by J. R. Rain
“Wait, what?”
“Within your aura, he swims. An aspect of him, of course. Not the true entity you call Talos. But an aspect of him is always with you. It is why you are so connected to him.”
“But Talos isn’t silver.”
“No, he is dark, just as he is in your aura.”
“You can see him?”
“Oh, yes.”
“But I thought I couldn’t see another immortal’s aura.”
The Alchemist smiled and asked the boy to have a seat away from us—and, I noted, far away from the darker books.
Luke looked at me, looked at Max, then nodded and slipped away, taking with him his magnificent aura and the silver dragon.
“He’s not immortal yet, Sam. For alchemists, it is a long process to achieve immortality.”
“How long?”
“Decades of diligent study. Sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. Sometimes, it never happens. And some don’t want it at all.”
“Okay, fine. But I thought I couldn’t see my relatives’ auras.”
“Only your immediate family, Sam. Your kids, sister, parents.”
“Who makes these rules?”
“The Puppet Master.”
“Who the hell is the—”
I saw he was joking and slapped his arm.
He smiled shyly and said, “Remember, many of us are learning as we go. And sometimes rules can change, too, when there’s strong enough intent. Nothing, I have discovered, is set in stone.”
“Do I have an aura?” I asked.
“You do.”
“What color is it?”
“You want to know?”
“I do.”
He hesitated only briefly before saying: “It is dark, Sam. Very dark. With only the briefest glimpses of light.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“If it’s any consolation, very few vampires have even the few bright spots that you do.”
“It’s some consolation, thanks.”
But not really. A new thought occurred to me. “And my son, Anthony?”
“His aura is particularly brilliant, but...”
“But what?”
Max looked away, drummed his fingers on the wooden help desk. He nodded then said, “Your son harbors something dark that I have not been able to put my finger on.”
“The demon,” I said. “From last year.”
“I’m afraid so, Sam. Something attached to him. Something in this very room, as you recall. Something I do not yet understand.”
I’d suspected this. Sometimes, I spotted my son sitting up in bed, at night, staring at nothing. It didn’t happen often. Indeed, it happened infrequently enough that I was able to mostly forget that he acted so strangely.
“We’ll keep an eye on it, Sam. And so will someone else.” He paused and let his words hang in the air. The more they hung, the more I knew who he was talking about.
“Ishmael...”
“Yes, your one-time guardian angel.”
I might have snorted.
“Don’t knock him, Sam. Ishmael has done an admirable job of keeping your son safe, in ways you don’t fully appreciate or understand.”
“Fine, so he’s a saint.”
“Hardly, but he is trying to right his wrongs.”
“Well, he can just keep righting them for all eternity.”
“He just might.” The alchemist paused. “Sam, there’s a reason why the dark masters are targeting your son, and why Ishmael works so diligently to protect him.”
I nodded, suddenly sickened. “My son carries the mark.”
“Indeed. But in his case, it is a silver eagle. Sam, with his great strength and powerful bloodline, there is no greater threat to the dark masters. Sam, your son could be the greatest of us all, which is why he has a very big target on his back.”
“Are you trying to make me vomit?”
“I’m trying to get you to understand, Sam. Anthony Moon is safe enough now. Ishmael looks out for him, and so do you. So do Kingsley and Allison. And me, of course. For now, your son is insulated enough. But when he is a man, he will be mostly on his own. Although Ishmael will never be too far away. But he is only one angel.”
“What are you saying?” I asked. I literally had to hold my stomach. Vampire or not, I was feeling like I might heave my earlier lunch.
“I run an academy for young alchemists, Sam. We take them at all ages, although many are in their late teens. They come to us from around the globe. Often, they are orphans. Often, they have endured great turmoil. All are targets for the dark masters. We train them to become all they can be.”
“Like the Army.”
“Like the Light Warriors they are, Sam.”
“And what do these Light Warriors do?” I asked.
“We keep the balance of light and dark, Sam. When possible, we will engage the dark masters—”
“You mean vampires.”
“And werewolves, and other creatures they choose to return as.”
“Like Lichtenstein’s monsters?”
“Those and others that defy classification. Powerful others, and they walk among you.”
“Great.”
“We are preparing for what might be the next great battle.”
“Like the battle from, what, five hundred years ago?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“When you guys first banished the dark masters?”
“Correct.”
“This hurts my head.”
“I think that is a figure of speech.”
I drummed my long, pointed nails on the help desk, inadvertently pecking holes into the wood. Oops. I quit drumming.
“And Luke?” I asked.
“He will be enrolling in our school.”
“Hogwarts?”
“Close, but not quite. His education will continue, with an eye toward the real history of our world, and his place in it. He will be taught alchemy. He will be taught self-defense and mastery in all weapons. He will be shown the hidden mysteries of this world, too. Some of the greatest secrets will be bestowed on him. All in due time, of course. We have made all the necessary legal arrangements.”
