Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

  “Ms. Moon, my name’s Robert Mason. I own the Fullerton Playhouse.”

  “And starred in One Life to Live.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘starred,’ but, yes, I had a recurring role until a few years ago.”

  “When they killed you off with a brain tumor.”

  “It saddens the heart. Were you a fan?”

  “It happened to come on after Judge Judy.”

  He laughed a little. A deep, rich laugh. A deep, rich, fake laugh. “Judge Judy was a great lead-in.”

  It was at that moment that a full-fledged fight broke out in the next room. I even heard something break. Something glass. Shit.

  “Hang on, Rob,” I said.

  I left the phone on the desk, dashed into the living room and saw Anthony sitting on Tammy. Now that was a first. Tammy was always the bigger and stronger one. Granted, she was still bigger, but clearly not stronger. Her struggling seemed to be in vain. Indeed, she was looking at her brother oddly. No doubt marveling at what I was seeing, too.

  I plucked him off his sister and deposited him on the new couch. I spent the next thirty-three seconds listening to “He said and she said and did that she started,” and decided I’d heard enough. I turned the TV off and banished them both to their bedrooms. As they moped off, I couldn’t help but notice the red mark around Tammy’s arms where Anthony had pinned her to the floor.

  Jesus.

  Back in my office, I wasn’t very surprised that Robert Mason hadn’t hung up. After all, I suspected there was a very good reason why Robert Mason had called me.

  After I apologized for the disruption, he said that was quite all right and that he wanted to meet me ASAP.

  Yeah, that was the reason.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I was waiting at Starbucks.

  It was evening and the sun still had not set. By my internal vampire clock, I knew it was about twenty minutes away. My internal vampire clock also told me that I should be asleep, to awaken just as the sun set. I think, maybe, that’s happened only two or three times. And that was when the whole family was sick.

  Now, of course, only I was sick. Eternally sick.

  The Starbucks was near the junior college, which meant there were a lot of young people inside with longish hair, random tattoos, squarish glasses, fuzzy beards, and cut-off jean shorts, all working importantly on their laptops. These were hipsters feeding and drinking in their natural habitat.

  As I sat with my bottle of water, keenly aware that the two young men sitting at the table next to me were not only barefoot but one of them had tattoos of sandals on his feet, a handsome older gentleman stepped through the door, blinked, and scanned the coffee shop.

  I waved. He spotted me and nodded. I think my stomach might have done a backflip. Someone might have gasped. Actually, that someone was me, never mind. The closer he got, the bluer his eyes got and the deeper the cleft in his chin seemed to get, too.

  Not to mention, the darker his aura got.

  I’m familiar with dark auras. The aura of the fallen angel who had visited me last Christmas had progressively gotten darker. Robert Mason’s aura wasn’t quite as foul, but the thick black cords that wove around and through him were disconcerting at best. What it meant, I didn’t really know, but it couldn’t be good.

  Especially since my inner alarm began ringing.

  He stood over me and reached out a hand, but now my warning bells were ringing so damn loud that I automatically recoiled. Women stared. Men stared. Hipsters glanced ironically. It was surely an odd scene. A renowned soap actor and a skittish woman afraid to make contact with him.

  After another second or two, he retracted his hand and sat without me saying a word. As he made himself comfortable, I noted that the black snakes now moved over and under the table, slithering like living things. I shivered. No, shuddered.

  He watched me closely. “Some would be insulted that you didn’t shake my hand.”

  “And you?” I asked, noting that my voice sounded higher than normal. I verified the mental wall around my thoughts was impenetrable.

  He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “I find it curious. You seem to be having a sort of...reaction to my presence. Why is that?”

  “Well, you are the great Robert Mason, famous for playing the evil Dr. Conch on One Life To Live.”

  He continued studying me as he adjusted the drape of his slacks. He was, I noted, the only man in Starbucks wearing slacks. Maybe the only man ever. His jawline, I noticed, was impossibly straight. The women all checked him out, but he paid them no mind. Indeed, he only looked at me. No, stared at me. So intently that he was giving me the willies.

  After a moment, he said, “Or perhaps you didn’t want me to touch you, Ms. Moon. Is there something about me that repels you?”

  “Your jawline,” I said.

  “What about my jawline?”

  “It’s impossibly straight.”

  His right hand, which was laying flat on the smooth table, twitched slightly. The black snakes that wove through his aura seemed to pick up their pace a little. The jawline in question rippled a little as he unconsciously bit down. He said, “I think you see things, Ms. Moon. Perhaps things around me. Tell me what you see.”

  “I thought we were here to discuss Brian Meeks.”

  His lips thinned into a weak smile. “Of course, Ms. Moon. What would you like to ask?”

  Except that before I could open my mouth to speak, I felt something push against my mind, against the protective mental wall, and it kept on pushing, searching, feeling.

  It was Robert Mason, who was staring at me intently. The man was extremely psychic.

  My thoughts were not closed to those who were psychic. Only to other immortals and often to my own family members. Someone like Robert Mason could gain entry...if I wasn’t vigilant.

