THE BITE BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Laura Baumbach
Sedonia Guillone ! Kit Tunstall
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This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable (homoerotic sex and ménage).
The Bite Before Christmas
Laura Baumbach, Sedonia Guillone, & Kit Tunstall
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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“Sin and Salvation,” Copyright © December 2006 by Laura Baumbach
“A Vampire for Christmas,” Copyright © December 2006 by Sedonia Guillone
“The Master’s Gift,” Copyright © December 2006 by Kit Tunstall
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ISBN 978-1-59632-372-8
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Editors: Lynne Anderson, Ansley Velarde, and Crystal Esau
Cover Artist: April Martinez
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SIN AND SALVATION
Laura Baumbach
The snow fell in huge flakes, each light bit of fluff looking rough as sand but touching his face as if carried on a baby’s breath. Ian Flynn couldn’t remember seeing snowflakes this big in over three hundred years. During that time, he’d become something of a connoisseur of snowflakes. He favored cold climates that reminded him of his birthplace in northern England, ensuring there would be snow in the winter, especially for Christmas.
If he had to spend the holiday alone ‑‑ and he had for over two hundred years despite having a steadfast, beloved lover for all those decades ‑‑ he was determined to have the comfort of a white Christmas. This year was no different; it would be a lonely, if white, Christmas.
Ian knew all he had to do was call to Trevor through the strong bond they shared as master and child, lover to lover, friend to friend, and Trevor would come to him, compelled and unable to resist.
But Ian never pulled Trevor away for trivial reasons, especially from Trevor’s single-minded, yearly, seasonal mission of hunting down the murderous riffraff and gang members that still haunted the same London streets where Trevor himself had met the end to his own mortal life so long ago. Christmas Eve had a different meaning to Ian and Trevor than to most people.
Trevor celebrated by taking revenge on the same type of men who had murdered him, and Ian spent the season contemplating his greatest sin. Even vampires had ghosts that haunted them and demons that needed excision. Dirty blood soothed Trevor’s pain; snowflakes eased Ian’s.
“Are you coming in soon, sir? It’s a bit chilly and I have almost completed dressing the shrub in the main living room. The lights need your approval before the baubles are hung.”
The smooth, cultured tones cut through the cold night air in a neat, precise, clipped voice, but Ian could hear the slight chatter of his manservant’s teeth. Sighing, Ian blinked the remaining flakes off his eyelashes.
He glanced over his shoulder at the waiting man and, not for the first time, marveled at Stuart Graves’s capacity for understatement. The temperature had been hovering slightly above two degrees for the last week, the “shrub” was a twelve-foot blue spruce with an eight-foot span at the bottom, and the “baubles” were hand-blown, one-of-a-kind antique glass ornaments. Nodding, Ian gave Stuart an exasperated smile.
“I’m sure you’ve done an outstanding job, like every year, Stuart. Nobody has the eye for color and details that you do.”
Ian turned back to watch the flakes fall from the sky, each frozen droplet riding the sharp gusts of frigid air. He tried to lose himself in the warm memories of long ago holidays and happier times. Things would be better in a few days. They always were.
When his hearing told him Stuart hadn’t moved, Ian softly added, “Go on back inside before you freeze. I’ll follow you in a second. I just wanted to watch it snow for a bit.”
Stepping to the vampire’s side, Stuart lowered his voice. Clearly uncomfortable, he suggested, “If you’re concerned ... for his safety, maybe ... you should call him home.” Hesitant, Stuart glanced up at Ian and caught his gaze. “Just this once.”
After a moment, Ian lowered his gaze, then stared up into the falling snow. He didn’t need to intimidate Stuart. The man had been his servant and confidant for over twenty years. Ian knew he had lost any real fear of him long ago.
He sighed and studied the cloud-cloaked, inky night sky. He wished he could see the stars. His mother had always told him as a boy that the stars were actually prayers on their way up to heaven and God’s ear. He’d believed that if he prayed hard enough and was a good son, his prayers would become stars, too. But that was all in the past. Ian was pretty sure that heaven didn’t answer the prayers of demon spawn, even if a little part of him still believed in his mother’s tales.
He wondered if it was snowing for Trevor right now. The dirty back streets of London were far away from his cozy, New York City penthouse.
“He can take care of himself.”
Stuart didn’t move. His voice stayed low, but grew firmer, concern and conviction in each word. “He can’t continue to haunt the same alleyway Christmas Eve after Christmas Eve, year after year without running the very probable risk of capture. Not in these modern times, sir.”
“He’ll be all right.” Ian swallowed past the lump in his throat, almost smiling at the thought he could still feel terror after all these years of existence as an undead creature of the night. He could feel terror, and pain and love and concern, too. But mostly tonight, like every other Christmas Eve, he felt guilt and acceptance. “He’s very good at this.”
