Blood of the Maple

“Yeah. Not exactly the way I’d envisioned my life after life.”

“I never expected I’d wind up living with a vegetarian geek vampire.”

Parker blew Greg a raspberry.

Greg leered back. “So. How much pussy does a botanist get anyway?”

Parker smirked. “Let’s see. There’s the regular pussy willow, the weeping pussy willow—”

“Man. Shut up. Idiot.” But Greg was laughing, which was a good thing, considering the bomb Parker was going to hit him with.

“I’m thinking about pursuing a minor too.”

Greg stirred the steak, adding soy sauce to the stir-fry. “In what?”

He coughed into his fist. “Witchcraft.”

“Parker,” Greg groaned.

“What?”

“First off, no respectable university offers witchcraft as a minor.”

Parker sniffed. “I never said it was respectable.” In fact, the dean of admissions had promised to do things to him that a porn star would consider disreputable.

“Second, what did I tell you about the crazy? Any place that hands out a degree in witchcraft is either a scam or up to the brim of their pointy hats in crazy.”

“But her—I mean their—work/study plan was excellent.”

Greg smacked him upside the head. “Tell Little Parker to shut the hell up for five minutes. He’s the one who got you into this situation, remember?”

“Little? I am insulted, sirrah.” Parker whipped out the straw and brandished it, waving it around like a deranged musketeer. “En garde!”

Greg lifted his spoon and assumed the position. “You are so on.”

The two dueled until, in a frenzy of soy-sauce and maple-syrup splatters, Parker lay on the floor, defeated. He lifted the broken straw and glared at it. “You failed me. Damn you, corkscrew straw.”

Laughing, Greg helped him to his feet. “Dude, I know you want to find a way to end the curse, but seriously? I don’t think that’s the way to go about it.”

“And you would know?” Parker drank the last of his dinner and placed the glass in the sink.

One raised eyebrow was all it took to remind Parker that, yes, his friend would know. “I warned you off her.”

“Yes, mama.”

“But no, you had to have a piece o’ that.”

“Fuck off, Greg.” He stared at the blender.

“So now you’re stuck with the freakiest curse on the planet and a degree in botany that you never wanted.”

He inched closer to the counter where the blender rested.

“You’re not taking it apart to lick the blades. That’s just wrong. I use that to make smoothies, and I don’t need that picture in my head while I do it.”

“Aw, man.”

“I mean, who curses a vampire to drink green, leafy blood anyway?” Greg grabbed a clean spoon and tried to salvage his dinner. From the burned smell he wasn’t going to have much luck with that.

“Terri, that’s who.”

Greg poked him in the chest, smearing soy sauce on his shirt. “She turned you into Bunnicula.”

Parker growled. So did his stomach. “Look on the bright side. At least I’m not sprouting things like she is.”

“Next time I tell you to stay away from the crazy, what are you gonna do?”

“Run past Go, do not stop, do not collect two hundred dollars?”

“Damn straight.” Greg blinked. “How did you get soy sauce on your shirt?”

Parker rolled his eyes, snagged the blender and headed for his room.

“That’s wrong, damn it!”

Parker slammed the door shut with a grin. He could hear Greg grumbling long after he’d licked the glass clean.

* * *

Maggie’s Grove, Maryland, Twenty-five Years Ago…

“Oh. Would you look at that?”

She stretched her arms out to the sun, young and eager to bud. Her sap began to flow under the caress of the spring sun.

It was a good day to be alive.

“Who are you?”

She opened her eyes to find a stranger sitting next to her tree. She tilted her head up at the person—the woman—wondering what she might want.

“Can you speak, dear?”

She watched the woman’s mouth move, learning the shape and the grain of the words. “Hello.”

The woman smiled. “You’re a young dryad, aren’t you?”

She was?

Yes, she was.

“Which one is your tree?”

Oh, that one she knew. She placed her hand on the trunk of her tree. The sap running through it was comforting. The roots dug deep into the earth.

“Ah, the Schwedler Norway maple, eh? Very pretty. It’s my favorite tree in the whole garden.”

She preened. The woman thought her tree was pretty.

“Do you have a name?”

Name?

“Mine is Glinda Gershowitz. I’m the one who planted your tree, though I didn’t know I’d get you too.”

She frowned. She didn’t understand.

“Oh, you’re that new, are you? May I help you pick your name?”

“What’s a name?”

“A name is that which other people call you. When people see me, they know I’m Glinda.” Glinda placed her hand on the maple. “When they see your tree, they think Schwedler maple.”

Oh. That made sense.

“Would you like your very own name?”

She nodded, pleased at the thought. Glinda was very nice. She had nice brown eyes and silver hair. She smelled of sunshine and warm earth. Glinda would help her, she knew.

“Well, I would suggest, since you come from a Schwedler, that your last name be Schwedler.”

Last name? How many names would she get? She hoped not too many. She might have trouble remembering them all.

“Hmm. And since your tree is Norwegian, how about…Helga?”

She wrinkled her nose. Helga? No, that didn’t sound right.

“Olga?”

She shook her head. That one wasn’t right either.

“Wait, my niece just had a baby. Let me get my baby-name book, and we’ll pick one out, hmm? Maybe we can find a name together.”

A book? What was a book?

The woman disappeared into a strange glass cave covered in something that felt…dead. She reached out to touch the wrongness, but before she did, Glinda came back. “Here it is.”

Glinda held something that was dead. Something strange pulsed in her veins, something that felt like fire.

“This is a book. I know it’s made of paper, which comes from trees, but I promise it was only taken from trees that had already passed on into the Summerland.”