Christmas With a Vampire

by Merline Lovelace

  With stiff legs she staggered to a chair and braced her hands on its back. “Who are you?” she asked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE BLONDE ANGEL caught Drystan off guard. It wasn’t her elfin beauty; he’d seen that on TV. It wasn’t the shock, verging on horror, that pulled at her features as she stared at him, asked who he was.

  It was the hunger that roared through him as soon as he’d turned—the burning need to be near her, touch her…feed off her. He bit down on his lower lip, let his fangs puncture his flesh, his own blood filling his mouth.

  She couldn’t see what he was doing. His actions, his fangs, everything that would identify him as one of the undead was hidden by his beguilement. She, like the guard down stairs and the nurse who’d barely cocked an eyebrow when he had asked for Aimee, could only see what Drystan wanted them to see—a human male, no more intimidating than a three-year-old child.

  The bitter taste of his blood brought him back under control, reminded him why he was here.

  “Drystan Hurst. I work for City Brides. We hoped you’d agree to be our featured bride next month.”

  “Drystan?” She frowned. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  He cursed under his breath. It hadn’t occurred to him to give her a false name, but he hadn’t thought his ex-family would have mentioned him, either. It had been ten years since his “death.” Ten years the Myhres had spent eliminating his memory. Even his head stone had been removed—and it hadn’t borne his true name. He hadn’t learned it himself until after his death. He’d been Drystan Doe until twelve when the Myhres took him in. Then he’d taken their name with pride—ignorant weak child that he’d been. Just like the fragile woman standing in front of him.

  He laughed. “It’s not an uncommon first name—at least not around here. A lot of people in this area have roots in Norway.” He tilted his head. “But you know that. You’re engaged to a Myhre.”

  “Yes, I am.” Her fingers clamped onto the red, padded back of the chair in front of her.

  “So, will you talk to me?” He ran his tongue over the tip of his fangs and took a step toward her.

  She re treated, not physically, but emotionally…or…he couldn’t put a name to what she had done. She had been there one moment, energy just out of his reach, like he could hold out a hand and stroke the welcoming warmth that surrounded her. Then the bubble had contracted, pulled close around her, robbing him of…something.

  “It doesn’t have to be here, if you’re busy.” He said the words, but his mind sent a different message, his beguilement working overtime to convince her she had nothing else to do, could waste whatever time he needed.

  “That…that would be good.” Her eyes were wide, gray, almost silver from where he stood. She gestured toward the hall from where she had entered. “I have rounds, people who expect me.”

  Already moving forward to take her hand and lead her to the small couch a few feet away, Drystan stumbled to a stop. “Of course you do.” His brows lowered.

  “Maybe tomorrow, in the afternoon? At your office?” Her hands, which had looked tense earlier, relaxed atop the cushion, and she tilted her head to the side, exposing a length of smooth, pale skin.

  A throb of desire knocked into Drystan. He curled his thumbs over his fingers until he could feel the strain in his knuckles. “Tomorrow,” he repeated verbally, but his thoughts were saying now.

  She nodded her head, as if relieved. “If you have a card, you can leave it at the nurse’s desk. I can call you when I wake up—after shift I usually go home and sleep a bit, but I’ll be up by two. Will that work?”

  Of course it wouldn’t work. She was supposed to meet with him now, listen to everything he had planned to put into her head, then scamper back to the Myhres and wait until the time was right for her to humiliate them in the most public manner possible. “Six would be better,” he replied. The sun would set by five, giving him time to be fully prepared for his next meeting with this puzzle of a woman.

  “Six,” she repeated, pursing her lips. “Fine, at your office?”

  He thought quickly. “It will be closed. How about…” He named a restaurant that was private and comfort able with serving mixed company—alive and undead. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “In case you need to get hold of me.” He held the card between two fingers, willing her to take it, and to believe the words she would see printed there.

  She held up one hand. “I’m sure it will be fine. I really have to go now. Until tomorrow.” With an unsure smile she hurried from the room.

