by J. R. Rain
“You have it all wrong, Sam. It was your destiny to become that which you are. I only helped...facilitate the process.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you will. But we are destined to be together, Samantha Moon. And when you are done playing with your dog, Kingsley, I will return for you.”
And what happened next challenged my sanity. The solid man who had been standing before me, faded from view, and the particles of light that had been swarming around him winked out of existence, too.
I was left standing alone in the street.
Chapter Eighteen
I was flying over Orange County.
The wind was cold, but my thick hide kept me comfortable. I was above a smattering of clouds, and far below, Christmas lights twinkled endlessly. From up here, it was very obvious that Californians were very much into the Christmas spirit.
I angled a little higher, caught a powerful jetstream, and was hurled along at a glorious rate. My thick, leathery wings were stretched taut, and a part of me wanted to just keep on flying, endlessly, to continuously trail behind the setting sun, to live in perpetual darkness forever.
A guardian angel had professed his love for me. I suspected it was a misguided love. I suspected he was already well on his way to the dark side, that he had only used me to help facilitate the process. Whatever that process was.
And yet...
And yet, I felt his love for me. It had been real. I had seen it in his eyes, and heard it in his voice.
You can’t fake love.
Or can you?
Yet, he could have gone about it a thousand different ways, a thousand better ways. Any of which would have gotten a better response from me.
We are destined to be together, he had said.
The San Gabriel Mountains appeared in the north, and I followed the contour of the ridge-line, rising and falling with the peaks and valleys, just a few feet above the pines and snow-covered cornices. Yes, even southern California gets snow, four thousand feet up.
I suspected that Ishmael had to break his connection to me, whatever that connection was. I suspected that, as my watcher, he was bound to me as my guardian.
But once I became immortal, all bets were off.
I angled up, followed a mountainous ridge, and when the ridge dropped away, I kept angling up, flapping my wings harder and harder. Up I went, surging through vaporous clouds, blinded, until finally I broke through.
Above me was the half moon, shining brilliantly. I flew toward it, higher and higher, until ice crystals formed on my wings, until all oxygen disappeared in the air.
And there I hovered, briefly, at the far edges of our atmosphere, pondering destiny, until finally I tucked in my own wings and dove down, speeding through the night, faster than I had ever flown before...
After all, Christmas was over and I had a killer to find.
The End
Samantha Moon returns in:
Vampire Dawn
Return to the Table of Contents
VAMPIRE DAWN
by
J.R. RAIN
Vampire for Hire #5
Vampire Dawn
Published by J.R. Rain
Copyright © 2012 by J.R. Rain
All rights reserved.
Dedication
To Scott Nicholson and Aiden James.
Great friends, great writers.
Acknowledgments
A special thank you to the following readers: Beth Lidiak, Kathy Woodard, Leslie Whitaker, Lori Lilja, Holly Sanders, Rhonda Plumhoff, Sandy Gillberg, Andrea DaSilva, Amanda Winger-Stabley, Carmen Vazquez-Rodriguez, Mary Adam-Dussel, Vicki Dussel and Michelle Craig Sanders. Thank you all for your help!
Vampire Dawn
“They had forgotten the first lesson, that we are to be powerful, beautiful, and without regret.”
—Interview with A Vampire
“I can smell the sunlight on your skin.”
—True Blood
Chapter One
It was early afternoon and I was vacuuming.
Others like me were, undoubtedly, sleeping contentedly in crypts or coffins or castle keeps. Me, I was vacuuming up bits of pretzels and popcorn. Last night was movie night, and the kids had picked Captain America, and I did my best not to drool over the bowl of popcorn I pretended to eat. Yes, I have to pretend to eat around my children. Since I’m unable to eat any real food, I’d become a master of hiding my food in napkins, in the bottom of sodas, and even on others’ plates. More than once little Anthony had turned to look at something that I pointed at, only to discover that he had, remarkably, even more fries in his Happy Meal. Miracles do happen.
As I vacuumed, I caught snatches of Judge Judy wagging her finger at a cheating young man who looked like he was on the verge of tears, but then again, that could have just been wishful thinking. After all, there’s something special about watching a strong woman reduce a dirtbag to tears.
Maybe it’s the devil in me.
Or the cheated-on wife in me.
At any rate, I had just put away the vacuum and straightened the pillows on the couch when the doorbell rang. I flipped down my sunglasses and, after mentally preparing myself for the short blast of sunlight that I was about to experience, I opened the door.
I always gasp when I’m exposed to sunlight, and now was no exception. Even with the shades on. Even with the sunscreen I wear indoors. Even with all the layers of clothing I presently had on. I always gasp. Every time.
Standing in the doorway was a big man. Not as big as Kingsley or even my new detective friend, Jim Knighthorse, but certainly big enough. Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton Police Department was one of the few people who knew my super-secret identity. I hadn’t planned on telling him what I was, but the detective was no dummy.
