Father Christmas has just been damned to darkness.
Jane Devereux is adjusting to her new life as a nocturne fabulously. She runs the most popular nightclub in the French Quarter and is married to the hottest vampire in New Orleans.
When she accidentally runs over Santa Claus and has to turn him into a vampire to save him, her perfect undead life begins to crumble like a week-old sugar cookie.
Whoops.
Jane has three days to teach Santa the ways of the vampire and send him back to the North Pole in time for Christmas Eve.
Oh, and if that’s not stressful enough, her dad is coming for Christmas.
And he doesn’t know she’s a vampire.
Or that she's married.
Double whoops.
Grab a mug of miracle cure and join the vamps of New Orleans Nocturnes in this fast, fun holiday read.
Chapter One
“You killed Santa.” Gaston’s mouth fell open as he stared at the strange man lying in the dirt.
“No.” Jane shook her head and slammed the car door shut before creeping toward the body. City Park was eerily quiet, not a soul in sight to witness the whoopsie she’d just committed—yet another benefit of existing under the cover of night. Who said vampires were damned?
“I killed someone, yeah. But Santa isn’t real.” She toed the man’s shoulder with her boot, but he didn’t move.
Sure, he had white hair and a beard; he was a big guy, and hell, he looked like he might have been a jolly dude, but Santa? C’mon. It was a week before Christmas. What the hell would Santa Claus be doing in New Orleans?
Anyway, Santa was nothing more than a ploy made up by parents to finally get their kids to behave for at least a month out of the year. Jane knew this because it was the only thing that worked on her when she was little. Tell a six-year-old Santa wouldn’t bring her a pony, and she’d eat her damn broccoli. Brussels sprouts too.
Gaston gently shut the passenger door of Genevieve, his beloved Maserati Quattroporte, and ran his hand over the dent in the hood. “I forget just how young you are, ma chère. Santa Claus is most definitely real. I’ve known him since I was a wee tot.”
Jane scoffed. This had to be the tallest of tall tales she’d ever heard from the ancient vampire. It was just like Gaston to blow off a possible manslaughter charge with a joke. “Right. You know Santa, and I’m the Easter Bunny.”
“The Easter Bunny is a fae who chooses to take the form of a rabbit to honor Eostre, the goddess of spring. Santa assumes a human form.”
She gaped at Gaston, trying to decide if he was yanking her chain, but he looked as serious as could be. He wore his dark hair pulled back in a band at the nape of his neck, and his ice blue eyes were calculating, cutting between the dead man and Jane. The muscles in his jaw were tense, which meant he was grinding his teeth, which meant, for like the third time since she’d met the man, he was actually concerned about a situation.
In fact, he hadn’t said a word about the damage she’d done to Genevieve, and he loved that car more than he loved Cuervo-tainted O-negative.
Well, shit. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I never kid about the fae.”
She looked at the dead guy, tilting her head as the reality sank in. “Oh. My. Goat cheese pizza. I killed Santa.” And holy crap! Santa is real!
Well, Santa was real…until she ran him over. She had so many questions, but she put a pin in it. Right now, they had a body to dispose of. Jane Devereaux would not be charged with murder.
“Wait. Santa is a fae? Aren’t they immortal?”
Gaston’s brow furrowed. “Every being has a weakness. Much like a stake to the heart can kill a vampire, it appears being run over by a sports car will be the end of this fae.”
The man groaned, and a strange bubbling sound emanated from his throat. Jane’s pulse sprinted as she kneeled by his side. “Did you hear that, Gaston? He’s not dead! I’m not the girl who single-handedly destroyed the nation’s most precious holiday!”
This was just her luck, wasn’t it? She’d begged Gaston for months to let her drive his Maserati—Ethan got to drive it, so why not her?—and he’d finally given in. But the first time she got behind the wheel, she lost control and plowed into the park, running over Santa Claus, of all people.
Gaston stood behind her so she had to crane her neck to look at him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Asher will be along any minute now. You’ve got to turn him before the reaper arrives.”
Turn him? Oh, hell no. “Not so fast, Lestat. He might live.” And she was not sinking her fangs into Santa’s neck. The dial on her moral compass might have shifted a bit since she became a vampire, but to turn the man who brought joy to millions of children around the world into a creature of the night? That sounded like the makings of a horror movie.
“Use your senses, young one,” he snapped. “You can feel his imminent death if you’ll focus for a devil damned minute.”
“Hey, I just found out Santa Claus is real and that I almost killed him. Cut me some slack, old man.” She rested a hand on Santa’s chest. He was breathing…but barely. “And how can I feel his death coming on? I’m not a necromancer.”
Gaston rolled his eyes. “Before the Supernatural World Order came into power and created our laws, vampires killed their victims. We drained them to the cusp of death, stopping just before the heart ceased to beat. Sensing that cusp is an innate part of you. An instinct. I can feel it from here. Focus, Jane, for once in your undead life.”
She bared her fangs and hissed at the old-as-dirt vampire, but he didn’t even flinch. “Fine. I’ll focus. But you don’t have to be such a Meanie McMeanie Pants about it. It’s not like I did this on purpose.” Why did it feel like she’d just been assigned Tim Allen’s role in a darker version of The Santa Clause? Whatever happened, she was sure as shit not putting on this guy’s coat.
Pressing her lips together, she stared at the fae’s waning green aura and relaxed her mind. The moment she stopped her thoughts, her body recoiled. Sure enough, her instinct told her this guy wasn’t just caroling at Death’s door; he’d picked the lock and was about to step inside.
“What are we gonna do? We can’t let Santa die.” She rose to her feet and dusted the dirt from her jeans. “Oh, I know! We can call the necromancer, Jasmine. Once he passes, she can grab his soul and shove it back inside his body. He’ll at least last long enough to do his thing on Christmas Eve, right? Then the elves can elect a new Santa.”
“A zombie cannot perform his duties, and the fae cannot elect a new Santa. You must turn him, or there will be hell to pay.”
She chewed her bottom lip and stared at her victim. “I don’t want to be the gal who ruins the holiday, but I can’t sire Santa Claus. He’s all light and joy. I can’t turn him into a nightmare before Christmas.”
“Ruins the holi—?” Gaston looked at her like she had a second set of fangs growing from her gums. “Christmas will be the least of our worries. This man is the ruler of all fae. Their king. If you don’t turn him, not only will you be charged with murder before the SWO—and staked, I might add—but you’ll start a war between the fae and the vampires.”