I'm Dreaming of an Undead Christmas (10 page)

So for now, Iris was going to be quiet but vigilant. Also, she was going to stop glaring at Cal and me, because getting the stink-eye was no way to spend the holidays.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make sure Iris’s Christmas gift was spectacular, more spectacular than the collection of night-blooming seeds I’d ordered over the Internet. This was why I was perusing the shelves at Jane’s shop, Specialty Books, searching for the perfect “I’m sorry I agreed to work for a shadowy vampire organization without talking to you first” present.

Jane’s shop was whimsical and cozy, with its midnight-blue walls and comfy purple chairs, banking the rows upon rows of neatly organized bookshelves. Andrea had draped fairy lights in loopy bunting shapes behind the shiny maple coffee bar in recognition of the season, along with a display of “Gargoyle on the Shelf” books for younger supernatural creatures. I’d spent the better part of an hour looking through rare first editions and advanced nocturnal gardening books. But nothing struck me as special enough to qualify.

“How about a pewter fairy figurine?” Andrea suggested, nudging an “autumn” fairy across the maple and lead-glass bar that served as the checkout counter.

“Stop trying to unload the fairy figurines on innocent people,” Jane told her. “Nobody buys those things. We’ve had the same set since we opened.”

I snickered but tried to keep a straight face as I told Andrea, “I’ll pass.”

Andrea held the little figurine to her eye level and pointed her finger at it. “I will get rid of you one day. I’m tired of dusting you.”

“I hate to point out the obvious, but this could have been avoided if you’d just told Iris you were going on a job interview,” Jane said.

“Yes, that was the obvious, thank you,” I retorted.

“I’m just saying, if Jamie had agreed to a lifetime commitment to Ophelia without telling me, I would be really upset, too.”

“You know that eventually, the two of them are going to be mated and married, right?” I asked her. “Or at least, they’re going to want to move in together.”

“That’s one of those things Jane doesn’t like to think about,” Andrea said, ticking the items off on her long, coral-tipped fingers. “Health-care reform, the Kardashians, Jamie’s inevitable marriage to her nemesis.”

“Sorry,” I told Jane, who shrugged.

“I’m just delaying the inevitable, I’m aware. Denial is a pseudo-mother’s strongest coping skill,” she said, clapping her hands. “OK, this isn’t solving your problem. Now, you’re sure you don’t see anything in the shop that will do?”

“No, I’m sorry, nothing jumps out at me.”

Jane held up one finger and disappeared into the stockroom at the back of the shop. She came out holding an enormous cardboard carton marked “For Iris” in one hand. She handed me the box, and I nearly sank to the floor under its weight. Stupid vampire superstrength.

The box was filled to the brim with romance paperbacks, each one marked with a Post-it noting the year of publication. I sifted through the box and found that there was one book for each year since Iris’s birth. Almost every genre was covered—pirates, Vikings, westerns, contemporary, thrillers, cozy mysteries, urban fantasy, and Regencies. My mouth fell open. Iris would love it. She’d been a closet romance-novel fan since her early teens. She hid her titles in dust jackets for self-help books, because she was afraid I would make fun of the covers. (Rightly so.) But the books had always been a source of comfort and amusement for her.

“I picked these up from the secondhand paperback store across town. I was saving this as a special ‘congratulations on making it through your first year as a vampire without nonconsensual biting’ present, but clearly, you’re in dire need,” Jane said.

“You didn’t get me a first-year no-bite anniversary present.” Andrea pouted prettily.

Jane shrugged. “You weren’t terrified of injuring innocent humans.”

“I’ll take it,” I told her. “As long as the price is in the fifty-to-one-hundred-dollar range and not, say, my very soul.”

“I will give you the desperate-sister discount and sell it to you at cost, thirty-two dollars.”

“Well, that’s good, because I’m pretty sure I signed my soul over to Ophelia in my employment contract.”

“And you want the gift card, too?” Andrea asked.

“Better make it a big one,” I said, shelling the bills out of my wallet onto the counter.

Because I’d dragged Cal into my mess, I owed him something a little special, too. Jane had a rare edition of
The Iliad
in the original Greek that she’d set aside for me. The final cost of buying back my family’s affection was going to be about three hundred dollars, the sum total of my summer-salary savings account.

It was worth it. I chatted with Andrea while Jane gift-wrapped the books. Andrea made me one of her famous coffee concoctions involving chocolate and caramel. I sipped it gratefully and fortified myself for the drive home. A few moments later, Jane handed me a purple gift box with an extravagant silver bow.

“Wow, that is surprisingly crafty,” I told Jane. She smiled, all pleased and bashful.

“It turns out Jane is a bit of a gift-wrapping savant now that she has vampire reflexes.”

