A Vampire for Christmas

by Laurie London

  Petite and bloodied. A woman’s hand. Achingly familiar.

  Angelina.

  She lay naked in the center of the sail, her raven hair spilling out against a mosaic of bright red and rusty brown on the white canvas. There was no denying the scent of blood, but more powerful was her familiar aroma. Even with the storm swirling around him, her natural perfume filled his senses, making him think of bright summer days and fields of wildflowers.

  Impossible. Wonderful. He reached for her, encircling her in his arms. The heat of her blood bathed his hands. Seeped through the thin wet fabric of his cotton shirt.

  He drew her close and kissed her temple, detecting the thready pulse of life beneath his lips.

  She was alive, he thought with joy. As her eyelids fluttered open, recognition came alive in their emerald depths.

  “Damien? Is it really you?” she said in the voice that had been haunting his dreams for nearly a year. He realized then that her voice had not changed during any of her visits. Each word she spoke was like music, strumming elation and desire to life deep in his gut. Her voice wrought peace in his soul, as it had every time she had come into his life.

  “It’s really me, Angelina. This time nothing will take you from me.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE PITCH AND ROLL of the ship made it nearly impossible for Pedro Ramirez to see what was happening onshore, but the vampire captain was not to be deterred. Nothing would keep him from savoring Damien’s reaction to his special gift.

  Going aloft on the rigging to the highest point on the schooner’s mast, Pedro trained the spyglass on the couple, watching the tender reunion. One which would be short-lived, if his plans were successful.

  Plus, if Pedro succeeded, Angelina would be his for all eternity. A rare gift for him to savor, time and time again.

  Even now, the softness of her skin was vivid on his lips. The taste of her blood lingered on his tongue as he recalled feeding from her as she lay unconscious. Her blood had filled the emptiness inside of him with life. How much sweeter it would be when she was his, as his Master had promised. Only then could he spend an eternity sipping from her whenever he wanted.

  Only then could he finally say that the last shreds of decency within Damien’s soul had been lost. That the goodness that challenged Pedro each time they met and which so far had not been driven from Damien had finally been vanquished.

  This time Pedro would claim Damien’s eternal soul and in so doing, own Damien’s true love Angelina, as well.

  It had been a long time in coming, but Satan, who understood best the demonic power of anger, wanted his due. Pedro would be the instrument of that payment.

  When Damien lifted Angelina into his arms and disappeared from sight in a blast of vampire speed, Pedro likewise retreated down the rigging to the warmth of his captain’s chambers to savor a spot of fine Cuban rum like that he had off-loaded the day before. Several more kegs would be delivered tonight and by Christmas Eve his ship would be docked in the Manasquan Inlet. While his crew enjoyed the spoils of their work, Pedro would go to Damien and Angelina just as he had during their other two meetings. Satan had led Pedro to Damien because Satan found Damien’s pain and anger powerful and wanted to make the hell-raiser one of his own minions. But so far that goal had proved elusive.

  This time Pedro had something he knew Damien would kill to safeguard: Angelina’s immortal soul.

  Pedro had no doubt that the threat to Damien’s beloved would goad the vampire into that final violent act. Satan had been right. Damien was filled with delightful anger. Pedro had come so close before only to have sanity, or maybe that damn meddler Angelina, prevent Damien from taking a life and sealing his eternal Fate.

  But if all went as planned on this Christmas Eve night, Damien would lose his immortal soul by killing Pedro.

  Not that Pedro could ever really die, he thought, entering his chambers and pouring himself a glass of rum. Not only was he a vampire, but he was also one of the Fallen Angels. Only his Master, Satan himself, or one of those blasted Goody Two-shoes Archangels could end Pedro’s existence.

  If Pedro could force Damien to take a life, Satan would reward Pedro with even greater powers. Plus the bonus of everlasting life with Angelina, of course.

