A Vampire Christmas Carol

by Sarah Gray

  “You want me to buy coal?”

  “I do.” Scrooge pushed several coins into his hand and even opened the door for him. “Now go along with you.”

  “Cratchit?” Disgut called from the tank. “Cratchit, are you here?”

  With Bob out the rear door, Scrooge made his way out front. “Disgut,” he said, eyeing the front door. He thought he saw movement outside the window, but he could not be sure. A black cloak? Was it the vampires come to Disgut’s rescue, or the VSU? He couldn’t be sure, and he felt a tingle of fear down his spine. But not enough fear to set him off his righteous path.

  “Where is Cratchit?” asked Disgut suspiciously. He took a step backward toward the door.

  “Why . . .” Scrooge stalled as he eyed an iron poker, used to stir the coals of the fire, leaning against the wall. He could not let Disgut get away, and though he was certain his clerk was a minion and not an actual vampire, he had no intention of testing his theory. “I . . . I fired him,” he grumbled, moving sideways toward the would-be weapon. Fred had warned that he should do nothing; that his only task was to lead the slayers to Disgut, but Scrooge was partially responsible for this man’s evil doings, and he felt it his responsibility to see his end, or die trying.

  Scrooge thought of Belle as he moved closer to the wall.

  “Fired him?” Disgut asked, his rat-like eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Why ever for?”

  “Late.” Scrooge slid one foot across the floor. It was difficult for a man his age, used to inactivity, to be stealthy.

  “But I was late,” suggested Disgut.

  Scrooge now stood in front of the poker, blocking its view from the minion. He casually tucked his hands behind his back and leaned forward, putting on his sternest face. “I could not fire you both the same week!” he shouted. “Now could I? I pay you less.”

  Disgut’s scowl turned into an evil smirk. “I see.”

  “Do you?” Scrooge grasped the metal poker with both hands and drew it over his head, throwing himself forward. As he swung the heavy weapon, he did not see Disgut’s pointy nose or pale cheeks. He saw the two pretty girls who had danced for the King and Queen of the Vampires—who would dance for them if the future was not altered. He did not hear Disgut’s cry of shock that turned to pain. He heard the laughter of the dancers just before the vampires descended upon them. Before Disgut bathed himself in their blood. All which would come to pass if Scrooge didn’t stop it.

  As the metal poker sank into the minion’s chest, the front door flew open and the slayers poured in carrying long pikes and heavy clubs. Scrooge barely felt the arms of his nephew around his shoulders as Fred pulled him back from the carnage.

  “Uncle Ebenezer,” Fred cried. “Are you all right? We sent men to your cellars, and the king and queen have fled. We feared they had come after you.”

  “I am well. Safe. Better than safe and well.” Scrooge buried his face in his nephew’s lapel. “Thank you, Fred. Thank you for not losing faith in me.”

  “Do not thank me, Uncle Ebenezer,” Fred whispered. “It was my mother’s faith that has carried us both.”

  “I will not let you down, I swear it.” Scrooge wiped at the tears in his eyes as he gazed into his nephew’s face. “Not you or Belle or Bob, or any of the VSU members. I will be true to you to my very end.”

  47

  Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more. To Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. He not only supported the vampire slayers local union, but unions far and near. He attended every meeting and was the first to offer coin when need was voiced. He never told anyone but Belle of the things he saw that night with the ghosts of Christmas. He saw no need to share the pain that he would carry for the rest of his life—life was about joy to him now, and he wanted to spare others when he could.

  Some people laughed to see the alteration in Ebenezer Scrooge, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them, for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset. And knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed and that was quite enough for him.

  A few months after his encounter with the spirits, Scrooge married his Belle, and nine short months later, bells rang in the city as a miracle took place. The prophesy of the birth of the Scion of the Great Culling was fulfilled. Scrooge attended the birth of his son, and he felt no shame in his tears as he took his swaddled son from his rosy-cheeked wife and held him to his heart.

  At the same moment as Scrooge held his son for the first time, a woman far away screamed.

  Queen Griselda, dressed in a tattered gown, her pale face sunken with hunger, fell to her knees. “No,” she cried, reaching out in the dark emptiness of the cave she had taken shelter in. “It cannot be! The Scion of the Great Culling has been born! Ebenezer Scrooge has fathered the man who will see the end of us.” Tears ran down her cheeks as she raked her long, dirty nails over her face.

  One of the few minions she had left tried to comfort her. “It’s not true. It cannot be true,” the starving man insisted.

  “It is true. You might as well run a pike through my heart now,” she moaned. “First my Wahltraud murdered in his own coffin, and now this. It’s the end of the world,” she keened, throwing herself again and again into the dirt. “The end of the world.”

  And so, while it may not have been the very end for Queen Griselda and the vampires, it was most certainly the beginning of the end, for the prophecy had come true. Ebenezer Scrooge, once the namesake for skinflint, miser and general sourpuss had, against all odds, become the man his mother had hoped he would be. He had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterward, and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!

