by J. R. Rain
Kingsley, as a werewolf, had a taste for corpses. That is, when and if he ever escaped the safe-room his butler Franklin locked him into each full night. A butler who was, of course, so much more than a butler.
I know, wrote Kingsley. What’s the deal with that anyway?
In fact, I knew exactly what the deal with that was. Kingsley and I, although two very different creatures of the night, were not so different after all. Each of us harbored what I’d come to understand was a highly evolved dark master, an entity banned from this world, but returning through a loophole, so to speak.
And we’re the loopholes.
These dark entities gave us our lives—our eternal lives, that is—and existed within us side by side, or, if not side by side, somewhere deep within us.
I shuddered again at the thought.
And so, it was the thing within Kingsley that hungered for the flesh of the dead. And it was the thing within me that hungered for blood.
After a moment, I texted back: I think we both know what the deal is, Wolfman. Just be a good boy tonight.
Will do. :)
I took in a lot of air, held it in my dead lungs, and released it back into my minivan. I gripped my steering wheel and thought of Kingsley and Russell and Fang...and shook my head.
And kept on shaking it nearly all the way to LAX.
Chapter Six
We were on the plane.
“Are you hungry?” asked Allison.
“Yes, and how did you...never mind,” I said, recalling her penchant for being weirdly accurate. “Yes, I am.”
“You can feed from me here, if you want.”
“No, I can wait,” I said, embarrassed. “And I don’t like the word feed.”
“Too ghoulish?”
“Too monstrous. Not to mention it sounds like something straight out of an Anne Rice novel.”
“What do you prefer?”
“Drink,” I said. “I drink. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Touchy subject?” asked Allison, patting my knee condescendingly.
“Touchy life,” I said.
She laughed loudly, throwing back her head, drawing attention to us. I ducked my head lower.
“Oops, sorry,” said Allison, elbowing me now in the shoulder. “Most of your kind like to keep a low profile.”
“My ‘kind’?” I said. “Please. And could you say that a little louder?”
“Oh, I definitely could.”
I grabbed her and pulled her down to my level.
“You are out of control,” I said, but now I was laughing, too.
“Only seemingly, Sammie,” she said, giggling, and then growing serious. “Your secret is always safe with me. Always. Except, maybe, when I’m drunk. Kidding! Hey, ouch!”
I had squeezed her forearm perhaps a little harder than I had planned. “Sorry,” I said.
“No, you’re not,” she said, rubbing her arm. “But seriously, Sammie. Your secret is always safe.”
“Then quit using words like feed and your kind. I work...” I paused, my voice faltering. For some reason, I was feeling emotional about the subject. “I work...” but my voice faltered again.
“You work hard at being normal, Sammie. I know. And when I say these words, I remind you that you’re not.”
We were both hunched down in our seats. I turned and looked at her. She turned and looked at me. “That was surprisingly perceptive,” I said.
“Well, you’re not the first...amazing person I’ve been around.”
I laughed. Allison had been the plaything for a playboy vampire who’d met his demise by the very hunter who had attacked me.
“So now I’m an amazing person?” I said.
She reached out and took my hand. Rather than flinch at the cold, she seemed to relish it, squeezing my hand even tighter and looking deeply into my eyes. “Sammie, I think you are, perhaps, the most amazing of them all.”
I looked away and pulled my hand gently back. “You barely know me,” I said.
“True, but I see things.”
“So you say.”
“And you see things, too—and you can do things others cannot.”
“Other amazing people?” I said, glancing at her.
She gave me a half smile. A sad smile. “I was once connected to a very powerful vampire, Sam. Or who I had thought to be a powerful vampire. He was not as powerful as you, Sam. Not even close.”
“And you know this, how?”
“I know things, remember?”
I shook my head and we both grew silent as someone walked past us down the narrow aisle. When they were gone, Allison continued, “I’ve always been very psychic, Sammie. In fact, I used to work at one of those psychic hotlines.”
I groaned. “Oh, brother.”
“Groan all you want, but I was very good. Maybe some callers thought it was a joke, but when they got on the line with me, they got the real deal.” She put her hand on my forearm. “And having spent months supplying myself—giving myself to another, if you know what I mean—only amplified my gift.”
I thought about that. So much to learn about myself...about what I am, and about how all of this works.
“He turned you into a super psychic,” I said.
“But not just him,” she said.
I glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
She held my gaze. Allison had big brown eyes. So big that, had I been able to see my own reflection, I would, no doubt, be looking at myself right now. “You, too, Sammie.”
“Me, too, what?”
“When you drank from me, Sammie, you sort of re-awakened the psychic in me. And then took it to a whole new level. Which is why I think you might just be more powerful than you-know-who.”
I’d heard this before, from another vampire, in fact.
“Let’s change the subject,” I said. “Do you mind?”
“Anything you want, Sammie.”
And we did, and how we got on the subject of the Kardashians, I’ll never know. But it was better than talking about me, the world’s biggest freak.
The Kardashians, of course, were a whole different level of freaky.
Chapter Seven
Two and half hours later, we landed at Sea-Tac Airport which, apparently, was right dab smack in the middle between Seattle and Tacoma.
