The Bite Before Christmas

by Heidi Betts

  Unsure of whether she agreed with her friend’s outrage or not, Vivian sipped her low-fat caramel frappuccino, saving the O-pos for later. Oh, she was sad and hurt, and those emotions tended to blend into anger, but she also understood how Sean must be feeling.

  One minute, he’d been mortal; worse, a mortal facing his imminent mortality. The next, he’d woken up in a strange apartment with his ex-secretary hovering over him, telling him he was a vampire. Put that way, she was a little surprised he hadn’t screamed in terror and exited stage left.

  “He was overwhelmed,” she told Angelina, leaping to his defense. “He barely had twenty-four hours to come to terms with his new reality. That can’t be easy.”

  Angelina scoffed. “But he had enough time to bang you like a tambourine, right? And he certainly took to the whole bloodsucking thing quickly enough.”

  Vivian’s hand flew up to cover the faint bite marks on her neck like a human would try to hide a hickey. She knew the holes were nearly invisible by now, but vampires could smell fresh wounds—even recently closed ones—from a mile away.

  “Was he still trying to pull a guilt trip on you, or did you tell him he could end it any time he wants?”

  She shook her head. “It never came up,” she said quietly.

  “Well, he’ll figure it out soon enough. Everybody and their offspring knows how to do in a vamp, thanks to Bram Stoker and his ilk.”

  “I hope he doesn’t, though,” Vivian whispered. She couldn’t imagine a world without Sean Spicer in it. Didn’t want to live in that world. Even if she couldn’t be with him, at least she could know he was out there somewhere, safe and happy and making a life for himself.

  “I know,” Angelina whispered comfortingly, changing her tune and reaching out to pat her hand. “Believe me, I know. You love him, and no matter what, you want him to be safe and happy.”

  Tears sprang to Vivian’s eyes, and she swallowed hard to hold them back. She gave a jerky nod, unable to force words past her tight throat.

  “You know what you need?” Angelina asked, leaning back and using both hands to take a drink from her bright orange, oversize coffee cup.

  The split-second change in tone and demeanor—not to mention the question—was so typical of Angelina, Vivian smiled. It was a crooked, watery smile, but a smile all the same.

  “What do I need, Angelina?”

  “You need to shake off the doldrums, forget about that brainless beefcake for a while, and have some fun.” Her giant cup clinked against the matching orange saucer as she set it down.

  “Come with Ian and me to Connor Drake’s Christmas party next week. It’s the first he’s ever thrown, thanks to a new love interest. She’s mortal, but since I’m the one who set them up, we won’t hold it against her,” she added with a wink. “She actually seems to be quite good for him, and I’d venture to say he’s nearly ecstatic about inviting everyone to Drake Manor for a good, old-fashioned holiday get-together.”

  Vivian opened her mouth to refuse, then paused. She wasn’t sure she was up for a party just yet…but then again, maybe getting out of her apartment and mingling with a few fanged friends for a while was exactly what she needed.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said instead.

  “Good enough,” Angelina replied, letting her off the hook more easily than she would have expected for the headstrong matchmaker and consummate buttinski.

  Grabbing her purse, Angelina dug around for enough loose bills to cover both their orders and tossed them on the table. “Now let’s blow this pastry stand and go do something more interesting than talking about the fickleness of men.”

  “Like what?” Vivian asked, standing to shrug into her long woolen coat.

  Angelina grinned, a devilish spark glinting in her sapphire eyes. “Shoe shopping!”

  TYPE B-NEGATIVE

  Sean sat at a table at the very back of the club. Of all the names its owners could have come up with to call the place, they had picked Club Dead.

  He nearly rolled his eyes. Real original. And if they were hoping to fly under the radar, they’d failed miserably. But then, judging by the patrons of Club Dead, they weren’t looking to blend in.

  It had taken him all of five minutes to Google local vampire hangouts, and if that hadn’t pointed him in the right direction, all the black leather, excessive piercings, and bulging bad-assery would have.

