Vampires & Werewolves: Four Novels

by J. R. Rain

  “So there’s no one trying to hurt me anymore?” she finally asked.

  “No one’s trying to hurt you,” I promised. In fact, Detective Sherbet had just sent me a very choppy and error-filled text message (I could just see his thick sausage fingers hunting and pecking over his cell’s tiny keyboard) that he had had a heart-to-heart with the accused hitman. The hitman, currently awaiting arraignment for conspiracy to attempt murder, understood that his employer—in this case Ira Lang—was dead.

  The hotel was oddly quiet, even to my ears. No elevator sounds. No creaking. No laughing. And no squeaking bed springs.

  After a moment, Monica said, “I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  I remembered the way Ira’s head had dropped to the side, held in place by only the skin of his neck. I had no problem believing he was dead.

  “So I guess you’re done protecting me?” she added.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I’m not done being your friend. If you ever need anything, call me. If you’re ever afraid, call me. If you ever need help in any way, call me. If you ever want to go dancing, call me.”

  She laughed, but mostly she cried some more and now she leaned into me and hugged me, and when she pulled away, she looked at me closely.

  “Your hands are always cold,” she said, her tiny voice barely above a whisper.

  “Yes. I’m always cold.”

  “Always?”

  I thought about that. Yeah, I was usually cold, except when I was flush with blood, especially fresh blood. I kept that part to myself.

  “Is that part of your sickness?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry you’re sick, Samantha.”

  “So am I.”

  She held my hands even tighter in a show of solidarity. And like a small child who’s always looking to make things better, she swung my hands out a little. “Did you really mean the part about dancing?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I haven’t been dancing in a long time.”

  “I’m a good dancer,” she said.

  “I bet you are.”

  There was a knock on the door, and I got up and checked the peephole and let Chad in. He came bearing flowers and wearing nice cologne. I mentioned something about the flowers being for me and he said in my dreams. My ex-partner was in love, but certainly not with me. I looked over at Monica who brightened immediately at the sight of Chad, or perhaps the flowers. Whether or not she was in love, I didn’t know, but, I think, she was in a better place to explore such feelings. In the least, she was now free to love.

  Chad pulled me aside and we briefly discussed Ira’s crazy death. He wanted to know if I had any additional information and I told him I didn’t. We both agreed Ira’s death was crazy as hell and both wondered what had happened. We concluded that we may never know, and it was doubtful the prison was coming clean with all the facts. We both concluded that there was some sort of cover-up going on. The cover-up idea was mine, admittedly.

  Chad looked at me, but I could tell he was itching to get back to Monica, who was currently inhaling every flower in the bouquet. Chad said, “She’ll be safe with me. Always.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I won’t let anyone ever hurt her.”

  “You are a good man.”

  “I love her.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Do you think she loves me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I think the two of you are off to a great start.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I do too.”

  The two of them left, together, arm-in-arm, and I suddenly found myself alone in my hotel room for the first time in a few weeks. I went out to my balcony and lit a cigarette and stared silently up at the pale, nearly full moon.

  My thoughts were all over the place. I was hungry. Starving, in fact. I hadn’t eaten in days. I thought of the chilled packets of blood in my hotel refrigerator and made a face, nearly gagging at the thought.

  My scattered thoughts eventually settled on Stuart, my bald client. And I kept thinking about him even as my forgotten cigarette finally burned itself out.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  I was taking a hot shower.

  No doubt it was too hot for most people, but it was just right for me. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would say that I could almost smell my own cooking flesh. Anyway, such hot showers were some of the few times that I could actually feel real heat radiating from my body. The heat would last all of twenty minutes after stepping out of the shower, granted, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  I did my best thinking in the shower, and I was thinking my ass off now. Danny had two things on me: First, he had a vial of blood he had supposedly drawn while I was sleeping (the piece of shit), and, second, he had pictures of me not showing up in a mirror, or on the film itself.

  Allegedly.

  Both items were currently with an attorney friend of his—allegedly—who kept them God-knows-where. How much his attorney friend knew about me and my condition, I didn’t know, but I doubted Danny told him very much, if anything. Danny was good at keeping secrets. Anyway, according to my ex-husband, his attorney friend had been given strict instructions to make public the files should Danny meet an unfortunate end.

  Briefly distracted by picturing Danny’s unfortunate end, I allowed the image to play out for exactly six seconds before I forced myself back to reality. However much I hated my ex, he was still the father of my children.

  For that, he has been given asylum.

  For now.

  Anyway, Danny had also threatened to go public with his evidence should I fight him on anything. And so I didn’t fight him on anything. And so I accepted his harsh terms, his mental anguish.

  I took it, and I took it, and took it.

  I was sick of taking it.

  So what could I do about it? I thought about that, turning my body in the shower, letting the spray hit me between my shoulder blades. Danny’s evidence was centered around my blood. Danny assumed, wrongly or not, that my blood would be different, and that I could be proven to be a monster. He also had the pictures. I wasn’t worried about those. Hell, anyone could manipulate such pictures nowadays, and I doubted anyone would take them seriously. Danny would look like a complete idiot waving those pictures around and would be laughed out of a job.

