Izzy’s Christmas Eve

 

“Merry Christmas Eve, sweetheart!” Angelina DiAngelo greets me excitedly as I lean into my car to grab the bag of gifts that I carefully buckled in the back seat.

 

She comes up behind me and wraps me in a breathtaking hug as I pull my torso out of the car. Her pitch black hair is highlighted here and there with streaks of silver and I find myself hoping that I look that good with gray hair when I’m her age. Behind her, Gianni strolls down the front steps of his parents’ old brick townhome, throwing a kitchen towel over his shoulder.

 

“Little Izzy!” he booms, half-jogging over to me on the curb. “You’re early.”

 

“You say that like it’s a miracle,” I snark, smiling and popping a hand on my hip.

 

He chuckles, and says, “That’s because it is.”

 

I wave him off and turn back to grab the gift bag. We hurry out of the cold, snow-covered street and into the beautiful and familiar home that belongs to Angelina and Mateo. As soon as I step through the threshold I am greeted with the scent of Mateo’s cooking. The aroma wafting from the kitchen nearly makes my knees buckle. I manage to maintain control of my lower extremities and proceed past the entryway. As I pass the long display table of photos that the DiAngelos have curated over the years, I press a kiss to the tips of my fingers and press my fingers to the glass of the simple gold frame holding an old photo of my mom and dad. It’s a photo from the winter before I was born where they’re bundled up in beanies, mittens, and thick coats standing in front of Mateo’s restaurant, smiling under the lit-up sign above the door. My mom has snowflakes stuck in her long eyelashes as she smiles blissfully while Dad is pressing a kiss to her temple.

 

I press a kiss to the glass every time I’m here.

 

“Set your gifts by the tree, babe,” Angelina directs me. “Mateo made crostini and olives.”

 

My stomach rumbles at the mention of Mateo’s classic Italian cooking. He makes the best Italian food I’ve ever had. Even my mom couldn’t make an eggplant parmesan like Mateo can.

 

Christmas dinner is never what most people would consider “normal” in the DiAngelo household. Rather than honey-baked ham, turkey, or any other classic Christmas meal item, the DiAngelo’s have always made some kind of delicious homestyle Italian meal, starting with a mouthwatering appetizer–like this year’s crostini and citrus marinated olives. Dinner is usually soup and an entree with bread. It’s usually never the same thing as the year before.

 

“Ah, Izzy, baby!” Mateo exclaims by way of greeting. He sets the soup spoon in his hand down on a spoon holder and wipes his hands on his apron. “How ya doin’, honey? Ya eatin’ right? Ya don’t look like you’re eatin’ right.” He glares at me.

 

“Mateo!” Angelina scolds and slaps her husband’s arm. “Give the girl a break! Izzy, you look fine, honey.” She gently tugs on the fabric of my grey and silver sweater and goes on to say, “This color looks amazin’ on you!”

 

“Ma,” Gianni says, stepping around Angelina to check something in the oven. “Tone it down, would ya?”

 

Angelina grumbles something under her breath and glares at her beloved son. He stands upright, seemingly satisfied with whatever is cooking right now, and winks at me. My brother-from-another-mother looks rather handsome in his long-sleeved henley shirt and jeans. He’s wearing a black apron around his waist that he clearly has been using as a napkin throughout the day. His hair is styled like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas–his signature hairstyle since watching the movie at the ripe age of eight. He looks a lot like his father with his rich brown eyes and smile lines permanently etched onto his face.

 

Where I’m the kind of Italian that could pass for any other caucasian race, he could never deny his Italian heritage. He’s got golden skin, despite it being winter, and naturally wavy dark brown hair. He has the same bulbous nose as his mom and dad.

 

“What’s on the menu tonight?” I ask, peering over Mateo’s shoulder at the various pots and pans on the stove.

 

“Meatballs with marinara and parmesana, minestra maritata, and roasted zucchini,” he cheerily announces.

 

Minestra maritata–otherwise known as Italian wedding soup–is one of my favorite comfort dishes. My mom would make it for me when I was sick as a kid, so now whenever I catch a cold or the flu or either of the two times I had Covid, I’d do one of two things: force myself to buy the ingredients and make it myself, or call Gianni and convince him to make it for me. Most of the time I decide to do the latter.