  Every stereotype imaginable surrounded him. Long black capes and pale skin. Matrix-like getups mixed with outfits that looked as though they’d stepped straight out of the 1800s. The women, especially, seemed enamored of white blouses and black bustiers that turned them into modern-day, top-heavy pirate wenches.

  Maybe he’d chosen the wrong bar for his first foray into vampire society, he thought, swirling the dark liquid in the highball glass in front of him as the loudest techno-punk he’d ever had the displeasure of hearing burst his eardrums over and over again. The learning curve was steep, to say the least.

  After leaving Vivian’s penthouse, he’d hopped a cab back to his own apartment and holed up for a while in the dark, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. He was past denying that he’d been changed, physically, in a fundamental way. Now he was simply trying to figure out how he felt about it…and how he was going to move forward from here.

  Could he go back to work, or would he have to find something else to do? How was he going to tell his family and friends who’d known about his illness and were bracing for his imminent demise that he was both cured and going to live forever? (Surprise!)

  What bothered him most, though, and seemed to plague him both day and night…yes, during both his waking and sleeping hours, even though the two were now flipped…was Vivian.

  As furious as he’d been with her in the beginning, sex hot enough to scorch his bone marrow had a way of dampening it a bit. And a part of him—a really deep, dark, intense part of him—wanted to stay with her, be with her, maybe even…Well, the L-word came to mind.

  He wasn’t sure he could trust his feelings right now, though. If his transformation from homo sapien to blood-o suckien was powerful enough to change his love of sun and sand to an inherent fear of it, and his disgust at the idea of drinking blood to a craving for it, how could he know his heart and head hadn’t been changed, as well?

  Vivian had worked for him for over two years, and though he’d stolen glances at her tommyknockers or admired her rear end in a tight skirt from time to time, he’d never once considered having an affair with her.

  Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. The thought had crossed his mind once or twice, he was sure, but only in the most superficial, “Dear Penthouse…” sort of way. But not in terms of asking her out to dinner, getting to know her on a more personal level, and possibly building a relationship.

  The encounter in his office the night he’d told her he was leaving-slash-dying had been—he’d thought—a fluke. A very passionate, very enjoyable fluke, but still just a one-night stand.

  He was never supposed to see her again, let alone wake up in her apartment with a freaking giant red ribbon strung across his chest and someone else’s blood pumping through his newly immortal veins.

  But no matter how hard he tried, he could not get her out of his head. He wanted to go back to her apartment and kiss her, stroke her, bury himself inside her as far as he could go, and drive them both over the edge. He wanted to talk with her and let her teach him more about this undead thing. There were things she could tell him that he wouldn’t hear anywhere else, and the idea of spending the next twenty, fifty, three hundred years with her, learning them all wasn’t a terrible one.

  Which is what had him feeling a little shaky. Before he went back to her on the basis of simply the best sex ever, he needed to know if that’s all it was—terrific sex—or if it was more. If it was Vivian who called to him and made him think that maybe drinking blood and living forever wouldn’t be so bad as long as he could do them with her.

  He tossed b
ack the rest of his drink. After a bit of taste testing, he’d discovered he liked a nice lukewarm human (gack! the concept still made him squirm, even though he knew it came from entirely willing donors) AB-negative best, but could tolerate or even enjoy other blood types, as well as several of the synthetics that were more readily available. Standing, he made his way onto the dance floor. The music throbbed through the room, rattling his molars, and the crush of bodies filling the high-ceilinged bar raised the temperature of the room by at least twenty degrees.

  Though he hadn’t gone full Goth—it would take a lot more than suddenly discovering he was a vampire to send him that far onto the dark side—he’d been smart enough to dress the part of both a club goer and a vamp. Slicked-back hair, leather jacket over a dark blue silk shirt, and a pair of Ferragamos he hardly ever wore.

  He looked smooth, if he did say so himself. And judging by the looks he was getting from some of the women crowded around him, they agreed.

