by Mary Hughes
“I have a few surprises up my sleeve.” He kissed my temple. “Now, run!”
He blew into mist. Deadly whirlpools of silver swirled around the rogues. They slapped and shrieked.
I dashed for the door. I was almost there when the mist collapsed—it’s only good for a few seconds—and Julian resumed form.
The rogue nearest me saw Julian. Took aim.
“No!” I lowered my head and charged.
I hit the Lestat with everything I had. It barely moved him, but it was enough to knock his aim off.
Enough for Julian to pull his next trick.
At one hundred years old, vampires could mist. At one thousand, they could shape shift. Wolf, lion, you name it, although always maintaining the same weight. My hubby was a couple hundred pounds of vampire, so he made a large wolf or a small lion.
Now two hundred pounds of vampire shifted…into not just one, not just two, but hundreds of fluttering small birds. Turtle doves, if I wasn’t mistaken, probably courtesy of the holiday music blasting our brains out at stores. But it was birds, birds, everywhere…beating against the faces of the Lestats, blinding them. I dipped out. As I pounded down the stairs, screams rang in my ears.
The instant I made the foyer I yelled, “Julian!” Birds’ wings flapping told me he was on his way. I didn’t lose any time throwing open the front door.
A gun pointed directly in my face.
Damn. First my mother, then my wedding night interrupted, and now this. Just Riverdance ten lords a-leaping on my skull. I backed up. Carol Newman followed, her apple cheeks and green-and-red color scheme like a holly-jolly version of the pink lady in the Harry Potter universe. But her hand was steady on a business-like pistol. Behind her half a dozen Rottweilers growled, fangs dripping menace.
“Damn.” Julian formed behind me, echoing my thoughts. “Too many dogs for mist. And she’s prepared. Not birds either, not unless I want to look like a sponge when I reform.”
“Retreat?” I suggested.
“The parlor?”
“Works for me.”
And because he could run five times faster, he threw me over his shoulder and sped off.
Snarling dogs raced after us, Carol urging them on. I grabbed for handholds in my hubby’s leather jacket and clung. I may have admired his glutes flashing a few feet below me. Hey, better than obsessing on the dogs nipping at his heels. They dogged him—heh—all the way to the B & BS’s parlor.
Julian blasted in and ran straight for the window. But the dogs fanned out and flanked him, hounding and harrying until they cut him off from the window’s escape.
He spun for the door. I peeked around his arm. Carol filled the doorway, the three-hole-punch gang looming behind her.
The dogs were crowding us toward the vamps. I frantically scanned the room for another escape. The only opening was a brick fireplace, red stockings hanging from its mantel. It reminded me of my mother and her “Christmas Specials”. So idiotically baka. About to die and Charlie Brown and the Grinch were flitting through my head…and Tim Allen as Santa. Slide me off the roof and snap my suspenders—that was it!
“Julian! The Santa Clause.”
“Nixie…now is not quite the time to educate me on popular culture.” His slight lisp said his fangs were full-length. Ready to fight. Ready to die, protecting me.
It had better not come to that. Not before I got my full honeymoon treatment, at any rate.
“While Santa’s delivering presents, he’s attacked by a Rottweiler. He escapes up the chimney. Get us to the fireplace.”
Julian veered. “If I can carry you while flying. I’ve never tried it.” An instant and we were standing on the hearthrug before the brickwork.
From which perspective it was obvious the firebox was all of an inch deep. I groaned. “It doesn’t matter. The fireplace is fake. Damn it!”
I slapped the mantel.
And was nearly thrown from Julian’s shoulder when we were whirled into the dark.
“Otto’s B&BS must have been a speakeasy in the twenties. The spinning fireplace was an escape hatch, in case of a raid.” Julian toted me through a pitch black tunnel, his glowing red eyes lighting the way. Rudolph meets Halloween. Freaky.
We came out of the tunnel into an old carriage-house-turned-garage. Julian headed through the people door and set me down outside.
I shivered. “I wish I had my phone. What do we do now?” My breath frosted the air.
“Find the activation key.”