I nodded. “You are adopting him?”
“So to speak.”
“And Anthony?”
“We want him to join us, Sam. Sooner, rather than later.”
“I will need to think about that. FYI: I am leaning toward probably not.”
“It could save his life, Sam.”
I took in some worthless air, let it out. “And this school?”
“It’s here, Sam. Behind me, in fact.”
“But. I thought it was just a bunch of offices back there.”
“To the uninitiated, Sam.”
I looked over at Luke, and he looked at me, too. I smiled at him, and he smiled back for the first time. Then, he surprised the hell out of me by getting up and running over and hugging me tightly around the waist. His thoughts and emotions poured out of him. I felt his appreciation for being saved, and his excitement for his new life. He was going to miss his mother, but not the mean men who came to see her. He missed his friend, Johnny, and he wanted to make Max proud. He didn’t know me, but he knew I had saved him, and he didn’t want to stop hugging me, even as he cried like a girl. His thoughts, not mine.
I didn’t want him to stop either, and I hugged him back tightly, and let my own tears flow.
Just like a girl.
Chapter Sixty-eight
I’d recently watched The Martian with Kingsley. He watched it for the riveting tale of survival. I watched it for entirely different reasons.
As a commercial, of sorts. A commercial that just so happened to star Matt Damon as the pitchman. Hell of a yummy pitchman.
By the end of the harrowing movie, I’d made a decision. A decision I kept to myself. After all, Kingsley tended to worry when I ventured to other planets.
Now, with
the latest picture of the Mars Rover firmly planted in my thoughts, I sat comfortably on my living room couch. The kids were asleep. Kingsley was asleep, too. It was a little past two in the morning.
I’m really doing this, I thought.
I really was.
With legs crossed, I rested my hands on my knees. I took in some air, held it, held it some more, and then let it go because I was tired of holding it.
Then, I summoned the single flame.
***
I felt the wind first, and the intense cold. I smelled the ancient dust, not so foreign from our own... but lacking something. Something organic, perhaps.
I opened my eyes, and found myself high upon an untouched cliff. The rock beneath me was flat and windblown and blasted smooth over the eons. It was also a richer red than I was expecting.
I didn’t bother breathing, although I did inhale some of the scents, some of the dust, some of Mars itself.
The wind was icy and strong. I rocked gently on my perch.
And as the updrafts and crosswinds continued to rock me, and as the smell of something ancient and forgotten permeated my nostrils, I smiled and settled in for the night.
It’s good to be me.
The End
Samantha Moon returns in:
Vampire Fire
Vampire for Hire #12
Coming soon!
~~~~~
Also coming soon:
Samantha Moon Origins
A brand new series by J.R. Rain
As many of you know, Moon Dance begins six years after Samantha Moon had been turned into our favorite creature of the night. But what really happened on that fateful night, back when she was brutally attacked while out jogging? Who turned her and why? And what happened in the days that followed—in those lonely, scary times when Sam knew her life would be forever changed. And, as we all know, forever is a very long time for a vampire...
Samantha Moon Origins is a brand new series that follows Sam in those early days of fear and uncertainty, back when her body first began changing, back when she was forced to quit her day job and work the night shift as a private eye, back when Danny Moon was still in love with her. I'm excited to debut this series later this year. I seriously think you are going to love watching Sam’s transformation from mother, wife, and federal agent into something far darker...and far more powerful...
~~~~~
The thrills continue in:
Moon Bayou
Samantha Moon Case Files #1
Available now!
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback * Audio
~~~~~
Allison Lopez is back in:
The Witch and the Huntsman
The Witches Series #3
Available now!
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback
~~~~~
Additionally, Richelle Dadd is back in:
Deadbeat Dad
The Dead Detective #2
Available for pre-order!
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK
~~~~~
Also, be on the look-out for...
Night Run
Jim Knighthorse #5
coming soon!
Blood Moon
Samantha Moon Case Files #2
Coming soon!
~~~~~
Enjoy listening to books?
Then check out my audio books here:
~~~~~
Enjoy good old-fashioned paperbacks?
Then check out my paperbacks here:
Also available:
Winter Wind
A Mystery Novel
by J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
Chapter One
The day is warm.
No surprise there. It’s early fall in Southern California, which means it might as well be summer. I can’t remember the last time rain had fallen. Maybe four months ago. Maybe six. Hell, maybe nine.
I stand on the steps in front of my apartment building and lift my face to the sun, as I do every morning, as I do throughout the day. As I do every chance I get. Surely a strange addiction. The sun does not feel pleasant. It is searing and blistering and if I stand there too long, I will surely burn. But I don’t turn away. No, not yet.
