by J. R. Rain
“We should go,” I said again.
“The food’s not here, Sam. We barely got our drinks. Trust me. We should be here. I have a good feeling about it.”
“Good feeling, why?”
“We’re being watched.”
I nodded. My own inner alarm was tingling mildly. No direct danger, but something was brewing in the background.
“Fine,” I said. Then added, because I am such a peach, “This has to be the worst date night ever.”
“It’s not a date night. For you, it’s a work night. Besides, I haven’t eaten all day. So, think of this as a refueling station.”
“Then why are you all dressed up?”
“Because I’m not an animal... most of the time.”
“Fine. Whatever. Maybe I can get them to hurry—”
He reached his big paw across the table and took my hand. I almost pulled it away, but I let him think he was comforting me. “Relax, Sam. I’m no good hungry, and you’re no good until the sun goes down.”
“The boy could be dead by the time you’re done slurping up your linguine.”
“Ravioli,” he corrected. You don’t order linguine in a place called Ravioli’s. Anyway, we don’t know where the boy is yet. We don’t know who has him or why—and whether he’s been harmed or not. We need answers first and a cool head.”
“He’s being harmed. He’s being drained.”
“That might be the case, but we are still not at full power here, Sam.”
“And raviolis will put you at full power?”
“My kind needs food. And lots of it. Trust me, I am far weaker when hungry.”
“Fine, whatever.”
“Hey, what the devil are you doing? I know that face.”
“Nothing.”
“Out with it, Sam.”
“I just lit a small fire under our waiter’s ass to get him moving.”
“He’s already moving, Sam. It’s a busy night.”
“And I might have told him to give us priority.”
“Sam...”
“It’s called compromising, you big goofball.”
“Fine. I promise, we’ll get to the boy, if we can. And we’ll save him, if possible.”
“Not if we’re sitting here waiting for your molten lava cake.”
“Tell you what, I’ll skip dessert tonight. See? We both can compromise.”
And before I could say something snarky and undoubtedly mean, our salads came. I didn’t want salad. I wanted the boy to be safe. I wanted my daughter to be saved, too. I wanted to punish whoever would hurt a little boy. I wanted to punish my daughter, too, for sneaking out late at night and almost getting herself killed. Of course, that hadn’t yet happened. And there was hardly any sneaking being done at this point. But she would have sneaked, had I not warned her.
“Relax, Sam. What’s on your mind?”
I shrugged. “What isn’t on my mind is the question.”
“Didn’t you say your daughter’s future accident didn’t happen until much later at night?”
I nodded and picked up my fork. Allison had helped me scan my dream last night, noting anything I might have missed—it was nice, after all, to have a friend who could read your mind—and she had spotted the time at a nearby bank, displayed in a digital marquee. I had missed it. Indeed, the details of the time were new. After all, with each night, each new dream, details of the accident were growing sharper, more poignant. More real.
The salad was good, dammit, although I still wasn’t very hungry. After two or three listless bites, I saw the puppy dog look in Kingsley’s eyes and gave him the nod that all men wait for. Yes, he could have my food. And, of course, I didn’t have to tell him twice. In a blink, my bowl was gone from in front of me and plopped down in front of him, and he was working it hard with his fork, which looked tiny in his ogre-like hand.
As I watched him eat—or inhale—I knew the big oaf was right. I sure as hell was no match against whatever it was that had pummeled me into Sam Moon pulp. And whatever condition the boy was in would certainly not get much worse waiting, say, two hours. And my daughter’s accident—or future accident—didn’t seem to be scheduled until around midnight. And whoever had scheduled her impending death could kiss my vampire ass.
If push came to shove, I would be at my daughter’s side in an instant. Yes, I had come to care about the boy, even if his own mother didn’t. No boy should be left alone, to bleed out in a monster’s dungeon, or wherever he was. Besides, the boy wasn’t alone, was he? He had Raul, who cared for him deeply. And, I think, he would have the Librarian, too, now that Max knew of the boy’s existence.
