vampire for hire 02.5 - vampire nights

by J. R. Rain

  “My name’s Jack,” he said, smiling serenely.

  “Sam,” I said, not smiling serenely. Or even pleasantly. Or at all.

  There was a hint of body odor to him. Not overwhelmingly bad, but evident. His clothes looked old, too, but not particularly ratty. A smudge of dirt was on his cheek, and there was a hint of a food stain over his shirt pocket. Ketchup maybe. Or blood. He was either homeless or damn close to it.

  I sniffed. No, not blood. Definitely not blood.

  “So what are you doing out so late, Jack?” I asked, since he was just sitting there and staring at me. He didn’t make me feel comfortable. Very few people could ever make me feel comfortable. If anything, I tended to make them squirm these days.

  He said, “You could say I’m a creature of the night.”

  My breath caught in my throat and I’m sure my eyes narrowed a little, but he kept smiling pleasantly at me and didn’t seem to intend any double meaning to his words.

  “And what about you, Sam?” he asked, still smiling. “What are you doing out so late?”

  “Oh, I’m definitely a creature of the night,” I said, although I’m not sure why I said it. Surely no one would see the truth to my words. I was just making a little joke, pleasantly playing on the old man’s own words. Still, I rarely joked about such things. And why I did now was still mystery to me.

  He nodded but made no comment. He glanced down at the untouched bloody steak in front of me but made no comment. He then looked up at me with such compassion and warmth in his eyes that my breath caught in my throat. If I wasn’t already cold, I think a shiver might have coursed through me.

  He knows, I suddenly thought.

  He continued looking at me. He continued smiling and holding my gaze. A distant memory tugged at me. Very, very distant. I was suddenly certain I knew him.

  You’re crazy, I thought.

  “You’re not crazy,” he said quietly. “You’re just confused and hurt and lonely.”

  I sat up, suddenly alarmed. The man, I was certain, had just read my thoughts.

  “The ability to read thoughts is in each of us,” he said. “This ability, sadly, has been forgotten. Or, rather, suppressed.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. My voice sounded distant and weak and scared.

  “Just a friend,” he said. “And you, Sam, are a vampire.”

  * * *

  We were walking outside.

  The night was cool and the partial moon hung just above the nearby Chuck E. Cheese’s. Only a handful of the brightest stars penetrated the Southern California smog.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “I know things,” he said. “I know a lot of things. And so do you. So does everyone. The knowledge is always inside us. Forgotten, but there.”

  “I take it you are not a bum.”

  “I am many things, as are you.”

  I’m a vampire, I thought instantly.

  “True,” he said, as if I had spoken the words aloud. “But you are much more than a vampire.”

  “And that does not freak you out?” I asked. “You are not concerned for your safety?”

  “If you wanted to kill me, to feed on me, to partake of my blood, I would happily give you my life.”

  We were walking down Harbor Boulevard, about two miles south of downtown, about a thirty minute walk to where I had been attacked by a gang a few months ago.

  “You would give up your life?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I would assume you had a very good reason for such a request.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe it’s not time for you to understand.”

  “Who are you?” I asked again.

  “Who do you think I am?”

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t begin to know. I wasn’t sure what was happening, truth be known. One minute I wanted to wallow in self-pity alone at Denny’s, and the next I was walking with an old man who knew my deepest, darkest secret.

  “I think I might be dreaming,” I finally said.

  “Whether you are dreaming or awake, hallucinating or experiencing, the truth will always be the truth.”

  “And what is the truth?” I asked. We were passing an all-night donut shop. I could see someone working in the back partially covered in flour. Who knew donut making was so messy? Messy or not, I briefly longed for a chocolate long-john. For a chocolate anything.

  He said, “Truth is feeling.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You can feel when something is true. More people should trust their feelings.”

  Jack, I saw, was walking with his hands clasped behind his back, even while his bum right leg seemed to be giving him problems.

  “Are you an angel?” I asked suddenly.

  “Does that feel right?”

  “It feels close,” I said.

  “Good, then go with that.”

  “Then it’s true?”

  “Does it feel true?” he asked.

  “Oh, brother.”

  He grinned again, and surprised me by suddenly reaching out and taking my hand. He had a firm grasp and we stopped on the sidewalk. I resisted a very strong impulse to yank my hand free. I rarely touch people. My skin is cold to the touch and often illicits questions. I don’t need such questions. And I don’t need to be reminded that I feel like a corpse in a cold morgue. I think he sensed I might pull away and gripped my hand even tighter.

  “It’s okay, Sam,” he said.

  I relaxed. His own hand was very, very warm. He gripped me urgently and I felt wave after wave of love radiating from him, through his hand somehow, and into me. I nearly broke down and wept.

  “You do not feel like you deserve love,” he said, perhaps reading my thoughts again, or perhaps sensing my pain.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a monster. Monsters don’t love.”

