Page 2 of Vampire Claus

A sound that no human could have heard drew his eyes right. A lithe woman dropped from the top of the belfry to the rooftop. Her ears flashed with multiple piercings and her short hair was streaked with purple and blue. She appeared to be no more than twenty, though that meant nothing. Taviano was nearly two centuries old but he looked like the twenty-two-year-old man he’d been when his life ended.

Dark eyes glittered at him as the woman flashed her fangs. “You aren’t welcome here,” she spat. “Move along.”

He extended his sense of her, weighing, testing, as she was no doubt doing to him. She wasn’t young but he was more powerful if it actually came to a battle. Like any vampire, though, she would fight savagely to protect her territory. Taviano had no desire to wage war where she knew the lay of the land and he was a stranger.

His demon thought differently and tried to claw and rip at the other vampire using Taviano’s hands. That mad drive for one bloodbeast to destroy any other, except those it created, was why vampires were solitary beings. They either guarded a territory jealously or, like him, skulked endlessly on the edges of claimed areas.

Bronislav’s voice again rasped in his memory:Observe the customs about territories always.

With great effort, Taviano maintained mastery over his body and held out an open hand, palm up. “I’m resting as I pass through. I have no intention of claiming this territory.” Her stance never varied. Of course not. She expected a trick, or an attack. “È vero,” he tried again. “It’s true. I don’t want to fight you and I’ll be away before dawn.”

She snarled, “You shouldn’t have come in the first place. Boston has been claimed for a century and more. There’s no room here for an untethered immortal.”

Taviano had to laugh. “Untethered immortal? Is that what they call it now?”

The vampire hissed and launched herself with blinding speed. Her nails raked Taviano’s face as she somersaulted over his head to land behind like a cat. The gashes she left burned deeply.

The wound on his face had healed by the time he whirled, but his demon took advantage of Taviano’s surprise. His awareness dimmed as the demon made their body move like a shadow. He slipped to the side, pivoted back, and leapt high enough to strike the woman with both feet. She didn’t have time to react but shock flashed in her eyes as she collided against the belfry.

The impact would have killed a human; it just stunned her and she dropped to her hands and knees. Taviano, under his demon’s sway, wrapped his legs around her waist from behind. His razor-sharp nails pressed upward into her jaw.

Kill her rip her head off feed claim mine.

Even without words, the demon’s fury and hunger was crystal clear. Taviano battled to restrain it. He couldn’t command his hands or arms but the fight with his demon was on a different plane than the one with the woman. Images had power, he’d learned, and he gritted his teeth. He pictured the bloodbeast as a writhing, spitting serpent that he forced into a cage of steel. It squirmed and hissed at him wordlessly, pulsing with demands for him to surrender and obey. But he wouldnotgive in.

Pain shot through his hands as the demon fought, burning him with a psychic projection of flame. Desperately, he imagined a heavy lid dropping onto the cage before his demon could slither free. Hefeltthe weight of the cover andtastedthe metal on his tongue as he imbued it with strength.

The cage sealed with a clang and he became aware of the world again, of his hands and agony in them. It seemed the psychic flames caused real damage to his flesh, reddening and blistering his palms and fingers.

Mere moments had passed; the vampire woman still writhed in his grasp. Startled, he realized she was the source of the searing heat. Despite the pain, he croaked hoarsely into her ear, “Last chance. Leave me in peace, and I’ll go by tomorrow daybreak. Push this and you will know the final death.”

Blood-tinged ichor dripped down her neck where his nails had driven into her skin; he wondered whose blood it was, originally. His demon battered against its cage in his mind, but Taviano unlocked his legs. He lowered his again-smooth hands and stepped away from the vampire.

She glared at him but backed a few steps. The wounds on her neck closed as fast as the blisters on his hands healed.

“Midnight,” she spat. “If you aren’t out of my territory by then, I’ll find you and I won’t be alone. Boston is different than other cities. We may not like it but we work together when we must.” She backflipped off the balcony into the darkness.

Taviano stayed alert until his demon gradually quieted. Despite the night’s vicious struggles—physical and mental—his heartbeat remained steady. He’d learned long ago that, no matter how he ran or exerted himself, its rhythm never varied. It just pumped ichor steadily through his body to simulate life.

With hearing extended to the night, he listened as the vampire ran lightly along a roof and away from him. He sagged in relief; that psychic battle had been far worse than usual. He rested on the rooftop to regroup, trying to calm himself with the sounds of the service that continued below him.

Minutes passed as he listened to the choir and also to his demon. Now that the other vampire had left, it seemed quiescent and bore no anger to him, as far as he could sense. It radiated moderate hunger, though.

Well, fair enough. Surely he could find someone deserving in Boston to placate it. First he wanted to enjoy the Mass a little longer. He lay on his back, relishing the “Ave Maria” from below. His vampire sight picked out the stars that light pollution would obscure to mortal eyes. The air pressure dropped, and he tasted ice in the wind. Another snowfall was on its way.

Maybe it was because his senses were so open that he caught the new sounds. Paper rustled and the smell of peppermint drifted up. A heavy bag slipped to the pavement, followed by a muffled curse: “Shit.”

Taviano sat up and craned his head to locate the source. It wasn’t coming from Hanover Street, but rather from a lane to the side of the church. He leaned over the roof’s edge for a better look and spotted a young man under a streetlight. His blond hair glinted as he struggled to corral a dropped plastic bag while clutching three others.

The bags bulged with loose candy canes and packages in festive wrapping and bows. The young man wore a snug red sweater and red corduroy pants. When he bent over, he displayed a shapely behind and a glimpse of underwear bearing pictures of mistletoe. He had no coat, and Taviano sensed him shiver.

As he watched, the man finished gathering the fallen gifts, then stood straight. He gave a slight grunt as he hoisted the bags. Fully laden, he continued down the dark side street, singing “Jingle Bells” to himself off-key.

The Christmas cheer surrounding the young man was palpable. Perhaps he was heading for a party, given the number of presents. Were he still alive, Taviano could imagine joining him on his walk just as he used to join the men in shepherd costumes in Naples. It was Little Italy, after all. Perhaps there were crèches they could visit together. Taviano smiled at his own foolishness and nearly turned away.

Until he noticed three figures stealthily following the young man.

Two

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