A Vampire for Christmas(65)
God, he loved her.
And then he remembered he had one weapon yet to hand, but it was a long shot. Reaching in his pocket, he palmed the snowflake ornament, then dragged it roughly across the wolf’s neck. Blood spotted his chin and the wolf grabbed his throat.
Daniel scrambled to stand and step away as the wolf staggered and fell to his knees, gagging on its blood.
You’re lucky that wasn’t real silver,” he muttered. If silver entered the wolf’s bloodstream, it wouldn’t take long for a grisly death. “I’ll defend her to my death—or yours, if it comes to that.”
The werewolf met his eyes with bright gold irises. “You’re wasting your time on a mortal,” he growled, then choked up blood. “Especially that one.” The wolf collapsed upon the snowbank.
Wincing, Daniel stepped away. Especially that one. No, it wasn’t a waste of time. Couldn’t be. He wouldn’t allow it to be. Any second he got to spend in Olivia’s arms was one less second he stood alone.
Daniel clutched his chest and someone grabbed him from behind. Olivia’s hopeful green eyes connected to his. “Come with me,” she said, and he grabbed her hand and rushed down the street. A limo waited at the curb, and she opened the back door. “No questions asked from this moment forward. We leave our strange Christmas normal behind,” she said. “If you want to be my monster lover, then come with me.”
Every fiber in Daniel’s soul felt Olivia’s bright star touch it, and he dived into the back of the limo and drew her in beside him.
He kissed her deeply. “To monster love,” he whispered. “We can do this.”
Of course we can. But can we make a stop before going to my other place?”
Where?”
She tugged out a set of keys from her pocket. “I think I know a family who could use my apartment until their mother can find a job.”
Did I tell you I love you?”
You did. Merry Christmas, my monster lover.”
WHEN HERALD ANGELS SING
To my mother, Carmen Piñeiro,
who always believed that anything was possible
as long as you reached for it with all your heart.
CHAPTER ONE
Jersey Shore, December 23, 1931
THE GALE-DRIVEN SNOW lashed at his skin, tearing into his flesh like stinging nettles, but Damien did not budge from his position high atop the lighthouse tower. Even when the nor’easter threatened to rip him from the narrow ledge, Damien held his ground.
The force of the wind was such that each gust delivered a punishing body blow, but he relished the pain. He deserved it. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the anguish in his heart.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Tomorrow it would be a year that he’d lost Angelina. For the second time.
The first time he’d lost her, it had taken over a century for her to return to him.
The woman he had come to know as Angelina had looked slightly different each time they’d met, although there had been strong physical similarities with each of her apparitions. The raven hair and jewel-like green eyes. The voluptuous figure any man would want to touch. Full lips with a Cupid’s bow meant to be kissed.
What hadn’t changed was Angelina’s spirit. Her inherent goodness brought light to his soul. Her kindness had called to him on two occasions over the past century and on two occasions he had failed her.
And his failure had killed her.
Damien raised his head into the wind and howled with the pain of her loss and his guilt, but the storm was such that his cry blended with the screeching winds. Only he heard his anguished voice.
How much longer will I have to wait for her? Will she ever return to me? Damien wondered, peering into an after noon sky made so dark by the storm it seemed almost as if night had already descended. Perfect for a vampire like him, but not so good for any poor wretch who might be caught in the tempest.
He had battled such dangerous gales in his earlier life as a ship’s captain. Dared the sea and Poseidon himself in those misspent hell-raising days before he’d lost his mortal life.
His father—the one who had not even deigned to claim the bastard son who had slipped from his lover’s womb—had heard of those adventures and proclaimed Damien was not his, but rather the Devil’s spawn. The old man had never had a kind word for him nor had he ever believed that Damien would make something of himself. With each and every overture Damien had made, his father had rebuked him.