The Twelve Hot Days of Christmas Read online

  Eagerly, she tore the note from the egg and opened it. “Done baking? Meet me outside near the big oak tree,” it said.

  Her heart leapt, and she smiled gleefully to herself. Not even conscious anymore of the flour covering her clothes, she hopped off the bed and made her way as casually as she could outside. The porch was quiet and the night was clear. Her feet carried her as fast as they could down the steps and around the house to the oak tree, the largest tree on the property. As she approached, she looked for Luke but didn’t see him. She stood in confusion for a moment, then circled the entire tree slowly.

  She had almost made a complete circle when she spotted a glistening green object, right at eye level, sitting in a branch. Stacia immediately knew it was another egg. This one was wrapped in glittering green wrapping paper and tied with thin red ribbon. Like the last one, it had a note attached.

  “Don’t you want to know what you’re getting for Christmas? Come find me by the garden shed.”

  Stacey thought about his rock-hard cock and immediately headed for the shed, which sat perilously close to the house. As she drew nearer, she didn’t see Luke and began a careful search of the area until she found her third egg. It had a sprig of mistletoe taped to it and, like the others, had a note attached—but this one had something more. Rather than simply sitting in the snow, this egg had a makeshift bed: Luke’s sweater.

  Stacia thought about Luke, potentially waiting for her somewhere with no shirt on, his nipples hard like glass in the cold, night air, his sexy, toned pecs and stomach bare for her to see . . . and touch . . .

  She enthusiastically ripped the note open.

  “I want you. Come down to the chicken coop.”

  As she ran towards the chicken coop, she grew even more excited at what she would find there. It was another egg, sitting atop Luke’s carefully folded pants, alongside another note that instructed her to meet him by the geese.

  Stacia half expected Luke to be there waiting for her, but he wasn’t. Instead, there was a fifth goose egg, bigger than any of the others had been. She was hardly able to focus on the egg itself, though, as her eyes were glued to what was lying next to it. Luke’s boxer shorts, sat on top of the fresh snow. Stacia snatched her newest note and opened it to see where this wild goose chase would lead her next.

  “You want my cock?” it said. “Come and get it. I’m down by the river.”

  Thinking about his cock, and how much she wanted it deep inside her, Stacia instantly took off in the direction of the river. She trotted through the farm for a little while, and it wasn’t long before she could hear the sound of the river in the distance. She reached the water’s edge and instantly spotted the small campfire further along down the bank. She made out a shape next to it. Not a goose egg, not a letter, but him. Luke. He stood in the cool night air, his waves blowing in the breeze, his body completely naked and the shadows of the flames dancing along his skin. One hand was stretched out towards her, holding the last goose egg. But it was his cock that caught her eye. It was standing hard and ready, waiting for her . . . and as she drew closer, feeling the warmth from the fire, she saw he had wrapped a small red ribbon around it.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said softly.

  She smiled and gently took the egg from him. “What’s all this?” she whispered. “You stole my present idea!”

  “I knew what you wanted,” he explained with a light shrug of his shoulders. “So here it is.”

  Stacia could feel herself growing wet and swollen in expectation for what she would do with her “present.” Slowly, she took the ribbon off of his thick cock. Then, she backed away a few steps and began to slowly remove her own clothes, one article at a time. Luke had taken great pains, clearing the area and laying cozy down-filled sleeping bags in a circle around the fire. The setting was perfect, but she wanted to tease him as much as he had teased her with his game. When she was as naked as he was, she sat down on one of the sleeping bags and opened her legs slightly, beckoning him with her eyes.

  An intensely excited expression washed over his face as she parted her legs. He moved over to her in a passionate, pulsating frenzy, and before she knew it he was on top of her, kissing her passionately, his hands exploring her breasts, her hair, her neck—everywhere except where she wanted to feel his touch. Her heart raced with desperation and the burning need to relieve the build-up of sexual excitement within her.

  Slowly, she leaned back and wrapped her arms around him. She arched her back slightly, pressing her pelvis against his manhood in an attempt to show him just how much she wanted, needed, his body at one with her own. In response, he moved down and, all at once, entered her.

  Stacia cried out as she felt the sensation of his cock filling her, rocking gently in and out of her. The tension that had built up within her from wanting him released itself, and she was overcome with pure ecstasy. As Luke moved his hips back and forth, he moved his mouth to her neck, kissing down to her chest until he came to her breast and gently rolled his tongue over a hard nipple.

  She rocked in tempo with him, firmly grasping his ass in both hands and pulling him as far into herself as she could. Luke’s mouth dropped open with pleasure, then he countered her action by transforming his gentle swaying motion into a series of hard, intense thrusts. The fire beside them roared, competing to release as much heat as they did with their passion.

  As Luke continued to thrust into her, Stacia wrapped her legs around him and pulled his body close in to hers. Their stomachs touched, their chests met, his pecs against her breasts, and again their mouths locked in a kiss that was pure ardor and zeal for one another. Her hands moved over every part of his body they could reach, fully taking in the feel of his skin, his muscles. Every thrust of his cock into her moist cave sent waves of pleasure through her, a sensation she was thrilled to be able to feel again.

