by J. R. Rain
But he must have caught my movement, because he was now in the room asking what happened. I brushed passed him and told him I had to find a doctor asap.
He nodded and let me go.
I went down the hallway, made a right, passed a half dozen sprinting nurses going the opposite direction, and then made a beeline to the storage room.
Once inside I removed all clothing, folded them nicely where I found them, and emerged from the room naked once more. I was at the far end of the hallway, away from the commotion. I peaked out and I kept peaking out until the coast appeared clear. When it was, I dashed down the hall as fast as I possibly could. It must have been pretty fast. Perhaps that was something else I should look into.
Just how fast can I run.
In a blink I was at the stairway door. I used my knuckle to depress the lever, and the back of my thumb to open it. Once through the door, I flew up the stairs fast than I had ever run up any stairs in all my life. Never did my legs tire. I could have run up a thousand flights.
Maybe. I didn’t know.
On the roof I used gravel and dirt and debris to rub my fingerprints off the broken doorknob. With any luck, no one would check the doorknob for many days to come, or perhaps even months. After all, it was just a false fire alarm, and Ira’s death will hopefully be ruled natural.
The only question was: would they report a mysterious dark-haired nurse that night? Undoubtedly. There were a lot of nurses on duty tonight. I could fit the description of any number of them.
Sure, there might be an investigation. Then again, Ira was a slimeball. I know cops. They don’t work very hard investigating curious deaths to slimeballs, even if there were unusual circumstances involved.
Cops let slimeballs disappear into oblivion.
On the roof, with the sound of the alarm still blaring around me, as a multitude of emergency vehicles descended upon the prison hospital, I held in my thoughts the image of the beast in the flame. The dark creature seemed to study me back, even tilting its head curiously at me.
And when I opened my eyes again, I was transformed and standing on the corner of the prison hospital roof, my thick talons curled over. I was a living gargoyle.
I leaped high into the air and caught a draft. I flapped my wings hard, gaining altitude, higher and higher, into the night sky.
Deleted Scene #2 from:
Vampire Moon
Kurt Jones, the Chino State Prison Warden, was an older man with a surprisingly gentle-looking face. He sat behind his plain desk, leaning back in a squeaky chair, steepling his thick fingers under his thick chin as he studied me. Just outside his office door stood two guards, watching us.
Or, rather, watching me.
The warden continued silently studying me with his kind eyes. Eyes that were, I suspected, deceptively kind. No doubt they could harden in a heartbeat. But they weren’t hardened now. No, if anything, they looked lost.
He looked lost. Confused.
As he kept watching me, I kept sitting in the small chair in front of him. He took a deep breath and seemed about to say something, then closed his mouth again, and somehow looked even more perplexed.
Finally after about five minutes of this, he shook his squarish head and leaned forward a little in his seat. The chair squeaked loudly.
“You punched your fist through a bulletproof glass barrier,” he finally said, his first words to me since sitting in font of him.
I said nothing. I looked down at my right arm. The deep cuts I had suffered when I had reached through the jagged opening had already healed.
“You punched through a bulletproof barrier,” he said again, but this time he wasn’t looking at me. He seemed to be trying to wrap his brain around the concept but, judging by the utter confusion in his voice, failing miserably. He looked up at me. “Do you have anything to say about this?”
Bulletproof, yes. Vampire proof, no.
“The glass might have been cracked,” I said.
“But the glass is three inches thick.”
“A big crack,” I said.
He stared at me. His mouth opened a little. I saw his lips moving, trying to form words, but then he gave up and closed his mouth again. After a moment, he looked down at a piece of paper in front of him. The paper sat askew. He straightened it and read from it.
“According to the prison hospital X-rays, you broke his nose, his jaw, his right cheek bone, his nasal cavity, and seven teeth.”
“He threatened my children,” I said.
“We know.”
We were silent some more. I heard people talking excitedly outside the warden’s office. There was a pretty good chance they were talking about the freaky woman in the warden’s office.
Me, of course.
The warden next pulled open the narrow center drawer in his desk, fumbled inside, and then lifted something out. He shut the drawer again. He set that something on the desk in front of him. It was a chunk of broken glass. A big chunk of glass.
“That’s a piece of polycarbonate thermoplastic, able to withstand clubs, axes, hammers, and especially bullets.” He stared down at it as he spoke. “It’s made with dozens of layers of plastics and glasses, and is the latest of its kind. I will have it tested, but I most certainly do not think it was cracked or defective.”
I said nothing. The broken section of glass looked like the world’s ugliest paperweight.
He went on. “So that means there’s a very real possibility that you actually punched through it with your fist.”
There was nothing for me to say; hell, he wouldn’t like my answer anyway.
