DROPS OF BLOOD
CHRISTMAS SHOES
Recent events over the past month had sent him into a contemplative mood, one of those that made Vlad Dracula less pleasant to be around. Over the past week, he had been making numerous calculations with the goal of overcoming the present difficulties, and he would have several more to make before firmly establishing his plans for the next year.
But the timing was quite awful; the chief executive of a multi-billion dollar corporation could hardly afford to ignore such a thing as Christmas, no matter what grand machinations required attending to. Not only did he have to oversee the Christmas campaigns of his various subordinate companies, he also had to distribute the Draculesti Group's annual Christmas gifts to the appropriate causes and charities, amounting to hundreds of millions of dollars that didn't include free equipment to schools, hospitals, orphanages, and libraries across the world. Dracula delegated as much as he could to his subordinate executives, but he still had to do some personal shopping for certain employees, his executive staff, his inner circle, the Wallachian knights, and the gypsy tribes under his lordship.
Thus, Vlad Dracula—Prince of Wallachia, Dark Lord of All Vampires, Grand Master of the Order of the Dragon—stood quietly in line at a department store in the suburbs outside New York. Clad in black, a suit coat over a turtleneck, he pushed a shopping cart full of coats for some of the Szgany children who had distinguished themselves academically over the past year. He normally shopped at more expensive places for his clothing, but the children needed things that were durable and easy to care for. At any rate, they were still wearing hand-me-downs that were a few generations old, so the fact that these coats were new made up for their cheapness compared to what he usually purchased for himself.
He had been asleep all day, and had the energy to prove it; having vowed to get his shopping out of the way so that his mind could get settled back to work, he drove to various stores across the area and made several commission-dependent employees and managers very happy. Dracula now waited, his arms crossed, a funereal stain among tinsel of all colors, mistletoe, brightly varied lights, and repeated renditions of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer". He stared at the old woman with a collection of pink-packaged dolls ahead of him, silently willing her credit card to clear and time to eventually deliver him from this spasm of light, color, and plastic that December had become.
Inhaling briefly to sigh—a habit from his Breathing days—his nose caught the odor of the boy…Dracula rebuked himself mentally for forgetting him and cursed the presence of yet another obstacle to the exit, his car, and his estate and the office within.
Finally the old lady left, carrying her burden with an ease that Dracula couldn't help but admire. The little boy stepped forward and set on the conveyer belt a shoebox—a pair of women's shoes, Dracula saw, and far too large for any child's use. The boy reached into his ratty jacket and produced a jar of assorted change, a large portion of it pennies.
Vlad Tepes was about to roll his eyes in exasperation—never a very good sign, as any who know him would tell you—when the boy spoke:
"Sir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please; they're just her size and its Christmas Eve, so I want to give them to her,"
The bemused cashier began counting out change in a whispered tone. Dracula's patience had already been tested, but the boy was practically dancing.
"Please hurry; Daddy says there's not much time," the cashier looked up at this, and the vampire couldn't help but lean in a little closer to hear better—a meaningless act, since he could hear fine, "She's been sick for quite a while, but these shoes are gonna make her happy and…and pretty for if she meets Jesus tonight!"
The cashier gaped a little, then returned to his work, while Dracula gazed at the boy, whose eyes remained fixed on the counter. Finally, the man finished counting—and what Dracula heard and what was on the box did not match.
"Son, there's not enough here,"
The boy's eyes widened in shock, and his lips began to tug downwards in a hard-fought frown. He rifled through his pockets, frantically searching for money, valuables, anything that could get him those shoes. Finally, he stopped and looked down, tears beginning to bubble out of his eyes.
"Mama made Christmas good at our house, even though she had to give up a lot of stuff. I just thought this once, I could…I—I…"
The boy lifted his head, and it seemed as if God's finger turned his chin towards the Prince. Dracula was silent; a giant of black and white, his eyes unfathomable.
"What am I going to do, sir? I just gotta get her these shoes…I just gotta…"
His obligations as a Christian, a lord, a father, and a man came crashing down on him all at once. Given all that, it was surprisingly easy for him to pull out his wallet and demand of the surprised cashier: "How much more does he need?"
"Uh," he checked the box and made a quick calculation, "Twelve dollars and twenty-five cents,"
"Here's twenty," Dracula pulled a bill out of the wallet, "Give him the change."
The cashier opened his mouth, but his tall, pale (and obviously rich, judging by the clothing) customer gave him a look and before he knew it the bill was in the machine and the shoes were in a plastic bag with the receipt.
The boy clutched his prize gleefully—his pleasure coming from a place higher than any personal gain could match—and declared to the stranger, "Mamas gonna look so great! Thank you so much! Thank you!"
The child then turned and ran out the waiting doors, not even pausing to zip up his coat.
Dracula said nothing, only pushed his cart forward. The coats were scanned and paid for without comment, and he quickly made his way to his car.
As he was about to twist the key in his ignition, Dracula paused to consider a trail of small footprints in the snow across the parking lot in front of him. Tapping his long fingers against the steering wheel, he gave the cold air a slight smile, and started the car.
The inspiration for this, "Christmas Shoes", belongs to either Bob Carlisle or NewSong; I'm not sure which.