Page 3 of A Bloody Good Christmas

2

Irving

His anxiety peaking, Irving retreated to his office on the second floor of the funeral home. He despised the Church and Chapel’s annual matchmaking events. The only reason he allowed them to continue was on the insistence of his two brothers, who, unlike himself, found solace in having mortal companions. The casual company of a human was said to help them better blend into society.

“Running away, as usual, I see.” Irving yelped, as he almost collided with his brother Cameron. He nervously swept his fingers through his dark hair.

“What have I told you about swooping down from the ceiling like that?” Irving scolded him. “You almost scared me into a bat!”

Cameron rolled his golden eyes. “That certainly wouldn’t be a first, now would it, brother dear? You really ought to be careful with that neurotic habit of yours.” Cameron placed his hand firmly on Irving’s shoulder. “Come, let us talk in private,” he said, guiding his brother into the office. Irving reluctantly followed his lead, though he hated letting Cameron into his personal space.

“God, you have such academic taste,” Cameron stated, scoffing. Just look at all these books collecting dust on your shelves. “It’s the twenty-first century, brother, books are practically obsolete−at least, that’s what my darling little mortal pet tells me. We really should have an interior decorator modernize this place.”

Cameron sighed and chuckled, helping himself to Irving’s desk chair. Irving found his brother’s arrogant flamboyance infuriating. Not only that, Cameron had always been beyond flippant when it came to matters of their transformation. So much so, Irving could have sworn his brother preferred being a blood-sucking monster. Irving watched with clenched fists as Cameron rifled through the contents of his desk drawers. He laughed triumphantly upon extracting a high-quality cigar. Upon wafting it beneath his nose he proceeded to cut the end and light it.

“There’s nothing like a fine Arturo Fuente at the start of the eve, wouldn’t you say, brother of mine?” He puffed the cigar for a moment, swinging his lean legs atop Irving’s desk. Noting the concern brewing in his brother’s eyes, he said, “Oh no, did this happen to be your ninth cigar?” he teased. “If my math is correct that would mean…” Cameron gasped dramaturgically. “You have eight left.”

“NO!” Irving lunged for the desk, scrambling to cut another cigar. He could hear the knocks echoing painfully within his skull. His fingers quaked as he struggled to light a match. The minute the first tendril of smoke drifted from the end of the cigar, Irving was filled with relief. He swallowed, embarrassed by the mad display.

“Your fangs are showing, dear brother,” Cameron remarked. He had a habit of using the word ‘brother’ much too much, using it to convey a wide berth of meanings. His eyes once glowing with arrogance were now gazing at him with concern. “This can’t continue,” he said, seriously. “The mortal members of the fang club have been complaining about your tendency to go batty.”

Irving collapsed into one of the ornately upholstered chairs that lined the wall of his office. The furniture was more for show than it was comfort, not that Irving cared for comfort. Comfort was a luxury only humans enjoyed. For a vampire, soft, supple mattresses were redundant. Being immortal had its benefits. For one, an extremely high tolerance for pain, making the idea of discomfort completely obsolete.

“I struggle to control my bat transformation reflex at times,” Irving explained to his brother. “Besides, it’s not as though I’ve exposed our existence to a group of ignorants. They were all members of the Fang Club.”

“Even so, it’s a disturbing habit,” Cameron stated. “You’re like a pufferfish that can’t stop blowing up. You’re only supposed to turn in the face of a threat, or for the convenience of flight. You must learn to control your nerves or you’ll go another year without a single mortal putting your name down.” Cameron stood, exhaling the last of the cigar.

Irving was suppressing every urge to climb up onto the ceiling where he could hang upside down and enjoy the extra flow of blood to his brain. “I can get by another year without a human companion,” Irving declared.

“I disagree.” Irving turned to see his eldest brother hovering in the door of his office.

“Who the hell invited you?” Irving demanded. “How dare you both conspire against me like this! If it weren’t for my business, you both wouldn’t have your precious Fang Club.”

