The Bite Before Christmas

by Heidi Betts

  It amazed her that after all these years, she never tired of watching him strip. The sleek lines of his well-built body. The pull and release of hard muscle under smooth skin when he moved. God, he was gorgeous. Thank goodness he’d been in such good shape when he’d been turned, otherwise he might have been stuck in the body of a pudgy couch potato for all eternity.

  The same could be said for her, of course. She’d been born with the body of a supermodel and had luckily died—and come back—before a lifetime of Papa John’s pizzas and Dairy Queen Blizzards could change that.

  She even adored his stubbled skull, which he hadn’t died with and had to trim daily. It made him look all sexy and dangerous. And the dangerous, at least, served him well in his job as a cop for the BPD—something she would worry about if she didn’t know he could A.) take care of himself, and B.) recover in a matter of hours from almost any injury, even the most fatal.

  The only reason he wasn’t also covered from head to toe with tattoos was that they hadn’t been as popular before his turning as they were now. Although there were times, while working undercover, that he would get a design or two stenciled on his skin.

  It was usually something scary and with distinct gang affiliations, like a skull with snakes and flames shooting out of the eye sockets. The ink completely disappeared each evening with the setting of the sun, and he would have to have them done all over again, but while they were there, she always had fun tracing the lines and colors and playing out a few bad boy sexual fantasies.

  Slipping out of her dress and heels and jewelry and hose, she put on one of her long, satin nighties, turning just in time to see Ian climb under the covers butt naked. While she’d taken the time to hang her gown back in the closet and put her earrings away, he’d left his clothes in a wrinkled pile in the middle of the floor. She would either pick them up in the morning or they would lie there until their housekeeper came in to clean up after the holidays.

  “I don’t know why you bother putting those things on,” Ian said from where he sat propped up against the headboard by a stack of big, fluffy pillows. “I’m just going to tear it off of you as soon as the movie’s over, anyway.”

  The stark white sheets were pulled to his waist, leaving his broad chest and mouthwatering six-pack abs bare. And her mouth did water at the sight—as well as his suggestive comment.

  “Oh. So movie first, then making love to me, hm?” she said, feigning offense as she sauntered across the thickly carpeted floor, climbing the two steps leading up to the very tall, antique four-poster bed with its intricately carved headboard and lace canopy. “Nice to know where I fall on your list of priorities.”

  She perched on the edge of the mattress and began smoothing a bit of moisturizing cream over her arms and legs. Behind her, the bed shifted and Ian’s warm lips pressed against her bare shoulder. She didn’t actually need moisturizer, as her skin was as naturally—or unnaturally, as the case may be—soft as a baby’s bottom, but she liked the ritual and the fruity mango fragrance.

  “Hey, it’s Christmas. I’ll only get to see Clarence get his wings five or six more times before he and George disappear again for another year.”

  “Uh-huh. And you won’t dig out your DVD in June or July for a bit of a refresher?” she teased, not bothering to glance back at him.

  “Maybe. Now come here.”

  She gave a yelp as he wrapped a strong arm around her waist and hauled her back against his chest. A minute later, she was tucked into his side and they were both settled in to watch the end of the black-and-white film.

  No matter how many times she’d seen it, it never failed to tug at her heartstrings in all the right places.

  Help me, Clarence, please. Please! I want to live again. Please, God, let me live again.

  She sniffled as George Bailey started running through town, wishing everyone and his uncle a Merry Christmas. His realization that his life really was a wonderful one, regardless of its various problems and pitfalls, made her eyes grow damp and got her every time.

  And Ian knew it, flexing his arm to hug her closer and press a kiss to the crown of her head. She suspected this part of the movie put a lump in his throat, he was just too much of a man to show it. Otherwise, why would he bother watching it multiple times every year?

  As the film ended with a cheerful chorus of “Old Lang Syne” and the credits began to roll, Ian reached for the remote and clicked off the TV, sending the room into almost total darkness. When it came to vamps, though, that just meant all the better to see you with, my dear.

