Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

  As I stood before the front door, a lingering trepidation remained. After all, sunlight had been my enemy for so many years.

  You can do this, I thought.

  And I did. I opened the front door wide as sunlight splashed in. Brilliant sunlight. Splashing over me, but my skin felt...nothing. I felt nothing, and that was the greatest feeling of all.

  No searing pain. No gasping sounds. No stumbling around and covering my eyes. No shrinking like a monster from the light of the day.

  Such a weirdo.

  Maybe. But now, not so weird.

  Thank God.

  Today, I was wearing torn jeans and a cute blouse, a sleeveless blouse, no less. Most importantly, I wasn’t wearing multiple layers of clothing or one of my epic sunhats. Or satellite dishes, as a client had once called them.

  It was just me. And that felt good. Damned good.

  The man standing in the doorway was smaller than I expected. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls tank top and basketball shorts and high-top sneakers. He looked like he might have just stepped off the courts or raided a Foot Locker. The detailed tattoos that ran up and down his arms—and even along his neck—seemed to tell a story about something, although I couldn’t puzzle it out at first blush.

  “Russell?” I said.

  “That’s me,” he said softly. “You must be Ms. Moon.”

  He dipped his head in a way that I found adorable. The dip was part greeting, part submission, and partly to let me know that he came in peace. We shook hands and I led him to my office in the back of my house, passing Anthony’s empty room along the way. Well, not entirely empty. A pair of his white briefs sat in the middle of the floor, briefs that had seen better—and whiter—days. I reached in and quickly shut the door before my client got a good look at the mother of all skid marks.

  Superman had Lex Luthor. Batman had the Joker. I had Anthony’s skid marks.

  Once safe in my office, I showed Russell to one of my client chairs and took a seat behind my cluttered desk.

  “So, what can I do for you, Russell?” I asked.

  “Jacky says you might be able to help me.”

  “Jacky, the boxing trainer?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Jacky say anything else?”

  “Only that you are a freak of nature.”

  I grinned. “He’s always thought highly of me. What kind of help do you need?”

  He looked at me. Straight in the eye. He held my gaze for a heartbeat or two, then said, “Somebody died accidentally...except I don’t think it was an accident.”

  I nodded and did a quick psychic scan of the young man sitting before me. I sensed a heavy heart. Pain. Confusion. I sensed a lot of things. Most important, I did not sense that he was a killer.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  Chapter Two

  Russell Baker was a boxer.

  A damn good one, too, apparently. He was twenty-five, fought in the coveted welterweight division, had a record of 22-3, and was moving quickly up the rankings. There were whispers that he might fight Manny Pacquiao—or Floyd Mayweather, Jr. His management was presently negotiating a fight on HBO. He’d already fought around the world: Tokyo, Dubai, South Africa. He’d already beaten some of the top contenders in the world. Only the best remained. Only the champions remained. Russell Baker was on top of the boxing world and nothing could slow him down.

  That was, until his last fight.

  When he had killed a man in the ring.

  Russell paused in his narrative, and I waited. He was a good-looking guy, clearly roped with muscle under his thin tee-shirt. His nose was wide and flat, which I suspected was perfect for boxing. A long, pointed nose probably got broken routinely. He was also small, perhaps just a few inches taller than me. Welterweights must be the little guys. If I had to guess, I would have said that he was exactly half the size of Kingsley.

  After collecting himself, Russell continued. The fight had been last month, in Vegas. Russell had been working his way through the top ten fighters in his weight class. According to Russell, rankings were influenced by a boxer’s win-loss record, the difficulty of one’s opponents, and how convincing one’s victories were. The ultimate goal was to challenge for a title.

  Last month, he’d fought the #7 ranked contender. Russell himself had currently been ranked #8. The fight was aired live on ESPN. The crowd had been full of celebrities. Up through three rounds, it had been a routine-enough fight, with Russell feeling confident and strong.

  That is, until the fourth round.

  It had been a short, straight punch to the side of the face. A hard punch. One that, if landed squarely, would rock most opponents. And Russell had landed it squarely. His opponent’s head snapped back nicely. Russell had moved in closer to land another punch, but his opponent, Caesar Marquez, was already on his way to the mat.

  Russell had been confused. The punch had been solid, sure, but not a knockout punch. But there was Caesar Marquez, out cold, motionless. Russell had celebrated, but not for long, not when Caesar remained motionless and a crowd began swarming around his fallen opponent.

  Russell stopped talking and looked away, tears in his eyes. He unconsciously rubbed his knuckles, which were, I noticed, puffy and scarred. An IM message box appeared on the computer screen before me. It was Fang.

  You there, Moon Dance?

  I leaned forward and tapped a few keys: I am, but working. Talk soon, okay?

  The butler did it, Moon Dance. Always the butler.

  I shook my head and closed the box. Admittedly, I was mildly surprised that the box appeared. Fang always seemed to know when I was working—and respected my time with my clients. I frowned at that as I turned my attention back to Russell.

  “May I ask how your opponent died?” I asked, lowering my voice.