  At the thought of having her, Pedro grew hard. Reaching down, he released himself from the stricture of his pants and stroked. Imagined burying himself in her warm depths. Drinking of her blood, so full of light and life.

  Only an Angel’s blood could be so rare and satisfying.

  By Christmas morning, Pedro would have Angelina as his own, he vowed. He couldn’t imagine a better present to receive.

  ANGELINA WAVERED BETWEEN BOUTS of consciousness as Damien gently bathed her and tended to the wounds along her back. Two deep gashes, each nearly six inches long and located high up along her shoulder blades, marred the otherwise smooth perfection of her creamy skin. Odd wounds, made by the slice of a knife or a clean swift slash of a sword, as if cutting off an appendage. The latter made no sense to him considering the position of the injuries.

  When he finished cleansing the angry furrows, Damien applied antiseptic and covered the yawning slashes with gauze. He bound the injuries with soft strips of fabric he had torn from an old flannel work shirt.

  Cautiously, he rolled Angelina onto her back, but not gently enough. She moaned at the pressure and opened her eyes, gazed up him with a slightly feverish look that made her emerald eyes glitter.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more careful,” he promised.

  Angelina sensed his distress. She gathered her waning strength, wanting to reassure him. Raising her hand, she cradled his cheek, the rasp of his evening beard prickly against her palm. He looked haggard, his skin pale even for a vampire, especially in contrast to the coal-black of his hair. Yet nothing could be more welcome than the sight of his face.

  “You’re really here,” she said, almost unable to fathom that she had been given the chance for which she had been praying for nearly a year. Not that her visit this time had begun as she had expected.

  “I can say the same, Angelina. I hoped you might return to me—”

  “And your prayers have been answered,” she said, guessing at why the Archangel Raphael had released her to return. Raphael had been grumbling about having to listen to constant caterwauling. She supposed he had been referring to their combined and persistent entreaties for another chance to make things right.

  Damien released a harsh laugh and chided her, his handsome features twisted with resentment. “Prayers. Do you think I even believe in God after all that I’ve seen? All that I’ve done?”

  She smiled sadly, but understood. From the day of his birth, Damien had been destined for nothing but pain and misery. The bastard son of a coldhearted and cruel man, Damien had known little love and much loss. But despite all his errant ways, there was goodness and love within his heart. She had seen it time and time again during his early life and so had her boss, the Archangel Raphael. As the Archangel who possessed the power of healing, Raphael had believed Damien could be cured. It was why she had been sent down nearly a century earlier to become Damien’s Guardian Angel.

  Because of the strength of Damien’s spirit and goodness in spite of the adversity he had faced, Raphael wanted Damien to become one of their Angels, but only if Damien could finally prove himself worthy.

  “No matter what you say you believe, my love. It’s here in your heart,” she said and lowered her hand to rest over the bare skin of his chest. He had taken off his wet and bloodied shirt to tend to her. The skin of his upper body was smooth and had been warmed by the heat from the logs burning in a nearby fireplace.

  “You are what’s here,” he said and covered her hand with his own. His palms were rough from centuries of hard physical labor. Powerful, and yet in bed he was incredibly gentle and giving. Even in her weakened state, desire awoke as she thought of being with him. She didn’t want to waste a moment of her time with him.

>   They had only a very short time to be together, but truth be told, an eternity with Damien would not be enough for her. Even before her visit, she had been growing attracted to him as she had watched his life in preparation for her assignment. Then she had violated the first rule of being a Guardian Angel: never fall in love with your assignment. It was why Raphael had waited nearly a century before sending her back, hoping to quench that emotion so that she could perform the task she had been given.

  “Come lie with me,” she said, and Damien didn’t hesitate, rising to pull off the rest of his wet clothes and then slip into the bed beside her. She shuddered at the chill the dampness his pants had left behind on the skin of his lower body.

  “So sorry,” he said and transformed, awakening the heat of the vampire to warm his skin and hers.

