Curse of Christmas: A Collection of Paranormal Holiday Stories

by Thea Atkinson

  “Hello, love,” Vincent said, kissing the top of her head.

  “Oi, that might make me ill,” George complained playfully.

  “Loo is down the hall to the right,” Veronica replied. “Vincent, we should begin opening the presents before our mortal guests become so inebriated, we must host them overnight.”

  Vincent smirked. He obviously knew she meant Michael and George over everyone else.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you have a spare coffin for them?” Mahon questioned lightly.

  “Yes, and a plot in the cemetery at Christ the King church if they vex me enough.” Veronica winked at Vincent and turned. She knew he would follow her; she knew he was wrapped around her little finger. And not by thrall, but by choice. Something most people — species notwithstanding — thought was impossible. The two of them defied all the odds with their relationship.

  The gifts presented to them were generous, especially considering that the Delarue estate was worth more than what amounted to a modern billion US dollars. But the giving of gifts was not about what the new couple needed. It was the sentiment of it all, the presents in celebration of the union. They were symbolic more than anything.

  They were down to the last box, ornately wrapped in white paper with a beige lace bow. It was small, and had no card attached. Vincent’s brow knitted as he held it. Something did not seem right, and both of the Crosses could feel it.

  “Perhaps save this for another time?” she suggested.

  He shook his head. “What could it possibly be? Collected sunlight?”

  “Miniature bomb?” she suggested. People were making them smaller and smaller. One could never be too careful when it came to mortals and their deadly weapons.

  Vincent gave a wry grin and began to open the box. Set inside was another small, unmarked box. A piece of paper was sticking out from the opening. Handwriting was barely visible from the other side.

  Veronica’s Undead heart began to beat harder in her chest, causing the fresh blood she drank to distribute faster. The floor began to swim under her and the sudden dizziness made it impossible for her to tell Vincent to not open that box.

  He slipped the note out, and Veronica coughed. He glanced at her to be sure she was all right and then began to read.

  “Like the foolish, lovesick rube you are, you have no idea what awaits you in Cumberland Manor, and your wife, too. This is my final attempt to save your soul, but I am afraid that, perhaps, it was too far gone from the moment you met that demon.

  “Happy wedding day. Leander.”

  Oh no, she thought. “Don’t open that any further!”

  Vincent stopped, hands completely still as she coughed again. “There’s bloody garlic in there. You open that, myself and my friends will all surely die before we can get enough of the cure made in time!”

  He gingerly put the small box down on the table and instinctively went to go to his wife, who waved him away.

  “Wash your hands before you even consider touching me,” she scolded. “Someone care to get rid of that box for us? Anyone?” She coughed once more. Were she exposed much longer, and she would wind up requiring the cure.

  Benjamin edged his way between the couple and grabbed the box. “I do believe that it is high time for the party to end, Mrs. Cross. Remember, always leave them wanting more.” He winked. “Congratulations once again.”

  Once Vincent thoroughly scrubbed his hands, the couple said goodbye to their guests.

  “I sincerely apologise,” he told every vampire who left. Some accepted his apology. Some merely glared at him and walked away.

  One vampiress looked at Veronica and said, “I certainly hope convivial society with him is worth it.”

  “Trust me, it is,” Veronica replied, much to the horror of her friend, who stomped away as though she was somehow offended. She chuckled at her retreating back. “Woman has eternity, yet cannot keep a bedfellow for longer than a decade. I must say, I do think she’s envious.”

  He smirked down at her. “Perhaps of me, but certainly not of the fact that you were nearly killed this evening.”

  Veronica shrugged. “What’s a wedding without an attempted murder?”

  “Jolly right!” Linwood agreed, rather loudly. He was being held up by Mahon as they exited.

  “Wonderful wedding. Too bad about the offensive herb,” Mahon commented. “Cross, note that, should I see Leander Price again, I will put it upon myself to put him out of his misery.”