  I knew this wasn’t really a meeting, but a feeling out of sorts. He wanted to know who he was up against. By not gaining entry into my thoughts, he might have gotten his answer. What that answer was, or how close to the truth he got, I didn’t know.

  So, I decided to ask him the only question that mattered. “Did you kill Brian Meeks?”

  The coiling, smoky black snakes that wove in and out of his aura seemed to pick up in intensity. They appeared and disappeared. Robert Mason didn’t react to my question. He sat calmly, hands resting on the table, blue eyes shining. Although I think the dimple in his chin might have quivered a little.

  After a moment, he said, “Ah, but that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? Taking away all the mystery?”

  His own thoughts, of course, were closed to me, which I was eternally thankful for. I was honestly afraid to know what was lurking inside that handsome head of his. Hard to believe that one of America’s favorite daytime soap opera stars was so damn...creepy.

  “There’s a door in the prop room,” I said. “A door behind the big mirror. Where does it lead to?”

  I probably shouldn’t have asked him about the door. I probably should have left well enough alone and directed Sherbet to the door later. But I wanted to see Robert Mason’s reaction now, and I got the one I was looking for. His eyes widened briefly, just enough for me to know that I was onto something.

  He said, “How do you about the door, Ms. Moon?”

  “We all have our secrets. And taking away the mystery wouldn’t be any fun, right?”

  He looked at me. I looked at him. We did this for a few seconds, then he said. “I suppose. Very well, Ms. Moon. The door leads to another prop room. A long-forgotten prop room.”

  “Why did you call this meeting?”

  “I saw you in the theater the other day. You looked interesting.”

  “Interesting how?”

  He suddenly leaned over the small, wobbly table and whispered, “I know what you are, Ms. Moon. Mystery solved.”

  And with that, he got up, winked at me, and walked out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  We were in Tammy’s bedroom.

&
nbsp; She was sitting on the floor in front of me while I brushed her long, dark hair. Tammy loved having her hair brushed, even when my cold fingers sometimes grazed her neck, inadvertently causing her to shudder. She used to hold my hands, back in the days when my hands were warm. These days, however, she almost never held my hands, and I didn’t blame her. Who’d want to hold hands with a living corpse?

  I cherished these quiet moments when I brushed her hair, listening to her stories about school and boys, teachers and boys, and movies and boys. She often asked me what it was like to kiss a boy or to be in love. She sometimes asked why Daddy and I were no longer together. Mostly we laughed and giggled, and if we were being too loud, Anthony would sometimes stick his head in the door and tell us we were being lame.

  Tonight, Anthony was in the living room watching cartoons. Something on Nick at Night. He laughed, slapping his hand on the carpet the way he does when he sits on the floor. The vibration reached even us.

  “Cartoons are so juvenile,” said Tammy.

  “Totally,” I said.

  “I haven’t watched them in, like, a year.”

  “Same here.”

  “Well, I guess there are one or two that are okay, but mostly they’re lame.”

  “Mostly,” I said, nodding.

  Anthony erupted in laughter again, hitting the floor even harder. The thuds reverberated up through our butts.

  “God, he’s so annoying,” said Tammy. She didn’t sound annoyed. She sounded impressed that she knew the word “annoying.”

  “He’s eight years old,” I said, as if that explained everything.

  She shrugged and I continued brushing her long hair. Warm air from the heater vent washed over us. The TV blared from the living room. I cherished these small moments.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “There’s something different about Anthony.”

  I stopped brushing. I think my heart might have stopped altogether. I resumed brushing and kept my voice as calm as possible. “Different how?” I asked.

  “Well, yesterday I saw him wrestling with some other boys.”

  “Boys like to wrestle. It’s what makes them boys.”

  “No, not that. He was wrestling the other boys.”

  “What do you mean, honey?”

  She turned and looked back at me, her big round eyes looking at me like I was the world’s biggest dolt. And maybe I was. “It was him against like seven other boys.”

  “They ganged up on him? That’s not fair—”

  “No, Mommy. They didn’t gang up on him. They couldn’t do anything to him. He was throwing them around like they were, you know...”

  “Rag dolls?”

  “What’s a rag doll?”

  “Never mind.”

  She went on to tell me that Anthony Moon, aged eight, was probably the strongest kid in their school.

  I processed that information as I continued to brush. Somehow the subject turned to zits and I was telling her about the big one I got on my right nostril when I was in the tenth grade, and soon Tammy was doubled over on her side with laughter. From in the next room, I was vaguely aware of the TV being turned off and the trudging of footsteps.

  Anthony stuck his head in his sister’s room, looked at us on the floor and said, “Lame.”

  And walked on.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hi, Moon Dance.

  Hey, big guy.

  Big guy?

  It’s a term of affection, I wrote.

  So you feel affection for me?

  Of course I do, Fang.

  I felt him probing my mind a little, small, shivery touches that let me know he was there.

  He wrote: I think you love me, Moon Dance.

  Friendly love, Fang.

  I’ll take friendly love. For now.

  Good. Now, what’s up?

  I’ve got news about your son.

  Talk to me.

  First of all, is he still becoming stronger?

  More so than ever. Tammy said he now routinely wrestles seven boys at once.

