S.N. DYER

THE VAMPIRES WHO SAVED CHRISTMAS

For the winter solstice this year, we though t you deserved a very serious and sober meditation on the meaning of the holidays…but instead we chose to give you this lighthearted gift.

“I THINK,” SAID VLAD, “THAT there is nothing lonelier than to be a vampire on Christmas Eve.”

We all nodded agreement, and not just because he was the Master.

“Everything so festive and bright, holy symbols everywhere. Everyone home with their families, full to revulsion with Christmas cheer.” He shuddered.

“Yeah,” said Larry. “Even the drunks are in shelters, drinking in the holiday spirit. You just can’t get a meal anywhere.”

“Come on,” I said. I was only a year undead, and hesitant to speak out in such august company, but on this evening they seemed inclined to be kindly toward youth. “It’s not so easy for mortals either. I was a single Jewish woman without family — for me, Christmas was a complete drag. No stores open, no restaurants or movies. Nothing at all to do…”

“Except wander the streets looking for Chinese takeout, and become someone else’s dinner?” Vlad asked teasingly, and pinched my cheek. He’d been lonely that night too.

“You know what I hate the most about Christmas?” asked Mr. Bronze.

We looked at him respectfully, even the Master. Mr. Bronze was, after all, older than all of us together. He could complain authoritatively about the loneliness of a stranger in Athens during the Eleusyian Mysteries, in ancient Baghdad during Ramadan, in Rome at Saturnalia, in China at New Year, in the Cave of the Old Ones at the Feast of the Great Bear …. He had been an outsider throughout recorded human history and long before.

We waited expectantly.

“What I hate most,” said Mr. Bronze, “is those darn reruns of It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Vlad passed around chilled AB negative — you just can’t get fresh blood on Christmas — and we waited for Larry to start the videos.

“Oh no!” Larry cried, and cringed. He remembered the old days, when the Master was given to fits of temper. Before the Twentieth Century, with its psychoanalysis, behaviorism, and rebirthing therapy. But mostly, before the Master took to hunting in neighborhoods where most of the blood was enriched with Prozac, with just a soupcon of Xanax.

“What’s wrong?” we asked. We hoped he hadn’t brought vampire movies, a prank which had previously cost him two months locked in his coffin without dinner.

The Master hated vampire movies — not only for the sheer defamation of character, but because he thought he should be getting residuals. (Though we did all have a sneaking fondness for Love at First Bite.) “My videos? Look!” Larry hit the on button, and a black and white movie began.

Miracle on 34th Street!

“That was supposed to be Fellini’s Satyricon,” Larry wailed. He began to rip open the other boxes. “And this was supposed to be PeeWee’s Big Adventure, and this was — ouch!” He dropped the cassette, fingers sizzling.

“Not The Greatest Story Ever Told?” Lila asked sympathetically. Larry sprinted to the kitchen to run cold water over his hand.

The Master sighed, and leaned back in his chair. We could hear carols drifting up from the apartment below. “Well, on the bright side,” he remarked, “some other loving family has our movies.”

So we did what all vampires eventually wind up doing on Christmas Eve, unless they plan ahead. We set out for Blockbuster Video.

The streets of Christmas Eve were as I remembered them from life: deserted.

Store windows still shone brightly, luring you to the impending retail bacchanalia. Luckily there were not many frankly religious displays to make us ill, but the nondenominational splendor of trees and Santas was still enough to inspire queasiness, or at least angst.

A cheery mortal couple rushed by, arms clutching presents. My mouth watered. I was hungry.

“No, young one,” whispered Vlad, a restraining hand upon my arm. “You wouldn’t like the taste.” I’d been told. Next to sheer religious fervor, nothing quite spoils the bouquet as much as hope, merriment, and visions of sugar plums.

We paused before a toy store window. A lifesize animated Santa waved from a sleigh overflowing with gifts.

“Hmmph,” said Mr. Bronze. “Doesn’t look a bit like him.”

Then we heard the sound of childish voices raised in song. Jingle Bells, luckily. After a month of a steady onslaught of Silent Night, I was ready to go berserk if I heard it again.

The building opposite was well lit and busy, and nauseating odors of turkey, ham, and holiday cheer wafted out every time the door opened.

“They’ve turned it into a shelter for homeless families,” said Mr. Bronze. He liked to keep up with the news. “After dinner, they’re going to give presents to all the children. Not just donated or repaired toys, either… They’re all going to get the hottest items.”

We nodded. The media-blitz toys, not so special except in their lurid scarceness. Bermuda Barbie, dressed for Christmas at Club Med. Auctioned for $2000 each in the want ads. And GI Santa… Last week, two fathers had beaten each other into intensive care for the last one on the shelves at FAO Schwartz.

The little homeless children were to be the recipients of a fortune in trendy toys. And afterward, the shelter workers would offer the homeless parents $20

and steal home with the treasure. But it was the thought that counted.

The off-tune chirpy voices began mangling Good King Wenceslas.

“Oh, can we peek at them?” Lila pleaded. “Please, Master, they sound adorable.”

Vlad smiled, and shrugged. “Sure.” We hurried across the street eagerly.

Vampires are like that, sentimental. Human children strike us as, well, just so cute. You know, like 4H future farmers and their lambs and calves.

We stared in the window, making ourselves insubstantial so no one would try to drag us inside to feed or bless us. That happened once to Vlad’s vampiric son Arnie, and the Master still told the story as a cautionary tale to baby vampires.

It would have been a heartwarming sight were we not, of course, coldblooded.

There were the unkempt starving parents and children, staring hopefully at the food, and the tree, and the Santas.

“Hey,” hissed Rhonda. She didn’t talk much, but she was an excellent huntress, trained before death by seeking bargains at Bloomies. “Do you smell it?”

We did. Fresh blood, on the hoof. Avaricious, evil blood, devoid of holiday cheer.

Rhonda beckoned, and we followed, Mr. Bronze and the Master taking the rear with the caution of centuries. We trailed along the side of the building and found a door propped open. Inside was a room full of expensive toys, and several masked men stuffing them into sacks. Bizarro Santa Clauses, taking presents from the good little children.

We looked at the Master and he smiled indulgently. “Go ahead, my children.”

So we fell upon the thieves, grabbing them before they could make a sound. We abandoned the bags of loot to be found by the shelter Santas, who would conclude that the thieves had been overcome, not by superhumanly strong vampires, but by Christmas spirit.

And we took the thieves home and had a wonderful feast, drinking way too much until there was nothing left except empty husks to be stuffed into trash bags and dumped later. Afterward we sat gorged before a blazing fire and reminisced about previous feasts.

Then Vlad looked at me and said, “It’s almost sunrise, time for all young vampires to go to bed.” And I curled up snugly and thought that nothing was quite so pleasant as a holiday meal with your family, when I heard a sudden clatter on the roof and sprang up so quickly that I hit my head on the lid of my coffin, before I realized that it was only Larry and Mr. Bronze, flying the trash to Jersey.

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