Moon Mourning (Samantha Moon Origins Book 2)

by J. R. Rain

“What?” I don’t move or look.

  “You’re collapsed in the middle of the living room.”

  “What time is it?” I mutter.

  “Five after seven.”

  Damn. “I’m going to be late for work,” I say, or think I say. There is a very good chance I might have incoherently mumbled.

  “Yeah. Are you feeling up for it? I mean, I can call Fortunato and tell him you’ve had a relapse or something.”

  Most of me wants him to do that. Like, ninety percent of me. The idea of not moving is oh so tempting. Somehow, the ten percent wins. “I got it.”

  I struggle to push myself up to my knees, and squint at the curtains. They’re heavy, and closed, but the feeble amount of sunlight coming through them is still enough to hurt my eyes if I look directly at the window.

  Tammy zips by in a cute black dress with a panda face on the chest, the furry white parts filled with glitter. I swing out an arm and catch her in a hug, standing with my squealing daughter clinging to me. The warmth of her body is like a balm for my soul, and after spinning the giggling child around a few times, I feel like me again.

  She runs to the kitchen when I put her down. Danny takes care of breakfast while I go get ready for work. I’m going to have to buy stock in a sunblock company at this rate. Today, I manage to only cook myself a little bit getting the kids loaded into the Momvan. I drop Anthony off at Mary Lou’s, then swing by the preschool. To avoid a repeat of last time, I cheat and drive into the bus lane right by the front door, parking under the awning. If anyone gives me lip about it, I’ll claim xeroderma pigmentosum and call it a medical need to stay in the shade.

  No one bothers me, and I walk Tammy inside to her classroom.

  By the time I get to the office, I’m so woozy and out of it, I give serious consideration to curling up on the break room sofa and sleeping. It would be much more direct to tell Nico ‘I quit,’ not to mention look better on my record, than to be fired for sleeping on the job… so I trudge to my desk. Bryce goes by with a Boston cream sticking out of his mouth. He points across the office and mumbles something, probably about there being donuts in the conference room.

  “Thanks.” I smile. “Still on a restricted diet.”

  His next mumble sounds like, “Your loss.”

  I fall into my chair and boot up the computer.

  Reports and audits go by in a mesmerizing blur, until a sharp impact to my face startles me awake. I’m slumped over the desk. Damn. Not again. With a grunt, I sit up and resume working―after deleting three lines of gibberish from cheek-typing.

  “Wow, you must be hungry,” says Chad. “How’s that qwerty sandwich taste?”

  Except my brain has long since shut off. Like a zombie, I turn my head toward him and blink. “What?”

  He mutes a laugh. “Qwerty sandwich. You went face down on the keyboard.”

  “Oh. Had a rough night.” I fidget my fingers at my shirt like a kid caught doing something wrong. “Look, Chad… I’ve been having trouble sleeping since the attack.”

  “Would coffee conflict with your medical diet?” he asks.

  “Probably, but…” I’m so tired I can’t even yawn. “Maybe I’ll cheat this once.”

  “I got it.” Chad winks, and runs off.

  I try to focus on the screen and muddle through the report of Joey Bell’s inspection. I think he’s involved with something ‘off the books’ that’s giving him money he’s not reporting to the government. His parents’ tax returns don’t suggest they’d have the kind of money to be able to buy a television like the one he had on a whim. Unless they’ve got money hidden away in a Cayman Islands bank or something.

  “Here you are,” says Chad, setting a paper cup on my desk.

  The scent of coffee is so strong my eyes water. Because of it, I realize I’m not picking up Chad’s musky scent as much. His scent? Great, I get attacked by a man-dog-something-or-other and now, I’m a bloodhound too. I should not be smelling people.

  “Thanks.” I pick up the coffee and take a long swig.

  “Holy crap, Sam… How’d you do that?”

  “Do what?” I blink at him. “Drinking is not difficult. Raise cup to lips, tilt back, swallow. Even Anders can figure that out.”

  “Bite me,” says Bryce from over the cube wall.

  Not something one should say to a vampire. I laugh internally. Yeah, right. Vampires.

