All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The Yule Log

  Chapter One

  It was Wanda’s one-hundred-forty-first birthday, and she looked superb in red.

  Of course, I believed her to be delectable in any color, even her usual dour black. Regardless, tonight’s red silk dress that clung to her ample curves was my favorite ensemble, thus far. The diaphanous material swayed with her every move, giving her the appearance of wading underwater, and the imposing slit up her left thigh occasionally offered a glimpse of the soft, pale flesh beneath. The neckline plunged rather dramatically into the valley of her bounteous cleavage, and the straps were nearly non-existent, leaving her shoulders and the long line of her neck bare. She had twisted her raven black hair into an elaborate updo and pinned the elegant locks into place with silver hair combs.

  Truly, she was a feast for the eyes, and I was on a diet.

  Damn it all.

  The truth was that with every passing day, my desire, no my absolute need of her, was growing. There was not a moment when I was awake that she did not cross my mind. In fact, I thought of her constantly. And in thinking of her, I was overcome with the need to touch her, to experience her, to… own her. The only time in which I was granted any respite was when I was lost to the world of sleep and, even then, it was seldom that Wanda did not visit my dreams. The increasing number of my thoughts of Wanda as well as the increasing dependency I felt towards her and this constant drive to taste her blood was causing me quite a lot of upset.

  Wanda was aware of this need within me and we had made some changes to both our lives to both further distance us, but also to bring us together (so I could alleviate some of the hunger within me). But, it wasn’t enough. And as the days passed, I could feel this driving desire within me growing—potentially to toxic levels.

  I muttered quiet obscenities beneath my breath as Haven Hollow’s supernaturals, both exotic and relatively human-appearing, spun around the dance floor of the ballroom. My ballroom, to be exact. Perhaps owing to the fact that I had been born in 1789, I was quite fond of things such as ballrooms which today might seem antiquated and obsolete.

  But, nevermind.

  I had purchased the Tudor Revival (in which the ballroom was centrally located) exactly one year ago in a bid to keep Wanda from purchasing her own home in the Hollow. Truth be told, I’d actually purchased ALL the available properties within Haven Hollow including five homes (which I now kept as rentals), three duplexes (Wanda currently resided in one of them), three condominiums, and even a farm on the outskirts of the Hollow. And as farm life did not suit me in the least (I was quite opposed to pig slop and the acrid scent of cow manure was equally offputting), I was considering selling this investment.

  You might wonder why I would desire to become a land tycoon so suddenly? Well, at the time, I only wanted to ensure that Wanda would be unable to purchase her own plot of land because I knew if she did so, she would immediately claim Sanctum. In claiming Sanctum, it wouldn’t be long before Wanda would then evict our resident gypsy and her lovely son. But, my concerns were not merely benevolent and magnanimous in their origin. I was also quite fearful that if Wanda were able to claim Sanctum, she would refuse to have anything to do with me, given the fact that she quite hated me since I had turned her into a Blood Witch.

  At the time, of course, I didn’t fully understand all these things because I didn’t understand the depth of the connection between a Blood Witch and her would-be vampire sire. Furthermore, I had never been prone to jealousy. Or to commitment either, for that matter.

  Then she, quite literally, crashed into my unlife. Her automobile plowed into the side of my dentistry building and seconds later, she was clinging to life by her well-manicured fingernails, and I could tell at a glance she would not last the ten minutes it would take the paramedics to arrive.

  Thus, I did what I had to do.

  I gave her my blood.

  I saved her.

  And I damned her.

  According to witch lore, the goddess shunned my kind because vampires are animated by death magic, the antithesis of witch magic which is nature magic, earth magic, life magic. Thus, in saving Wanda’s life by infecting her with my blood, I’d tainted her, made her unsuitable to be reborn to another life. When she died, it would be the end. Finitis. The final, terminal chapter in her long string of lives.

  Of course, I knew none of this at the point at which I made the decision to rescue the beautiful woman from the final curtain of death.

  Since that moment, I have oftentimes asked myself: knowing what I did now, would I have done the same?

