Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

  “The same halo you saw around your son?”

  “The same.”

  “What’s it mean?” asked Kingsley.

  “It means he needs help. Lots of help.”

  Chapter Five

  It was after hours and I was sitting in Jacky’s office.

  Jacky, if possible, looked even smaller than usual as he sat behind a dented metal desk. He was drinking an orange Gatorade which, I think, was the classic Gatorade. Of course, if I drank Gatorade now, I would heave it up in a glorious orange fountain.

  Jacky, of course, didn’t need to know that, and since I only spent a few hours a week with the guy—and most of that was spent with him yelling at me to keep my hands up—I hadn’t yet developed a telepathic rapport with him.

  Which was just as well. I seriously suspected that the old man had suffered some brain damage himself. He’d been a champion back in the day. And in Jacky’s case, “back in the day” meant the early fifties in Ireland.

  Jacky had spent the past few decades here in Fullerton. At one point his gym had been a happening place for up-and-coming boxers, with Jacky himself training a handful of champions. That is, until downtown Fullerton had become so trendy that Jacky—perhaps a better businessman than I’d given him credit for—had decided to turn his gym into a women’s self-defense studio.

  Then again, if I was a spunky old man, I’d rather train cute women, too.

  Anyway, when Jacky finished off the Gatorade, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, dropped the empty bottle into a nearby wastebasket and sat back.

  “What did you think of the kid?” he asked, speaking in an Irish accent so thick that you would think he was only now making his way through Ellis Island.

  “I think the kid is deeply troubled,” I said. “And I don’t blame him.”

  Jacky nodded. He seemed uncomfortable in his office. He seemed less himself, somehow. Out there, in the gym, he was larger than life, even though he was only a few inches taller than me. In here, at day’s end, he looked like a shell of himself. He looked tired. Old. But not weak. Never weak. Even in quiet repose, the man looked like he wanted to punch something.

  “Russ isn’t the first lad to kill somebody in the ring, and he won’t be the last. And usually it plays with a fighter’s head, so much so that they ain’t ever much the same again.”

  “He feels guilt,” I said.

  “They all do. Except it’s part of the risk we take. Each kid knows that his next fight might be his last.”

  “Then why did you send him to me?”

  Jacky didn’t answer immediately. Through his closed door, I could hear someone sweeping and whistling. A door slammed somewhere, and I heard two women giggling down a hallway that I knew led to the female locker rooms.

  “It’s part of the risk, yes, but something about this one doesn’t smell right.”

  I waited. I wanted to hear it from Jacky, someone who had seen tens of thousands of punches thrown in his lifetime. Jacky rubbed his knuckles as he formulated his thoughts. I wondered how difficult it was for Jacky to formulate his thoughts. How much brain damage had the old Irishman suffered?

  There had to be some. His aura, which was mostly light blue and ironically serene, appeared bright red around his head. The bright red, I knew, was the body fighting something, perhaps a disease. Or dealing with an injury.

  The Irishman rubbed his face and seemed to have lost his train of thought. The reddish aura around his head flared briefly.

  I said gently, “You were saying something about this fight not smelling right.”

  “Was I now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which fight?”

  “Baker vs. Marquez.”

  He nodded and rubbed the back of his neck and gritted his teeth. “It’s hell getting old, Sam.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “And this noggin of mine just ain’t right sometimes.”

  “Mine either.”

  He nodded, but I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. He said, “Routine fight. No one beating up no one. Judges had Baker up a few rounds, but the truth is, they were only just beginning to feel each other out. No one had taken control yet. It was even as hell.”

  “Were you there?” I asked.

  “At the fight? Hell, no. The wife doesn’t let me anywhere near Vegas these days. She’s afraid I’ll spend our retirement—and then I’ll never get to leave this damn gym.”

  “You love this damn gym,” I said.

  He winked at me, and I saw that there were tears in his eyes. Where the tears came from and why, I didn’t exactly know. “More than anything,” he said.

  “You watched the fight on TV?”

  “Which fight?”

  “Baker vs. Marquez.”

  “Yes, of course. Russ is a local boy. He trains here sometimes. I showed him my best moves, and he never forgot his roots. Got to love a kid like that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn shame what happened. He ain’t no killer. They were just boxing. Trading jabs, the occasional straight shot or hook. Nothing landed yet. Nothing really. No reason a kid should be dead.”

  Jacky fell silent and absently wiped the tears from his eyes. His knuckles were crisscrossed with scar tissue. I imagined Jacky raising hell in the streets of Dublin.

  “So, what are you saying, Jacky?”

  “I’m saying, in one fell swoop, two top contenders have disappeared. One’s dead, and the other might as well be dead. There’s something to that, Sam, something worth looking into.”

  I nodded, thinking about that, as Jacky sat back and closed his eyes and rubbed the scar tissue along his knuckles.

  Chapter Six

  You there, Moon Dance?

  The IM box appeared on my laptop screen as I was packing my bags in my room. I quickly tossed my unfolded sweater in my suitcase. It was only February. Even Vegas was cold in February.