  So I could dismiss the pictures.

  But could I dismiss the blood? I didn’t think so. At least, not yet. The blood worried me. I needed more information. And as the superheated spray worked its way over me, I thought about what I had to do.

  A few minutes later, dried and dressed, I grabbed my car keys and headed for the elevator.

  It was time for a Wal-Mart run.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I was back in my bathroom, this time pouring the contents of a plastic bottle of organic juice down the toilet. Wasteful, I know, but what the hell was I going to do with it? Anyway, I flushed the whole shebang down the pooper, as Anthony would call it, and spent the next few minutes thoroughly cleaning out the container in the bathroom sink. I used my hair dryer to carefully dry the plastic without melting it.

  Once done, I carefully cleaned my right index fingernail, running hot water over it and using some hand soap. I next swabbed some rubbing alcohol on my forearm, blew the spot dry, and then carefully pressed my right fingernail into the skin of my arm. I didn’t bother to look for a vein. A phlebotomist would have been horrified. Which, by the way, would be a good job for a vampire.

  Except you would probably be fired for drinking on the job.

  I laughed nervously at my own lame joke while I continued to work my nail deeper into my flesh. A knife would have been good, except I didn’t have one handy. Besides, my nail worked just fine.

  The first thick drop of blood appeared around my naturally sharpened nail. I kept pushing and slicing, and soon I opened up what I thought was a sizable incision.

  Blood flowed. Languidly, granted, bu
t flowed nonetheless. I positioned the empty juice bottle beneath the cut and caught the first drop of blood as it dripped free. The red stuff flowed free for precisely ten seconds before the wound completely healed. No scar, nothing. Just a dried trail of vampire blood.

  I repeated the cutting process, caught the fresh flow of blood, and did this eight more times before I was certain I had enough hemoglobin. Eight cuts, no marks. My arm completely healed.

  Yeah, I’m a freak.

  I swirled the contents of my blood in the container. A smoothie fit for Satan himself, minus the wheat grass and bee pollen, of course. As I swirled the contents, I thought hard about what I was doing. I even paced the small area in the bathroom and rubbed my neck and debated internally, and in the end, I packed the sealed juice bottle full of my dark plasma into a small Styrofoam container.

  I had a friend at the FBI crime lab in D.C. A good friend. I was going to have to trust him, especially if my blood came back...irregular. And if it didn’t come back irregular? Well, I had nothing to worry about, then, did I?

  I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

  Most important, I needed answers, and this was the best way I knew of to get them.

  I next checked on the packets of Blue Ice that I had stashed in my mini-fridge’s mini-freezer an hour or so earlier. The packets were hard as a rock. Good. I placed one under the bottle of blood, one each on either side, and finally one on top. I closed the Styrofoam container, taped it shut, and placed the whole thing in a small cardboard box. I next went online and found the lab’s address in D.C. Once done, I placed an order for UPS to swing by the hotel tomorrow morning for a same-day delivery. The same-day delivery was going to cost me $114. I shot off an email to my friend in D.C., telling him to expect a super-sensitive package from yours truly. I ended my email with a smiley face, because I like smiley faces.

  When that was taken care of, I switched outfits. I stepped out of my sweats and tee shirt and into something decidedly more slutty. Interestingly, the slutty outfit was something I had borrowed from my sister and never worn.

  Anyway, I was now showing more cleavage and shoulder and back, and when I was certain I looked like a skank whore, I grabbed my freshly packed box of blood and my car keys and headed out.

  No Wal-Mart run his time.

  At the front desk, I dropped off my package and filled in the front desk clerk—whose eyes had bugged out of his head and onto my boobs—to expect UPS tomorrow morning. He nodded distractedly. I wonder what he was distracted about? I made him repeat what I said twice before I headed out.

  It was kind of fun being slutty. I think every woman should dress like a slut once in a while. It was very liberating.

  Now, acting like a slut was something else entirely.

  Maybe that would be liberating, too.

  Giggling, I gunned my minivan and headed off to Colton. I had a stripper job to apply for, after all.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  I parked in the far corner of the dirt parking lot, near where a van was currently a-rocking. I considered a-knocking, just because I hate being told what to do, but ultimately I decided against it, since I really didn’t want to know what was going on in there.

  And besides, I had a job interview.

  Of sorts.

  Feeling ridiculous and self-conscious, I strode across the parking lot and up to the front entrance. I didn’t see Danny’s car, which was a damn good thing.

  The bouncer was big and black and scary as hell, even to me. Suddenly insanely self-conscious, I reminded myself that my body still looked like a twenty-eight-year old.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Yeah?” He barely looked at me.

  “I hear you’re hiring.”

  He jerked a thumb behind him, toward the inside of the club. “Talk to Rick.”

