by J. R. Rain
“Big show?”
Hanner nodded toward Fang, who lay motionless on the couch. “I wouldn’t miss his transformation for the world.”
“Who’s in me?” I asked.
Hanner grinned, except I knew it was not Hanner grinning. “One of us, child.”
“Who?”
But Hanner shook her head. “Not now. Not now.” And Hanner kept on shaking her head...and finally blinked. Hard.
She was back, looking slightly confused, and the thing within her—the thing that galvanized her dead body—had retreated, and was gone.
That such an entity was in me, watching over me, living through me, was almost enough to drive me insane.
Almost.
There had to be a way to fight back. To remove it.
And with that thought, I remembered the angel, Ishmael. He had told me he knew of a way for me to be free, to forever remove the thing within me. I thought about that, even while Fang continued to lay motionless, his chest unmoving. But alive. Supernaturally alive.
Fang had gotten his wish.
He was one of us now.
Chapter Thirty-four
I was flying.
It’s what I did these days when I want to think—and apparently, I was one of the few who could.
Lucky me.
I was moving along the beaches, idly following the curving shore. It was hours before morning, hours before I would be exhausted enough to sleep...but not so exhausted that I had to sleep. The medallion had removed the effects of sunlight, but not my natural—or unnatural—sleep patterns. My body still craved sleep during the day, happily doing so until sunrise if I would let it. Two kids and a full-time job, unfortunately, wouldn’t.
I flew five hundred feet above the crashing surf. The beaches were empty. Correction...mostly empty. There was a lone man jogging with a little squirt of a dog. A little red dog. Yes, my eyes are that good at night and in this form. The man looked vaguely familiar. Tall and muscular. As I flew overhead, the little dog stopped and barked. At me. The little shit. The man, stopped, too, and looked up, but I was already gone. I smiled to myself, now recognizing the cocky son-of-a-bitch.
The ocean rippled and sparkled, reflecting whatever ambient light was around. Fang would never be the same. Our relationship would never be the same. Hanner had plans for him, I was sure. But she could shove her plans up her pale ass.
We’d see about her plans.
Was Fang’s and mine a true friendship? Perhaps, perhaps not. I liked to believe it was. I liked to believe he cared for me beyond what I was.
I had not yet made a decision about what to do about Fang’s request. Truth be known, I was afraid of what would happen once I did. I was afraid for our relationship, for him, for the world. Of course, Detective Hanner had made the decision for me, thus forcing mine and Fang’s relationship to make that leap.
Fang was no puppet. Hanner was in for a surprise. Unless, somehow, the two of them had made a pact. Perhaps he had sold his soul, so to speak, to become that which he most wanted. Perhaps I had doomed him by delaying my own decision. Perhaps had I honored his request, he would not be bound to Hanner.
Was Hanner so bad? I didn’t know. Not yet.
But one thing was sure: I would be there for Fang, for whatever reason, at any time. He had been there for me...and I suspected he was going to need my help.
Or perhaps not.
After all, he had Hanner now.
With a heavy heart, I turned to starboard, dipping one wing and raising the other, and headed over the million-dollar homes and back toward Fullerton.
Chapter Thirty-five
I was familiar with boxing gyms; not so much with dojos.
Andre Fine’s Kenpo Karate Studio in Long Beach was about what I expected to see: lots of floor mats, lots of mirrors, two punching bags, a trophy case and tons of newspaper and magazine clippings adorning the entrance/lobby room. A schedule next to the door indicated the next class would start in two hours.
Presently, there wasn’t a soul around. I heard someone talking in a back office. On the phone, if I had to guess. Single voice speaking, pausing, then speaking, then yelling. More yelling. Then a slam.
Oh, goodie, I thought. At least they’ll be in a good mood.
A man appeared a moment later, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He had a small beer gut and thick arms and a lot of muscle around his shoulders and neck. Probably, when he was in uniform and wore a karate robe, it bulged and opened around his mid-section. He probably hee-yahed! with the best of them. And I had no doubt that he had punched his way through many a wooden board in his time.
The man, who might have been talking to himself—and not very kindly—looked startled when he saw me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Andre Fine,” I said, reaching in my purse and extracting a business card. I held it out to him. “I’d like to ask him a few questions regarding a case I’m working on.”
He took the card, read it, and then handed it back. Most people don’t hand my cards back. Most people hold them politely and talk to me civilly—then throw them away as soon as I leave. Handing my card back irritated me. Handing my card back made me hate his face. Handing my card back stirred a surprising amount of anger in me.
Down girl, I thought.
The anger subsided enough for me to reach out and take the card back and not break his fingers in the process. And as I took the card and slipped it back in my purse from whence it came, I had an image of me slamming this stranger up against the trophy case and...
Drinking from his neck.
Jesus.
This wasn’t a normal reaction from me. This wasn’t how I handled animosity. Not with anger. Not with violence. Maybe with a cute quip. Or to just brush it off. Not with images of violence.
It’s him, I thought suddenly. It’s his thoughts. His anger. His violence. The thing inside me.
