A Werewolf's Guide to Seducing a Vampire

One

On werewolf Ben Rosewood's list of Things To Avoid If At All Possible, weddings were near the top.

It wasn't that he hated seeing other people happy or that he disliked cake or an open bar or dancing-well, all right, dancing was mortifying unless one was very drunk, which the open bar took care of-it was that he felt like a terrible person every time he went to one.

He raised his champagne, swaying slightly. The post-ceremony dinner was wrapping up and it was speech-making time. Another mortifying activity best practiced by drunk people or those who didn't have an anxiety disorder.

In vino confidence, he thought.

Mariel and Ozroth Spark, the newlyweds in question, looked at him expectantly from the sweetheart table. One witch, one demon: both people Ben cared about and didn't want to disappoint with a terrible speech.

"Mariel," he said, addressing his longtime friend and employee at his garden shop, Ben's Plant Emporium, "it has been a privilege to work alongside you and watch you thrive like the plants you care for. You've always given your time, love, and support to everyone around you, and you deserve to receive that love back a thousandfold."

Ben was sweating. He nudged his gold-framed glasses up his nose with his free hand, then peered down at the note card on the table that held his talking points.

"Now that you have Oz by your side," he continued, "you shine more brightly than ever, and I'm happy to see it."

It was a clumsy speech, but Mariel didn't seem to mind. The brunette witch was beaming, looking radiant in a white dress with lacy cap sleeves and a full skirt embroidered with vines and flowers. Next to her and wearing a black suit that matched his usual stark aesthetic was Oz-or as he had once been termed, Ozroth the Ruthless. The soul bargainer had been on Ben's shit list for a long time before he'd realized the demon was actually considerate, thoughtful, and utterly besotted with Mariel under that gruff exterior.

The normally surly Oz was now grinning widely, with lines of joy stamped beside his eyes. Those marks deepened with every year on Earth now that Oz was mortal, and Ben felt a surge of longing laced with envy. Not because Oz was marrying Mariel in particular-marrying Mariel, Ben's tipsy brain repeated, delighting in the alliteration-but because they were happy and in love.

This was why Ben didn't like weddings. He should be unconditionally delighted for his friends rather than sad about his own single status. He shoved down the shameful envy and glanced at the card again.

"Oz," he continued, addressing the black-haired, black-horned demon, "as you know, I wasn't sure about you at first. It isn't every day a demon comes portaling to Earth demanding your friend's soul." The crowd chuckled at that, and Ben felt a surge of relief. Thank Lycaon, progenitor of werewolves, he wasn't messing this up too badly. "But I saw how hard you fought to protect Mariel, and since then your love has grown and deepened. You prove that love with actions, not just words, which is the measure of a good man. It's an honor to know both of you and to be invited to give this speech."

He wasn't sure why they'd asked him to give a speech, but the reception had been speech-heavy so far, with family and friends of the bride and groom spouting impassioned, brilliant toasts that were all far better than Ben's.

"My skills are in gardening, not public speaking," he said, wrapping things up, "so I'm going to sit down before I embarrass myself." Another few chuckles at that. "In lieu of the brilliant oratory you deserve, I present you with a plant." He nodded toward the side of the room where another of his employees, a naiad named Rani, stood holding an orchid. She strode forward, grinning confidently in the way of well-adjusted people who didn't want to shrivel up and disappear in front of a crowd, and presented the plant to Mariel.

Mariel gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth. "Ben, are you serious? You found a Winter Sunrise?"

The Winter Sunrise orchid was rare, found only near the top of a magic-laced mountain in France where the ley lines allowed flowers to bloom through the snow. Its petals were snowy white blending into soft pink, the edges lined with orange, and the golden stamen glittered with magic.

"A rare flower for a rare friend," Ben said. He'd had to trade away a substantial selection of aphrodisiacal plants from his shop's inventory to get it, but he didn't regret the transaction.

"It's perfect," Mariel said, beaming at him. The orchid leaned forward in its pot, brushing its petals against her cheek. Mariel wrinkled her freckled nose. "Hi, baby," she whispered to the flower. "You're going to love my greenhouse."