  Rolling toward her, Ian pulled her away from the headboard and onto her back, readjusting the covers so they weren’t trapped between them. She turned her face into the curve of his shoulder, inhaling the warm, musky scent of his skin with a hint of citrus and spice that was uniquely his.

  “What do you want?” she whispered, knowing he would know exactly what she was saying.

  He settled more fully between her open legs, covering her from chest to ankle like a warm blanket…one much softer and more comfortable than the actual blankets.

  “What do I want?” he repeated, taking her lead and following one of their favorite bits of dialogue from It’s a Wonderful Life. “Why, I’m just here to get warm, that’s all.”

  “He’s making violent love to me, Mother!” she called out, even though they were alone in the house and there was no one else around to hear.

  His lips curved up in a grin, revealing long, pearly-white incisors that made him look wolfish and dangerous and hot. A skitter of longing raced down her spine and into all of her naughty bathing suit areas.

  “Not yet,” he told her. “But I certainly plan on it.”

  Lowering his head, his lips grazed her collarbone while beneath the sheets his hands wandered in the very best way. As it always did, his touch melted her from the inside out. When his mouth started to move along her throat and the lobe of her ear, she knew her brain cells weren’t far behind.

  “Ian,” she murmured as her eyes started to drift closed and her lashes fluttered when she tried valiantly to keep them open.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you think the others will get married?” she asked before rational thought could forsake her completely.

  “Others, who?”

  His mouth closed on the taut muscle running down the side of her throat and she gave a low moan. He very nearly threw her off her train of…Train of…Were they on a train?

  He released her, and blood sluggishly returned to her brain stem.

  Oh, right.

  “Connor and Jillian. Sean and Vivian.”

  “I don’t know.” he mumbled distractedly against her skin, and he didn’t sound as though he cared. “Why?”

  “It’s what people do,” she said slowly, struggling to keep her mind on track.

  His hands were traveling over her breasts now, his mouth threatening to follow suit as he suckled at the hollow of her throat. Angelina tipped her head back and hummed, letting her eyes slide closed as prickles of sensation began to unfurl all along her nerve endings.

  “When they’re in love. Vampire or human…or a vampire/human mix…you’d think that if they love each other, eventually they’d want to get married.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Ian nudged a knee between her legs, urging her to part, to widen. And she did, welcoming him into the cradle of her thighs while she let her fingers trail over his bulging biceps and strong, expansive back.

  “You love me, don’t you, Ian?” she asked softly.

  He raised his head, brows pulled down slightly as he stared down at her with intense dark eyes. “Would I be here if I didn’t?” he responded.

  Which was as close to I love you as Ian got—and not at all the answer she’d been hoping for.

  Did eighty-some years of passion and dedication mean nothing to him? Or had she made their relationship too easy for him, so that he didn’t think that vows or a true commitment were necessary?

  Wrapping
her arms around his neck, she held him close and brought his mouth down to cover hers. He kissed her, and with a sigh she kissed him back.

  She wasn’t so much hurt as…disappointed. Although he’d reacted almost exactly as expected to her gentle prodding, she had to admit that she’d hoped for more.

  It was Christmas, a time when emotions tended to be softer and closer to the surface. Was it such a stretch to believe Ian might finally decide to propose tonight of all nights, even if it was prompted by her foot in the middle of his back?

  Yes, she supposed it was. Because he was a vampire, and had been for so long, he didn’t think of himself as partly human anymore, or consider that he needed to be tied by human traditions.

  Ironic, since he was a cop, and spent nearly every night upholding human laws. Though she suspected that had more to do with the strong beliefs instilled in him as a child, long before he’d been turned. Things with Ian always seemed to be black or white, right or wrong, good versus evil. Plus, he was a rough and tumble guy; given his super strength and immortality, she was pretty sure he just liked to take names and kick ass.

