Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories

by J. R. Rain

  He reached for the recently-saved coffee. As he drank, he continued to take me in, his eyes going from my hair to my face to my body, scanning. They might have lingered on my boobs a little. I’d give him a pass. This time.

  “I think I know why you’re here,” he said. I waited for it, expecting the worst. And by worst, I meant some cheesy come-on line. Instead, he surprised me by saying, “You think you know me, and it’s killing you.”

  I nodded, impressed. “Something like that.”

  “Or maybe you're here because you like my beard.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He sighed. “Well, I like it.”

  “Someone has to.”

  “Ouch,” he said, but smiled anyway.

  He set down his drink and glanced at his laptop when a ping sounded. I would know that ping from anywhere. It was an instant message, or an IM. Fang and I had used IMs often in the past. The big blond writer ignored the IM. On impulse, I reached out with my mind to see if I could get a read on him and was surprised that he was completely closed off to me. Another immortal? Interesting, as only immortals were closed off to me.

  He nodded after a moment and said, “Yeah, you seem familiar. Actually, you seem really, really familiar.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “No,” he said. “Just the ones who sit across from me at Starbucks and who look so damn familiar that it’s driving me crazy.” He paused and pretended to think about it. “So, I guess maybe once a day.”

  I laughed. No, I snorted, which made him laugh. I heard Tammy giggling behind us. My telepathic daughter would be picking all of this up. Yes, my kids were weird. And, no, I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

  “Did I used to date you?” I suddenly asked.

  He laughed some more and looked me over again. To the betterment of his health, he didn’t linger on my boobs this time. Good boy. Someone raised him well. He said, “Oh, I would remember if I used to date you.”

  “Is that a compliment?” I asked

  “Very much so.”

  “Good, then I won’t have to give you a public noogie.”

  “A public noogie?”

  “Yeah, you want one after all?”

  He raised his hand and laughed hard. Easy to get along with. Effortless familiarity. God, I knew him from somewhere. I tried again to penetrate his thoughts. No luck. An immortal? Geez, he didn’t seem immortal. He seemed very normal. Too normal.

  When he was done laughing, he said, “You sound kind of badass.”

  “I have to be.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I’ve got two kids.”

  He nodded. “Mad mom in minivan and all that?”

  “Close,” I said, thinking of my minivan parked just outside the doors here, a minivan with a fresh dent along the passenger side fender, a dent that was the result of me backing into a shopping cart. Lord knows my inner warning system goes haywire when someone has ill intentions for me, but far be it to alert me when I’m about to put a $700 dent in my van.

  Stupid warning system.

  I studied him some more. The beard. The blue eyes. The chipped front teeth. The overbite. Jesus, this was driving me crazy.

  “It’s driving you crazy, isn’t it?” he asked, grinning. He seemed to be enjoying this a hell of a lot more than I was. The bastard.

  “Bonkers,” I said. I chewed my lip. Tapped my nails on the circular, slightly scarred table. I asked him where he went to high school. He told me. No dice. But his high school hadn’t been very far, just a city away.

  “What year did you graduate?” he asked.

  I told him. He shook his head, reached for his iced coffee. When he was done sipping from it, he set it back into the wet ring. Bull’s eye.

  We next went through friends, jobs, boyfriends, and girlfriends. There was no connection anywhere. No friends of friends. Nothing. His name, I learned, was Jon.

  “Maybe we sat next to each other on an airplane trip,” he offered. “Or shared a seat on a train.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe our eyes met across a crowded room, and we’ve never forgotten each other.”

  “Romantic, but no.”

  “Maybe I know you from another life,” he suggested.

  Okay, that hit me. Another life. Another time. Another place. And something in the here and now was tugging at me, reminding me that I knew him. Great. “Maybe,” I said.

  “But there’s no way to know for sure,” he said. “And that sucks.”

  “Totally,” I said, then, feeling defeated, motioned to his laptop. “So, what are you working on, Hemingway?”

  “A novel.”

  “What kind of novel?”

  “A murder mystery.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Maybe I’ve read one of your books.”

  “Did you just snap your fingers?”

  I giggled a little. “Yes.” God, he was so easy to get along with. “What’s your name?”

  “John Grisham.”

  I stared at him, knowing my mouth had dropped open stupidly. “Really.”

  “No, that was a joke.”

  I shook my head and looked back at Tammy who was happily slurping from her drink and kicking her feet, watching us, listening to us. Even from across the room. Weird kids, I thought.

  Hey, she shot back.

  I smiled and gave her a small wave. She stuck her tongue out at me.

  “Your kid?” he asked.

  “My monster.”

  “She’s cute for a monster,” he said.

  I like him, thought Tammy.

  Shh, I hissed silently. And stop being so nosy.

  “So what do you do?” he asked.

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Serious?”

  “Serious as my mortgage payment.”

  “I used to be a private eye,” he said.

  I snapped my head up. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s where I know you.”

  “I doubt it. I worked in L.A. and mostly I worked alone.”

  “Damn.”

