Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories

by J. R. Rain

  “Bullshit.”

  “Try me.”

  He gave me the hard stare, or tried to.

  Then nodded. “Fine, whatever.”

  “Camry,” I said, without looking at her. “Will he keep his word?”

  She didn’t answer. Not at first. I glanced at her. She continued staring ahead, unmoving.

  “Or I can call up the police. They are, after all, waiting downstairs. I’ll tell them Steel Nards killed a guy, based on your story. They may not get him for murder. But they’ll probably find something, especially with me on the job.”

  “Hey,” said Steel Eye. “I thought, you know, we was cool.”

  “We’re cool, unless you hurt her. Then we’re very much not cool.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  I studied him, then looked at Camry. “You want to go with him, or do you want protection? Or better yet, do you want to press charges?”

  She shot me a look that suggested she’d had enough.

  “Just leave him alone,” she said.

  “There it is,” I said sitting back.

  “You’re being mean to him.”

  I looked at Steel Eye. He shrugged. Camry got up and went over to him and hugged him deeply, bumping his nose. He yelped and she touched it gently, kissing the tip and now they were both apologizing, followed by careful kissing and tears from them both.

  I sighed and sat back, then called Sanchez.

  “What’s going on up there?” he asked.

  I looked at Camry and Steel Eye kissing deeply. I said, “We may need an ambulance.”

  “For who?”

  “For me,” I said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  The Fire Lord

  The wind carried the smell of the sea as the young man squatted motionless on the edge of a cliff. Behind him, the town was ablaze. His town, his home town. Before him, the sea was in turmoil, and great whitecaps crashed against the black rocks far below.

  He was tall and lean, and had many times been compared to the giants in the far north. He had never seen such giants, for theirs was a sheltered life, a simple life.

  His clothes had been burned from his flesh, and he stood naked in the chilled wind from the sea, yet still somehow feeling the waves of heat from the fire that had engulfed half of his town. There was nary a scar on his skin.

  A fire he had walked through.

  He recalled again running from the stable, feeling his clothing falling free from his body, burning away like bark from birch in a hearth. At first, Gravere thought he had been extremely lucky. But as he checked his body and found no burns, no damage of any kind, he knew something was very, very wrong...and that his life was about to change forever.

  And as Gravere had burst through the burning doorway, gasping and screaming, he caught the wide-eyed stares of those rushing to fight the fire. Their rushing had stopped immediately when they had saw the young man emerge from the fire unscathed. Gravere had naturally fled, all the way to the cliff’s edge.

  Now from his vantage point, Gravere could see that perhaps half of the town was going up in flames. As he watched the flames, cold and scared and certain he was dreaming, a bright light suddenly appeared from the darkened skies above and descended slowly. Gravere, shocked, watched as it reached the ground before him.

  It looks, thought Gravere, edging a half-step backwards toward the cliff’s edge, as if someone set ablaze a boulder, a boulder which is shining with a light as white as my gran’da’s hair.

  “You are my son,” came a voice from the white fire, a voice that crackled like the sound of so many burning sticks.

  Gravere, admittedly, could barely make out the words, what with the crashing surf, thundering wind and the crackling fire ball hovering before him. Still, he edged further out onto the cliff, his right heel now hovering in space. A brisk wind rode up the face of the cliff and really gave his fanny a chill.

  The white flame glowed even whiter, a white so deep that it brought to Gravere visions of the linens of the gods. That is, until the flaming white rock dropped to the moist soil below where it proceeded to crackle and hiss like an irritated, albeit poisonous, chicken snake. The white fire promptly went out.

  What remained was a charred and lumpy mass that began to take on the shape of a man. A longish man who was, in fact, now lying face-down in the mire. The man raised his mud-stained face. “How come I can’t ever get this right?”

  Gravere was not certain if the question was rhetorical, and, certainly, Gravere had no ready answer for him; at least, not an answer that would be useful. So the young man remained silent, which is what his ma always told him to do when he had nothing of importance to say.

  The man sat up and sluiced his face clean with the edge of his hand. As he did so, Gravere recalled the man’s words...words that Gravere, until now, hadn’t quite pieced together.

  “Sire, did you say something about being my father?” Gravere’s voice was surprisingly calm, considering he had recently walked through fire and now stood at the edge of a cliff after witnessing a burning man descend from the sky.

  The man continued scraping his face clean. “I said you were my son. There’s a difference.”

  “What’s the difference?” asked Gravere, noting that his toes were growing tired supporting his entire weight like the toes of those lithe dancers, the ones who come to his town at the beginning of Spring and at the end of Summer each year, are somehow able to do. For me to stand on my toes well, thought Gravere, I would need much practice. However, I think I could do it. In fact, if this fire-spirit doesn’t kill me, perhaps I will take up practicing standing on my toes, though I don't quite as of yet know what good it will do me.