  And the answer was always the same—yes.

  Why? Because Wanda meant something to me. She meant a great deal to me, actually, and I believed it would still be better for her to live as a Blood Witch than it would for her to be lost to me forever. I believed Wanda was mine in a way so intimate and irrevocable, it was difficult to put into words. I felt her nearness in every cell, could select her scent from the dozens fogging the room. I’d memorized the cadence of her voice, the rhythm to her words—her voice was a tease, a throaty purr that stroked delicately over the libido before dancing away, leaving me aching and alone, thinking only of the moment in which I would hear it again.

  “Stop staring at her like that, Jesus,” the sasquatch grumbled, downing what remained of his generously sized libation.

  “You do not have to refer to me as the son of God,” I answered. “Mr. Rowe will do just fine.”

  “God, you’re an asshole.”

  Whatever liquid filled his goblet, it was dark and reeked of bourbon. The sasquatch, or ‘Roy’ as he was most commonly referred, drank from an oversized mason jar as opposed to a highball glass as civilization intended. Barbarian. I’d never understand why so many women found him appealing—to me, he was nothing but a brutish sasquatch. A brutish, nosy sasquatch. Yes, he was broad as a double-wide and superhumanly strong, but he wasn’t exactly a scintillating conversationalist. He had a quick and rank temper—at least where I was concerned—and he was hairier than a shag carpet. I’d like to think that had I been a member of the fairer sex, I would have found him as repulsive as I currently did.

  I feigned deafness.

  “Did you hear me?” he growled in that ruffian way of his.

  Realizing I was now cornered and thus could no long pretend handicapped, I turned to face him. “Ah, Beast, were you speaking? I couldn’t hear your voice over the rustle of wind through your ears.”

  The brute’s elbow caught my ribs, and I spluttered, half-inhaling the bloody cocktail he’d mixed for me earlier in the evening. His elbow pained me a bit and damn him, he wasn’t even trying and that was the rub—for how was a creature meant to feel adequately monstrous when a great hairy beast (and quite uncultured, I might add) was always waiting in the wings to show him up?

  Still spluttering, I had to ruin a monogrammed handkerchief in order to save my suit. Wanda had insisted this little gala (which she believed to be a celebration of Yule) be a black tie event. At the thought of black ties, of course my mind traveled to other forms of restraints but, alas, Wanda had rolled her eyes when I innocently suggested what we might do with the black nylon rope I’d stashed away in the basement. But, though she feigned disinterest, I had caught the smile she attempted to hide. It was just a subtle raising of the outer corners of her lips, ala Mona Lisa, but it was enough.

  Wanda liked me, deep down. Perhaps that spark of longing rested somewhere near the earth’s mantle, but it was still there.

  “I said stop sizing her up like an hor d’oeuvre,” the over concerned skunk-ape continued.

  “Ooh multisyllabic words. The caveman can be taught.”

  Another jab to my ribs, harder this time. Blast him.

  I had to pretend I hadn’t made a rather pained wincing type of sound, for doing so would be considered undignified for a vampire, especially one of my advanced age.

  “I’m serious,” the heathen growled. “Wanda is a person and deserves to be treated as such.”

  “Are you insinuating that I don’t treat her as if she were a person?” I asked on a frown. “Have I treated her like a cardboard box? Perhaps a wooden stool? Have I compared her to my lawn mower?”

  “I mean, you’re looking at her like you’re ready to devour her whole,” the oversized toad responded. “And I don’t want to see anything bad happen to her.”

  “Do relax, Smokey Bear,” I replied, nearly cutting him off. “I’m not about to become B-movie Dracula and rip into the throat of the fair maiden.” I glared at him. “Wanda is safe with me.”

  Oh, if only I believed my own words! Wanda was not safe with me, owing to this disastrous bloodlust, which was becoming almost three-dimensional in its intensity. Luckily for the both of us, I’d taken drastic measures to insure Wanda’s safety—but she would have to wait to open her Christmas gift to learn just how drastic those measures were.