  But as his callused palms skated up her hips and over her stomach, dragging her nightgown right along with them, she wondered how things might have played out between them if she and Ian weren’t vampires.

  Would they be together at all? She certainly hoped so.

  Would they be married?

  Would they have normal jobs that were most often done during daylight hours, like maybe being school teachers or lawyers or store clerks?

  What about children? Would they have just put their overly excited two-point-five kids to bed with promises of Santa Claus coming down the chimney to leave presents under the tree by morning?

  It all sounded so wonderful. And she wanted it…well, the parts she could realistically have…vampire or not.

  For the next half hour, while Ian did his best to turn her thoughts to mush, a small spot in the very back of her brain couldn’t help but wonder…

  What would their lives be like if they’d never been turned?

  SIP TWO

  Angelina woke up the next evening, expecting to find herself in her own house, in her own bed, wrapped in Ian’s arms, just as she’d been when she’d fallen asleep the morning before.

  But when she opened her eyes, her vision immediately focused and twenty-twenty perfect, she didn’t see the delicate lace canopy of her bed at home. Instead, she was staring up at a dirty, no-longer-even-close-to-white ceiling. One of those pockmarked jobs with the removable panels like in schools and office buildings.

  From there, her eyes slid to ugly, striped and peeling wallpaper in shades of buzzard-barf brown, booger green, and mucus yellow. Upon further consideration, she decided “ugly” was too kind a term; it was truly hideous.

  She knew without looking, and without taking into consideration the condition of the walls and ceiling, that whatever bed she was in, the mattress was lumpy and saggy, the sheets scratchy and cheap. She just prayed they were clean—though judging by the rest of the room, that was one prayer destined to go unanswered.

  For a second, her eyes squeezed shut at the thought. Ick.

  She started to sit up, opening them again, only to jerk back in startlement when she found another person—a man—sitting at the foot of the bed, pulling on his socks and shoes. He turned slightly, enough for her to see the side of his face, and she let out a relieved sigh.

  It was Ian. Whew.

  At the realization, her heart slowed its rapid beat and her pulse returned almost to normal. She wasn’t sure what they were doing in this cheap, grungy…motel room?…but if he was here with her, then she knew everything must be okay.

  He stood and fastened the button of his jeans, tucking his shirt into the waistband. “You better get up and get dressed,” he told her. “We’ve only got the room for an hour.”

  An hour? Ewww, they were in one of those disgusting rent-by-the-hour no-tell motels? Ewwwww.

  She shivered, her skin literally crawling at the thought of all the bodies that had been in this room, on these sheets, doing all manner of ungodly acts. And what might be literally crawling in the sheets because of it!

  With a sound of disgust, she leapt out of bed and reached for the pile of clothes on the floor only a few feet away. The carpet, too, was dirty and matted and…gah, she didn’t even want to be standing on it in bare feet, let alone climb into clothes that had been lying on the soiled fibers for the last fifty-odd minutes.

  What in God’s name were they doing here? And how did they even get here, when the last thing she remembered was riding Ian like a hobby horse before falling quite comfortably asleep in her own much nicer, much cleaner, much more appealing bed.

  She reached for the first item of clothing on the pile and shook it out. A white, sleeveless undershirt. Feminine only by its size and slightly tapered style.

  This was supposed to be hers?

  When was the last time she’d worn an undershirt? Umm…can you say never? Never in her life, either before her turning or after. Never, never, had she worn such a pedestrian garment.

  So maybe these clothes weren’t hers.

  A giant mental block as tall and wide as the Great Wall of China went up in her head, refusing to let her wander down the path of whose clothes they might be if they weren’t hers. Shudders.

  Looking around the room, however, there were no other clothes that could be hers. No other personal items whatsoever.

  Standing near the battered dresser and ancient, even more battered television set that rested atop, Ian crossed his arms and shot her an annoyed glance. “What are you waiting for? We’ve gotta get a move on.”

