Page 17 of A Vampire for Christmas
“For the same reason vampires fascinate you, you fascinate me. Tell me everything.”
“Why?”
Because I’m greedy.“Curiosity.”
She sighs, her eyes drifting to the wall across the room. “There isn’t much to tell. I work as a laundromat attendant, a waitress at a mid-rated restaurant, and a cashier for a big box store. They take up ninety-nine percent of my time because it’s the only way to survive these days. It keeps me busy enough that I never hang out with friends, so we’ve slowly drifted apart. Which is probably for the best, since seeing people usually means spending money.”
She’ll never have to work again, because I’ll be taking care of her.
“I live in Winnipeg—it’s where I drove from. My apartment’s run-down, and every cent I make goes to keeping it, paying bills, saving for this trip, and…supporting my mother.”
Her tone changes there—turns sharp with disgust—so I know prodding into her family will need to happen soon enough. Shifting to lighter topics that don’t taint her sweet scent the way poverty did, I ask, “What’s your favourite colour?”
“Emerald green.”
“Why?”
Her skin flushes, her shoulders drawing back. “Can’t believe I’m admitting this…it reminds me of a Christmas tree. Not the fake ones, but a real one. It’s one of those things I promised myself I’d do when I grew up, since my childhood home never had a tree during the holidays. Rarely fake ones, and definitely never real. The smell of pine…” She sighs, her eyes fluttering shut. “That’s what I dream of, and it was one of the reasons for renting a cabin; the ad online said it’d be equipped with one. It’s the only way I’dfinallybe able to have a real tree, because getting one up the stairs to my apartment would be impossible—and practically screams wealth. A break-in is the last thing I need. So emerald green being my favourite colour is the free way to get that tree, all year ’round. My apartment is themed as such.”
Every word from her mouth not only pisses me off, but gives name for the sudden possession that begged me to keep her and not kill her.
She needs me as much as I need her. She needs someone to care for her, to give her the tree she’s always dreamed of. We’re in a fucking forest; I’ll give her a tree every day of the year to see her smile.
I’ll give her everything her family obviously did not.
Poverty is something I understand, but didn’t experience as bad as others. As a son to a banker, we were middle class. Wealthy enough to maintain a decent-sized mansion with a few household staff, and wear in-season clothing. We were invited to balls and parties within our circles, but didn’t include any of the upper class’s lords and ladies. It was a comfortable life without pressures of a legacy. Father wanted me to follow in his footsteps; Mother wanted me married, to give her a grandchild. Simple times.
In my time, Sawyer would have been considered lower class, though it’s difficult to determine where. With an education and her beauty, and certain training, she may have made it as a lady’s maid, or even a children’s governess. Without an education, she’d likely be working within a family business or on a farm—or worse.
Fate put us together within the ideal timeline.
Beneath her reasons for liking green is a few childhood facts she brushed over, but my mind didn’t. Not having a tree every year as a kid speaks to an unfortunate childhood, matching her previous mention of supporting her mother. Then there’s themarks on her neck that have been bothering me since finding her in that car.
“Where did the scars on your neck come from?”
She pauses mid-chew, staring up at me the same way a deer once did before it streaked deeper into the woods. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me. Humans are not born with scars like that, Sawyer.”
She finishes chewing and swallows loudly. “We get them if we’re really clumsy.”
My stare lingers until she gives up concealing her past, responding with a huff.
“I was thirteen and came home from school to find Mom’s boyfriend hanging around with a few of his friends—nothing abnormal. The sitting around and drinking, I mean. The friends were new. I tried to leave, being uncomfortable around strangers—grown men especially—only for one of them to yank me back inside. All of them were pretty drunk and fiddling with switchblades and kept daring one another. A few went too far, and Mom came home to find me sobbing on the floor with cuts in my neck. She kicked them all out, and it became one of the best days—one of the very few times Mom acted like she cared.” She lowers her voice to mumble, “Until taking him back,” but the horrid addition is lost to two hundred years of bloodlust—the craving to kill—and the plans to make it happen.
“You were a child.” I’m driven to my feet, first by her story, and then by the dominant urge to find the assholes who marked upa childand tear their fucking heads off—after making a few well-placed slices of my own onto their bodies. Places where they won’t bleed to death, but they’ll very well wish to.
Inhaling unnecessary air, my attention lowers to the woman on the floor, biting her lip. I know what she sees: a monster. Fangs prod my gums, my vision coated all over again. Scaringher isn’t what’s needed, no matter how much her story justifies it.
“Did they touch you in any other manner?” She shakes her head, and their deaths shorten by an hour. “The boyfriend,” I bite. “What is his name?”
She hesitates. “Are you going to hurt him?”
“I’m going to slaughter him. Name?”
“Corey Prince.”
Rage lessens by the simple fact of her responding. My little bloodthirsty human… There will be time to hunt the assholes who dared leave scars on her, after ensuring she officially becomes mine and won’t leave.