“Hey, you okay?” asked the guy. To his credit, he looked a little nervous.
He should be nervous.
Again, that wasn’t my thought. I wiped the sweat from my brow and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Is Andre around?”
The guy looked at me some more, then got around to my question. “Sorry, but Andre doesn’t actually work here. Sure, his name is on the sign outside and all the letterheads, but the truth is, he rarely shows up anymore. I thought you might want your card back because I would hate for you to waste it on me when he’s never around.”
I paused and collected my thoughts. “Thank you. Where...where can I find him?”
“These days? Pick any one of his many girlfriends. Sorry, I shouldn’t say that about my boss, but he’s a hard one to pin down lately.”
“Why’s that?”
“Hard to say. Too many distractions maybe. Too much success. Too many endorsements. Too many women.”
“What would he say if he heard you say that?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t really care. This place is going to hell in a hand basket and he doesn’t care. I just got off the phone with another parent who’s pulling her kid. I don’t blame her. It’s hard to pitch a world-class studio when the head guy rarely, if ever, makes an appearance.”
“Is it common for karate champions to own a studio?”
“Common and expected. And the ones who do at least make a courtesy appearance every now and then to keep everyone happy, maybe a demonstration here and there, something to keep the customers coming back.”
“I’ve heard rumors that Andre Fine has been trained in,” I paused, picking my words carefully, “other areas of martial arts.”
The big guy crossed his hairy arms. “Oh? In what other areas of martial arts?”
I sensed that he knew immediately where I was going with this. I sensed that I wasn’t the only one who had asked him this question. I also sensed that such accusations had been whispered about Andre Fine for many years now. But these were much more than just feelings. I had slipped briefly into the big guy’s thoughts. I had don
e so effortlessly. All I had needed were a few moments with him. Now we were connected mentally. Only, he didn’t know it.
“What do you know about dim mak?” I asked suddenly. “Or the touch of death as some call it?”
He chuckled lightly and blew air through his flat nose, air which ruffled his thick mustache. He waved his hand dismissively. “Dim mak is a bunch of hooey.”
His thoughts gave him away. He didn’t want to talk about it. In fact, he very much wanted me to leave and was thinking hard of an excuse to give me.
No excuses, I thought. I hadn’t planned on directing his thoughts. I hadn’t planned on anything of the sort when I arrived here just a few minutes earlier.
But seeing the direction he was going with his thoughts, sensing his intention to mislead and misdirect me, I instinctively stepped forward. I had not been aware that I could direct another’s thought until speaking with Hanner last month—and watching her manipulate a theater of police officers.
I had thought I would never do it.
I had thought I would never resort to controlling another human being’s thoughts.
But something within me wanted to control his thoughts. Needed to control him. Needed him to do my bidding. I suspected I knew what this something was.
I didn’t want to control him. All I wanted was the truth. I wanted to know what he knew about Andre Fine. It was as simple as that.
Tell me what you know about dim mak, I thought.
He glanced at me, and as he did so I saw something disconcerting. His expression went blank. Dead. He opened his mouth to speak, faltered, then tried again. “Dim mak is not very well understood.” He spoke in a flat monotone. “But it is real.”
“Has Andre Fine been taught the dim mak?”
“Oh, yes. He’s spent many years in Japan learning it from those who specialize in it.”
“And what does the dim mak do?”
“It kills if struck correctly.”
“And you believe this?”
“I have seen this.”
“You have seen Andre Fine perform it?”
“No, another.”
“And what was the result?”
He looked blankly. “Death.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“When I was in my twenties. I was a new fighter. We had all heard rumors that it was going to be performed in a fight.”
“Tell me about the fight.”
He did, speaking in his dead monotone. The fight had been an arranged fight. Both fighters were highly accomplished, and both were reputed to have mastered dim mak. The fight had occurred in a field, well away from the city. The fight itself had been a fairly long one, with both fighters evenly matched. That is, until one fighter struck the death blow. The dim mak.
“And what happened after that?”
The guy licked his lips and said, “The other fighter went down.”
“Was he alive?”
“Yes.”
“When did he die?”
“Two weeks later.”
“And you believe it was because of the dim mak?”
He looked at me...and smiled emptily. “I know it was because of the dim mak.”
Later, as I drove home, I realized that I hadn’t even gotten the guy’s name. I had controlled his thoughts, made him do my bidding, and I didn’t even have the decency to know his name. Seemed rude.
Yeah, I thought. I’m a monster.
Chapter Thirty-six
“Well?” said Tammy.
We were in her bedroom. Anthony was in his room playing something called Nintendo 3DS. Whatever it was, it was little and expensive and if he ever lost it, I was going to play butt bongos on his backside until the cows came home. And since there weren’t any cows in Fullerton, that might be a while.
“Well what?” I said. We were sitting on her floor in the space between her bed and dresser. Her back was to me and I was brushing her long hair.
“You know, Mom. Don’t play cloy.”
“Coy,” I said.
She sighed. “Whatever, Mom. Cloy, coy. Either way, out with it.”
