by H. T. Night
It was then that I fainted.
51.
Sometime during the night I awoke in the bathroom to find myself in a pool of my own blood. I was cold and not very shocked to see that the wound in my shoulder had healed completely. I stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed into bed.
I slept through the day and awoke at dusk. I felt like hell, groggy, disoriented. I had to remind myself where I was. I bolted upright. Shit! I had forgotten to pick up the kids!
I was just about to hop out of bed until I remembered it wasn’t my job to do so anymore. Danny’s mother picked them up now. I slumped back into bed, immediately depressed.
My daytime obligations had vanished. Perhaps that was a good thing in away, since I did not operate well during the daylight hours. And, for the first time since the kids had been taken away from me, I felt—which was immediately accompanied by a lot of guilt—a sense of freedom. No kids to pick up. No dinners to cook, no husband to attend to or worry about.
Freedom and guilt, in just that order.
I stretched languidly on the bed, reveling in the surprisingly soft mattress. Why had I not noticed how soft the mattress was? A moment passed, and then another, and then my heart sank.
I had no children to pick up from school and no one to cook for! I missed my kids—but not my husband. Knowing I repulsed him helped sever my emotional ties to him. Yes, I missed the good times with Danny. But I wouldn’t miss these past few years.
But I would see my children this weekend. It sucked, but there was nothing I could do about it now, although I vowed to get them back.
Somehow.
For now, though, there was nothing to do but lie here and hurt—and wait for true night to fall. The drapes were thick and heavy and kept out most of the setting sun. My window dressings at home were, in fact, the same heavy curtains found in hotels. Early on, right after my attack, I had wanted to board up the windows, but Danny resisted and we compromised with the heavy drapes.
I massaged my shoulder. Although it still ached, there was no evidence of a wound. Another few inches over and I would have been dead. My only saving grace had been a last-second alarm that went off in my head, a warning that told me to turn dammit.
I thought of the vampire hunter. I couldn’t have him taking potshots at me whenever he damned well felt like it. I had to do something about him, and short of killing him—which was a definite option—I just wasn’t sure what yet.
First things first. I needed to figure out how the hell he kept showing up without me spotting him. I always check for tails, a good habit for an investigator to have. So I was certain he wasn’t following me.
Of course, there are other ways to keep tabs on people, especially tabs on vehicles. In fact, at HUD, we had employed such techniques. Tracking devices.
As I waited for the sun to set, I turned on the boob tube and flipped through some news channels and a re-run or two until I came across an Angels game. I couldn’t recall the last time I watched an Angels game. I loved baseball, especially the leisurely pace of the game. I liked the quiet moments when the pitcher stepped off the mound and gathered his thoughts while the world waited. My father was a minor league pitcher in Rancho Cucamonga. He was good, but not great, which is why he never made it past single-A ball. Still, surrounded by my three older brothers, I learned to love the game at an early age.
The Angels were up 3-2. Tim Salmon had just hit a line-drive single up the middle.
Those childhood memories seemed to belong to someone else. Someone I barely recalled, yet remembered in detail. I was a different person now. The pre-attack Samantha as opposed to the post-attack Samantha were two different people. Hell, two different species.
Salmon had a nice butt. So did most baseball players.
I rubbed my shoulder again as I watched the game. So how the hell did it heal so quickly? What caused this to happen? Ancient magic? If so, was this the same magic keeping me alive? Was I even truly alive? Or was I dead and didn’t know it?
Bengie Molina, the Angel’s catcher, ripped a line drive back to the pitcher. The pitcher doubled-up Salmon at first. End of inning.
Perhaps I was nothing more than a spirit or a ghost who didn’t have enough sense to move on. But on to where? I didn’t feel dead.
It was the eighth inning, and the Angels brought in their closer, El Toro, the bull. Percival was a big man with big legs. He looked like a bull. I liked the way he squinted and curled his tongue. He looked like a gunslinger. Except this gunslinger slung baseballs. He struck out the first batter in four pitches.
Perhaps I was a plague on the earth, an abnormality that needed to be cleansed. Perhaps the world would have been better off if the vampire hunter’s arrow had hit home.
More squinting from El Toro. I heard once that Percival needed to wear glasses but he chose not to while pitching, forcing himself to focus solely and completely on the catcher’s signals, blocking out all other distractions. On his next pitch, the batter popped out to center field.
Perhaps I didn’t need to know what kept me alive. Perhaps my existence was no more a mystery than life itself. Hell, where did any of us come from? That thought comforted me.
Percival struck out the next batter and pumped his fist. It was the bottom of the eighth inning.
I was suddenly content and at peace with myself. I would have ordered room service if fresh plasma was on the menu. Instead, I sipped from a bottle of water and let the day slip into night. And when the sun finally set, when my breathing seemed unrestricted and my body fully alert, I was ready to take on the world.
Oh, and the Angels won.
With all the time on my hands, maybe I’ll catch a night game this season.
52.
I first headed over to an auto repair shop in Fullerton.
The young mechanic came out to meet me as I pulled in front of an empty service garage. He wore a light blue workshirt with the name Rick stitched on a patch over his chest.