  “Send him to me. I would be glad to assist,” she said. “The rake tried to put a bullet in us both. He should have known that it wouldn’t kill me, but would certainly make me mad.”

  Vincent looked at his new wife and said, “I’m trained to kill you and I still wouldn’t want to have you so much as annoyed with me.”

  She smiled up at him and kissed his nose. “Smart man.”

  After what seemed like an eternity, they finally got the last guest out of the house and Vera set the hired help to clean up. Normally, she only had two living blood donors and two lady’s maids to clean, but for the night she hired extra hands so as not to overtax her employees.

  “I noticed you haven’t partaken in any blood this evening,” Vincent commented. His blue eyes were a mix of fear and anticipation.

  “No, and I believe you know why,” Veronica replied. “Tonight I Claim you. I wanted only your blood to be in my system.”

  He cleared his throat. “And that won’t, um, over exert you? Or, that is…”

  “You’re cute when you’re nervous. You want to know if the lack of feeding will put me into bloodlust. No. I feed regularly and have for centuries now. One night would not throw me into the thralls of my nature.”

  He ran a hand in his hair. “I hope I didn’t offend.”

  She shook her head, gently taking his warm hands in her own. “This relationship is not typical in any way, my love. Never fear angering me with valid questions.” She gave his hands a gentle tug, aware that she could harm him if she used more strength.

  Mortals are so fragile…

  “Are you ready?”

  He nodded. “What does Claiming do again?”

  “A Claiming is a promise. It connects you to me in minute ways. I will be able to feel your intense emotions, and compel you to come to me if I am ever in need. You will be just a bit stronger, have better senses and reflexes. And most of all, it is a promise that I will one day turn you and make you like me,” she explained.

  His hands tightened their hold on hers. “I am ready.”

  She led him up the stairs to the second level. A large picture window illuminated the hallway, and they both stopped to admire the view. The moon was bright and snow gently covered the ground. It was still falling in fat, fluffy flakes that would feel like walking on clouds the next day.

  “We had our first kiss in this hall,” Vincent commented, his thumb caressing her hand.

  “You also nearly killed me here,” Veronica replied.

  “Faux pas. It won’t happen again,” he vowed, smiling.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering that night. It was a gala she hosted, and had invited Vincent for two reasons: one, she knew he was a hunter and wanted an alibi if she had to kill him. Two, if she didn’t have to kill him, he really was quite handsome.

  Veronica turned him down a corridor and his thoughts were interrupted by his body being slammed against a wall and held there by an inhumanly strong hand.

  “If you scream, I will not hesitate to kill you,” Veronica hissed. Vincent felt her free hand groping in his inner jacket pocket as she took out the vial of holy water and his gun. “Did you honestly think I was fooled by your smile and charm? Did you think I was so simple I did not know a hunter when I saw one?”

  Vincent felt his heart racing, but at the same time he could not conjure up real fear. Somewhere, deep down, he did not believe that Veronica was planning on killing him. A silly notion, but one he could not shake from his mind.

  “
Veronica, you don’t want to do this,” he said. “The last recorded murder connected directly to you was over a century ago. Don’t break that streak now, with me. If I do not return, more hunters will show up and you would not stand a chance.”

  After a moment, he felt the pressure on his back ease. Of course. She had his weapons, and he was now powerless in her presence. He turned around and stared into the blood red and black eyes that somehow did not instill fear in him...yet. He felt that he could reach her somehow.

  “Please, you must listen. From the moment I saw you, I knew there was much more to you than the average vampire. I could have killed you the moment you opened the door, but I did not. I have not. I did not even bring stakes or a blade with me, because I did not wish to kill you tonight, either. Not until I had had proof that you were just like the rest. Do not make me have to kill you. I do not want to.” That was the most candid Vincent had ever been with anyone, and he hoped that it was not in vain.