  Chad points. “That’s, like, fresh. Just came out of the pot. It should be, you know, way too hot for you to chug like that.”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t feel hot. Maybe I’m just so tired I don’t care.”

  “Uhh, wow. Right. Maybe nerve damage from the attack or something?” Chad leans over me, looking at the screen. I get a strong hit of his scent again. Not cologne. Of him. Jesus. “Got anything?”

  I next catch myself staring at his exposed wrist where his plum-colored shirt has pulled up. Again, that odd tightness spreads over my face and jaw. The sense of blood flowing beneath his skin mesmerizes me. For a moment, I feel like he’s a helpless little morsel who couldn’t do a thing to stop me if I―Get a grip, Sam! And since when could I sense flowing blood? Good Lord. Wow. Did I just invoke God? Now I know I’m losing my mind. But then again… if vampires exist, who’s to say…

  “Checking on the parents,” I mutter, before taking another long sip of coffee. “It doesn’t look like they have the financial means to buy a TV like the one we saw out of the blue. I’m sure something’s going on with Joey.”

  “Me too.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I’m running down all his known associates, seeing if I can find anything.”

  “Sounds good,” I mutter into the cup, keeping my eyes off his wrists or neck, or skin in general. That I saw Chad as something weak and pathetic, beneath me, prey easy for the taking, shook me to my core.

  Chad returns to his desk, and I drain the coffee in three huge gulps. He’s right. It’s steaming, but doesn’t bother me to drink. Oh, please, if anything about this nightmare can change… please let me be able to have coffee.

  Whether it’s the core of warmth in my gut or the actual effect of caffeine, I’m not sure, but I do feel more alert for a short while. Real short. Strong nausea slams me perhaps five minutes later. Two streams of still-hot coffee spray out of my nose, some spattering on the keyboard as I wrench my head around so my mouth is over the wastebasket.

  Fortunately, I’d only glugged down an eight-ounce cup, so the eruption isn’t epic. But ouch. Hot coffee in my sinuses stings. I cough, sneeze, and gag, and I think I may have shed a few java tears. I enjoy the fresh new hell of having still-steaming coffee pour out of my nose for a few seconds.

  Chad appears in the cube opening. “You okay?”

  “I’ve been better.” I lean back in my chair, tissue clamped over my face, feeling spent.

  He eyes the splatter. “Wow, you weren’t kidding…”

  “Ugh. My eyes are burning.” Except, of course, the stinging only lasts a few seconds, and then I feel fine again.

  Chad runs off and returns with some paper towels. Fortunately, my keyboard doesn’t short out. After mopping up the mess, I dive back into the electronic investigation.

  The next thing I know, a hand on my shoulder shakes me until I sit up. My cheek peels away from the keyboard, and I stare up at Nico.

  Oops. I’m in trouble.

  “Sam?”

  “I, umm. Sorry. Been having issues sleeping ever since the attack. Nightmares and stuff.”

  Nico nods. “That’s understandable, but we’ll need to get that under control. Can’t have you passing out at the desk.”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Do you want me to set up a session with Dr. Burdine?”

  “Not sure. I think I can get a handle on it. Week or two? If I’m still having issues, I’ll take you up on that, okay?” What I’m going through would probably make our department psychiatrist go see a psychiatrist himself… or get me committed.

  Nico hits me with his ‘appr
aising stare.’ The top of his perfect silver-and-pewter coif catches the light and glows, making the darker pewter highlights stand out. Chad’s behind him, wearing an ‘oh, shit’ face.

  “I need to see you two in my office, about the Brauerman case,” says Nico. “Few minutes to collect yourself?”

  “Thanks. Yeah. Be right there.”

  As Nico walks off, I lean back and wipe my face. I’m not really having nightmares, unless the one I’m presently experiencing counts. In fact, since the fiery beach one, I haven’t dreamed at all. Whenever I do manage to sleep, it feels less like sleep and more like I’ve lost hours. Eyes closed and open in an instant, and time has vanished. None of it makes sense. I’m barely able to function during the day, but as soon as the sun goes down, I’m charged with the energy of an eighteen-year-old on crack. Heightened senses, aversion to sunlight, craving for blood… Wow, I sure do sound like a vampire, but that’s so patently ridiculous all I can do is laugh at myself.