So I had decided to come clean, and he had proven to be a true friend. Not only had he maintained my secret, he sought my assistance.
Like now, apparently.
I absently adjusted my hair. For someone who was insecure at best, not having full use of a mirror was a major setback. Although I could make out the general shape of my face in a mirror if I was wearing enough make-up, my hair, strangely, didn’t reflect.
I mean, what the hell is that all about?
I knew the answer, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. On that accursed night seven years ago when I was forever changed, my body had somehow crossed from the natural world into the supernatural world. A world where mirrors were no longer relevant.
“You look fine, Samantha,” said Detective Sherbet. “Quit worrying.”
I stepped aside as he moved past me. He was carrying a greasy bag that looked suspiciously like donuts. I quickly shut the door behind him.
I turned and faced him, recovering from the shock of sunlight. “Why did you say that?” I asked.
“Say what?” he asked, easing his considerable bulk down onto my new couch. The couch was one of those L-shaped deals that a mother and her two kids could get comfy in. At least, that was the theory. In practice, getting comfy with Anthony invariably meant dealing with a steady onslaught of gas.
“That thing you said about not worrying.”
Sherbet was already rooting around for his first donut. “Because you sounded worried.”
I leaned a shoulder against the door. “Except I didn’t say anything, Detective.”
Sherbet plucked a pink cake donut from the depths of the bag and, looking imminently pleased, was just bringing it to his mouth when he paused. He didn’t look happy pausing. “Yes you did, Sam.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You were talking about your hair not growing, make-up and not seeing your hair in the mirror—and I gotta tell you, kid, you nearly bored me to tears.” Now he happily resumed consuming the donut. Watching such a big man, such a distinguished man, eat a little pink donut was, well, cute.
I moved away from the door and crossed the living room, noticing for the first time a pai
r of Anthony’s dirty skivvies jammed into the corner of the couch, maybe two feet away from Sherbet. How and why they got there would be an interesting conversation between Anthony and me later.
For now, though, I sat next to the toxic undies, so close to Sherbet that I was nearly in his lap. The big detective looked at me curiously but didn’t say anything. I casually felt for the dirty skivvies, found them, wadded them up and stood. I was certain Sherbet hadn’t seen me, although he was watching me curiously. Then he looked at the unfinished pink donut, turned a little green, and dropped it back into the bag, which he promptly set on the floor between his feet.
He said, “Geez, Sam. Talk about your donut buzz kill.”
“What do you mean?”
“The dirty underwear talk. Look, kid, I’ve got a boy, too, and I’ve seen my fair share of skid marks. But you sure as hell don’t need to go on and on about them while a guy’s trying to enjoy a donut, especially after the day I’ve had.”
“But I didn’t say anything, Detective.”
“Or course you did.”
“No, I didn’t. Just like I didn’t say anything about my hair.”
“I heard it plain as day.”
“No, Detective, you didn’t.”
He looked up at me from the new couch. There was a bit of pink frosting already caught in his thick, cop mustache. He looked at me, frowned, and then slowly wiped his mustache clean.
He said, “Your lips never moved.”
“No, they didn’t.”
“But I heard that bit about the frosting in my mustache.”
“Apparently.”
“What’s going on, Sam?”
“I think,” I said, sitting next to him and patting him on the knee, “that you’re reading my mind.”
“Your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, hell.”
Chapter Two
After a moment, Sherbet said, “What, exactly, does that mean, Samantha?”
“It means exactly that, Detective. You’re reading my mind.”
The detective didn’t look so good. He sat forward, rubbed his eyes with a hand that was bigger than even Kingsley’s. I noticed scarring on his knuckles that I had missed before. He looked down at his own knuckles, and said, “I used to be a fighter. A brawler, really. A real hothead back in the day.”
“You’re doing it again, Detective.”
“But you said—”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Some of the color drained from his face. “I feel sick.”
“Hang on, Detective.”
I left him alone for a moment while I tossed Anthony’s undies in the laundry room. When I returned, the big detective was apparently over his initial shock. He was not only holding the greasy bag of donuts, but had just consumed the last of the pink donut. All was right in the world.
“Not quite,” said Sherbet, licking his fingers, but then suddenly stopped. He looked up at me. “I’m doing it again, ain’t I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“What’s happening to me, Sam?”
I sat next to him and gave him my “penny for your thoughts” face. He smelled of Old Spice and donut grease.
I said, “You’re not losing your mind, Detective. Sometimes those closest to me have access to my thoughts. I also suspect it’s because you’re one of the few who know what I really am. I’ve put a lot of trust in you. And you in me. It has something to do with that.” I smiled brightly at him. “So, as you can see, having access to my thoughts is a rare privilege.”
He snorted. “I feel honored.” He was about to turn back to his bag of donuts when a thought occurred to him. “So does that mean you have access to my thoughts, too?”
“It does.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“Don’t worry, Detective. Your deep, dark secrets are safe with me. Besides, I won’t access your thoughts unless you give me permission.”
