I'm Dreaming of an Undead Christmas Read online

  “I heard that,” Jamie yelled, tossing a glitter-dusted pinecone angel at Gabriel’s dark head.

  “I wanted you to,” Gabriel said, as an un-blanket-covered Sam Clemson walked through the door.

  I guessed the threat of daylight had finally passed, which sort of made Gabriel and Dick’s insistence on protecting Jane from herself that much funnier. But Gabriel had turned the poor woman after a drunk hunter mistook her for a deer and shot her; I supposed their concern for her well-being wasn’t unreasonable.

  Sam, a lanky, recently turned contractor with a broad, impish smile, raised his eyebrows at the pile of blankets on the foyer floor. “Was there a sleepover?” he asked, his big brown eyes twinkling with laughter that he had the good sense to hold in. Jane stared at the ceiling as if she was praying for patience as I gave Sam a big hug. And it wasn’t just because he was holding a takeout container from Tess’s restaurant, Southern Comforts, that I was 99 percent sure contained my favorite bacon-infused macaroni and cheese.

  Yes, that’s right. Sam, a vampire who couldn’t eat solid food because of a vampire’s lack of digestive enzymes, lived with a chef. Irony can be a real jerk sometimes.

  Rounding out our wacky cast of undead guest stars, Collin Sutherland poked his head through the door.

  “Was there a sleepover?” he asked, icy blue eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t know whether to be hurt that I wasn’t invited or grateful that I wasn’t invited.”

  “That’s why you weren’t invited!” Miranda, his girlfriend, yelled from the kitchen.

  Collin and I weren’t in the “hug circle” of friendship yet, so I politely extended my hand, belatedly remembering that (1) a female-to-male handshake reach would be considered forward by a vampire who’d fought in the Revolutionary War, and (2) even if my feminist welcome gestures didn’t offend Redcoat sensibilities, Collin didn’t do handshakes. Collin was a psychic, able to see the potential futures of people he came into contact with. So he wasn’t a touchy-feely guy. Before Miranda had dragged him out into the world, he’d lived in relative seclusion in the woods for almost a hundred years.

  I pulled my hand back and ever so smoothly transitioned to the awkward half wave. “Welcome, Collin.”

  Collin smiled—in relief, I suppose, for not having to rudely reject gestures of friendship from his hosts’ kin.

  “What’s with all of the vampire guests?” I asked Cal. “Not that I mind the undead welcome wagon, but I just got home. Surely Iris isn’t having a party?”

  I looked up to Jamie. “Oh, no, is there some sort of crisis? What is it this time? Senior citizen vampires poisoning people with plants? Supernatural scavenger hunt? Megalomaniacal real estate developers going after Gabriel’s house this time?”

  “No, I think we’ve already done those,” Jamie said, shaking his head.

  “Also, tech nically, Gabriel’s house is mine,” Dick added.

  “We’re not having a crisis,” Cal insisted. “No more than usual, anyway. Iris just wanted some moral support.”

  “Moral support or backup in case she loses it and tries to make me into an appetizer?”

  Jamie wrinkled his nose. “Wow, super inappropriate, Gigi.”

  “Yes, you’re selling yourself short, Geeg, you’re at least a small entrée, like one of those microwavable pot pies,” Sam suggested.

  “So I’m frozen convenience food in this scenario?” I frowned. “That’s insulting.”

  “I can hear you, you know!” Iris yelled from upstairs.

  “Why is everybody making such a big deal out of this?” I asked Jane. “She’s had months to adjust. She’s been around humans since she was turned, and far as I know, she didn’t bite any of them. There would have been a news story or a tweet or something.”

  “It’s different being around the people we love for the first time,” Jane said. “And maybe I might have told her the story about trying to drain Zeb on my first night out. A few times. I told her the story several times.”

  I glared at her.

  She bit her bottom lip. “Sorry.”

  More glaring.

  “It’s a funny story!” she exclaimed. “Zeb stabbed me! A bunch of times. To comedic effect.”

  And yet more glaring.