  Drystan waited until he heard the wheels of her cart squeak down the hall and through a set of swinging doors before dropping his cloak of beguilement.

  The question she’d asked when she’d first appeared echoed in his head. Who was he? He wasn’t sure he knew the answer right now, but more important, who was she? What was she and would he be able to bend her to his will? Would he be able to get her to do as he wanted, and if he couldn’t, what would he do next? How far would he go?

  AIMEE WALKED AWAY from the waiting area as quickly as her feet could carry her without breaking into an all-out sprint. Once through the swinging doors that led to the H hall where Mr. Belding was staying, she slumped against the wall and let her pounding heart and spinning thoughts slow.

  What was Drystan Hurst? He wasn’t human, that much was sure. No human could hold the darkness Drystan did and function.

  Another daimon sent to check on her? Daimons served as intermediaries between heaven and earth, but not all had the same purpose as Aimee. Some served a totally different role—to tempt, not help, humanity.

  Could that be what Drystan was? Was he here to tempt her? To punish her for turning her back on her calling?

  The doors swung open beside her. Aimee grabbed her cart and jerked it out of the way. It banged into the wall, knocking a line of books onto the floor.

  The night nurse, who had directed her to the waiting area and Drystan, bent to help retrieve the books; between her fingers was a white business card.

  “That guy left this for you.” She held out the card.

  Aimee stared at it, her hands glued to the books she’d just rescued from the linoleum. “What is it?” she asked.

  The nurse frowned. “A business card.” She glanced at Aimee from the corners of her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  Aimee laughed and began shoving the books back on her cart. “I meant what’s it say?”

  Her brows still lowered, the nurse flipped the card around so she could read it. “Drystan Hurst, Features Editor, City Brides, then there’s a phone number and address.” She held out the card again.

  Aimee pre tended not to notice. “Have you heard of them?”

  “City Brides?” The nurse pulled back, something flickered in her eyes, then slowly as if not sure of her words, replied, “Of course. When my cousin was getting married she bought every copy.”

  “Is it monthly?” Aimee asked. She was sure she had never heard of the magazine.

  “I think…yes.” The nurse nodded. “It’s monthly.” She seemed relieved with her answer, like she’d been under great pressure to get it right. She dropped the card in Aimee’s lap and stood. “Word of advice, though.”

  Aimee pulled her gaze away from the white card-stock to look at the nurse.

  “Don’t let your fiancé catch you with him.” She nodded to the card. “Even if it is innocent. There was something about him…” She shivered. “He has bad boy written all over him. I may have trouble sleeping.” She pushed against the swinging door with her hip and shot Aimee a wink. “In a very, very good way.”

  Alone, Aimee twisted her lips to the side and considered the card. It had passed through the nurse’s hands before getting to Aimee. That had to have diluted any energy Drystan had left on it. She care fully placed her fingers on the top and bottom edges, so her skin made as little contact with the card as possible. A tiny shadow of energy pulsed against her finger pads, so tiny she wouldn’t h
ave given it a passing thought if she hadn’t met Drystan, witnessed the strange pull he had in person.

  She blew a puff of air from between her lips, shook her head at her wayward thoughts.

  What had she been expecting? Even if Drystan was a daimon, sabotaging a business card was hardly daimon style.

  Feeling more secure, she gripped the card firmly, letting the pads of her thumb and fore finger both press against the card stock, then she closed her eyes and concentrated on amplifying the energy she’d been hiding from seconds earlier.

  Darkness hit her first. So dark, so lacking in hope she wanted to step inside the pit, soak all the sorrow she felt emanating from that card inside her…make it disappear.

  But, she reminded herself, she had made the choice. She would no longer let herself be a daimon.

  She had to keep her resolve, couldn’t let the pull of this energy so opposite of her own lure her. Still, even with the thought pounding in her head, the need to neutralize what she felt coming from the card, to convert it to light, was almost over whelming.