  He grinned. “Double damn.”

  “So, you write books under Jon?”

  “No, I use a pen name.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Maybe I had read his books after all. “What’s your pen name?”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “No,” he finally said.

  “No, what?”

  “No, I won’t tell you.”

  My heart sank even as my frustration rose. “I could make you tell me.”

  “Because you’re a mad mom in a minivan?”

  “Because I have my ways,” I said. “Why won’t you tell me your pen name?”

  “Because this is more fun.”

  “To walk off into the sunset and we’ll always wonder?”

  “Something like that. Except I’m going to get into my SUV and drive over to my sister’s house for dinner.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Yes, I do.”

  He laughed some more and began gathering his bags, and as he did so, I noticed the time on his watch was two hours fast.

  “Your watch is off,” I said.

  He frowned and looked down. “Off?”

  “It’s two hours fast.”

  He looked again. “No, it’s the right time.” He looked at me as I’d lost my marbles. Maybe I had. I looked at the time on my iPhone. Yup, his was two hours off. I showed him the time difference.

  He leaned over and looked. “Weirdness.”

  Then, when he had everything packed, he turned to me and said, “Well, it was certainly fun meeting you, whoever you are.”

  “Don’t you want my name?”

  “No.”

  “Rot in hell,” I said, and crossed my arms.

  He laughed loudly, throwing back his head. When he was done, he slung his cool satchel
over his shoulder. “Till we meet again.”

  “Bastard.”

  He smiled and nodded and left through the side doors. As he passed Tammy, he gave her a small wave. She smiled and waved back.

  Once outside, he looked back at me through the big glass window. He winked, adjusted his bag, and, no, he didn’t disappear or fade away. He walked beyond the window and out of sight. No doubt to his SUV.

  Whoever the hell he was.

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Vampire vs. Bigfoot

  I’ve lived in many places and in many times.

  For now, Seattle suits me. If Twilight got anything right, it’s that overcast days play less havoc on vampires. Not much less, granted, but enough.

  Unlike Twilight, I don’t live with an adopted family of vampires. I live alone, as I have for many centuries. And as I pulled up to my current home, I actually had to think hard about how many centuries it has been.

  Four of them. Four hundred and seventy-two years, to be exact.

  Almost five centuries.

  A half of a millennium.

  Jesus, I’m old. And rich. After all, a vampire acquires a lot of money in five hundred years, and my own was spread liberally around banks the world over, not to mention secret stashes of gold and silver in various caves and beaches.

  And now here I was, in Seattle, living yet another life, in another place, another time. The world continues on. People come and go. Technologies expand. Waistlines expand, too. But I will always be twenty-five.

  Forever young, as they say.

  I pull into my garage and shut off the car, which I sit in as the garage door grinds shut behind me. I could do anything, of course. Go anywhere, be anyone. There are people out there—very talented and corrupt people—who can turn you into anyone, in any country.

  But, for now, I am staying put, living among the hippies and hipsters and baristas. Why? Why do I deal with the rain and gloom and cold?

  The answer might surprise you.

  Then again, it might not.

  After all, Washington State is known more than just for its legal pot, gay marriages and trendy coffee shops.

  It’s known for something monstrous stalking its woods.

  Yes, I’m here to hunt the ultimate prize.

  I’m here to hunt Bigfoot.

  * * *

  Don’t laugh.

  I’m being serious. I’ve tasted all types of man and woman and child. All ethnicities, all age ranges. I’ve feasted on the very old to the very young. Yes, I’m a monster. I’ve never claimed to be otherwise. I have feasted on puppies and bear cubs, on lions and endangered rhinos. Yes, I am a monster.

  And now I will hunt and feast upon the greatest prize of them all.

  That is, of course, if he really exists.

  * * *

  I’ve spent many months planning and plotting.

  I’ve even watched some of those ridiculous shows on TV, those shows that are all growl and no results.

  Foolish mortals. Yes, I say that in jest, but it’s the truth. Never send a human to do what a vampire can do better. I am, of course, the perfect hunting machine. My ears can pick out the smallest sounds, the slightest rustling—breathing from across great distances. My eyes see deep into the dark. Hell, to my eyes, there is no dark. The night is alive with incandescent light. And I’m fast. So much faster than those bumbling idiots weighed down by camera equipment and backpacks.

  I will wear nothing but the clothing on my back.

  It will just be me and them.

  And I will find them, to.

  Oh yes, I will.

  The ultimate prize.

  * * *

  The woods are dark.

  But not to my eyes. No, to my eyes, the woods are alive with supernaturally bright filaments of lights. Thousands of them, millions of them. All melding together to illuminate the night. At least, for creatures like me.

  Hunters like me.

  It is late, perhaps 2:00 in the morning. I have about four hours left before sunrise. And when the sun does rise, I want to be long gone...with a belly full of a rare and very prized blood source.