Blake crossed his burly arms. He’d always been more muscular than the other two brothers and wore his hair long. During his days as a brutal criminal, he’d been known on the streets as ‘Saber Tooth.’ In previous centuries, Blake had broken ties with the brothers, choosing to hunt the vampires who’d allowed themselves to become consumed by their hunger−the very same kinds of vampires who murdered Aiken. But, since the turning of multiple individuals in health sciences, more specifically, phlebotomy, obtaining blood was far easier than it had once been. This meant the number of rabid vampires was few and far between.

“Do you know how many times I’ve had to hypnotize humans because you picked the wrong time to hang from the ceiling?” Blake remarked. “I seem to recall doing so just last week.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” Irving retorted. “If we could only get a hold of someone willing to fix that confounded door, it wouldn’t stop swinging open, allowing entry to curious trespassers.” His brothers stared at him with vapid eyes. They were not buying his excuse. “Moreover,” he added, licking his lips, “the receptionist has a terrible tendency to tap her fingers in an eight beat measure.”

Blake shook his head. “You’re tormented by trivial things such as open doors and the number eight. Obsessing over every little detail won’t bring Aiken back. It’s been centuries, Irv. Move on. Find a mortal to settle your nerves.” Blake removed the cigar Irving was holding between his shaking fingers. He wrapped his massive arm around Irving’s narrow shoulders, puffing on the cigar for a moment before pushing him out of the office. Cameron followed suit.

The three of them entered the chapel just as the bell rang to signal a seat change. Blake gave Irving a hardy slap on the back before saying, “Get back in there and find yourself a good human,” he urged. “Cameron and I have every faith you’ll find someone.”

Irving huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he said, sharply. “But you both owe me a new box of cigars.”

Without thinking, Irving chose the first empty chair he saw. Sometimes he found if he simply acted spontaneously, he avoided the treacherous over analyzation that came with his obsessive nature.

I hope you realize, by filling the open chair, you’re completing a row of eight.His inner voice tormented him daily. Sometimes Irving felt as though he had two versions of himself living within his mind. The one voice insisted on reminding him of his obsessions, while the other fought to silence it.Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!he thought, helplessly.

After sweeping his hair back and unbuttoning his jacket, he lowered himself into a seat, exhaling as he did so. The woman who moved to sit across from him was different. Not only was she older than the majority of the other women in the chapel, but she was dressed in street clothes as opposed to the elaborate gowns and suits everyone else wore. Her face was round, soft, and marked with lines at the end of her eyes. Irving admired those kinds of creases. He imagined people with these signs of age had spent their life smiling a lot. True, this woman was by no means glamorous, but she was attractive. Irving wasn’t sure why, but he felt oddly at ease in her presence.

“Hello,” he greeted her. “What’s your name?”

“Sage,” she responded. Her name was simple, but lovely all the same. “You’re Mr. Garrow, the owner of this funeral home, correct?”

“Yes,” he affirmed. He then insisted she refer to him by his first name. “Surnames are unnecessarily formal in today’s day and age,” he stated. He then second-guessed himself. It had been numerous years since a human had taught him about contemporary ways. “That, erm, is the case, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Sage replied. “I don’t like it when people call me by my surname, either. But, that’s because it’s my husband’s name, and, he…well… it doesn’t matter.” She stared down at her hands abashed. Her hesitance with words reminded Irving of himself. For the first time in ages, Irving felt himself smile. He felt a sense of hope; it was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t last.

A look of determination crossed Sage’s face and she pulled a crumpled bit of paper from her pocket, smoothing it out for Irving to see. “I need to get out of the agreement that was made here.”

Irving reviewed the document, confused. He read it out loud. “Almond milk, vegan cheese, asparagus…”

“What?” Sage snatched the paper away from him in despair. She growled in frustration. “I accidentally grabbed my grocery list,” she mumbled.

Irving raised his eyebrows. “Almond milk? How does one milk an almond?”

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