  Good. It would make this little experiment easier.

  Sauntering up to a tall, supermodel-sexy blonde, he started to sway with her in time to the throbbing, thumping music. Her makeup was heavy, her eyebrow pierced, and he’d bet a year’s salary her breasts were Play-doh.

  How did that work? he wondered briefly. If vampires healed almost immediately, how did their bodies react to foreign objects implanted under the skin? Or had she done the op before her transformation, so they stuck?

  Whatever. He had more important things to worry about at the moment, and it wasn’t like he was in the market for a boob job himself. Not today, at any rate.

  The woman smiled, letting him know she was interested. It had been a long time since he’d played this game, but he still knew when he was getting the green light from a willing female.

  Shifting closer, he let her breasts bump his chest and slid a hand behind the curtain of her long hair to tug her forward. Still moving with the beat of the current song—if migraine-inducing noise could even be called such a thing—he covered her mouth with his own, letting his tongue slide past her lips. Tasting, tangling, waiting for sparks and flares and the rocket’s red glare.

  Nothing.

  He pulled back, straightened, and waited for attraction or arousal to strike. The blonde was still grinning like a hungry crocodile.

  “Sorry,” he shouted over the music as he shook his head. “I have to go.”

  Without waiting for her reaction, he waded deeper into the crowd, trying again. He went for a brunette this time. Short, gel-spiked hair, a row of silver studs dotting the entire curve of one ear, a silver dangle brushing her bare shoulder from the single hole in the other. A nose ring, and a surprisingly feminine rose tattoo showed over the top of her stiff, form-fitting black-and-red bustier.

  Normally, he would have steered clear of someone like her, since he was pretty sure she was tougher than he was and maybe even had bigger balls hidden in those skin-tight leather pants. But now that he was packing some of that super strength that came with being an otherworldly being, he figured that even if he couldn’t take her, he could at least hold his own. That was, if she took exception to his advances and decided to coldcock him.

  When she grabbed him first, however, rubbing and gyrating against him, he knew the chances of that were slim. Her eyes were dark and flat, her mouth a thin, emotionless line. But that didn’t stop her from closing in and sticking her tongue down his throat.

  Maybe it was her overly aggressive demeanor. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t normally attracted to her type. Whatever the case, he felt nothing. No zip, no flash of excitement, and definitely nothing below the equator.

  She didn’t seem to mind at all when he backed away, simply turned to dance—and possibly make out—with the next available guy.

  He scanned the crowd, looking for someone, anyone who could get his motor running. One song ended and another began. Not that Sean noticed a discernable difference.

  A redhead. That’s what he needed. He’d always had a penchant for redheads, and Vivian had gorgeous copper curls that made him hard just thinking about them. So it stood to reason that if any of the lady vamps milling about Club Dead tonight were going to flip his switch, it would be someone with similar hair, a similar build….

  It took him twice around the dance floor before he found someone who fit the bill. She was sitting at the bar, swirling the last half inch of a bright green martini instead of the blood or blood-related cocktail he would have expected.

  Okay, good sign. She also smiled at him. Not a predatory or mocking smile, but one that seemed welcoming and sincere.

  She was pretty, but nowhere near as beautiful as Viv. That was either an indisputable fact…or another sign that his feelings for Vivian might be genuine.

  “Mind if I sit here?” he asked in a raised voice, gesturing to the empty, extra-tall stool to her left.

  She shook her head and waved a hand, gesturing for him to help himself. He slid onto the cushioned seat, signaling for the bartender—a Chyna-like Amazon of a woman who looked as though she’d be more at home in a wrestling ring than serving drinks to the masses.

  “NuBlood A for me, and another…” He paused, unsure of exactly what the green stuff was in her glass.

  “Appletini,” she provided helpfully.

  Vivian would enjoy an appletini, he thought, digging cash from his wallet and sliding it across the bar. She didn’t need it, and according to his research, it took a lot of alcohol to affect vampires the way it did humans. But he imagined she would enjoy the bright color and the mix of sweet and tart.

