Secret Santa: Secret McQueen, Book 2.5

by Sierra Dean

  Her fangs were already out, and she was close to diving for his throat when I coughed to regain her attention. It was a testament to her control she was able to stop herself.

  “What?”

  “Not the neck. Too risky.” I held up my arm and waved at her, pointing to my wrist.

  She groaned and I think she rolled her eyes, but it was hard to say without any visible white.

  When she grabbed his hand and tore open the vein with fierce precision, it was clear she wouldn’t let me interrupt again. All I could think was, I wonder if I looked like that when I fed from Lucas.

  Brigit’s victim let out a yip of pain, but soon after, his eyes rolled backwards and his noises took on a more euphoric quality.

  No fair. Whenever I got bitten by a vampire it hurt like a sonofabitch. I had to give Brigit credit, though. She’d enthralled him properly and as long as she stopped feeding after an appropriate withdrawal had been made, I’d be willing to say she was ready to hunt alone.

  A human could only lose so much blood before a feeding became a murder, and as a good rule of thumb there was a one-minute time frame between the opening of a vein and the end of the meal. I was counting off the seconds in my head.

  Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine…

  Brigit gasped and drew her head back, her lips and chin smeared with blood. She looked grisly, but she’d done it. Licking his wound clean, she resisted the urge to take another sip, and her saliva started to work its creepy vampire magic.

  On humans, at least living ones, saliva or blood from the undead worked to heal wounds made by the undead. Once a human had been killed, those wounds could no longer be fixed, so it was often possible to see a sire’s bite mark on a baby vamp after it had risen.

  The jelly-kneed man was slumped against the building, panting like he’d had the greatest orgasm of his life. Brigit, his blood still on her face, grabbed his chin and smiled at him. He didn’t fight or seem at all alarmed.

  “You got a quickie behind the bar,” she purred. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “When you get home you won’t remember my face or my friend. And you’ll stop being a douche to girls at the bar, ’kay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and you’ll never wear that cologne again. It’s gross.”

  I suppressed a laugh. Leave it to Brigit to give her vic a lesson on hygiene. She bounded over to me, skipping on her heels, then stood in front of me like an eager schoolgirl. I handed her the wet nap I’d brought from home and kept in my back pocket with this purpose in mind. I’d seen Brigit eat before, and she sometimes got a little carried away. She tore open the square packet to clean her face.

  “You did great,” I reported.

  She squealed and clapped her hands together.

  “Now can we stop at your place? I need to find something to wear tomorrow.”

  “What’s tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I meet the scariest being ever. My boyfriend’s mom.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Christmas Eve didn’t feel right without snow. I’m not much of a traditionalist, but I did grow up in Canada, and Christmas without snow was just plain wrong.

  I was sitting on the loveseat in my living room, tugging nervously at the sweater I’d borrowed from Brigit. It was a pretty white angora knit with short cap sleeves and a purple-and-green Fair Isles pattern across the chest. It was a bit more cocoa-at-the-ski-lodge than Christmas-with-the-parents, but it beat anything I had in my closet.

  My pants selection was an even mix of denim and leather, and jeans didn’t seem appropriate, so leather it was.

  After trying a half-dozen different styles, I’d given up and pulled my hair into a ponytail with the loose curls draping down my back.

  Pine needles were drizzled over the low pile carpet, and the whole apartment smelled of deep woods and the faint, clinging tendrils of Desmond’s baking. These were the smells that tugged at memory and rooted you to a place in time. While my knees might be jostling in a nervous beat, I couldn’t help but be warmed by the rightness of the apartment and how it felt like a home.

  Desmond emerged from the bedroom wearing a hunter-green sweater vest over a crisp white shirt. The green deepened the gray hue of his eyes, almost blotting out the violet wash I loved so much. He was playing with the tie in his hands, smirking at a private thought, and when he looked up at me my heart stopped.

  God help me, I loved him so much it made my chest hurt.

