Christmas With a Vampire

by Merline Lovelace

  She held her hands out to her sides, palms tilted up, middle finger and thumb curved slightly together, like some medieval picture of a saint or…an angel.

  His nostrils flared. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be. Angels didn’t exist…. Of course, most people didn’t think vampires existed, either.

  “I’m a daimon—or was.” She frowned, seemed to lose her concentration for a second, then took in a breath and repeated herself. “I’m a daimon.” This time as she spoke the words the air around her began to shimmer, tiny rays of light shooting from her body, outlining her. “A daymun.” He said the word like she had. He’d never heard the term, not in relation to anything he associated with Aimee.

  “I’m a light daimon. There are others. I was assigned to Kevin.”

  “The boy at the drug store,” Drystan murmured, not knowing where this was going, not sure he wanted to know. Had Aimee been assigned to him? Had she been playing with his mind, trying to convert him from his vampire ways? His jaw hardened. As if his life was that simple—as if this state was something he chose.

  “Are you here to judge me?” he asked. He snapped the jeans straight, then began jerking them on. “Or fix me? People have tried both before.” He pulled the shirt over his head, shoved his arms through. “They’ve failed.”

  “I’m not here to judge you or fix you.” Her words were quiet, the glow around her softer now, pulsing, soothing. “You came to me, remember?”

  “Maybe.” He took a step back, leaned against the wall. “Or maybe some cosmic puppeteer arranged that, too, planted a seed in my head.”

  She blinked and her arms started to drop, then resolve flashed through her eyes, and she straightened her neck, pulled her arms back to their angelic pose. “Daimons don’t make people do things. We don’t mess with free will—any choice you make is your own.”

  Drystan’s jaw jutted to the side. He didn’t want to believe her, wanted to call her a liar, but he couldn’t. Angry with himself and wanting to be angry with her, he shoved himself away from the wall and strode toward the bedroom door.

  “I’m not staying,” she called after him. “I’m going to the church.”

  He ground to a halt, his palm smacking into the wall beside the door as he did. Without turning around or even looking at her, he replied, “Are you?” She said he couldn’t hold her, but he had no proof of that. She had stayed with him since last night. Why would she have done that if his powers didn’t hold her?

  “Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

  Drystan pulled back his fist, started to pound it into the wall, then slowly, his muscles tensing with the effort, uncurled his fingers, laid his flat palm on the drywall instead. “Would I have kept you here if I didn’t?”

  A sigh, heavy with sadness, greeted his response. Behind him, Aimee moved—the energy in the room shifting as she came closer, close enough he could have spun, pulled her into his arms. But he didn’t—wouldn’t let himself. She’d lied to him, used him. He wasn’t sure for what reason yet, but he wouldn’t let her see his wounds, wouldn’t stand here and admit to needing her, to needing anyone. He’d been taken in again. This time would be his last.

  “You’re hiding,” she said. He could feel her hand rise, feel energy warm like a heat lamp flowing from her palm, over his back. She was within inches of touching him, and he wanted that touch as much as he had wanted anything, but he stood still, refused to let his body arch toward her.

  “How am I hiding? Because I only come out at dark? You know I have no choice in that. Because I didn’t search out the Myhres after I rose?” He kept his voice low, controlled, but felt the vibrations as the sound left his chest, knew she could probably hear the anger he was trying so hard to contain. “Maybe I did it to save them. Maybe I knew that if…when…I faced them I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. That the vampire in me would truly break free. That I’d kill them.”

  She dropped her hand. Angry as he was, caught up as he was, he still mourned the loss, had to concentrate to not lower his chin to his chest.

  “I don’t think you’re hiding from the Myhres. I think you’re hiding from yourself.”

  He spun then, ready to confront her, but as he did, she disappeared. He spun again, faced the main room. Aimee stood with her back to the door, one hand resting on the top of the leather couch where they had first made love; the other was tucked behind her.