But first, we had to find him, and get him out alive.
That was my job.
I’d learned from Max earlier in the day that the Hermetic mark—that is, the silver cord interlaced in the aura in all those descended from Hermes Trismegistus—did not act as a homing signal; meaning, there was no way for anyone to actually zero in on the boy. The mark had to be seen with the eyes, by those who knew what to look for. In fact, a person could go their whole life without knowing he or she was descended from Hermes. That was, if they were fortunate enough to never cross paths with a vampire. Or something similar.
Anyway, it was unfortunate for the two boys that a monster of some sort had moved into the old castle. A monster who had hired the boys to, of all things, mow the estate’s massive lawn. A monster who, undoubtedly, had licked his chops when he saw the gleaming silver cords in one of their auras. Perhaps the beast’s hunger had gotten the best of him. Perhaps he had seen an opportunity to grow stronger than ever before, and had pounced on the boys. I’d only recently learned that Johnny—the first missing boy and the boy who had washed up dead—sometimes helped his friend Luke cut grass.
The waiter swung by with our meals: three orders of ravioli for Kingsley and one normal-sized order of linguine for me. Yes, I’d ordered linguine in a place called Ravioli’s. Hey, I’m not a rebel vampire mama for nothing. The waiter, I noticed was moving with an inspired pep to his step.
Back in the day, I found it morally reprehensible to control others, to bypass their free will. Now, not so much. This change in me had nothing to do with Elizabeth, I think. I told myself that it was because I knew, deep down, I wasn’t hurting anyone. The control wore off quickly. Indeed, the human mind eventually bypassed such control. Except in the case with Russell, my sexy boxer ex-boyfriend. His connection to me ran deep, thanks mostly to the introduction of sex into our relationship. Without my knowing it, the man had become bound to me, perhaps for life. His own will and ego had been buried deep heavy layers of compulsion, so deep as to never be free again. Until I’d released him. Now, I knew, I could never have sex with another mortal; unless, of course, I wanted a love slave.
That should have sounded horrible. But, in this moment, it didn’t. Okay, now that had been Elizabeth. The freaky, kinky bitch.
Kingsley said, around a cavernous mouthful of ravioli, “Have you considered the fact that your drive to save the boy tonight comes back to the fact that he is, however distantly, related to you?”
I blinked. Hard. I hadn’t thought of it that way.
Kingsley continued. “Perhaps you are compelled—perhaps even supernaturally—to help one of your own.”
I thought of that, even while I chewed the linguine, even while Kingsley wolfed down his raviolis, even while my inner alarm began to chime a little louder. Yes, indeed. We were being watched.
I was about halfway through my meal—and losing interest in it rapidly, when the chef himself came out of the kitchen and approached our table. And as he approached, I noticed the limp. And the scar at his wrist. And the fact that he had no discernible aura.
“And how is was your dinner, mademoiselle?” he asked, speaking in a sing-song French accent. His name tag read, ‘Pierre.’ Pierre was not a big man. And, if I was a betting gal, I would say he wasn’t a man at all. A living man, that is.
“I’ve had better.” I
wasn’t sure why I had chosen this confrontational route. In the least, I was a bit blindsided by seeing what I assumed to be one of Lichtenstein’s monsters here at the restaurant, let alone as the head chef. No, he wasn’t the same brute who’d done his best to wipe me off the planet, but the coincidence of seeing him here wasn’t lost on me. Especially considering the owner of the castle also owned Ravioli’s. Ultimately, it was never a bad idea to poke the enemy. Poking produced results. Often quickly.
He studied me, showing no indication that he’d taken offense. Then again, maybe subtle facial cues were beyond him; after all, he had, at some point, been exhumed from the grave. He turned to Kingsley. “And how about you, monsieur?”
“Hated it.”
There’s a reason why I love the big guy, and this was it. The dude had my back, no matter what, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what my back was up to.
Chef Lurch looked down at Kingsley’s two finished plates, veritably licked clean. “Perhaps, monsieur might enjoy the third plate?”