  Just as Stacia felt herself climax, Luke paused, gasped, and impaled her with a particularly deep thrust. As they came together, their eyes met, burning with fierce desire. Her body shuddering, Stacia let her head fall back, and her gaze fell on the stars above, glittering and shimmering in striking beauty—just like Luke’s eyes.

  Luke withdrew from her slowly and wrapped a sleeping bag around them, trading passionate kisses. Lying there, Stacia sighed to herself.

  “So,” Luke said softly into her ear, “what did you think of your gift?”

  “All I could ask for,” Stacia responded. “What my true love gave to me.”

  Seven Swans a’ Swimming

  by Cecilia Tan

  But anon her awful jubilant voice,

  With a music strange and manifold,

  Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold;

  As when a mighty people rejoice

  With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold...

  from The Dying Swan by Alfred Lord Tennyson

  Robert. I didn’t speak his name, but he turned as if he’d heard me. Perhaps he had. We old ones sometimes speak with the mind, and sometimes our kind can hear what is unspoken. Snow fell softly, like swan feathers through the evening air, the sky already dark but the London streets still bustling with light and noise and holiday shoppers. Swans were beloved of Apollo, it was said, sacred, and were seen flying over Delos when the god was born.

  Robert was a god incarnate. It was half the reason I made him.

  As he turned, his eyes had a moment of gold in them, like a cat’s, then warmed with recognition as he focused on me. “Mirelle,” he breathed, coming and taking my hands in his, mine bare, his gloved.

  “It’s Sarah, now,” I said with a smile. But he had always been Robert, since his birth some six hundred years before. Compared to me he was practically a fledgling, but to anyone watching us meet on the cobblestoned sidewalk outside an apothecary shop, we were nothing more than two young lovebirds in our early twenties.

  “First snow,” he said with a boyish grin. There was a familiarity and ease borne of our long association. I had not seen him in fifty
years, but he spoke as if we talked every day. “Lovely, isn’t it?” He blinked as a few flakes clung to his lashes.

  “Yes,” I said, unable to keep from returning his smile. It had been fifty years, and I wanted very much to kiss him, like young lovers in the snow.

  But the kiss I wanted was with warm lips, a velvet tongue. If we kissed now, it would be cold, but not because of the snow. I squeezed his fingers, the leather of his gloves squeaking as I did. “Hunt with me,” I whispered.

  He looked down shyly, his long lashes blinking again, and for a moment I thought he was going to deny me, to tell me he was bound to another now, or make some excuse. But no, he was merely taking in the moment, perhaps overcoming his reservations, before he looked up and said, “Yes.”

  * * * *

  We went to the bedsit I’d rented so I could dress in warmer clothes. Walking about snowy London in just a jumper, with no scarf or gloves, was bound to attract attention. And we did not want to attract attention. We wanted to be perfectly forgettable.

  Vampires as old as we don’t hunt often, and when we do, we do not have to kill. Especially not when we hunt for pleasure, as Robert and I were about to. There are strict rules we should adhere to, to prevent discovery. But in the modern age, it is so much more difficult to make a person disappear without a trace. Each choice had a risk. Commit murder and potentially draw the fear and attention of the populace. Leave a victim alive and risk discovery or recognition.

  I hadn’t planned to stay in London long anyway.

  “Certainly not past Christmas,” I told him, as I wrapped a pashmina around my neck. “There. How do I look?”

  He swept his arms around my waist, twirling me like a princess at a ball. “Fabulous. As always.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “You know that isn’t what I meant.” It felt so good to flirt, though, to smile with ease.

  I had buried my most recent lover in the summer. A sweet young Spaniard, he had loved me as fiercely and single-mindedly as a bull does a red cape. My feelings for him had not matched his in intensity, but he had not minded. He had loved me to drink his blood directly from his skin, to take it while he took me, rutting hard.

  I had put a gold ring on him like one does on a black swan to keep him tame, although it was not his neck that I ringed.

  “Let’s go,” I said, taking his hand and pulling him out the door before I could succumb to melancholy. “The city awaits.”

  He pulled me back into his arms. “Will you let me choose?”

  I rested my forehead against his. “If you like.”

  “Male or female?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I didn’t think you’d like a male.”

  His eyeslashes fluttered, but he was too bloodless to blush. “Only for you,” he whispered. “If that’s what you want.”

  I grinned. Yes, I preferred male victims the way I preferred male lovers, although the sweet taste of a maiden was not foreign to me. And I was intrigued that Robert might be tempted, for my sake, to... experiment. “Yes,” I said, squeezing him, “that’s what I want.”

  ** * *

  There was no hurry in us. Hunting together was a singular pleasure, and I would no more rush to consummate the bite than I would intercourse. We began at Harrod’s, playing at being a young couple, looking at clothes and jewelry and knickknacks even as we looked at the people. He joked that he should buy me a diamond, that we could surely send some salesman over the moon with the immense stone he would choose. Robert’s family had been rich even six centuries ago, and careful management of his investments had made him only more so in this day and age.

  He seemed almost wistful as I led him away from the counter, or perhaps that was me, and I saw myself in him. But it was only moments before we were laughing again.

