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The baby vampires groaned.
ZIMBABWE, AFRICA
Under the almost-full moon, Ingrid Andersen's long, curly red hair gleamed as if the gods themselves were shining a spotlight on her. If so, they must have had a hard time keeping up with the bouncing spot of red, because it was moving fast in the Land Rover driven by her assistant wildlife biologist, Damian Mansfeld.
"Slow down," Ingrid commanded. Instantly obeying her, he braked, propelling both of their bodies forward until their seat belts stopped them. "There's the park entrance. "
He couldn't even see it, but he trusted her to know.
When she said, "Turn. Now," he turned. Now.
She had the slightest hint of an accent that might have come from her native Sweden, though privately Damian thought it was unlike any Scandinavian accent he had ever heard. When he'd asked her about it once, she'd reeled off a slew of Swedish phrases, as if that proved something. Because she was his boss, and because she could stare with yellow eyes that looked as level and challenging as the Serengeti Plain, he didn't ask a second time.
They bounced off the road that went from Bulawayo to Victoria Falls, and bounced onto the dirt road leading into Zimbabwe's Hwange National Park, where many of the world's endangered creatures roamed. Even in the park, the animals weren't safe. They were threatened by each other, the weather, and - the most dangerous predators - poachers and paramilitary thugs who liked to kill elephants for sport and salable body parts.
In the endless dark of the African night, illuminated only by the eerie moon with its flat shadows, Damian worked up the courage to protest, "It's 14,600 square kilometers, Ingrid. How are we going to find them?" He didn't add his most pressing question, as he slammed down on the accelerator again: And why do we have to do this on Christmas Eve?
In the uncanny and unnerving way she had of seeming to read his mind, his boss said, "Poachers are coming. " And then she added, "I'll find them. "
She would, too, Damian believed.
Somehow, through some sixth sense that he'd never witnessed in any other person, Ingrid would lash him on through the dark hours, over the primitive roads, until she located their target: a pack of wild dogs. Damian, who did not believe that all endangered species were created equal, loathed the creatures, as most sensible people did, in his opinion. They were the ugliest animals he'd ever seen. Worse, even, than hyena. They were so ugly they were scary to see. His own small son, upon first seeing one, had screamed and run to hide behind Damian's legs. They had unnaturally long legs, eyes that gleamed red in headlights, hideous coats that looked splattered with brown, black, and tan paint - giving them their other name, the Painted Wolves - and absurdly big ears. They looked as if some mad geneticist had mated a penful of hyenas, rabbits, and soldiers in camouflage gear, and these short-haired, repulsive mammals had emerged to scare the hell out of everybody who had the misfortune to watch them in action.
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 t
he 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?"