  The man glaring at her might look like Ian Hart, but he sure didn’t sound like him. She couldn’t remember the last time Ian had been so short or annoyed with her. Maybe because he never had.

  This was more confusing than the moment she’d awakened from a deep sleep full of bizarre, vivid dreams to discover she’d died and been raised again as a vampire. It had taken her weeks to get used to the idea, and to learn to function as a blood-drinking creature of the night. Yet that experience seemed like a walk in the park compared to this especially strange Twilight Zone episode.

  Since she didn’t have much choice, she quickly shrugged into “her” clothes. Snug blue jeans, the white tank-style undershirt, and a plaid flannel button-down over that.

  Really? Plaid? Flannel? Where was she going from here—lumberjack camp?

  Apparently. Because her shoes were a pair of worn brown ankle boots.

  “Don’t forget your piece,” Ian said, coming up beside her and handing her…

  A gun. A big, black gun tucked inside a complicated holster.

  What the hell was going on?!

  She didn’t own a gun. She didn’t like guns. She’d never even touched Ian’s gun in all the years he’d been carrying one.

  But he was standing there, holding it out to her as though he expected her to take it. Then he handed her something else—a ponytail scrunchie.

  “Remember to pull your hair back again, or someone will get suspicious.”

  Who? Of what?

  She had to get a grip and figure out what was going on.

  “Just…give me one more minute,” she told him, her voice weak and scratchy, but as strong as she could make it at the moment. Then she darted past him and around the end of the bed, into the bathroom on the far side of the cramped room.

  Giving herself strict orders not to look too closely at her surroundings, she stood in front of the sink and studied her reflection as best she could in the cloudy, dirt-flecked mirror.

  She looked like herself. Same long, straight black hair. Same dark blue eyes, glittering back at her now like hard, multifaceted sapphires. The clothes obviously belonged to Lesbian Barbie, but she wasn’t having an out-of-her-body-and-into-someone-else’s experience.

  So it must be a dream. A really lousy, unamusing dream, but a dream she knew exactly
how to wake up from.

  Pulling her hair back, away from her face, she fixed it into a sleek ponytail with the fabric band Ian had given her. Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders…and pinched herself.

  She felt it, but it didn’t particularly hurt. Worse, it didn’t change anything. She was still standing in the grungy bathroom in her uber-casual, log-splitting attire.

  Okay, well, she was a vampire, so she didn’t feel pain the way normal people did. Closing her eyes, she picked a more tender spot—the soft skin on the inside of her upper arm—and both pinched and twisted. Hard.

  Tears came to her eyes, but it didn’t change her nightmare circumstances.

  Dammit.

  “Ang!” Ian called from the other room. “Let’s go.”

  She didn’t know what the big hurry was, but she couldn’t leave until she’d figured out what was going on. Or preferably woke up from this godawful nightmare.

  Catching sight of a silver clasp on the shoulder holster Ian had handed her before she’d escaped to the Powder Room of the Damned, she grabbed it and did the only thing she could think of that would wake her up!

  She shoved up her shirtsleeve and scraped the sharpest edge along the underside of her forearm as hard as she could. Sharp pain shot through her entire body, making her gasp.

  Blood pooled along the cut mark before slowly running over the curve of her arm and dripping into the scratched porcelain of the sink basin.

  Okay, so the blood was no surprise; vampires were filled with the stuff. But such a tiny pinprick shouldn’t hurt this much.

  Granted, it wasn’t a severed limb; she wasn’t going to die from the wound, and the pain was already beginning to ebb. But it shouldn’t have felt like that at all. A cut like she’d just given herself should have registered as no more than a mosquito bite on her pain level radar.

  On top of that, she hadn’t woken up. The pain she shouldn’t have felt in the first place hadn’t sent her spiraling out of this nightmare and back into her nice, warm, comfortable reality.