  “How do I look?” I ask Chad.

  “Hungover―oh, damn, did Nico catch you zonked?”

  I look down. “Yeah. I can’t help it. Staring at numbers and reports…”

  Chad chuckles. “Right. This place would knock Jim Carrey out cold after five minutes. Maybe even Robin Williams, back in the day.”

  I laugh. “Hey, do I have keyboard squares on my face?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, there’s that.” I stand. “Let’s go see what Nico wants.”

  We head down the cube row to the end, and into the office at the corner.

  Nico hands us both a pair of blue subpoena folders. “The Brauerman case is going before a federal grand jury in a few days. You’re both expected to testify.”

  Chad nods. “No problem. Did they subpoena Sam Moon or Lorelei Duke?” Chad, of course, is referring to my simple, country bumpkin alter ego I’d adopted to bust a HUD scammer last month. You know, back when I was normal. Pre-attack Sam.

  I snicker. “Please tell me I don’t need to put on that ridiculous outfit again?” Ugh. The mere thought of that makes me want to shiver in pain and cry in mourning at the same time. Not to mention, baring that much skin in daylight now would be agony… but I hate that I can’t. Then again, I’d happily strut around in short shorts and a half-shirt if it meant I could have my old life back.

  “We can officially retire Lorelei,” says Nico. “And your work’s solid on this one. Just tell it like it is and everything will be fine.”

  Yeah, right. Not everything is going to be fine. At least, not with my life. Truth is, I find myself barely able to care about the case now or the subpoena. In fact, I can’t concentrate on anything right now except...

  Sleep. And maybe, yes, just maybe...

  Blood.

  Oh, wow, this is getting strange.

  I manage a smile and tap the subpoena against my hand. “No problem.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Depression

  I have trouble focusing on anything much past staying awake for the rest of the day.

  After picking the kids up from Mary Lou’s, I drive home. Cartoons on, I flop on the couch with Tammy beside me and Anthony playing on the floor. She rambles about her day at preschool, hand-painting, learning some letters, naptime and so on.

  In an instant, the show’s changed and Tammy’s gone. A car door closes with a whump outside, and dangerous silence fills the house. A house with a four and two-year-old should never be silent.

  A gleeful squeal comes from the kitchen.

  Danny opens the door. I flinch from the daylight, weak as it is, raising my arm to shield my eyes.

  “Eeeeee!” Anthony runs by wearing only a coating of white powder, leaving small footprints across the rug.

  “I see I’ve missed the party,” says Danny. “Is the keg empty?”

  I twist to my left. Tammy’s standing in the archway between the kitchen and dining room in her underpants, also covered head-to-toe in white. Her hair’s fluffed up, wild, and as grey as an old woman from the dusting. She looks like a refugee from ground zero at a flour factory explosion. Behind her, most of the kitchen floor and cabinets are white.

  “Oh, no,” I mutter.

  “What happened?” Danny sets his briefcase down by the door and walks past me, chasing Anthony.

  I sit up, forcing my non-cooperating muscles to move. “I must have blacked out.”

  Tammy marches up to me. Turns out most of her body isn’t covered in powder, but a white slime, almost like plaster before it sets. “Anf-nee used potty!”

  “What did you do in the kitchen?” I ask, horrified.

  She holds up her hands, covered in what I believe is flour or maybe cornstarch mixed with water. “Hand paints!”

  Ugh, they made their own ‘paint.’ Crap. This can’t end well.

  I grasp her under the arms and carry her to the bathroom. Anthony’s abandoned diaper sits clean near the little potty chair. Danny’s got him in the tub already, in a few inches of water. Add second toddler and stir until the water reaches an even whiteness.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “Like you need this after working all day.”

  “You worked all day too.” He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m more worried you’re having blackouts.”

  I kneel next to him and begin scrubbing Tammy. “It’s like I just can’t stay awake during the day.”

  “Have you thought about seeing the doctor again?” Danny uses a little blue pail to pour water over Anthony’s head, making him giggle. As soon as he hands it to me, Tammy clamps her hands over her eyes.

  “Yeah. Still not sure if that’s going to be a good idea. I’d like to wait a little longer…”

  He nods. “We can’t just keep waiting forever, Sam. We need answers.”

