by J. R. Rain
To the only other creature of the night that I knew.
Chapter Twenty-two
We were on her wide, wraparound patio deck.
The deck overlooked the same Fullerton Hills that Robert Mason lived in. And a famous Dodgers manager. And a very creepy old man who bartered in human life.
Detective Hanner was a beautiful woman. She was also a vampire. Perhaps a very old vampire.
We talked a little about the case as we sat back in wicker chairs, drinking from glasses just like regular people. My ankles were crossed and my pink New Balance running shoes couldn’t have looked cuter. Detective Hanner was barefoot. Her talon-like toenails came to sharp points. Almost enough for one to lose one’s appetite.
Almost.
But not quite. After all, we were both drinking from massive goblets of blood. We were sipping casually. Or trying to sip casually. Generally, there were long beats of silence as we each glugged heartily, since drinking blood is really a race against time and coagulation. It was all I could do to not make yummy smacking sounds. The blood was human, that much was obvious. It was also fresh. So very, very fresh.
Straight-from-the-vein fresh.
So who am I drinking? I wondered.
But I didn’t ask. Not at the moment. At the moment, I was consumed by the blood, the taste, the high, the joy, the pleasure, the satisfaction.
Detective Hanner and Kingsley had slowly introduced me to the decadent pleasure of human blood. I hadn’t liked it, not at first, and each time felt like a depraved journey into ecstasy.
That’s a lie. You always liked it. A little too much.
And here I was again, indulging all my cravings with a vampire far older and more experienced than I was. It felt natural, probably the way any addict feels when they tap the needle or pop a cork. Like this was what I was made to do.
But I didn’t have to enjoy its thick, sweet texture so much, did I?
Finally, I managed to pull away. I knew some blood was running down the corners of my mouth. Now, as I wiped my chin and licked my fingers, I could only imagine what I looked like.
Like a monster, I thought.
Hanner watched me from over her own goblet, her wild eyes shining with supernatural intensity. I noticed that she rarely blinked, and when she did, it almost seemed an afterthought. A reminder to look human.
I said, “I think our killer is a blood supplier.”
She nodded. “It’s easy to assume that.”
“What do you know of blood suppliers?”
“Mortal or immortal?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Vampires supply blood to other vampires. Like I just did you.”
“Mortal,” I said.
She held my gaze for many seconds. I couldn’t read her mind, or even get a feel for what she was thinking, but I suspected she was debating how much to tell me. Finally, she said, “Yes, some are killers, although many get their supply from hospitals or mortuaries.”
“Mortuaries?”
She nodded. “Of course. Why let all that valuable blood drain away when it could be put to good use?” She held up her nearly-finished goblet. “But fresh human blood is always preferable.”
“How fresh?”
“Straight from a living source, even if that living source dies shortly thereafter.”
I shuddered. Even though I knew most of this already, it always chilled me to think about it. And a cold-blooded vampire like me is hard to chill. “Why a living source?”
“Because blood is suffused with life force, Sam. Energies that vibrate at the cellular level. The residual energy left behind in animal blood—or that from a human corpse that’s been deceased for an extended period—doesn’t vibrate at the same frequency. Such blood is not in tune with who you are, Sam.”
“So the fresher the blood...”
“The stronger we are. The healthier we are. The more extraordinary we are.”
“How many mortal blood dealers are there?”
“Not many.”
“Do you know of any?”
She stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time. “I have found having a living donor in my house to be more ideal. A ready source, as they say.” She grinned. “Sometimes, many ready sources.”
I wondered if she used her looks to lure her living donors. Some guys would do anything to be with a woman as beautiful as her. Anything.
As we sat back in the wicker chairs, aglow with fresh blood, I realized that Detective Hanner hadn’t really answered my question.
Now, why was that?
Chapter Twenty-three
My alarm clock blared.
It did this for a full five minutes before I emerged from whatever black abyss I descend into when asleep. Another five minutes before I could move my legs enough to sit up in bed. Truly, I was the waking dead.
As I sat there on the edge of the bed, wishing like hell I was back in that abyss, my cell phone chimed with a text message. I flopped my hand onto night stand, felt around until I found my phone, brought it over to my half-open eyes.
A text from Danny, my dear old ex-husband, only not so dear anymore. It was simple and to the point and aggravated me to no end: Coming over. Need help.
“Shit.”
And just as I deleted his message—as I do all his messages—there was a loud knocking sound on the front door.
“Shit,” I said again. Definitely not how I wanted to start my day.
Ever.
I hauled my ass out of bed, stumbled through my room, then plodded barefoot to the front door. Along the way, I grabbed my sunglasses from the kitchen table, put them on, and opened the front door.
It was, of course, Danny. In all his pitiful glory, silhouetted against the glare from the afternoon sunlight. Too much sunlight, especially after just awakening. I backed up, shielding my eyes, feeling like something out of a Bela Lugosi movie.
“Sam, can we talk?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He came in, shutting the door quickly. Danny knew the routine. He’d lived long enough with my condition to know what to do. I felt my way over to the dining room chair and sank down.