“We’ll see. But I’m not very hopeful.”
“Perhaps my training at some of the finest culinary schools in France has been a waste of time.”
“You said it,” he said. “Not me.”
He nodded and, I noticed, glanced to his right. I glanced, too. Damned if the maître d’ wasn’t also a fellow monster. I’d missed it the first time around, but now, I saw it. The big guy seemed awkward in his clothing. No discernible scars, but not all of the monsters would have scars, would they?
“As they say here in America,” said Chef Freak, “you can’t please everyone all of the time.”
“I would say you’re oh-for-two, buddy,” said Kingsley. “So, you haven’t pleased anyone yet, at least here at this table.”
“Perhaps monsieur would prefer rotting flesh? And mademoiselle a goblet of blood.”
“Now you’re talking,” I said. My inner alarm was humming nicely now. Something was either about to go down, or there was an impending swarm of bees coming up Main Street.
“You’re here for a reason,” said Kingsley. “Out with it.”
The man-thing before us, which did not appear to breathe and which emanated a palpable stench—yes, the sickly sweet odor of death—nodded. “Master Lichtenstein requests the pleasure of your company at his hilltop castle residence. He will send a boat for you at seven.”
Chapter Forty-seven
We were in one of Roy Azul’s lakeside cabins.
The cabin was nicer than I’d expected, and bigger, too.
Then again, I suspected we wouldn’t be in the cabin for long. At least, not tonight. I didn’t have to be psychic to know that I might have a very, very long night ahead of me. Still, it was good to have a base of operations, so to speak, and this was it.
“What time is it?” I asked.
Kingsley was laid out on the bed, his belly noticeably rounder, but that could have been my imagination. He glanced at his Rolex. Yeah, I didn’t know they made them that big either. “Six-forty-five,” he said, and slipped his hands back behind his big, shaggy head. Somewhere under all that hair was an obliterated cabin pillow presently wondering what the hell it had done in a past life to deserve this.
I paced in front of the bed. I caught a glimpse inside the adjoining bathroom, where the housecleaning service had made the most adorable elephant out of the extra towels. Despite myself, despite my worry and confusion and frustration, I had to smile each time I saw that dopey elephant.
“What the hell is going on?” I finally asked, out of pure frustration.
Orange County’s most famous defense attorney didn’t bother to open an eye. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Is Lichtenstein here, in Lake Elsinore?”
“The presence of three of his monsters seems to suggest so.”
“With two of them working at the same restaurant.”
“Maybe more, if he owns the place. According to Franklin, Lichtenstein had gone out of his way to educate his monsters, to make them presentable. He really believed he was creating a new race. He wanted to present them in a favorable light.”
“Is Lichtenstein a vampire? Or is he a monster, too? Did he somehow use his own mad science on himself?”
“I would say anything is possible.”
I made a very noncommittal comment, bordering on rude, and continued pacing. This time I didn’t smile at the cute-ass elephant. After a few moments of this, I stopped by Kingsley’s side and slapped his meaty thigh. He was now wearing loose-fitting work dungarees. The fly was unbuttoned. Kingsley always unbuttoned his fly. I thought it was my open invitation.
“Ouch!” he yelped.
“Will you get up, you big buffoon?”
He accommodated me by opening one eye, then winking at me. I growled, sounding a lot like my daughter.
“I thought I was the only one who growled,” he said, rousing himself into a sitting position.
“Is he really picking us up by boat?”
“Someone is.”
“And we’re just going to let him?”
“I don’t see why not. There’s no easier way into the castle than to be escorted in. You said he has a private dock.”
The castle did. It was a dock that stretched straight out from the cliff, where a small outboard boat was often tied up. I’d seen it on my many fly-bys. Perhaps strangest of all was that the chef had known where we were staying. We’d only checked in an hour or so before heading to dinner.
“How did he know we were staying at the cabins?”
“I don’t know,” said Kingsley. “But Lichtenstein might have eyes and ears everywhere. No pun intended.”
