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“Can we stop skulking now?” Gabriel asked.
I nodded and quickly led him away before Mama Ginger could spot us.
“Is everything OK?” he asked.
“I don’t know. That woman that Mama Ginger’s talking to, she walked into the shop the other night and … well, she smacked my brain around in a psychic sense. I don’t like that she and Mama Ginger are talking. The two of them joining forces cannot possibly be good for Zeb … or mankind, in general.”
Gabriel nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”
I put my arm through Gabriel’s and tried to resuscitate our date night as we walked away. “Did I ever tell you that my dad and I used to go to that coffee shop every weekend?”
8
Werewolves look for three key components in a mate: ability to hunt, viable genes, and a sense of humor.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
I shouldn’t have told Mama to Photoshop me into the family Christmas picture. She’d found some photo kiosk at the mall and cropped in a picture from three Christmases ago, taken just after I’d had minor dental surgery. With eyes both red and bleary, I was wobbling near the rear of the tree attempting to hang an angel ornament in midair. Everyone else in the family is smiling and looking at the camera (with this year’s hair), and I was copied and pasted into a corner as if my top half was springing out of the tree. Mama sent it to 120 of our nearest and dearest, including Zeb.
“It looks like Christmas Night of the Living Dead!” he hooted.
“That’s incredibly culturally insensitive,” I muttered. “See if I invite you to my Christmas party.”
“Aw, sweetie, you know it’s not Christmas without us watching A Christmas Story until one of us passes out.”
Zeb and I usually spent Christmas Eve together. He could only handle so much of his parents and used me as a reason to get away. We would hoard as much peanut-butter fudge and sausage balls as possible, then hide out at Zeb’s place to watch Christmas movies. Gifts were exchanged, relatives were avoided. God bless us every one.
But this year, we were having “A Holly Jolly Undead Christmas” at River Oaks. Gabriel had promised to be there, which was fortunate, because I’d found the perfect present for him. Zeb was bringing Jolene, as Mama Ginger had made it clear that she was not welcome at the Lavelle family Christmas. Andrea was coming, which meant Dick would be there, even though he said he had plans that night. Fred and Jettie would try to fit us into their busy holiday schedule. Of course, Mr. Wainwright would be there. He was eager to question Jolene about her family.
River Oaks hadn’t been opened for a big party since the Great Depression, when Great-great-great-grandpa Early lost a good portion of the family fortune in oil speculation in Florida. It was the first adult party I’d ever hosted, with real hors d’oeuvres and fancy clothes. I’d put up a real spruce tree and brought out all of the old glass ornaments. I hung fairy lights from every stationary object in the house. I lit a couple dozen good vanilla-scented candles and then blew half of them out. Having a lot of open flames around highly flammable guests was surely the mark of an inconsiderate hostess.
Jolene promised to handle the human food, which was fortunate, since I think my stove had atrophied from disuse. Jolene said it just didn’t seem fair to make me cook stuff I couldn’t eat. I asked if she could put that in writing and send it to my mama.
Jolene was also providing a crock pot full of cow’s blood from her farm, for the undead guests. I thought about adding spices to make it sort of a mulled-wine thing, but Mr. Wainwright advised strongly against it. He even gave me a book titled Elegant Undead Entertaining. Based on the “Foods That Vampires Can Prepare without Becoming Nauseated” menu, I was providing crackers and cheese, fancy cookies, and sparkling cider and thanked the ever-patient, ever-generous officials of the Visa corporation, for providing the groceries.
With the tree, the candles, and the scent of blood warming in the crock pot, the house smelled wonderfully of home and hearth. (My standards have changed a bit.) All that was left was for me to run around like a crazy person double- and triple-checking everything.
Pretty decorations? Check. Good food? Check. Not telling Mama about it? Check. It was the recipe for the perfect party.
And what else would a vampire wear to a Christmas party but a blood-red cocktail dress?
It was perfect, fabulous even, maybe the most flattering dress I’d ever worn. Cinched at the waist with a scarlet sash and a rhinestone poinsettia brooch, the luscious, floaty material fell in a perfect bell around my knees. I even broke the Curse of Bridesmaid Shoe Past, finally finding a use for those sassy pomegranate-dyed pumps.
Believe it or not, I found the dress in Aunt Jettie’s closet. Jettie wasn’t always a sweatsuit fanatic. She was quite the sharp dresser before she declared open rebellion against foundation garments. And fortunately, we were both tall, “athletically” built girls. And it smelled nothing like mothballs, so double points for me.
“Everything looks wonderful, honey,” Jettie said as I changed the CD in the stereo for the fourteenth time. I have no centralized music taste. I listen to an alarming amount of Sarah McLachlan, the DefTones, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Musically, I kind of got stuck in the 1990s. Gabriel called my CD collection “pedantic.” I think he forgot he was dealing with someone who knew what “pedantic” means.
Unfortunately, my pedantic collection did not include any Christmas music, so we had a choice between celebrating the birth of baby Christ with “Suck My Kiss” or a Lilith Fair concert recording. Neither felt appropriate, so I settled for the regional NPR station’s broadcast of Handel’s Messiah.
“Maybe I should rearrange the—” I turned toward the candles.
“Don’t!” Jettie cried. “Honey, they’re perfect. And it’s not good for you to handle candles too much.” I relented, and she stepped back, motioning for me to raise my arms. “Now, let me see you. That dress never looked that good on me.”
“Fibber.” I rolled my eyes.
“I don’t know any one-word insults for false modesty, but I’ll come up with one,” she said. “In the meantime, sit, catch your breath, er, relax. Enjoy this quiet time when the house looks perfect and you look beautiful and no one is frazzled or complaining that they can’t eat anything because of their lactose intolerance.”
“That’s lovely,” I said. “Which shelter magazine did you get that from?”