  Scrooge stayed true to his word and was the husband Belle wanted him to be and the father to his son, the Scion, he deserved. The Scion of the Great Culling grew to adulthood with Tiny Tim as his right-hand man, and together, with slayers all over the world, the vampires were nearly wiped out.

  Nearly, I say, dear reader, for I must warn you, on a cold and blustery night, when the snow falls, you must still keep your eye out for Queen Griselda and her minions. For such as she and her loathsome kind will always creep about seeking weakness of character, sloth, and greed, and if she sniffs it out, she will slip into your house, hide in the shadows, and wait for the time when she may sink her fangs deep into your throat and drink your life’s blood to the last drop....

  Did you miss Sarah Gray’s first vampire-infused classic?

  What if the enigmatic hero of one of our most timeless love stories was part vampire? The answer lies in this haunting retelling of the classic tale of Catherine and Heathcliff, kindred spirits bound by a turbulent—and now forbidden—passion . . .

  When a young orphan named Heathcliff is brought to Wuthering Heights by the manor’s owner, Mr. Earnshaw, rumors abound. Yet the truth is more complicated than anyone could guess. Heathcliff’s mother was a member of a gypsy band that roamed the English countryside, slaying vampires to keep citizens safe. But his father was a vampire. Now, even as Heathcliff gallantly fights the monsters who roam the moors in order to protect beautiful, spirited Catherine Earnshaw, he is torn by compassion for his victims—and by his own dark thirst.

  Though Catherine loves Heathcliff, she fears the vampire in him, and is tempted by the privileged lifestyle their neighbors, the Lintons, enjoy. Forced to choose between wealthy, refined Edgar Linton and the brooding, increasingly dangerous Heat
hcliff, she makes a fateful decision. And soon Heathcliff, too, must choose—between his hunger, and the woman he will love for all eternity . . .

  Keep reading for a taste of WUTHERING BITES....

  1

  1801

  I’ve just returned from a visit with my landlord—the solitary neighbor, rumor has it, is a vampire. It is truly a pity, really, this infestation of unholy bloodsuckers, because this is certainly a beautiful country, the moors of England. I do not think I could have picked a place more solitary or removed from the stir of society. It is a perfect misanthrope’s heaven . . . at least it will be so long as I do not have the misfortune of being bitten by said neighbor—or any of the other unnatural beasties that roam the countryside.

  I think Mr. Heathcliff and I are a suitable pair to share this desolation. A capital fellow! I do not think he realized how my heart warmed to him when I beheld his suspicious black eyes as I rode up. Who knows? Maybe we are both the subject of unfounded rumor and he has been warned that I am vampire!

  As he stared at me, I asked, “Mr. Heathcliff?”

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Lockwood, your tenant, sir.” And most unquestionably not a vampire, I thought, but did not say. “I do myself the honor of calling as soon as possible after my arrival. I hope I did not inconvenience you when I persevered to solicit occupation of Thrushcross Grange. I—”

  “I do not allow anyone to inconvenience me if I can prevent it,” he interrupted. “Walk in!”

  His last words seemed expressed with the sentiment May your flesh be sucked dry and the hair rose on the back of my neck. But despite the inkling of fear for wonder if the rumors about him could possibly be true, I was curious enough of his reserved nature to follow his bidding.

  “Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood’s horse,” he ordered as we entered the court.

  Joseph was an old man, though hale and sinewy. His skin was paler than the palest moon and his eyes red, rimmed in dark shadows. Around his neck, he wore a long scarf that he tied high beneath his ear, a peculiar accessory, indeed, for a manservant.

  “The Lord help us!” he whined, taking my horse. Why we needed the Lord’s help I was unsure, but I dared not speculate.

  Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling, though I have heard that all in the countryside refer to it as Wuthering Bites. A poor, unimaginative jest, I know. “Wuthering” is an adjective referring to the atmospheric tumult to which the house is exposed in stormy weather. By the look of the excessive slant of a few stunted firs and tangled briars at the end of the house, I can only guess at the power of the north wind that must blow over the edge. Happily, the architect had the foresight to build the structure strong; the narrow windows are set deep in the wall and the corner is defended by large, jutting stones.

  Before I passed the threshold into the house, I paused to admire the grotesque carving lavished over the front of the principal door. Among crumbling griffins and what appeared to be cloaked figures, their faces obscured, I detected the date “1500” and the name “Hareton Earnshaw.” Curiosity tempted me to ask about the history of the place from my surly, pale-skinned, black-haired owner, but his curt attitude at the door suggested he wished a speedy entrance or complete departure, so I hurried after him.

  Without a lobby or passage, one step took us into the family sitting room. They called it “the house.” It included the parlor and the kitchen in the back, from where I could distinguish a chatter of tongues and a clatter of culinary utensils. At one end of the parlor stood the massive fireplace, flanked by ranks of pewter dishes that reflected both light and heat, interspersed with jugs and tankards. On a vast oak dresser was a frame of wood laden with oat cakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham.

  They say vampires take no nourishment but blood, so the sight of the feast encouraged me. Surely the sign of abundant foodstuffs was proof enough that the master was no such creature! . . . Unless the spread was meant to disarm and persuade me that all here was as it should be in a decent household.

  Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, a couple of horse pistols, and three gaudily painted canisters on the ledge. The floor was smooth, white stone unsoiled, I noted, by bloodstains; the chairs, high-back, primitive structures painted green. In the arch under the dresser was a huge liver-colored bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies, and more dogs haunted other recesses.

  The parlor and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary for a simple northern farmer among these hills and moors, but Mr. Heathcliff formed a contrast to his abode. Despite his dark-haired, dark-eyed gypsy looks, in dress and manners he seems a gentleman country squire. By his appearance, some might suspect a degree of underbred pride; gypsies are known for such arrogance, and I wonder if he could be one of them. Since the infestation of the vampires, the gypsy vampire slayers have become bold in their haughtiness. With some right, as it is their skill and courage that keep the beasties from devouring all of us and taking over our fair country. But I am running too fast, bestowing attributes on Mr. Heathcliff that might be unfounded.

  I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite my land-lord and filled up the interval of silence by attempting to caress the pointer bitch that had left her pups and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs.

  My caress provoked a long, guttural snarl. At closer glance, I saw that this creature was half again as large as one of her kind, with great ivory fangs and a fierce eye. Her throat, I noted, was protected by a thick leather collar studded with spikes, no doubt to keep her from being drained of blood by a vampire.

  “You better let the dog alone,” growled Mr. Heathcliff, punctuating his words with a punch of his foot. “She’s not a pet!”

  He strode to a side door and shouted again. “Joseph!”

  The old man mumbled indistinctly from the depths of the cellar but gave no suggestion of ascending, so his master went down, leaving me with the monstrous bitch and a pair of sheep-dogs.

  Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs—or anyone’s, for that matter—I sat still. Unfortunately, I indulged myself by making a face at the dog, and she broke into a fury and leapt for my throat. I hastened to put the dining table between us, this action rousing the whole pack. Half a dozen four-footed fiends of various sizes and ages issued from their hidden dens and I felt my heels and coat-laps subjects of assault. I parried off the larger dogs as effectually as I could with a fireplace poker, but was forced to call for assistance from the household when a yipping terrier slipped beneath my guard and latched onto my knee. He was hedgehog small but keen of tooth, and I felt each tiny dagger dig into my flesh until warm drops of blood ran down my boot.

  Mr. Heathcliff and his henchman climbed the steps, slow as molasses running off a block of ice. Fortunately, an inhabitant of the kitchen came running; a lusty dame with tucked-up gown, bare arms, and flushed cheeks rushed into the midst of us, flourishing a frying pan, and used the weapon to such purpose that the storm magically subsided, leaving her heaving like a sea after a high wind when her master entered the scene.

  “What the devil is the matter?” he asked, eyeing me in a manner I could barely endure after such inhospitable treatment.

  “What the devil, indeed,” I muttered, collapsing into a chair, trying to pry the still-clinging terrier from my wounded knee. “A herd of possessed swine has better manners than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger in a hive of vampires!”

  He put a bottle of spirits down in front of me. “The hounds do right to be vigilant. We all do, considering what roams the moors. A glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you.” The terrier released my knee long enough to bite my thumb and went back to the knee with undisguised glee.

  “Not bitten, are you?”

  “By the son of Lucifer!” I replied, trying to shake the little dog off. “If blood loss be any measure—”

  “Vampire bitten,” Heathcliff corrected.

  I could
not suppress a shudder, as I knew the meaning of the phrase was far broader these days than it had once been. “If I had been, I would have set my silver dagger on the biter,” I responded, laying my hand on its sheath at my waist, my meaning equally broader than it might once have been.

  In these times of roaming vampires, both gentlemen and gentlewomen had taken to carrying weapons to fend the beasties off. Pure silver made up for the small size of the dagger and my lack of vampire fighting skills, I was assured by the salesman when I made the purchase in London. Well worth the extraordinary cost, I was promised.

  The vicious terrier continued to rend my poor knee until the kitchen wench with her flushed cheeks and noble frying pan put her fingers to her lips and emitted a sharp whistle. The canine fury’s pointed ears perked up and his gaze fixed on the skinned rabbit the dame dangled from one hand. With one final nip, the dog unclenched its jaw and dove for the rabbit. She sliced off the head and tossed it, bringing all the hounds to full cry and chase. The small devil that had so harried me reached the meat a paw’s length ahead of the pointer bitch and carried his prize to the top of a sideboard and hence to a lofty shelf to devour the bunny head, to the sorrow of those companions left supperless.

  Heathcliff’s countenance relaxed into a grin, surprising me. “A noble beast. A first-rate terrier. I’ve lost count of his blood-sucker kills. Of course, his mother was a badger, his father a noble hunter of vermin. Still, I doubt you’ve seen the like in your travels.”

  “No, I can’t say I have.” I unwound my second-best stock from my neck and used it to stanch the worst of the bleeding.

  “Come, come, you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. You look pale.”

  The massive pointer bitch had crept closer to lap up the droplets on the floor around my boots. “I have lost blood,” I pointed out.