  “Do you love your children, Sam?”

  I was about to ask how he knew I had children, but I think I had long since accepted that this old man knew stuff about me that he really shouldn’t, and that he was probably much more than just an old man.

  I nearly pinched myself to see if I was awake, except pinching myself no longer had the same effect it might have had back when I was mortal.

  “Yes,” I said. “More than anything. But that’s different.”

  “How so? Love is love.”

  “I do not feel like I can be loved in return.”

  “Do your children love you, Sam?”

  “Usually.”

  “Always,” he said, correcting me gently. “I promise you that.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “Never mind.” I pulled back my hand and we started walking again.

  “But I know what you mean, Sam. You do not think you are worthy of romantic love.”

  “Of course not. Who would love me?”

  “No one,” he said, “in your current state of mind.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that being loved is up to you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When you love yourself, others will follow. Perhaps even a very special someone.”

  We walked in silence. The old man didn’t so much walk as shuffle and drag. I slowed my pace. The night was quiet. Just a few cars. A sliver of moon hung in the sky above the The Olde Spaghetti Factory near the downtown Fullerton train station.

  “Am I immortal?” I suddenly asked.

  “Do you feel immortal?”

  I thought about that. “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I imagine you do.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

  “Sometimes we already know the answers, Sam. Some questions don’t need to be asked.”

  “But how am I immortal? How? What’s keeping me alive?”

  He was walking with his hands clasped behi
nd him again. “There are many things in this world, Sam, that defy explanation. As it was designed to be.”

  “That doesn’t help me.”

  “Some of life’s mysteries are not meant to be known.”

  “But I am now one of life’s mysteries. I want to know.”

  “To know what?”

  “What’s keeping me alive?”

  “You are always alive, Sam. All of us. Our souls never cease to be.”

  “How does this physical body stay alive?”

  He nodded. I knew he knew what I meant, and I suspected that he enjoyed making me work toward clarity. “Ah, it’s in your blood, Sam. It’s always in the blood.”

  “My tainted blood.”

  “Why do you call it tainted?”

  “Because it is.”

  “I see,” he said, nodded. “and if it is tainted, as you say, would such a thing make you any less than who you are?”

  We started walking underneath the overpass, where Harbor dips down below the train tracks. I heard rustling from somewhere nearby and knew that we were being watched by those who lived under the bridge. A very different kind of creature of the night, the mortal kind, the homeless kind.

  “Perhaps not,” I said, “but it has changed my life considerably.”

  “Change is good.”

  “So being changed into a vampire is a good thing?” I asked, looking at him sideways.

  “You have been given a chance—a very rare chance, I might add—to express yourself in ways that many people will never, ever experience. You could choose to see this as an opportunity or as a curse.”

  Suddenly, and with little warning, I erupted into tears. I buried my face into my hands as the old man reached around my shoulders and held me close. It was the first real compassion I’d felt in a long, long time. I turned and hugged the old man back, and I suddenly, in the deepest part of my being, knew who he was.

  When I finally got control of myself to speak, I did so into his shoulder, “So I am not evil?”

  “No, sweetheart.”

  “And I have not been forgotten?”

  “By who?”

  “By God.”

  “Who could forget you, Samantha?”

  “Are you a....” But I could not speak my question. Not now, at least.

  “I am many things,” he said. “And so are you.”

  The End

  Vampire Blues

  Chapter One

  On the way to Kingsley’s, just as I passed under a massive billboard of Judge Judy smiling down warmly—yet judgmentally—my cell phone rang. I glanced at the faceplate. Caller unknown.

  I clicked on my Bluetooth. “Moon Investigations.”

  “Hi,” said the voice of an elderly lady. “I’ve never, you know, called a private investigator before. I’m a little nervous.”

  “We’re just like other people,” I said. “Just a lot cooler.”

  “Oh, ha-ha.” She laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”

  I headed up Bastanchury Avenue, which would soon loop me around to the foothills above Yorba Linda. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, I need some help,” she said, pausing. A pregnant pause. I know pregnant pauses. She had a cheating husband on her hands.

  “You think your husband’s cheating on you,” I said, gunning the minivan and just making it through a yellow light.

  “How-how did you know?”

  “Call it a hunch,” I said. Actually, these days I didn’t know what to call it. My old hunches and my powerful new sixth sense had fused into one. Hunch or not, I wasn’t in the mood for another cheating spouse case. In fact, I could barely stomach them these days. I said, “I’m sorry to hear about your husband, but I’m a little booked right now. I know of a great detective out of Huntington Beach. Actually, don’t let him know that I said that, since he’s already got a big head—”

  “No. Please. Please, I want a woman to help me. Only a woman.” She took in a lot of air while I came to a stop at a red light. I was the only one sitting at the intersection. So who was I waiting for? She went on, “I’m kind of down on men right now, if you know what I mean.”