 

“I hope you’re hungry, Iz,” Gianni says beside me.

 

“Trust me when I say I haven’t eaten all day to prepare for this, Gi.” I bounce my shoulders twice in unison with my eyebrows and he snickers.

 

Just then, the doorbell rings and Angelina jolts into action. She shoves through the wall that her husband, son, and I unknowingly formed, and scurries to the front door.

 

“Who is it?” Mateo hollers at her.

 

“How should I know, I haven’t opened the door yet,” she shouts back.

 

They honestly don’t need to shout to be able to hear each other, but any time they’re more than three feet apart, they yell anyway. As kids, Gianni and I would make fun of them for it, pretending not to be able to hear each other when we clearly could.

 

“Mama! Papa!” Angelina exclaims when she opens the door. “Buon Natale!”

 

She kisses her parent’s cheeks and ushers them inside, unwrapping their scarves and hanging them by the door as they come in. The old couple slowly make their way to the kitchen with their hands full of gifts and dish trays.

 

“Let me grab that, Nonna,” Gi rushes around the counter, takes two dishes from the sweet old lady and presses a kiss to her temple.

 

Although Angelina’s mother isn’t my own grandma, I’ve called her Nonna for as long as I’ve been able to talk. The same goes for Nonno, Angelina’s dad.

 

“Is that my piccola principessa?” Nonna asks, her plum-colored lips splitting into a warm smile.

 

Returning her smile with one of my own, I walk around the kitchen island and bend over to wrap my arms around her. “Merry Christmas Eve, Nonna.”

 

“Buon Natale, dolce Isobelle,” she whispers. As I release her from the hug, her frail, spot-covered hands clasp mine and she closes her eyes with her face tilted up to the ceiling. “Buon Natale, Lucia e Peter.”

 

“Buon Natale, mom and dad,” I join her in wishing my parents a Merry Christmas, a little bit of moisture collecting in my eyes as I do.

 

Nonno is smiling at me once I’ve blinked back the tears, and I move on to hug him. I never had a relationship with my own grandparents, so Angelina’s gladly stepped in to play the role as best they could when I was born. As far as I’m concerned, they played the part perfectly.

 

“Let me take these, Nonno,” I say, gesturing for the stout old man to hand me the gifts he’s carrying.

 

I take the messily wrapped gifts and put them next to the neatly decorated tree. It’s a real tree, freshly chosen from a tree lot the first week of December–a DiAngelo family tradition. Red, gold, and brown ornaments decorate the full branches meticulously spread out with even distance between them. The DiAngelos are a white Christmas type of family, so they have the classic white Christmas tree lights strung along the branches. On top of the tree is a porcelain angel donning a white gown with gold fringe, her face a picturesque cherub with her eyes closed. The tree skirt is a rich red color with gold accent threads and beads.

 

“Is anyone else coming, Angie?” Nonna asks, taking a seat on one of the barstools at the island.

 

“No, Mateo’s parents are staying in New York with Leonardo this year,” Angelina explains.

 

Mateo’s brother moved to New York for college and never moved back. Leonardo used to be the wild one of the two, according to my mom, but when he met Dierdre–his wife–he changed. Back in the day, my mom and Leonardo had some kind of on-again-off-again thing going on.

 

Before anyone can ask anything else, Mateo announces that the food is ready and he and Gianni take their seats in the dining room. We all filter in after them and take our seats around the large table. We hold each other’s hands as Nonna leads us in prayer before we get up to serve ourselves.

 

“Mangia!” Mateo booms and claps once, rubbing his hands together.

 

Without another ounce of hesitation, everyone grabs their plates and heads back into the kitchen to scoop food onto their plates. I make sure to get a heaping serving of minestra maritata first, drop my bowl off at the table, and return with my plate to get meatballs and bread.

 

After we’ve all eaten so much that our pants feel too tight, caught up on everything going on with everyone, and debated whether or not we should eat dessert–which we decided we would, we headed into the living room to open presents. I sit next to Gianni on the fireplace across from where Nonna and Nonno lounge on the sofa. Mateo sinks into his recliner chair and Angelina perches with her butt half sitting on the armrest.