  He smiled, showing off his straight white teeth, then darted his tongue between the pearly rows to moisten winter-chapped lips.

  “You ready for this?” He must have thought better of the tie because he tossed it behind me onto the headrest of the couch, where it draped over Rio’s flicking tail. The kitten was elated to be offered a new toy and dug her tiny claws into the silk.

  My bouncing knees captured his attention, and his smile faltered as he sat on the arm of the loveseat. It was a miniscule comfort to have him rub the meridian between my shoulders. It would have helped if he said I could bail on dinner, but no such luck.

  Rio wrapped herself up in the tie and tumbled off the couch, falling to the floor with a thud. The one cat in the world who failed to land on her feet and she was all mine.

  “How long until Dominick gets here?” I had a wicked idea in mind to distract myself from the fear of meeting Momma Alvarez.

  Desmond checked his watch, and the simple act of seeing him read the fancy, large timepiece on his wrist sent a thrill through me. There was something erotic about a man who wore an expensive-looking watch. I think it affected the same smitten-receptors as seeing James Bond in a suit.

  I grabbed his hand and pulled him off the arm of the couch and onto me. His weight was comforting, and I wriggled against him until my body was molded alongside his.

  “Hi,” he said. His face was mere inches from mine and alight with amusement. His breath smelled of minty toothpaste and was warm on my lips.

  A simple taste test confirmed his tongue to be hint-of-mint fresh, with his distinctive lime aftertaste.

  “You taste good.” I sighed.

  “You taste like cookies.”

  He kissed me gently, with the easy sweetness of a familiar lover. With his body on mine he was free to cup my cheeks between his palms and lavish tender, delicate kisses over my forehead, jaw and throat with the softness of butterfly wings.

  My original plan to ravish him with a Christmas Eve quickie dissolved with each pass of his mouth. Even the moisture-deprived roughness of his lips didn’t take me out of the simple, innocent indulgence of the moment.

  When his road trip of kisses came home to my mouth, I held his face as he’d held mine and kissed the tip of his nose. He smiled, and with him this close I could see the lilac of his eyes.

  “Love you.” I kissed each of his dark eyebrows.

  “Good. Then you have to come meet my mom.”

  Eyes that had been heavy-lidded with a love-drunk complacency snapped open. “Tricksy werewolf.”

  “Gonna blame it on my lupine mojo?”

  “Pff. Like you have any mojo.”

  The hardness against my thigh and the frenzied heat building in my pants belied my insult, but I stuck to my guns. He smiled and kissed me, grazing my lower lip between his teeth. “I’m not opposed to playing dirty.”

  I quirked my eyebrow at him. “Oh, no? Well if that’s how this game is being scored, I’d like a chance to spike your volley…or, you know, a cooler sports metaphor than volleyball.”

  Desmond laughed but obliged me by sitting up so I could scoot out from under him. Standing in front of the couch so my hips were level with his eyes, I grabbed the hem of my shirt and lifted it up, giving him an eyeful of my brand-new leather corset.

  Unfortunately that was also the moment Dominick chose to let himself into my apartment.

  “I’m just saying there’s a time and a place…”

  “How many times do I have to apologize?” I g
rumbled from the backseat of Dominick’s Prius. He’d separated Desmond and me for the short drive to Long Island, and my Alvarez brother wasn’t helping things with all his snickering in the front.

  “When apologies can cleanse my mind of the image of you straddling my brother—”

  “I wasn’t straddling him!”

  But Dominick was on a roll and there was no stopping him. “Practically molesting him, half naked, no less.”

  “I was fully clothed,” I snarled.

  In the rearview mirror I caught Dominick’s grin, and ever the mature adult woman I was, I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “Now, now. I don’t know where that’s been.”

  Desmond laughed so hard he snorted, and only regained his composure long enough to keep me from diving into the front seat to throttle his brother.

  “I can tell you a long list of places it may never go again.” I gave Desmond a pointed glare, but he was unabashed, chuckling like a twelve-year-old watching Porky’s on late-night cable.

