Title: Vampire Claus
Author: Robert Winter
Publisher: Robert Winter Books
Release Date: November 15, 2017
Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex
Length: 30,000 words
Genre: Romance, Christmas vampire novella
Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words is happy to have Robert Winter here today talking about his new story Vampire Claus and some of his favorite holiday cartoons. Welcome, Robert!
Thanks for hosting me today. Vampire Claus is a departure from the contemporary romances I’ve done so far. My book starts on Christmas Eve with the vampire Taviano melancholy as he recalls his childhood traditions from Naples. As I wrote, I played Christmas carols and thought about my favorite childhood memories of Christmas. Most of them have to do with all those great cartoons that, I think, still run every year. I would watch them with a Swanson’s TV dinner and a Hostess fruit pie for dessert. This is a list of five favorite Christmas cartoons. (No copyright claimed in any of the images used here.)
A Charlie Brown Christmas – Even now, the sad sack Charlie Brown trying to direct a Christmas play cracks me up. When Charlie brings in the pathetic little tree no one else appreciates, my heart would break. Linus’s speech at the end may be a little on the nose, but it worked on me as a kid.
How the Grinch Stole Christmas – “You’re a mean one, Mister Grinch.” The movie with Jim Carrey did nothing for me, because I don’t know how you can improve on the cartoon. Boris Karloff as narrator, Chuck Jones directing the animation, and the song! Total win.
The Year Without a Santa Claus – Cold Miser and Heat Miser were as much fun as Shirley Booth’s Mrs. Claus. I went to DragonCon this year in Atlanta and found some cosplayers of the same mindset!
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer – probably the earliest version of “It Gets Better”. The island of misfit toys was a great metaphor for anyone who felt out of the mainstream. Sure, Hermie earned his father’s disapproval when he said he wanted to be a dentist, but we know what he really meant – he was gay! And don’t forget Yukon Cornelius, the original lumbersexual.
Santa Claus is Coming to Town – because Fred Astaire. It’s a fun origin story for Santa Claus anyway, but it’s the narrator I wanted to see. I always had a little crush on Fred for his debonair ways and elegance. Fun fact – my very first job out of college was as a dance instructor for Fred Astaire Dance Studio in Austin, Texas. The two things are totally unrelated. Shut up.
So that’s my five favorites. I’d love to hear in the Comments about yours!
’Twas the night before Christmas, but what’s stirring is a little more dangerous than a mouse.
Taviano is nearly two hundred years old and never wakes in the same place twice. Weary and jaded, the vampire still indulges in memories of childhood Christmases in Naples. He lingers in shadow, spying on mortals as they enjoy the holiday.
When Taviano spots a handsome young man in Boston loaded down with presents and about to be mugged, he can’t help but intervene. Soon he’s talking to joyous, naïve, strong-willed and funny Paul, a short-order cook who raised funds to buy Christmas presents for LGBTQ children. Before he knows what’s happened, Taviano is wrapped up in Paul’s arms and then in his schemes to get the presents delivered by Christmas morning.
A vampire turned into a Christmas elf… What could go wrong?
Vampire Claus is a 30,000-word standalone gay romance about a lonely vampire and a fearless mortal with no instinct for self-preservation. A heartwarming ending, no cliffhanger, and a young man who discovers he has a thing for fangs. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?
Paul’s apartment was indeed small, a studio with exposed brick walls and two white-cased windows. Through them Taviano could see a fire escape and then, across the street, a tiled roof. The latch on the right window had broken. Foolish man, he thought as he watched Paul hop on one foot to take off a boot. Let a monster in the front door. Invite a robber through the window. How are you still alive?
He surveyed the rest of Paul’s home. An open door revealed a small bathroom. The opposite wall contained a two-burner stove, a sink, and a half-sized refrigerator. A wooden café table sat with two mismatched chairs. A futon couch along another wall likely served as Paul’s bed.
Next to it was a milk crate on which sat a tiny Christmas tree, wrapped in blue and yellow lights. A few small ornaments dangled from its boughs, though no presents rested underneath. That struck Taviano as sad, given the work Paul had gone through to gather gifts for the homeless youths.
