Vampires & Werewolves: Four Novels

by J. R. Rain

  And, if I do say so myself, I looked striking. Not beautiful. But striking.

  As the video played out, I must have said something with some finality because I ducked my head slightly and reached for my purse. As I did so, Ira said something to me, and I immediately sat back down again. I leaned closer to the window. Ira did, too, grinning stupidly from behind the protective glass.

  Now my face looked terrible. I suddenly didn’t look like me. Truth be known, I didn’t recognize the woman in the video clip at all. She seemed strange, otherworldly. Her mannerisms seemed a little off, too. She moved very little, if at all. Every movement controlled, planned, or rehearsed. In fact, the woman in the video seemed content sitting perfectly still.

  But now I wasn’t sitting still. Now I was motioning with my finger for Ira to come ever closer. And he did.

  One moment I was sitting there, and the next I was reaching through the destroyed glass, grabbing Ira, slamming his face over and over into the glass. What I saw didn’t make sense, either. A smallish woman reaching through the glass, manhandling a grown man, a convict, a killer. Slamming him repeatedly against the glass as if he were a rag doll.

  None of it made sense; it defied explanation.

  It defied normal explanation.

  A moment later the guards burst into the room. The final clip was an image I had not seen since I was struggling under a sea of guards. It was an image of Ira’s face, partially pulled through the glass, his skin having been peeled away from his forehead like a sardine can. Also, the glass was cutting deeply into his throat, and he was jerking violently, gagging on his own blood, which flowed freely down the glass, spilling over both sides of the counter, dripping, dripping. He would have surely died within minutes if he had not been given emergency help.

  Sherbet reached over and easily turned off the player and sat back, watching me some more. He said, “The guards reported that you were nearly impossible to tackle to the ground. That it took three of them to do so, and even then you wouldn’t go down easily.”

  I said nothing. For some reason, I was remembering what I had looked like in the security video. My passive expression. My inert features.

  Sherbet went on, “As you can see in the video, you punched through the glass so fast that there was little or no indication that you moved at all. One moment you’re sitting there, and the next you are reaching through the glass. We were certain the digital video had skipped a few seconds ahead, but the timer on it never missed a beat. One second you are sitting there. Two-tenths of a second later you are reaching through the glass. Two-tenths of a second, faster than a blink of an eye. And during those two-tenths, you are seen flinching only slightly. The broken glass itself can be seen hurling through the air at the same time you are holding Ira by the neck.” Sherbet shook his head. “It defies all explanation. It defies natural law.”

  Beyond my hotel balcony, the sky was alive with streaking particles of light, flashing faintly in every direction. Thank God I can mostly ignore these flashing lights, or I would go crazy. Vampirism and OCD do not mix.

  Sherbet looked at me. “Do you have anything to say about this, Samantha?”

  I continued looking up at the night sky, at the dancing lights. No jokes, no nothing. I needed this to go away. “Obviously there was something wrong with the video, Detective.”

  He nodded his head as if he had expected that answer. “And the fact that you broke through the security glass?”

  “The glass was already broken.”

  “We can’t see any breaks in the image.”

  “You yourself said the image is not the clearest.”

  He nodded again. Now he turned his head and looked in the same direction I was looking. I doubted he could see the zigzagging lights.

  I asked, “Why were you shown the video?”

  Sherbet chuckled lightly. “Are you kidding, Sam? The video has made its way through our entire department. Hell, half the police in the state have seen it by now. You’re lucky it’s not on BoobTube.”

  “YouTube,” I said, and thought I was going to vomit. So much for keeping things on the down-low.

  Sherbet went on, “You can imagine my surprise when I discovered the freak in the video was, in fact, you.”

  “Probably so surprised that you nearly dropped your donut,” I said.

  “I’m never that surprised.”

  “So why are you here?” I asked.

  “Just chatting with an old friend.”

  “I’m not so old,” I said.