“Help me understand what happened here, Ms. Moon. I mean, I’m going to have to write a report on this. There’s going to be legal implications. I can’t just say you punched through a bullet-resistant piece of three-inch glass.”
“Sure you can,” I said. “But I would suggest you liberally use the words ‘defective piece of glass’ throughout your report.”
He sat back and studied me. After twenty seconds, he said, “How did you do it, Ms. Moon?”
There are very few who know my secret. The warden here wouldn’t be one of them. I held his gaze steadily as I spoke.
“Adrenalin. Anger. We’ve all heard stories of mothers lifting crashed cars off their children.”
“So you’re going with ‘anger’ and ‘adrenalin’, huh?”
“What other explanation can there be?” I asked. “Am I free to go?”
“You almost killed one of my inmates,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Moon Dance
Rap Sheet
Author’s Note: Recently, I came across the rap sheet I wrote in 2004 for Moon Dance, and thought it might make an interesting addition to this collection. A rap sheet is the sales pitch an agent will send out to Hollywood executives. If an executive likes the rap sheet, they’ll request the screenplay or novel. If they like the screenplay, they’ll request a meeting. Many meetings. Dozens of meetings. And if you’re lucky. Very, very lucky. You might get a movie deal out of it.
Moon Dance
A murder mystery with bite
By J.R. Rain
LOGLINE: After being hired to investigate a horrific shooting, a wife and mother struggles to maintain control of her family and the creature she has become.
TONE: Humorous, heartbreaking and shocking.
SYNOPSIS: Six years ago federal agent SAMANTHA MOON was the perfect wife and mother, your typical soccer mom with the minivan and suburban home. Then the unthinkable happens, an attack that changes her life forever. And forever is a very long time for a vampire.
Now the world at large thinks Samantha has developed a rare skin disease, a disease which forces her to quit her day job and stay out of the light of the sun. Working the night shift as a private investigator, Samantha is hired by Kingsley Fulcrum to investigate the murder attempt on his life, a horrific attempt captured on TV and seen around the country. But as the case unfolds, Samantha discovers Kingsley is not exactl
y what he appears to be, for there is a reason why he survived five shots to the head. It takes more than that to kill a werewolf.
Samantha is fairly certain her marriage is on the rocks. Her one-time loving husband DANNY, a man who knows her dirty secret, is coming home now later and later. They rarely touch or kiss, and when they do he seems repulsed. So, being an ace detective, she follows him and confirms her worst fear: he's having an affair. When she confronts him, she learns the depths of her husband's loathing. He's tired of her cold flesh, sickened by the thought of her drinking cow blood delivered from a local butchery, fears for his life and the life of his children. He wants a divorce, and he wants the kids, and that's when Samantha's world comes tumbling down around her.
With nothing to live for, Samantha Moon decides to act upon a dangerous experiment. For some time now she has heard whisperings that she could shape-change, change into another form, another creature. Alone and hurting, she leaps from a nine story building, and as she falls, something truly amazing happens. She discovers she can fly.
Helping with her investigation is an inquisitive cop, DETECTIVE SHERBET. Sherbet knows something is not quite right with Samantha Moon. And when a gang banger shows up dead one night, drained of all blood, the detective has a few questions of his own.
From her on-line confidant, with whom she tells her deepest secrets, to her judgmental sister; from her boxing lessons, in which she literally beats a professional boxer into a bloody pulp, to being the best mom she can despite living with the disease she calls vampirism, Samantha Moon's life is filled with more excitement than she ever asked or wanted.
In the end, as her very strange case unfolds, as her life glimmers with some promise, Samantha Moon knows she will survive. After all, what's a vampire to do?
AUDIENCE: By reminding us that we all have our “issues” to deal with, Moon Dance has the humor and honesty and touches of horror to find crossover audiences.
~~~~~
Now Available!
Vampire Games
Vampire for Hire #6
~~~~~
Samantha Moon is back for the holidays
Christmas Moon
Available now!
Kindle or Nook
~~~~~
Available now in ebookstores everywhere:
The Vampire Who Played Dead
A Spinoza Novella
by
J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
Chapter One
I was sitting in my vinyl swivel chair.
The chair had no armrests. It had come with the office, along with the broken particle board desk, missing one corner and warped as hell. Someday I would find myself a swivel chair with armrests. And a desk that didn’t rock every time I leaned an elbow on it.
Someday.
To my left, sitting on a stainless steel counter next to a stainless steel sink, the compact coffee maker made surprisingly human-like gurgling noises, although I couldn’t remember the last time I heard a human gurgle. On my desk was a greasy white Winchell’s bag, bulging nicely with its contents.
The day was young and full of hope. That is, for anyone other than me. For me, it was just another day filled with regret, pain, and eternal guilt.
