"So?"
"When's the last time you gave a human anything but a real bad hickey?"
"Yeah, but what about all those people who die right after Christmas is over?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Psychologists think it's because people put off dying until after big events like their birthdays, or Christmas. But that's not it. They're dying after Christmas, because he comes back. "
"Back?"
"Of course! That's the genius of it! Christmas Eve, he accepts the invitation into their homes, and creates the illusion that benevolent Santa Claus was there. That's the reason for the gifts. Duh. Then he's in. They've invited him. He can come back anytime he wants to, as often as he likes! I think what he does, see, is he feasts right after the holidays, which accounts for all those obituaries, but he doesn't kill all of them, of course - "
"Of course," Serge said, dryly.
" - because that would be - "
"Self-defeating?"
" - dangerous. And nobody could eat that much in one night anyway. So he saves most of them for return visits. I mean, why do you think he keeps a list?"
Serge leaned forward and said with quiet clarity:
"He. Goes. Down. Chimneys. Pasha. "
Vampires could die in flames.
"They're not lit! You think people leave a lighted fire for Santa Claus to come down? Even if he wasn't a vampire, they wouldn't do that! They don't want to burn him, they want those gifts. "
Serge feigned disappointment. "But gee, all those pictures of Santa. He's in the living room, by the Christmas tree, and there's always a lighted fireplace. " He sighed as if a cherished illusion had been shattered, but then he perked up. "He leaves coal for the bad boys and girls. What's that all about?"
"Code. "
"Coal. "
"Code. Like a sign to other vamps. 'Bad blood here. '"
"What the hell is bad blood anyway?"
"You know. Old, sour, too salty, whatever. "
"I don't know. Seems a little thoughtful to me. When's the last time a vampire did us a favor? And Pasha, answer me this. If he got into everybody's homes the first time, then why does he keep doing it every year? And how does he get around to the whole world in one night? We may be supernatural beings, but we're not supermen who can circle the globe a hundred times in a minute. "
"I haven't figured that out yet," Pasha admitted, looking not at all abashed. "But I'm sure there's a reason. "
Serge sighed and dipped a finger in his coffee. "I was afraid there would be. "
This time he was the one who snapped his translucent fingers, which made coffee fly off his wet finger. When he got the waitress's attention, he pointed down toward his cup, commanding, refill. His fingers were freezing. Even in south Florida. It was what he hated most about being undead - the chill, the everlasting chill of the damned grave, like eternal Siberia. It was what he missed the most about blood - his own blood, surging, coursing, pumping, pulsing hot corpuscles that had kept his appendages as warm as a human woman's breast, right before she died in his arms.
"We should go," Pasha urged him.
Pasha didn't have the same problem with being cold all the time, which didn't seem fair to Serge since, of the two of them, he thought that Pasha had by far the colder heart.
"You slurped kids years before I did," Serge said, in an aggrieved tone.
&nbs
p; "What the hell does that have to do with going?"