by J. R. Rain
“Not as many as you would think. But that is neither here nor there. The key here is that you have been reminded of your murder, in vivid detail, by your one-time father.”
“So? Couldn’t any one of these angels do the same?”
The Alchemist gave me a sad smile. “There are limitations to an angel’s interaction with his or her charge. In short, they are forbidden to reveal such information, if any. And not just forbidden. Completely incapable. Look at the lengths your own guardian angel went to just to reveal himself to you. No, Sam. You are that rare breed of both victim and immortal. On top of that, you are an investigator at heart. Even better, you have some powerful allies.”
I did. Together, Allison, Kingsley and I could move mountains. Throw in my son and my daughter and, yeah, we were quite the little army.
“And don’t forget the Devil Killer and the angels, Sam. So many angels ready to help.”
“I’m still at a loss for what they think I can do that they can’t. And what, exactly, do they want me to do?”
“One moment, Sam.”
I nodded and squinted again at the light beings standing around the room. For some reason, they had chosen not to reveal themselves in all their glory. I suspect if they did, I might go blind. At least temporarily.
“Sam, I’m being told they do not have the authority to tell you what to do with the Red Rider, should he be caught. I am told that you should consult with Azrael.”
“Why are they here, Max? The angels, I mean.”
“They are lost, Sam. Their charges were stolen from them, and they could do nothing about it.”
“How is the Red Rider able to do this? How is he able to steal children from guardian angels?”
“They do not know, Sam. But enough is enough. They need help.” Max paused and held up a finger, cocking his head to one side, listening. “They have been waiting a long time for one like you.”
“How did they know any of this? I mean, I didn’t even know until this morning.” I snapped my fingers. “The scroll. You just read it.”
“I did, and in turn, so did my guardian angel. It is safe to say that it sent shockwaves through the angelic world, if I may call it that. They are of one mind, as you know. And with your own guardian angel long since unattached, this information was not known until now.”
“So, what now?”
“That is up to you, Sam. But I am being told that another child has recently been abducted, a girl up the coast from here, in a city called Santa Barbara. A child who was quite gifted in the magical arts. She is gone now, as of a few days ago. Her angel is here with us. Through me, he will walk you through what he knows, if you are willing.”
“Is this really happening?” I asked. “Are angels really asking me for help?”
“It is, Sam. And they are. More children and young ones will disappear in the months and years and centuries to come, unless this bastard can be stopped.”
I took in some worthless air. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined our conversation would go today.”
“Me either, Sam.”
“I still don’t know how anyone, angel or otherwise, can expect me to find this thing where others have failed.”
“One moment, Sam.”
I nodded, drumming my fingers over the help desk. I’m pretty sure those small indentations were from the last time I’d drummed my fingers on this very same counter. Me and my ugly-ass nails. Still, they were kinda handy sometimes. These were from Elizabeth, I had no doubt. Some of my skills and talents were from my own fully-contained soul. Others—the darker aspects—were all Elizabeth.
“Sam, although the connection is faint—indeed, barely discernible—there is a link between you and the Red Rider. Your father learned much in his years chasing the Red Rider, but he never learned of this magical connection. This would be, as the kids say, brand-new information.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but found no words. I was about to tell them that I had no link when Max, whose head had been cocked to one side, continued:
“I’m being told it has to do with the physical act of the consuming of flesh and magic. Magic-eaters, much like vampire sires—as you recently learned—remain connected to their victim.”
“Except their victims die.”
“But the magic never does, not really. It merely transfers, from them to him.”
“So, you’re saying some of my old magic is still attached to him?”
“It’s a part of him, actually. Sam, I’m being told that you can learn to tap into this magic. Sam, I’m being told this is how you will find the Red Rider.”
“An entity that traverses through the frequencies?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Have you ever traversed through the frequencies?”
The Librarian gave me a sad smile. “Not recently, Sam. And not for very far. There is a limit to just how far a human—and even angels—can go.”
“Why is there a limit?”
“A good question, Sam. There are rumors of only a few—and when I say few, I am only aware of two—who have traveled the full range of frequencies.”
“The full range?” I asked. “How many are there?”
“A hundred dimensions in all.”
“A God is at the top?”
“The Original Creator, yes. There is no vibration, dimension or frequency higher than the Origin.”
“And two have traveled to him?”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Is the Red Rider one of them?”
“No, but I am being told he got close.”
“And the others?”
“One is a holy man in England.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Sadly, no. The other is in India.”
I nodded. “How high have you traveled?”
“Only to the fifth dimension.”
“Only? Okay, and the angels?”
“They exist in the fourth and can go no higher.”
I nodded, taking this all in.
“What’s the fifth dimension like?” I asked.
“Wild, Sam. But that’s a discussion for another day.”
“And you expect me to chase this thing through the dimensions? Something only two other people have done before.”
“Two known people, and yes.”
“But I don’t know what to do... or even where to start.”
Max tilted his head to one side, seemed to be listening to something beyond my hearing, and nodded. “I’m being told, Sam, that you’ve been given the starting place.”
