Grandpa Fred was not pleased. Fortunately, he couldn’t solve this problem as he did when Grandma Ruthie drove him crazy during his living Christmases: drinking buttered rum until he was near comatose, forcing my dad and I to cart him, Barcalounger and all, out to the car.

It’s awkward introducing two groups of friends. It’s even more awkward when one of those groups decides not to like the other. While Mr. Wainwright was thrilled to be acquainted or reacquainted with the supernatural beings, Jolene had taken an instant dislike to Andrea. A few minutes after the two of them gingerly shook hands, Jolene pulled me into the kitchen to whisper at a decibel far below human hearing that she didn’t trust her.

“I trust Andrea,” I said. “She’s been a really good friend to me. You’re just used to being the prettiest girl in the room, and having someone who remotely rivals your blinding hotness is throwing you off your game. And we don’t have to whisper. Andrea’s perfectly normal hearing is not going to pick up this conversation.”

“I’m just sayin’ one girl to another, I think you need to watch her around Gabriel,” Jolene said, grabbing a hunk of cheddar and chowing down. Around the cheese, she said, “A lot of girls, especially wounded human girls, go for the whole mysterious, dark-haired guy with the full lips, piercing soulful eyes, cheekbones you could slice a ham with—”

“Maybe I should watch you around Gabriel,” I said, eyeing her warily. “I think we should get back into the living room with your lovely canapés before everybody else figures out that we’re talking about one of them.”

“You’re right, I’m bein’ silly,” Jolene said, watching Zeb try one of Mr. Wainwright’s cigars, then get pounded on the back when he started to choke. “I just want everybody to be as happy as Zeb and me.”

“Lovebirds on amphetamines couldn’t be happier than you two,” I said, linking arms with her.

She sighed, leaning her head against mine. “I know.”

I lingered and watched the party from the kitchen doorway. Someone, mercifully, had dug up a Nat King Cole CD. Even over the bluesy cheer, I could hear Andrea and Zeb chatting about the merits of being the only “normals” in the room. They didn’t consider Mr. Wainwright to be normal. Jolene swept in and marked her territory by kissing Zeb’s cheek and pulling him away from Andrea. Gabriel and Mr. Wainwright discussed Gabriel’s library and its shocking lack of information on freshwater sea monsters, until Dick distracted Gabriel by mentioning all of the parties they used to attend at River Oaks. Gabriel sent a furtive look my way. I think he offered Dick money not to reminisce further. Mr. Wainwright then engaged Dick in adamant conversation regarding the sales of were-pelts on the black market. Dick was smiling at him in a way I didn’t normally see. It was almost tender. And it was weirding me out.

“Please, in the name of Christmas, don’t let Dick try to sell him anything,” I asked, looking skyward.

Fortunately, Andrea passed by in her slinky black party dress, and Dick’s attention shifted gears. Mr. Wainwright grinned as Dick trailed after her. He made eye contact with Aunt Jettie, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “Young people.” Aunt Jettie gave a girlish giggle, which got Grandpa Fred’s back up.

Andrea heard Mr. Wainwright’s side of the conversation and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Is Mr. Wainwright talking to himself again?” she asked.

“Nope. Aunt Jettie. I think he might have a little bit of a crush going. This is going to be a big shock for Grandpa Fred. This may be the love triangle that undoes the fabric of our universe.”

She cringed. Gabriel sauntered my way, offering me a punch cup of an imported dessert blood called Sangre.

“You throw a great party,” Gabriel said, nodding at the happy crowd.

“God bless us everyone,” I said, grinning. “This may actually be the best Christmas ever. People I love. No pressure. No drunk cousins fistfighting on the lawn.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s an interesting story that I’ll ask about later.” He cringed before calling across the room, “While we’re on the subject of families, Zeb, can you tell me why your mother has been leaving me increasingly threatening voice-mail messages? She plans to put her foot, among other things, up several orifices.”

“I honestly don’t know,” Zeb said. “It’s possible she just dialed a random number. Sometimes she leaves those messages for strangers.”

“I think I know,” I said, sighing. “Zeb’s mama seems to think you’re the only obstacle standing between me and Zeb, true love, and some sort of Precious Moments wedding extravaganza.”

Zeb seemed stunned but not nearly as disturbed by this as I was. He smiled at me with that weird, glazed-over stare, which was becoming way too familiar. I moved closer to Gabriel, twining my fingers through his. “You might want to keep your doors locked during the day, Gabriel. Also, cover your butt, because what she has planned would sting a little.”

“I don’t think Mama would actually do anything,” Zeb assured me, his voice low and soft.

“Easy for you to say,” I told Zeb. “It’s not your orifices at stake.”

“And on that lovely Yuletide note, I have something for you,” Gabriel said, leading me closer to the lights of the Christmas tree before handing me a small silver-wrapped package. With visions of jewelry dancing in my head, I opened it to find a little canister with a plastic trigger. “Mace?”

“Nope, silver in aerosol form,” he said proudly. “To prevent further parking-lot fights. Just don’t stand downwind when you use it.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” I said, lifting it carefully from the box. With all the enthusiasm I could scrape together, I told him, “It’s really, really great.”

“It’s a gag gift,” he said crossly. “Zeb said you’d find this kind of thing funny. Lift up the tissue.”

“Zeb has spent most of his adult years playing GameBoy alone on Friday nights,” I said, rooting to the bottom of the box. “Don’t take relationship advice from Zeb.”

