by J.R. Rain
Since it was my last day with the children, I had let them stay home from school. Earlier, I tried explaining to them why mommy was going away. I told them it wasn’t their fault, that mommy and daddy could not live together anymore, that mommy and daddy still loved each other but not in that special way. They both cried. So did I.
At the hotel, Mary Lou helped me unpack, even the packets of chilled blood, which we stored in the suite’s mini-refrigerator. I caught her studying one of the packets. Her face, I noted, had turned white. To her credit, she didn’t say anything about the blood, and I silently thanked her for that.
We sat together on my bed and she rubbed my neck and shoulders and gently stroked my hair. Her touch, her warmth, her compassion gave me strength. She didn’t think I should be alone and wanted to stay the night with me. I thanked her and told her I wanted to be alone. She didn’t like it, but relented, and when she was gone I found myself alone—really alone—for the first time in years.
The suite had a small balcony with two canvas folding chairs and a circular table. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony, and was immediately blasted by cold wind. The city was so breath-takingly beautiful from up here. Twinkling lights spread in all directions, as far as the eye could see.
In one swift motion, I pulled myself up onto the balcony’s wall and hung my feet hung over the ledge. I kicked my feet absently like a kid hanging from a swing.
Cars sped by on the little street that separated the hotel from the nearby mall. Its various parking lots were jammed with cars. Malls and Orange County sort of went hand-in-hand.
I was hungry and, at the same time, sick to my stomach. Sometimes those two went hand-in-hand, as well.
Wind pulled and tugged at me, moaning softly over my ears. It was just after 8:00 p.m. It had been a hell of a shitty day, and I hadn’t slept a wink.
The attack six years ago had cost me so much. It had cost me my job, my sunny days, my home, my husband, my kids and my life.
I watched people entering and leaving the big mall, eager to spend their hard earned money at over-priced stores. Even from nine stories up, I could make out details of clothing and facial expressions. Most appeared to be in relatively good moods. Just living the American dream. Nothing better than spending an evening at the mall with the family. Shopping for nice things in nice stores with nice-looking kids. One person, returning a JCPenny bag, didn’t look so happy.
Like a hawk watching field mice, I watched it all from above, sitting on the ledge, feeling increasingly separated from the human race.
I stood suddenly, pulling my feet up, balancing easily on the wide ledge. The wind seemed to pick up, but not enough to threaten to knock me off.
I looked down at the narrow street below, at the bustling mall, the streaming cars, the distant city lights. Sounds and smells came at me, too. The occasional, echoing honk of a car horn in an enclosed parking garage. The murmur of voices. The murmur of children’s voices.
I took a deep, worthless, shuddering breath.
I had nothing to lose, really. My kids had been torn from my life. Hell, my life had been torn from my life.
The ground was far, far below. Nine stories up looks like a hundred and fifty stories up, especially if you are thinking of jumping. And I was thinking of jumping.
I closed my eyes, then leaped off the balcony.
43.
Time seemed to slow.
I arched up and out into the night and stretched my arms to either side. I lifted my face to the stars and felt the wind in my hair and experienced a profound and uncommon silence, as if all noise in the world had suddenly been muted. Slowly, I tilted down into a natural dive.
And then I plummeted.
Only then was I aware that perhaps I should have ditched the clothing. I didn’t want to be a bat trapped in a cardigan sweater.
By all rights I should die in the next few moments. No one should be able to survive such a fall, perhaps not even a vampire.
A flash of yellow light erupted in my head. And within that light was an image of something black. Something with wings. Something large and alien and frightening.
And then the image disappeared.
The world began to accelerate. The floors to the hotel swept past me. Some of the curtained windows were open. One man dressed only in his tighty-whitties turned suddenly, as if he had seen something in his peripheral vision. He had—a falling woman. But I had swept past him before he could complete his full turn.
The image of the winged creature reappeared, but this time taking on greater detail. It was vaguely humanoid with great leathery wings. I felt an immediate and powerful affinity for the creature.
A sliver of sidewalk, once only a silver thread from high above, now rapidly grew into a very real sidewalk. A very real cement sidewalk. Picking up speed, I passed a few more floors. Unfortunately for me, the hotel was running out of floors.
I spasmed suddenly.
The ground rose rapidly to greet me.
I had only seconds.
My clothing burst from my body. A huge set of thickly-membraned wings flapped from my arms and legs like a failed parachute.
The ground was upon me.
I changed position, altered my body.
The flapping skin, stretching from my wrists to somewhere around my mid-thigh, caught the wind and snapped taut. My arms shuddered and I held them firm and veered over the sidewalk with just a few feet to spare. I swept up, instinctively knowing just what I had to do.
My right hip slammed into a No Parking sign.
I lost control, tumbled through the air. And as if some ancient memory of flight had been re-born within me, I somehow regained control and righted myself, and flew low and fast over the mall parking lot, skimming over the roofs of a few dozen gleaming SUVs. I lifted my head and gained some altitude, and very quickly I was above the mall.
I was flying.
Flying.
