Vampires & Werewolves: Four Novels

by J. R. Rain

  Apparently, my kids liked attention, and I wondered if I was giving them enough of it at home.

  “What’s that smell?” I asked.

  “Whoever smelt it dealt it,” said Anthony, giggling.

  “Probably you,” said Tammy to her brother. “You’re always cutting them.”

  “So do you!”

  “Do not! I’m a girl. Girl’s don’t cut anything.”

  “Yeah, right!” shouted Anthony.

  “I don’t smell anything, Mommy,” said Tammy, ignoring her brother.

  I proceeded to sniff armpits and feet. As I smelled, they both giggled, and Anthony tried to smell my own feet.

  “It’s you, Mommy,” he shouted, giggling. “Your feet stink!”

  “Do not,” I said. “Girls’ feet don’t stink.”

  “You’re not a girl.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Then what is she, lame brain?” asked Tammy.

  “She’s a lady,” said Anthony.

  “Thank you, Anthony,” I said, hugging his warm body. “Lady is good.”

  “And ladies have stinky feet,” he added.

  “Okay, now you just blew it,” I said, and tickled the hell out of him. He cowered in the corner of the couch, kicking pillows at me, and then Tammy jumped on my back to defend her little brother and soon we were all on the floor, poking fingers at any and all exposed flesh, a big tickling free-for-all.

  Later, as we lay gasping on the floor as Sponge Bob and his infamous square pants completed another fun-filled romp at the bottom of the ocean, Anthony asked, “Mommy, why are you always...cold?”

  “Mommy is sick,” I said. And, in a way, I was very sick.

  “Are you going to die soon?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Mommy won’t die for a very long time.”

  “Good!” he said.

  “But can we catch what you have?” asked Tammy, always the careful one.

  “No,” I said. “You can’t.”

  I suddenly wrinkled my nose. The smell was back. From my angle on the floor, I could just see under the couch. And there, in all its glory, was one of Anthony’s rolled up socks. A very smelly rolled up sock. I used a pencil and pulled it out, where it hung from the tip like radioactive waste.

  “Look familiar, Anthony?” I asked.

  He mumbled an apology and I told him to throw it in the wash, and as he got up to do so, Tammy and I made farting noises with each step he took.

  Bad move.

  He turned and threw the sock back at us and we spent the next few minutes playing hot potato with it, laughing until our stomachs hurt.

  21.

  After my attack six years ago, about the same time I first went online, I made a cyber friend.

  I was exploring through the new and interesting world of chatrooms. I landed in a room called Creatures of the Night. The room was comical to a degree, for there seemed to be a running script of a vampire appearing in a castle and sucking the life out of its inhabitants. There were many rapid postings, and it was difficult to keep up. Still, one thing was obvious: everyone here loved vampires with all their heart and soul. And many wanted to be vampires.

  A private message box had next appeared on my screen. Someone named Fang950 was trying to contact me. He said Hi and I responded back. Over the course of the next few hours, which flew rapidly by, I found myself opening up to the this Fang950. It was exhilarating. I told him everything. Everything. All my deepest secrets. I didn’t care if he believed me or not. I didn’t know him from squat. But he listened, and he asked questions and he did not judge me. He was the perfect outlet to my angst. And no one knew about him but me. No one. He was all mine.

  It was late, and it was still raining. I had gone to the open house alone. Danny had yet to come home. I had already fed for the night and was sitting in my office in a bit of a stupor. I always felt sluggish after feeding, not to mention bloated and sick to my stomach.

  A private message window popped up on my computer screen, followed by the sound of splashing water. It was Fang.

  You there, Moon Dance? he wrote, referring to my screen name, the only name he knew me by.

  Yes, Fang, what’s up?

  Nothing new. How about you?

  There was never anything new with Fang. He told me little about himself. I knew only that he lived in Missouri and that he was twenty-eight.

  So I spent the next few minutes catching him up on my new case. I left out names of course, but Fang was computer savvy. If he was interested enough he would find out about the story himself.

  What does your gut tell you about the file? he asked.

  My gut tells me I’m onto something, I answered.

  Too bad your gut can’t be more specific.

  Yes, too bad, I wrote. But it’s helped me solve cases before, though. I’ve developed quite a reputation here. But I feel like I’m cheating.

  Cheating?

  I thought about that a little, then wrote: Well, other P.I.’s don’t have the benefit of a heightened sixth sense, or whatever you want to call it.

  But other P.I.’s work in the day, he wrote. You are handicapped by working nights.

  It’s not much of a handicap. I can get around it.

  Nonetheless. Remember, you help people. That’s the important thing. Whether or not you’re cheating doesn’t matter. It’s the end result, right? Didn’t you once say you turn down more cases than you accept?

  I wrote, Yes.

  Which cases do you turn down? he asked.

  Cheating spouses mostly.

  Which cases do you accept?

  The bigger cases. Murder cases. Missing person cases.

  How do your clients find you?

  Police referrals mostly, I wrote. If the police can’t solve the crime, they will sometimes send the clients my way. I have developed a reputation for finding answers.

  You do good work. You are like a super hero. You help those who have nowhere else to turn for answers. You give them the answers.