In the bottom of the box was a tissue-wrapped bundle. It was a little silver unicorn on a fine chain.

“Andrea said that paying homage to a little quirk in your personality, the closet unicorn obsession, would show that I care,” he said.

“It really does,” I told him. “Can I touch it?”

“It would be a good first step toward wearing it.”

“But it’s silver,” I said, hooking a tissue-protected finger around the clasp.

“No, it’s white gold,” he said as he looped the chain around my neck. “Perfectly safe for vampires.”

“All of the beauty of silver without the burning and itching,” I cooed, running my fingers over the curves of the unicorn’s tiny legs.

“Does that mean ‘thank you’ in your language?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Thank you, it’s very sweet,” I said, kissing him. “This is a wonderful coincidence, because I have this for you.”

Across the room, Zeb was making a sour face. Jolene jostled his arm, attempting to tease the scowl from him, but he shook her off, stalking toward the kitchen and out of sight. She stared after him, her face twisted into confused, hurt lines. Dick saw this and asked some random question about his responsibilities as “the man of honor” and how it related to cummerbund color, teasing her into a smile.

I handed Gabriel a square package. “I was sorting through some old family photos with Aunt Jettie. We found this.”

Jettie and I spent hours looking through old boxes of River Oaks tintypes when I was a little girl. We would study the sepia-toned photos of Earlys from the 1870s and comment on the clothes, the hairstyles, who looked like toothless Uncle Vernon. (Somehow, we always voted for Grandma Ruthie.) Jettie would tell me stories about my ancestors, such as Great-great-great-grandma Lula, who set fire to the Hollow’s only cathouse after finding her husband, the Reverend James Early, “proselytizing” there. The fire took out the cathouse, a nearby saloon, and the general store, where the owner sold dirty French pictures from the back room. She did more good in forty-five minutes with an oil lamp than Reverend Early did in thirty-five years of preaching.

We’re a proud family.

On a recent trip down Disturbing Genealogical Memory Lane, Jettie and I found portraits from Clarissa and Stewart Early’s wedding in 1877. In one smaller photo, two young Early cousins, Leah and Mariah, were shown smiling up at two strapping fellows in silk coats. I had seen this photo a hundred times before I was turned. Until now, I hadn’t recognized the young men being adored by my simpering foremothers: Dick and Gabriel, grinning like mad at the camera. They were so young. And Dick actually had his arm around Gabriel’s shoulders, laughing as if he had just told some raunchy joke.

I’d taken the photos to a camera shop to have copies of the print made. I’d framed one for Gabriel and one for Dick. It was not a manipulative Parent Trap ploy; I honestly couldn’t think of anything else to get them.

“I remember this day,” Gabriel said, grinning. “This was right before Dick persuaded your cousins to go skinnydip—” He caught sight of my raised eyebrows. “Um, never mind.”

Dick came to peer over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Leah and Mariah, twins in every sense of the word.”

“Did you leave any of my cousins untouched?” I cried, remembering Dick’s “fondness” for my ancestor, cousin Cessie.

Dick guffawed. “Hey, Gabriel’s the one who—” Gabriel narrowed his eyes at Dick. “Never mind.”

“Horrifying revelations and the confirmation that some of my relatives are/were publicly nude. You know, suddenly, this has become like Christmas with my family. Thanks,” I said, patting them on the back.

Gabriel’s cell phone sounded. OK, so it wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but I snuck a look at the caller ID. It read “Jeanine.” I didn’t know any Jeanine. Gabriel had never mentioned a Jeanine. Who the hell was Jeanine?

I practically chewed through my tongue to keep from commenting. He took the call outside. And, I’m ashamed to say, I sort of lurked around the door to try to overhear. But he stepped off the porch, out of my range of hearing through the glass.

Defeated, I turned to the eating crowd. “Who’s ready for dinner?”

Jolene wasn’t the only one who could plan a tablescape. I had clear glass bowls of various sizes filled with vanilla candles and cranberries, Great-grandma Early’s wedding tablecloth, and the good china with the delicate silver ivy pattern. I was going for a Good Housekeeping look, which tends to be less angry than Martha Stewart Living. I used gloves to set out silver place settings for the humans.

“You spent six hours setting a table for food you can’t eat,” Zeb marveled. He took it upon himself to “escort” me to the table, since Gabriel was otherwise occupied.

“It’s my first vampire Christmas,” I said. “I still want to enjoy dinner.”

Gabriel appeared at my right, ready to seat me, and seemed a little put off when Zeb did not relinquish my hand or take the seat I’d assigned him across from Jolene. He seemed intent on sitting next to me, forcing Gabriel to sit next to a confused werewolf bride-to-be.

“I’m surprised you didn’t mix eggnog in your blood,” snorted Dick.

“Jane’s firmly antinog in all its forms,” Zeb told him, pulling out my chair.

Caught off-guard by Zeb’s clueless move, I made a quick comment along the lines of “Eggs, milk, and rum should not be mixed unless it’s in cake batter,” and asked Mr. Wainwright to pour the blood.

Gabriel’s contribution turned out to be pastry shells filled with a jiggly pink mousse. I might have suffered from dessert envy, but the filling smelled vaguely of cat food. Gabriel told Jolene he’d gotten them from a bakery downtown that she was familiar with. She was clearly delighted, eating three of them before Zeb could take a tentative bite.