  I sipped what remained of my blood cocktail, barely tasting the stuff as I glanced outside the floor-to-ceiling windows and took in the snowy scene beyond. It was a veritable winter wonderland—white bedecking the ground, the trees, the road, the fence. And there was more snow coming down, as if the heavens were gifting our little holiday party.

  But, back to my less than desirable company… Before Wanda, I’d make special trips from Portland to Haven Hollow, just for the quality drinks the savage concocted at the Half-Moon Bar and Grill. As much as I disliked admitting it, the beast was quite adept at blending blood and alcohol.

  Before I chose to permanently settle in the Hollow, it wasn’t as though I had to travel here to partake of such concoctions. Rupert, my adoptive sire, owned half the night clubs in Portland, and they served as feeding stations to nightwalkers. The idea was sound, I supposed. Assemble a gaggle of young humans, ply them with liquor and entrance them with our vampire abilities and they were ours for the taking (not to the death, let me assure you, dear reader).

  But alas, most vampires were philistines, unable or unwilling to broaden their culinary horizons. Their beliefs were simple: blood was blood, and direct from the source was best. Complete toss, if you ask me. It was similar to comparing a cow’s teat to the delectable overtures of a White Russian. After all, what was the fun of an everlasting liquid diet if one drank the same thing day in, day out?

  Such is where the beast and his bartending skills entered into the fold. A fold I had discovered years ago and now that I was ‘living’ in the Hollow, continued to discover on a near daily basis. Unfortunately, I had reached the point where even the peppermint Rum Chata and blood mix was boring my taste buds. I knew exactly why the libation now held so little appeal, but I’d be damned if I’d confess as much to the foul bartender. He was already inclined, by species and temperament, to turn me into a smear on the ballroom floor. If I told him I’d gotten a taste of Wanda, he’d attempt to turn my skin into a lampshade.

  And tasting Wanda… let us just say she was whiskey straight from the bottle, a taste that kicked you in the teeth, burned all the way down your throat, and still enticed you to consume more. Yes, it had only been a drop of her blood I’d taken most recently—just a little crimson pearl atop her sumptuous lower lip. I’d tasted it and I’d almost lost control, had almost bitten my lovely Wandellmellia.

  She’d stopped me, of course, and I silently thanked her for it. We had been in my dental practice at the time, and what a disaster that would have been if she had fully turned then. Aside from the justifiable desire to stake me when she woke, there were mundanes to consider, as well. How would I have explained a freshly exsanguinated corpse to my patients? No. It was better she’d stopped me.

  But there were nights I dreamed she hadn’t.

  “You’re doing it again,” the ogre said, but this time I managed to dodge the accompanying elbow. “Stop looking at her like that!”

  “Oh, would you put a tree in it!” I snapped in response. “If anyone is worth staring at, it is that woman right there,” I continued and motioned to her, before regretfully facing the moose again. “Just because you’re still lovelorn regarding a certain gypsy temptress doesn’t mean you should take it out on me.”

  “I’m not taking it out on you and I’m not—”

  “Wanda is a work of art and I’ll appreciate her as I see fit!”

  “I’m not hung up on Poppy,” the barbarian pointed out, his voice low and slightly weak.

  Not so long ago, Poppy had broken things off with the troll and the troll had been an absolute sad sack ever since. Frankly, it was quite pathetic to watch. The big hairy brute should have been beating his chest, selecting a cute blonde in a long gown, and scoping out the tallest building to climb. Or he should have returned to his bridge, and waited underneath for the arrival of three goats. I didn’t care—the point was I wanted to get rid of him post haste.

  “Do us both a favor and get laid, for feck’s sake,” I muttered, setting my empty glass on the bar top.

  The oak wrap-around bar was a new addition, something I’d only installed recently, in preparation for Wanda’s Yule soiree. And as regards the soiree—it was supernaturals only (and those few humans in the Hollow who were in the know). Because the supernatural community was a broad one, a dozen different species now filled the ballroom and did so without incident. Apparently, the desire to get completely pissed was universal, and I was nothing if not accommodating. The fae didn’t even require much liquor before they became as tipsy as satyrs. Give faeries or pixies anything with exceptionally high sugar content and they’d be buzzing around the ceiling for hours. Fifi’s dragon shifter employee was drinking something that smoked suspiciously, and most of the exotics were throwing back mead as fast as Shelby Stomper could pour it.

