Holidays Bite: A Limited Edition Collection of Holiday Vampire Tales

by Laura Greenwood

  "What curse?" Monica blurted the question. "I have no idea what's going on."

  "The curse that stops us from traveling year-round. The curse that forces the wolves to turn and the spirits of the hunt to retreat all but one night of the year."

  "It's bad news," Ethan said, as if that was necessary.

  Monica may still not have understood what was at stake, but she definitely knew it wasn't something she wanted to let happen.

  "I'm not going with you," she said.

  "You don't have a choice," the creature responded.

  And then the spirits came. At first, they appeared like dark shapes against the night, like voids, but then they became clearer. Some wore outfits like ones in Monica's closet, yet others wore clothing that'd been out of fashion for centuries. Others still were simply skeletons that moved through the world as ghosts, floating through the air and objects equally easily.

  "The night is long, there is no veil here. You shall come with us and allow us to have free rein."

  The creature held out its hand once again, long fingers beckoning her toward him. Monica felt no desire to move, not after Ethan's direct order, yet his hand tightened around her wrist in warning.

  Meanwhile, Mistletoe moved her gun off the door, aimed at Monica, and fired.

  Everything happened in a blur; the shot ripped through the air, Ethan jumped in front of it, and it made a clean exit into Monica anyway, where it lodged itself.

  Monica fell to the floor, clenching at her chest in pain. It radiated from the wound, a white-hot sharpness that made it hard for her to breathe, to think, to believe she'd make it out alive.

  "Fucking hell, I told you not to do that!" he yelled at Mistletoe, wincing at the wound through his torso, but standing.

  "I did what I had to." She blew a strand of red hair out of her face, pumped the gun again, and aimed it at the door.

  Monica closed her eyes, the pain taking over her, her breaths getting more painful with each one. There was chaos in the room now, more gunshots, but it all seemed distant, unimportant.

  "Hey. Hey, open your eyes."

  She shook her head. "It's time for me to die."

  "You're not dying tonight," Ethan said instead, pressing something to her mouth. It was liquid and tasted like iron, sweet and bitter, and more delicious than it had any right to be.

  She pulled it to her mouth, her eyes finally opening and realizing what she was doing when she felt his hand. She couldn't bring herself to stop and felt a mixture of pure bliss and revulsion at what she was doing. As she drank, though, the pain lessened, and the revulsion dissipated, until all that she experienced was pure elation.

  And then suddenly she was on her back, with Ethan on top of her, moving her hair off her neck and placing his mouth to it.

  "My turn will be later," he told her. "But you owe me."

  She gulped, fear and desire colliding once more, tilting her head in invitation.

  He chuckled low, darkly. "Vamp blood in your system or not, we still have a situation," he said.

  But she was giddy and found herself entirely unable to care.

  "Whatever, we'll be fine," she said.

  "You couldn't just let her die? Really? God damn it, Ethan. And now we have a super annoying human to deal with too. Good job."

  "Oh, calm down. We go over this every year. Half the damn curse is having to put up with each other for an entire night. At least Monica's presence is helping us change things up a little." He glanced at her. "Besides, she's amusing."

  Monica noticed Mistletoe's gaze was not one of amusement. The creature in the doorway—well, now it was several feet into the room, she noted—was also not amused. The surrounding spirits mostly seemed to be, though, and that gave her an idea.

  An idea probably mostly sparked by the drug of Ethan's blood in her system, but one that she was absolutely glued to as soon as it popped into her head.

  "I need... my VIOLIN!" she shouted. Did she sound drunk? She thought she sounded drunk, and she stumbled forward, trying to find the place where Ethan had set down the violin.

  She fell.

  Wait. She hadn't fallen; she'd never gotten up. She hadn't stumbled forward, either, she'd flopped, her feet rubbing against themselves.

  Playing her violin was gonna be a challenge.

  "Help me!" She directed the question to no one in particular, and yet everyone. The spirits were definitely amused by this turn of events, and seemed almost excited about the prospect, whispering to one another in a way that caused a lot more commotion than anyone else in the room was prepared for.

  "Over here!" one of them shouted, and they all moved back, creating a clear path to her violin case.

  The creature screeched loudly from its place in the doorway. "This isn't what you're supposed to do! Do you really want to wait until we have another opportunity to-"

  "But sir," one of them said, a child, "we haven't heard a violinist in ages. One tune can't hurt."

  "We must focus," the creature said, "there will be all the time in the world after we break the curse."

  Ethan chuckled. "You're forgetting something. Monica can't be killed tonight, lest you want to give vampires a pass to your side of the veil. Forget the fine print of your spell?"

  "Ethan," Mistletoe hissed. "You didn't have to tell them. Let them fuck it up for themselves."

  "I just want to play my violiiiiiin," Monica whined from the floor.

  Mistletoe sighed, but Monica got what she wanted: Ethan lifted her back onto the rocking chair, and her violin and bow were in her lap before she realized it.

  She tightened her bow, then lifted her instrument onto her shoulder, and let out the first note: a long D. It probably wasn’t out of tune so soon after a performance, but between the weather and the creatures that surrounded her, it wouldn’t have been the most weird thing to happen tonight.