I thought about that. Thought about it hard. Then got up and peeked out the curtain. Nothing was out there, but my warning bell pinged once. Just once. There was someone out there. I waited, holding my breath, although I didn’t have to. Old habit. I waited, waited. Kingsley was about to say something and I promptly shushed the crap out of him. He lay back on the bed, butt-hurt.
And there it was. Across a sort of courtyard between the cabins, was a man pulling a garden hose from a shed. Maintenance, no doubt. He looked my way once, paused, then looked away, and resumed rolling up the hose. More importantly: no aura.
“There’s another one.”
“Another what?”
“Lichtenstein’s monster.” I paused. “I remember now. Ivan, my client’s groundskeeper, is probably one of them. No aura. He’s the one who likely tipped off Lichtenstein that we were here.”
In a blink, Kingsley was off the bed and next to me, moving fast enough to make me gasp in surprise. I should be used to all this supernatural stuff, but I just wasn’t. Not yet. Someone as big as Kingsley should not be able to move that fast. Yet, here he was, by my side in a blink, looking out the curtain, using his own brand of perfectly wonderful night vision.
“Yup, that would be one of them.”
“What’s going?” I asked.
“I think,” said Kingsley, dropping the curtain, “that Edward Lichtenstein might have taken over Lake Elsinore.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I have a feeling we’re going to find out.” He pointed off to the right. “The boat’s here.”
Chapter Forty-eight
After helping me into the small skiff, Kingsley followed behind, sinking the small skiff another foot or two into the water. I think the lake’s overall waterline might have crept up an inch or two.
Sitting at the outboard motor wasn’t a living man. He was dead and probably cold, and at one time in his distant past, he’d probably spent some time buried six feet under. Probably parts of him were from other bodies, too, and perhaps that was how Lichtenstein helped keep his monsters immortal: replacing body parts when necessary. Hands, arms, hearts, you name it. The thought should have repulsed me, but I was oddly interested in the process. And so was the demon bitch inside me. I had literally felt her perk up inside my head, watching all of thi
s unfold, undoubtedly interested.
For his part, Kingsley took all of this in stride. Of course, he’d been living with such a monster for years. Still, motoring across Lake Elsinore in the dark of night, with only a small lantern swinging on the skiff’s prow to guide us, and one of Lichtenstein’s freaks at the helm, had to be one of the creepiest experiences of my life.
Wind beat our clothing, mussed our hair. Small waves slapped the hull. Water spray sprinkled our faces. The motor seemed obnoxiously loud, seemingly the only sound in the world. Cars moved around the lake, their headlights occasionally flashing our direction. Still, the only noise I could hear was the incessant throb of the outboard.
Kingsley sat behind me, one hand on my lower back. Occasionally, his own long hair blew over my shoulder and into my face and mouth. I spit it out. The man-thing at the helm said nothing, nor did he do anything other than guide us, invariably, over the mostly calm surface of Southern California’s largest natural lake. Before us, out of the gloom and only lit sporadically, was the massive, hulking, walled castle that sat above the lake, upon a small cliff. It looked out of place and out of this world. Its domed pavilion was silhouetted against the mostly starless sky. Brighter lights lit the exterior walls of the structure, but the castle itself was dark, brooding, foreboding. Then again, I’d had my face beat in there just a few days ago. I might be a little biased.
As we approached, the wind picked up some more, and the slapping waves hit with more regularity and force. I knew a rare fall storm was coming tonight. I just didn’t know it would hit so quickly. The lantern swung wildly, its yellow light catching the foaming crests of the black lake water. The rain came quickly. At first, I didn’t distinguish it from the spray of waves bursting over the hull, but soon, the drops grew in size and came with more regularity. By the time the narrow dock materialized out of the mist, we were in a full-blown rainstorm.
Our skiff captain cut the engine and drifted in next to the first pylon. He tossed a rope expertly around a bolted anchor and pulled us in. He stepped easily out of the vessel and first helped me out, and then, Kingsley.