“Sorry, we’re closing,” said Rick when I rolled down my window.
I pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “All I need for you to do is lift my van.”
“Why?”
“I want to have a look underneath.”
“You want to? Why?”
“Because this is how I spend my Friday nights. Just lift the van for a few minutes, let me have a look underneath, and the twenty is yours.”
Rick thought about, then shrugged. “Hey, whatever you say, lady,” he said and took the twenty.
He motioned me forward. I drove into the narrow space, straddling the lift. I got out and Rick manipulated some nearby controls and soon the above-ground lift was chugging into action. The van rose slowly, wheels sagging down. A few minutes later, now at eye level, I thought the minivan looked forlorn and sort of helpless, like a wild horse being airlifted from an overflowing river.
“Okay,” Rick said. “Have at it. Just don’t hurt yourself. You need a flashlight?”
“No,”
“So what are you looking for?” he asked, standing next to me.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
The underside of the van was a mess of hoses, encased wires and steel shafts and rods. I walked slowly along the frame until I found it. Held in place by magnets and twisty-ties, the tracking device was about the size and shape of a cell phone.
“What the hell is that?” asked Rick.
“My TV remote,” I said. “Been looking everywhere for it.”
“No shit?” he said.
“No shit.”
53.
It took two nights of waiting before I saw the hunter again.
I had left the minivan parked in an alley behind a Vons grocery store. I knew the hunter would eventually investigate, and to do so he would have to physically enter the alley. A typical ambush, and I’m sure he suspected a trap. If so, he would be right. This was a trap.
I sat on top of the grocery store roof, near a huge rotating vent. My great, leathery wings were tucked
in behind me. The night was warm, but the breeze cooled things down. My skin was thick and rubbery. My new hide did wonders for keeping me warm, especially in the higher altitudes. I had discovered that I could remain in this form for as long as I wished. This was a good discovery, as it was nice shedding my old skin for this new one. People should try it sometime.
The alley was dark and mostly forgotten. My minivan attracted very little interest, even from hooligans. So that’s why when the bum appeared I perked up.
In my new form, my eyesight was razor sharp and eagle-like, an obvious necessity to high-flying predators. (And thinking of myself as a high-flying predator was almost too weird to, well, think about.) The bum was pushing a shopping cart filled to overflowing with what appeared to be junk. I immediately recognized the handsome face, the rugged jaw, the striking blue eyes, and the spiky blond hair shooting out from under a dirty and warped Dodger cap.
Nice costume, asshole.
As an added touch, he even dragged his leg a little behind him. The hunter was putting on quite a show, even hunching his shoulders now Quasimodo-like. I couldn’t help but smile. At least, I think I smiled. It was hard to tell; plus, I wasn’t even sure I had lips. At any rate, I intended to smile. Anyway, his shopping cart was, in fact, filled to the brim with soda cans. I wondered if he had purchased the cart and cans from a real bum, or collected the cans himself.
Probably just stole it, I thought.
He continued slowly down the alley, his head sweeping from side to side. Unfortunately for him, he never thought to look up. About fifty feet from the van, he removed a camouflaged crossbow from inside his tattered jacket. He armed it quickly with a bolt,. And then held it out in front of him like a gun.
He approached my van very, very carefully, leaving behind his cart full of cans. He went slowly from window to window, peering inside with a flashlight. I noted he had forgotten to limp.
I stayed put and waited for my opening.
He tried the doors, discovered they were locked, then popped one open with a Slim Jim. He goofed around inside a bit. Reappearing again, frowning. He seemed a bit perplexed. If anything, I had successfully confused the bastard.
The back door to the grocery store suddenly opened, yellow light splashing out into the alley. A kid appeared, hauling a big blue trash can. The hunter, distracted, turned toward the kid.
Now!
I leaped from my perch above.
54.
I tucked in my arms and shot down.
The hunter’s back was still to me. Wind thundered in my ears. The ground came up fast. More importantly, the hunter’s broad shoulders came up fast.
At the last possible second, I spread my wings wide. The leathery hide snapped open like a parachute. The hunter turned at the sound, swinging his crossbow around, but he was too late. My outstretched talons snatched him up by the shoulders. He cried out, screaming like a school girl. The crossbow tumbled away, skittering over the ground. I beat my wings powerfully, once, twice and finally lifted him off his feet and then slowly up out of the alley. He weighed a lot. More than I was prepared for. My arms and wings were strained to the max.
He struggled, kicking, as his arms were now pinned to his sides. He kicked the air futilely. We rose slowly into the sky together. I looked down in time to see the kid running back into the store. I think he wet himself.
Up we went. I was growing stronger, getting used to the added weight. The air grew colder. The hunter should be warm enough thanks to his homeless costume, which consisted of many layers of clothing.
I looked down just as he looked up. His face had drained of all color. He looked terrified. He should be terrified. A creature from his nightmares had snatched him away and for all he knew I was going to drop him into an active volcano. Not that there were many active volcanoes in Southern California.