 

Gianni starts us off by handing everybody one gift with their name on it. We’ve always gone from oldest to youngest, so Nonno unwraps a gift from Mateo and Angelina to him and Nonna–a copper set to make Moscow Mules. Going down the line, Mateo opens a new golf shirt from Gianni, and Angelina opens the new cross Tiffany charm that I bought her. Next, Gianni opens a gift from his parents–a spatula with his name engraved on the handle.

 

“Alright, this one’s for you, Iz,” Gianni says and hands me a wide rectangle shaped gift wrapped in donkey wrapping paper.

 

It says it’s from Angelina and Mateo, so I offer them a smile before ripping into the wrapping paper. After shoving the wrapping paper into a trash bag, I examine the thick book in my hands. It’s white with a fancy cursive title: Izzy’s Favorite Recipes.

 

“Did you guys make this?” I ask, running a hand over the cover and staring in awe. “How the heck did you do this?”

 

Angelina, who’s affectionately rubbing her husband’s arm, smiles at me and says, “It’s surprisingly easy to get a book printed. We just used Barnes and Noble.” Mateo nods and looks at Angelina like she’s forgetting something. “Oh! Right! Open it up, go to page, uh, six? Yeah, six.”

 

I give her a questioning look, but open the cookbook up to page six. There, at the top of the page, is the title of the recipe: Lucia Axford’s Eggplant Parmesan. Next to it is an old photo of my mom with me as a toddler sitting on the kitchen counter helping her bread eggplant slices–and making an awful mess. She’s laughing as my entire forearm dips into the breading mixture. Below that picture is a photocopy of the recipe written in her handwriting with the words “for my pipistrello piccola”– “for my little bat”.

 

“Oh wow,” I say, my voice coming out thick as my throat starts to swell. “Where did you guys find this?”

 

“Your Ma was a terrible cook,” Mateo starts, pausing to chuckle, “But she wrote this down for ya ‘cause she knew how much ya loved it. Angie found it tucked in Lucia’s bible.”

 

“This is…” My voice trails off as I sniffle and try to collect myself. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Thank you guys. I love you.”

 

I set the book on the fireplace and get up to hug them. They wrap their arms around me and squeeze me so hard that my lungs become strangled.

 

“We love ya, kiddo,” Mateo says against my hair.

 

Once I’ve cleared my eyes of the tears that the cookbook brought on, we all finish opening the remaining presents and thanking one another for everything. Angelina gets up and comes back with a tray of eggnog for everyone–the DiAngelo recipe, which means it’s extra strong. I take a glass and wait for our cue to start sipping it. We do this every year, and it’s one of my favorite holiday traditions.

 

The sound of a Bluetooth speaker turning on chimes in the corner and I buzz with giddy excitement as Gianni finds the coveted song we play every year. As soon as the bells start ringing through the speaker, we all take a sip of eggnog.

 

Mateo starts us off, singing along to the lyrics of Dominic the Donkey.

 

We all join in and hee-haw like donkeys, giggling and swaying as the song goes on. When the song’s over, we down the last of our eggnog and I get up to say my goodbyes. On my way out the door, I shoot Joel a text to let him know I’m on the way and he replies telling me to drive safe.

 

The drive is gorgeous this time of year thanks to the colorful Christmas lights strung up throughout the city. Once I’m out of the city and surrounded by trees, I enjoy the beauty of the snow-covered forest. Joel’s house is scantily decorated, but at least it’s something. He’s got a wreath on the front door and a string of lights wrapped around the porch railing.

 

My best friend opens the door wrapped in a blanket, already dressed in his black and red flannel pajamas. Rather than saying hello or Merry Christmas or any other of the many ways to greet someone, he says, “Hot cocoa’s on the stove, get dressed before it cools down.”

 

“Well, hello Mr. Scrooge. Bah Humbug to you, too,” I say, patting his chest as I pass him to get inside.