“I have?”
He smiled. “Think back. A clue was recently given to you.”
I blinked. The only thing given to me recently was...
“The painting?” I asked.
“That would be it.”
I bit my lip, and was about to protest that it was just a painting. But I had recently seen that some paintings could be more than paintings. I saw it again in my mind’s eye... in particular, the two figures walking hand-in-hand in the field. The two blurred figures. Blurred, yes... but also oddly familiar, too.
The small, dark-haired woman was...
“She’s me,” I said.
The Alchemist only shrugged.
“And the man?” I asked.
“Think, Sam.”
A name popped in my head... a name I couldn’t believe, but I found myself uttering it anyway. “Van Gogh.”
“That would be the one. He was, of course, a creator. Or perhaps better stated, he is a creator. More importantly...”
I held up a finger, suddenly sure where Max was going with this. “Let me guess: he paints the higher frequencies.”
“Yes, Sam, I’m being told that Vincent himself is waiting for you.”
“Waiting where...” But I stopped myself. I knew exactly where. “In the purple fields.”
“That would be the place.”
“Fine,” I said. “But before I do anything, before I travel the frequencies, whatever the hell that
means, before I meet Van Gogh, whatever the hell that means... first, I must find this missing little girl.”
The End
(of Part One)
To be continued in:
Moon Master
Vampire for Hire #16
(Red Rider: Part 2)
by J.R. Rain
Coming soon!
~~~~
Breaking news: The “Vampire for Hire” series has been acquired by Sony! Yes, Sony! With luck, you will see Sam on the small screen soon! Fingers, toes, eyes, and legs crossed!
~~~~~
(For more on the mermaids mentioned in Vampire Sire, click here.)
(For more on Sam’s trip to Europe with Rand, click here.)
(For more on Sam’s trip back in time, click here.)
(To read Sam’s origin stories, click here.)
(And to read even more novels set in the world of “Vampire for Hire,” click here. Please note, these novels are non-canon; as in, unofficial... but still fun.)
~~~~~
Finally, if you enjoyed Vampire Sire, please help me spread the word by leaving a review. Thank you!
~~~~~
Return to the Table of Contents
Silver Light
Alexis Silver #1
by J.R. Rain and
Matthew S. Cox
(read on for a sample)
Chapter One
Different Paths
Comfortable can mean many things.
In the sense that I’m crouching in the weeds with a rock jabbing me in the ass, I’m not comfortable in a physical sense. On a metaphysical level, I am, but it’s taken over a century for me to get here.
Pine trees filled with the steady susurrus of insects and the chirp of birds surround me. A chorus of cheers and howls goes up from the group of nineteen-to-twentysomethings in the campground I’ve been watching for the past few hours. Despite the ratio of girls to boys basically one-to-one, the predominant activities going on so far have been drinking, pot-smoking, sleeping, and the occasional pill or three.
My camera sits against my chest on a strap, half-hidden behind my long, black hair. Normally, I prefer skirts or dresses, but neither are good choices for deep woods hiking. Since my objective has turned out to be rather boring, I lose a few minutes observing a caterpillar inching across my right shoe. I’m wearing one of those ‘not-quite-a-boot-but-not-quite-a-sneaker’ hiking deals.
The one in the green shirt looks delicious, says Licinia, her voice in my mind still tinted with a Latin accent. Not Latin as in Hispanic, Latin as in Ancient Rome. She pronounces her name like ‘Lee cheen-ia.’ Licinia Neratius took her last breath in 52 A.D. I tried coming up with a short nickname, but ‘leech’ wouldn’t work, and ‘Lee’ sounds wrong too. ‘Chinny’ made her growl. So much for nicknames.
Delicious? Do you mean that sexually or literally? I grin. The man in question is about twenty-two, short black hair and clean-shaven. He has the look of an Italian bodybuilder who’s recently decided to give up and go live the slacker lifestyle.
Licinia laughs in the back of my thoughts. Oh, either, I suppose. But I am fond of his looks. If we ate him, we couldn’t enjoy him again.
Too bad the poor guy’s taken so much of whatever he’s on that he’s tasting color. Probably LSD. The whole campsite before me is full-on 1960s chic. Their attempt is admirable if not a bit off. Some of the decorations are from the early-mid 70s. Still, points for trying to bring back hippie culture. We’re in the woods a couple miles southeast of Monroe, Washington. I figure it’s an old, abandoned campground these kids found and made their own. Aside from a mixture of barely-functioning vans and a pickup truck, they’ve got a few trailers and an RV. They even built an outhouse from plywood.
The reason for my being here sits on a green and white folding chair, his bare feet up on a tree stump while he lazily tends a tiny, rectangular grill where a colony of turkey hotdogs progresses from completely inedible to merely repulsive. Worse than the rock jabbing me in the ass, the smell of that ‘food’ is making me regret taking this job. Of course, when a panicked father shows up at my office rambling on about his missing boy, it gets my attention. Licinia’s as well.
