A Vampire for Christmas

chapter FOUR





CAPTAIN PEDRO RAMIREZ STRUTTED into the Cuban tavern like a bantam cock, all show and bluster. He was a short, stout fellow, but that didn’t diminish the sense of danger that surrounded him. A loose shirt that might have once been white, but had been yellowed by time, covered his hard, round belly. A thick leather belt surrounded his broad girth and held a long silver knife and a brace of pistols. Also dangling from his belt was a heavy cutlass that banged against his leg as his rolling gait carried him into the room.



Ramirez was followed by quite a few members of his crew. Only now, seeing them through the distance of time and the clarity of the vision, did Damien note the paleness of their skin and the slight demonic glow in their eyes.



The men in the bar gave Ramirez and his crew a wide berth, clearing out of their way with fearful glances.



Ramirez walked right toward the Damien of that Christmas Eve Past, blocking his path back to his table and crew. The captain looked up at Damien from his shorter height, disdain obvious in his gaze.



“Move, boy,” he said, the words achingly familiar as was his demeaning look. They were the first words his father had said to him when a young Damien had stepped up to him, wanting to meet the man who had sired and then abandoned him.



Misplaced anger had risen up in Damien at Ramirez’s dismissal. So instead of giving way, Damien pushed right into him, knocking aside the smaller man.



The Damien watching the vision understood well. He’d wished he’d had the nerve to do the same to his dismal excuse for a father.



A hush descended over the room at Damien’s action, almost as if everyone in the place was holding their collective breath, knowing what would follow.



Ramirez turned and grabbed hold of Damien’s shoulder, growled his request. “Apologize, mi amigo.”



Damien moved the other captain’s hand off his shoulder like it was a piece of refuse. Leaning down until his nose was almost bumping the other man’s face he said, “I’m not your amigo.”



A rush of wings sounded in the bar and suddenly there was a body before him. Angelina. Her sharp cry of pain was quite clear now, to the Damien viewing the scene, but back then he hadn’t heard it. So full of himself and his own pain and ego, all he had seen was the challenge in Ramirez’s gaze as the other man thrust aside the bar-maid.



Damien hadn’t seen Angelina fall. Hadn’t noticed the blood soaking the front of her shirt where Ramirez had stabbed her through the heart with a thin silver blade.



A blade that had been meant for Damien.



But he saw it now and realized that Angelina had sacrificed herself to save his life. He reached out to the image of a dying Angelina, lying just inches before him, but his hand only swept through empty air.



He was so engrossed with the vision of her fighting for life, that for a moment he failed to see the rest of the scene playing out. But then his own pained shout filtered into his consciousness and drew his gaze back to the vision of him wrestling with Ramirez.



The vampire captain grabbed hold of Damien, twisting him until he sank his teeth deep into Damien’s neck and fed. Blood ran down the other captain’s face, dripped onto his yellowed shirt. Sick slurping sounds escaped him as Ramirez sucked the life from a drunken Damien.



A moment later, Ramirez’s crew morphed and descended upon Damien’s crew members and the other patrons, attacking and feeding from them while the rest of the crowd in the bar scattered, running for their lives.



With his neck nearly bitten in half, the Damien of the past fell to the ground, dying. What was left of his lifeblood spilled out beside Angelina’s before his eyes glazed over and he joined Angelina in death.



From the present, his voice quavered with realization. “I didn’t know. Didn’t see what he was,” he explained to his lover as she stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, trying to offer comfort. Although she seemed to know his inner heart better than he did. Or at least, she knew there was more that he was unwilling to admit.



“Would it have mattered back then? Would you have refrained from challenging him had you known he was a demon?” she countered.



Damien searched his soul, but the answer that came was one he didn’t like. He had been so full of pain and pride back then that he had thought little of those around him. Any real or perceived attack to his status or ego would have been met with anger. With violence. If his father thought him the Devil’s spawn, he was prepared to prove it with his fists or swords or whatever instrument of violence was nearby.



It was Damien’s way of getting back at his father for his rejection, for the disdain he showed Damien each time they met.



But no longer. I am no longer that man, he thought.



“Really? Do you think you are different?” Angelina challenged as if reading his mind. Lovingly, she caressed the slope of his shoulder, bent and whispered into his ear, “Be honest with yourself.”



“I’ve changed,” he repeated, almost like a child responding to being chastised, but in his heart he understood why she was pressing her case. He was no longer that man, but he was still not a worthy individual. He was a demon who took from others, stealing their lifeblood. Hiding the truth of what he was. Making his livelihood illegally no matter that he fancied himself some kind of Robin Hood by sharing the lucre from his activities.



A hundred years had passed since that long-ago Cuban night, yet his temper still hurt others. More than once since becoming a demon, he had used his powers in fights prompted by men who had sought to challenge him. Men who had thought themselves superior or who had wanted to hurt those for whom Damien cared.



Like Angelina, who he had hurt once again, he thought, acknowledging the guilt that had been with him for nearly a year. Since last Christmas Eve when he had been responsible for her death, for the second time.



With the admission of that responsibility came yet more change in the room around him. The image of their bloodied bodies faded and was replaced by a different scene.



In this vision, the shades and curtains in the room were drawn against the daylight. Bright rays spilled in around the edges, providing enough illumination for him to see that they were in his bedroom, but at another point in time—a scant year ago in his long existence.



Another Christmas Eve that had also ended in tragedy.