  “That’s a good question, Ms. Moon.”

  “Please call me Sam.”

  He nodded. “Officially, they called it brain damage. Unofficially, they found nothing.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The M.E. told me. He personally called me up and told me that he couldn’t find anything other than some bleeding—enough to officially label it a brain hemorrhage, but not enough to cause death. At least, not in the opinion of the medical examiner.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, why are you here, Russ?” I asked, trying out a nickname to get him to spill more details.

  He continued rubbing his knuckles. His foot, which was crossed over his knee, was jiggling and shaking. Now he rubbed the back of his neck. The bicep that bulged as he did so was...interesting.

  “I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know why I’m here.”

  “Yes, you do,” I said. “Why are you here, Russell?”

  “Because I don’t think I killed him.”

  “If you didn’t kill him, then who—or what—did?”

  “I don’t know, Sam. I guess that’s why I’m here. I want you to help me find out how he died.”

  I sat back and folded my hands over my flattish stomach. Flat enough for me, anyway. I sensed so many emotions coming from Russ that it was hard to get a handle on them. Sensing emotion and reading minds are two different things. I wasn’t close enough to Russ to read his mind, but his emotions were fair game to anyone sensitive enough to understand them.

  Mostly, I sensed guilt coming off him. Wave after wave of it. I sensed that Russell hadn’t been able to move forward from this fight and had been unable to deal with what had happened last month.

  He needed answers. Real answers. Not the suspicious whisperings of a medical examiner.

  “And what if I discover that you really did kill him, Russell?” I asked.

  “Then I can live with that, but I need to know,” he said, wiping his eyes and looking away. “I need to know for sure.”

  “Knowing is good,” I said.

  “Knowing is everything,” he said, and I didn’t doubt it for a second.

  I nodded. “I’ll need names an
d contact info.”

  He said he would email me everything I needed. We next discussed my retainer fee and, once done, he handed over his credit card. I spent the next few minutes embarrassing myself until I finally figured out how to use my iPhone credit card swiper. If I could have turned red, I would have.

  We next shook hands, and if he noticed my cold flesh, he didn’t show it. Or was too polite to show it.

  As he left my office, I couldn’t help but notice the dark cloud that surrounded him. His aura.

  Guilt, I knew, was eating him alive.

  He needed answers.

  Badly.

  Chapter Three

  When Russell had gone, I brought up Google and researched the hell out of him.

  In particular, I found the fight in question. The fight with Caesar Marquez had been a big deal, apparently. Both fighters were considered front runners to eventually contend for the welterweight title. Both fighters were roughly the same age. Same height. Same records. Same everything.

  Except, now one was dead.

  And the other was living with punishing, crushing guilt. I knew this. I had felt it from Russell, coming off him in wave after wave.

  The crushing guilt was the least of my concerns. The black halo that completely surrounded his body was a different matter. A very serious matter.

  Perhaps it was not so serious to others, but to me, I knew the implications. Russell needed help. He also needed protection. And, considering the vast amount of guilt he was dealing with...perhaps he needed protection from himself.

  No, he hadn’t appeared suicidal, but I was also no expert in psychological issues. And since I wasn’t close enough to him to read his thoughts, all I had to go on were my gut impressions.

  And my gut told me that he had a very heavy heart.

  Baker vs. Marquez hadn’t been a big pay-per-view event, but HBO had hyped it up pretty good. All in all, the fight had lasted four rounds. Up through three rounds, two judges had scored the fight in favor of Russell, but one had it in favor of Caesar. Pretty even.

  That is, until “the punch.”

  I wanted to see the punch for myself. It turned out that YouTube had some pretty grisly videos on their website. In fact, there were easily a half dozen such boxing death videos. I first watched Russell’s fight, then forced myself to watch the other five, too, for comparison.

  Most of the videos showed two guys hammering each other in the ring. Generally, one guy was doing a lot of hammering, and one guy was doing a lot of receiving. At least that was the trend. In five of the six fights, one opponent was clearly dominating the other opponent.

  But not in Russell’s fight.

  Their fight, at least to my untrained eye—and the truth was, I was perhaps more trained than most—their fight seemed fairly even, as the judge’s scorecards had indicated.

  Both fighters were trading punches. Both fighters were backing away. Both fighters were circling. Russell jabbed. Marquez blocked. Marquez circled, Russell followed. Both had quick feet. Quick hands. No obvious blood. No one staggered like in the other five video clips. No one was obviously getting their brains beaten in.

  And there it was.

  The punch.

  It was a short, straight punch, designed to be used when two opponents were close-in to each other. Not a lot of back swing. Just power the fist at about shoulder height and use your weight to drive the punch home. Jacky had taught it to me years ago, and it was a common punch to use when practicing with the heavy bag. Myself, I had probably delivered thousands of such punches. They weren’t generally considered knockout punches, although, if delivered with enough force, could certainly stun an opponent.

  Except Marquez didn’t look stunned.

  He looked dead.

  Prior to the punch, they had both been fighting an inside game, heads ducked, juking, bobbing and weaving, each looking for an opening. Russell saw his and struck, cobra-fast.

