Moon Island (A Vampire for Hire Novel)

by J. R. Rain

  “And the second one...” he began.

  “The second helps me exist in daylight.”

  “So, one has to wonder,” said Kingsley. “What will the third one do?”

  “A good question,” said Allison, who had remained silent up until now. “But one that must, sadly, go answered.”

  I turned to her, frowning. God, she’d been acting so weird...

  And then I saw it...what had been a miniscule black thread, so tiny that it had gone unnoticed by me, quickly swelled before my eyes. I had a brief image of a garden hose coming to life, engorged with water, swelling, thickening.

  The black, ethereal ropes encircled her aura, weaving in and out. Lariats of death. It was as if Satan himself had lassoed my friend.

  Her dark eyes, once beautiful and full of sweet mischief, now shone with fear—even while her lips curled into a Cheshire cat-like smile, the corners of her lips pushing up deeply into her rounded cheekbones.

  “Is your, um, friend okay?” asked Kingsley.

  “She’s fine,” answered Allison, in a voice I now recognized, its inflection similar to what had come from Edwin and Tara. And now from Allison. “She’s just sort of taking, let’s say, a temporary back seat.”

  “Sam...” said Kingsley, now facing Allison. “What the devil is going on?”

  “He’s here,” I said. “In Allison, except I don’t...”

  “You don’t understand how, Samantha Moon? Perhaps some things you aren’t meant to understand, my dear. But let’s just say this: your friend was right, she is indeed distantly related to the Thurman clan.”

  I grabbed the medallion and backed away. I had no idea what the entity within could do, what sort of powers it possessed. But if it was truly a highly evolved dark master then it might be capable of anything.

  “There is no escape, Samantha Moon,” said Allison. Or, rather, said the entity within her.

  I looked at the hulking Kingsley next to me. “I like our chances,” I said.

  “Surely you wouldn’t hurt your friend, Samantha Moon,” it said. Tears appeared in Allison’s horror-filled eyes, and poured down her cheeks.

  “Just give me the medallion, Samantha Moon, and I will release your friend.”

  “Don’t do it, Sam,” said Kingsley.

  “Or would you prefer to watch your friend drown herself in the ocean? Or, even better, bite off her own tongue and bleed to death in front of you?”

  Allison’s eyes widened, and I might have—might have—detected her shaking her head no. She was fighting the entity, I was sure of it, and one thing I was also sure of: she didn’t want me to give it the medallion. I suspected I knew her reasoning: for now, the entity needed her alive. For now, she was safe.

  “Why do you want my son?” I asked suddenly.

  “I think you know why we want your son, Samantha Moon.”

  I took a threatening step toward Allison—my sweet and silly friend Allison. The entity only grinned broader, which seemed impossible to do, but it somehow managed to pull the corners of her lips even higher up. Tears continued pouring from Allison’s pleading eyes.

  “Would you like to strike me, Samantha? If so, I strongly encourage it.” The entity turned Allison’s face toward me and chuckled lightly. “As the good book says, turn thy other cheek and all that.”

  “You’re evil.”

  “I am motivated, Samantha, by that which is important to me.”

  “You want to release your sister,” I said. “From me.”

  “That, my dear, is a very, very strong motivation.”

  “And you need the four medallions to do it.”

  It nodded, raising Allison’s eyebrows. “I see you have done your homework, Samantha Moon. You never cease to impress us.”

  “I have one such medallion in me, and my son has the other in him. I’m holding the third. Where is the fourth?”

  Allison turned to face me. Kingsley, I noted, had moved close to my side. He was ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Kingsley might be a womanizing bastard, but he was certainly all hero.

  The entity continued regarding me through Allison’s eyes. “I see you do not remember, Samantha.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about...”

  “Sssister,” hissed Allison. “Speak to her, remind her of what she has seen and forgotten.”

  I knew instantly of whom he spoke: the female entity within me. His sister. Even as I shuddered, a memory materialized within me, summoned, I suspected, by the dark entity who shared my body.

  It was an image of Fang.

  I gasped, and Allison grinned.

  The image clarified, took on more shape. It was an image of Fang back before I knew he was Fang, back when he was just a flirty bartender. He always gave me and my sister so much attention—and now I knew why, of course. He’d stalked me, relentlessly. He’d also fallen in love with me. So many emotions with Fang: from anger to love to everything in between.

  The image clarified further...the longish teeth that hung from his chain...teeth that I had once falsely assumed were shark teeth. They weren’t, of course. They were his teeth, pulled cruelly in an insane asylum...pulled from his very mouth.

  The image clarified further still. It was Fang smiling broadly at me and my sister, leaning an elbow on the scarred counter at Hero’s in Fullerton.

  There was something on his chest.

  Just behind the fangs that hung from the leather strap.

  Was it a tattoo?

  No.

  The image clarified further, coming into even sharper focus.

  It was a circular-shaped pendant hanging from his neck. But I hadn’t recognized it because it had been flipped over, revealing only its golden backside.

  The fourth medallion?

  “Fang,” I whispered.