“Since when did you get so demanding?”
“Since I realized that my mother has been lying to me my whole life.”
“Not your whole life,” I said, doing some quick math. She would have been about three when I was attacked. Anthony had been one. I had been a relatively new mom with one really freaky secret.
“So you’ve been lying for part of my life?”
“And since when did you get so smart?” I asked. She was skewering my words like an attorney. Like father, like daughter. That is, if you could call an ambulance chaser an attorney.
She waited, and not patiently. Down the hall, I heard Anthony groan and slap the floor, which sent minor shockwaves throughout the whole house.
He’s getting stronger, I thought.
“I will tell you...more about me,” I said. “But first, I want you to tell me why you think I have such a big...secret.”
She held up her forefinger. “First, I don’t think you have a secret. I know you have a secret.” She raised another finger. “Two, you’ve always been weird.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I mean, a person who can’t go outside in the sunlight? A rare skin disease? I mean, c’mon!” She raised a third finger, and a fourth and fifth as she ticked off more points. “Three, you’re always cold. Four, we have like no mirrors in the house. Five, you never eat.” She lowered her hand and spun to face me. “Oh, you pretend to eat, but lately I’ve been secretly watching you sneak your food onto Anthony’s plate. He’s so dumb. He never notices it and just eats it. Such a doofus.”
“Don’t call your brother names.”
“Sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” I said. “So tell me when you started having, you know, visions. When did they start?”
“Last month.”
“When your period started,” I said, nodding.
“Mom!”
Tammy hated talking about it, true. She thought it was gross, try as I might to convince her that it was the most natural thing in the world. Still, at ten, she was young to have started her period. She was young, but it was not unheard of. I had been ten, too, when mine started. Like mother, like daughter.
“Anyway,” she said, rolling her eyes, “when that started, I also started seeing things.”
“Seeing what?”
“I started seeing thoughts, I guess.”
“Your own thoughts?”
“No, Mom,” she said, nearly rolling her eyes full circle. “Other people’s thoughts. I can already see my own thoughts. Duh.”
“Be nice.”
“Sorry.”
“So, what did other people’s thoughts look like, honey?” I asked.
She looked away, bit her lip. The aura around her was a light blue. Peaceful blue. There were flashes of greens and yellows, but she often had flashes of greens and yellows. Some colors were simply a part of someone. These were her colors. And, as always, I had no access to her thoughts. Other people’s, sometimes. My own children, no.
Finally, she said, “They sort of appear as pictures. Fast pictures. They come and go quickly.”
“How do you know they are not your own thoughts, honey?”
“Because they are things that I have never seen before. Things I had never thought about. Things I wouldn’t...” She struggled for the right words.
“Things you wouldn’t know,” I offered.
“Yes, Mommy.”
“So what did you think when you saw these strange images?”
She shrugged and reached down and cracked one of her excessively long toes. I cringed. I hated the sound, and asked her to stop. She rolled her eyes.
“Well, I was confused. But then I saw that the images seemed to come from people around me. I would see, for instance, Anthony’s teacher in class, but from Anthony’s eyes.”
“So you concluded you were seeing his memories.”
<
br /> “Yes, Mommy.”
“And the images only came to you when other people were nearby?”
“Yes!” she said excitedly. I think she figured I wouldn’t believe her. Or that she was doing something wrong, somehow.
“So you weren’t hearing their thoughts,” I said. “But rather seeing their memories?”
She nodded and reached down for her toes, but then thought better of it. “I think so, yeah. Take Ricky Carpettle—he’s the kid who always has boogers stuck to his forehead, ‘cause, you know, he wipes his nose up instead of down. Anyway, I kept seeing him playing video games in his Batman underwear.”
Despite myself, I laughed. I said, “How often do you see these images?”
“As often as I want.”
“How do you stop them?” I asked.
She thought about that. “Well, I just sort of say ‘Stop!’ in my head real loud, and the images, you know, go away. At least, for a little while.”
We were both silent. My daughter was a friggin’ mind reader. How this came to be, I didn’t know. Did her abilities have anything to do with me being a vampire? If so, how? My attack seven years ago should have no bearing on who or what she would become later in life.
My head hurt...briefly. I never had headaches for long. Still, I rubbed my temples, thinking hard. When I was done rubbing, I saw that Tammy was watching me closely. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what she was going to say next.
“And when I’m around you, Mommy, I see things, too.”
“Oh, God.”
“You can fly, Mommy.”
“Oh, God,” I said again.
“It’s you. I know it. But it’s not you. You are something else, something huge. With wings, and you fly high above.”
And now I really did have a headache, one that lasted a few seconds longer than normal. I buried my face in my hands and rubbed my head and wondered why the Universe was determined to utterly ruin my life and those of my kids.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Mommy? You can fly.”
And the words I spoke next to my daughter should have sent me straight into an institution. Straight into a straitjacket. To be locked up forever. Words no sane person should ever, ever have to say. Especially not a mother to her daughter. And yet I heard them come from my mouth. I heard them from a distance. I heard the insanity of it all.