  I winked and stepped past him and as I did so, his hand dropped down and grabbed my ass. I convulsed slightly and continued on into the dark club. I entered a small hallway, with an opening at the far end. I passed through the opening and was met by thumping music, losers, and boobs. To my left was the raised stage, which was brightly lit with hundreds of little white light bulbs. The stage was made of dark wood and was heavily scuffed. A single brass pole rose up from the center of the stage, and a single white stripper was currently cavorting around said brass pole. At the moment, just her breasts were out. Her breasts were nothing to write home about, if you ask me. They were fake and probably three or four years past their expiration date. Don’t be catty. Glitter sparkled between her breasts and over the upper half of her chest. I wondered if any of the men cared about the sparkles. I wondered if any of the men even saw the sparkles.

  The place was only half full. Men in varying degrees of drunkenness and physical deterioration sat around the raised stage. Most were drinking beer. Some were drinking shots of the hard stuff. All were staring at the woman with her glittering breasts.

  I stood where I was and took in the scene. So why did Danny keep coming here? So what’s the draw? Glittering fake breasts?

  Maybe. Men have fought for far less.

  I continued scanning, realizing I was going to need another hot shower tonight. Smoke filled the air, even though it was illegal to smoke in such establishments. I continued scanning. No one acknowledged me. No one cared that I was standing there at the entrance. A man to my left was currently getting what I assumed was a lap dance, although it looked like a lot of hard grinding. We called that dry humping in my day.

  My stomach turned.

  Other strippers were making their rounds, running their hands over customer’s shoulders and through their hair, offering them some sort of service or another. The men smiled and politely deferred. Many wanted to touch the women, and seemed to forcibly control themselves. Touching the women, I was certain, was highly illegal in such an environment. And, of course, this strip joint was a model in adhering to local laws. Minus the smoking and the dry humping. One man actually took a stripper up on her offer, and she promptly led him by the hand into a back room. Another very large man stood outside the door to this room. I shuddered to think what was going on in that back room.

  Oh, don’t be such a prude, I thought. It’s just sex and lots of it.

  I went over to the bar. A Hispanic bartender was talking to a customer with a thick neck. The bartender didn’t look at me. I finally got his attention and told him I wanted to speak to Rick.

  The bartender motioned with his jaw, and the customer with the thick neck apparently wasn’t a customer at all. The man turned slowly and looked at me. “Waddya want?”

  “Are you Rick?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m looking for a job.”

  Rick looked me over and somehow held back his excitement. “We ain’t hiring, sorry, toots.”

  Toots? Feeling oddly rejected, I took a gamble. “Danny told me to talk to you about a job.”

  “Danny, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rick took in a lot of air, which somehow made his thick neck swell out even more. He studied me some more, lingering on my chest. I took in some air and puffed it out a little. Finally, he said, “Come back tonight at eleven when Danny gets here. Then we can all talk to him. But the last I heard, we ain’t hiring.”

  I took another shot in the dark. “But Danny said he was the owner and what he says goes.”

  “Look, whatever. Come back tonight and we can all have a pow wow.” His gaze lingered on me some more. “Let’s see your tits and see what we’re working with.”

  I sucked in some air despite myself. I’ve been undercover before, but not like this. “You can see them tonight, with Danny.”

  He shrugged and said, “Whatever,” and turned back to the bartender, and as I left, I realized that any feelings I had had for Danny, any lingering connection to the man that I had felt, had completely dried up and disappeared in that moment.

  Chapter Fifty

  I was sitting at a Denny’s in the city of Co
rona, drinking a glass of iced water. There was a hot cup of black coffee sitting in front of me, too, but I didn’t touch the black coffee. The coffee was there for show, and just to be ordering something.

  I idly wondered how many vampires hung out at Denny’s. Maybe none. Maybe most vampires were out running through graveyards or having blood orgies, or whatever the hell else real vampires do.

  The waitress came by and glanced at my full cup of coffee and asked if I needed anything else. I smiled and said no. She smiled and dropped off the check and left. I smiled just for the hell of it.

  I had a notebook in front of me, open to a blank page. I was loosely holding a pen near the top of the blank page. As I sat there, I remembered the grounding steps from last time, and performed them now. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself securely tethered to the earth with glowing silver cords. Then I took in some air and held it for a few minutes and then let it out slowly.

  A now familiar tingling appeared in my arm. The pen jerked in my hands. It jerked again, and now the tip was moving, writing. Three words appeared.

  Good evening, Samantha.

  I stared at them, knowing I should probably be freaked out, but I wasn’t. Whatever the hell was going on, I didn’t know, but I was game to go along for the ride.

  I spoke by subvocalizing the words, that is, speaking them with barely a whisper, just loud enough for me to hear, and hopefully loud enough for my new friend to hear. But, of course, not so loud that I would get thrown out of Denny’s.

  “Good evening, Sephora,” I said. “How are you?”

  I’m well. And I can hear you just fine.

  I smiled. “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you earlier.”

  There is no reason to feel sorry, Samantha. Remember, I’m always here.

  “Yes, you said that. And where is here?”

  Where do you think it is?