“My mother could not be prouder,” Jane said. “She thinks maybe I can get a real job wrapping at a department store.”

I giggled. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s funny,” Jane conceded. “She just worries about me having job security and health benefits, that’s all.”

Jane’s imitation of her mother’s voice was so accurate it gave me shivers. “She does realize you don’t get sick, right? And that you own your own successful business?”

“I’ve told her so, many times,” Jane said, nodding. “And she wonders why I don’t brave daylight to attend the family Christmas lunch.”

“It’s a mystery,” I said, taking Cal’s wrapped book from her hands. “And on that note, I bid you good night. I’m supposed to meet Ben at the house for a
Home Alone
movie marathon with Cal and Iris.”

“And you sound super thrilled about it,” Andrea noted. “Is it because the
Home Alone
sequels got weird after the second one?”

“Yes,” I told her, even when Jane gave me one of her patented “I can see inside your head, you big liar who lies” looks.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Andrea exclaimed, dashing toward the fridge behind the coffee bar. “Iris asked me to mix this up for her. It’s a super-concentrated espresso and blood potion to help her stay up to watch
Mary’s Wish List
.”

I winced as Andrea pressed the thermos into my hands. Even though Iris was mad at me, she’d still taken measures to make sure we could continue our Christmas movie tradition. “Thank you for driving that sisterly-guilt stake just a little bit deeper.”

Jane helped me carry the heavy box of books out the front door. “We do what we can.”

With my gift packages secured in the trunk, Jane gave me a quick hug and dashed back into the store. “Good night, you two,” I called. They waved at me through the window, and I turned back to my car. I’d almost opened the driver’s-side door when I noticed a flash of something sparkly on the other side of the street. I changed directions immediately to investigate.

Shiny objects. I was a simple girl.

A new jewelry shop had opened across the street and three doors down from Specialty Books as part of the revitalization efforts on Paxton. It had only taken Jane a few years of steady business and knocking down the porn store next door to convince local merchants that the area was worth investment. This sparkly shop in question was called Beautiful Things, a name that was sort of lovely in its simplicity.

The proprietor knew how to stock a display window, creating multiple levels of snowy “hills” from fluffy cotton and tucking jewelry into little hollows so it looked like flowers blooming in the snow. I hovered close by the window, admiring a pair of well-lit moonstone earrings shaped to look like apple blossoms with silver petals. They were the closest to the glass, and I couldn’t help but lay my hand over the window as if I could reach through and touch them. I smiled at them through the glass but ultimately decided to back away and not wreck my credit rating by giving in to earring temptation.

I turned away, digging through my purse for my phone. Ben was probably at the house by now, waiting to start the Macaulay-thon. I glanced up and saw a tall, lean shape against the backdrop of the building next to Jane’s. I could make out the shock of blond hair in the bluish light of the security lamp. And his eyes glowed gold.

My imaginary vampire friend appeared to be of a more solid variety.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I stepped toward my car and nearly walked into a lamppost. His eyes followed my bumbling progress across the street. It didn’t feel . . . bad or wrong. And that was probably an indicator that there was something seriously wrong with the way my brain worked.

I fumbled in my bag for good old Mr. Sparky, but before I could pull my hand out, he was standing right in front of me. I yelped, stumbling back. Stupid vampire speed. I was going to end up ass-over-teakettle on the pavement because I had a poor startle reflex in front of attractive supernatural creatures.

Cool, strong hands closed around my elbows and pulled me back upright. From far away, fade-y, imaginary vampire-ghost guy was sort of attractive. Imagine a portrait of an incredibly handsome nobleman come to life, then rip off the tacky white wig. Up close, imaginary vampire-ghost guy was cortex-meltingly hot. High cheekbones, long straight nose, chiseled jawline, and a mouth I wanted to taste more than I wanted my next breath. He was wearing a long black trench coat over jeans and a white button-down with the collar open just enough that licking the man’s Adam’s apple seemed like a reasonable thing to do.

The gold—how was that even possible?—eyes bored into mine. My breath stuttered. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t make a sound.
Come on, poise and logical thinking,
I prayed,
give me something to work with.

“Guuhhh.”

You are dead to me, poise. And tell logical thinking it can screw itself.

Those full lips quirked into a smug little smile, and he ran the tip of his nose in a long line down the curve of my jaw, breathing in the scent of my throat. His lip curled back into something resembling a smile before he brushed his mouth across mine. He slid his hand under my hair and pulled me close, swallowing my alarmed little exhalation.

I pulled back, staring up at him with what I am sure were wide anime eyes. He was smiling down at me, running his thumb along my cheek, making me shiver. He kissed me again, sinking his blunt teeth into my bottom lip. I moaned, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue past my lips, teasing it ever so gently across my teeth.