The donuts helped with some of that.
And when the coffee was done, I stood up and went over to the coffee maker and filled a metal thermos, then returned to my armless vinyl swivel chair. I sipped the brew and watched the steam march up to the ceiling, voicing my pleasure with a resounding, “Ahh.”
The wind slapped rain against the window, beating a pleasant staccato. I swiveled in my chair, maximizing its full potential, and watched the rain drool down the massive pane, beyond which a low vault of swollen purple clouds meant business.
Memories of my son playing with plastic boats in the gutters came rushing back to me, and I let the tears flow freely, unable to stop them, not wanting to stop them.
Minutes later, I came back to the present and reached over to the donut bag. I had just selected a pink sprinkle when the phone rang.
I glanced at my watch: 7:22 a.m. Early for a client.
I lifted the receiver and held it against my ear and waited. I took a bite of the donut, as sprinkles cascaded down my short front like pink rain.
In the earpiece, there was some white noise, then a shuffling sound, followed by a long scraping. I took another bite of the donut, then cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder like a pro and took a sip from the thermos. There was now some shallow breathing. Very faint. Then it came faster. Now we were getting somewhere.
The rain paused briefly. Outside, the storm clouds were the color of brain matter. I next dug into the bag and produced a hefty buttermilk that made me feel good just looking at it. The rain returned, doubling its efforts, pounding the windowpane. Somewhere on the distant horizon, sheet lightning flashed. Thunder galloped overhead.
“A sad tale’s best for winter,” I said into the phone.
“What?”
A young man’s voice. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. Old enough to find me in the Yellow Pages, but not old enough to find the courage to speak.
“Shakespeare,” I said. “When in doubt, quote Shakespeare. Chicks dig it.”
“Really?”
“Probably not, but you never know.”
Actually that was a trick of mine to help me overcome my own shyness, which had plagued me all my life. Quoting other people was far easier than making stuff up as you go.
The young man continued saying nothing, but I could hear him breathing. The breathing, I noticed, was coming faster and faster.
Don’t hyperventilate on me, broheim.
I’m a patient man. In my business, you have to be patient. I also knew that it’s not easy for people to come to other people for help. Especially young people.
While I waited, I ate. The buttermilk was greasy, but that didn’t stop me. I sat forward in my chair and listened into the phone and listened to the rain, and wondered who this young man was, but instinctively knowing that I should wait. That he should make the first move.
“Are you Spinoza?” he finally asked. There was a slight squeak to his voice. Fourteen, maybe?
“As ever there was.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means yes.”
“Oh.”
More silence. Rain slanted diagonally across my window. Who has seen the wind, I thought, neither you nor I.
“Do you find people?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“How much do you, um, charge to find someone?”
I set the donut aside and leaned forward on my elbows.
“Two tacos,” I said.
“Two what?”
“Two tacos and maybe a burrito.”
He actually laughed. The sound was muffled, as if he were talking in a closet, or under covers. I figured maybe both. More likely a bathroom, though.
“My mom was killed,” he said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She was killed two years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because no boy should be without his mother.”
There was a pause and I heard a choking sound on the other end. He muffled the phone so that I couldn’t hear him cry but he didn’t do a very good job of it and I heard the deep sobs and the pain and the immense heartache. As he wept I thought of my boy, but I did not cry. I would not cry with the young man on the phone. Alone, yes. But not now.
I waited for him to get hold of himself and when he finally did, I asked him if there was anything I could do to help him. He sniffled some more, and told me his tale.
And what a tale it was.
Kindle or Nook
Also available:
Bad Blood
by
J.R. Rain, H.T. Night
and Scott Nicholson
(read on for a sample)
Cha
pter One
Class was over.
I was making my way to my car in the dark, my backpack slung over my shoulder, when the girl came running up behind me. We had exited class together, junior year United States history, when I heard her fall into step behind me. I didn’t have to turn and look to know I was being followed. I didn’t even have to turn and look to know who it was, because I could smell her.
It was the new girl. Well, new as of two weeks ago. And she smelled of flowers and shampoo and clean clothing. She also smelled of curry, which is why I knew who she was, since most girls smelled of only flowers and shampoo.
I’ve always liked unique girls, as much as I can like anything.
I had just clicked my car door open, using the keyless remote, when I heard her footsteps pick up their pace. She was moving faster, coming up behind me. I heard breathing now—her breathing, and I might have heard something else, too. I might have heard, mixed with the sounds of cars starting and our classmates talking and laughing, I might have heard her heart beating.
And it seemed to be beating rapidly.
It should beat rapidly, I thought. Here be monsters.
My back was still to her as she stopped behind me. Her scent rushed before her, swirling around me like a dust devil, and I inhaled her deeply and spun around.