  “The phrase ‘You are my son’ was spoken to you allegorically, a sort of metaphysical kinship from one soul to another, expressed most accurately with the ‘son’ declaration. ‘I am your father’ conjures images of physical paternalism and religiosity and—in a universe not too far away—a popular movie, all of which are unrelated to this situation.”

  “What’s a movie?”

  “Never mind that,” said the once-burning man. “I am here to spare you from death. No need to thank me, for I am just doing my job. However, I wasn’t supposed to come into your life until years from now. But I made a judgment call, and I felt you needed some explanations before you did the final deed.”

  “What ‘final deed’ of which do you refer?”

  “Why, you were going to cast yourself from this very cliff.”

  “Actually, the thought never crossed my mind.”

  “It didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you so close to the cliff?”

  “I do my best thinking here.”

  “I see, well, never mind all that. Take my hand. Let’s get you away from that edge. You’re making me nervous.”

  Gravere, against his better judgment—after all, he still didn’t know who or what this entity was—held out his hand. A yank later, and Gravere found himself face-first in the cold mud. Gravere never cared much for mud, and he certainly didn’t care much for falling face first in the stuff. As he stood, wiping himself clean, he said, “What manner of being are you and why are you here?”

  The fire-spirit smiled and his pearly teeth gleamed in the night. “There’s some spunk in you yet, my boy! My name is Chianti and I will be your mentor.”

  “Mentor for what?”

  “All in due time, lad. For now, you need only to know that you are part of something much bigger than either of us, so big that few mortals and only a handful of immortals could ever wrap their minds around it.” Chianti smiled and some of that inner fire seemed to shine through his face. “Why, a grand plan played across the biggest stage of all, a grand plan of epic proportions, and you, young sir, are at the center of it all. You need only to take my hand...to begin this marvelous journey.” The fire spirit reached out his hand.

 
“I have some questions first.”

  The fire spirit’s hand wavered a little. “Yes, of course.”

  “What if I don’t want to be part of something so big that few mortals and only a handful of immortals could ever wrap their minds around it?”

  “You can’t not be part of something so big when you are already part of it.”

  “But who says I’m part of it?”

  “It has been written.”

  “By who?”

  “By the gods.”

  “Where is it written?”

  “Upon the Sacred Scroll of All That Is.”

  “I would like to see this Sacred Scroll.”

  “Well, you can’t. No mortal can see it until the end of the Last Age.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I see this Sacred Scroll.”

  “Ah, I see the confusion. You see, we’ve barely begun the First Age—”

  “Then how do you know what’s on the scroll?”

  “I’m not a mortal, you see. I am a fire elemental.”

  “So you have seen this scroll?”

  “Er, no. But I have it on good authority—”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I see some proof.”

  “But...but your destiny awaits.”

  “All the more reason for me to want to see the scroll for myself.”

  “But, no mortal—”

  “Can see it until the end of the Last Age, I get it. Fine, what is my destiny, then?”

  “In short, you are to be the next great Fire Lord.”

  “Fire Lord, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what, exactly, does the Fire Lord do?”

  “Why, he does all manner of things, boy. He is the lord of all that burns. He commands all fiery elementals in this world and the next. But first you must learn to master the power within before you can save the world. That’s where I come in.”

  “Excuse me, but save the world from what?”

  “From the Dark Three, who are amassing a great army in the wastelands to the south.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “My master has told me, of course.”

  “Who is your master?” asked Gravere.

  “I am not at liberty to say, but rest assured, he is a great demigod who lives in the heart of the Frosted Mountains to the far, far west.”

  “I am not assured, and I am surely not rested. I would like to speak to your Master.”

  “He is away.”

  “Away where?”

  “Seeking counsel with the gods.”

  “Then I shall wait here until he is finished.”

  “But time means nothing to my master and the other gods. A day for them is ten years for us. It is better that you come with me—”

  “Come with you where?”

  “To the Moaning Swamp at the base of the Tranquil Tor, where your training will begin.”

  “Training to be the Fire Lord?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What does my training consist of?”

  “All shall be revealed upon your arrival, as it is written.”

  “Upon the Sacred Scroll?”

  “No, this has been smitten upon the Templar Tablet, carried down from the Mountain of Pain by the Children of the One.”

  “The One what?”

  “The One Soul—look, are you coming or not?”

  “Maybe. Now, this One Soul...where can I find him?”

  “Her. And she is found in the Land Between Lands, in the Time Between Time.”

  “Now we’re getting someplace. Where, exactly, is this Land Between Lands? And when, exactly, is the Time Between Time? Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

  For the fire elemental had begun ascending into the sky again. “Back to the Enchanted Realm of Dancing Flames. I’m too old for this shit.”

  “But I still have more questions. Now, where is this Enchanted Realm of Dancing Flames...and why is it that your skin glows white...and how do you float on the air in such a manner...and who are the Children of the One...and why is it called the Mountain of Pain...and...”

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Castle for Sale

  Once upon a time there was an old vampire.