 

I drop my gifts for him off in the living room and jog up the stairs to my room–which is really just a spare bedroom that I claimed as my own a long time ago–to get dressed. When I come down, he’s pouring a generous amount of peppermint Bailey’s into each of our hot cocoa mugs.

 

“Thank you,” I say and take a mug from him.

 

He smiles and walks around the island to the couch. He already has blankets set out and the fireplace going.

 

“So, how was dinner with the DiAngelos?” he asks, looking at me over the rim of his mug as he sips his hot chocolate. “Did you smooch Gi under the mistletoe this year?”

 

“If I ever do, I’ll videotape it for you so you can fantasize that you’re me. Deal?” I fire back at him and he rolls his eyes.

 

“Wouldn’t that be the dream,” he sighs.

 

Joel has had a thing for Gianni since we were in high school and Gianni got buff thanks to his gym addiction. If I remember correctly, Joel actually referred to him as the “sausage daddy” for a short period.

 

“How you’ve never dreamt of making out with him is beyond me,” Joel says, finding his spot on the couch and planting himself there. “Sibling-like relationship or not, he’s hot as hell.”

 

“You need to take a vacation,” I say, covering my lap in a fuzzy blanket as I sit down. “I seriously think your work-induced celibacy is rotting your brilliant mind.”

 

He scoffs. “I’ll take a vacation when my employees become competent enough to function without me.”

 

“Your faith in the people who work for you is truly amazing,” I say sarcastically and take a large gulp of my drink, burning my tongue a little as I swallow.

 

He chuckles and picks up the remote. Last year we did a Home Alone marathon, which means this year we’ll be watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and A Christmas Story. My favorite holiday movie is the 2009 Disney production of A Christmas Carol, but Joel thinks it’s too dark, so usually I watch that alone at my place on Christmas day.

 

“Let the Christmas movie watching begin,” he says, clicking on the play button to start the first movie of the night.

 

We’ll spend the rest of the night watching movies, drinking hot cocoa, and yapping to one another until twelve. Then we’ll each open one gift from each other like we do every year, go to sleep, and wake up in the morning to open the rest in our pajamas with mild hangovers.

 

As the opening scene of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation comes on, we both settle deeper into the couch and Joel checks his phone while I hum along to the song that plays.

Vincent’s Christmas

December 25th, 1693

 

The servants have decorated the evergreen tree beautifully this year. The same goes for the rest of the castle. Candles are lit throughout the stone walls and garlands made of evergreen leaves, oranges, and red berries line various mantles, railings, and awnings.

 

Vivienne has been in her quarters preparing for the evening with her maids since the morning. Her gown for the ball was imported from France and she has kept it hidden from us all to maintain the mystery of it. Azaizel has been praising her for her beauty and telling her that she would look far better in nothing at the ball than the gown, to which Vivienne rewarded him with privacy in her chambers. The icicle of jealousy that coursed through my veins that night was beyond any I’d felt before.

 

Vivienne has always shown Azaizel, Geoffry, and me favoritism over the others. Although, none of us expect privacy with her at any given time. She likes to have us all at once.

 

I am admiring the hot searing of a candle flame against the back of my hand when one of her lady’s maids emerges on the balcony.

 

“Master Vincent?” the meek girl calls for me. “Her ladyship requests you in her chambers.”

 

My heart skips a beat beneath my ribcage, setting my feet into motion before my mind can catch up to what I’m doing. I climb the stairs and turn down the hall in a matter of seconds, heading to her as if walking at a normal pace would rob me of this time with her. As I step up to the closed door her scent wafts through the cracks between the wood and stone. The delicious scent of her blood intertwined with her jasmine flower scented oils.

 

“Come in, Vincent,” her lilting voice flows through the door.

 

Opening the door, I step through the threshold and take in the sight of her standing in front of a mirror while a maid tightly laces her corset. I walk across the room and gently lay a hand over the maid’s to stop her. She glances at me to question what I am doing, and I only answer her with a nod toward the door.

 

“Allow me, my goddess,” I say, holding the silky ribbon in my callused hands.

 

She smiles at me in the reflection and braces herself against its frame. The little jerks of her body as I tighten each tier make the lowest parts of my stomach tingle and become warm, leading down the V of my abdomen into my trousers.