  “Sorry,” she said again. “And I’ve tried to make up for it. From her first night, we worked with her on desensitizing her to human scents. Zeb and Miranda hung out here a lot, because Zeb is used to being our guinea pig by now. She took right to it, of course. And Jamie helped, sharing his little tricks on how to distract himself. She hasn’t had a single slip, but she still can’t relax. It’s like she thinks she can drill the thirst out of herself. She’s really nervous about this, Gigi. And if you freak out or reject her—”

  “I won’t,” I promised her.

  “It’s easy to say that,” Jane told me. “I’m not screwing around, Gigi. You’re going to have to put on some big-girl panties here.”

  “The big-girl panties are firmly in place.”

  “Good.” Jane pressed a large wooden stake into my hand. “Now, hold on to this.”

  “No!” I cried. “That’s crazy. Knowing my luck, one of us will stumble, and I’ll end up staking her. Iris, stop being the drama queen of the damned and get down here!”

  “Does she have the stake?” Iris called from the top of the stairs.

  “She won’t take the stake!” Jane said in a completely normal tone, knowing that Iris, with vampire superhearing, could hear us just fine from upstairs.

  “Make her take it!”

  “No!” I yelled.

  “Gladiola Grace Scanlon, I won’t come down there unless you have some way of defending yourself. Now, take the stake!”

  I winced at the use of my unfortunate birth name and shot Jamie a death glare when he snickered. “No using my full name, Iris, that’s not playing fair! Get down here!”

  “Fine.” I heard her sigh. “Jane, is everybody ready?”

  “Yes, we’re all at our stations. Come on down,” Jane told her. “I promise, it’s going to be OK, Iris.”

  Hearing Iris’s feather-light footsteps on the stairs, I turned, and my jaw dropped. Iris had always been pretty, even sweet-faced, with large, expressive, forget-me-not-blue eyes and the wild dark curls we’d both inherited from our parents. Now the hair that occasionally frizzed before was shiny and softly framed her face. Her eyes seemed darker and larger, bottomless and full of secrets. She was still Iris, the woman who’d baked for my school’s PTA fund-raisers and emergency-basted my prom dress at the last minute when I stepped on the hem. But now she was also otherworldly and dangerous, like one of the exotic poisonous plants she loved to study.

  “Sis?”

  When she smiled, two razor-sharp, blinding white fangs crept over her bottom lip. Flinching, she clapped her hand over her mouth.

  All the other vampires in the room snapped to attention at once. I felt Jamie step ever so slightly closer to me, his hands brushing my elbows, as if he would jerk me across the room to safety at a moment’s notice. Jane and Gabriel seemed especially tense, crouching expectantly on either side of Iris.

  I rolled my eyes. “She’s not a flipping serial killer. Calm down, everybody!” I reached out to take Iris’s hand. It was oddly cool to the touch, but it was the same. Her fingers curled around mine and squeezed gently. They had the same weight, the same old scars.

  “Hey, Geeg,” Iris whispered.

  A little sob escaped my throat as I threw my arms around her neck and hugged her tight. Jane and Gabriel stepped closer, but I gave both of them the stink-eye over Iris’s shoulder.

  I closed my eyes tight as my big sister folded her arms around me.

  “Hey, Iris. It’s good to be home.”

  Gift exchanges with a vampire may require more thought on your part to avoid hurt feelings. Items to avoid include f
ruit-of-the-month-club memberships, tanning packages, and anything wooden and pointy.

  —Not So Silent Night: Creating Happy and Stress-Free Holidays with Newly Undead Family Members

  I really missed you . . . You smell like desperation and stale pizza,” Iris said, sniffing at my shirt.

  I stepped away from her. “Well, I live in a college dorm. If you’d sprung for an off-campus apartment, I’d smell like entitlement and illegally obtained booze.”

  Cal groaned and slid his hand over his face. “Which is why we didn’t spring for the off-campus apartment.”

  I glanced around to Collin and Sam, who were still eyeing Iris as if she was a headliner on Shark Week. “Oh, stand down, you goofballs.”