  Stick another checkmark in the “Feelings for Vivian Might Be Real” column. Otherwise, he wouldn’t know what kind of cocktail she’d like, and wouldn’t give a flying fig either way.

  Rather than go in for the kiss right off the bat, he sat with this woman—she introduced herself as Naomi—and chatted. It wasn’t easy, given the decibel levels surrounding them, but they tried. And after a few minutes, when he realized he actually liked her, he simply asked for what he needed rather than forcing himself on her or trying to coerce her.

  “Would you mind if I kissed you?” he said, moving closer so he wouldn’t have to yell. “I need to know something about myself, so I’m conducting a bit of an experiment, and I…I just need to kiss you, if that’s all right.”

  Her eyes widened a fraction. He didn’t blame her; that couldn’t be something a woman heard every day, and he was aware of how bizarre it sounded. Instead of making a break for it, though, she slowly nodded and let her lips go slack, waiting.

  Leaning in, he pressed his mouth to hers. Soft at first, then more firmly. Her lips parted on a breathy sigh and he accepted the invitation, sliding his tongue along her teeth, then inside to taste and explore.

  This kiss lasted longer than the others. He took his time, learning her texture and letting his fingers trail up and down her arm while their mouths continued to mesh.

  Long minutes later, he pulled away.

  “Thank you,” he said gently. “I think I have my answer now.”

  And then he slid off the stool, downed the last of his drink, and walked out of Club Dead.

  TYPE O-NEGATIVE

  Vivian smiled until she thought her face would crack. She didn’t want to be here, but Angelina had insisted.

  Insisted? Ha! She’d all but dragged Vivian out of her apartment by the hair.

  Calling until Vivian had wanted to scream and stopped answering the phone altogether. Showing up at her door three days before the party at Drake Manor to make sure Vivian had something appropriate in her closet, and when she didn’t, forcing her practically at gunpoint to go shopping.

  She had been informed, in no uncertain terms, that Angelina and Ian would pick her up in front of her building at precisely eight o’clock, and if she wasn’t there, the couple would come after her. Words like stake and dawn and holy water had been tossed around. And though only two of the three could hurt her, she’d decided not to risk Angelina’s
apparently homicidal wrath.

  Besides, it was just one night. She could grin and bear being out in public, out with happy, laughing people celebrating the holidays for one night. Her apartment would still be there when she got back. As would her unmade bed, her on-the-way-to-ratty robe, and the stash of synth, junk food, and sappy DVDs she’d been wallowing in for the past two weeks.

  That’s how long it had been since Sean had walked out and once again left her a lonely, pining mess.

  Two weeks.

  Fourteen days.

  Well, thirteen days, eight hours, and…she tipped her arm—the one not holding a glass of thick, generously spiked eggnog—and checked her watch…twenty-seven minutes. Not that she was counting.

  Christmas music played softly through the entire first floor of Connor Drake’s expansive home. Vivian had never visited the mansion before; there was no reason she would have, since she knew only as much about the wealthy (vampire) restaurateur as she read in the paper or saw on the news.

  She hoped the man wouldn’t mind her crashing the party…and if he did, she was totally going to blame it on Angelina. Let her absorb the brunt of the man’s displeasure while Vivian made a run for it.

  “You’re not going to meet anyone standing in the corner by yourself,” Angelina chastised, coming up beside her with her own flute of champagne.

  As usual, Angelina was more gorgeous than just about any other woman in the room. She had a very glamorous, Catherine Zeta-Jones look about her, her makeup always movie star perfect, never a hair out of place.

  Vivian was no slouch in the looks department herself, but where she got home from work and traded her nicer clothes for a comfortable shorts and cami set, she couldn’t imagine Angelina crawling into bed in anything less than the sexiest, most luxurious lingerie like some twenty-four/seven Victoria’s Secret model.