  Veronica stared at him, eyes slowly turning back to their natural brown hue. The menace in her mein seemed to be abating. “I did not understand why you did not try. And you are right: I have never killed for food. Those murders were hunters who had tried to kill me first. I have always survived on living donors. I can show you my books, show you that I pay mortals for blood. It has been my way for four hundred years, and I would never kill for food when it is unnecessary.

  “I do not want to kill you, either. I have grown rather fond of you despite knowing what you are.”

  Vincent allowed himself a smirk. “I suppose I could say the exact same thing.”

  “Not all monsters are murderers. However, all hunters are. Your kind do not understand our ways. You have murdered my friends. You have murdered employees of mine. You have murdered werewolves who fight for king and country in the wars. All because you fear what you cannot understand. We are no different than humans. Some of us have families. We have lives. We can fall in love.”

  That last statement was delivered with a direct gaze and a softening of the eye. “I know you cannot believe me simply on my honor, but I can show you the truth. Let me live tonight, and return here tomorrow. Bring your hunter friends if you must. Allow me the grace to state my case, just as mortals on trial get the opportunity to. Let me show you that I could never hurt anyone...least of all you.”

  When the paroxysm of love and passion is upon a person, all rational thought leaves the mind as the heart takes over. Vincent closed the distance between them in two long strides of his six-foot-two frame and had her cold body in his arms. She did not fight him. She still did not fight as his eyes gazed upon her and kissed her like a drowning man gasps for air.

  While far from her first kiss, it was the best one of Veronica’s long life. She knew then she was in love with the brave, reckless, kind mortal who could not bring himself to harm her. Lucky for her, he felt the same way.

  They continued down to their bedroom, though only Vincent slept there. Veronica’s coffin was in a different room down the same hall, a room with windows bolted over with sheet metal and graveyard dirt on the floor.

  The bedroom was sumptuously furnished with the best bedding, drapery, carpeting, and furniture. The heavy velvet drapes were pulled wide open and the light of the moon glinted off of the silver handles and bedposts. It was bright enough even for Vincent to see by without lighting candles.

  A fluffy layer of snow blanketed the grounds, and it still fell from the Heavens in thick, heavy flakes that muffled all sound from the outside world. It also aided in the brightness of the room, as it magnified the moon’s effects.

  A perfect night for a Claiming.

  Veronica moved so that she sat atop Vincent. He was splayed against the pillows like a Renaissance painting, cheeks red and hair slicked back with perspiration. Blue eyes, heavy laden with lust and love, glinted in the moonlight. It was almost too much for Veronica to bear to gaze upon.

  Her hand trailed down his cheek, over his chin, down his throat, and stopped when it rested over his heart. His skin was so warm, and his heart beat a steady but quick staccato beneath her palm.

  “Move, my love, the time is nearly upon us,” Veronica commanded.

  Warm hands came to hold her waist and he obeyed, riding a perfect rhythm as she leaned down, pressing cold lips to his heated skin. Blood rushed close to the surface. She was so close she could hear its flow, feel the beat of his pulse like a snare drum. The collage of physical sensations ignited the fire in her heart and eyes. She could feel them glowing in the moonlight as she felt her imminent release.

  It was at that moment her fangs fully elongated and she opened her mouth. The teeth merely teased the skin at first, and then she bit down hard as he called out her name in the darkness. Sweet, hot blood flowed into her mouth, and she knew to quickly swallow around the explosion. A few small droplets escaped, falling down her chin and dripping onto her chest as she continued to drink.

  Vincent’s blood was hot and sweet; it rejuvenated her like no others before. It felt like she was consuming liquid fire and it was addicting. The only reason she stopped was because she knew he was not ready to be turned, and if she continued to drink, it would no longer be a Claiming but a Siring.

  Wrenching her mouth away from his flesh, she used her fangs to open a gash in her wrist. First, she dribbled some blood over his wounds, which closed up, leaving the faintest scar and bruise that would be gone within a few days.