“Righty-o. Just sort through seven hundred ornaments on a two-story tree while dodging Carol and her deadly homies. May I point out one teensy detail? Those Lestats heard Santa. They know where the key is. And there are more of them than us.”
“That may not be an advantage. Look.”
Kitty-corner from us was Settler’s Square with park benches, a playground and the Oom-pa-pah band shell. In the center twinkled the municipal tree.
A shivering Carol Newman and three Lestat rogues were trying to knock off ornaments—with snowballs. While the six Rottweilers ran around the tree, barking and peeing.
The dogs had better aim. Apparently these Lestats were from sunnier climes. They packed the snowballs with fumbling, freezing fingers. No gloves. My mother would have lectured them to death, if they hadn’t already been dead. Speaking of… I reached into my pockets and pulled out my knit fingerless gloves and pulled them on as I watched.
The Lestats tried to hurl those lopsided chunks of snow like baseballs. Half the balls disintegrated midair. The other half splatted harmlessly against the tree.
“You!” Carol saw us. “Keep at it,” she ordered the Lestats. “I’ll take care of the girl. The dogs can deal with her tame vampire.”
Julian grabbed me.
We’d come a long way from daddy having to protect the girly-girl. I donned my Attitude. “I ain’t nobody’s ‘girl’, Julian. I’ll fry her. You go toast the dogs.”
“Cooking analogies aside…it’s no use asking you to go for backup, I suppose?”
“Nice try. You know there’s no time.”
His jaw worked. “Then good luck.”
Julian released me and surged forward. He met the wave of dogs with his long knife. Reversed it and rapped doggy noses. One yipped and faltered. The others leaped for his jugular. I shouted, “Julian. Look out!”
The instant I was distracted Carol pulled out her pistol and shot at me.
Fortunately she telegraphed like Western Union. I dodged. The bullet spat into the frozen grass.
“Give up!” She fired again.
The advantages were all hers. She had the weapon, the time and the henchrogues.
But I had surprise. I barreled straight at her, screaming like a punk singer with her hair on fire. She froze for a critical moment. By the time she shot again I was on top of her.
My momentum knocked her to the ground. I grabbed her wrist. Rolling, we fought for control of the gun. I banged her hand against the hard ground but she clung to that gun like cheap sandwich wrap.
My breath came in gasps. I was tiring. She was bigger than me and twice as heavy. It would be over in moments, and she’d win. I should just give up. Fighting her was like a little kid trying to thrash a bully.
My brain went ding-ding-ding. It was either a great idea or oxygen deprivation hitting. Kid, bully. Like Ralphie and Scut Farkus in A Christmas Story.
Great chocolate Zeus. I had a chance. One slim chance.
I released her and rolled to my feet. Prepared for her as she levered herself up.
Steam shot out her nostrils like a bull. I gulped. She dug her toes into the frozen grass like a matador’s worst nightmare pawing the ground before a charge. My heart hammered my ribs.
With a roar, she barreled straight at me. I quivered until she was almost on top of me—then stepped back.
One small hop for Nixie, one giant advantage for Nixiekind. She missed me. As she steamed by I grabbed her jaw, added my forward momentum to hers, and aimed her at t
he nearest street sign. She stumbled, did a header into the pole.
Into the metal pole, my hand on her jaw opening her mouth. Her tongue came out—and stuck.
She pulled back. Her eyes opened wide. Pain has a new meaning when your tongue is about to rip from your head.
If she guessed how to get loose though, I was sunk. I had to keep her distracted. “Yank free. Chicken. C’mon, yank. Double dare you.”
She glared fire, tried again to pull away. Tears sprang into her eyes.
“Triple dog dare you.” I knew how to get loose, but only because I’d been Darwin Award stupid at the age of seven. The fire department and some warm water had rescued me.
She tried again. The tears trickled onto her cheeks. They froze too. I had a second to check Julian.
He’d managed to down a couple dogs and one rogue. But two Lestats and the rest of the pack battled him, and he bled from several wounds. Too many dogs and rogues still attacked. And soft-hearted Julian was trying not to hurt the dogs.
Acid fear shot through me. Julian fought fiercely, but he was like a great stag. The yipping pack must eventually bring him down.