  I’m in a prime spot along the Olympic Peninsula. In fact, not far from the now famous Forks, with its glittering vampires. Lord, we are so much more than fictional heroes...or villains. Writers only partially get our stories right. Mostly they get us wrong. Granted, I’ve made it my life purpose to cover my tracks, to conceal my true nature. But a few of us get sloppy, and a few of us even fall in love with mortals. I don’t fall in love. I take what I want.

  Like now, for instance.

  Now, I want to taste the blood of this legendary creature. This sasquatch. Yes, legendary even to vampires. You see, we vampires don’t know all, see all. We’re not plugged into some supernatural network. I, like the bungling idiots you see on TV, have to find them just like everyone else.

  Except, of course, I will find them.

  All I want is one.

  One beautiful creature to feed upon. One beautiful creature to destroy. To claim, to be conquered by me.

  Yes, I’m the asshole of the vampire world.

  Pray you don’t cross paths with me.

  * * *

  Speaking of paths, I find myself on a narrow one now.

  A game trail, no doubt, one that winds through thick ferns and stinging nettle. Of course, unlike with mortals, the stinging lasts only seconds. It’s good to be me. Bad to be anything I’m hunting.

  Like sasquatch.

  Speaking of which, I am in a location along the densely forested peninsula that was considered a hotbed for bigfoot sightings. I know this because I feasted on the director of a popular Bigfoot organization just last night. Such a shame he died tragically in a house wire. Damn faulty wires.

  I chuckled now as I moved stealthily through the forest, my hiking boots whispering over tree roots, compacted dirt and fallen leaves. I doubted even an alert dog would hear me. Hell, I barely heard me...and that’s saying something.

  I sensed something out here. Something that was neither animal nor human. What that something was remained to be seen. Or remained to be feasted upon.

  Centuries of hiding—hell, millenniums of hiding—were about to be undone in one wild night of hunting. By a real hunter.

  By a vampire.

  Quickly I moved through the forest, pausing only briefly to listen, to sniff the air—sasquatches are known for giving off a tremendous stink—and to feel. Yes, feel. Vampires use a sort of sixth sense. An ability to feel our way through any situation.

  Like I said, we are the ultimate hunters.

  I was thinking about that now, reveling in my, well, greatness, when something thunderous crashed into me.

  * * *

  Rarely have I been hit so hard.

  In fact, I could never think of a harder impact, especially one that sent me tumbling head over ass through a tangle of blackberry bushes.

  And I mean a tangle. As I extricated myself from the thorny vines, I was a bleeding mess. But, being who I am, the wounds healed quickly.

  As the kids say, that’s how I roll.

  I carefully scanned my surroundings. Whatever had hit me was gone, having slipped back into the shadows, hidden even from my near-perfect night vision.

  I heard a whispering of sound to my right, perhaps the slightest brush of a foot over leaves—remember, nothing escapes my hearing—when something slammed into me hard enough for me to believe I was in the path of a charging rhino. Which I had been once, before I feasted upon the creature (and made it appear to have been a poacher’s handiwork).

  Anyway, there was no rhino in these forests. There was, in fact, nothing big enough in the Olympic Peninsula to hit me as hard as I had been hit. And as stealthily. Grizzly bears had long been pushed to extinction in Washington State. And black bears were far too slow and loud and stupid to hit me with such precision, silence and strength.

  So what had hit me?

  I d
idn’t know, but whatever was out there had me spinning around as I scrambled to my feet, had me looking wildly over my shoulders and behind me and up into the trees—had me feeling, well, mortal.

  And for the first time in a long, long time, I felt fear. Real fear.

  I hate when that happens.

  So I continued scanning the forest, feeling my heart thumping in my chest for the first time in years. I could not think of the last time that anyone—or anything—had gotten the upper hand on me.

  The forest was silent.

  No, not quite silent. I can hear what might be breathing. Except it’s coming from seemingly everywhere at once. I keep turning in circles, doing my damndest to get a handle on what is out here; in particular, on what is taking these small, shallow, controlled breaths.

  I reached out with my mind. I can do this. I can do many things to hunt and kill and feed. Except I was having difficulty focusing now. Knowing there was something out there, something seemingly faster and stronger than me was unnerving.

  Impossible, I think. I am the greatest hunter. The most successful hunter.

  I hear my own breathing now which is strange, since I don’t need to breathe. No, I was breathing out of an old habit. A habit of fear. A fear of being hunted.

  There. I hear another sound. A tree branch snapping, and now I was moving quickly, covering the open space of the forest floor quickly, pouncing upon the site where I’d just heard the snap—

  Except there’s nothing here.

  I turn again, spinning, when something reaches around my neck, something much bigger than me, something more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced before. Something inhuman. Hell, something not of this earth.

  It is a hand, clamped around my throat, lifting me off the ground.

  I fight it, using my own great strength, strength that has hunted and killed and maimed and spread fear around the globe for centuries.

  Except I...couldn’t...fight it.

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  This isn’t happening.

  The hand continues squeezing, and rising, lifting me off my feet. My hiking shoes dangle as I continued fighting, struggling, even as I felt my neck being literally crushed.