Plants always behaved that way around Mariel. She was brimming with so much nature magic, the world came alive around her and plants acted downright enamored. Ben was a bit jealous, since werewolves didn't have any magic other than the truly unfortunate monthly transformation into a feral creature, but he couldn't deny it made her a heck of an employee at the garden shop.

Oz looked at Ben with obvious gratitude. Thank you, the demon mouthed.

Ben nodded in acknowledgment. Then, glad to have the speech over with, he plopped back into his seat.

His sister, Gigi, nudged him with her fork. A fork that unfortunately had residual sauce on it, leaving a greasy smudge on his navy coat sleeve. "Good speech, bro."

He blew out a heavy breath. "I'm just glad it's over."

"You're a great public speaker. I don't know why you hate it so much." Gigi shrugged and tucked back into her pasta.

His sister was thirty-three years old to Ben's thirty-eight, though he claimed she acted ten years younger and she claimed he acted eighty years older. They were both taller and more broad-shouldered than average and had the same thick brown hair and brown eyes, but personality-wise, they couldn't have been more different. Gigi was an extrovert who loved parties and public speaking, while Ben preferred time alone with his plants, books, and knitting.

Tonight Gigi was wearing a gold dress with her favorite pink Converse, and glittering piercings marched up her ears. "Thank Lycaon you're not wearing a sweater vest," she'd said when she'd spotted his navy suit earlier that day. "Someday you'll let me take you shopping."

That was an "absolutely not," and what was so wrong with sweater vests? They were sophisticated yet cozy, wrapping around his torso like a hug.

Or maybe like one of those ThunderShirts worn by quivering dogs, his judgmental inner voice said.

Ben drained his champagne.

Thankfully, the speeches wrapped up soon after. They'd gone well, all things considered. He'd had a brief moment of worry when Mariel's mother had spoken, but Diantha had spent the last two years repairing her relationship with Mariel and attending therapy. She wasn't perfect, but she was vastly improved from the pre-Oz days.

With speeches and eating done, it was time for dancing-and an open bar, thank the neurosis gods. The event space had a ceremony room decorated with stained glass, a large dining room, and an open-air courtyard where the rest of the festivities would take place. Magical light orbs drifted over the stone courtyard, and the trees enclosing the yard had been draped with rainbow fairy lights and gauzy swaths of fabric in bright colors. The night sky was thankfully clear-never a guarantee in the small town of Glimmer Falls or western Washington State in general-and the mid-August temperature was ideal. If the temperature or weather had been bad, though, one of the attending witches or warlocks would have taken care of it with a micro-climate spell.

Ben smiled as Oz tromped his way through the choreographed steps of the couple's first dance with the grim concentration of a general approaching battle. Mariel didn't seem to mind the demon's straightforward but less-than-graceful ballroom style-she laughed and spun in his arms, dress flaring like a blooming lily. After Oz dipped her low and delivered a decidedly PG-13 kiss, the assembled guests cheered.

Then it was time for the father-daughter and mother-son dance. This had been an object of concern during the year leading up to the wedding. Mariel's relationship with her father was still strained from his years supporting Diantha's absurdities, though they'd made progress in family therapy. The more difficult issue was that Oz had been taken away from his demoness mother at a young age in order to be trained as a soul bargainer and hadn't seen her in hundreds of years-hadn't even known her name or if she was alive or dead. But Oz's childhood mentor, Astaroth, had made it his mission to atone for his part in that tragedy by finding her, and now Elwenna the demoness stood at the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped to her mouth. When the music started up again and Oz held out a hand, eyes glistening, she took it, and more than a few guests started weeping outright.

Ben had always been a crier, and now he wiped away a tear, sniffling. He couldn't imagine being separated from his family for that long.

He also couldn't imagine the day coming when he could spin his wife around the dance floor in front of their families . . . though he could easily conjure a memory of the last time he'd talked with his mother on the phone and she'd hesitantly asked, "So, I know you're busy, but have you given any thought to dating?"

Yes, Mom. Arguably too much thought. And the moment "anxious, workaholic werewolf" appeared on someone's vision board, she'd be first to know.

But tonight wasn't about him, so Ben gave his full attention to the two pairs spinning (or aggressively marching, as the case may be) across the dance floor, applauding and cheering them on.

