Club?” Connor asked with interest as the men followed her. “I heard G.G. owns it over here now too and has set up one o’ the rooms like a good old-fashioned pub.”

“I believe he has,” Marguerite told them. “He’s made several themed rooms. It’s quite nice.”

“Hmmm,” the men said as Sam ushered them out of the room.

Marguerite smiled with amusement as she turned back to peer at Alasdair. “They are going to the pub.”

Alasdair raised an eyebrow at her confidence, wondering if she could read his uncles.

“They are all younger than me,” Marguerite said, answering his silent question.

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