The sights and sounds from a year ago overwhelmed his senses as a trill of laughter filled the air. The door to the room in the vision flung open.



Angelina tumbled in like a playful puppy, her face alight with joy. The Damien in the vision chased after her, a broad smile on his face as he worked on the buttons of his linen shirt.



Damien knew what would follow and didn’t want to see. He didn’t want a reminder of all that he had lost. Yet the scene continued, punishing him with its presence.



“Do not show me this, Angelina,” he commanded, pushing to his feet and grabbing hold of her arms. He tempered his hold when she breathed a complaint at the force of his grasp.



“Are you afraid, Damien? Do you fear what you might learn about the man that you are?”



Do you fear what you might feel? came her voice in his head, challenging him to face not only the past, but his own heart.



Maybe I haven’t changed, Damien thought, accepting her challenge. Allowing himself to leave her and return to that moment in the past to face his demons. As had happened before, he experienced a wild glide through the air until he slammed into the body of the Damien in the vision.



He stumbled back from Angelina as he came alert to everything in the room. His senses registered the smell of wood smoke from the fire burning brightly in the grate. The cheery warmth of it was in direct contrast to the slight chill coming from the edges of the curtains drawn against the bright winter sun.



“We don’t have long,” Angelina said, reaching for the buttons on his shirt, but he brushed away her hands. If some God somewhere had decided that this was the only time he would have with her, he would not rush.



Then let us not waste this moment,” he replied, lifting his hand and dragging his fingers along the smooth skin in the enticing V of her pale lavender blouse. The hue accentuated the color of her eyes, making them appear an even more striking green. He repeatedly ran his thumb up and down the silkiness of her skin and watched the emerald color darken in passion.



Please, Damien. I only have an hour for lunch,” she complained, although the playful tone of her voice was hard to miss.



He relented and, with a slight tug, undid the bow holding the butterfly blouse closed. As the fabric draped open, it exposed more of the cleavage between her generous breasts. Dipping one finger beneath the fabric, he traced the full swells above the lace cups of her bra and smiled as her nipples puckered beneath his caress. The hard points were noticeably visible through her brassiere and the gauzy cotton of the blouse.



He shifted his hand to stroke his thumb across the peaked tip and she sighed her pleasure.



He met her gaze then, different and yet the same. That exotic tilt at the edge of her eyes was not as severe as before and her skin was a trifle lighter in color. Her pupils widened when he took the hard tip of her breast between his thumb and forefinger, rotating it gently.



Her emerald eyes were brighter this time, not as tired-looking. Her face had a little more fullness, and a becoming and healthy blush blossomed on her smooth skin at his caress. This Angelina was full of life, maybe slightly younger.



Still incredibly beautiful. Alluring, he thought as he bent his head to the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply.



Summer and flowers. Home, he thought again before kissing that spot. He nuzzled her neck with his nose, moving upward to rub it along the shell of her ear while he cupped her breasts.



You are so lovely. So innocent,” he whispered and she swayed toward him, resting her hands against his chest.



Touch me,” he urged, needing to feel the softness of her hands on him. Wanting to feel her warmth, he quickly parted the flowing fabric of her blouse, exposing more of her flesh.



She grew reticent then, pulling the gaping fabric closed to hide her breasts beneath the flimsy bra she wore. He recalled then what he had not known at the time.



This Angelina had been a virgin the first and only time he had taken her.



During all of their earlier encounters over the week before this Christmas Eve, marvelous intense moments, they had not progressed to the point where today seemed to be leading.



To the bed just a few feet away.



“I will be gentle,” he promised and unlike the Damien of the past, he meant it. She was too precious to hurt. Too special to treat without care.



She locked her gaze with his and murmured, “I trust you.”



He wanted to tell her not to trust. Not to believe in him because he could offer only pain and no future. He was a vampire, and she was mortal. He was painfully reminded of that fact as he laid his hands over hers and urged them from their grip on her blouse.



She splayed her hands on his chest, and he rubbed his hands over hers. Shifted them to his shirt where she hesitantly undid the buttons. She let the fabric drift open to reveal the defined ridges of his chest and abdomen.



“Touch me,” he said, inviting her to take the lead in their lovemaking.



She shot him a half glance where hesitation and desire battled. Desire quickly won out.



She edged her hands beneath the smooth and expensive linen of his shirt. The proceeds of his rum-running allowed him many fine things. Things he wanted to share with her, only she was too proud to take charity.



“You’re cold,” she said, after placing her hands on the swell of his pectorals.



The vampire’s chill, he thought, and released a bit of the demon to heat up his skin.



“I was out on the water until you arrived,” he lied, not wanting to reveal to her what he was. Afraid that if he did so, she would leave him. She had eased so much of his loneliness that he couldn’t bear the thought of her not being in his life. But he also hated that their time together was tainted by his lie.



Can love truly exist if it’s based on lies? The Angelina he was coming to understand was the voice of his conscience intruded into his thoughts.



It is love, he shot back, not wanting to lose a minute of the vision and the happiness he had once had.



He inched his fingers beneath the thin cotton of her blouse and ran the back of his hand along the smooth skin at her waist. “But you’re nice and warm,” he said, trying to divert this Angelina’s attention from the nervousness she might be feeling.



Leisurely, he shifted his hand upward until he was just beneath her breasts. Not wanting to spook her, he looked at her and softly asked, May I touch you?”