Twinkling colors lit the battle, a horrible contrast. The Christmas tree was heedless of the drama going on beneath it. Too bad it couldn’t fight. Or…? “Julian! Doctor Who!”
“What?”
“Not what. Who.” After the honeymoon I was going to nail him to a La-Z-Boy and Clockwork Orange his eyes to a T.V. “David Tennant. The first two Christmas specials. A whirling tree of destruction. Ornament bombs.” I ran toward the two-story municipal tree.
“Nixie…our tree can’t fight.” Julian lunged at a rogue.
“Not the tree.” I veered toward the band shell. “The Doctor explodes the bombs with his sonic screwdriver.”
He knifed the rogue. “Unless you have a ‘sonic screwdriver’, whatever that is—”
“Julian! Listen to me. With his amplified sonic screwdriver.” I vaulted up the band shell stairs two at a time. Hit the podium at a flat run. Twirled a dial and flipped a switch.
Julian, thank the stars, was quick. He covered his ears.
As a punk musician, I mostly play guitar. But sometimes I sing. Punk singing is like a cat getting a full Brazilian. I can scream with the best of them, at least earplug level with my naked voice.
With a PA system, I can do actual physical damage.
And vampires have über-sensitive hearing. Heh-heh.
I screeched a G above middle C. The dogs whined. I clawed my way up an octave. The dogs tucked tails and fled.
A street lamp popped. Vampires clapped hands to ears, faces scrunched in pain. I hit and held high C.
The vampires shrieked. Julian, tough through his pain, walloped one with a kick to the head. The other got a brisk knee to his soft dangly bits.
Every ornament on the municipal Christmas tree shattered.
My throat froze. Julian dropped hands from ears. Grabbed a bazooka and three-hole-punched Lestat hearts.
It was over.
I slid into the simmering fizz of the hot tub, waiting for the naked man of my dreams.
“Home on the Range” blasted my ears.
I snatched up my Juke. “Mother—”
“Did you enjoy the Christmas specials, Dietlinde?”
I paused. The Christmas specials. The Santa Clause, A Christmas Story and Doctor Who. Because of them, we’d stopped the Lestats. Foiled Carol Newman.
We’d found the activation key in the litter of red glass. Julian wanted to send it on to the Ancient One in Iowa but I said no way. First, I knew from all those movies what happened if you didn’t destroy stuff like that right away. Second, honeymoon, remember? Severely nookie-deprived new wives were fangier than the oldest v-guy. Julian destroyed the key. A heart from the morgue made Santa almost as good as new, and after a nice rest in the soil, he promised to find and destroy the hypno-resonator as well.
A happy ending. Because growing up, Mom made me watch the Christmas specials. “Yes,” I said in all honesty. “Julian and I enjoyed them very much.”
Speaking of… Julian glided through the door, carrying two glasses and wearing nothing but a smile. “I’m about to enjoy another.”
“Good, good. I just wanted to remind you of dinner in an hour.” She hung up.
“What?” I screeched at the phone.
“Your mother?” Julian set the glasses down.
“Home…dinner—in an hour!”
“Hmm. Then let me show you what I can do in fifty-nine minutes.” He took my phone and tossed it out the door, then slipped into the water with me. “Minus time for commercials, of course.”
“What?” I blinked at him.
“Plus a little time for station identification.” He lifted me onto his thick erection.
The head popped past my rapidly swelling labia, making my eyes pop too. Okay. So what if I was due for Maternageddon in an hour. Here and now? I was in heaven. I grabbed the tops of my husband’s broad shoulders. He lifted them slightly, making his trapezius muscles two convenient handholds. I kneaded happily. “Fifty-nine minutes?”
“Mmm.” He turned us in the water and leaned me against the tub’s lip. Pushed slowly, irresistibly, forward. “I’m going to use every second.”
I swallowed. “I thought there were commercials.”
“Coming. But right now, you’re getting the full show.” His breath warmed my neck as he sank in an inch. I sucked in my own breath. He slid forward. Two inches. I shuddered. Three. His purr rumbled against me.