  There it was again. Super hero.

  The rain continued. I heard Danny come in, but he didn’t bother to stop by my office in the back of the house. Instead, I heard him head straight into the shower. To shower her off him, no doubt.

  But sometimes the answers should remain hidden, I wrote a few minutes later, distracted by Danny’s appearance.

  Sometimes not, wrote Fang. Either way, your clients have closure.

  I nodded to myself, then wrote, Closure is a gift.

  He wrote, Yes. You give them that gift. So you think this distraught brother took a few shots at your client?

  I’m thinking it’s likely. I paused in my typing, then added, Do you believe that I am a vampire, Fang?

  You have asked me this a hundred times, he answered.

  And I have conveniently forgotten your answers a hundred times.

  Yes, he wrote. I believe you are a vampire.

  Why do you believe I am a vampire?

  Because you told me you are.

  And you believe that?

  Yes.

  I took in some air, then typed: I sucked the blood from a dead man last night.

  There was a long pause before he wrote: Did you kill him, Moon Dance?

  No, I didn’t. He was already dead, part of a gang that attacked me. He was accidentally shot by someone in his gang. The shot had been intended for me.

  OMG, are you okay?!

  I loved Fang, whoever the hell he was. I wrote, Yes, thank you. It was nothing. The bangers didn’t know with whom they were dealing.

  Of course they didn’t, how could they? So what happened to the dead guy?

  I sucked his blood until I couldn’t swallow another drop.

  There was a long pause. Rain ticked on the window.

  How did that make you feel? he asked.

  At the time? Refreshed. Whole. Complete. Rejuvenated.

  He tasted that good, huh?

  Even better, I wrote.

  How do you feel
now? he asked.

  Horrified.

  Does it worry you that he tasted so good?

  Not really, I wrote. But I do realize now how much I’m missing. Cow blood is disgusting.

  I bet. Can you still control yourself, Moon Dance?

  Yes. I’ve never lost control of myself. As long as I’m satiated each night on the blood stored in my refrigerator.

  What would happen if you ran out of blood?

  I don’t want to think about it, I wrote. It’s never happened, nor do I plan on it happening.

  Sounds like a plan, he wrote.

  I laughed a little and sat back in my chair and drank some water. I typed, I met a werewolf.

  No shit?

  No shit, I wrote.

  What’s a werewolf like?

  I don’t really know just yet. Mysterious. Obsessed with the moon.

  Stands to reason.

  He’s a practicing attorney, I wrote. And a very good one.

  Well, we all need a day gig.

  Or a night gig, I added.

  Haha. Well, Moon Dance, it’s late. Let me know how it goes with the werewolf. When will be the next full moon?

  A few days. I already checked.

  Have there been any unsolved murders resembling animals attacks? he asked.

  Not to my knowledge.

  Might want to stay alert for that, he said.

  True, I wrote.

  Goodnight, Moon Dance.

  Goodnight, Fang.

  22.

  I was driving south on the 57 Freeway when my cell phone rang. It was Kingsley.

  “Have you heard the news?” he asked excitedly.

  “That you’re a werewolf?” I suggested.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk, dear girl. Not over the phone lines. You never know who might be listening.”

  “Big Brother? Aliens? Homeland Security?”

  “Hewlett Jackson’s dead.”

  I blinked. “Your client.”

  “Now my ex-client.”

  “Murder?” I asked.

  “Yes. Shot.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Five times in the head.”

  “Close. Nine.”

  “Appears our killer wasn’t going to take any chances this time.”

  “Find them,” said Kingsley.

  “That’s my job,” I said.

  “You have any leads?”

  “One.”

  “Just one?”

  “That’s all I need,” I said.

  “I see,” he said. “Well, the police say you’re the best. So I trust you.”

  There was some static, followed by a long pause. Too long.

  “You there?” I asked.

  “I’m here,” he said, then added, “Tomorrow’s a full moon, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. “So, can I watch?”

  “Watch?” he asked.

  “You know, the transformation.”

  “No,” he said. “And you’re a sick girl.”

  “Not sick,” I said. “Just were-curious.”

  He snorted and I could almost see him shaking his great, shaggy head. He said, “So I heard they found a corpse in Fullerton,” he said, pausing. “Drained of blood.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I said. “Not over the phone. But if it puts you at ease,no, I didn’t kill him.”

  “Good.”

  More static. More pausing. With some people, gaps in the conversation can feel uncomfortable. With Kingsley, gaps felt natural. Then again, we were immortal. Technically, we could wait forever.

  Kingsley un-gapped the conversation. “So where you headed at this late hour?”

  “It’s early for me, and I’m following up on my one lead.”

  “Tell me about your lead.”

  So I did.

  When I was finished, Kingsley said, “Yeah, I remember him. Rick Horton. His brother was dead and the only suspect was walking free because of a police screw up.”

  “Why, Kingsley, if I didn’t know you better I would almost say you sound sympathetic.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Tell me about the incident in the court,” I said.

  “He lunged at me, but it was sort of a half-ass effort. Mostly he called me a stream of obscenities.”

  “You must be used to them.”