  To what do I owe the pleasure, Fang?

  I need to talk to you.

  In person?

  Maybe. No. I don’t know.

  What’s going on, Fang?

  There was a pause, and I was suddenly alarmed to discover my normally dormant heart had picked up its pace. It thudded steadily against my ribs, rocking me slightly. Normally, my own beating heart went unnoticed, which wasn’t too surprising since these days it generally only beat about five times a minute.

  Something was wrong. Or something could potentially be wrong. Or something was just...off. For starters, Fang seemed unusually closed to me. Not to mention, he didn’t seem to be picking up on my own increasingly worried thoughts. What the hell was going on?

  The little pencil icon appeared in the IM box, which meant Fang was typing something. A moment later, his words appeared:

  I recently...met someone.

  Would this someone happen to be a female?

  Yes.

  This wasn’t horrible news. At least, not for me. I liked Fang. I appreciated his friendship and help. But I had always felt he had an ulterior motive: he wanted something from me. And what he wanted, he had made clear a year ago.

  He wanted me to turn him.

  Although I didn’t doubt that he loved me, I always wondered where the love originated. Was it for me, or for what I am? A thought suddenly occurred to me, and I voiced it. Or, rather, wrote it:

  Is this woman a...vampire?

  Yes.

  A real vampire?

  A real vampire, Moon Dance.

  May I ask her name?

  You know her.

  Something inside me turned to ice, which, for me, is saying something. I exhaled a steady stream of cold air, and wrote: Detective Rachel Hanner.

  Yes.

  How did you two meet?

  She came in the other night, sat at the bar. Ordered a glass of white wine, same as you.

  I read his words and would have held my breath, except I was never sure when I held my breath these days. He went on:

  There was something about her. So
mething...otherworldly. The way she stared at me. Her small, precise movements. Her faint accent. It wasn’t long before I suspected what she was.

  I waited, re-reading his words, thinking hard, puzzling through this. What did this mean? I didn’t know yet.

  It wasn’t until later, after her second glass of wine, that I realized she had been reading my mind. Her intrusion wasn’t obvious. Not like the way I know when you’re in there. I mean, I can always feel when you’re in my mind, Moon Dance. Touching down here and there.

  He paused and I was truly feeling sick. Down the hallway, I heard Anthony snoring lightly. Music came from Tammy’s room. The house was locked. I always kept it locked. What was Hanner up to? I didn’t know, but I had that creepy-ass feeling of being watched. Of course, with me, it might be more than a feeling.

  I stood and walked over to my main window and looked out into the cul-de-sac. No one was out there. At least, not that I could see. All the cars on the street I recognized. But with Hanner—the only other vampire that I knew personally—she could be anywhere. She could be sitting on my roof, for all I knew. I shivered.

  Jesus, I thought.

  I sat back down and Fang’s next message appeared almost instantaneously: I think within a few minutes, she knew all my secrets. All of them.

  I knew what Fang meant. The man had some killer secrets. Literally. The kind that would send him back to jail—or a mental institution—for the rest of his life.

  I see, I wrote, mostly to let Fang know I was still here.

  She showed me her badge and told me she knew who I was. She called me by my name...my real name. She next gave me her home address and told me to meet her there after work.

  When was this?

  Last night.

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  What happened next, Fang?

  I wondered if Fang knew what had happened. After all, I knew that Hanner had a...gift for removing memories. Indeed, I sensed a lot of vagueness from Fang, and it was clear that our personal connection had been broken, somehow. I thought Hanner had something to do with that.

  I’m...I’m not really sure, he wrote, confirming my suspicions.

  I had a vision of blood, a lot of blood. Fang might have been more closed off to me than normal and, although I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, we still seemed to have some sort of connection.

  Enough for me to see the blood.

  But most disturbing of all—

  I wrote: You drank blood.

  He paused only slightly before writing: Yes, Moon Dance.

  I sensed his shame, but I also sensed his excitement. Fang had grown up with elongated canine teeth, a rare defect that had grown into an even rarer psychosis: as a youth, he began to actually believe he was a vampire. Crazy, but that was exactly what it was.

  Crazy.

  His psychosis had led to the death of his girlfriend, a teenage girl who had been partially bled to death...and partially consumed.

  By Fang.

  His escape from a high-security mental institution had been in all the papers, and his subsequent manhunt had been well documented. But he had slipped away.

  And assumed a new identity.

  Aaron Parker, aka Fang, now went by the official name of Eli Roberts—and how he landed in my life was one of coincidence and obsession. Although I doubted he still saw himself as a real vampire, I knew he retained a hunger for blood. I knew this because every now and then I would see it in his thoughts. His hunger. But over the years, he had controlled himself. Controlled it.

  We were both silent. Or, rather, the IM message box remained silent. I wasn’t sure what to say. I sensed that Hanner was working her way into his world, but for what reason, I didn’t know. But one thing I did know: none of it was good.

  So, what will you do now, Fang? I finally wrote, deciding on the direct path. What else could I say?

  I don’t know, Moon Dance.

  Did she threaten you?