  Collin hesitated, but I thought it was more of a “not wanting to be bossed around by a human girl barely out of her teens” issue than it was concern for my safety.

  I sighed. “Collin, use your Magic-Eight-Ball-ness. Do you see me getting attacked by any of the vampires in this room anytime soon?”

  Collin shook his head, glancing at Miranda. “It doesn’t always work that way.”

  “Also, he objects to the term ‘Magic-Eight-Ball-ness,’ ” Miranda noted. “But he’s too British to say so.”

  “It will put everybody at ease,” I told Collin. “Just a little peek to assure everyone that Iris isn’t about to go all Elizabeth Bathory on me.”

  Jamie snorted. “That would require you to be a virgin.”

  Every eye in the room turned on him, including mine, which were full-on glowering.

  Jamie grinned awkwardly. “Which I know nothing about, because . . . Gigi . . . that . . .” He turned to Gabriel. “Elizabeth Bathory was a Hungarian noblewoman who believed she was a vampire and bathed in the blood of virgins to stay young. You were the one who insisted I take that vampire history class at the community college! And then you get upset when I manage to apply it.”

  “Oh, good gods, Collin, just look into the future so Jamie will stop talking!” Cal exclaimed.

  Collin’s eyes seemed to cloud over for a second, and he frowned. “None of the vampires in this room will attack you.”

  “See?” I told Iris. “You’re going to be fine. Everybody go get something to drink, and let’s all just downgrade to DEFCON Five.”

  No one moved.

  “OK, OK, I could use a booster drink, but we’re going to catch up!” Iris exclaimed. “Boys and your grades and your classes and your insane slutty roommate and everything.”

  Cal put his arm around Iris’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to her temple as he led her into the kitchen. “Come on, everybody, I have a nice donor A Pos in the warmer!” Iris called. “And cider for the humans.”

  As everyone drifted down the hall, Jane gave me a nudge and a wink. “Good job. Take a deep breath, and settle in for a minute. Your brain’s still all jumbly.”

  “Stop looking into my head, Jane. Mind-reading without permission is not OK.”

  “Yeah, because your inappropriate thoughts about Tom Hiddleston in the Loki costume are such a treat,” Jane singsonged over her shoulder.

  I sighed. “Oh, it’s good to be home.”

  Without hovering vampires or twitchy sisters, I finally had a chance to look around. The house was different, and not just in the “Cal has finally settled in and is mixing his belongings into the décor” sort of way. Sure, there was an ancient-but-somehow-in-museum-condition bronze shield over the fireplace and a marble bust of the harvest goddess Demeter on the entryway table (an inside-jokey nod to Iris’s green thumb and Cal’s Greek heritage). The clutter and debris I used to leave scattered around the house—textbooks, teen magazines, volleyball equipment—were long gone. Sam Clemson’s construction handiwork was evident in every corner, from the heavy-duty sunproof shades mounted under the window sconces to the security system keypad near the front door. The keypad served as a control center capable of reporting any suspicious activity directly to the Council’s security response team or delivering an incapacitating electric shock to whoever tried to open the door during the day without the appropriate access code. And the door to the basement had been replaced with a much sturdier solid steel version, painted to look like wood but able to stand up to several grades of explosives.

  Did I mention that Cal was rather security-minded?

  In addition to these “improvements,” it looked like a Hobby Lobby had exploded in our living room. Christmas decorations and twinkle lights were spread over every available square inch of space, from the beautiful snowflake-patterned blown-glass candlesticks to the slightly cheesy “Santa, please land here!” sign near the fireplace. And Iris had indeed busted out my mom’s tiny ceramic Christmas village, but she had added a whole new subdivision of little buildings, including a hardware store, an ice skate repair shop, and a “Santa’s Sushi Palace.” The little spinning Ferris wheel full of caroling passengers seemed particularly excessive. I glanced down the hall and saw that the holiday extravaganza continued through the rest of the house, all the way to the dining room, where Iris had set out the chubby elf-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers I’d always thought looked a little drunk.