  His silver-gray eyes, which always reminded her of an ocean during a hurricane, bled out to the bright neon blue-green of the vampire. From beneath the fullness of his lips his long canines emerged. She raised her hand and ran her thumb along his lips and those lethal-looking fangs. She had no fear of him because deep in her heart she knew he would not kill.

  He’d had several opportunities over the course of his long existence to do so, but each and every time he had held back, seemingly aware that taking a life would forever damn his eternal soul.

  As her gaze locked with his, he spoke, the animal growl of the vampire coloring his words. “Do not place me on a pedestal. It’s too far a fall.”

  “You could have killed before, but you didn’t. That young boy in the alley who stole your food—”

  “Was younger and hungrier than I was. Anyone would have done the same,” he parried with his words as quickly as he did with his sword and fists. She had always thought Damien made a better pairing with the warrior Archangel Michael, but it had been Raphael who had taken up Damien’s cause.

  “Not Ramirez,” she argued, certain there was no goodness in the vampire captain.

  The paleness of Damien’s skin grew even lighter, almost translucent. It made a stark contrast to the pitch-black of his hair, which shimmered with touches of steel-blue from the light of the fire. Softly, he urged, “Do not ruin this moment by speaking of him. All that matters is that we’re together now.”

  “I must speak of him, because…” She hesitated, unsure that Damien would believe her. And she worried that if he did, the temper that had earned him his reputation and his short mortal life would erupt.

  “What is it, Angelina? Surely after all that has happened between us you can tell me what troubles you.” He cradled her cheek with his rough, but caring hand. The warmth of his transformation seeped into her, driving away some of the chill in her body. Deep within, however, fear and doubt remained, which was not good considering her role in his life. Before she could trust him with more of the truth, she had to master her own emotions. Her own fears, doubts and hopes, which had, in part, been responsible for her failure to save him during her prior two visits.

  “I’m tired, Damien. I’d like to rest,” she fibbed, hoping that God would forgive her the one little white lie necessary for her to fulfill her celestial obligation.

  Understanding filled Damien’s gaze and his eyes grew hooded with worry. He pulled the sheets higher, tucking them tight around her the way a parent might lovingly swaddle a child.

  “Rest, Angelina,” he replied, saying her name in a voice that seemed as if he was convincing himself that she was really there. Then he continued. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and this time I intend on it being a happy one.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  DAMIEN DIDN’T KNOW WHAT woke him, only that there was an undeniable presence in the room. Something powerful and otherwordly that beat against his preternatural senses. He came instantly alert and reached for Angelina protectively, but she was no longer beside him.

  He had cared for her during the past few hours, feeding her sips of nourishing broth made from the few limp vegetables and a small chunk of dried beef he’d found in the larder. Only blood provided him true sustenance, but on occasion he would have a guest, usually one of the hungry, traveling laborers. They were trying to find work and something to fill their bellies during the economic depression gripping the country.

  The broth had seemed to offer her strength, and he had tended to her wounds, surprised by how quickly she appeared to be healing. Not less than an hour ago the skin on her back had begun knitting over the ugly gashes.

  But now she was gone, he thought, sitting up quickly only to find Angelina standing at the window, staring out at the night. She was bathed in the platinum light of the full moon. The beams caressed her and streamed beyond the outline of her body, making her look ethereal. Angelic, he thought fancifully, until she turned, revealing the beauty of her naked body. Then, the only thoughts he had were purely sinful.

  “Come to bed, my love,” he said, the purr of the vampire tingeing his voice as need slammed into him. His erection tented the light sheet as he became painfully hard. His desire for her had grown exponentially in the year they had been apart.

  “I cannot,” she replied with outstretched hands, her palms raised to the heavens, almost in supplication. To his surprise, tiny pinpricks of light gathered there and slowly grew in size, illuminating the room with an intense golden glow. When the shimmering light spread along the perimeter of the space, the room changed before his eyes, almost as if he were watching a Saturday matinee movie play on the walls.