  We’d driven south through Manhattan since the Queensboro Bridge was the closest exit to Sunnyside and Casa de Alvarez. After a harrowing, white-knuckled, ten-minute drive across the bridge we were on Long Island, but considering there wasn’t much difference between Sunnyside and Hell’s Kitchen, it felt like I was still home. Queen’s Boulevard had the same seedy reputation as my neck of the woods. On some levels those reputations were deserved, but on the flip side even Park Avenue had an underbelly. At least places like Hell’s Kitchen rolled over and showed their unseemly tummy to the world, like a fat cat waiting for a good scratch.

  Twenty-four-hour fruit stands with nothing to sell this late in the season adorned every other corner, broken up by Colombian takeout and about a hundred restaurants claiming to have the “best pizza in New York”.

  Their claims were served with a grain of salt since New York proper glittered like a festive grand dame across the East River. The Empire State Building was aglow in seasonal red and green, her spindle piercing the dark sky as though it could be popped open like a confetti balloon and release our missing snow.

  Dominick navigated up a narrow street lined with a crush of tall, lean houses stacked side by side. He wove through the maze of parked and idling cars, receiving a few well-placed honks and a one-finger salute from a burly cab driver.

  “Puta madre,” Dominick swore, taking a turn onto another one-way, then back in the direction we’d come. It was the first time I’d heard any hint of his Spanish upbringing.

  Sunnyside was a mess of cramped one-way streets, making it a frustrating task to get where you wanted to be. I might have a fancy car, but I hated driving inside the urban sprawl. Give me a back-country road and I’ll go for hours, but in the city I get grumpy and angry in the span of minutes.

  The car came to a stop in front of a clean white house jammed in a row of nearly identical brown and white homes. The wrought-iron front gate had a wreath hanging on it, and through the front window I could see a dazzling Christmas tree done in hues of blue and silver.

  “You guys might as well take the stuff in. I’ll need to circle the block.”

  Sure enough, there was no miracle parking space out front like I always seemed blessed with at home. Desmond and I got out and loaded up with armfuls of gifts.

  When we burst through the front door a flash of darkness leaped at us, and Desmond barely had time to drop his packages and catch his sister mid-flight. Penny was talking a mile a minute, and it didn’t sound like she was planning to take a break any time soon. I put my gifts down next to Desmond’s and listened to her story.

  “….so I told Becky McNamara she could take her iPod and stuff it because I was going to get the best present ever, way better than a stupid iPod.” She started dragging parcels into the living room, hauling the front-entrance runner with them, leaving me standing on bare hardwood.

  I shucked off my coat and boots, using it as an excuse to check out Desmond’s childhood home. The house was cramped but meticulously organized. Photos in mismatched frames spanning over two decades hung on every flat wall in the house. Everything from the Alvarez’s wedding portrait to the obligatory embarrassing school photos. Desmond and Dominick’s graduation photos were displayed side by side at the bottom of the staircase. Aside from his gel-spiked hairstyle, Desmond hadn’t changed much. Dominick was the real shocker. His portrait showed him a good twenty pounds heavier with a mane of long, blond hair.

  I chuckled softly.

  Next to the boys was Penny’s most recent school photo, her grinning sixth-grade pose. She was the spitting image of Desmond, dark wavy hair and big pale eyes. That smiling photo stole all the levity from the moment, because she could have been any of those missing teens.

  Turning from the stairs, I drifted into the living room with its old-school eighties sofas and a small television, where Penny was checking through the bags to see which gifts were for her. She found the big one from me and Desmond and went to shake it, but her brother stopped her.

  “Be patient, Pen. Soon enough.”

  “Is it better than an iPod?”

  Not being twelve, I didn’t know where a Wii ranked on the coolness scale, but I said, “Way better.”