 

“Did you complete the task I gave you last night, my love?” she asks, her crystal blue eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

 

The memory of thick, hot blood coating my hands and splattering on my face pushes ice through my veins. My night before Christmas was spent stalking a landowner’s wife and ending her life with my bare hands. Her husband happened to walk in at the most inopportune of times and met his own untimely demise because of it.

 

“Have I ever let you down?” I ask, looking down as I tie the ribbon at the bottom of the corset’s bodice.

 

Once the knot is tied, she turns around and places her delicate fingers and palms on my cheeks.

 

“Not once,” she whispers, seductive shadows in her eyes, and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Let me taste her, my love. Let me savor the rewards of your labor.”

 

I duck my head and take her mouth with mine, opening my lips and jaw for her to consume me as she pleases. Her tongue explores my mouth and my saliva mingles with hers. The taste of her rips the air from my lungs. The anticipation for what is to come wars with the satisfaction of what is already occurring.

 

The sound of her breathing fills my ears the longer she stays attached to me. She is as breathless for me as I am for her.

 

Then all the heat pooling in my stomach rushes downward because she bites my lip, drawing blood out and moaning as she savors the taste. She pulls away with a smear of my blood across her plump bottom lip.

 

“She is delicious,” she breathes.

 

This has become our ritual when she sends me out to erase one of the names off her never-ending list. She gets excited for it–aroused by the thought. Before the sun sets the day after a kill, she drinks my blood because after the sun sets, she cannot taste my victim’s blood anymore. I learned a long time ago that the first day after feeding, the victim’s blood is coursing through my veins as it slowly ferments into my own.

 

“I am glad you enjoy her, my goddess,” I say with hooded eyes.

 

Licking her lip, she presses her thumb into the divot of my chin.

 

“Now, Vincent. You mustn’t look at me that way until after the ball. I fear we will be absentee hosts if you do,” she says, flashing me a girlish smile.

 

“Of course,” I agree, clearing my throat. “Until after the ball, then.”

 

She presses her lips together and smiles, looking up at me through her long lashes, and nods. I bow my head and make my leave. Her maid is waiting outside the room when I emerge and I give her the approval to reenter Vivienne’s chambers.

 

Suddenly, I cannot wait for the night’s festivities to end.

 

***

 

“Do you hear that, brothers? The night has begun,” Geoffry says, wiggling his fingers with anticipation. “Just a little longer and we get to make our entrance.”

 

Geoffry historically has enjoyed these boisterous events far more than Azaizel and I. He revels in the attention he receives from our guests. Henry, Varian, and Frederick share that sentiment with him. Azaizel and I prefer the quiet solitude that comes after the balls and extravagant dinners our goddess likes to throw.

 

“Attempt to sound less thrilled, will you?” Azaizel sneers.

 

“Lighten up, brother,” Henry says, clapping Azaizel on the shoulder. “Perhaps for once you might enjoy the company of others.”

 

“That would be a Christmas miracle,” Frederick snickers.

 

“The sun would sooner fall right out of the sky,” Varian adds.

 

Geoffry’s booming laugh fills the parlor where we wait to make our entrance.

 

“Children,” Azaizel scowls. “The lot of you.”

 

“Patience, brother,” I say, a knowing smile widening my mouth. “We only must bare it for a few hours, then we will get what we desire.”

 

His answering grin lightens the mood that has fallen over the six of us. As we settle into the joyous air of the evening, three knocks sound on the parlor door. It is time for us to enter.

 

The string quartet that has kept the ballroom occupied with cheery music falls silent, as does the crowd of people in decadent clothing, the moment the doors open for us to make our grand entrance. Azaizel, Geoffry, and I step out first, the three original worshippers of Vivienne. Henry, Varian, and Frederick follow us a few seconds later. We stand tall with our shoulders back and our noses upturned so that we look down upon the crowd.

 

“Oh my word,” a woman whispers somewhere in the crowd.

 

“They’re…” someone starts to say.

 

“Divine,” someone else finishes.

 

“Frightening,” another voice says.