  Marquez’s head snapped back.

  HBO had been right there to capture the next image fairly close up. Marquez’s eyes rolled up. I saw the whites of them clearly. His hands dropped to his sides.

  Russell had been about to deliver another blow when he clearly saw that something wasn’t right with his opponent.

  As Marquez’s hands went limp, so did his knees and legs, and now he was falling forward, landing hard on his chest and face, where he proceeded to lay, unmoving.

  I saw that Russell’s first instinct was to help him—and I admired him for that—but then his trainer bull-rushed him and lifted him up off his feet. And as his trainer ran him wildly around the ring, I saw Russell trying to look back to his fallen foe.

  The longer Caesar Marquez lay unmoving, the more chaotic the ring became. People swarmed and buzzed around him. Russell fought to get close to him. A stretcher appeared through the crowd and soon Caesar was being threaded through the ropes, through the crowd, and down a side aisle into what I assumed were the locker rooms.

  I stopped the video and studied the crowded ring. Dozens of faces. Some confused, some concerned, many excited. Men, mostly, but a few women.

  I replayed the video again and again. Watching his trainers, watching the crowd, looking for anything that gave any indication that someone might have known what was about to go down.

  But nothing stood out.

  Nothing at all.

  Chapter Four

  “So, do you still need to sleep during the day?” Kingsley asked, or, at least, I think he asked. Words had a tendency to get muffled when spoken around a side of beef.

  We were at Mulberry Street Ristorante in downtown Fullerton, sitting by the window, drinking wine and eating steak. Just like regular people.

  Of course, one of us wasn’t so much eating their steak, as slurping the bloody juice pooling around it, and the other wasn’t so much eating his steak, as wolfing it down.

  I nodded. “I’m still a creature of the night, if that’s what you’re asking. And, yes, I still need to sleep during the day. I’m still weak during the day. I still feel like crap when I have to get up and pick up the kids during the day. The medallion only gives me the ability to tolerate the sun.”

  “No more burning?” he asked between bites.

  “No more burning.”

  Mulberry’s was busy tonight. It was busy every night, as far as I could tell. It was our restaurant of choice, especially since the cooks and waiters here were used to my orders of raw meat, extra bloody.

  Now, as I watched Kingsley tear through his meat in record time, something occurred to me. “Now I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Were you always this big?”

  “Big…how?”

  “Big, as in I’ve actually seen you turn sideways to go through doorways.”

  “Only some doors, and, no, the big part came later.”

  “How much later?”

  “Over time. Decades. Little by little, after each transformation.”

  “You mean, you grew after each transformation?”

  “Yes. At least, as far as I could tell.”

  “But why?” I asked.

  “Survival, I think.”

  “But you’re already immortal,” I said, lowering my voice.

  “A weak immortal doesn’t get one very far, Sam. And remember, I can’t turn into—” and now he lowered his voice to a low growl— “the thing I turn into, on cue. That happens only once a month, and generally in a locked room. And when it does happen, I’m often out of my mind. Gone to the world for the whole night.”

  “While something else takes over your body.”

  “Right,” he said.

  “So, being big in your daily life has its benefits.”

  “Of course. Stronger, faster, able to protect myself.”

  “So how big were you before?”

  “Big enough, but not this big.”

  “Do all werewolves get as big as you?”

  “Some bigger.”

  I said, “
I haven’t gotten bigger. If anything, I’ve gotten smaller.”

  “And you won’t get bigger because each night you’re at full strength. And even during the day you’re not completely incapacitated.”

  “No,” I said. “Even though I feel weaker during the day, I’m still far stronger than I used to be.”

  I recalled my boxing match with the Marine last year, the match that had occurred just before sundown. Sure, I had felt like crap, but I was still strong enough to take down America’s finest.

  “Also,” added Kingsley, reaching over and cutting off a chunk of my nearly raw steak, “it’s just the nature of my kind.”

  “For the host to grow big,” I said.

  “Right. We all have our quirks.”

  “I think your quirks are better than my quirks,” I said.

  “And who among us can fly?” he asked.

  I thought about that. “Good point.”

  As the water refilled our glasses of wine, Kingsley asked what I was working on these days. I told him about my latest case, and as I did so, Kingsley began nodding. Turns out he’d seen the fight live on HBO.

  “Wasn’t much of a punch,” he said. “Not enough to kill a man.”

  “Or so we think,” I said. After all, I had done some research on the subject. “We still don’t know his condition prior to the fight, or the amount of punches he’d taken in practice and other fights.”

  Kingsley shrugged. “True. Either way, it wasn’t much of a punch; in fact, I thought the fight was pretty even up to that point. What’s your gut tell you?”

  I shrugged too, but, unlike Kingsley, my shrug didn’t look like two land masses heaving. I said, “Nothing yet, although I think Russell’s grasping at straws.”

  Kingsley nodded. “Looking for a way to live with his guilt, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “One thing is clear: It’s eating him alive. Literally.” I told Kingsley about the black halo I’d seen around the young boxer.