  “I know. I know… just another few weeks until I can make sense of this.”

  I leave him to watch over the kids playing in the tub, and dash to their rooms to grab a change of clothing for them. We dry them off, get them dressed, and set them on the couch with 101 Dalmatians on DVD. I attack the mess in the kitchen while Danny gets going on dinner. Dammit, he’s making spaghetti sauce. I love his spaghetti sauce.

  The smell of it triggers a waterfall of memories from the first time he made it for me when we were dating, to an awkward dinner with his parents, to countless nights before we had kids to my joke about his mother teaching the kids how to make the sauce. I say awkward because his mother had no qualms calling me ‘that godless hippie girl’ straight to my face, and talking about me to Danny as if I weren’t in the room. Memories of our college days, dating, and wedding flit and dart around my head.

  I’m a silent wreck by the time I’m done cleaning up the white paste and thousands of tiny handprints on the cabinet doors.

  To keep up appearances, I decide to join them at the table and have some of Danny’s spaghetti. A small portion, mostly because I adore it so much. Even after the attack, when food’s been reduced to blah, the fragrance of his sauce is still enough to tempt me.

  Tammy’s gotten the hang of twirling pasta on her fork; meanwhile, Anthony’s gotten a handful and is shoving it in his mouth. Almost as much sauce winds up on his cheeks as inside him. I take a smallish portion and eat, but it doesn’t taste as good as I remember it. I know it’s not Danny―it’s me. Whatever God-forsaken thing has happened to me has taken me away from my husband’s affection, away from the sun, away from coffee, and away from his amazing tomato sauce.

  I put a hand to my gut to quell the beginnings of churn. This thing will not take me away from my family. It’s devouring everything else, but I have to draw the line somewhere. This is all in my head. What possible explanation can there be for this? I’m a vampire. Okay, what possible sane explanation can there be for this? Rejecting food is some psychosomatic nonsense going on in my brain.

  This sauce is my favorite meal in the world. If anything will help me get past this mental block, it’s this.

  A storm rages inside me.
I press in on my stomach and let a belch slip, so laced with garlic it burns my nose. Obviously, I’m not a vampire or I couldn’t have even consumed garlic in the first place, right?

  Tammy grins. “Love sketti!”

  “Da make bes sauce!” yells Anthony, right before I feed him another forkful.

  Danny eyes me with concern. I’m sure the war brewing in my gut is evident on my face. I will defeat this mental block. There’s no such thing as vampires. I’ve got PTSD or something. By some mechanism I can’t understand, I’ve associated eating with the attack. At the moment, I stop trying to eat any more and keep my jaw locked, my face stoic. The longest I’ve been able to keep food down so far has been a minute or two. That’s the wall I must overcome. Pain and cramping intensifies, but I refuse to let a crack show in my outward calm. Another two minutes, and I win.

  Exactly at the five-minute mark, a spike of pain punctures my belly like a dagger.

  The fork I’m feeding Anthony with tumbles out of my fingers. Its contents spatter all over the high chair tray as it bounces off the plate with a sharp clank and falls to the floor. I double over, grabbing my gut with both hands. The back of my mouth fills with food that wants out.

  No. Stay down. I can do this.

  Whoever’s holding the dagger impaled in my stomach gives it a twist.

  “Mommy?” asks Tammy.

  I manage a brief look of apology to Danny before flying out of my chair and sprinting down the hall to the bathroom. I can’t bear to let him watch me hurl, certainly not the sauce he put so much love into. He made it, hoping it might help me overcome this… problem but…

  My body crashes into the doorjamb. I shove away, stumble up to the toilet, and let fly. Chills and convulsions paralyze me. Unholy cramps pummel my guts, keeping me bent over and gagging for several minutes before I can move again under my own control. The toilet water inches away from my eyes looks like someone’s head exploded in a mess of blood and brain squiggles.

  The sight of it feels like I’ve rejected Danny.

  I wind up sobbing, hugging the bowl.

  A click to my left makes me look over and up.

  Danny’s crept in and pushed the door shut. He swoops in to kneel beside me, worry and concern all over his face.