  Allison grinned broadly, even as her eyes pleaded for me to help her. “Ah, sssister. I see she remembers now. The fourth medallion is, in fact, not very far at all.”

  “Sam...” said Kingsley next to me, pulling me out of my reverie. “Sam, you might want to see this...”

  I blinked and looked to where he was pointing.

  Through the cave opening, I saw people coming. Slowly, deliberately, plodding through the sand along the beach. Toward the cave. Toward us.

  I recognized them all.

  The Thurmans. From the very old, to the very young, a dozen of them or more.

  Sweet Jesus.

  I snapped my head around and looked at Allison. The entity within her tilted her head slightly. “We are legion, Samantha Moon, and we will have the medallion—all of the medallions.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  “We can’t hurt them,” I said. “They’re innocent.”

  “They might be innocent,” said Kingsley grimly, “but they look like they mean business.”

  They also looked like zombies. Already many of them were appearing at the cave entrance, compelled by forces they might not have entirely understood.

  Edwin was there, and so were his many cousins. There was Tara, too, just behind him. Old and young, all the Thurmans looked confused. Most were shivering from the cold, drenched, unprepared for the weather.

  The dark cords that bound them—that cursed them—were all engorged, filled with hate, with venom. The cords pulsated and rotated and twisted through their otherwise beautiful auras.

  Somehow, the entity had possessed them all, simultaneously—and it was a heinous, horrible thing to see.

  In that instant, Edwin charged, baring his teeth, dashing supernaturally fast through the short tunnel. Kingsley leaped in front of me and, with one mighty swipe of his meaty arm, sent Edwin flying hard into the stone wall to our side.

  A dull thud...and now Edwin was slumping to the ground, bleeding from a head wound. He was alive, but unconscious.

  Kingsley looked at him only briefly, and immediately turned his attention to an older gentleman, an uncle, who next made his own charge. The result was similar, although Ki
ngsley, I noted, didn’t hit the guy quite so hard.

  “They’re stronger than they look,” said the werewolf.

  “It’s him,” I said. “He’s making them stronger.”

  Kingsley nodded as the older gentleman shook his head and picked himself up. I suspected that if all of the Thurmans attacked at once, things would to get very ugly. “Are you sure we didn’t step onto the set of a George Romero movie?” he asked.

  “Sadly, no,” I said.

  “I think,” said Kingsley, surveying the bizarre group before us, “something else is controlling them, from afar.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Kingsley reached back for me and took hold of my hand. “Who brought this curse upon the family?”

  “Conner Thurman,” I said. “Ninety years ago.”

  “We need to find him, Sam.”

  “He died,” I said. “A long time ago.”

  Kingsley looked back at me and, amazingly, gave me a sardonic smile. “That,” he said. “I seriously doubt. Trust me on this, Sam. I’ve seen some weird shit in my time. Granted, the walking dead is about as weird as it gets. But a curse like this needs a primary source. A head, so to speak. And that source—or head—would be Conner Thurman himself.”

  “He’s entombed in the family mausoleum,” I said. “Here on the island.”

  “Find him,” said Kingsley, squeezing my hand. “And cut off the head of the snake. And I don’t mean that figuratively.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Pray all you want, but until Conner Thurman is found and destroyed, this curse will never, ever end—and they will never, ever stop coming for you and your son.”

  I thought about that as the Thurmans converged together. It was definitely about to get very ugly in the cave.

  “I can hold them off, Sam,” Kingsley said over his shoulder. “I can do so a lot easier and safer for them if I don’t have to worry about you, too.”

  “But—”

  “Go, Sam. Now!”

  Chapter Fifty

  As a male cousin dashed forward, sprinting supernaturally fast, Kingsley met him. This fight was more even, and Kingsley, I saw, had his hands full.

  “Go, Sam!” growled Kingsley, finally heaving the young man off him, just as another sprinted forward. “Go now!”

  I went, sprinting quickly through a gap between the Thurmans. Two peeled off and gave chase, while the others converged on Kingsley. Allison, to my dismay, was now running swiftly behind me.

  Unbelievable.

  But they weren’t quite as fast as me. I suspected this was because the entity’s own great strength was spread among many, rather than focused on one.

  When I looked back again, I saw that I was alone in the forest.

  The storm, amazingly, had subsided somewhat, although thick drops still splattered against my face. The medallion was also still clutched tightly in my hand.

  I thought of Allison as I ran. The entity had threatened to kill her. Could he kill her? I recalled the shadow that had risen up in Cal, the shadow that had strangled the life out of him.

  Yeah, I thought. The entity could kill her.

  I picked up my speed.

  Trees swept by in a blur. Once, I tripped over an exposed root and tumbled, my momentum carrying me many dozens of yards over the moist forest floor. I scrambled to my feet, aware that my right arm was broken at the wrist. A helluva tumble.

  The pain was intense, but brief. I held my arm to my side and picked up my pace, and by the time I was at full speed again, I was certain my arm had healed completely.

  So weird.

  I flexed my hand as I ran, and the last of the pain subsided.

  So very weird.