A distinct combination of smells tickled his nose from the area of the futon. Besides Paul’s unique scent there were echoes of other men. Different colognes or bathing products. Latex, foil, something oily, and then…
Taviano turned away as he identified traces of semen. The turmoil in his chest that the evidence of Paul’s life produced disturbed him. If he could blush, he would.
Paul finished with his boots and socks and tugged off his bloodied T-shirt. Tossing the garments in a heap on the floor, he strode to the sink. Dressed only in low-slung corduroys, he turned on the faucet and began to scrub away dried blood on his shoulder and palm.
Taviano took in the sight of lean muscle, flexing under pale skin as Paul washed. That skin reminded him of cream. A tattoo of a tree adorned Paul’s back. Its delicately drawn branches spread to his shoulders. The twisted and sturdy trunk disappeared into the mistletoe-themed boxers resting low on his hips. One side of the tree showed a splintered stump, as if someone had wrenched off a branch.
Although curious about the imagery, Taviano wondered more how that inked skin would feel under his lips. Then he wondered why he wondered. His demon’s hunger for blood drove him for such long years. He’d all but forgotten what it was like to hunger for touch.
Year after year, he hunted with a singular purpose, among people useful to him only as food. Yet he found himself imagining what it would be like to draw Paul against his body. The warmth would be delicious. Soothing. It reminded Taviano of the difference between appetite and attraction. He found the thought both sobering and exciting.
Twice, many decades ago, and before he began to hunt exclusively among villains, he’d given in to curiosity. He’d caressed a willing man with his sensitive fingertips, and even allowed him to stroke Taviano with lust. Both times, the sensation was too intense to be pleasurable. It had been like dragging woolen cloth over a sunburn.
Neither encounter had smelled like Paul, though. Would the taste of his skin be as unique as his scent? Would his body be warm and welcoming? Why should just one man out of the multitudes he’d encountered draw him so profoundly and calm his demon? If he touched Paul once, Taviano wasn’t sure he’d want to stop.
Paul turned from the sink to grab a hand towel and caught Taviano staring at him. Another tattoo, of a sun rising above a mountain range, sprawled down his left pectoral. He stilled but made no effort to cover his hair-dusted and spare torso.
Instead he stood silently as Taviano studied him. His eyes caressed the alabaster planes of Paul’s chest, the sinewy shoulders and elegantly tapered arms. He admired the tight skin at Paul’s stomach, the tracing of fine hair that disappeared down into his boxers. Paul began to breathe more heavily under the scrutiny and his pants tented outward. Taviano smelled arousal and it echoed in his own belly.
Finally Paul swiped the cloth against his shoulder and dried his hands while holding Taviano’s eyes. He licked his lips and flushed. In a slightly hoarse voice, he asked, “Did I get it all?”
As if drawn by a magnet, Taviano stepped closer, hearing Paul’s heart beat faster at his approach. His body glistened in the dim light of the room. Taviano sensed no fear as he took another step and peered at Paul’s shoulder. He brushed trembling fingertips over clean white skin and murmured, “It looks perfect.”
Thankfully his face couldn’t blush and his heart couldn’t pound; he was sure he’d be a sight to behold otherwise. The desire to touch, to stroke, was difficult to hide, from Paul and from himself. Paul stood mere inches away. His coursing, rich blood generated warmth that called to Taviano. For once, it had nothing to do with his demon’s clamor for food.
Meet the Author
Robert Winter lives and writes in Provincetown, Massachusetts. He is a recovering lawyer who prefers writing about hot men in love much more than drafting a legal brief. He left behind the (allegedly) glamorous world of an international law firm to sit in his home office and dream up ways to torment his characters until they realize they are perfect for each other. When he isn’t writing, Robert likes to cook Indian food and explore new restaurants. He splits his attention between Andy, his partner of sixteen years, and Ling the Adventure Cat, who likes to fly in airplanes and explore the backyard jungle as long as the temperature and humidity are just right.
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