  Actually, I did. I had gone through a similar reaction with my ex-husband, Danny. In fact, I even recalled writing to Fang that I hated all men.

  I said, “I’m sure there are other female private investigators who would be more than happy—”

  “There aren’t. I’ve looked. You’re the only one in the Yellow Pages. At least, the only one with a woman’s name.”

  The light turned green. Kingsley was waiting for me with a chilled glass of the red stuff. I hadn’t eaten in two days. I was ravenous and I was cranky. I said, “Let me be blunt: My own husband cheated on me not long ago. The very thought of working on another cheating spouse case turns my stomach. I’m just not the right person for this.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I could almost see her frowning. Hell, maybe I could see her frowning. In fact, the woman in my thoughts had a thick head of curly red hair. She looked a bit like Lucille Ball in her dotage. Then again, that could have all just been my imagination. And I’ve always loved Lucille Ball.

  “Well, thank you anyway,” she said. “I will keep looking.”

  The pain in her voice found its way straight to my heart. Normally, such pain didn’t register very deeply. After all, I spend half my time hearing heart-breaking stories. But this woman’s pain reached me somehow. Perhaps because I had seen her in my thoughts. Or perhaps because she reminded me of Lucille Ball. Either way, I couldn’t let her hang up just yet.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let me give you some advice. Ninety-five percent of the people who come to me with concerns of spousal misconduct are right.”

  “So, you’re saying that more than likely he is cheating?”

  “I’m saying that more than likely your instincts are spot on.”

  In my mind I could almost see her closing her eyes and nodding, her red, curly hair bouncing. “I see. Well, that’s not good enough for me, Miss Moon. I need to know. I need to know for sure.” There was a long pause and I could tell she was crying. “I won’t trouble you any—”

  “Wait,” I said again, truly hating myself for what I was about to say next. I had a big case I was unofficially working with Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton P.D. and it was getting dangerous. I had stumbled across another victim of the “Orange County Stalker” that was only minutes old – the body still warm with blood pooling under the corpse. I had to stop myself from having a taste and leaving behind my DNA for the coroner’s office. Self-discipline was a bitch, but far be it from me to taint a crime scene with my own genetic evidence. In the last hour, I had disentangled myself from giving my official statement to the FPD and a copy of my notes on the Orange County Stalker habits--I had worked up a decent profile on her. Yes, I said her. Sherbet was going to try to pay me for my work from some grant money for crime tippers which was way cool in my book since my kids both had dental appointments coming up. My sister, Mary Lou, had the kids at her house tonight and I planned to see Kingsley for some growly R&R and a much-needed feeding. I didn’t have time for cheating spouses. I didn’t want to deal with cheating spouses. I hated cheating spouses. But despite all of that, and my growling stomach, I heard myself say: “I’ll help you. Tomorrow. The investigation on your husband should be a quick one.”

  She thanked me profusely, and when she was done I asked why she thought her husband was cheating. As I wound my way to Kingsley’s massive estate, she told me the usual story. Husband was staying out later than normal. Showering immediately when he came home. His excuses were never very good and she knew in her heart that he was lying. Her husband, apparently, had never been very good at lying.

  Mostly, though, she was confused and lost. Her husband had been such a good man for so many years. A great provider. A great friend. Always there for her, even as she now battled cancer. Hell, even mor
e so. Every day, he told her how much he loved her. Every day, he made her feel like a princess. She asked me why would he do this to her and I didn’t have an answer, except to say that men were pigs. I immediately hated this one.

  I gave her a checklist of information that I would need, including her hubby’s personal and professional info and up to five recent pictures. I gave her my email address and she said she would get right on it. Whoopee.

  She hung up, but before she did, she thanked me again. As I clicked off and pulled up to Kingsley’s gaudy estate, I recognized the painful irony of the situation: She was thanking me to confirm her worst fears.

  I had a helluva job.

  Chapter Two

  The next day, I had thirty minutes to kill before my appointment with Jacky, my boxing trainer.

  Sitting in my minivan in the blessed shade of a pathetic magnolia tree, I went through my emails on the iPhone and found an attachment from one Gertrude Shine. The old lady from yesterday, I was sure of it. Sighing, I opened it and found five pictures of an aged man with a thick mustache. Included with the pictures was the man’s personal information, and I was struck again by the intrusive nature of my job. The man in the photo was a complete stranger. But pretty soon he would be all too familiar, so familiar that I would be instrumental in the destruction of his marriage.

  No. He was instrumental in the destruction of the marriage. I was just reporting the facts.

  I closed my eyes, rubbed them. I didn’t have to take the job. I didn’t have to take any job. Except Danny had yet to pony up any child support, let alone alimony, despite making five times what I make.

  Despite openly cheating on me.

  I studied the son of a bitch in the photos. Two of the photos depicted him standing with a large woman with red hair—the same woman, I wasn’t too shocked to see, that I had seen in my thoughts.