“Geez, Sam. You don’t look too well.”
“Ya think.”
Now that he was inside, I took in his unshaven face, wrinkled suit, disheveled hair, and couldn’t find the energy to say something about the pot calling the kettle black. Instead, I said, “What do you want, Danny?”
“I need to hire you, Sam.”
I nearly laughed. Hell, I wanted to laugh. Except laughing was for people who hadn’t just emerged from the blackest depths. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious, Sam. I need to hire you.”
“You, who hasn’t paid me a dime of child support in seven months?”
He shifted in his seat. As he did so, I saw that his upper lip was swollen. “I know, Sam, and I’m sorry. This hasn’t been easy on me, either.”
I didn’t want to get into it with Danny. At least not now. Hell, I had a whole lifetime to get into it with him.
“Fine,” I said. “What kind of help?”
“Protection.”
“What kind of protection?”
“From men.”
“What kind of men?”
He looked away, adjusted his tie, giving his Adam’s apple more wiggle room. “They’re a gang, of sorts.”
“Of sorts? What does that mean?”
Now I saw the sweat on his brow and along his upper lip. I also saw the fear in his eye. He waved his hands weakly. “Thugs. A local street gang, I dunno. They sort of run the area I do business in.”
“They beat you up?”
He shrugged, too prideful to admit to being smacked around, but not enough to come to his ex-wife for help.
I said, “And by doing business, you mean that shithole where you charge lonely men to look at lonelier women’s boobs?”
“Yes, Sam. My strip club.”
I shook my head sadly.
“You used to be ashamed of your club.”
He was pacing now, running his hand through his thinning hair. “Well, I’m too afraid to be ashamed.”
“Sit down,” I said. “You’re making me nervous.”
He sat, although his knee still bounced up and down. I said, “They’re extorting money from you.”
He nodded. “A grand a week. For protection, of course.”
“Of course,” I said. “So what do you want me to do?”
He frowned a little. He hadn’t really thought this through. “I’m not sure.”
“Do you want them to stop picking on you?”
“Sam...”
“What?”
“Fine. Yes.”
“The price for keeping these boys from picking on you is...” I did some quick math, which, in my groggy state, took a little longer than it should have. I said, “The price is four thousand, two hundred and sixty-two dollars.”
“Jesus, Sam. You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. Seven months of child support, plus my usual fee. Have the cash here on my table in one hour and you just hired yourself a bodyguard.”
He looked down at his hands. His knee continued to bounce. Loose change in his pocket clanged. Finally, he nodded and stood.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
“We’ll see.”
He did come back. Funny what a little fear will do to a man. He handed me a white envelope full of money, which I counted in front of him. Once done, I grinned and held out my hand. He looked at it reluctantly, then finally shook it, wincing as he did so.
After all, I might have squeezed a little too hard.
Chapter Twenty-four
I was sitting cross-legged on a large boulder, on a rock-strewn hill, high above the deserts outside Corona.
I was, in fact, not too far from where Brian Meeks had been found. Or dumped. It was a quiet spot, miles from any major roads. Just me, the lizards, and the coyotes. And maybe a rattlesnake or two.
In the far distance I could hear the steady drone of the 15 Freeway. In the near distance, all I could hear was the wind, moaning gently over the boulder and, subsequently, me. Rocking me a little. I let the wind rock me, as I felt the latent heat from the boulder rise up through my jeans.
My minivan was parked on a dirt service road not too far from here. The service road had been closed off by a locked gate. Amazingly, the lock just happened to fall apart in my hands as I innocently examined it. Shoddy workmanship.
So, what the hell, I let myself in.
Now my jeans were dusty and my cute shoes were officially dirty. But I didn’t care. I needed to be out here. Craving the solace, the peace, the oneness.
I closed my eyes and rested my hands on my knees. My children were at home with the sitter, and so I let all worry for them disappear. I took a deep breath, not because I needed the oxygen, but because I wanted to center myself. Years ago, I had done yoga. I knew something about centering myself.
Months ago, I had learned the art of automatic writing, in which one channels another entity to receive messages from angels, or the spirit world, or from Jim Morrison.
Either way, the results were interesting, but now I was determined to go beyond automatic writing. To go deeper, straight to the source. And what was the source? I didn’t know. Not entirely. But I was determined to find out.
With my eyes still shut, I tilted my face up toward the heavens, and was met immediately by a mostly cool breeze laced with some tendrils of heat. I always welcomed heat, no matter how small or fleeting.
I focused on my breathing, releasing my thoughts to the wind, where I imagined them being snatched up and escorted far away. To meditate—to do it right—I had to have my mind blank. As blank as I could make it.
Breathing was the key. No, the act of focusing on my breathing was the key. Focusing on something simple. Mindless. It settles the mind. Relaxes it. Bypasses the ego. The ego, the fore-mind, that thing with which we use to calculate and imagine and worry and ponder, didn’t like to be bypassed. The ego liked to remain in control.