 

A cacophony of whispers ensues and people say whatever they please, for they do not know that we can hear every word. They do not know that we are indeed frightening, because we could kill every last one of them if Vivienne wished it.

 

Once the initial shock of seeing us wears off, we disperse into the crowd to mingle with the dukes, dutchesses, lords, and ladies in attendance. Because it is necessary for me to tolerate these obnoxious events, I take a glass of wine from a servant.

 

Azaizel and I mask our pain as we are forced into excruciating conversation with our guests. They all talk of small things like money, land, and fashion. I could care less that the Duke of Munich engaged in a prosperous trade with a merchant from one of the dynasties.

 

Finally, we are put out of our misery by yet another silent spell. Our goddess has arrived.

 

In unison, we all look up at the balcony looming above the ballroom to spot Vivienne looking down at us all with a bright smile on her beautiful face. The coin she lost to purchase that gown was well spent. She is a vision in a burgundy satin corseted bodice with long sleeves that flare out at her elbows. The skirt is large and flows out at her waist. Along the corset, sleeves, and skirt are golden accents of lace and shiny beading. Her long black hair is pulled away from her face, wrapped in a curly knot at the back of her head. A few onyx strands fall around her face, framing it in a way that makes her look so innocent.

 

She stands there until the quartet begins playing a cascading song that adds a dramatic effect to each step she takes down the stairs. One of her maids follows her, carrying the short train of Vivienne’s skirt as she descends.

 

The six of us effortlessly push through the crowd to line up at the bottom of the stairs where we wait to greet her. I am the first to arrive so I get the privilege of standing closest to the staircase in the line. After me is Azaizel, then Henry, Geoffry, Frederick, and lastly, Varian. As she reaches the second to last step, we all bow. When her foot lands on the last step, I reach my hand out for her. She accepts it gracefully and takes the last step onto even ground.

 

“You look positively divine, my goddess,” I say, meeting her eyes as she rises from a curtsy.

 

Her crystal blue eyes rake over me until they finally fall upon my face once more. “As do you, my love.”

 

In the corner of my eye, I see Henry try and fail to hide a glare as I escort Vivienne into the ballroom. People bow and curtsy as we pass them. Vivienne basks in the glory, while I am simply content to be the one at her side tonight.

 

“Shall we dance?” I ask her, guiding her into the center of the ballroom.

 

“I believe it is our duty to have the first dance of the evening, is it not?” she answers, a playful grin on her face.

 

I gesture for the quartet to play something for us, and grasp her hand in mine as my other hand finds its place on the small of her back. My attention is solely hers as we begin the waltz.

 

We dance through the night, breaking occasionally to play the diplomats that everyone expects us to be. Vivienne gives a speech about how grateful she is that her ‘friends’ all showed up to celebrate the holidays with her family. When she is finished with that and politely clinks glasses with several of the guests, she deems it appropriate for us to retire. Azaizel and I are the chosen ones for the night, so we leave the other four behind to trail behind her up the stairs. Geoffry and the others will entertain the guests for a while, likely taking a few to their own chambers to fulfill their hunger.

 

“Vincent, darling,” Vivienne croons from where she stands in front of the bed. “Will you undo this corset for me? I’m going to need the ability to breathe if I am to enjoy what comes next.”

 

As if there could be no greater purpose to my never-ending life, I gladly step forward and gently lay my hands on her waist to turn her around. The corset comes undone under my skillful touch and I slowly work on getting her out of the decadent gown. As the red and gold fabric comes off, preceding her sheer white undergarments, every inch of her porcelain skin becomes exposed.

 

“Azaizel, love, I want you to undress Vincent so I can watch,” she says, leaning back onto the bed so her ample breasts spread apart.

 

“As you wish, my goddess,” Azaizel answers, stepping toward me to pull off my coat.

 

Once he has me in a total state of undress and Vivienne has that hungry look in her eyes that makes my knees weak, she tells him to undress himself so that he may stand and watch as I worship her. He does exactly that. Like many other nights spent in her presence, she accepts my worship, bathes in it, and watches Azaizel’s lust make itself known. Like many other nights, I find myself lost inside her.