Sure, I was still stuffed into a flying metal cylinder, but it was certainly a plus if I was given adequate leg room and a three-course meal on the overnight flight.
I had no idea where Aunt Moira had come up with the kind of money that it took to buy business class tickets, but if that had anything to do with her owning a vineyard in Romania, it could end up making things a little more palatable.
There were no strings attached, of course. I knew absolutely nothing about owning a vineyard. I had a feeling that the place likely had some caretakers that would not appreciate some random gringo chick showing up and telling them how to do their jobs.
At worst, I could just sell the place and head back to New York after a short vacation.
The flight out of JFK landed in Paris first, and after a short layover, there was another hop of a flight over to the Transylvania International Airport, in Târgu Mureș, a name of which I had no chance of pronouncing correctly.
It was interesting, I had to admit. I'd never felt relaxed and rested after a long flight. Maybe there was something to this whole 'traveling in style' thing after all.
There was a rental car already waiting for me at the airport—also a new feeling—and I climbed in, putting myself in the driver seat. The place was almost straight out of a medieval fantasy book, even with the airport behind me. There were rolling hills with forests over them, all merging together with small farms that seemed to smoothly connect with a small baroque looking city that was spreading out from the airport. But I left all that behind me and soon drove on a quiet road surrounded only by beech and oak trees. Giant things that looked as ancient as this landscape.
A quick picture was required. It had the interesting sort of thing that I could feel was going to need a photo if I was going to talk about it. Pictures really were worth a thousand words. In this case, I could probably make it spread out for two thousand words if I was really putting some effort into it. I pulled over quickly and snapped photos of enormous oaks from the car. Then I was off again.
The location of the farm was already put into the car's GPS. From the looks of things, there wasn't too much for me to learn about how to drive in Romania. And it didn't really matter, since the little silver Corolla hatchback was one of the only vehicles on the road, aside from a couple of tractors, and there was even a wagon hitched to a single brown nag. They were all staring at my car like I was somehow an invader, bringing a modern car and shattering the illusion that they wanted to keep up of simpler times. I jostled about in the car, the poor suspension straining on the bumpy roads.
Not quite the sort of place that I imagined my aunt settling in, but then, I knew so little about her. If she did live in a place like this, how the hell would I know?
I turned down a side road from the main road and followed that. No signs or even markings on the road. Just gorgeous lofty trees. I’d read a bit on the plane about the area to know some big predators lived here. Wolves. Bears. Lynx. Not the place for the car to breakdown.
The GPS beeped and told me that I had arrived at my destination, with a small wooden sign with 'Cloris Vineyard' carved into it to confirm just up ahead, and yet it wasn't quite what I expected. The fact that the air was fresh and refreshing was about the only good description that I could come up with, and I had spent a few years as a copywriter to make ends meet. I knew how to put a positive spin on shit. The only problem was that there needed to be some positives to spin.
I inched the car forward to where the trees thinned and before me an open land spread out.
The whole of Cloris Vineyard looked like it hadn't been cared for in this century. Beyond the aged stone fence that ran the length of the property, the vineyards were falling to pieces, with dusty, untilled earth matching the dilapidated stakes that dried vines were still clinging to.
The large white house in the distance was similarly rundown, with what was once white paint peeling from the walls and too many holes in the rafters to count. It was a lost cause, and the place was a cross between a house and a Renaissance mansion. Slanted roof, towers on either side of the building with conical roofs. The lawn out front had patches of dried earth, and the few trees around the property were in bad need of trimming.
"No wonder Aunt Moira didn't consider selling this place," I whispered, climbing out of the car. "Who the hell would buy it?"
"I would say that it has its own appeal," said a heavily accented voice from behind me. "But one must look for the appeal of possibility instead of that which lies before one's eyes."
I whipped around quickly enough to send my red hair flying all over my face, keeping me from fully seeing the man that was standing next to the sign for a few more seconds. I managed to pull myself back from attacking him out of reflex, clearing my throat and nodding. The man was taller than I was by about a head and most of his broad shoulders. His hair was a dark brown, hanging a little longer than might have been considered fashionable, but he certainly wasn't hurting for it, although I wondered if the unintentional bangs got in his eyes. His clothes were simple black pants and button up shirt, and once again not really fashionable, but fit his build well. The top was unbuttoned just enough to make it clear he was chiseled underneath. Looking away from him was definitely a challenge because finding such a handsome man out in the middle of nowhere was the last thing I expected.
A hint of bristle on his chin had me a little distracted by his strong jawline, which brought my eyes straight up to his lips and dark eyes. Like the rest of the landscape, I could put his picture into a goddamn essay.
"I... sure." I cleared my throat and looked around, hoping he didn't realize that I had been staring. There was a lot to appreciate about this man. "Plenty of potential. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be insulting. It's just... well, this place is..."
"She has seen better days, yes, and I believe she can again." That deep European accent was beyond entrancing.
A quick look around only told me just how expensive that would be to fix. "Sure. I mean, hold on. I've heard of people referring to ships as 'she.' Cars, even the occasional firearm too, but I've never heard of a vineyard being referred to as a female."
"Have you spent much time around vineyards?"
"I... have not," I admitted.
"Well then, allow me to show you around this one." He offered me his arm. "Am I correct in assuming that you are the niece of the former owner of Cloris Vineyards?"
"Oh... yes. Nilsa Kane." I offered a hand instead of taking his arm.
He took it, shaking firmly. I could feel my shoulders tensing as an unsettling heat traveling up my arm, hitting my spine and resulting in waves of goosebumps across my body.
And it had nothing to do with the fact that a cloud of a heavy, sweet scent suddenly enveloped me the moment that he approached me.
"Rogelio Dobre," he answered, still holding my hand in his, his eyes tracing down my body and back up, making no effort to hide it. "Your aunt did mention that you were a practitioner."
I swallowed, trying not to stare at his strong jawline and those full lips again. "Not for a while, but I still remember what auras most mages give off. I can't really place yours, though."
"Transmutation is not as pervasive in the Americas after the colonial massacres. Seeing as I specialize in herbology, I can understand why my form would be a little unfamiliar to you."