So I continued concentrating on the fresh air flowing into my lungs. Despite my best efforts, my mind drifted to my son and soon worry gripped me, but I released that thought, too. To the wind.
Breathing.
Flowing in and out.
In and out.
Over lips and teeth and tongue...deep into my lungs.
I thought of blood dealers and corpses hanging upside down.
I shivered and released that thought, too. Into the wind.
My mind felt blank, although fleeting images sometimes crossed it. Kingsley. Fang. Sherbet. Strong men. Strange men. Sexy men.
I released those thoughts, too.
I felt myself relaxing as I did more deep breathing. I didn’t need to breathe, granted, but oxygen in this case wasn’t the purpose here. The purpose here was to relax my mind. To calm it. To calm it so completely that I could access...what?
I didn’t know.
But I was about to find out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, Samantha.
Just breathe.
It’s easy. Yes, so easy. Do you see how easy it is, Sam? Focus, child. There now. Good, good. Just focus on your breathing. You’re almost there. Good, good.
Good...
It took a moment for me to realize that the thoughts in my head were no longer my own.
Welcome back, Samantha Moon, said the voice.
Chapter Twenty-five
I knew I was still sitting on the boulder overlooking the desert, but I also knew that something very, very strange was happening to me.
The strangeness boiled down to a feeling. I felt unhinged, disconnected from my body. I knew I was sitting cross-legged on the hard surface, but I felt as if I were somewhere else, too. Not necessarily above my body. Somewhere else. Where, exactly, I didn’t know. As I thought about this, I suddenly felt a jolting wave of dizziness.
Ground yourself, Sam, said the voice.
I knew something about grounding, having done it back when I was doing the automatic writing. Quickly, I imagined three silver ropes, attached to my ankles and lower spine, reaching all the way down into the earth—down, down—all the way to the center of the earth, where they fastened themselves around three massive boulders. Grounded. To the very earth itself.
Very good, Sam.
Instantly, the feeling of separateness ceased. I was back in my body. Although my eyes were still closed, I began seeing light appear at the peripherals of my vision. The light continued filling my head, growing steadily brighter, so bright that I was suddenly sure it wasn’t coming from inside my mind after all. Surely it was coming from somewhere beyond me. Above me. Around me. Within me. From everywhere.
And from within that light I saw a vague shape materialize. A woman. A glowing woman. Her face and body remained indistinct.
Baby steps, Samantha. I’ll reveal more later. Once you’ve gotten the hang of this.
Hang of what?
Speaking to me.
Who are you?
Everything and nothing.
I don’t understand.
You will. In time.
The light coalesced into a room made of crystal. Now the burning white light shone brightly beyond, refracting through the crystal, exploding, washing over me. For the first time in a long, long time, I didn’t shrink from the light.
Where am I?
The woman stepped closer to me. She was, in fact, a lovely older woman. Roundish. Happy, smiling face. Pink cheeks. She looked like anyone’s kind grandmother. Serenity surrounded her, radiated from her.
You are in a safe place, Samantha.
What’s happening to me?
You’ve bypassed the physical world and entered into the spiritual.
But I’m still sitting here on the ledge.
Yes, Sam. The spiritual is never very far away. In fact, it’s closer
than most people think.
I don’t understand.
You will. In time.
You keep saying that.
Because it keeps being true.
So I’m in the physical, but also in the spiritual? I’m in both places?
You are more than your physical body, Sam. The body is the physical receptacle of the soul.
Except my body can’t die.
Not anymore. Not in the traditional sense.
Then I’m a freak.
You are the result of entities long ago attempting a shortcut, entities who lived in fear.
Lived in fear of what?
Dying. Their creation—the vampire—lives on to this day, as do similar creations.
I never asked for this.
Not overtly, Sam.
What does that mean?
It means that, on some level, you did ask for this. On some level you did ask to become more than you were, stronger than you were, faster than you were, braver than you were.
And this is the answer? To turn me into a ghoul?
It was an answer. An answer that you would accept.
But I’m living a nightmare.
You are choosing to live a nightmare, Samantha Moon. Choose differently.
I grew silent, fully aware that I was still sitting on the boulder overlooking the desert, but also aware that my mind—or spirit—was in this crystal room. I’m certain the sensation would have disoriented me, if not for the grounding done earlier. The woman moved a little closer, her hands clasped before her. She seemed content to watch me sweetly, lovingly.
Who are you? I asked, thinking the words. And please, no cryptic answers.
Now the woman in front of me disappeared. So did the crystal room. I was given a view of the universe, which spread before me in every direction. I sensed everything, saw everything, felt everything. I also sensed a glorious presence that infused everything, a presence from which all things were born.
Is that you? The thing that which is in all things? Everywhere and nowhere?
A good way of looking at things, Sam.
But, then, why are you talking to me?
As I thought those words, I was once again back in the crystal room. I sensed that if I would open my physical eyes, all of this would disappear and I would be back on the boulder, alone in the desert, and no doubt wondering if I had dreamed all of this. So, I kept my eyes closed. Yes, tightly closed.