Kyle Brennan, age nineteen, missing for two weeks. Though, to hear his father tell the story, it sounded more like a seven-year-old gone missing from his bed in the middle of the night. Overbearing dad, I get that. No wonder the kid wound up toking his brains out in the woods. I wish one of them would light up again. That smelled better than those atrocious fake hotdogs.
Licinia chuckles. After all, she, better than anyone, knows that I had long since lost my taste for conventional food. I mean, I can eat it all right, but those particular wieners don’t even rate as food.
A girl somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four is curled up beside him, her head in his lap, her straight brown hair long enough to touch the ground. I could take their photo, and someone would mistake it as a still from a documentary on the sixties. Hell, given the scenery, the photo would make a decent album cover for 60s music. Except for the smartphones a few of them have out. In fact, I do take pictures―several dozen. Mr. Brennan hired me to find his ‘missing little boy.’ I have to show him proof I did something.
Amazing how small those things have become, says Licinia. I remember the first ones filled entire rooms.
Those were computers, not phones, but I suppose the difference is minimal these days. I mentally agree with her while picking at some beef jerky unearthed from the pocket of my green Army jacket. I don’t remember the name of the man who gave the coat to me, but I do recall it had been worn by a soldier in Korea during the war. It’s in good shape as it doesn’t leave my closet often. I don’t get cold, but I’m quite pale. The jacket helps me blend into the woods.
So much for daddy’s little boy. Licinia laughs. That man was obnoxious. Talks about this kid like he’s still small enough to require someone to wipe his ass for him. No wonder the boy’s out here. He’s old enough to make his own choices.
Yeah. A hobbledehoy out of his father’s shadow.
You’re showing your age again, dear.
I roll my eyes. She’s one to talk.
A gossamer sigh slides across the back of my brain, giving me a momentary shiver. I do regret the effect my presence has had on you.
I know. It’s all right.
At first, I hadn’t expected to care, but you’re a lot like I was. Licinia again, speaking inside my head. My Dark Mistress, as I think of her.
Dark soul sister?
I smile. Something like that. We’ve been together long enough; in fact, she’s more family than anyone else has ever been to me except my mother, but she’s long dead. People who are aware of the world beyond the understanding of society refer to Licinia’s kind as Dark Masters, but if you overlook her meddling with black magic thousands of years ago, she’s not a bad person.
Why thank you, dear. Her need to smile manifests on my face.
You know I might’ve been a little rattled early on, but I’ve come to think of you like the sister I never had. Besides. I’d have been dead otherwise.
Yes. Our combined smiles fade to a somber downcast gaze. But your soul’s path is different now. And that’s my doing.
I nod. A hawk soaring overhead catches my eye. He’s mesmerizing in his slow, effortless glide against the deep blue, cloudless sky. Crunching intrudes from the camp as the guy in the green shirt walks over to the grill and takes one of the atrocity-dogs. I can’t bear to watch him eat it, and that’s saying something.
Because of me, you’re cut off from the cycle of reincarnation. Your soul has come to reside wholly within your body, severed from the universe.
We’ve talked about this already, of course. It’s not as if I remember any of my past lives, nor would any of my future selves have any memory of my current incarnation as Alexis Silver. Why should I be upset about lives I don’t remember or future selves that won’t remember me? Becoming part of The Creator doesn’t seem like s
uch a bad thing, right? Does any trace of my personality remain, or is it like oblivion?
I don’t know.
Of course not. Your existence is based on your not wanting to find out.
I grin, and she laughs. Whatever magic she enacted back when Tiberius ruled Rome has sent her soul into the Void. Lucky me, I get to be her vessel.
You know I’ve come to regret that.
I wasn’t being sarcastic. I do consider myself lucky I didn’t die.
Pragmatic.
Her guilt is weak but palpable. I suppose I should feel honored that an entity others call a ‘Dark Master’ actually feels remorse on my behalf.
You should.
I take a deep breath of forest air, trying not to cough on pot smoke. Green Shirt scarfs down his third turkey-dog. He stands motionless, his expression suggesting he’s lost in a deep, philosophical wandering, pondering some esoteric truth. Two seconds later, he opens his mouth and lets off a belch so loud that birds scatter out of the trees. It echoes over the campsite, which falls silent.
Kyle starts a slow clap. One by one, the other kids join in. Green Shirt bows like a grateful gold-medal winner. Ugh. Those hot dogs smell much worse on a belch. The trace, though minute from this distance, makes me cringe. Being able to detect human scents well enough to identify individual people is damn handy. Gagging on hot dog burps from fifty yards, not so much.
The girl by Kyle’s side yawns, stands, and stretches before stooping to kiss him on the lips. I snap a few more photos, getting two nice, clean shots of her face. We almost make eye contact; I’m sure the girl feels something watching her. In that second, I plunge into the deep, cerulean ocean of her thoughts. At this distance, I get mostly outward feelings and emotions. My abilities don’t work as well on women, unless they’re attracted to me. But this girl loves Kyle. A pure kind of love, like the one I had for my first husband that made me do something stupid and get married young.