Another person said, “I’m Muslim. Do you know what it’s like to live in this town?”
“You mean no one likes Chrithmas?” I asked. This was a revelation. “We’re in Vermont. How can this be?”
Don’t believe everything you see on TV—I knew that was good advice, but I’d fallen for it again. Small-town America indeed contained all types. There was even enough room for me.
Mariah B. Gary went into preacher mode. “You have to accept it for what it is. You put a bunch of family together, add heat—conflict is bound to arise. Festivus is really the way to go. Celebrate around a steel pole, air grievances, forget the gifts. That’s the true spirit of Christmas.”
Tyrone shrugged. “I like turkey.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mariah said, “Last call!”
“What?”
“We’re closing early. It’s Christmas, ya know.”
“More to dislike,” I grumbled. Inspired by the spirit of anti-Christmas, I stood up and clinked my glass with a butter knife like I was about to give a toast at a wedding. “I would love if everybody came to my place for a party. Well, notmyplace. It’s ours.” I gestured to Vlad and Heaven. “We’ve been fixing it up for a month to pass inspection, but it’s been condemned. It looks pretty good, at least in the dark, and it would be a shame to never have anyone over.”
One thing that was true about small towns, everyone knew everyone else’s business, but I gave some crude directions just in case. “It’s the old Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast. It’s called Radiance now.”
“Radiance?” a few people muttered.
I looked at Heaven. “That’s her name. She’ll never open but she’s happy to shine her light on you for one night,” I said.
Heaven and I walked to the front door, hand in hand.
“By the way, we don’t have any food, so bring some leftovers if you wanna eat!” Heaven tossed off as we headed out into the snow.
Half an hour later, the after-party began. The house was beautiful. I had decorated it in Martha Stewart’s image, but in combination with Heaven’s vampire-core, it fell somewhat short and far to the left of Martha. The walls were casket black, except for the one covered in red-velvet wallpaper. The entire downstairs was giving Gothic library at Christmas vibes.
But while the library looked grand, most of the books were self-help titles, Harlequin romances, and the Cat Who…series. Three centuries of lowbrow taste. There’s a reason Vlad read history and I read so-called trash. That is where I found myself.
Tyrone arrived first with all the cookies that hadn’t sold at the Christmas fair. No shade, but they looked stale. That fair had finished a week ago. Jessica brought a tray of deviled eggs.
Mariah B. Gary brought herself. “I’m here, bitches! The party can start now!” she shouted.
Dr. Rosetti, Bob, Linda, and Pete, the fireman I’d given my BDSM book to, followed behind. It turns out that in only a month I’d managed to collect a solid bunch of misfit friends.
“Linda!” I said. “I bid on you at the auction!”
“Let me know when you want that date. Or if you need a hand sometime…” she said as she surveyed the reno work.
“Thanks, I would love that,” I said, too sad to tell her that there was no point.
The ambiance, the food, the company—it was everything I never knew I needed.
Vlad was the only one who wasn’t in top form. “Who wants to play charades?” he said.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Vladdy, dear, do you think you should put that drink down, maybe?”
He guffawed. “Tyrone, you know I can hold my liquor, right? You witnessed it firsthand.”
“It depends on what you mean by ‘hold my liquor,’ ” Tyrone said drily.
“Tiffenie is worried that I’m going to spill our secrets while I’m drinking.” He shook his head. “I might as well.”
I braced myself against a wall.
“Just so you all know, we’re vampires,” Vlad announced. “That’s why we only come out at night and all of that.”