“Get it?” said Allison. “Sea-Tac. As in Seattle and Tacoma.”
“I get it,” I said.
“Am I being annoying?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said sweetly, as we stepped out into the chilled Pacific Northwest air. “But you’re getting there.”
“Most of my friends say I can be annoying.”
“You have honest friends,” I said, keeping a straight face.
“That was rude, Samantha Moon.” But she laughed anyway.
Almost immediately, a shiny Lexus SUV whipped out of the pack of circling cars and pulled up next to us. I recognized the driver. My client, Tara Thurman.
“Wow,” said Allison, peeking through the passenger side window. “She looks just like her mom.”
“You know her mom?” I asked as Tara stepped out. I had researched the family and knew that Tara’s mother had once been a fairly well-known model, and her father was currently the vice president of the family business. A business which just so happened to be one of the biggest hotel brands in the world. A business started by the great-grandfather nearly a hundred years ago.
“Of course,” said Allison. “Everyone knows of her mom. At least, everyone down at the shop.”
I wasn’t sure which “shop” she was referring to, and before I could ask, Tara was already coming toward us. She certainly did not inherit her mother’s stature nor build. Like I said, she was shaped more like me. Short and a little curvy.
Earlier, Tara had agreed to allow Allison to join me as my assistant. I was certain she wouldn’t agree, but Allison had seemed confident that Tara would. To my surprise, my client had indeed agreed, telling me that, although these yearly reu
nions were generally for family, sometimes friends or significant others did join in.
I introduced the two, and we all climbed in. I took the front seat and Allison the back, and as the SUV pulled away, Allison leaned forward through the seats and said, “So, is the Space Needle really a needle?”
“Okay,” I said. “Now you’re being annoying.”
* * *
As the 5 Freeway wended and twisted its way through the tree-lined suburbs outside of Seattle, Tara, Allison and I had a crash course in friendship.
According to Tara, no one was to know that I was a private eye, or that Allison was my assistant. This wasn’t a murder investigation. Not officially. This was a family reunion, on a remote island, during which I would pretend to be a friend, although I would be secretly snooping my ass off.
Luckily, I’m damn good at snooping my ass off.
We decided to give me a fake name, too. After all, it wouldn’t do having a nosy family member Googling my name and finding my agency’s website. So, we decided that being old college chums was best, chums who’d recently met again in Seattle and were only now catching up. Allison was my visiting friend, who got invited along for the weekend getaway.
So, we spent the remainder of the time in the SUV boning up on Tara’s college. It turned out she’d gone to UCLA, and graduated with a degree in psychology. I was going to pretend to be a college dropout. Allison pointed out that someone with enough snooping skills could verify that I, in fact, never went to UCLA. So, we decided to give me a very generic name.
Samantha Smith.
In fact, being Samantha Smith for a three-day weekend might just be a welcome relief.
And maybe a little fun.
Especially as we approached the glittering emerald city, whose skyline matched the beauty of any skyline anywhere, and as we did, I received a text message from my son.
Tammy’s reading my mind again, Mom.
I sighed and dashed off a quick text to my daughter: Quit reading your brother’s mind, booger butt. And make sure you do your homework.
Chapter Eight
The drive through Seattle was far too quick.
Admittedly, I wanted to stay and explore. The Space Needle, to Allison’s dismay, was not a needle, but an orange-topped, UFO-shaped disc that looked less like a needle and more like a giant alien probe.
Still, the city was brilliantly lit, packed with nice cars, and restaurants seemingly everywhere. I could see why Frasier would want to live here. A light rain was falling, which, from what I understood, was as common as sunshine in southern California.
Vampire weather, I thought.
Soon we were eating up the miles north of Seattle, while Tara and I continued to hash out our fake history together. We created parties we never went to, the names of boys we never met, and classes we never took together. A fake history. An iron-clad history. Allison quizzed us as we drove through a city called Mukilteo—a name I never did seem to pronounce correctly—and drove onto a ferry with service to an island called Whidbey.
“We’re in the car,” said Allison, sticking her head out the window, “but we’re on a boat, too.” She sounded perplexed.
“Yes,” said Tara, looking at me and giving me a half smile. “A ferry, actually.”
“A car on a boat,” Allison said again, shaking her head. “What will they think of next?”
“You’ve never been on a ferry before?” asked Tara.
“I’ve never been on a boat before,” said Allison. “Do these ferries ever sink?”
“Often,” said Tara.
Allison pulled her head out of the window. Her reddish cheeks had quickly drained to white. “How often do they—wait, you’re messing with me.”
“Sorry,” said Tara, giggling a little from behind the wheel. She winked at me. “I couldn’t resist. My bad.”
“No worries,” said Allison. “I’m a kidder, too. Must run in our family.”
“Excuse me?” asked Tara. “Family?”
Allison popped her gum. “Yup. We’re like eleven cousins removed.”
“Oh, really?” said Tara.
“Yup, I’m also distantly related to Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. Genealogy is a passion of mine.”
I rolled my eyes. Tara smiled, uncomfortably.