“Do you know how crazy that sounds, Sam?”
“I do.”
“Are we both crazy?”
“Maybe.”
Sherbet stared at me. He was an old-school homicide investigator. Strictly by the books. Just the facts, ma’am. Logical, rational, tough, fair, street smart. A skilled investigator. Then one day a vampire appeared in his life—granted, a cute and spunky vampire—and his neat little world came crashing down.
“I wouldn’t say crashing down, Sam. Maybe turned upside down a little. And, yes, I know I’m reading your thoughts again.”
I grinned. “Maybe we should get to why you’re here.”
He sat straighter. “Gladly. Which is an odd thing to say about a serial killer.”
“He struck again,” I said.
Sherbet nodded. “Corona this time.”
“Drained of blood?”
He nodded. “Completely. Same M.O. Massive wound in the neck. Knife wound, we think. Bruising around the ankles. Found this one wrapped in a blanket in a ditch.”
“Female?”
“Male.”
“So he’s alternating his kills,” I said. “Male, female, male.”
Sherbet thought about that. He also thought about another donut. A moment later he was pulling out a strawberry French cruller that looked all kinds of delicious.
“It will be,” he said, reading my mind again without realizing it. “And I suppose the killer is. Three males, and three females. As you know, that doesn’t fit the typical profile. Serial killers tend to stick to one gender.”
“Unless they’re after something besides kicks.”
“They? You think there might be more than one killer?”
“Like you said, it doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Same pattern, though.”
“All drained of blood,” I said.
“The work of a vampire?” he said.
“The work of someone,” I said. I found myself watching his every move as he worked on the cruller. Crullers had been my favorite. “Vampires don’t need that much blood.”
Sherbet stopped chewing. “And how much blood does a vampire need?”
“Sixteen ounces or so, every few days.”
At least, that’s how much were in the packets of animal blood I received monthly from the Norco butchery.
Sherbet stared at me openly, even forgetting to close his mouth as he chewed. Still, seeing the half-masticated cruller did not kill my brief donut craving. He asked, “And what happens if you don’t get your blood?”
I shrugged. “I turn into a raving, blood-sucking maniac who prowls the streets looking for victims. Prostitutes mostly, but sometimes hipsters at Starbucks, or those young guys who dance around street corners holding signs pointing to furniture stores going out of business.”
“Are you quite done, Sam?”
“Quite.”
He reached inside his light jacket and removed some folded papers. “Here are my notes on the latest victim. Read through them, see what you can find.”
“Will do, Detective.”
Months ago, when the case had turned from weird to weirder, Sherbet had hired me to be an official consultant on the case. His fellow detectives didn’t like it; after all, why hire a private dick? Well, what they didn’t know wouldn’t kill them.
Sherbet eased his bulk off the couch and stood, knuckling his lower back. “You’re one freaky chick, you know.”
“Words every chick wants to hear.”
He quit knuckling and looked at me with so much compassion that tears nearly came to my eyes. He reached out and pulled me in for the mother of all bear hugs. He said, “I’m sorry all this happened to you, Sam.”
I hugged him back. “I know.”
“You’re going to be okay, kid.”
“Thank you.”
He stepped away. “Now, let’s catch the son of a bitch who’s doing this to these people.”
“We will, Detective.”
He seemed about to do something, then nodded and left, gripping his b
ag of donuts like a lifeline.
Chapter Three
At 3:30 p.m. on an overcast Tuesday afternoon, lathered in Aveeno SPF 100 sunscreen, I dashed out my door and sprinted across my front yard as if my life depended on it.
And I’m pretty sure it did.
Despite the gray skies, the thick jacket, and the layer of greasy sunscreen, my skin still felt like it was on fire. My garage is not attached. Back in the day, my ex-husband didn’t think we needed an attached garage. Houses with unattached garages were cheaper.
Thanks, asshole.
Of course, little did he know that one day the sun would be my enemy and I would have to endure daily torturous mid-afternoon sprints.
Anyway, at the garage, I fumbled with the Masterlock until I got the key in and opened the sucker. I noticed my hands were already shaking and reddening. Any longer and they would begin blistering.
I’m such a freak.
I yanked open the garage door far harder than I probably should have. The thing nearly tore off its rusty tracks. Once open, I dashed inside and breathed a small sigh of relief, even though there was never really any relief for me. Not during the day, at least. Not when I should be sleeping in a dark room with the blinds pulled shut and dead to the world.
I started the van, cranked up the AC, and let it cool my burning flesh. Finally, I backed out of the garage and headed for my kids’ school.
Just another day in the neighborhood.
* * *
After picking up the kids and spending the evening helping them with their homework, I called up a new sitter I’d been using lately, a very responsible sixteen-year-old girl. Luckily, she was available, and when she arrived, I hugged my kids and kissed them and told them to be good. Mercifully, neither shuddered at my cold touch. Cold lips, cold fingers and cold hugs were the norm in our family. Still, Anthony promptly wiped his kiss off.