  The dirt road soon opened into the Thurman’s back yard. The manor beyond was brilliantly lit—and noticeably empty. Patricia Thurman was in there somewhere...and anyone else not blood-related. Undoubtedly, she would be wondering what the hell was going on.

  And I thought my family was weird.

  Far behind me, I heard the sound of running footsteps. Allison and another person were still behind me, following.

  I paused briefly, then hung a right and headed for the massive stone edifice that stood adjacent to the property, and was surrounded by a thin band of trees.

  The Thurman Mausoleum.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  The mausoleum looked creepy, even to a vampire.

  Admittedly, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, or what, exactly, I was looking for. Yet, Kingsley had made a good point: destroy the man responsible for all of this insanity.

  That was, of course, if the man responsible was still alive.

  Official death records had reported the man’s death decades ago.

  I tended to not question official death records.

  That is, of course, until my attack seven years ago. Now, I supposed, anything was possible.

  The mausoleum was situated about two hundred feet away from the main home, and was surrounded by a thick row of evergreens. Still, who would even want a mausoleum so close to a family vacation home?

  I didn’t know, but it was perhaps someone who needed to keep an eye on the mausoleum. Or, rather, someone in the mausoleum who needed to keep an eye on the family.

  Or both.

  I shook my head at the insanity of it all.

  Insane or not, the threat to Anthony and myself was real. And any threat to my kids was going to get my full and unwavering attention.

  The mausoleum was composed of cement and plaster, its portico supported by two intricately carved Corinthian columns. Three broad stairs led up to what I imagined was a heavy front door and was, once I checked, locked.

  I briefly wondered how Kingsley was faring against the Thurman clan. I could only hope they’d lost interest in him once they saw that I was gone. Either way, I was certain the big fellow could take care of himself.

  Somewhere out there, crashing through the forest, was my friend Allison. My new and very close friend, who was, amazingly, distantly related to the Thurmans.

  Go figure, I thought, and raised my foot.

  I wasn’t sure how heavy or thick the metal door was, but decided to kick with all my strength.

  Which I did now, slamming it as hard as I could just under the brass door handle. The door didn’t swing wildly open, and the handle didn’t explode off the hinges, either.

  But something cracked and the door moved.

  I kicked again, perhaps even harder, and this time, the door did swing open.

  I stepped through the doorway.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  I was here on a hunch.

  Kingsley’s hunch, actually. He believed that the entity was primarily focused through Conner Thurman. His theory did make a kind of sense. After all, my body was immortal, impervious to death, pain, or decay. All thanks to the dark entity within me.

  Thanks to her.

  So why wouldn’t Conner Thurman, who originally summoned the entity nearly a century ago, also benefit from the dark presence within him? Yes, the more I thought about it, the more I was certain that he hadn’t died.

  Conner Thurman had been, of course, in the public eye. Had he been alive today, he would have been, what—I did some quick math, which was, of course, never my strong suit—and figured him to be around 125 years old.

  He’d faked his death.

  I was suddenly sure of it.

  Yes, it felt right. Kingsley’s hunch felt right. Long ago, a channeled presence had told me to trust my gut instincts. Trust my feelings. I might be able to do many things, but I could not predict the future.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Yes, I’d had a few prophetic dreams of late. Dreams where I could, in fact, see the future.

  But this wasn’t a dream. At least, I didn’t think it was.

  These days, dreaming and reality often blurred. So much so that I continuously questioned my own reality. The only constant was my love for my kids. They were my rock. My safety net. M
y love for them was more real than anything. It transcended everything. All the craziness.

  If not for them...I would have descended, I was certain, into complete madness.

  I held it together for them.

  But now, someone was threatening my son.

  I clenched my fists and stepped deeper into what was, in fact, my first mausoleum. It was cold, yes. Dark, yes. No windows. Correction, two stained glass windows situated high above. The floor was a highly polished marble, now made slippery by my soaking-wet Asics.

  Hunch or not, one thing was for certain: my inner alarm was ringing loud and clear.

  Here be danger.

  I was in a sort of long hallway with a high ceiling. On either side were shelves of some sort. The walls and shelves were composed of the same marble as the floor. Along some of the shelves were vases and flowers. Spaced along the walls were various plaques, all depicting names and dates of births and deaths.

  My footsteps squished. Water dripped from me. I wasn’t breathing, and so there was no echo of breath.

  The tomb was silent.

  Or should have been.

  I cocked my head, listening in the dead of night.

  Yes, there was a sound from somewhere.

  Footsteps.

  I paused, and verified the footsteps were not my own. Indeed, they continued on, echoing within what sounded like a stairwell. My hearing was good, granted, and the acoustics of the tomb enhanced the sound wonderfully.

  Someone, somewhere, was coming up a flight of stairs. I was sure of it.

  A flight of stairs that were directly ahead of me.

  I remained motionless. I felt my normally sluggish heart pick up its pace.

  Directly ahead of me, further down the narrow hall, a shaft of light suddenly appeared as a door opened.

  Despite myself, I gasped.

  A figure stepped out.

  A figure I immediately recognized, at least from the pictures I’d seen. Conner Thurman. He looked remarkably good for being 125 years old.