Gabriel nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”

I put my arm through Gabriel’s and tried to resuscitate our date night as we walked away. “Did I ever tell you that my dad and I used to go to that coffee shop every weekend?”

8

Werewolves look for three key components in a mate: ability to hunt, viable genes, and a sense of humor.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

I shouldn’t have told Mama to Photoshop me into the family Christmas picture. She’d found some photo kiosk at the mall and cropped in a picture from three Christmases ago, taken just after I’d had minor dental surgery. With eyes both red and bleary, I was wobbling near the rear of the tree attempting to hang an angel ornament in midair. Everyone else in the family is smiling and looking at the camera (with this year’s hair), and I was copied and pasted into a corner as if my top half was springing out of the tree. Mama sent it to 120 of our nearest and dearest, including Zeb.

“It looks like Christmas Night of the Living Dead!” he hooted.

“That’s incredibly culturally insensitive,” I muttered. “See if I invite you to my Christmas party.”

“Aw, sweetie, you know it’s not Christmas without us watching A Christmas Story until one of us passes out.”

Zeb and I usually spent Christmas Eve together. He could only handle so much of his parents and used me as a reason to get away. We would hoard as much peanut-butter fudge and sausage balls as possible, then hide out at Zeb’s place to watch Christmas movies. Gifts were exchanged, relatives were avoided. God bless us every one.

But this year, we were having “A Holly Jolly Undead Christmas” at River Oaks. Gabriel had promised to be there, which was fortunate, because I’d found the perfect present for him. Zeb was bringing Jolene, as Mama Ginger had made it clear that she was not welcome at the Lavelle family Christmas. Andrea was coming, which meant Dick would be there, even though he said he had plans that night. Fred and Jettie would try to fit us into their busy holiday schedule. Of course, Mr. Wainwright would be there. He was eager to question Jolene about her family.

River Oaks hadn’t been opened for a big party since the Great Depression, when Great-great-great-grandpa Early lost a good portion of the family fortune in oil speculation in Florida. It was the first adult party I’d ever hosted, with real hors d’oeuvres and fancy clothes. I’d put up a real spruce tree and brought out all of the old glass ornaments. I hung fairy lights from every stationary object in the house. I lit a couple dozen good vanilla-scented candles and then blew half of them out. Having a lot of open flames around highly flammable guests was surely the mark of an inconsiderate hostess.

Jolene promised to handle the human food, which was fortunate, since I think my stove had atrophied from disuse. Jolene said it just didn’t seem fair to make me cook stuff I couldn’t eat. I asked if she could put that in writing and send it to my mama.

Jolene was also providing a crock pot full of cow’s blood from her farm, for the undead guests. I thought about adding spices to make it sort of a mulled-wine thing, but Mr. Wainwright advised strongly against it. He even gave me a book titled Elegant Undead Entertaining. Based on the “Foods That Vampires Can Prepare without Becoming Nauseated” menu, I was providing crackers and cheese, fancy cookies, and sparkling cider and thanked the ever-patient, ever-generous officials of the Visa corporation, for providing the groceries.

With the tree, the candles, and the scent of blood warming in the crock pot, the house smelled wonderfully of home and hearth. (My standards have changed a bit.) All that was left was for me to run around like a crazy person double- and triple-checking everything.

Pretty decorations? Check. Good food? Check. Not telling Mama about it? Check. It was the recipe for the perfect party.

And what else would a vampire wear to a Christmas party but a blood-red cocktail dress?

It was perfect, fabulous even, maybe the most flattering dress I’d ever worn. Cinched at the waist with a scarlet sash and a rhinestone poinsettia brooch, the luscious, floaty material fell in a perfect bell around my knees. I even broke the Curse of Bridesmaid Shoe Past, finally finding a use for those sassy pomegranate-dyed pumps.

Believe it or not, I found the dress in Aunt Jettie’s closet. Jettie wasn’t always a sweatsuit fanatic. She was quite the sharp dresser before she declared open rebellion against foundation garments. And fortunately, we were both tall, “athletically” built girls. And it smelled nothing like mothballs, so double points for me.

“Everything looks wonderful, honey,” Jettie said as I changed the CD in the stereo for the fourteenth time. I have no centralized music taste. I listen to an alarming amount of Sarah McLachlan, the DefTones, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Musically, I kind of got stuck in the 1990s. Gabriel called my CD collection “pedantic.” I think he forgot he was dealing with someone who knew what “pedantic” means.

Unfortunately, my pedantic collection did not include any Christmas music, so we had a choice between celebrating the birth of baby Christ with “Suck My Kiss” or a Lilith Fair concert recording. Neither felt appropriate, so I settled for the regional NPR station’s broadcast of Handel’s Messiah.

“Maybe I should rearrange the—” I turned toward the candles.

“Don’t!” Jettie cried. “Honey, they’re perfect. And it’s not good for you to handle candles too much.” I relented, and she stepped back, motioning for me to raise my arms. “Now, let me see you. That dress never looked that good on me.”

“Fibber.” I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t know any one-word insults for false modesty, but I’ll come up with one,” she said. “In the meantime, sit, catch your breath, er, relax. Enjoy this quiet time when the house looks perfect and you look beautiful and no one is frazzled or complaining that they can’t eat anything because of their lactose intolerance.”

“That’s lovely,” I said. “Which shelter magazine did you get that from?”