  She then placed her wrist to his lips. Not allowing him to drink, she smeared her blood across his lips, and he promptly licked it away, not breaking eye contact with her.

  “And now, my sweet Vincent, you are mine.”

  As if those words were a summons, the wind outside began to howl louder, buffeting the windows with snow and ice.

  Even the stoic Veronica jumped, frightened, as the shutters blew wildly and the window itself unlatched. It flapped back and forth in the wind, banging loudly, hard enough they were both certain the glass would crack.

  “Bloody Hell!” Vincent said as he leapt up to close the windows. He pounded on the latch, trying to keep it in place.

  Veronica, however, was not looking at her husband. Rather, she was focused on the image appearing behind and to the right of him. An elderly man with long, brittle, white hair stood, leaning on a monogrammed cane. He flickered a few times before becoming totally solid.

  “Vincent!” She pointed and he turned.

  A seasoned hunter, the ghost itself was most likely not what startled him, but rather the fact that there was one here, in their bedroom. And the spirit looked anything but friendly.

  He pointed his cane at Vincent in an accusatory manor. “Mortals do not lie with demons!” he intoned.

  Vincent squared his shoulders, his eyes not leaving the spirit. “Who are you? What do you want here, tonight?”

  “I am the destroyer of evil in this house.”

  Veronica quietly slipped out of bed, keeping an eye on her husband and the spirit.

  “No, you are not. You are disturbing us.” Vincent glanced at Veronica and continued, “You do not belong to this world any longer. I compel you to leave this plane and go to your final rest.”

  The ghost laughed, a wheezing sound. “You cannot compel me to do anything. Not with the evil running in your veins.”

  “Maybe he cannot, but this certainly can.” Veronica swung the iron fireplace poker through the spirit, temporarily decimating it.

  Vincent let out a breath. “Friend of yours, perhaps?”

  Before Veronica could reply, the house began to tremble beneath their feet.

  They grabbed onto each other as the man’s phantom voice rose to fill the very air in the room.

  “We are the Keepers of Cumberland Manor, and we will continue our work, no matter how you try to thwart us.”

  While Veronica slept in the daytime, Vincent went to the library’s secret room, where he, Benjamin, Michael, George, and Mahon would gather to read the secret tomes and plan their pa
ranormal hunts.

  After recounting the encounter with the ghost, he finished with what the spirit said.

  “He is hinting that there are more ghosts than him?” Michael asked, shuddering.

  Vincent nodded. “It felt as though there was. I need to know who they all are, so I can figure out how to banish them for good.”

  Benjamin got up from his seat and went amongst the stacks of books. “Cumberland Manor was thought to be haunted in the beginning of the eighteenth century. Until, of course, a certain Frenchwoman bought the place and turned it into a solo vampire’s nest.” He gave a slight smile. “I know I read about it before…”

  “Try Alexander Price’s History of Haunted London,” George commented. “Leander’s great-great grandfather. Excellent writer. Horrible hunter.”

  Benjamin listened and found the tome. As he scanned the table of contents, he shouted, “Success! Chapter Nineteen: ‘The Ghosts in the Snow’.” He began to read aloud.

  “Beginning in the sixteenth century, a strain of our family took up residence in an Elizabethan manor, heretofore known as Cumberland Manor, after the family name. They took it upon themselves to stop illicit activities between human beings and the unnatural creatures that call London home.

  “Sadly, though their plight was noble, Eireann Cumberland went mad, some believe from religious fanaticism, while others say it was the stress of the job that caused brain fever. I, myself, am likely to believe the latter.

  “Convinced that there was an evil spirit amongst the residents in the manor, Eireann slaughtered his entire family, and then himself.

  “He opened all of the windows on Christmas Eve, letting in an unprecedented blizzard. When the family came to the great room to investigate, they found Eireann with a tray of hot cider and a wide smile. He implored them to drink, which they apparently did. When the constable discovered their corpses, they were all perished, poisoned with Strychnos.