He clutched her shoulders and turned her toward Santa. “Now, get down there and make him undead before he’s really dead.”
Satan’s balls. “Why does every little mistake a supe makes become the harbinger for war?”
Gaston crossed his arms. “This mistake was not little, but you can remedy it.”
“But if I turn him, he’ll be a vampire, not a fae. Will they even still accept him?”
“He’ll be a hybrid, which is better than dead. We’ll deal with the ramifications once his transformation is complete, but you are running out of time. Turn him now, Jane.”
She fisted her trembling hands and gazed at the mess she’d made. Leave it to Jane Devereaux to find out Santa is real, and he’s the ruler of the fae, and then kill him all in the same night. “I can’t be his sire. He’s way too important, and I’m a newbie vampire. You should do it. You’ve sired people before, so you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m not the one who ran him over. This is your problem, ma chère. You must take responsibility for your actions.”
She growled low in her throat and kneeled next to the dying St. Nick. “If Ethan were here, he’d do it.”
“I’d expect nothing less from him; he’s your husband. I am not.”
“But you’re my grandpa, right? Kinda. That’s got to count for something.”
“I sired your sire. If I am your grandfather, that would make Ethan your father. Are you sure you want to tread down that path?”
“Ew. Yeah, that’s a kink I could never get into. Let’s not go there.” Though vampires didn’t actually need oxygen, she sucked in a deep breath to steel herself. “Okay, I can do this. Today will go down in history as the day Jane Devereaux saved Christmas.”
“After she nearly ruined it.”
“Whatever.” She leaned down and bit into Santa’s neck.
“Absorb his essence as you drink,” Gaston said, “and use your magic to form a connection with him.”
She only managed two sips of blood, and she hoped to Hades that was enough because damn… “Ack. He tastes like saltwater taffy, peppermint, and Coke Zero, with an extra heaping of high fructose corn syrup.”
“He is a sugar fae, so that makes sense. Their entire diet consists only of sweets. Did you feel the connection form?”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and scraped her tongue across her top teeth, trying to get rid of the saccharine flavor. “I think so.”
“Good. Now, bite your wrist and get your blood into his mouth. Quickly. You’re running out of time.”
She sank her fangs into her arm and squeezed with her other hand. Vampire blood was as gooey as molasses, so she had to force herself to bleed. Once a thick drop pooled on her skin, she pressed her wrist to Santa’s mouth. He didn’t respond.
“He’s not drinking.” She rubbed her wrist over his lips, staining his pristine white mustache and beard. Oops.
“Give it time.” Gaston loomed behind her, his tension rolling off him in waves, which made Jane even more nervous about what she was doing…damning Father Fucking Christmas to darkness. Satan’s balls on a silver platter! She was in way over her head now.
Santa’s bloodshot eyes flew open, and he latched onto her wrist, sucking like a Hoover on overdrive. Ouch!
“That’s enough,” Gaston said. “He’ll drain you if you allow it.”
Jane pried her arm away, and Santa’s wounds healed in seconds. He sat up, rubbing his head until his gaze locked on her.
“Ho, ho, hello. What do you want for Christmas, young lady?” He held up a finger before she could answer. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Jane Devereaux, your Christmas wish is to have your father accept you for who you are. That’s not a gift I can give, I’m afraid. How about a pony instead?”
Jane’s eyes widened, her mouth falling slack as Santa stiffened and fell backward into the dirt. “What the…? How did he…?” She was speechless, and Jane Devereaux was never speechless.
Her dad was coming to New Orleans for Christmas. It would be the first time he’d visited her new home. The first time he would meet Ethan. It would also be the first time she told him she was a vampire…and that she was married.
And Santa knew. Holy Christmas cookies.
Gaston paced toward Santa’s head and slid his arms beneath his shoulders. “Grab his feet. We’ll put him in the backseat and take him home. The death sleep will keep him under until sunset tomorrow.”
“I…” Jane blinked and scrambled to her feet to help Gaston get her new charge into the car. Though he was as bulky as a grizzly bear, their vampire strength made lifting him a breeze. Actually getting him into the backseat was another story.
Jane climbed in first, dragging him by the boots—which were not fur-lined like she’d expected. One of them came off in her hands, revealing a green sock with an image of whom she hoped was Mrs. Claus wearing a red corset and thong, posed like a pin-up girl.
He wore jeans and a blue flannel shirt with motorcycle boots and a leather jacket. As she took in his outfit, she realized his pants were undone, only half his shirt tucked in the front.
Why was Santa Claus standing by a tree near the edge of City Park, anyway? Surely he wasn’t… She lifted the untucked edge of his flannel and dropped it like it was made of pure hellfire.
“Oh, man. He was taking a piss against the tree when I hit him.” She just had to look, didn’t she? Now she’d seen Santa’s Yule log, and that was a sight she could not unsee, no matter how badly she wanted to. “This is so not how I imagined Father Christmas.”
“He’s off-duty.” Gaston shoved him the rest of the way in and closed the door, banging it against his head.
“Good thing he’s unconscious.” She slipped his boot back on his foot and moved to climb into the front seat. He could deal with his own zipper when he woke up. She wasn’t getting anywhere near his candy cane.
“Oh, no, ma chère.” Gaston wagged a finger at her. “You’re not riding with me.”
“You can’t expect me to trek home in these heels.” Jane gestured to her stilettos. “These boots were not made for walking.”
He laughed. “You’re not walking. You’re riding.” He jerked his head toward a big black Harley Davidson parked near the spot where Santa had lain.
“What in hell’s name? That wasn’t there before.” She crept toward the bike, and it rolled backward, almost as if it were shy. It had a wide leather seat and a black satin finish on the engine parts. Not too flashy, but the sucker looked faster than a vampire on his way to an all-you-can-drink blood buffet. “Is it a magical motorcycle or something?”
“Or something. I’ll drive Genevieve. You ride Blitzen home.”
“He named his bike after a reindeer?” She glanced at the side of the gas tank, and sure enough, the name Blitzen was scrawled across it in bright red paint. “There’s a problem with your plan, man. I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle.” And it wasn’t something she could learn in fifteen minutes, especially when this machine seemed almost…alive.