  “I love you. I need to tell you that, but I can’t save you. I can’t keep you from hiding in hate. I tried that with Kevin and failed, learned that lesson the hard way. If I stay with you, I’ll be your crutch, something to keep you from having to face who you are, good or bad, to forgive, accept, move on.”

  He took a step into the room, his gaze on her arm where it curved behind her. “I don’t want to move on.”

  “I know.” She pulled her hand from behind her back, held it out showing it was empty. “Not everyone is out to get you. Not everything you can’t see or don’t under stand is bad. If you believed in yourself, forgave yourself, you’d see that.” She turned, placed her hand on the knob. “I want to be with you, but I can’t, not unless you forgive yourself, accept yourself—good and bad. If you can shrug off those ghosts, I’ll be at the church.”

  “The wedding—”

  “Is scheduled for midnight. That gives you time to think things over. I can’t give you any more. If I do, I’ll weaken. I can’t let myself do that. It’s tonight or never.”

  She didn’t want him to come. She’d set things up so he couldn’t come. He laughed, a dry sound like leaves crumbling. “Vampires can’t enter a church.”

  Her back tensed, her hand tightening around the doorknob. “Being a vampire doesn’t change who you are, not if you don’t let it. If you give up the darkness, leave it behind, the doors will open. Goodbye, Drystan.” The space where she stood began to sparkle, her voice to fade. Drystan held a hand in front of his eyes, shielding them from the light. When he looked back she was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AIMEE STOOD ON the other side of Drystan’s door, her palm pressed to the wood. No sound came from inside. What was he doing? Why wasn’t he already following her?

  She waited another five minutes, before lowering her head and heading down the hall. He would realize the good still inside him, give up the resentment that he’d gathered around him like a protective cloak. He had to and he had to do it by midnight tonight.

  As Aimee had stood before him, declared herself a daimon, she’d realized she was a daimon. She couldn’t ever be human. She might have failed with Kevin, but she’d done her best at the time, and one failure didn’t mean she would fail each time. No, it meant she knew more now, that she would be better next time.

  And as she’d stood there, she’d heard the peal again, the call of a soul that needed her guidance, a hand to hold as it struggled to stay on the right path.

  Her threat of midnight was real. One minute later and she’d be gone, off to help her new assignment. Leaving Drystan was hard—would be hard no matter what—but to leave him still like this, lost, wandering… That would haunt her as much as Kevin’s death. Kevin only sank into the dark ness once. Drystan went there every dawn.

  She rubbed her hand over her forehead and forced her steps to quicken. The Myhres were waiting for her. No matter Drystan’s decision, she knew now she wouldn’t…couldn’t marry Ben. He deserved an explanation.

  DRYSTAN SAT IN his chair, a glass of the bottled blood in his hand—warmed this time. He held the liquid in his mouth, let it slide down his throat. The raised temperature of the drink did nothing for him, the blood did nothing for him—didn’t zing through his body like Aimee’s had, didn’t warm him, make him feel anything except the monster he was.

  He picked up the glass and strode to the kitchen—threw the stemware into the sink. Glass and blood splattered up the sides, onto him. His hands gripping the edge of the sink, he lowered his head between his arms and took in deep heaving breaths. Breaths he didn’t need—b
ut the human action usually calmed him, made him feel some what in touch with his human past.

  This time it did nothing.

  He didn’t under stand Aimee, didn’t under stand himself, or the thoughts pinging through his head. Aimee was some kind of angel, some being of light. He was a vampire and she’d known it. How long? All the time? Had she been playing with him? But why? Why lower herself to be with him—then leave him?

  He wanted to scrape the slivers of glass out of the sink and fling them in again. Instead he gripped the counter’s edge tighter, took deeper breaths, tried to think.

  She’d said he needed to let go of the resentment, to love himself or some other do-gooder babble. Like he had done this to himself, like he, the victim, was to blame.

  With a curse, he spun, grabbed the half-empty bottle of blood from the counter and stormed back into the main room.