Born from an innate knowledge I didn’t comprehend or question, I skillfully flapped my wings and propelled myself up into the night sky.
44.
I was dreaming, of course.
I had to be. I mean, this really couldn’t be happening to me, right?
Any minute now I was going to wake up and discover that I wasn’t flying five hundred feet above the city of Brea. That I was back in my hotel room, alone, and miserable.
Dream or no dream, I might as well enjoy the ride.
A blast of wind hit me. I lost control and fumbled through the air. I panicked, until my on-board navigational system kicked in again and I adjusted my wings and lowered my shoulder and smoothed out the ride.
As I flew, and as my panicked breathing returned to normal, I looked over to my right arm. Make that wing. The arm appendage was thin and black and deeply corrugated with hard muscle. A thick membrane of leathery skin was attached to my wrist and ran down below my waist.
Below was Randolph Street. I followed it for a few minutes before lowering my right arm, raising my left, and making an arcing turn to starboard. The ability to turn came naturally to me, as if I had been doing this all my life.
Brea was bustling at this hour; it was still early evening, the streets crowded with vehicles. I flew over a section called Downtown Brea, alive with hundreds of people, all moving purposefully from one shop to another. The sky was cloudless, just a smattering of stars. Against this backdrop, my black skin would have been almost invisible to the human eye. Surprisingly, southern California was ideal vampire country.
I decided to experiment.
But first I wanted to see what the hell I looked like. I found a suitable office structure made entirely of glass. I swept past the second floor in hopes of seeing my reflection—and was dismayed to see nothing at all. Same old story.
I swept back up into the sky, flapping hard, gaining elevation. The motion was already fluid and effortless for me. I continued climbing and suddenly wondered how high I dared to go. Already I was many hundre
ds of feet above the city.
So I continued up, climbing higher and higher.
The sky darkened. The city lights diminished. The wind and cold increased. I felt I could continue forever, tirelessly, across time and space, to other worlds, other stars, other universes. I felt free and alive and for a first time in a long, long time, I did not curse my fate.
I finally stopped ascending and hovered, stretching my arms out, soaring on the currents of space. Orange County shimmered far below. Far off I could see LA and Long Beach. To the south the great black expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
The wind was powerful and relentless. I rocked and absorbed the punishment, battered about like a demon kite. A demon kite with no strings. In this form I knew I could travel the earth. Travel anywhere and everywhere.
I had lost my kids on this day—but gained unlimited freedom. In more ways than one.
I tucked in my wings, the membranes collapsing in upon themselves like twin Geisha fans. I rocketed down like a blood-sucking meteorite. The city lights rapidly approached. Adrenalin rushed through my blood stream. I found myself screaming with delight; or, rather, screeching with delight. Wind pummeled me. I shook and vibrated and kept my eyes barely above a squint. Natural folds along my cheekbones and brow ridges did wonders to keep my vision clear.
Downtown Brea came back into view, seemingly rising up to meet me. The details of the busy street came rapidly into view, and only at the last possible second did I pull up, lifting my head and opening my arms. The sheer gravitational force on me should have been enough to rip my leathery wings from my arms, but they didn’t rip. Instead, they performed wonderfully and I swept down the middle of the crowded street, barely above the roofs of the many SUVs and minivans.
People saw me. Many people. They pointed and turned and spilled their drinks and ice creams. But I was already gone, turning hard to port and disappearing down a side street.
The side street led back to the hotel, where I carefully settled on my balcony. At least, what I hoped was my balcony. I was breathing hard. Apparently, I did need oxygen.
My arms were still long, slender and black. The flying membranes, attached to each side of my body, hung behind me like twin capes. As I stood there on my balcony, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do next, a vague image of me as a human appeared in my mind.
I opened my eyes and looked at my arms. They were aglow with pink flesh. I looked down and was not surprised to see that I was entirely naked.
I was back.
45.
I flew tonight.
I was typing on my laptop, one of the few possessions, outside of clothing and makeup, that I had brought with me. The hotel provided wireless connections, which was one of the reasons I had picked it. That, and because it had nine floors. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I was planning on making my leap, and the taller the hotel the better.
You did!? came Fang’s immediate response.
Yes!
You figured this out on your own?
Yes.
But how?
I told him the sequence of events leading up to my decision to leap from my balcony. Or, rather, my impulse to leap from the balcony.
I am sorry about your marriage, Moon Dance. Maybe someday you can marry me. I promise to be accepting.
I’m not in the mood for jokes, Fang.
No joke.
Then I’m not in the mood to be propositioned.
Sorry. He paused, then typed: What was it like, flying?
Heavenly. Rapturous. Nothing like it in the world. I will definitely be doing that again.
What exactly did you turn into?
Something scary. Something nightmarish.
But you were still you, right? You could think, feel?
Yes, I never left. It was still me, just in the skin of something horrific.
Describe it.
I did, as best as I could. I told Fang that there was really very little of me I could see, other than the image I had in my mind. The image was scary enough.
What am I? I asked him when I was through.
You are a vampire, Moon Dance.