  He nodded as if that somehow answered a question he had. Now we were both silent. Inside the hotel, Monica had turned on the TV—a comedy show judging by the sudden bursts of laughter. Monica giggled innocently.

  “I’m your friend, Sam.”

  “I know.”

  “Anything you tell me will remain between us.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said.

  “I worry about you, Sam.”

  The surprising tenderness in his gravelly voice touched me deeply, and I found words temporarily impossible to form. I nodded. My vision blurred into tears.

  “If you ever want to talk,” he said. “If you ever need a friend. If you ever need help of any kind, I’m always here for you. Always.”

  And now I was weeping.

  He reached over and hugged me tight, pulling me into him, and I smelled his after shave and the donut grease and the smallest hint of body odor. The body odor went with the manliness. After all, this was the end of a long day of crime fighting. A man should have a hint of body odor at the end of a long day.

  His hairy arms smothered me completely and for a few seconds, a few rare seconds, I felt safe and comfortable and cared for.

  Then he pulled away and carefully packed up his mini-DVD player in his scuffed briefcase. He then gave me the softest jab you could ever imagine on my chin, smiled sadly at me, and left me on the balcony.

  Inside the hotel room, through the sliding glass door, I watched as he quietly spoke to Monica. As he did so, he held both of her hands in one of his. He said something else, jerked his head in my direction, and she nodded. He was reassuring her, I knew. Letting her know she was in good hands.

  When the door shut behind him, Monica came out and sat beside me. She reached over and took my hand, and we sat like that for a few minutes.

  Finally, I said, “They caught a guy hanging around downstairs.”

  “The guy Ira hired to hurt me.” Her voice sounded so tiny and lost and confused. Her simple, sweet, innocent brain was trying to wrap itself around why a man she had loved at one time would actually hire another man to hurt her. To kill her.

  And as we sat out there together, as we held hands and watched the quarter moon climb slowly into the hazy night sky, I suddenly knew what I had to do.

  Chapter Forty-two

  I was flying. I was free. Life was good.

  The moon, still about a week from being full, shone high and bright. Any thoughts of the moon automatically conjured images of Kingsley. And any thoughts of Kingsley automatically conjured images of the beast he was, or claimed to be. Admittedly, I had never actually seen Kingsley transform into a werewolf, and a part of me still wanted to believe that, in fact, he wasn’t a werewolf, that this was all one crazy hoax. Or that he was delusional.

  I mean, come on, an honest-to-God werewolf? Really?

  This, of course, coming from a creature flying slowly over Orange County.

  Actually, a part of me—a big part—still hoped that I was in the middle of one long, horrific nightmare, and that I would wake up at any moment, in bed, gasping, relieved beyond words that this had all been one bad dream.

  I’m ready to wake up, I thought. Please.

  I banked to port and caught a high-altitude wind. I flapped my wings easily, smoothly, comfortably, sailing along in the heavens like an escaped Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float from Hell.

  Still, just bec
ause one monster (me) existed, that didn’t necessarily mean all other monsters existed.

  Or did it? Maybe there was some truth to everything that goes bump-in-the-night. If so, where did it end? Were there fairies? Angels? Aliens? Demons? Keebler elves? And weren’t elves, in fact, fairies? Or was it the other way around?

  I didn’t know.

  More than likely Kingsley was exactly what he claimed to be: a werewolf. I had seen the excessive hair on his forearms a few times now. I had also seen him survive five bullet shots to the head. Not to mention, he didn’t even bat an eye when he found out that I was, in fact, a vampire.

  Still, that didn’t a werewolf make.

  The moon burned silver above me. I wondered if I could fly all the way to the moon. I wondered if I could fly to other worlds, too.

  Maybe someday I will fly to the moon.

  Dance on the Moon.

  I hadn’t spoken to Kingsley in a few nights now, not since I had discovered that he was, in fact, responsible for getting Ira out of jail. Jesus, how do you respect a man who does that for a living?