  Sitting in his chair, drinking the blood straight from the bottle, he made his mind slow, thought about what he wanted, what he’d wanted all along.

  Revenge.

  Aimee was right. It was time to stop hiding from what he was. He was a vampire. Time to show the people who helped make him into one exactly what they had created.

  He had planned on giving the media a show. They were at the church now, gathered, waiting. What better time to step out of his coffin? What better time to take down the Myhres? To exact revenge as only a vampire could?

  THE CHURCH WAS empty when Aimee arrived. Deter mined to find Ben before the media appeared, Aimee had hurried from room to room, even called out, but nothing except her own voice greeted her back. Finally, she’d gone to the library—the room assigned to her, the bride. Someone had been here. Her white lace ball gown and the wreath of white roses that were meant for her hair hung next to a full-length mirror. The scent of roses pulled her closer. Her hand reached out, caressed the lace.

  “Aimee, are you in there?” The door edged open and Maureen Myhre slid sideways into the room, as if a crowd of people pressed around the other side of the door struggling to see in.

  Aimee jerked her fingers back, curled them into her palm.

  “Get dressed.” Maureen pointed at the dress.

  Aimee stepped backward, into the dress. “Is Ben here? I need to talk to him.”

  “After you’re dressed. We’re going to do pictures before the wedding.”

  “But—” Aimee could feel the blood draining from her face. She had to talk to Ben. She had to tell him she couldn’t marry him. She couldn’t tell Maureen—not before Ben.

  “I know the old wives’ tales—bad luck and all that. Bad luck will be if you don’t get that dress on in the next five minutes. I have Andrew White from the Journal waiting on you two. If we want a picture in tomorrow’s paper, it has to be now.”

  “I need to talk to Ben.”

  “After you’re dressed.” Maureen strode across the room and began pulling the gown from the hanger.

  Aimee stood by, unsure what to do. If she ran from the room, looked for Ben again, she could easily run into the reporter instead.

  But… She stared at the dress Maureen now held out for her. If she put it on, let the inter view happen, was she compounding her sin?

  “Aimee?” Maureen gave the heavy material a tiny shake.

  Praying this would work out somehow, Aimee shrugged off her shirt and pants and stepped into the gown.

  SPOT LIGHTS SHONE ON the white brick church, illuminating the building like the crown jewel in a princess’s tiara. Black limos, expensive imports and media vans lined the street outside.

  Aimee was inside that church, marrying Ben. Drystan braced his feet, clenched his fists at his sides. The blood he’d swallowed earlier churned in his stomach, refused to digest.

  A wide stair case curved up toward massive double doors. Twin white crosses constructed of roses hung on the doors.

  Drystan placed a foot on the step, his hand on the cold metal railing. He was here, he was going in. He was going to… His mind drifted, the blood in his stomach hardened, seemed to weigh him down.

  Why was he here? What did he want? How would humiliating the Myhres, killing them, even, solve anything? Would it bring Aimee back? Would it bring him the life he’d always wanted?

  His legs bent beneath him. He sat on the cold snow-covered steps and spread out his fingers, pressed them into the snow. Someone should have cleared this. If Drystan were marrying Aimee, had everything Ben was about to have, he wouldn’t have allowed any detail to go unnoticed. He would have spent the last three months making sure every little aspect was perfect.

  But Aimee didn’t mean anything to Ben, not like she did to Drystan.

  The thought should have made him angry, given spark to the rage he’d somehow lost as he traveled here from his apartment, but it didn’t. Not this time. This time he just stared at his fingers resting on the snow, thought of how if Aimee’s hand were there beside his, the snow would melt, the cold would go away, Drystan’s pain would melt.

  But it wouldn’t go away, hadn’t. The small chip of resentment and anger he kept tucked inside him at all times had pre vented that. Aimee had given him everything he had ever wanted, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d still clung to old hates, still plotted to get even.