  But she couldn’t. Her daimon skills had failed her and her charge before. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Let the powers in heaven assign someone else, someone who wouldn’t fail.

  But—she stared down at the black print—there was so much need there, even in this tiny two-by-three-inch card. If such a small sample was so full of darkness, how much did the man himself contain?

  CHAPTER THREE

  DRYSTAN HID IN the shadows, willed his beguilement to hide him completely. He’d delivered his card to the nurse, then pre tended to leave, but instead he’d gone searching for Aimee. Her resistance to him was unprecedented. She didn’t know him, had no reason not to believe whatever he suggested.

  To his knowledge, that was the only way a human could resist beguilement—if they already knew him, already had expectations of him. Even then it might not work, but to be honest, he’d never risked it, never approached anyone from his past. When he first rose, he hadn’t wanted to see the distaste in their eyes, had been afraid he’d weaken, turn back into the little boy deserted by his mother, run.

  He was over the fear now, had no need to hide, but he still hadn’t approached the Myhres. He didn’t want them on guard; he wanted to surprise them, shock them, when he delivered his revenge.

  The squeak of wheels sent him sinking deeper into the shadows of an unoccupied nurses’ station. Aimee swept by, her brows lowered in thought. She stopped outside a door a few feet away, smoothed her scrubs and took a deep breath. With a smile that would melt the polar ice caps, she backed into the door, pulling her cart behind her until it set half in the hall and half in the room.

  Wrapping himself in illusion, Drystan followed her steps, stopping so he was hidden behind the door. If anyone looked his way they would see nothing more disturbing than a janitor taking an unauthorized break. If Aimee looked his way…Drystan had no idea what she might see.

  Luckily, the soon-to-be Myhre seemed completely caught up in conversation with the room’s occupant.

  “I found you a new mystery, Mr. Belding. You want me to read some to you?” Drystan could hear the smile in Aimee’s voice. It made him ache inside, in his core.

  An older man’s voice rasped a response. Aimee made some kind of soothing sound deep in her throat. Drystan felt himself moving, being pulled closer by nothing more than the promise of relief he heard in Aimee’s tone. She murmured again. Drystan stopped by the open door, his fingers curling around the wood. He closed his eyes, soaked in the energy emanating from her. Her voice…it was like a gentle hand wiping away a tear or a kiss on a child’s hurt knee.

  The man spoke again. This time Drystan could make out the words.

  “They’re putting me away, you know. No reason to lie. I’m old and I’m dying. Doesn’t make me stupid.”

  Drystan peered around the door’s edge. An old man lay on a hospital bed. He was pale and shriveled, dry, like a leaf minutes before it crumbled to dust. And he was right; he was dying. The scent clung to him, but it wasn’t thick yet. The man had months, maybe years with today’s science, before he succumbed. But the smell was there, the moldering scent of death.

  “You know I wouldn’t lie to you.” Aimee rested a pa per back book she’d been holding on the edge of the bed.

  “So, when are they shipping me off? How bad are we talking?” The man jerked on the plastic tube that protruded from his nose.

  Aimee pulled his hand away and adjusted the tube herself. “Better?” she asked.

  He grunted. Aimee’s hand drifted from the old man’s face to his hand. Slowly she slipped her fingers inside the curve of his. Drystan could see the old man relax, see anxiety leaving his body, disappearing like mist.

  The man took a deep breath through the tube, then stared at Aimee so intently that Drystan almost came around the door to protect her. “You have to save her,” he said. “They’ll kill her. Soon as they decide for sure I’m not coming back, that I won’t know what they did to her, they’ll kill her. And that will kill me.” A tear appeared in the corner of the man’s eye and he fell back against the pillow, like the life had been jerked out of him.

  “You don’t know that.” Aimee’s words were soft, and filled with worry.