  “Like they say, sticks and stones,” he said. “He didn’t seem the type for violence, though.”

  “Some never do.”

  “True,” he said. “You know where he lives?”

  “I’ve got his address. I still happen to have friends in high places.”

  “Good, let me know how it goes.”

  “Have fun tomorrow night,” I said. “Arr Arr Arrrooooo!”

  “Not funny,” he said, but laughed anyway.

  I disconnected the line, giggling.

  23.

  I took the 22 East, then headed south on the 55 and exited on Seventeenth Street. Rick Horton lived in an upscale neighborhood in the city of Tustin, about ten miles south of Fullerton. I continued following the Yahoo driving directions until I pulled up in front of a two-story Gothic revival. A house fit for a vampire.

  From its triangular arches, to its cast-iron roof crestings, from its diamond-patterned slate shingles, to its multiple stacked chimneys, the Horton house was as creepy and menacing and haunted-looking as any house in Orange County. It was set well back from the road on a corner lot, surrounded by a massive ivy-covered brick and mortar fence. The fence was topped with the kind of iron spikes that would have made Vlad the Impaler proud. The entire house was composed of a sort of squared building stone.

  I used the call box by the front gate. A man answered. I gave him my name and told him I was a private investigator and that I would like to speak to Rick Horton. There was a moment of silence, then the gate clicked open. I pushed it open all the way and followed a red brick path through a neat St. Augustine lawn. All in all, this brooding and romantic Victorian-era home seemed a little out of place in Tustin, California.

  Just as I stepped up onto the entry porch, the door swung open. A small man with wire-rim glasses leaned through the open door. “Please come in,” he said. “I’m Rick Horton.”

  I did and found myself in the main hall. To my right was a curving stairway. The ceiling was vaulted and there were many lit candles. The house was probably dark as hell during the day, perfect for a slumbering vampire.

  I followed the little man through an arched doorway and into a drawing room. I’ve only been in a few formal drawing rooms, and, unlike the name suggests, there wasn’t a single drawing in the place. Instead, it was covered in landscape oils. I was asked to sit on a dusty Chippendale camelback sofa, which I did. The sofa faced a three-sided bay window with diamond-pane glass. The window overlooked the front lawn and a marble fountain. The fountain was of a mermaid spouting water. She easily had double-D breasts, which were probably a distinct disadvantage for real mermaids. Just outside the window three classic fluted Doric columns supported a wide veranda.

  He sat opposite me in a leather chair-and-a-half, which was perfect for cuddling. I wasn’t in the cuddling mood. Rick Horton wore single gold studs in each ear. He seemed about twenty years too old to be wearing single gold studs. Call me old-fashioned. He was dressed in green-plaid pajamas, with matching top and bottom. He had the air of a recluse. Maybe he was a famous author or something.

  “Do you have a license I can see?” he asked. As he spoke, he looked a bit confused and out of sorts, blinking rapidly as if I were shining a high-powered light into his eyes.

  I held out my license and he studied it briefly. I hated the picture. I looked deathly ill: face white, hair back, cheeks sallow. I looked like a vampire. The make-up I had been wearing that day seemed to have evaporated with the camera’s flash. The picture was also a little blurry, the lines of my face amorphous.

  He sat back. “So what can I do for you, Ms. Moon?”

  It was actually Mrs., but you choose your battles. “I’m looking i
nto a shooting.”

  “Oh? Who was shot?”

  “My client; shot five times in the face.” Horton didn’t budge. Not even a facial twitch. “And I think you shot him, Mr. Horton.”

  That was a conversation killer. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock ticked away, echoing along the empty hallways, filling the heavy silence.

  “You come into my house and accuse me of murder?” he said.

  “Attempted murder,” I said. “My client did not die, which is how he was able to hire me in the first place.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  His attempt at moral outrage was laughable. His heart just didn’t seem into it.

  “Kingsley Fulcrum,” I said.

  “Yes, of course, the defense attorney. It was on the news. Watched him hide behind a tree. It was very amusing. I wished he had died. But I didn’t shoot him.”

  I analyzed his every word and mannerism on both a conscious and subconscious level. I waited for that psychic-something to kick in, that extra-sensory perception that gives me my edge over mere mortals, that clarity of truth that tells me on an intuitive level that he’s our man. Frustratingly, I got nothing; just the fuzziness of uncertainty. His words had the ring of truth. And yet he still felt dirty to me. There was something wrong here.

  “Did you hire someone to shoot Kingsley?” I asked.

  “Maybe I should have an attorney present.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “Maybe you’re wired.”

  “I’m not wired.” Weird, but not wired.

  He shrugged and sat back. “I can’t express to you how happy I was to see that son-of-a-bitch get what he deserved. Trust me, if I had shot him I would be proud to say I had. But, alas, I cannot claim credit for what I didn’t do.”

  “Did you hire someone to kill him, Mr. Horton?”

  “If I had, would I tell you?”

  “Most likely not, but never hurts to ask. Sometimes a reaction to a question speaks volumes.” More than he realized.

  “Fine. To answer your question: I did not hire someone to kill Kingsley Fulcrum.”

  “Where were you on the day he was shot?”