  She didn’t have to. I understand the implications. I’m a fugitive. She’s a cop. Things could go very badly for me.

  Did she say what she wanted?

  From me? Not yet.

  She wants something from you, Fang.

  I sensed him nodding, and after a moment, he wrote: I know.

  But I sensed he was holding something back, and finally wrote: There’s something else, isn’t there, Fang?

  Yes, Moon Dance.

  I waited, suddenly afraid of the answer.

  After a moment, he wrote: She wants to give me something, Moon Dance. The one thing you wouldn’t do for me, the one thing you wouldn’t give me.

  Ah, Fang...

  Yes, Moon Dance. Immortality.

  Chapter Seven

  The flight to Vegas was of the commercial airline type.

  Although only forty-five minutes from John Wayne Airport in Santa Ana, I had plenty of time to think about Fang and Hanner. How she had found him, I didn’t know. I suspected she had followed me or had someone watch me. That she had gone over my phone records wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, either. Generally, the police needed a damn good reason to scour one’s phone records. She could have made up a reason, or done so secretly, in a way that I wasn’t aware of. Private investigators don’t have such access to phone records. A homicide investigator would.

  The plane hit some turbulence, which I ignored. Turbulence didn’t bother me. Nor did the thought of the plane plummeting to Earth in a fireball. I was fairly certain I would have been the one passenger on board to walk away from such a crash. Or fly away.

  If Hanner had gone the phone record route, she would have seen the pathetic few times that Danny had called to speak to his own children—and the pathetic short amount of time he had spent talking to them, as well.

  She would have also seen the occasional phone call from Eli Roberts, aka Aaron Parker, aka Fang.

  Some minor research into Eli’s background would have netted a curious result: his background didn’t go very far back. A quick scan of his current background would have resulted in seeing his current employment. From there, all she would have had to do was swing by for a visit...

  And scan his thoughts.

  She would have known then who he was. No secrets would have been hidden from her. She would have known his murderous past, and his current desires.

  But why?

  Hanner had proven to be helpful in the past, but perhaps she was just covering for her own kind. After all, she had, on more than one occasion, successfully hidden my supernatural activity from the local police. More than helping me, we had drunk blood together. Discussed our kids together. Laughed together. I had found her insightful and knowledgeable, if not a little feral. Whereas I fought to hold onto my humanity—at least what I thought made me human—Hanner clearly embraced her vampiric nature. She was all vampire, through and through, and any vestiges of humanness were long, long gone.

  As an immortal, her thoughts were closed to me, so I could only guess what her intentions were. Clearly, she was obsessed with me. If not obsessed, then overly aware. Perhaps she was this way with all local vampires. Or with any vampires with whom she crossed paths. Perhaps she considered all other vampires her enemies.

  I shook my head at that thought and leaned back in my economy seat. No, if she considered all vampires her enemies, then she wouldn’t have supported a local blood dealer—the actor, Robert Mason—who, in turn, provided blood for many other vampires.

  Perhaps her interest in me had something more to do with our last conversation, when she had said that I was a rare breed.

  That I had special gifts.

  That I could do things other vampires couldn’t.

  Or perhaps her interest in me had something to do with the old vampire who had turned me seven years ago. The old vampire, now dead thanks to Rand the Vampire Hunter. He, of the cute buns.

  I thought about all of this as the plane landed. A jolting landing. I, myself, landed far smoother, of course. Which reminded m
e: According to Hanner, I was one of the few vampires who could transform.

  When the plane finally came to a stop, I stood with others, got my bags like the others, and waited in line to shuffle off the plane. Like the others.

  But I was not like the others.

  No, I was not like them at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Dr. Herbert Sculler looked like a character out of a Tim Burton movie.

  The short doctor wore round glasses and a lab coat that looked far too big for him. His face was whiter than my own and he smiled far too often, at least too often for a medical examiner who spent his days around corpses.

  We were sitting in his office, which was next to his examining room. There was a man lying on one of the tables, under a sheet, waiting patiently for the doctor’s return.

  Sculler’s office was small. I suspected it was so because he spent the majority of his time in the examining room. There, against the far wall, one, two, three corpses were lined up in plastic bags on shelves.

  More interesting was the male spirit standing off to the side of the dead man in the examining room. The spirit crackled with energy, even when standing motionless. So far, it had not taken its eyes off the body under the blanket. From here, I could see two dark holes in the spirit’s chest, which I knew to be bullet wounds. After many months of seeing the dead, I knew that spirits often mirrored their appearance at death.

  Welcome to my life.

  The spirit merely stood there and stared, wavering in and out of existence. Meaning one moment he was a fairly full-formed human-shape; the next, he was nothing more than static electricity. Upon closer inspection, I saw other spirits in the lab, too. In fact, dozens of them. But most were nothing more than faint balls of light.

  “Ah, here we go,” said Dr. Sculler, who was busy clicking away on his computer. “Caesar Marquez, boxer, age twenty-five, head injury.”

  “You examined him personally?” I asked.

  Sculler nodded gravely. Cutting dead people open was, after all, serious business. “Yes, performed it myself.”