  So, you could say he’s seven times stronger.

  Put that way, and I nearly went into a panic. I wrote: Yes, I guess. What does it mean?

  I can feel you panicking, Moon Dance. Don’t panic.

  Please just tell me what’s going on, Fang. I can’t handle this. I’m seriously freaking out.

  Okay, okay, hang in there. According to my sources, the vampire blood that briefly flowed through him hasn’t entirely left him.

  “Oh my God,” I said out loud to the empty room. More panic gripped me. Nearly overwhelmed me. I wrote: But the vampirism has been reversed, Fang. The medallion...

  Yes, the vampirism has been reversed. No, your son isn’t a vampire. Not technically.

  I found myself on my feet, reeling, staggering, pacing. Jesus, what had I done to my son?

  The IM window pinged with a new message. I sat back down. Fang had written: Hang on, Moon Dance. It’s not all bad. In fact, it’s kind of good news, if you ask me.

  Kind of? What the hell is going on, Fang? Please tell me.

  Sam, your son will have all the strength of a vampire, but none of the weaknesses.

  I read his words, blinking through tears. Are you sure?

  Pretty sure.

  He won’t need to consume blood?

  We don’t think so.

  Who’s we?

  My sources.

  Fine, I wrote. I didn’t care about Fang’s sources. Not now. I wrote: What about the sunlight?

  It should not affect him, Moon Dance.

  And immortality?

  There was a small delay, followed by: Perhaps.

  Perhaps what?

  There’s a good chance your son might be immortal.

  I don’t understand. Why?

  I don’t think anyone really understands, Sam. The system was flawed somewhere, broke down. But, yes, we think he will retain the good qualities but none of the bad.

  And being immortal is a good quality?

  For some, the very best, Moon Dance.

  But why did this happen?

  Whoever created your kind, and whoever created the medallion, was not perfect. In essence, a mistake was made somewhere along the line. The reverse was not complete.

  What do I do, Fang?

  It is up to you to make the most of this, Moon Dance, and to help your son make the most of this, too. Think of this as an opportunity, Moon Dance. Not a curse. For both you and your son.

  I hung my head for a minute or two, then typed: Thanks for your help, Fang.

  So what will you do, Moon Dance?

  I’m going to have a talk with him.

  When?

  I don’t know. Goodnight, Fang.

  Goodnight, Moon Dance.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Celebrities can hide their electronic footprints a little easier than the average citizen. This is because they can hide behind accountants and handlers. Because of this, my background search on Robert Mason took a little more digging than usual.

  And what came up wasn’t much.

  I had his current residence. Or, rather, his last known residence. He was living in the hills above Fullerton. Nice area. Big homes. Lots of space. Perfect place to secretly drain someone dry. Or maybe many someones.

  Interestingly, I knew of two people who also lived in the hills. Detective Hanner and a very old and very creepy Kabbalistic grandmaster. One was a vampire, and one was a kind of vampire.

  Anyway, Robert Mason had no criminal record. An ex-wife of his accused him of abuse. He was never arrested, although a restraining order had been placed on him. I’d only met the guy once, and I wanted to put a restraining order on him, too. He had no kids, only the one marriage—divorced now fifteen years.

  His last known professional acting job had been on One Life to Live, five years ago. And, according to the various reports I’d dug up, he’d been fired from his job. The reasons were conflicting, but more
than one article suggested substance abuse.

  Why he was fired or why he was divorced didn’t seem to be of importance presently. That he was a full-blown psychopath now was obvious to me. That he harbored a deep evil was also obvious to me.

  As I sat in my office, with my kids asleep down the hallway, I called Kingsley. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Hi, baby,” he said.

  I didn’t respond. At least, not with words.

  “What’s that sound?” he asked.

  “I’m panting,” I said. “You know, like a dog.”

  “Oh, brother. But, please, Sam. Say no more over the phone.”

  “Oh, I’m not saying anything,” I said, and panted some more.

  “Cute, Sam. Do you actually have something on your mind, or did you just call to make those ridiculous sounds?”

  “Both,” I said, and stopped panting long enough to catch him up to date on my investigation—in particular, my meeting with Robert Mason.

  “Like he said,” said Kingsley. “He knows what you are, Sam.”

  “In so short a time?”

  “He must have suspected you were something more, which is why he scheduled the meeting. No doubt his suspicions were confirmed at the meeting.” Kingsley paused. I knew he was choosing his words carefully over the open phone line. “We can hide from the majority of the world, Sam, but not from the truly psychic. They tend to see through us. Thankfully, there’s not many of them.”

  “And those who do see us?”

  “Well, those who are vocal about it are silenced.”

  I thought about his words. “I think Robert Mason saw an opportunity.”

  “To supply blood?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No doubt a very lucrative gig.”

  I asked, “What do you know about blood suppliers?”

  “Not much, but I know someone who undoubtedly would.”

  “Detective Hanner,” I said.

  “Boy, Sam. It’s almost as if you could read my mind.”

  “I’ll never say.”

  He laughed and we set up a dinner date later in the week, and when we had hung up, I made another call.