I turned back toward the bookshop, hoping that Jane wasn’t watching me make out with a strange vampire on the street. I stammered, “Wh-who are you?”

But as I turned back, he vanished.

The hell?

Mishaps will occur during holidays with the undead, just like holidays with the living. The trick is not to overreact, because sudden movement around vampires is not a good idea.

—Not So Silent Night: Creating Happy and Stress-Free Holidays with Newly Undead Family Members

I
was having what could only be described as a Christmas movie hangover. Starting a
Home Alone
marathon that late at night was just inadvisable.

It had started off well. Cal liked all movies, because motion pictures were still pretty much a novelty for him. And Iris was nose-deep in her Sangre Select, so nothing would bother her until February. Ben was super enthusiastic about watching the first one, snuggling up next to me on the couch and keeping me supplied with Junior Mints. But as the night wore on (and on—why the hell did we choose
Home Alone
for a theme?), Ben noticed that I was putting space between us. I was squirming in my own big vat of guilt juices, replaying my kiss with my maybe-a-hallucination-but-definitely-not-a-ghost vampire friend in my head. One minute, I was practically giddy, pressing my fingertips against my lips, which I swore still felt swollen and tingly from his kiss. And the next, I felt like my stomach was being turned inside out by dread and self-loathing.

Ben kept looking at me, as if he could tell I had done something wrong. And I kept rubbing the sleeve of my sweater across my mouth, because that would keep him from figuring out that I had kissed a total stranger on the street. Sometime between
Home Alone
3
and
4
, Ben announced that he was heading home, and when he went in for a good-night kiss, I countered with a hug.

It was a nice hug but probably not what he was looking for to end the evening.

And because my guilt was an extremely effective natural sleep deterrent, I stayed up through
Home Alone 4
, which meant that I was wide awake when
Mary’s Wish List
started. And I got to see Iris line up shot glasses and take hits off the reddish-black sludge in Andrea’s thermos. It was funny caffeine-based twitching, really.

By the time the credits for
Mary’s Wish List
rolled, I was facedown in our couch cushions, praying for Iris’s leg twitches to stop resulting in kicks to my head. I’m not sure when I passed out, but I woke up on Christmas Eve afternoon to find a to-do list the length of my arm. It was stuck to my arm with a Junior Mint as adhesive, a misuse of perfectly good candy.

My neck was sore from sleeping facedown between cushions. My mouth was dry and tasted like peppermint gone bad. I wasn’t even sure how peppermint went bad, but it tasted like evil toothpaste. And I couldn’t see through my own hair, which was wrapped around my face.

Iris had already set the table up to Martha Stewart standards with Mom’s china, a beautiful red tablecloth, and centerpieces made from cylindrical glass vases, fresh cranberries, and candles. According to Iris’s carefully drawn timetable, I would need to start cooking now if we were going to have enough food to feed bottomless-werewolf-pit Jolene, her husband, Zeb, and their two ravenous toddlers, plus Tess, Miranda, and me. Granted, Tess was doing most of the heavy lifting with roasting the turkey and baking the more complicated carbs. But I was going to have to do several sides, including dressing that Iris insisted had to be made from bread crumbs we’d crumbled ourselves and dried on top of the fridge for three days—even though she wasn’t going to be eating it—because she was going to drive me insane with tradition.

But I was going to shower first, because nothing about me screamed food-safe and sanitary. The only thing I had going for me was that Cal had left a lamp on so I wouldn’t have to stumble around in the dark. And Ben wasn’t going to be able to make it, because his family did their annual Christmas gathering that night.

I stuck the to-do list to the coffee table and crawled up the stairs. It took several rounds of eucalyptus and mint shampoo before I felt awake enough to operate the security system and open the damn first-floor window shades. Unfortunately, this meant I was also awake enough to remember the kissing incident from the previous night and all of the guilt and anxiety that stirred up.

I leaned my head against the shower wall and let the hot water beat down over my shoulders. When I closed my eyes, all I could see were those gold eyes and the little smirk as he bent his head to kiss me. I rubbed my fingertips over my lips. I couldn’t get the sensation of his lips sliding against mine out of my head. His lips, his tongue, the faint taste of iron. I’d felt more in that one ill-advised kiss than I had in years of kissing Ben. What did that say about me? Was it just the lure of doing something wrong and naughty? Or did I have some sort of magical chemistry with the vampire kissing bandit?

Honestly, who vampire-speed-walks up to a total stranger on a public sidewalk, gives her the most earth-shattering, life-altering kiss of her life, and then just—
poof
—disappears? That is not good manners. And I would tell him so the next time I saw him. Maybe we could do the whole thing over but with proper etiquette.