Once the formal dances ended, Mariel grabbed a flute of champagne and raised it high. "Let's party!"

Music started blasting from the speakers as people of a variety of species rushed to the dance floor to begin gyrating with an enviable amount of confidence. Ben sidled up to the bar. It was manned by a centaur named Hylo he recognized as the bartender at a dive bar, Le Chapeau Magique. They had buzzed hair and a labret piercing, and their roan coat had been shaved with heart designs to commemorate the occasion.

"What's your poison?" Hylo asked.

"Whiskey," Ben said. He normally wasn't much of a drinker, but if he was going to dance-and Gigi would certainly drag him onto the floor if Mariel didn't first-he needed to drown his self-consciousness.

"How about an old fashioned?" At Ben's nod, Hylo started mixing ingredients, tapping their hooves rhythmically. The nonbinary centaur was a member of an Irish step dance troupe as well as a popular ClipClop influencer (as Gigi had informed him, being far more social media savvy than he was). Hylo presented the drink with a flourish, and Ben thanked them, slipping money into the tip jar.

He downed the old fashioned in under a minute, then held the empty glass out.

Hylo raised their eyebrows. "Dang, are you trying to get wasted?"

Ben gestured to the dance floor. "Social anxiety," he said succinctly.

"Ah." Hylo nodded knowingly. "Well, don't party too hard, all right? I'll have to cut you off if you get rowdy."

Ben wanted to laugh at the idea. The rest of his extended family was noisy, chaotic, and prone to brawling, as most werewolves were, but the number of times he'd done something that might be classified as "rowdy" could be numbered on one hand. "Don't worry, I'm a sad drunk," he said.

Hylo rattled the cocktail shaker before pouring him a second drink. "Weddings can be tough," they said. "Especially for single people."

Was he that transparent? Ben grimaced. "They shouldn't be. I just need to be a better person." He slipped another tip into Hylo's jar.

"It's nothing to do with being good or bad. Being sad or lonely or even jealous is normal-the thing that matters is how you treat people, and as far as I've seen, you've been very kind." Hylo patted his hand. "And who knows? Maybe you'll meet your soul mate here."

"Maybe," Ben said with zero sincerity. His life was consumed by running a small business, and what kind of woman wanted to be saddled with a werewolf who didn't even like howling at the moon?

But Hylo was being kind and understanding in that bartender/therapist way that involved emotional labor they didn't need to be doing, so Ben mustered up a smile. "Thank you," he said. "Maybe tonight's the night I find her at last."


Did Ben hate dancing?

He didn't remember. All he knew was that the world was tilting, the glow-orbs overhead had doubled, and he was flailing his arms to a pop song he didn't know the name of. Around him, other guests wiggled or stomped or flapped their wings in similarly chaotic fashion.

"I love this song!" shouted the pixie hovering a few inches off the ground. Themmie-short for Themmaline-Tibayan was a Pixtagram influencer and a good friend. Her naturally black hair was bespelled purple and pink, and her iridescent wings shimmered. Along with Gigi, she'd been one of the instigators of the Get Ben on the Dance Floor campaign.

"Me, too!" shouted a British demon with pale blond hair and black horns who was gyrating on the opposite side of the small circle they'd formed. That was Astaroth, Oz's former mentor, who had been kind of evil before a bout of amnesia had improved him immensely. The improvement was also due to his partner, Calladia Cunnington, who had reformed the demon during a road trip nearly two years ago. Astaroth's memories had returned, including the knowledge that he was half human, but he'd remained on Team Good and now lived with Calladia on Earth, visiting the demon plane on occasion to help implement progressive societal reforms.

Astaroth was an incredible dancer. He'd spun Calladia around the floor in a waltz earlier-only wincing a few times when she stepped on his toes or headbutted him while trying to take the lead-and now he was doing an enviable John Travolta impression. He was also ridiculously handsome and an expert swordsman, and Ben had reflected more than once that the universe needed to spread out its gifts a bit more evenly.

Thankfully, being surrounded by good dancers and internet-famous pixies meant fewer people were looking at Ben. Thus, he was free to flail.