Allison went back to sticking her head out the window, the way a dog might, as the ferry continued across the Puget Sound. The waves were choppy, but the ferry handled them with aplomb. We were in a long row of cars, many of which were filled with tired-looking men and women, all dressed nice, and all clearly returning home from work on the mainland.
When the ferry docked in a city called Clinton—and once Allison had taken her seat like a good girl—we followed the long line of cars off the ferry and onto the island.
A gorgeous island, no less.
“There’s trees everywhere,” said Allison. “And I mean some big-ass trees.”
I was suitably impressed, as well, and after we stopped at a cute little coffee kiosk—at which I politely declined a cup—we continued north up the island, wending and winding our way through endless trees, stretches of beaches and luscious farmlands.
The drizzle of rain followed us, but there was no traffic on this island. Just a few well-spaced homes, a few well-spaced cars, endless greenery...and a delightful lack of sun.
We passed cities called Freeland and Greenbank and a bigger town called Oak Harbor. Up we went over a majestic bridge called Deception Pass that made even my mouth drop. Allison ohed and ahed, and Tara seemed genuinely pleased to see our stunned responses. The bridge apparently connected one island to another, and arched high above roiling currents.
I felt almost as if I had taken flight, so high were we above the foaming waters below.
The bridge came and went much too quickly for my taste, as we wound our way ever north to another charming town called Anacortes where we parked the SUV and boarded a smaller boat.
Smaller, but not by much.
Chapter Nine
I was standing near the prow, doing my best not to lift my arms and shout that I was the Queen of the World. Or, perhaps more accurately, Queen of the Underworld.
I stood there, holding onto a post, and stared out at the rolling sea. Heavy fog hung low over the water. The sea itself was slate gray and seemingly impenetrable. At the most, I could see down only a few feet. Nothing seemed to exist near the surface. No dolphins nor seals nor killer whales. The Puget Sound seemed devoid of life. Just a vast expanse of churning, dead, gray water, a barrier between islands. A great moat, perhaps.
Which didn’t make it any less beautiful. On the contrary, I lived a dozen or so miles from the ocean, so it wasn’t often that I found myself bouncing along a fast-moving boat, through a heavy fog, hundreds of feet above the ocean floor.
Tara was sitting with the captain, and Allison was below deck, battling seasickness and failing miserably. Last I heard, she was introducing herself to the tiny metal toilet attached to the main sleeping quarters below deck. The boat itself sported a bedroom, a living room, and a galley. The boat was cozy and was captained by a smallish man with a biggish beard. He could have been Ahab in another life. Or perhaps even the white whale.
With that thought, I thought of Ishmael. No, not the Ishmael from Moby Dick. Ishmael who had been, at one time, my guardian angel. And who was now...I didn’t know.
An interested suitor? Maybe, maybe not.
I didn’t know much, but I did know one thing: my life was weird.
Sometimes too weird.
Sometimes I wanted to bury my head in the sand, or leap, say, from this boat, and drift to the ocean floor and exist in silence and peace, with the crabs and bottom feeders. Except I couldn’t run away from what I was, or what my children had become. What they had become because of me.
Suddenly, panic and dread and a crushing fear filled me all over again.
Breathe, Samantha.
I did so now—slowly, deeply, filling my useless lungs to capacity wi
th air that I didn’t need—at least, not in the physical sense. Emotionally, maybe.
As I focused on my breathing, as the cold air flowed in and out of my lungs, in and out of my nostrils, I had the distinct sensation of being out of my body. I hadn’t planned to be—who planned that sort of thing, anyway?—and hadn’t even expected it. One moment, I was concentrating on keeping calm, focused almost entirely on the process of breathing, and the next...
The next, I was...elsewhere.
Not literally, for I could hear the roar of the boat’s motors, the wind thundering over my ears, the water slapping against the hull. Yes, I could feel and hear and smell, but I was not there. Not in the boat.
Then again, maybe I really was nuts and was sitting in some insane asylum. Maybe the doctors had just given me my latest dose of zone-out meds.
Do not be so hard on yourself, Samantha Moon.
Was that my voice? Had I made it up? I wasn’t certain. I did know that the sound of the ocean and the boat and the wind seemed to be fading even further away. Although I felt detached from my body—hell, from reality—the voice was, to say the least, a welcome sensation.
Very good, Samantha Moon.
The thought was not my own, I was certain of it.
No, not so much a thought as a voice whispered just inside my ear. I was very familiar with such telepathic communication...but this communication seemed different somehow. It almost seemed to come from inside of me—and around me and through me, all at the same time.
A good way of looking at our communication, Sam.
I was also certain I’d heard the voice before, as I’d sat upon a desert ledge, back when I’d let my mind drift and found myself in a deeply meditative state—and in the presence of something very loving.
And seemingly all-knowing.
All-loving, Samantha Moon.
I continued holding onto the post as my knees absorbed the rising and falling of the boat. But I wasn’t on the ship. No, not really. I was elsewhere. Above my body. In a place nearby but not nearby. I struggled for words, searching for an explanation to where I was. To what was happening to me.