Dear Reader Letter from a character in Lynn Viehl's Nightbred
I should be reluctant to believe in an immortal who skulks about at night bestowing gifts on those who please him. Since I am exactly that sort of creature, however, I am persuaded that you exist and are amenable to receiving some gift suggestions from me.
For Christian Lang, my loyal mortal friend, the rank of tresora. I think the three years young Chris has been working tirelessly to earn it are enough; she's tired and unhappy, which makes me want to kill something. Save a life and give the girl her due.
For Jamys Durand, son of the formerly mad and still somewhat twitchy Thierry Durand, the chance to spend the holidays at my stronghold. It's been seven hundred years since he was made immortal; it's time the boy left the nest.
For Herbert Burke, my ever-congested but always faithful tresora, a lady friend who does not make use of perfume or anything else that might aggravate Herbert's allergies which, I assure you, are legion.
For my beloved sygkenis Samantha, a month of blissful cohabitation with me on any remote deserted island with absolutely no mobile phone service whatsoever. Actually that would be my Christmas wish. For my cop you can leave a book of poetry, a national crime statistics report, or any semi-automatic firearm you happen to have at the workshop.
Since they are all deserving of the paltry requests I have made, I trust you will see to granting these wishes by December 4th. Do add a copy of Nightbred by Lynn Viehl in their stockings as well. I know you prefer to wait until the 24th to make your deliveries, but I am not a patient man, I can shatter anything with a single touch, and I do know where you live.