“He’s being hunted as a serial killer.” Surprised by the ring of desperation, Ian turned to study the man’s face as Stuart tersely added, “They call him the ‘Yuletide Terror.’ A madman. They’ll hunt him down like one, too.”
Ian didn’t outwardly flinch, but he felt his eyes narrow and his vision grow yellow-tinged with the first signs of his vampire nature coming forward.
Stuart paid the warning sign no heed. “They almost captured him last year.” He stepped one pace closer. Ian let him, taking comfort from the man’s concern, if not his words. “This year the London police are sure to be even more prepared.”
“I can’t interfere.” Last year’s brush with the police frightened Ian just as much as it did Stuart, but he refused to let it show. He did appreciate Stuart’s concern. Not many humans grew to care about vampires the way Stuart cared about Ian and his mate. He sighed and stared off into the night, resigned and unhappy. “I don’t have the right.”
Fastidiously dusting
the fine layer of snow off Ian’s broad, firmly-squared shoulders, Stuart let his hand linger a moment on the vampire’s arm and gently said, “He doesn’t blame you.”
Spine curving under the weight of the centuries-long guilt he carried over what he considered to be his greatest sin, Ian slumped under Stuart’s comforting touch, gold-tinged eyes staring unseeingly up into the silent heavens and whispered, “I blame me.”
His voice sounded old and raw, reflecting all the years his age had gathered in the time since his turning. It was old and raw, but also strong and primal, leaving no room for argument. He knew Stuart would heed it and as if on cue, the man stepped back, sighing.
“I’ll tend to the fire. It will have faded by now.” Stuart turned and walked back to the balcony doors, but paused in the open doorway, concern etched into his aging, aristocratic face and dark, caring gaze. “I’ll have a goblet of something warm waiting for you when you come in.” He shivered, rubbing at his upper arms. “Please, don’t stay out here too long.” His tone lightened a touch and he briskly added, “The blood will congeal and you’ll have to eat it with a spoon. And I’m not staying up to watch that.”
With a huffed, halfhearted chuckle, Ian dropped his chin to his chest, nodded, and then turned to face the man.
“I wouldn’t want to put you through that, Stuart. I’ll be in soon. I’m going to count the stars for a while.” He turned back to look up at the sky, snowflakes collecting on his dark lashes and hair, blinding him. He glanced one final time over his shoulder at the waiting man. “Thank you, Stuart.” Ian stared at a small snowdrift gathering in one corner of the penthouse patio, suddenly unable to meet Stuart’s imploring gaze. “For everything.”
Silence was his only answer for a second longer than he thought was reassuring, but then a firm but sad “Yes, sir” banished his fears. Stuart did understand. That was important to Ian. Stuart was the second most important person in his life, a trusted servant, a father figure and a confidante.
The door shut softly behind him and Ian knew Stuart had retreated into the warmth of the apartment. Within moments, the mellow, moody sound of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” drifted out to him. The phrase “I’ll be home for Christmas” reached his ears, and he had to give an ironic chuckle at Stuart’s pointed lack of subtlety in songs. Beneath his formal manners and acid-tipped tongue, the man cared very much about him and Trevor. The fact that he would be so brash proved it.
Next to Trevor, Stuart was the only other person Ian had allowed himself to have feeling for. He dreaded the moment when the man would grow infirm with age and die, leaving Ian to face the world and future Christmas Eves on his own again. Loss was the hardest part of being immortal. If he hadn’t had Trevor by his side all these years, he would have walked into the sun long ago. Trevor was his salvation.
The desire to have Trevor at his side was nearly overwhelming. Something powerful and compelling told him to search the black, clouded skies, and with a childish sense of hope and anticipation he did, memories of his first meetings with Trevor piling like the snowflakes in the corner of the balcony wall.
* * * * *
It was three weeks before Christmas and the streets of London were clogged with people, carts, street vendors, and filthy slush. The year would be turning to 1824 with the approaching New Year celebration, but the Christmas season had yet to be played out, and for that Ian Flynn was immeasurably happy.
Despite having been a vampire for over two hundred years, he still took pleasure in the sounds and smells of the season. Even the cold was welcomed, its icy hands bringing a tingle to his sensitive skin and a touch of color to his perpetually pale cheeks.
Even as a creature of the night, his olive skin and dark good looks still hid the outward signs of his demonic affliction from the human world he existed in. Only the slight yellow tinge to his eyes warned of his unearthly nature, but it was only revealed when his need to feed consumed him or his temper outdistanced his practiced hold on his fiery nature.
A sharp gust of December wind battered at Ian’s long, heavy cloak and threatened to tear the top hat off his head. He stepped out of the carriage and landed on both feet on the dirty cobblestone lane, the controlled power in his large, square frame evident in every movement. He had been a miller’s son, his days spent lifting and hauling sacks of grain and assisting the huge grinding wheel in his father’s mill in its grueling job of grinding grain to flour.
