I'm Dreaming of an Undead Christmas (8 page)

Miranda was so sheepish it was almost sad. “I maybe sort of found an engagement ring in Collin’s closet . . . behind some of his boxes . . . under some blankets. I just stumbled across it.” She covered her flushed cheeks with her hands. “Everybody in the room is staring at me right now, huh?”

“Yes,” we said, all at once.

“So, yeah, Collin and I could be getting married soon . . . Or I totally misinterpreted the ring I found, and Collin has a second family somewhere.” She turned to Jane. “You would see that coming, right?”

“ ‘Second family’ would probably come up, in terms of guilty, nagging thoughts,” Jane assured her.

The second round of butter-sugar mix came to a bubble on the stove, and Tess turned her attention to it. It was a convenient way to escape the most awkward conversation in the world. Andrea turned to the still-tweaky Miranda to say, “It will be fine. Collin will propose with a ring that I’m sure is very pretty.”

“Soooo pretty.” Miranda sighed. “It has little roses carved into the band and everything.”

Iris stretched her arm across the table and very deliberately, very gently squeezed Miranda’s hand. “I’ll help you plan a lovely vampire-friendly wedding that even your parents won’t be able to find fault with.”

Miranda snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“It will be perfect,” Iris promised.

“Someone change the subject before I start having a panic attack,” Miranda said.

“So, how’s Nola?” I asked, turning to Andrea. “Dick has to be a little disappointed not to have his baby girl around for the holidays.”

“Still making this face when he calls her his ‘baby girl.’ ” Andrea screwed her face into a parody of an embarrassing grimace. Nola was the granddaughter of Mr. Wainwright, Jane’s former boss and Dick’s several-times-great-grandson. She’d come to the Hollow a year or so before from her home in Ireland on a supernatural scavenger hunt of magical artifacts for her coven. She’d found much more in unexpected vampire ancestors and a local shapeshifter, Jed, with whom she lived whenever they were stateside. And when they weren’t on this side of the pond, Jed was traveling to Ireland to stay with Nola’s family.

Andrea continued, “Well, we’re learning that we have to share Nola with the other side of the family. The McGavocks were really nice about her spending Christmas with us last year, so it’s only fair that she travels to see them this year.”

“You’ve been reading books on how to be a reasonable, not annoying grandparent, haven’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes, I have. But Nola will be home this summer, so you’ll see her then.”

“You’ll be home this summer, Geeg?” Tess asked, brows raised. “No internship lined up yet?”

I glanced toward Iris. I had not had the chance to properly prepare Iris for my job announcement. And in front of all of her girlfriends was definitely not the way to do it. “Uh . . . not yet.”

Tess deftly poured the toffee mixture from the saucepan over a baking sheet lined with soda crackers, spreading it evenly on every square. “I’d think that the computer companies would be lined up to hire you,” she said.

“Uh . . .” I hesitated, shoving one of the spare uncandied crackers into my mouth to stall. I really needed to learn how to lie.

“It does seem sort of weird that you and your adviser haven’t come up with something,” Iris said. “Your supervisor at NetSecure gave you a glowing reference. Cal actually got weepy when he read it, he was so proud.”

Jane stared at me, eyebrows arched, and she chirped, “Right, well, you can always work at the store this summer if you don’t find anything else. Hey, Iris, what’s next on the candy list?”

This was one of the few advantages of hanging out with a mind-reader: she knew when to change the subject.

“Turtles and then Jolene’s bacon truffles,” Iris said, checking her carefully mapped-out candy timetable. She turned to Jolene. “You are sure that bacon truffles won’t actually kill people, right?”

“They haven’t so far,” Jolene said with a shrug.

As the others began crisping the bacon and melting even
more
chocolate, Jane leaned close and whispered, “I heard that. And it’s not the
only
advantage of spending time with me. I also provide sparkling conversation.”

I snickered. Jane patted my shoulder and moved to the stove to mourn the loss of bacon from her diet.

Meanwhile, Tess was staring at the toffee, waiting for it to set before she poured a layer of melted chocolate over it. “Does this look right, Iris?”

Shrugging, Iris eyed the candy and pinched a tiny bit off the edge of the concoction.

“Iris, no!” Jane cried as Iris stuck the candy in her mouth.

Iris blanched as soon as the caramel hit her lips. “Aw, damn it, I forgot,” Iris said, spitting the toffee into the wastebasket. She stuck her head under the faucet and ruthlessly rinsed the taste of toffee (or whatever rancid, rotten taste she sensed when her vampire tastebuds detected toffee) from her mouth.

I nicked a sliver off the toffee and tasted it. “It’s just right, Tess. Just like Mom used to make.” I turned to Iris. “And let that be a lesson to you about which family traditions should be abandoned. Soda-cracker candy is just weird.”

“Rookie mistake,” Andrea said, shaking her head.

“Shut it, you two,” Iris grumbled, staring glumly while Tess poured a thick sheet of semisweet chocolate over the barely hardened toffee. “I was just trying to give Geeg the sort of Christmas we had when we were kids.”