She grinned. “Original material. Now, I’m going to go stare at the cheese and crackers and long for days gone by.”

“You and me both,” I muttered as someone or something battered at my kitchen door. Jolene, werewolf strength abounding, threw open the door with her hip and lugged a Coleman chest cooler into my kitchen.

“Either that’s a lot of food or you’re planning a really cheap funeral in my backyard,” I said, eyeing the mansized cooler.

Zeb hefted a tray of mini-quiches onto my counter. “Given your luck this year, do you think you should be joking about that?”

“Duly noted,” I said as Jolene unpacked a ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, rolls, and what looked like a twenty-pound deep-fried turkey. “How many people are you planning to feed?”

“Me, Zeb, Mr. Wainwright, your friend Andrea …” she said, ticking off on her fingers. “Do you think I brought enough?”

I held up a two-gallon Tupperware container of yams. “Well, if nothing else, I have some pot pies in my freezer.”

“You have more pot pies?” Jolene cried, looking at the freezer with longing.

“Now you went and ruined her Christmas present.” Zeb grinned.

Gabriel came to the door looking almost festive. He was wearing a dark blue scarf, which may have been the only time I’d ever seen him wear an actual color. He was also carrying a load of packages, several bottles, and a bright pink bakery box.

“You’re all coiffed,” he said, clearly shocked.

“I am capable of cleaning up nice,” I said grumpily.

“Very nice.” He nodded and gave me a friendly peck.

“That was just sad,” a voice behind us drawled. We turned to see Dick, radiant in a holly-green T-shirt that said, “Join me on the naughty list,” carrying presents, a bottle of Boone’s Farm, and a sprig of mistletoe. “I’ve seen old people kiss better than that. Aunt Jettie is kissing Fred better than that right now.”

In honor of the occasion, Jettie and Fred had agreed to let all of the guests see them. I turned to my living room to find that Grandpa Fred had materialized and was, indeed, kissing Aunt Jettie like a character in an old World War II movie.

“Well, that’s just embarrassing,” I said, pushing Gabriel’s packages into Dick’s hands and laying a hell of a smooch on my special vampire fella. “Happy now?”

“Blech, no.” Dick grimaced. “It’s like watching your parents make out.”

Gabriel set his jaw and advanced on Dick.

“OK, River Oaks is neutral ground, you both promised,” I said, standing between the two of them. “Gabriel, please go inside. Help Jolene unpack her movable feast.”

I turned on Dick. “I thought you had plans,” I said, leaning against the door and smirking at him.

“Yeah, well, they fell through. I figured, why not throw you a bone?”

“I’m just not responding to that imagery,” I said as I accepted what could only be termed wine in the strictest sense of the word. “But I’m glad you’re here. Merry Christmas, Dick. You have just enough time to go inside and look cool and unaffected when Andrea comes in.”

Dick perked up.

“But first, a few ground rules. No ‘ho, ho, ho’ jokes. That shirt is the only ‘naughty’ reference you’re allowed tonight. And keep the mistletoe where I can see it,” I said.

“Well, tie my hands, why don’t you?” he grumbled, then scrambled to get inside when he saw Andrea’s car pull onto my drive.

Andrea had volunteered to drive Mr. Wainwright, whose night vision was not what it once was. Neither was his day vision, for that matter. It took Gabriel and me to help him up the steps, but he was determined to carry his own presents and the jar of potpourri he had brought as a hostess gift.

At least, I hoped it was potpourri.

Oddly enough, the first person he greeted when he walked into the living room was my Aunt Jettie, who was confused but flattered. “He can see me?”

“You can see her?” I asked. “I thought vampires were the only ones who could see you; when you decided to grace us with your presence, that is.”

Mr. Wainwright chuckled. “Well of course, I can see her, she’s standing right there. She’s a bit transparent but still visible to those who have a … broader personal perspective.”

“Jettie Early, meet my boss, Gilbert Wainwright,” I said. “Mr. Wainwright, my late great-aunt Jettie.”

“Charmed,” he said. I noticed he didn’t offer to shake her hand, an effort to avoid calling attention to the fact that she was noncorporeal.

“Jane’s told me so much about you,” Jettie said, smiling sweetly. “I’m so glad she’s found such a wonderfully interesting person to work for.”

“Well, she is a pleasure to have at the store,” he assured her. “She has revolutionized our filing system.”

“She said you didn’t have a filing system before she was hired,” Jettie pointed out. My gaze shifted from my aunt to my employer. Did Aunt Jettie just giggle in a coquettish manner, drawing a suspicious look from my dead step-grandpa? Mr. Wainwright chuckled again and adjusted his suspenders.

My dead aunt was flirting with my boss. My dead aunt who was practically engaged to my dead step-grandfather. And my boss appeared to be flirting back. This could go nowhere good.

They started talking and realized they’d gone to high school together. They were in the last class to graduate from the original Half-Moon Hollow High before Milton “Firebug” Chambers burned it to the ground. They reminisced about Mr. Allan, the math teacher who spoke in the third person; the design of the first-ever Half-Moon Howler mascot costume; and Milton’s multiple failed attempts at burning the school down before he got it right. Mr. Wainwright asked Aunt Jettie about her demise and how the “tunnel of light” appeared to her. Jettie laughed uproariously and told him it was more like a tornado. Eager to catch every detail, he asked Jettie to meet him at his office sometime, where he could interview her properly.