  “What about that one?” I whispered to him, as we followed a young man through the shoe department who seemed to be alone.

  “Hm, maybe...” he answered, and we separated to stalk him a bit more.

  He led us on a seemingly aimless path through the store, stopping and picking up items from time to time, but never staying in any one department for long.

  To me, he seemed incredibly lonely.

  Robert met me at the bottom of an escalator and watched our quarry go up. He shook his head at me. “He’ll be trouble,” he said, as he steered me away from the moving staircase.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Shoplifting,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Weren’t you watching him?”

  “I was trying to get a read on his head,” I said, “not watching his hands.”

  “He’ll have security on him soon, if he doesn’t already.” He hopped onto the downward escalator and I joined him. “Let’s move on.”

  We rode the Tube for a bit, but the crowds were still fairly thick, and so it was difficult to cull one sheep from the herd. I was still in no rush. We sat on a bench near a busker with a guitar, singing a haunting but unfamiliar song.

  “Seen anyone else lately?” he said casually, as he leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles.

  “Not really.” I shrugged. “You know I like to go south during the summer.” With Javier, it had been Spain that drew me when the days in Britain and further north grew long. Decades before Venice had been my destination. I had even returned to Greece from time to time, though I had never again returned to the tiny isle where I had been born.

  I still remember my maker’s face. He was the first man I had ever seen with blond hair, bleached that way by the sun while spending his days aboard a ship, then forever that color, though the life ahead of him was eternal night. He was a hydrographer, or he had been before he was turned, and his work mapping the seas had brought him not only into the clutches of a vampire in Egypt, but to the island where I grew up, ignorant of such things.

  I remember his face perfectly. I remember, too, the way it felt when he entered me for the first time, breaching me deeply with one fluid thrust even as his fangs set my blood flowing. I remember utter bliss.

  Oddly, I do not remember the name by which he called himself. Perhaps if I went back to speaking my native tongue, it might return to my mind. In more recent years, he has called himself Nikolai.

  I could not help but ask. After all, Robert had brought up the subject of mutual acquaintances. “Have you heard from Nik?”

  I did not miss the slight perturbation in his look, though he smoothed it away quickly. Was it...jealousy? I could not tell. “I have seen him recently,” he said with forced casualness. “He’s still living in Paris.”

  “Still pretending to be a Russian who speaks imperfect French?”

  Robert laughed. “Yes. Though by now, his French is better than most.” He’d been living there for nearly a hundred years, as far as I knew. That was a long time for one of us to stay in one place. He must have had a very stable food supply, or mastered the chameleonic arts, a talent that sometimes came to the very old ones.

  He had been everything to me. My first lover, my vampire maker, nigh unto a god. Zeus transformed into a swan to mate with the mortal maid Leda. But what I had not realized at the time was that he had only been a vampire for a year or so himself. His peripatetic ways aboard ship had severed him from his careless Egyptian maker, and he had known almost nothing of vampire rules and law. The fact that he had not fallen victim to the undeniable perils of his new life during his early, reckless days was a marvel to many.

  “Tell him hello for me the next time you see him,” I said, holding my emotions in check.

  “I will,” he replied quietly, his own tightly reined.

  After a pause he said, “Let us go hear some music.”

  “Robert, we are hearing music.”

  He clucked his tongue. “I mean, besides an Underground busker. Come on. We’ll likely find someone in the nightclubs. Or would you like to go dancing?”

  I made a noncommittal noise. “These days, what they call dancing...”

  He ran his gloved hand over my sleeve. “
I would enjoy dancing with you.”

  “Very well.” I chuckled. “Take me dancing.”

  ** * *

  With the span of my life I had seen the rise of Western music, the modal music of the Renaissance and liturgy, the rise of classical music, the invention of the piano, and the spectacle of opera. I would never forget the shock that rooted me to my seat upon seeing Wagner’s Lohengrin. For of course, that opera features a Swan Prince who arrives by boat. The resemblance to Nik ended there, but it was not the first time I had felt like a bolt from the blue had struck me, as if the reminder of my past were some kind of sign.

  Classical was overtaken by so many other forms, big band and rock and roll and hip hop. It had been perhaps fifty years since people in Europe once again danced the way we had in the pre-Christian days, just moving our bodies to the music however we liked. Bacchanalia lived in disco, and in the twenty-first century, a new generation of club-goers learned to free their souls.

  Robert paid our way into a large, dark, noisy building, swirling with lights and pumping with a throb so palpable it could have been the very heart of London beating. We checked our coats and outerthings and made our way into the crowd. We were not as gaudily dressed as most, and I wondered whether he had bribed the bouncer or glamoured him. Still, we were not noticed much. The more brightly colored and exhibitionistic dancers drew the attention, and we danced in relative peace.

  I could almost imagine I was beginning to sweat as I moved my hips to the relentless beat. His hands fitted over my hips as we ground together so close that if we’d had body heat, I would have felt it.

  Anticipation of feeding was sharpening into hunger, even as the pleasantry of his company was quickening into arousal. I pulled him close by the collar, my voice in his ear for him alone in the din. “I want you.”