Orange County spread before us, its hundred of thousands of blinking lights evidence that Thomas Edison had certainly been on to something. We flew over Disneyland, which glittered like its own happy constellation. Perhaps park guests would later report seeing a parade float gone amuck.
We reached the beach cities and finally the black ocean itself. Without the city lights, we were plunged into darkness. He stiffened here, and I think he might have whimpered. No doubt he thought I was going to drop him in. I still hadn’t ruled it out.
Much later, perhaps assuming he was safe, the hunter relaxed and sagged onto my talons. He spoke to me now, his voice rising up to me along with the smell of sea salt and brine, “How is your shoulder, Samantha Moon?”
The sound of my own name startled me. That this flying creature had a name was hard to believe. I didn’t bother answering. Even to my own ears my voice was nothing more than a shriek.
He went on, “I suppose you can’t speak in your changeling form. That’s fine, I’ll do all the talking. I know you’ve had a hell of a shitty week. I saw your children get taken away from you. And probably the last thing you needed was an arrow in your shoulder. So I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry.”
Apology accepted, I thought. I was nothing if not forgiving.
I continued at a steady pace, wings flapping smoothly and effortlessly, propelling us over the eternal black ocean. I adjusted endlessly to the varying wind conditions.
“I’ve never seen a vampire with a family before. You have two beautiful children. At first I thought the family was just a facade. Perhaps you were just courting these mortals for your own nefarious means. A new angle, you know, to acquire blood. So I assumed you were hideous and vile to formulate such a scheme. Until I saw that this was indeed your family. The little girl is your spitting image.”
He stopped talking, and the silence that followed was filled with the rippling of water over the ocean’s surface, and something else, something deep and unfathomable, perhaps the sound of millions upon millions of megatons of water turning and roiling and moving over the face of the earth. The ocean’s song, if you will, and it was beautiful and haunting.
The hunter told me about himself. His name was Randolf, and his brother, years ago, had been killed by a vampire. Randolf devoted his life to finding his brother’s killer, and in the process to kill every vampire he came across.
Ambitious, I thought. But problematic for me.
His search eventually led him to an old vampire living in a mansion in Fullerton. Randolf ambushed him, killing him with a bolt through the heart. In going through the old vampire’s papers, Randolf had come across my name.
He had, in effect, found the vampire who had attacked me.
Not just found him. Found him and killed him. Saved me a lot of trouble.
Randolf continued, “But he was not my brother’s killer. I still have some unfinished business.” He paused. “You are not like other vampires, Samantha. May I call you Samantha?”
I nodded; I’m not sure he saw me nod.
“In your hotel room I found packets of cow and pig blood in your refrigerator. You are not a killer. Not like the others.”
I glanced down. He was still wearing the dirty Dodger cap. His spiky blond hair trailed over his ears. His face was purple with cold.
I continued steadily out to sea. I found that distinguishing the black water from the black sky was difficult, but my innate compass kept us on a clear course, and my equally innate horizontal balance kept us from plunging into the ocean. I thought of the old joke: I just flew in from Chicago, and boy are my arms tired....
But my energy seemed limitless, even hauling a full grown man. Still, I didn’t want to fly too far out to sea; I needed to provide for enough time to safely return before the sun’s ascent.
In the far distance, on the surface of the ocean, I spied the twinkling of lights. I altered course and headed toward the lights. Randolf snorted from below. I suspected he had been dozing. A hell of a rude awakening for him, no doubt, hanging from the claws of a flying beast.
The lights turned out to be a ship. In fact, it was a cruise ship.
Smart boy.
“I get the hint,” he said, laughing. “You want me to stay away. And thank you for not killing me.”
There was a lot of activity on the deck of the cruise ship, so I circled the control tower, and set the hunter on the roof of the cabin. Whether anyone saw a black shape descend from the sky remained to be seen.
Randolf scrambled to his feet, no worse for wear. As I hovered above, as he held down his baseball cap against the downdraft of my wings, his astonishing blue eyes caught the starlight. He really was kind of hunky—even to a creature of the night.
He called up to me, “Have a safe flight home, Samantha Moon. Oh, and any idea where I’m headed?”
I had no idea.
I circled once and headed back home.
55.
Kingsley looked far more robust and pink than when I had last seen him.
We were at Mulberry Street Cafe in downtown Fullerton, sitting next to the window. It was raining again and the sidewalk was mostly empty of pedestrians. The rain had a trickle-down effect, if you will. Mulberry’s was quieter than normal.
Kingsley was wearing a long black duster, and leather Sole gloves, which he removed upon sitting. His dark slacks were darker where the rain had permeated. His face had a rosy red hue and his hair was perfectly combed. He was clean shaven and smelled of good cologne. He was everything a man should be. Gone were the tufts of hair along the back of his hand.
Pablo the headwaiter knew me well. He looked slyly at Kingsley, perhaps recalling that my husband was usually the man sitting across from me. The waiter was discreet enough not to say anything. He took our drink orders and slipped away.
“I’m impressed,” said Kingsley, glancing out the window. “Whenever I come here they seat me in the back of beyond.”