“I know, I know,” I said, putting my arm around her. I smiled when she didn’t flinch or duck her head away from me to avoid the temptation of my yummy human smell. “And I love you for it. But you need to relax, or you will carry on another one of the family’s traditions: Mom’s holiday meltdown moments.”

Iris laughed. “They were legendary. Remember the time she threw a pecan pie out the front door because Dad pinched a couple of nuts from the top?”

I cackled. “And she hit approaching carolers!”

“From our church! Mom didn’t know they were coming.” Iris giggled, wiping at her eyes before the pinkish tears could form on her lashes. She sighed. “OK, you’re right. I’ll try to dial it down. I think I’m just agitated because I miss chocolate. Of all the things I miss about being human, chocolate ranks at the top of the list.”

“But there have to be some things about being a vampire that make up for it, right?” Jolene looked to me for help in dragging my sister out of her cocoa-less funk.

“Yeah, superstrength,” I offered.

“Fast reflexes,” Jolene said.

“Having a gorgeous complexion forever. No wasting your money on eye creams that will never work,” I suggested. I looked to Jane and Andrea, who seemed amused by our assessment of their “perks.”

“Being able to smell pretty much anything,” Jolene added.

“Oh! You can get stabbed as many times as you want,” I reminded her.

Iris chuckled. “Geeg?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop trying to make me feel better.”

“OK, then.”

Christmas is not the time to make big emotionally significant announcements. That’s more of an Arbor Day thing.

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

I
was having just a little too much fun tooling around town doing errands in the Dorkmobile. I’d missed the Hollow. I’d spent so much time at school and internships that I forgot how much I enjoyed this backwater little town. I missed being recognized at the grocery store and people honking at me at stoplights to wave. Then again, driving around in a yellow minivan with Iris’s Beeline logo on the side was bound to get some attention from strangers, too. Either way, it was nice to feel like I had a place there.

It was after sunset, and I was still about an hour’s drive from home, which was going to set Cal on edge. But I still had to stop at the blood shop in Murphy, where they carried Iris’s favorite flavor of Sangre. It was not nearly as creepy as it sounded. Eli Kemper had run a plain old liquor store before the Great Coming Out. But he’d found that there was an untapped market for vampire customers who didn’t want the trouble involved in having to rustle up human food sources. Also, he was tired of dealing with college students and their laughably fake IDs. So he opened the Blood Barn, where he carried the tristate area’s largest selection of packaged donor and synthetic bloods.

Mr. Kemper was supposed to be holding the bottle of Sangre Select Chocolatier for me behind the counter. Yes, I knew it was sad to try to bribe my sister out of being angry with me before I even told her about my employment news. But I had to give myself whatever advantage I could.

I’d spent too much time at the mall doing my Christmas errands, so it was dark when I pulled into the Blood Barn’s parking lot. Iris had already left a few messages asking where I was, but I figured it would be better to ignore them. If we were going to survive living together that summer, Iris was going to have to adjust to the idea of my being an adult. That meant not checking up on me like I was still twelve years old.

Located in a strip mall just off Murphy’s Main Street, the Blood Barn looked like any store in any strip mall anywhere in America—plain brick, ugly neon-red signage, questionable ads in the windows, rows upon rows of liquor bottles that according to a lot of Internet videos could collapse at any second. This one just happened to stock a crap-ton of blood. Shivering into my peacoat, I went into the shop where a half-dozen living and undead customers wandered around, perusing the stock. Gray, grizzled, and slightly stooped from a lifetime of lifting heavy cases of bottles, Mr. Kemper was busy with a couple at the donor counter, picking out something special for their Christmas dinner.

After all these years, vampire marketing was still a hit-or-miss proposition. With a target audience from so many countries, cultures, and time periods, companies that made vampire products tried out every conceivable packaging theme to attract the eyes of their undead customers. Slick, plastic, and pop trendy battled with cut glass and Old English fonts. Prepackaged blood came in fruity, alco-pop-type flavors or in species-inspired meat varieties. (Ostrich O Positive, anyone?) By far the most disturbing selection was a Dickensian label on a paper milk carton, touting Blood Nog as the drink to serve your vampire loved ones this holiday season.

Yarp.

With Mr. Kemper distracted by dithering holiday shoppers, I wandered over to the shelves at the back and wondered if one bottle of specialty blood would be enough to soothe Iris’s temper. Maybe I should get her a “buttering up” bottle for before I told her and another “peace offering” bottle for after.

I caught sight of my reflection in one of the fridge doors. I frowned at my red cheeks and windblown hair, fluffing my hair out of its current frizz and tucking it under the cute lilac-colored knit hat Nola had left behind as my Christmas gift. I even pulled out a tinted raspberry lip balm and gave my mouth a quick swipe. “Yeah, that will fix the sister-fooling guilt,” I muttered, turning away from the sneaky girl in the glass.

I rounded the corner toward the “Sweets” section and tried to find some non-nog holiday-inspired bottle. I shuddered at the first label I spotted. Toasted-marshmallow-flavored vodka was gross. In a bottle of blood, it was just upsetting.

My eyes darted to the right at a slight movement in the corner of my eye. A man was standing behind me, watching me.