  “I do, and so do you.” The man stared at the white tile ceiling above his bed. “I know it seems strange, but that dog is all I have. She was a stray, you know. Meant to give her to the pound, but when I took her down there, I made the mistake of carrying her back to the cage for ’em. I tried to shove her in, but I couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t let me do it.” He lowered his gaze back to Aimee. “Never saw a look like that on a dog. Terrified. She was terrified I was going to leave her, and I just couldn’t do it. Swore to her I never would, that I’d make sure she was always taken care of, loved.” The man sniffed, and fidgeted with the tubing again. When his hand dropped, there was moisture rolling down his sunken cheek. “Everybody deserves some love.” He turned his head to face Aimee; there was pain in his eyes, real, unmistakable pain. Drystan blinked at the realization.

  “Don’t make me break my word,” the man finished, his voice no more than a whisper, then turned his hand palm up. Without a word, Aimee slipped her hand into his. As the man’s fingers closed over hers, Drystan took a step back.

  The man loved his dog with such intensity it was staggering.

  Drystan had never had a pet. Foster care didn’t really allow for keeping an animal and Maureen Myhre didn’t believe in them, claimed she was allergic.

  What would it be like to love something with the thorough ness this man loved his dog? Or be the recipient of such love?

  Drystan couldn’t imagine.

  Behind him the cart began to move—Aimee leaving the old man’s room.

  “I’ll do what I can,” she called, but softly, more to herself than the man.

  Quickly, Drystan disappeared back into the space behind the door, concentrated on blending into the wall.

  Aimee paused, glanced around, her gaze darting around the hallway, but her eyes never focused on the space where Drystan stood. Finally, she shook her head slightly, thinned her lips and continued down the hallway.

  When she was gone, Drystan stepped around the door, stared into the now-dark room. The man mumbled in his sleep. Unable to under stand him over the hissing of whatever machine the man was connected to, Drystan stepped farther into the room.

  The man’s lips moved. Still unable to make out the words, Drystan bent closer. The man mumbled again, another spat of words Drystan couldn’t make out, then two he could. “…help me.” The old man’s eyes flew open and his hand reached out, grasping Drystan’s wrist. “Help me,” he said again.

  The man stared at Drystan with no fear in his eyes. At first Drystan was shocked, then he realized the old man was asleep, talking in his sleep, most likely remembering Aimee, asking for her assistance, not Drystan’s.

  The man’s eyes closed and his grip lessened. Drystan pulled the m
an’s fingers away from his wrist, started to drop them onto the bed, but without realizing he was going to do it, without understanding why, he gave the man’s fingers a tiny squeeze first, then gently laid them on the generic hospital sheet.

  Help. Love. The old man wanted the impossible.

  IT WAS ALREADY dark. Aimee would be late for work if she didn’t hurry. Twisting the leash she’d brought in both hands, she stared at the closed door of Mr. Belding’s one-bedroom home. His daughter had told him a college student was watching his house and Garbo, his Toto-like dog. But while the college student was present, the dog wasn’t, and according to the fresh-faced girl, the animal hadn’t been there for three days.

  Three days. That was two days before Mr. Belding’s doctor had told his daughter, Carol, that he didn’t think Mr. Belding would be able to make it on his own.

  It was possible his daughter had taken the dog to her house, but… Aimee moved the leather leash to one hand and shoved the other hand into her pocket to pull out her cell phone. She flipped open the lid—five-forty. She had twenty minutes to make it to work. She’d been called in early tonight. Another aide had for got ten a birthday party and begged Aimee to cover for her.

  Aimee had been more than happy to help out, especially because it gave her a perfect excuse to avoid Drystan. She tilted her head to the sky and took a deep breath through her nose. The reporter, or whatever he claimed to be, scared her.

  She had gone to sleep this morning thinking of him, remembering the darkness that surrounded him. She’d awakened a few hours later with him still on her mind. So much need. She had never encountered such a void before.

  A void. The shadow she had seen outside the Myhres’ two nights earlier. Had that been Drystan?