  Once she was confident everything was in tune—or, at least, close enough for her playing not to hurt anyone’s ears—she played a song. She knew it by heart; she’d been playing it forever, it seemed like, could sense the way her fingers and bow were supposed to move on a level like it was within her soul, not her body.

  The spirits danced around her, shouting and hollering in tune with the music she played. Sure, as a professional she knew the classics, the sonatas and the wedding hymns, but she’d chosen a lively Christmas carol for a reason. It was the season for it, after all, and she didn’t think the spirits wanted to listen solemnly.

  So they danced around her, and she felt as she always did while playing: immortal.

  She closed her eyes, unaware of everything: of the creature that scuffed in the doorway; of the way Mistletoe glared at her and then at Ethan, as if she knew both that they’d won, they’d put off the breaking of the curse for another year, and also that she would not see the bloodshed she wished to tonight; and, mostly, of the werewolves that came, that surrounded the home, and howled.

  She heard the howls, though. Somewhere beyond she registered the noise, but not its source, played with it, until the creatures of the full moon and her violin merged into one melody.

  The song ended, and she opened her eyes. The music continued, propelled by a force she couldn’t name. The spirits danced, the wolves sang, and, finally, the creature in the doorway abandoned the hunt.

  Monica danced, too, and played her violin, until she finally gave way to the fatigue, pulling some blankets from a closet and huddling up next to a fire someone had started. Ethan, probably, she figured, but perhaps by magic itself.

  The rest of them danced on, keeping her company in her slumber, until the sun rose, the howls stopped, the spirits faded, and the vampires retreated to darkness.

  Monica woke to the sun on her face and a knock on the door. A man stood, tall and handsome, wearing dark wash jeans and what looked like Ethan’s jacket.

  “Ethan tells me you had car trouble last night,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “And who are you?”

 
He smiled. “Just a friend. Name’s Jackson. I promised I’d get you back home safely.”

  “I... thanks,” she said. “What happened last night? Were you there?”

  His smile widened, and he tilted his head. “What do you think happened last night?”

  “Man. I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

  He laughed. “I was there, so yeah. I would. Guessing you remember it right, then.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Come on, ride’s waiting. I already had your car towed, but the pack has it, so it’s... no worse than it was after the crash.”

  That part she’d forgotten. “Fuck. My parents are gonna kill me.” She sighed. “Thanks, though. I appreciate the help.”

  “No problem, Monica,” he said. “We have a long road ahead of us to prepare for next year. The least I can do is get on your good side early.”

  She took a deep breath. Something told her things were finally about to change.

  * * *

  The End

  Enjoyed this story? Be sure to leave a review!

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Edeline Wrigh is an eccentric storyteller with a penchant for swearing, drinking too much caffeine, and spending more time with cats than people. She writes fantasy, romance, and love stories without happy endings from her house in the Midwest. When she's not putting words on paper, she's busy up leveling her martial arts game or taking in stories in any way she can.

  * * *

  You can sign up for Edeline’s newsletter here.

  Join Edeline Online

  www.EdelineWrites.com

  Facebook

  Twitter

  Instagram

  * * *

  Read More of Edeline’s Books

  Betwixt Realms Series (Lesbian Harem Paranormal Romance)

  Confessions of a Muse (Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance)

  Sirens (Polyamorous Paranormal Romance)

  The Traitor of Tyiku (YA Fantasy Romance)

  Silent Moonlight

  Kat Parrish

  About Silent Moonlight

  Robert Fitzpatrick was born with the last century; A fatherless boy mentored by a gangster, at twenty he was fighting for turf as the Mafia moved in to take over the city. The mobsters were dangerous men, but as it turned out, Rob had a lot more to fear from a beautiful woman with a treacherous heart.

  * * *

  Kennedy Crawford was born four years into the new millennium, a child of privilege and possibilities. Now sixteen, she finds herself on the cusp of womanhood with no idea of who she is and what she wants to be, but with an aching void where her cheating boyfriend ripped out her heart.

  * * *

  Now, on Christmas Eve, these two are about to encounter each other for a night that will change both their lives—even though Rob died a hundred years ago.

  Chapter 1

  I owed a lot to Liam Flaherty. After my da died, he made sure my mother didn’t starve and he didn’t do it by turning her out on the streets, like some might have done back then. She was beautiful, my ma, with a singing voice like an angel and a face that’d break your heart. Flaherty got her a job sewing dresses at a factory in lower Manhattan and her wages kept a roof over our heads and food on the table. He would drop by every Sunday, supposedly to check on me, but even as a kid I knew his real purpose was to leave my mother an envelope full of cash to “help out” with the extras. He always set the envelope on a side table next to an aspidistra plant, casually putting it there as if it was a matter of no importance. Then he would decline my mother’s invitation to share our Sunday meal, and leave. My mother would tuck the envelope away in the pocket of her skirt after extracting a dollar and putting it into a piggy bank for me.