  An icy wind blasted me, but I held my course. I flapped steadily, powerfully into the night.

  Granted, not all of Kinglsey’s clients were killers. Some were innocent. Some he legitimately helped. Others, not so much. Others were evil and wretched and should stay in jail. Kingsley knew damn well that he was releasing animals back into society, that he was putting killers back onto the streets.

  But I had known this about Kingsley already, hadn’t I? It hadn’t really bothered me until now. Until it hit close to home. So why should I hold it against him now? Kingsley had done nothing wrong. Hell, he was just doing his job. Like he said, if it hadn’t been him, it would have been another defense attorney getting Ira out of jail.

  So perhaps I should be angry at the system, not Kingsley.

  Perhaps.

  Below me was my destination. It was a massive multi-storied structure in Chino, California. It lay sprawled before me in a hodgepodge of auxiliary wings and isolated buildings. My target was one of those isolated buildings, located on the north side of the prison.

  The Death Row Compound.

  It was a large, grim, three-story structure that housed hundreds of condemned inmates. A lethal, electrified fence encircled the compound. Guard towers were everywhere.

  I circled the bleak structure once, twice, getting a feel for the place. I circled again a third time, and as I did so, I felt a pull for a particular area. I focused on that area as I circled the structure again.

  The pull grew stronger.

  I rarely used my new-found psychic ability in this way. In the past, I just sifted through various hits as they came, rarely directing my heightened senses.

  Now I directed them.

  I was searching for one inmate in particular. One inmate currently housed in Death Row. One inmate who’s time had come.

  As I circled the structure a fifth time, I felt a very strong pull toward a corner wall on the second floor.

  There he is, I thought.

  I knew it. I felt it. I believed it.

  But what if I was wrong?

  I let the question die in me unanswered; I didn’t have the luxury of being wrong.

  As I circled back from my fifth fly-by, I tucked in my leathery wings and dove down, fast, the wind howling over my flattened ears.

  Chapter Forty-three

  As I rapidly approached the building, I was suddenly filled with doubt. Was I doing the right thing? Should I veer off now and forget this whole crazy, horrific, stomach-turning plan? Was I even heading toward the right section of prison?

  I shook my head and blasted aside the self-doubt.

  The decisions had been made hours ago, and I knew, in my heart, they were the right ones.

  Now, of course, it only remained to be seen if I was heading towards the correct section of prison wall.

  We’ll see, I thought.

  I flew faster. The west side of the wall grew rapidly before me. I adjusted my wings slightly, a flick here, a dip there, and angled toward a particular spot on the second floor, near the corner of the building.

  It just feels right.

  I picked up more speed. The massive, oppressive structure grew rapidly in front of me. Behind those walls were the worst of the worst. Killers, cutthroats, and the not very kind. Wind thundered over me, screeching across my ears.

  There was a final moment when I could have chosen to veer away, and avoid the building altogether.

  I didn’t veer away.

  Six years ago, I was busting loan swindlers and thieves and low lives. Now I was hurling my nightmarish bat-like body at a maximum security prison.

  Would this kill me? I didn’t know, but I was about to find out.

  My last thought before I struck the wall were: I love you Tammy and Anthony...if I don’t make it, I’ll see you on the other side.

  The gray wall appeared directly before me. I could see the fine details of thick cinder blocks and heavy bricks. I lowered my head and turned my body slightly and struck the building with such force that I suspected the whole damn building shuddered.

  * * *

  I sat up in a pile of rubble.

  My thick wings were draped around me like a heavy, dusty blanket. Chunks of wall continued to fall and clatter behind me. I should have been dead many times over. I should have been flattened outside on the wall itself. I should have been many things...but here I sat, in a prison cell, surrounded by massive chunks of cement, bent re-bar, and bricks that looked better suited for a medieval dungeon.

  As I sat up, and as the dust still settled around me, I closed my eyes and saw the single flame in my forethoughts. I next saw the woman in the flame, standing there impatiently, and quickly I felt the familiar rush towards her....