  “I’m not like you,” Roy growled.

  “And thank the stars for that.”

  “I’m not interested in just ‘getting laid’.”

  “Perhaps it would help you extract the redwood you’ve got so far up your furry backside.” I shrugged. “Fifi seems a good candidate.”

  “She deserves better than that,” he growled, his eyes narrowing.

  I raised a hand, cutting him off before he could work up a head of steam. “It was just a suggestion, beast, and you’re right—Fifi does deserve better than you, so I take it back.”

  “If you had half a moral,” he started, but I immediately cut him off.

  “Don’t start lecturing me about morals. Date any woman you want. Or don’t—I don’t care. I’m just hoping to find a way to remove your odious presence from beside me.”

  The fiend grumbled something incoherent as he downed the bourbon in his mason jar and cast a speculative glance at the group of women Wanda always seemed to surround herself with these days, the most recent addition Betanya Tayir, herself, the original Blood Witch who had recently become just a witch once her vampire sire was destroyed.

  But, back to Wanda… it was difficult to get her alone of late, and I needed her alone. I needed to touch her, to breathe in her presence. And I was not just being poetic—the truth was I had to be near Wanda, or I would go half-mad and thoughts of her pale, supple flesh parting beneath my fangs weren’t helping. Being near her was a balm, something to tide me over. I repeatedly told myself it was enough—that I could live this way until the blood bond holding us together was finally dissolved.

  But I knew, on some level, that I was only lying to myself. I hadn’t succumbed to a murderous rage as had Roscoe, the last known vampire who’d blooded a witch, but it was coming. I could feel the lunacy inching closer, but I was prepared. If the day ever arrived that I lost the battle with myself and devolved into a madman, I would simply hand myself over to the sasquatch to be flattened into vampire flapjacks.

  But until then...

  I pushed away from the bar, dabbing at my lips in case any blood remained. No need to frighten or disgust her.

  “Where are you going?” the tyrant demanded as I paced away.

  “To drool over a piece of art in a red frock,” I replied smoothly.

  Chapter Two

  “Sweetling.”

  Wanda tensed, pausing mid-gesture as my voice registered, but she didn’t glance in my direction. She held her hands cupped together, cupped because she was, no doubt, miming a past spell or potion mishap to her rapt audience. If I’d been more myself, I would have kept track of her conversation by her gestures alone, even if I couldn’t make out the words being said. I’d never met a woman more physically expressive than Wanda.

  But, alas, I was not ‘more myself’. Instead, this bloodlust was a constantly building phenomenon that I had to fight every blasted day.

  When the bloodlust was at its worst, I would cancel my dental appointments for the night (or day, depending upon the weather) and plant my sorry arse on the curb outside Poppy’s Potions, directly across from Wanda’s shop, where I could watch her through the window. When she was alone, she’d bustle about the place, gracefully seeing to this or that. When she wasn’t alone, she appeared decidedly more agitated—quite similar to a predatory cat waiting to pounce on her next customer. Yet it was the moments when she had a steady stream of customers that I appreciated most. Everything from her expression to the way in which she carried herself expressed the fact that she was in love with what she was doing—magic.

  And that, more than anything else, was the reason why I could never turn Wanda into one of my own kind. Magic was a fundamental part of who she was, and I knew she would never bear parting with it, even to save her own life. It was a constant, agonizing catch-22. I could not live without her, and she could not live with me.

  “I have a name, you know,” Wanda said quietly, still refusing to look at me. I was of the belief that my dearest witch attempted to avoid eye contact between the two of us because then I could read quite clearly her attraction to me—something she was apt to hide because feelings to Wanda were a show of weakness, quite unfortunately. Furthermore, the intoxicating woman did not care to be anything other than in charge.