  And the whole first floor smelled insistently of the “Sugar Plum” jar candles on the coffee table. I had no idea what a sugar plum looked or tasted like, but apparently, it smelled like a flaming jelly bean.

  Clearly, Iris had gone a little overboard with her holiday homecoming preparations. The only thing missing was the Christmas tree. I was grateful to Iris for that, because I would have been bummed to miss out on hanging the little glittered Popsicle-stick ornaments Iris and I had made when I was eight.

  I lugged my suitcase upstairs, passing what used to be our parents’ ground-floor master bedroom. Cal had remodeled it into a dual office for his consulting business and Beeline, Iris’s multibranch vampire services business. Even after our parents died, Iris had never considered making that room her own. It was too closely tied to memories of them. Instead, she and Cal had taken the room down the hall from my own. They did keep a secure sleeping space in the basement as a backup, but Iris wanted to keep her life as normal as possible post-turning. And for her, that meant sleeping aboveground.

  My room was the only one in the house left unchanged by the Extreme Vampire Makeover—it still sported the same denim-blue walls, the same quilted blue-and-white bedspread, the same beaten-up old paperbacks on the shelves. And mine was the only window without sunproof shades, so I would still be able to enjoy the view of the woods behind our house. In other, slightly more depressing news, my pinboard hadn’t changed since high school, with the same pictures of me with my friends at volleyball games, parties, and dances. Up front and center was a picture of Ben and me, all dressed up for the prom.

  My cell phone beeped from my purse, the special “lightsaber swoosh” ringtone I’d assigned to Ben months before. Speak of the adorable devil. I dug through the bag, past my tablet, scribbled-on index cards, and about a dozen ChapSticks, until I found my glittery purple phone case (a choice based not on girliness but on the ease of spotting a sparkly object at the bottom of my purse).

  I opened my message window to find: Text me when you get into town. Missed you the last few days. Down to your toes. —B

  And there was the squeeze of guilt around my chest, so tight I thought my knees would buckle. I hadn’t even thought to text my boyfriend, who had taken the time to find a sappy trademark phrase to tell me he loved me from the top of my head down to my toes every time he e-mailed or texted. My boyfriend, who looked past the fact that I’d used him as a human shield while sneaking out with a psychotic vampire teen in high school and dated me anyway. My boyfriend, who had helped me move in the middle of the night when my latest disastrous roommate tried to shave my head while I slept.

  “I suck,” I told myself. I typed out several responses, ranging from Hey, sweetie, home safe. Miss you already. See you i
n a few days. XOXO —G to simply Home. I didn’t want to be too terse, but I didn’t want to be too mushy, either. Especially when I was thinking . . . I didn’t know what I was thinking. I eventually settled on Home safe. See you soon. And then I spent five minutes trying to choose the appropriate emoticon.

  I tossed my phone onto my bed, then groaned while beating my head against my bookshelf.

  “So you’re still doing the whole hating yourself thing?” Jamie asked from the doorway.

  Without looking at him, I slung my arm back and pointed at him. “That is a misuse of vampire sneaking powers.”

  “I thought we gave up the self-loathing and angst when we were teenagers,” he countered.

  “You are still a teenager,” I reminded him, rubbing my forehead.

  “I’m older than you, chronologically. And stop changing the subject. You haven’t talked to Ben yet?”

  “No,” I moaned.

  “Are you planning to do it anytime soon?”

  “NOOOOO.”

  “So the plan is to date the poor guy forever and not tell him that you don’t love him anymore? Good plan. Maybe you can even marry him and have a few of his babies. That will really show him that it’s never going to work out.”

  “That’s not fair,” I grumbled, flopping onto my bed face-first. “It’s not that I don’t love Ben. I love him plenty, just not in that head-over-heels, forever sort of way. That spark that you feel when you’re with someone you’re crazy about? I just don’t feel it anymore, and not even in that ‘we’re settled into a comfortable relationship’ way. It’s just gone, like the dodo bird, New Coke, that TV show about the doctor with the split personality that was canceled after just one episode—gone.”