  And when I opened my eyes, there I was. My old self again—completely naked in a maximum secure prison in a cell on Death Row.

  Outside, through the massive hole in the prison wall, I heard dozens of men shouting and a cacophony of running feet. A moment later, a siren wailed, so loud that it hurt even my ears.

  I stood slowly. Dust and debris slid off my flesh.

  Had I guessed right? Was this the right cell? Had my sixth sense led me to the man I wanted?

  My eyes needed no time to adjust to the darkness.

  There, huddled at the far end of the single cot, was Ira Lang, staring at me with wild, disbelieving eyes. Believe it, buddy boy. Ira was a royal mess. His face and forehead were nearly covered in bandages, and if it weren’t for his signature bald head, with its deep grooves and odd lumps, I might have wondered if I had the right room. His face, what little of it I could see puffing out between the bandages, was horribly swollen and disfigured. A multitude of pins and bolts and screws were holding the whole thing together.

  What a waste, I thought, of all that work.

  There was no way of knowing what Ira was thinking. Hell, what could he be thinking? One moment he was lying in bed, no doubt plotting his ex-wife’s death, or perhaps sleeping, and dreaming of her death, and the next a massive hole appears in his jail cell, filled by a hulking, nightmarish creature. A creature who then turned into a woman. A woman he loathed.

  I didn’t know what he thought, nor did I care.

  I brushed off some dirt and smaller chunks of concrete from my shoulder and shook out cement dust from my hair. A small, grayish cloud briefly hovered around me, and then drifted to the floor.

  People were shouting within the prison itself, their voices echoing along what I assumed was a long hallway just beyond. Lights were still out. No one could see me. No one, but Ira.

  Now he was blinking at me hard. He then sat forward a little, straining to see through the dark and dust. He breathed raspily through his misshapen and swollen mouth.

  Footsteps pounded from somewhere nearby. Sirens blasted from seemingly everywhere. A spotlight flashed through the opening, catching some of the swirling dust.

  Ira’s eyes
widened some more. “You!” he suddenly hissed. His swollen lips never moved, and the sound itself seemed to come from somewhere in his throat. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

  I said nothing. There was nothing to say. Things were about to end badly for Ira and there was no reason to joke or elaborate or waste time.

  I stood there, waiting, naked as the day I was born. I was certain most of my body was silhouetted by the lights coming in through the large opening in the wall behind me. How much Ira could see of me, I didn’t know, nor did I care.

  I don’t think he cared either.

  He reached underneath his flimsy bed mattress, and then hurled himself at me. As he did so, I spotted something flashing in his hands. Growling with what could have been demonic rage, he drove the metal object—which turned out to be a sharpened spoon wired to a wooden stick—as hard as he could at my chest. Whether or not the shank qualified as a stake, I didn’t know, nor did I want to find out. I caught his slashing wrist as he slammed into me hard. I stumbled back a foot or two and nearly tripped on a block of cement, but mostly I held my ground. Ira brought his knee up hard into my stomach. Air burst from my lungs. He redoubled his effort with the shank, and I might have squeezed his wrist a little too hard, because I felt bones crunching. As Ira screamed, I spun him around and reached up with one hand and grabbed his already broken jaw and turned his head as hard and fast as I could. I nearly ripped his head off. His neck broke instantly, sickeningly, the vertebrae tearing through his skin and his orange prison jumpsuit like jagged shards of broken glass. Ira shuddered violently, and then went limp. His head fell grotesquely to one side.

  More sirens. More running feet. Now lights were turning on in the prison itself.

  They were coming for me. At any moment, someone was going to burst into this cell. I had to leave now. But I didn’t. Not yet. Instead, I found myself staring down at Ira’s broken neck. I wanted to drink from him so bad that I was willing to risk getting caught. I was willing to give it all up for one drink of fresh blood.