  It frustrated me knowing that I had a small fortune inside that piggy bank waiting for me and my mother wouldn’t let me break it open.

  “It’s for your future, Robbie,” she would say. “You have a wonderful future ahead of you.”

  I wanted to say, “to hell with the future, I want my money now,” but that would have made her cry. My mother had a tender soul and I loved her to death.

  And though I had no father and though we had very little money, my life was happy enough.

  Then in 1911, a fire broke out at the factory where she worked. One hundred and forty-six women perished in that fire. One of them was my mother. Flaherty paid for the funeral and made sure her coffin was nailed shut so that I would never see the horror of her corpse. He’d been the one to identify her, and it had left him shook.

  After that, even though Flaherty paid a woman to give me a room in her home and two meals a day I was pretty much alone in the world

  . I was only eleven, but I’d already learned how to steal, and I knew how to make myself useful to the bigger boys who needed a little kid looking out for the coppers or someone to deliver a message without reading it.

  I had an innocent face then, and the coppers would pass me by without a second look and sometimes one would pat me on the head and slip me a coin for some candy. That was always a nice bonus.

  I got tipped for delivering letters too. Both parties knew their words were safe with me. I couldn’t read, so I couldn’t blab their business all over town.

  I ran errands for Flaherty and his boyos, sometimes hiding the sparks and shines they took from a rich man’s house until they could find a fence for the swag. I was good at hiding things. The people who lived in the boarding house with me learned to leave me alone because I put mousetraps in all the likely hiding places and after a few pinched fingers, they turned to easier prey.

  I’d take jobs no one else would touch, not even the tough kids who carried gats. Even Seamus and Aidan steered clear of Prospect Cemetery in Queens where certain unsavory sorts were said to make their headquarters.

  Unsavory sorts of a sanguinary nature if you get my drift.

  We all knew about the bloodsuckers, but we didn’t pay much attention to their existence until the Italians moved in and started cozying up to them. The Five Points gang—Paul Kelly’s crew—were all in bed with them and before we knew it, In fact, people said it was the vampires who taught Kelly manners, polished a piece of Italian-American coal into an all-American diamond.

  Kelly was soft spoken and well-dressed, and never got his hands dirty. Flaherty used to make fun of him, but when the Five Points gang gobbled up all his business, he had to go hat in hand to the man he called “that little Eye-tie,” and beg for the right to continue doing business in the city Kelly owned.

  Because nobody wanted to cross him. They were scared shitless of his brunos, both dead and alive. They said the vampires got ten percent of every dollar Kelly stole. That would have added up to a pretty penny. The vampires had incentives to keep Kelly in power.

  I asked Flaherty once when he was good and zozzled, why he never tried to partner up with the vampires and he got a look on his face I’ll never forget. It was a look I’d never seen there before. It was a look of fear.

  “Once when I was a young lad, younger than yourself, I was coming home from the pub one moonlit night. And I saw a woman of such beauty I knew she could not be human. And she smiled at me and called my name. ‘Liam,’ she called, ‘come and kiss me.’”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Kissed her of course,” he said. “Because she was drenched in moonlight and stars and I was a young man who didn’t know any better.”

  He had shuddered then. “Her lips were cold, Rob, as cold as the grave. And her eyes were hungry. And her breath smelled of dank earth and ashes.” He’d shuddered again, the memory still fresh though it was decades old.

  “And I ran. I ran from her. And that’s why I’m alive to tell you this story. She was the ‘dearg dur,’ and it was her vengeance on men that brought her out of the grave. I struck lucky that night boyo. I lived to tell the tale. I’ll have nought to do with vampires. Ya lie down with monsters and ya wake up dead.”

  That had made sense to m
e. I heeded his words.

  I saw no need to treat with the vampires. I had my business and they had theirs and there wasn’t any need to cross paths.

  By the time I was twenty, I was running crews for Flaherty, kids pickpocketing the swells in Grand Central Station, men boosting jewelry from Tiffany’s and women lifting perfume and knickknacks from Lord & Taylor.

  I was making money and Flaherty was getting his mazuma every week.

  It should have been enough for Flaherty. But it wasn’t.

  And truth to tell, it wasn’t enough for me either.

  I wanted to be a gent.

  I wanted to be legit.

  I wanted to be someone my ma would have been proud of.

  I taught myself to read.

  I treated myself to barbershop shaves and got my nails manicured. “Girls like a man with clean hands,” Flaherty used to tell me, “especially if those hands are going to be on her.”

  I paid a Jewish tailor on Delancey Street to hem my pants and cuff my shirts and make jackets just my size, which he called “bespoke.” Flaherty called me “Raccoon Robbie” on account of the fur coat I wore, but when I went out on the town, the waiters called me “sir” and I liked that fine.

  I was the cat’s pajamas and didn’t I know that?

  But none of that impressed Jesula.

  Chapter 2

  The last day of school before the winter break is always lame. No one wants to be here and the teachers don’t even bother trying to pretend they give AF. It’s a day-long party from home room on, and if you sampled all the treats being handed out, you’d be in a diabetic coma by lunchtime.