It’s there somewhere, I think. It has to be. I can feel it. So hot. So alive. The sun isn’t quite directly above. But it’s before me, clearly above the apartment buildings that I know are across the street. There are some trees there, too. Old sycamores. I can see them in my mind’s eye, trunks twisting and flowering into massive mushroom clouds of green leaves, heavy with the dust and grime of downtown Los Angeles.
But I can’t see them. And I can’t see the sun. Not even a hint of it. Nothing. There is only blackness. Complete and total blackness.
There shouldn’t be blackness, of course. There should have been the burning orb of the sun, hanging there in the sky. I should have been able to see it and a smattering of clouds that I suspect are up there, too. I should have seen birds flying and cars whipping past. I should have seen the gentle slope of the street that led up to my apartment in one direction, and down into Echo Park in the other.
But I don’t. Because I can’t.
Finally, I turn away, pulling down my baseball cap and, sighing, lightly snap on Betsie’s harness. We continue away from the stairs, walking carefully along a path that I know circumnavigates the busy apartment complex parking lot. Betsie knows the path. She seems to always know the path, wherever we go. She seems to read my mind, too, which is spooky and exciting and sad.
Betsie keeps to a slow gait, never pulling and always alert to my slightest commands. I love that dog more than life itself, and that is not hyperbole.
As we walk, I use my other hand to reach out with my walking stick, swinging it back and forth like a metronome. It grazes the flower planter on my right and a pole to my left. At least, I think it is a pole. It could have been anything, quite frankly. Still, I remember a pole being here, right here, in the parking lot, back when I could see.
There is no wind. The day is searing. Sweat begins to form on my brow, along the bridge of my Dodger ball cap, and between my shoulder blades. I am hyper-aware of my skin—and of anything that touches my skin, including the heat of the sun, a soft breeze and my own sweat.
My probing walking stick hits something solid and I find myself now standing in some shadows. I know this because the temperature has dropped, perhaps five degrees. Betsie stops, letting me know I have reached a roadblock. In this case, I know it’s the wrought iron fence that keeps us all so safe in our apartments. I reach out with my hand, letting my walking stick dangle from a loop on my wrist, and find the doorknob and turn it.
Betsie, without any urging from me, is through first. She pauses just beyond, while I step through and shut the door silently behind me. It is a routine we have done thousands of times.
Once I’m through, Betsie is moving again, down the hill, in the same direction we always go. No mind-reading here. We do this every day. Not quite like clockwork, as we go at different times. But usually, it’s in the morning. In another time, another life, I would have often turned right, and gone up the hill, to the park trails that wander throughout Elysian Park, trails that few Los Angelenos even know about, trails that overlook the brightly lit downtown skyscrapers and wander behind big, beautiful old homes. Hidden homes.
Someday, I think. Someday, I will walk those trails again.
With Betsie, of course.
Always with Betsie.
The sidewalk is wide enough, but if I come across anyone coming up, or moving down quickly past me, I will never know. I can neither see them, nor hear or smell them. For all I know, Betsie and I are alone on the cement path; but that can’t be, not truly. Surely we pass people. But I never know it.
We continue down steadily, carefully. My probing stick alerts me to irregularities in the sidewalk, of which there are many: steep angles where driveways cut through, pushed-up sections from tree roots, buckled
sections where earthquakes have hit hardest. There’s always the oddity, too: A toy left on the sidewalk, or a bike, or a skateboard. Any of which would have me hitting the ground, fast and hard. Again. Each fall is a painful lesson learned.
Now, I move slowly, carefully, seeing the path with my lightweight aluminum four-foot walking stick. A tool that is truly an extension of me. My eyes, my ears, my hands, my everything.
I walk in silence. But that’s not quite true, is it? There is a faint ringing just inside my ear. A ringing that is always there, and may always be there, according to the doctors. The sound isn’t very loud and often I forget it’s there…but it’s enough.
Enough to drive me mad.
In the months following the accident, as my body healed and morphed into something new, something forever challenging, something forever damaged and broken and suffering, I kept waiting for the ringing to go away. As the weeks turned into months, I was faced with another challenge, perhaps the greatest of them all:
To keep my sanity.
The ringing. Just inside my destroyed ears. A soft hum. Never varying, never rising or falling.
And never going away.
Ever.
I had to find a way to get used to this, to accept this. And it wasn’t easy. Sometimes, it’s still not easy.
So, no, I’m not walking in complete silence. There is the ringing. Right there, just inside my ears. I’m not entirely sure the ringing was a result of the blast that nearly killed me, the blast that I often wish had killed me. These days, I wish this less and less. Early on, not so much. Early on, I placed a handgun near my bed, inside the bed table drawer in fact—never very far out of reach—a handgun with one single bullet meant for me.
It’s still there by my bed, although I open the drawer less and less these days.
But it’s there.
Just in case.
In case of what, I don’t know.
No, I thought, as Betsie and I continue down the broken sidewalk, over misaligned cement slabs but mostly over a straight and narrow path. No. I know what it is for.