“No. No. This is insane,” I told myself, feeling very resolute as I scrubbed conditioner through my hair. “You have to stop kissing strange vampires. It’s not safe. It’s not smart. And it’s a little skanky. If you see this guy again, you will tell him that polite people introduce themselves to their stalking targets. And that there will be no kissing . . . anymore . . . until he introduces himself. Right, good plan.”

This would have been a great, mature, decisive moment if I wasn’t massaging body scrub through my hair right now.

Two hours later,
I had carefully prepared several side dishes—including green beans cooked with bacon and brown sugar until they no longer resembled a vegetable.

And I did not understand the purpose of sweet potatoes. In their natural state, they were the gross, earthy-sour cousin of real potatoes. And doctoring them up with red-hot candies and marshmallows just to make them more palatable was unnatural and wrong. But I had gamely uncanned pounds of the little devils, mixed in brown sugar, butter, and cinnamon, then added a carefully spaced topping of sugary treats. The smell alone was enough to make me want to yack. I slid the pan into the oven and prayed the house wouldn’t smell like freshly baked feet.

I was peeling carrots when I heard a car door slam outside. I practically sank against the counter with relief. Miranda, Tess, and Jolene had arrived early to help me finish up dinner and get the vampire blood buffet ready.

“Knock-knock,” Jolene called quietly as she nudged the door open. “How’s it going?”

“My house smells like baked cat food,” I whined.

Miranda stuck her head through the door and grimaced. “Sweet potatoes, huh?”

“Yep.”

The ladies carried in a foil-wrapped casserole dish that smelled strongly of ham, plus a Crock-Pot and several small butcher-paper-wrapped bundles marked with the Southern Comforts logo. When Jolene put the bundles on the counter, I opened one and found smoked pork shoulder.

“I thought we were just doing the turkey,” I said.

“For y’all, sure,” Jolene said, giving me a hug. “But the extra ham, the pork shoulder, the roast beef, and the chicken wings are for me and the twins. They get grumpy if they don’t get a full dinner before bedtime.”

A twenty-pound turkey was not a full dinner. I would never get used to the werewolf metabolism.

Tess grinned broadly at the expression on my face. “The bird is perfectly done, if I do say so myself. We just have to let it rest a bit and carve as the others show up.”

I peeked under the foil and found that the turkey appeared to be wearing a sweater made of bacon. “What the?”

“Just trust me,” Tess promised, adjusting the carefully woven layer of bacon over the turkey breast and clamping the foil back into place. “There is nothing better than a turkey that has basted itself in bacon fat. And it will make the gravy insanely good.”

“I will trust the bacon sweater,” I swore, as Miranda sang “Ahhhh!” as if an angelic choir was praising the bacon sweater.

I couldn’t help but feel that I’d been rescued. The girls were a welcome, meat-bearing cavalry.

With the human guests due to arrive in an hour and the vampires due to wake any moment, we started on the last-minute dinner tasks: setting out the serving dishes, making gravy, whipping cream for the pies, and carving the turkey. I intentionally avoided the kitchen and took to prettying up the dining room with floral arrangements and carefully folded napkins.

And I might have forgotten about the casserole full of baking evil in my oven.

“Honey, I think something’s burning,” Jolene said with a sniff.

I was leaning over the dining table, lighting the little votive candles in Iris’s centerpieces without setting the cranberries on fire. “Oh, I spilled some squash casserole on the bottom of the oven earlier. I’m sure that’s just smoking a little.”

“It couldn’t hurt to check,” Tess told me, scooping an enormous amount of whipped cream out of our mixer bowl.

“We don’t take risks with fire around here,” Miranda muttered.

“Not with you around,” I retorted, and gamely opened the oven. “Ack!” I shrieked as oily black smoke poured out of the oven. The flames licked upward toward the ceiling of the oven, leaving a nice ashy residue on the heating coil. Somewhere in the house, the smoke alarm went off.

That was super helpful, timing-wise.

Tess scrambled to our pantry, searching for baking soda, while Jolene stood behind me blowing on the flames. It took us a full box of soda and a few werewolf breaths, but we took out the world’s stinkiest birthday candle.

She huffed and puffed and blew the fire down.

I grabbed a damp dishtowel from the counter and wrapped it around the blackened dish before yanking it out of the oven. Even before Tess yelled, “Gigi, no!” I knew I’d made a mistake. Moisture from the towel became steam, allowing the heat from the dish through to my skin, burning the absolute hell out of my fingers. I yelped and bobbled the dish, dropping it onto the tiled floor.

As the dish shattered, I hopped out of the way, moving my feet out of sweet-potato range. The flaming marshmallows seemed to have formed some sort of lava-like force field around the orange goo, rapidly cooling into a rubbery chunk the consistency of asphalt.