Ingrid claimed they were loving, social families.
They cared for their young and their wounded and sick, she said.
They let the young eat first after a kill.
The less able among them took on “jobs” like nursing and babysitting.
Damian called it running in packs—packs that hunted in moonlight, that brought down antelopes four times their size by disemboweling them on the run. They were ruthless hunters. They were also amazing runners, he’d give them that. What he’d also like to give them was the business end of a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat. There were maybe only five thousand of them left in the world, and almost all of those were in southern Africa. With only a few machine gun blasts, he could wipe their blight off the earth, and hardly anybody but Ingrid Andersen—gorgeous, brilliant, crazy Ingrid—would mourn them. Then they could concentrate on protecting species who deserved saving—the rhinos and elephants, the hippos and gorillas, the beautiful and the beloved, instead of the ugly and the reviled.
“Can’t you go any faster?” Ingrid screamed above the roar of the motor.
Damian made a show of quickly lifting his right foot and then slamming it down again, but his real answer was: no. They couldn’t drive any faster without killing themselves, and he was damned if he’d die in pursuit of the Wild Dogs of Africa. Especially not on the night before Christmas. He wanted to get home to watch his children open their gifts from Santa Claus.
THE NORTH POLE
“We have visitors, Nick!”
Santa looked up from his pleasant task of decorating a tree with little glass ornaments filled with sparkling blood. This century’s wife, the eternally beautiful Victoria, stood in the doorway looking more excited than mere tree decorations should warrant—which told Nicholas who his unexpected guests must be.
“Vamps, Vikki? Handsome ones?”
She sidled into the room, her long red velvet gown sweeping the floor.
“Don’t touch my ornaments,” he snapped, as her right hand sneaked gracefully out of a velvet pocket to do just that. “They aren’t snacks.”
“I don’t want to touch your ornaments,” she sniffed, and turned to leave.
“Or theirs, either,” he warned her.
“At least you’re dressed for it,” Nick observed to his two visitors, who were all done up like dead Romanovs. He eyed the one who called himself Serge and whose teeth were chattering so hard that Nick thought it was a wonder he didn’t set the glass balls on the tree to clinking. “I hope you won’t think me rude, but you don’t seem cut out for the job.”
“J-j-job?”
“Of being dead.”
“H-hate c-cold,” Serge admitted.
“Then why are you here, of all places?”
Nick’s tone was gracious, or at least he thought it was, his manner was open, and the goblets of crimson that he had offered them were warm enough to remove the chill from a vampire’s heart.
The other one, the one called Pasha, spoke for both of them.
“Wanna hep.”
His lips were blue and still frosty from being outside. Even after a few sips from the goblet, the blond vampire could barely get his mouth to move enough for him to speak.
“Really,” said Nick. “How kind. You want to help how, exactly?”
“Big wor,” Pasha mumbled.
“Ah, you’re saying it’s a great big world, and I must have my hands full trying to get around to every home on just one night.”
“Thas w’sayin.”
“Yes, well, since you have only my best interests in mind, you’ll be glad to hear that I don’t actually visit every home on Christmas Eve. I learned long ago that all I have to do is a few of them on any given holiday. The legend spreads from there. Word of mouth, don’t you know. Still the best advertising.”
He smiled widely, showing incisors so old they were hideously long and yellow.
He suspected these young vampires had never before seen fangs that looked like his, because they had never before met a vampire as old as he. Young vampires thought him doddering in his silly red fat suit—until they saw his yellow fangs.
The chattering one’s frosty blue eyes widened.
The other one, who had cast Victoria a smoldering glance when she left the chamber, stepped back.
Apparently they weren’t entirely stupid, Nick thought, laying a finger against the side of his nose.
Perhaps he could make use of them.
“So there’s no job opportunity for you in that regard,” he said with gentle regret on their behalf. “Neither paid, nor volunteer.” He paused. Picked at something caught between a fang and a bicuspid, drew it out, and stared at it before flicking it—a bit of flesh?—away. Then he smiled his frighteningly gracious smile at them again. “What can you do for me?”
“Pasha,” Serge whispered. Sufficient grog had warmed them up enough so that their limbs and lips worked again. “Except for Santa and his wife, there aren’t any other grown-up vampires here. It’s just those creepy kids. Why are we the only other grown-ups?”
Victoria had shown them the workshops and the dorms, and now she was taking them to the stables. Ahead of them, her red velvet butt swayed enticingly. Pasha was far too distracted to care about Serge’s worries. “Because we’re the only ones who’ve ever been smart enough to figure it out,” he whispered back.
Victoria turned long enough to flash a toothy smile at him.
All other thoughts melted from Pasha’s mind as they followed her into the warmest area in the castle. Serge nearly wept with relief when he felt the heat. But Victoria didn’t stop there, to his dismay. She led them through the stable with its huge, empty, immaculate stalls, and back outside again, onto an enormous ice field.
“There they are,” she said, and pointed toward the distance.
Her guests huddled together against the frigid wind, and squinted into it.
“Reindeer,” Pasha muttered, sounding bored.
Serge said nothing. Opening his mouth to speak made his teeth hurt.
Pasha’s boredom didn’t last long. Even from so far away, the vampires could detect that there was something about the reindeer that was not like any other animal, not deer, nor elk, nor even moose. And then they found out what it was. At one moment Pasha and Serge were squinting at a herd far out in a frozen pasture, and in the next moment, all of the animals were standing in front of them, terrifyingly large, shaking their antlers, snorting and pawing the ground as if eager to get going.
“My god. Do they really fly?” Pasha asked Victoria.
“They do.”
“How?”
“Research and development. Nick has the most incredible R&D department in the world.” She giggled. “Literally, in the world. You’ll have to meet Rudolph.”
“There’s really a Rudolph!”
“Oh, yes.”
“Does he have a red nose?”
The lowered lashes rose, allowing Pasha to see the deliciously evil glint in her cobalt-blue eyes, and the flirtatiousness in them. “Yes, but Nick is trying to fix that. It was a mistake in the breeding.”
“Mistake? But everybody loves Rudolph’s red nose!”
“They wouldn’t,” she purred, “if they knew it came from heavy drinking.”
It took a moment, but then Pasha burst out laughing, followed a moment later by frozen Serge, who quickly closed his mouth again for fear his tonsils would freeze.
Blood, she meant.
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer had a very shiny red nose because he drank blood.
“Are you saying that Rudolph is a vampire reindeer?”
“A prototype,” she whispered. “Priceless. Nick’s never been able to repeat that one success. Don’t mention it to him. It makes him cranky to be reminded of it.” She smiled, showing neat pointed incisors. “And we don’t want to make Santa Claus cranky, do we, boys?”
“Noooo,” agreed Pasha, fervently.
Serge shivered at the thought.
“Come on,” Victoria urged them. “I’ll show you our private quarters.”