“I’d like to point out,” I gasped, “that only part of me is getting the ‘full’ show.”
“Mmm. Good point.” He stopped pushing, those three inches throbbing inside, and licked where my pulse throbbed ever faster.
I groaned. “That’s nice, but not what I had in mind.”
“I know what you have in mind. It’s coming too. First this.” He opened his palms against my breasts, flat on the snaps of my nipples, and slowly rotated them. The steam had suctioned our skin together. His palms tugged like thousands of tiny tongues licking my breasts.
I started my own purr. “Okay, a few coming attractions before the main feature. That’s good.”
“We’ve switched from television to film now?” He began to push forward again. His thick cock spread me slowly, achingly. Four inches. My vagina constricted. Five. Heat pooled in my belly. Six. Electric jolts radiated out.
He stopped again.
“No! No more breaks.”
“Not even this? Lean back.” With his erection lodged halfway inside me he slid hands down my breasts until his fingers framed my nipples. Only a whisper separated aching raised flesh and square, strong digits.
“Promise me bites are coming?”
“Promise.” He lifted his upper lip to show two sleek fangs descending.
I shivered. “Leaning back.” I set my elbows on the lip of the tub in anticipation. The action raised my breasts and tautened them under his fingers.
He pinched.
Sensation sang through me, tightening muscles, making my back arch. He pinched again. I moaned and curled forward. It would have driven him into me to the hilt but he dropped one hand between us and grabbed himself, a fitted collar. It kept him from sinking any farther into me until he was ready, drawing it out, but it was driving me nuts.
Two could play at that game. I arched back, lifting my breastbone toward the ceiling, and let my head fall back onto the tub surround.
Which just happened to extend my throat under his mouth, my pulse hammering now. I cracked my eyes at him.
His gaze was gratifyingly riveted to my throat. He swallowed, and swallowed again. Hard.
“Bite?” I said sweetly.
“Fuck me.” He was panting. “You’re so beautiful. So soft under my hands. So hot and tight around my cock. But…not yet.”
“No?” I squeezed my vulva. He howled. My smile broadened. “Finish this commercial and get to the good stuff.”
�
��My heart.” His eyes flared red. “Your desire is my command.” He released his hand-collar from around the root of his cock and pushed forward again. Seven inches. I was stuffed full, my abdomen throbbing with it. Eight. OMG, I was about to burst. Nine. My sight narrowed to a black-rimmed pinhole.
He stopped.
I scissored my legs around his hips, fast enough to splash a gallon of water, and constricted like spandex. He relented with a groan and drove one more inch into me, kissing my cervix.
Ten. Stars floated around the edges of my vision.
He gasped. “Tight.”
“Thick,” I threw back. I reached for him, wrapped fingers in his hair and pulled. “Sharp.”
“Not yet.” He resisted. “I want you so aroused, so crackling hot, that one bite makes you go up like a bonfire.”
“I’m there, damn it. I’ve been crackling for weeks. Bite me, Julian. Bite me and screw me. Light that fire.”
“No, I—”
“Yes.” I swirled my hips around him, grinding his cock inside me like a living pestle, and lifted my chin so high I was nothing but pulse. “Bite me!”
With a throttled cry, Julian wrapped me tight in his arms and bit my throat.
Hard shockwaves exploded inside me, deep inside, but they were so powerful they quaked outward through bone and organs and flesh and skin and into the very water around us. Climax ripped me in half. Smashed me back together. Ripped and smashed again. And again.
Julian was shouting, driving into me over and over with fang and cock, ecstasy making him a wild animal. He beat against me in solid waves of pleasure, his muscles slapping water into crisscross ripples that caressed me like extra hands. I went higher, and higher still. He growled and bit down and I crested yet again. He kept thrusting and biting and I kept coming until I felt wrung out with pleasure.
He slowed and nuzzled my neck. Licked lightly, closing the bites, then nuzzled again. I relaxed in his arms. He turned us so that I was cuddled in his lap. He nestled his head against my neck and purred.
My favorite Christmas Special.
Together we floated in the fizzy warm water. “How…long?” My voice didn’t quite work.
