I'm Dreaming of an Undead Christmas by Molly Harper

Great Coming Out. But he’d found that there was an untapped market for vampire customers who didn’t want the trouble involved in having to rustle up human food sources. Also, he was tired of dealing with college students and their laughably fake IDs. So he opened the Blood Barn, where he carried the tristate area’s largest selection of packaged donor and synthetic bloods.
    Mr. Kemper was supposed to be holding the bottle of Sangre Select Chocolatier for me behind the counter. Yes, I knew it was sad to try to bribe my sister out of being angry with me before I even told her about my employment news. But I had to give myself whatever advantage I could.
    I’d spent too much time at the mall doing my Christmas errands, so it was dark when I pulled into the Blood Barn’s parking lot. Iris had already left a few messages asking where I was, but I figured it would be better to ignore them. If we were going to survive living together that summer, Iris was going to have to adjust to the idea of my being an adult. That meant not checking up on me like I was still twelve years old.
    Located in a strip mall just off Murphy’s Main Street, the Blood Barn looked like any store in any strip mall anywhere in America—plain brick, ugly neon-red signage, questionable ads in the windows, rows upon rows of liquor bottles that according to a lot of Internet videos could collapse at any second. This one just happened to stock a crap-ton of blood. Shivering into my peacoat, I went into the shop where a half-dozen living and undead customers wandered around, perusing the stock. Gray, grizzled, and slightly stooped from a lifetime of lifting heavy cases of bottles, Mr. Kemper was busy with a couple at the donor counter, picking out something special for their Christmas dinner.
    After all these years, vampire marketing was still a hit-or-miss proposition. With a target audience from so many countries, cultures, and time periods, companies that made vampire products tried out every conceivable packaging theme to attract the eyes of their undead customers. Slick, plastic, and pop trendy battled with cut glass and Old English fonts. Prepackaged blood came in fruity, alco-pop-type flavors or in species-inspired meat varieties. (Ostrich O Positive, anyone?) By far the most disturbing selection was a Dickensian label on a paper milk carton, touting Blood Nog as the drink to serve your vampire loved ones this holiday season.
    Yarp.
    With Mr. Kemper distracted by dithering holiday shoppers, I wandered over to the shelves at the back and wondered if one bottle of specialty blood would be enough to soothe Iris’s temper. Maybe I should get her a “buttering up” bottle for before I told her and another “peace offering” bottle for after.
    I caught sight of my reflection in one of the fridge doors. I frowned at my red cheeks and windblown hair, fluffing my hair out of its current frizz and tucking it under the cute lilac-colored knit hat Nola had left behind as my Christmas gift. I even pulled out a tinted raspberry lip balm and gave my mouth a quick swipe. “Yeah, that will fix the sister-fooling guilt,” I muttered, turning away from the sneaky girl in the glass.
    I rounded the corner toward the “Sweets” section and tried to find some non-nog holiday-inspired bottle. I shuddered at the first label I spotted. Toasted-marshmallow-flavored vodka was gross. In a bottle of blood, it was just upsetting.
    My eyes darted to the right at a slight movement in the corner of my eye. A man was standing behind me, watching me.
    Or maybe not.
    I’d only caught the impression of a tall blond man with broad shoulders and long legs, plus eyes so light brown they almost glowed gold against the fluorescent shop lights. That gold was the last image that remained, lingering like smoke after his face faded from my sight. Like a camera flash, there one minute, leaving only an imprint behind. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure he’d been there in the first place.