  For the first time since we’d arrived, Penny acknowledged my existence. She gave me a silent once-over that made me more nervous than a vampire eyeballing my jugular. Then she hopped to her feet and marched up to me, sticking out her hand. I looked to Desmond for help, but he rested his chin on his hand and watched us with a smile.

  “Penelope Alvarez,” she introduced with startling formality. “You can call me Penny if you want.”

  “Secret McQueen,” I replied and gave her hand a firm shake. “You can call me Secret.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Penny!” This came from the dining room doorway and was said with the tone only irritated mothers know how to use.

  “I’m afraid so.” I winked at Penny as her mother came through the door drying her hands on a dishtowel.

  Desmond’s mother was his exact opposite. She was a few inches taller than five feet and had the delicate build of a ballerina. She was fair-skinned and had dirty-blonde hair streaked through with gray. On her it looked like expensive highlights. Now I knew where Dominick fit in. I’d often marveled at how two such different men came from the same family without a visit from the milkman being involved.

  “You’re really pretty. Your hair looks like Taylor Swift’s. And she dated that guy who was a werewolf in Twilight, and you date a werewolf too.”

  “We’re practically twins,” I agreed.

  “Are your pants leather?”

  I looked down, embarrassed to be called on it by a tween in a pleated tartan skirt.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Penelope, stop pestering Secret,” her mother ordered, snapping her playfully with the hand towel. The family matriarch came to stand before me, giving me the same assessing look her daughter had. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, dear. Nice to put a face to the girl who got my Desi to move out of the penthouse.”

  “Desi?” I tried to hide the laugh bubbling up. I failed. Desmond shot me a look.

  “I’m Grace.” We shook hands. Her skin was soft, and she smelled like turkey and Oil of Olay, with a hint of Giorgio Beverly Hills perfume lingering on her clothes. It wasn’t fresh, so she must have worn the fragrance regularly.

  “Secret.” She already knew my name, but it would have been rude to leave her introduction unanswered. “It smells great in here.”

  It did smell spectacular, and though I didn’t typically eat real food, the aroma of turkey, gravy and baked yams made my stomach growl. Grandmere never went overboard on food at holiday meals because she was only cooking for herself. But I gathered cooking for a family of adult werewolves meant food had to be plentiful.

  “Desi, honey, I need some onions for the stuffing. Can you run up to Paradiso—?”

  “I ca
n go,” Penny insisted.

  “Penny.” Grace’s tone was weary and definitive. I was amazed by how much mothers could say without saying much of anything.

  “Mom.” The look on Penny’s face spoke volumes. In a house filled with male werewolves it must have been difficult for her to be given any independence, especially when she was so much younger than her brothers. Alpha males were overprotective by their very nature. I also knew a thing or two about being condescended to and I wanted to stand up for the girl, but it wasn’t my place.

  “It’s just down the block, Mom.” Desmond came to his sister’s rescue. “And Dominick is still out there trying to find parking, which might take him until the New Year. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  Overwhelmed by sudden apprehension, I bit my lip and resisted the urge to speak up. My mind was full of images of body parts and Christmas stockings like the ones hanging on the window ledge next to the tree. One of which bore my name. Swelling emotions threatened to undo me.

  I wanted to protect Penny, but from what? No new youths had gone missing in weeks, none of the bodies belonged to anyone younger than Ashley Parsons, and I didn’t want to make anyone worry unjustly. So I held my tongue.

  “Okay.” Grace caved under the pressure of her children’s collective gazes and plucked a five-dollar bill from her purse, which was waiting on the dining room table like it knew it would be needed. “But no lollygagging. Straight there and home, understand?”

  Penny’s response was lost to me. I was too shocked that someone other than my grandmere used the word lollygagging.

  Chapter Twelve

  A half hour later Christmas was the last thing on our minds.

  Dominick hung up the phone in the kitchen and came back into the living room with a grim expression on his face.

  “The police say there’s nothing they can do. They ‘appreciate our concern’, but she hasn’t been gone long enough for them to classify her as a missing person.”