  He lived in a big castle in a forgotten forest, far, far away from any humans...and any inhumans, for that matter.

  He lived a quiet, uneventful life, feasting on the rodents that were unlucky enough to inadvertently reveal themselves or to even squeak behind a nearby wall. The old vampire could, after all, command them to show themselves...and, once compelled, would scuttle right up to him, usually shaking with fear. Yes, mice can shake with fear. The old vampire had seen it and, secretly, quite enjoyed. Perhaps too much.

  However, the old vampire did not enjoy death, which is why he killed the vermin quickly, plunging his teeth into their necks and biting off their little heads, flinging them off to the side, where they would roll about like so many marbles.

  Okay maybe he liked death sometimes, but certainly not enough to kill humans. Okay that was a lie. He loved killing humans, too, which is why he had forced himself to live in this castle, far away from anyone, especially humans. The old vampire, you see, loved seeing the fear in the eyes of man—and women and children, for that matter. He also loved to see the sweat on their brow and loved, perhaps too much, when they sometimes pissed themselves or shit themselves in fear. He would, of course, never admit to the later.

  Anyway, he loved death and killing and fear too much...so much so that he had nearly wiped out a small village in a remote Alaskan harbor. Which is how he ended up here, in a castle in the forest, far away from all those lovely humans who could sweat and show fear and piss and shit. The old vampire thought he was doing a noble thing, giving up human blood. In fact, he had convinced himself he could live without it. And so far, he had lasted, precisely, nine hours.

  This was, after all, his very first day in his new castle in the damnable woods that were just too far away from prying humans eyes. Eyes that could show fear. Blessed fear.

  Once upon a time there was an old vampire who lived, precisely, nine hours and fifteen minutes in an old castle in a forgotten forest far away from any humans...an old vampire who put said castle on sale just before feasting on his real estate agent...and everyone else in the office.

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Vampire Dawn: Outtake

  Author’s Note: Vampire Dawn (Vampire for Hire #6) was a tough book for me to finish. I wrote, I believe, six different endings before settling on one. But one of them has always haunted me. I liked it. Except, sadly, I couldn’t make it work. I liked the set-up: Sam saving her kidnapped sister. Except, of course, I never had her sister kidnapped...or even involved in the storyline. So, to make it work, I would have had to go back and layer her sister more thoroughly throughout the story. I wasn’t sure that would work. Plus, I didn’t really like the idea of using her sister as a plot ploy. So, the idea got scrapped, and the scene cut...until now. Please note, this alternate ending was never quite finished, but I think you might still enjoy it. —J.R.

  Vampire Dawn

  At the base of the stairway, an amorphous entity materialized before me. It kept materializing and soon took on the shape of a young woman—a young woman with a deep gash across her throat. She appeared to be hovering in mid-air, as ghosts are wont to do.

  As I stepped forward, she blocked my path. She lifted what was supposed to be a hand, but was really just a blurred stump. I tried to step around her but she blocked my path again. Each time she moved, her mostly shapeless body lost what shape it had, until it swarmed again and reformed. She shook what was left of her head.

  I paused in this lower level hallway, a level that was far colder than the floor just above. A level that smelled of death.

  “I’m okay,” I whispered. “But thank you.”

  She shook her head again, and kept on shaking it even as I ste
pped through her, scattering her glowing filaments like so many frightened fish.

  Shivering, I moved forward again, toward a door at the far end of the hallway. Behind that door, hiding behind a pillar of some sort, was a man waiting to kill me. Of that I was sure.

  And behind him, in a room that was filled with light, was my sister.

  I was sure of it.

  Suddenly pissed beyond control, I marched down the hallway, and gave the killer what he was waiting for.

  Me.

  With one raised foot and a lot of rage, I kicked the door open. So hard that the whole damn thing collapsed forward, including some of the door frame.

  * * *

  The sound was deafening.

  I was here. They knew I was here. Enough with the charade. Besides, I wasn’t standing in the doorway. I was off to the side, standing behind the mangled door frame as dust billowed everywhere.

  I doubted these guys were trained killers. Not like the vampire hunter I’d met last year, a man who systematically hunted down the world’s vampires. No, these guys were punks. Sickos. I imagined they lured and deceived their victims. At least, that was the impression I’d had when I touched the walls. Women were lured, and, in the case of Brian Meeks, people who worked here as well.

  How they captured and killed vampires, I didn’t know, but I was beginning to get some ideas, especially if my hunch proved to be true.

  For now, though, I had a bastard with a crossbow to deal with.

  Of course, what I should do next was still up in the air. I hadn’t really thought things through much further than kicking down the door.

  Whoever he was, I knew he was alone. Only one set of excited lungs were breathing at the far end of the hall. How many more were beyond this hall, I didn’t know. How many people it took to run a blood ring, I didn’t know that either. The fewer the better. In fact, I doubted the workers I had seen in the theater were truly privy to what was going on behind these closed doors.