Standing six foot three, Ian’s shoulders were broad, his back strong and straight, and his legs were thick and long. Brushed back off his handsome face, his brown hair hung past the nape of his neck, its dark mahogany color matching the gold-speckled depths of his keen, mesmerizing eyes. A square jaw and high broad cheekbones completed Ian’s solid look and commanding presence. He turned heads, both male and female, wherever he went.
Even the dark of night and the poor torchlight of the gentlemen’s parlors and stage halls he frequented couldn’t mask his compelling aura. More than one young lass, and lad, had lost more than their virginity to him, but never their life.
In all his decades as one of hell’s unnatural children, Ian had never killed while feeding, never taken more than his unsuspecting and usually willing victim could spare, careful to never spawn a child of his own, or bind a thrall to his will. Raised by hardworking, loving parents and being born with a calm, easygoing nature, Ian didn’t want a servant or a lover who was compelled to stay at his side for reasons outside of true loyalty or love.
To Ian, the curse of the vampire was best unshared past a moment of carnal pleasure and the satisfaction of feeding well from a comely bed partner. Being alone was never a problem for him. He had accepted being lonely as his accursed fate.
Fresh from a heavy sleep induced by a prior evening of fun, frolicking, and feeding, Ian was out to enjoy a night of cultural entertainment and bask in the delights of the theater. He had always enjoyed listening to the tales his mother told to him at night or when the harsh winter storms kept them all barricaded behind their stone walls and thatched roofs.
Once he had found the thrill of the theater, where stories came to life on the bright stage and in the colorful costumes of the players, there was no going back. He attended every theater and playhouse in every town he traveled through. He marveled at the skill and courage of the actors on the stage and their ability to become someone else for an evening, occasionally longing for that same ability to transform him from creature of the night to a fanciful hero in one of the fairy tales acted out when the curtains opened and the lights fell.
Tonight’s play was a well-hailed effort by the playwright Richard Brinsley Peake, with an adaptation of Mary Shelley’s much-gossiped-about novel Frankenstein. It was billed as a romantic drama, but Ian doubted there was anything romantic about it. He was looking forward to seeing if the fictional story of life after death took on a new perspective under the kerosene lamps and costumes. He lived his own version of it every day, giving him sympathy for the monster in the novel. He, too, had been thrust into an unholy afterlife he hadn’t asked for nor wanted.
The carriage pulled away and he ascended the steps outside the playhouse, allowing the footman to brush off the sprinkling of snow on his coat as he climbed to the building’s entrance. The place was old and only moderately kept up, but the hall was spacious and well lit and the decor bright, neat, and well polished. He handed his hat and cloak off to a young, eager attendant who appeared at his side. He smiled at the young man and flipped a coin into the air, allowing the attendant to catch it and pocket it as he walked away.
“Thank you, sir. It’s very good of you, sir.” Ian inclined his head toward the boy, and the young man winked and brashly added, “Name’s Jules, sir. If you need anything at all, sir. Jules.” Jules gave a suggestive smile and then sauntered away to store Ian’s things, making sure Ian caught his flirtatious glance.
Ian smiled and kept walking, knowing it had been coin well spent. It assured him good service and no waiting for
his cloak at the end of the performance. And if his tastes ran to snacking on lamb later between scenes, he knew he had a willing sheep in hand for the shearing. The young man was crude, but he showed experience and he was obviously willing. Ian supposed Jules found many a wealthy man at the theater who was looking for companionship and willing to pay well for it.
He thought about the feel of a smooth, lithe body under his, and arousal immediately blossomed in his blood. He savored it a moment, tasting it, then shook it off. He was well sated from last evening, and he never took home a partner just for sex. That way led to affection, feelings, longing, and ruin, but then Jules didn’t strike him as the type to form emotional commitments that weren’t tied to gold coins.
It was just as well. As far as Ian was concerned, beds were no longer for the making of love or sharing of emotions; they were for “eating” in. He’d keep Jules in mind when the play was over.
Caught up in the sudden flow of patrons, Ian let the tide carry him into the hall where he took a seat off to one side. The chair was partially hidden in the shadows of the room, but with a clear view of the stage. His looks and unaccompanied state tended to draw attention in public places. Everyone seemed to have an unattached daughter or niece they wanted to introduce him to. Tonight he simply wanted to watch, not be watched.
Before long, the small orchestra signaled the start of the entertainment and Ian lost himself in the tragedy and farce of Frankenstein’s creation. As compelling as the story was for him from a personal viewpoint, the play took on a new attraction when the character of Felix DeLacey walked on stage.
Felix was the son of one of the principal characters, and though not a major part of the production, Ian was instantly taken by the young man playing the role. He was young and beautiful, with luminous blond hair that framed his lean, pale face like a halo, the lamplight glistening through the nearly white strands. He was of average height, slender and lithe, but Ian could see the lines of firm muscle under the tight-fitting breeches and form-fitted vest buttoned over a stark white shirt with billowing sleeves.
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