  The window behind Angelina vanished and the white of the nearby wall became the rough-hewn stucco and dark wood of a familiar sight—the sailor’s saloon where he had first met Angelina just over a century earlier.

  “What’s going on? How is this happening?”

  “Twice before I was sent to you, Damien,” she answered, her voice filled with strength and an underlying drone that sounded like voices murmuring in prayer. Or maybe a choir singing glorious praise. He couldn’t be sure, although he was certain that the origin of the sound was not of this mortal realm.

  Before his eyes, the light from her palms spread even farther, overtaking the confines of his bedroom and turning it into that Cuban den of iniquity, replete with sailors from the many ships docked in the port and the women who hoped to ply their wares to them.

  Damien recalled the scene vividly, even after so long a time. He had just made a run down from Philadelphia to pick up a load of tobacco and rum. Such wares normally fetched a nice price back in the States, although not as good a price as slave running. The talk against slavery had been growing. It would be only a matter of time before that issue caused bloodshed, Damien had worried during that long-ago visit.

  Despite his desire for money and success, Damien had never desired to trade in such misery. He had been a slave of poverty for too long and would not visit such a fate on another human.

  But vices such as tobacco and rum had been a different matter, Damien recalled.

  He watched the scene unfold before his eyes as people came and went in the vision. Only seconds passed before he heard a familiar voice—Angelina’s sweet tones—and then his own gruff and slightly slurred reply. “A pint of rum will do.”

  Damien was drawn to the sight of the two of them. They were tucked into a far corner of the saloon. He had met Angelina just a few short days into his trip and had been instantly drawn to her.

  That attraction had led to many a pleasurable night in her bed. Although Angelina had asked for no coin in return, he had left it nevertheless. He had money to spare and was certain she had need of it. Unlike his miserly father, who had provided nothing for him and his mother, Damien would not do the same to another woman.

  “This was our first Christmas Eve, Damien. Remember it well. Remember how it ended,” the Angelina of the present said to him as she slowly faded from sight and the vision overwhelmed him, filling every corner of his bedroom with the sights, scents and noises from 1830 Havana.

  When Angelina completely disappeared from sight, something powerful slam
med into Damien, so intensely that he fell back against the edge of the bed, weakened. Then that force yanked him roughly from where he stood. He felt as if he were flying through the air, his arms and legs flailing for purchase. Then he landed with a jolt on a rough-hewn bench in that Cuban tavern.

  “You all right, Captain? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” his first mate said from beside him.

  His own ghost if any, Damien thought as he collected himself and peered around the room, trying to understand what had occurred. How was it possible that he had returned to 1830 and Havana?

  Angelina approached not seconds later, carrying a large tray loaded with beverages and food for those at his table. She looked different from the apparition that had graced his bed just moments before. Sexily voluptuous, but more tired around the eyes.

  He hadn’t noticed that fatigue during their first encounter over a century ago. All he had seen was a beautiful woman he wanted to be his. A diversion from his loneliness.

  Her emerald gaze locked with his as she bent to pass out pints of alcohol and plates filled with fragrant chicken and rice. When she laid his drink before him, her position and the décolletage of her plain white blouse allowed him to see the tidily mended chemise beneath that barely contained the generous globes of her breasts.

  A peek of a nipple popping free had him instantly hard as he imagined tasting her. Savoring the sweetness of her body.

  She must have noticed where his attention had drifted since she brushed her breast along his arm as she laid the dish of food before him. The smell of her, that familiar aroma of warm sunshine and wildflowers, wafted into his senses, obliterating the foul odors of unwashed bodies, cheap liquor and the untold detritus littering the floor of the sleazy tavern.

  When she would have moved away, he tenderly laid a hand on her arm. Skin smooth as fresh-picked peaches was warm beneath his palm. “We need to talk,” he said.