But am I even one of God’s creatures? Am I something evil? Am I even truly alive?
Do you feel alive?
Yes.
Do you feel evil?
I thought about that. I feel like such an aberration, a mistake. Something forgotten. Something to be ignored. Something to fear.
Moon Dance?
Yes?
We all feel that way. You are just different. He paused. Do you believe in a Creator?
I paused, then wrote: I don’t know. I believe in something.
Well, do you think that Something has suddenly decided to ignore you because you were attacked and changed into something different against your own free will?
I don’t know, Fang.
There was a long pause. I don’t. I don’t think a god of creation has suddenly decided to ignore you, Moon Dance. I think, in fact, you have been granted a rare opportunity to do things some people have never thought possible, to express yourself in ways that many people will never, ever experience. You could choose to see this as an opportunity or as a curse. Do you choose to see the good or the bad?
So there is good in me?
More good than most.
So I have not been forgotten?
Who could forget you, Moon Dance?
Thank you, Fang. Thank you for always being here for me.
Always. And Moon Dance?
Yes?
Take care of yourself. There are people out there who love you. A long pause. I waited. And I am one of them.
Thank you, Fang, that means a lot. Goodnight.
Goodnight, Moon Dance.
46.
On a Thursday night just a little past 9:30 p.m., Detective Sherbet picked me up outside the Embassy Suites. A light rain had been falling and I hadn’t bothered with an umbrella.
“Trash night,” he said when I slid in next to him. Sherbet was driving a big Ford truck with tinted windows. “Hey, you’re all wet.”
“I enjoy the rain.”
“So enjoy the rain with an umbrella. You’re getting my leather seats all wet.”
“Get over it. It’s just a truck.”
“It’s not just a truck. It’s my baby.”
“There’s more to life than trucks.”
“Someone in a bad mood?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He grinned and pulled out into traffic. The truck had a throaty roar. The detective, I quickly discovered, drove like a mad man. He pulled into traffic with reckless abandon, confident that his truck could survive any impact. I found his driving exciting. Maybe I was a closet adrenalin junkie.
“So do you have termites or something?” he asked after a cacophony of horns had subsided behind us.
“Excuse me?”
“Is that why I’m picking you up at a hotel in Brea? Does your house have termites?”
“Oh,” I said. “Sure.”
“Speaking of Brea, did you hear about the flying creature last night?”
“No.”
“Police call centers got swamped last night. About a hundred total. Apparently something dropped out of the sky and swooped down the middle of Downtown Brea.”
“Maybe it was a bird,” I said distractedly. I didn’t feel like talking. I was missing my children, and could not fight the horrible feeling that they were forever lost to me.
“This was no bird.” He chuckled and made a right onto State College Blvd. A minute later we were waiting at a stoplight to turn left onto Imperial. Through the side window I noticed a few teenage boys gawking at the truck.
“The boys love your truck,” I said.
“They should. It’s bitchen.”
I laughed, despite myself.
Sherbet continued, “Witnesses say it was black and massive and flying almighty fast.”
“What happened to it?”
“Made a right onto Brea Blvd a
nd was gone.”
“Did it at least use its turn signal?”
The light turned green. He gunned the truck as if he were in a drag race. He looked over at me and smiled. “You don’t seem to believe any of this.”
“No,” I said. “Do you?”
“Hard to say. A hundred witnesses is a lot of witnesses.”
“Mass hallucination?” I suggested.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe they really saw something.”
Sherbet pulled behind a long line of cars waiting for the freeway on-ramp. I had the distinct—and exciting—feeling that Sherbet would have preferred to go over the cars.
“You hungry?” he asked suddenly.
“No.”
“You sure? You look like you could eat.”
“I’m sure.”
He pulled out of the line of cars, hung a suicidal turn back onto Imperial Blvd, and headed into a nearby Wendy’s drive-thru.
“That was frightening,” I said.
“Then why are you smiling?” he asked.
“I guess I like frightening,” I said.
He ordered his food and pulled up in line. He said, “The wife tonight made a German dish called machanka. She thinks I like it. I haven’t had the heart to tell her that I quit liking it fifteen years ago.”
“You must love her.”
“With all my heart,” he said.
“Lucky her,” I said.
“Lucky me.”
He got his food. Two bacon burgers, an order of fries, and a king-sized Coke.
“That’ll kill you,” I said.
“True,” he said. “But on the flip side: no more machanka.”
Shoving fries into his mouth, he recklessly made a left into traffic, into a break of traffic that was virtually non-existant. He looked at me and grinned around the fries.
I grinned, too.
Soon, we were heading south on the 57 freeway.
47.
It was after 10:00 p.m. when we parked on a street that ran perpendicular with Horton’s massive Gothic revival.
A thin sheet of rain obscured the street. We sat in the cab of his truck with the engine and wipers off. Moving wipers attracted attention, as did an idling car. So we ate in the cold and wet. The house before us was massive and brooding. Its towering gables spiked the night sky. Hawthorne would have been pleased. The truck’s tinted glass made the world darker than it really was. I liked darker.