  How could a daimon, an angel, love someone like that? How could he love someone like that? He raised his head and stared at the sky. Big fluffy snow flakes began to fall, landing on his face. He closed his eyes, let them cover his lids.

  He had a choice to make. He could cling to the hate and resentment that he’d carried with him since child hood or he could let it go, take responsibility for his choices—accept what had happened in his past and move on. Let himself love and be loved—let love be more important than anything else.

  Moisture leaked into his eyes. He reached up to brush it away, then paused. Into his eyes. The snow on his face was melting. He pulled up the hand that had been lying on the snow, flipped it over. Beads of water clung to his palm—snow melted by his body, his warmth.

  He folded and unfolded his fingers, unable to grasp what was happening, then reached up and pressed his fingers against his upper teeth. The fangs were still there. He was still a vampire.

  For a moment, he sank back, then slowly his spine straightened. He was still a vampire, like he was still Drystan. Maybe that was the point—accepting, not hiding, not trying to change what he couldn’t.

  He stood, his hand back on the railing. It felt colder now…the difference between his warming body and the icy metal more obvious.

  All that stood between him and Aimee were two cross-covered doors, and Ben, the brother who thought Drystan was dead. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up the steps. At the top he paused again. The brass doorknob shone against the dark wood.

  His hand shaking, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the cold metal.

  THE VESTIBULE OF the church was dark as Drystan stepped inside. Thick carpeting covered the floor, the smell of candles filled the air, and everything was perfectly still, perfectly quiet—no lightning bolts searing him to ash, no avenging angels drop ping from the sky, swords drawn to pierce him through the heart.

  A holy water font, carved in marble, hung on the wall. Drystan wasn’t Catholic, had rarely entered a church before his rising, but the belief that he couldn’t, that he was cursed, had been yet another burden to add to all the others he carried.

  Holding his breath, he dipped two fingers into the font, then out. Water dripped onto his shoes, made little round dark spots on the carpet, but that was it—the extent of the chaos.

  Aimee was right. Becoming a vampire hadn’t made him evil. If he was a monster it was because he allowed himself to be one, let the anger make him into one.

  He took only a moment to let the realization sink in, to accept that he had made the choices that led him to where he was, that while perhaps the Myhres could have also made different choices, ultimately he had created his destiny.

  A chime sounded from inside the
sanctuary. Leveling his shoulders and raising his head, he held his gaze steady. Un ashamed, he strode toward the closed doors. He had a wedding to stop.

  THE DOORS GLIDED open on oiled hinges—not a whisper to alert the occupants of the chapel of Drystan’s arrival. His heart thumped in his chest. This was it, the moment he’d dreamed of, but now his goal was so different. He was going to stand exposed for the world to see, for the Myhres and Aimee to see.

  No more hiding, from them or himself.

  The room was dark, lit only by flickering candles. At the front near the altar holding a candle of her own stood Aimee, dressed in a billowing gown of white with a ring of roses peeking from her hair. Beside her was Ben, another candle in his hand.

  Drystan was too late. They were lighting the unity candle which stood waiting on the altar. The ceremony was over. Aimee was married.

  A hollow ache began to build inside Drystan’s chest. He reached for the door before it could fully close, trap him in here with Aimee and Ben, the people sure to start clapping, the joy that would never be his. But as his fingers hit the wood, he stopped. He was running, hiding again. He’d sworn to himself he would stop. If he could face this, he could face anything. If he didn’t face this, it would, like every other pain he’d experienced in his life, fester and grow, twist his spirit, make him back into the monster he had just conquered.

  He turned, faced the sanctuary.

  Aimee had moved, was halfway down the aisle, but she was alone, the lit candle still in her hand.

  “You came.” The flame bounced up and down in her hand, like she was shaking, excited, nervous.

  “I… It’s almost twelve. I’d thought…” She stopped, looked over her shoulder. Ben stood unmoved, stiff, his gaze locked on Drystan, all color drained from his face. “I told Ben a little, but not everything. Not how…” She let the words trail off again.