Or maybe not.

I’d only caught the impression of a tall blond man with broad shoulders and long legs, plus eyes so light brown they almost glowed gold against the fluorescent shop lights. That gold was the last image that remained, lingering like smoke after his face faded from my sight. Like a camera flash, there one minute, leaving only an imprint behind. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure he’d been there in the first place. Was it the tree farm all over again? Or was I imagining things?

“I’m going insane,” I whispered, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. “First, I spray Ben at the Christmas tree farm and now phantom men in blood shops? . . . And now I’m talking to myself, which closes out the triple threat.”

“Miss Scanlon?” Mr. Kemper had finally found enough of a break between customers to call me over to the counter.

“The man in here before, a big, tall blond guy, goldish eyes. Do you know him?” I asked. It was a fifty-fifty shot in a small Kentucky town where everybody knew everybody else.

“I don’t think I saw a man who looked like that, Miss Scanlon,” he said. “Is that something you’d like me to put on special order?”

Retail humor, you slay me. “Thanks, but no.”

I finished my transaction without any further hallucinations and walked out to my car.

I spent the hourlong drive home contemplating this fun new element of my neurosis. Was my imaginary friend connected to the strange white face I’d seen at the tree farm? Could he be a ghost? Jane had made it clear that ghosts were real. Vampires saw them all the time. Her former boss and her late aunt had haunted her bookshop and her house for years after they died. Maybe my exposure to Cal and now Iris meant that I could see them, too? Was it weird that I was glad I’d fluffed my hair and applied lip gloss before he spotted me?

Or maybe I was just imagining seeing a handsome pale face because I was so unhappy in my relationship that I had to make up a supernatural stalker to cope. Because I was a big drama queen.

The twinkle-light
extravaganza on our front porch, which was clearly visible from the highway—and possibly from space—guided me home. I climbed out of the car and dragged my shopping bags from the passenger seat. Judging by Iris’s voicemail messages, she was going to be more than a little grumpy with me when I walked in. She wanted to give me my space, she said. She understood that I was an adult with my own priorities and schedule and friends, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t fricking rude not to return phone calls and let my sister know that I wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.

Given my efforts to sweeten her temper, ignoring her calls was probably a tactical error.

Sighing deeply, I shuffled under the weight of the bags, dragging myself and my purchases toward the wreath-bedecked front door. Just as I passed the shrubs flanking the driveway, I heard a loud “
Psst!
”

I stopped in my tracks. Because, clearly, I had learned nothing from the tree farm encounter.

And then I heard it again: “
Psst!
”

A pale face popped up between the shrubs, like Satan’s jack-in-the-box. I almost let out a yelp, but the pale shape moved forward in a flash, clapping his hand over my mouth before I could make a sound. I raised my fist and swung hard, hoping to hit somewhere in vicinity of the face, but instead, the body easily sidestepped me.

A soft, accented voice whispered, “Please, don’t scream, Gigi.”

Fortunately, it was a voice I recognized.

“Collin?” I whispered when he removed his hand from my lips. I swung again, hitting Collin’s shoulder. “What the hell?”

The Brit took my feeble assault with grace, not even changing his somewhat chagrined expression as I smacked him around. “Let’s take the conversation out of Cal’s range of hearing, shall we?”

Without even letting me put down my bags, Collin picked me up and shifted me onto his back piggy-back style. He dashed across our yard, into the trees, while I buried my face in the shoulder of his suit jacket to keep from screaming or throwing up. (He was
really
fast.)

He gently set me on my feet, steadying me when my all-too-human equilibrium left me all wobbly. “What is wrong with you?” I exclaimed, dropping my bags long enough to smack his shoulders. “Does Cal know that you’re lurking outside our house in the bushes? Because that’s a violation of a few friendship boundaries.”

“No, Cal doesn’t know I’m lurking outside your house in the bushes,” Collin said, sounding very, very tired. “Which is why I just carried you across the lawn to a location out of his hearing.”

“OK, new question.
Why
are you lurking outside our house in the bushes?”

“Because I need to talk to you, and every time I have an excuse to come to your house, we’re surrounded by beings with superhearing.”

“Collin, if this is some sort of confession of hidden feelings, I think I should tell you that I have a brand-new canister of vampire pepper spray in my purse, and also, you’re a dick, because Miranda loves you.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “You? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“OK, first of all, ouch,” I said, pointing a finger in his face. “And second . . . there is no second. Just ouch.”

“You may punch me in the shoulder later if you just listen to me now,” he said. “I need to speak to you about what I saw the other night—when you asked me to predict whether you would be attacked by ‘any of the vampires in the room’ in the near future.”

“Yes, and Iris didn’t attack me, which you predicted correctly. Go, you.”

“I said none of the vampires ‘in the room’ would attack you in the near future,” he said.

“So which part are you being all cryptically emphatic about?” I asked. “The ‘in the room’ part or the ‘near future’ part?”

“Both.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, just like Cal, in the hope that it would alleviate the building pressure in my head. Nope, the pinching did nothing. “You are the least helpful psychic ever.”