Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

  She knows, I thought.

  Knows what? asked Allison.

  Later!

  “I hired her to investigate Grandpa George’s death,” said Tara.

  “But why? Why would you do that?”

  Tara was looking at me, but it wasn’t Tara. It was the thing that had been in Edwin—and was now in her. “I wasn’t thinking straight, uncle. I was...I was confused. I thought maybe a private investigator could help us...perhaps shed light on what happened.”

  Junior crossed the room and sat next to his brother’s daughter. “Grandpa George drowned, Tari.”

  “I know...but why did he drown?”

  Junior gazed at her, then turned and looked at his wife. She shrugged. He sighed. I sensed no deception coming from them. I sensed no concealing of truth. They were legitimately at a loss for answers.

  Finally, Junior said, “We don’t know why he drowned, honey, but the medical report assured us there was no foul play.”

  Tara nodded, although the plastered smile remained on her face. She reminded me of the Joker from Batman. She started nodding, and now tears appeared on her high cheekbones. Tears and that big, disturbing smile.

  “I just wanted help. I just wanted answers.” She pointed at me. “And she was so willing to help, so willing to—no, I shouldn’t say it.”

  “So willing to take your money?” finished Junior.

  Tara looked at him, then at me, and nodded. Allison gasped next to me and made to stand up. I held her back. Junior turned and looked at me. “When the storm clears, you’re on the next boat out of here.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  Something dark clouded over him. No, this wasn’t a body-jumping dark entity. It was his own self-righteous anger. “You will leave, Samantha Moon, even if I have to make you.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Thurman,” I said. “I was hired to do a job, and I intend to finish it.”

  Someone in the room inhaled sharply. Tara, peeking out from behind her uncle, smiled even broader. Junior strode over and stood before me, threateningly. I didn’t get threatened by angry men, even back before my immortal days. I was still sitting on the loveseat next to Allison—even though, I was fairly certain, we weren’t in love. Junior stood over six feet tall and was used to getting his way. His uncle, Cal, was lying dead just down the hallway. This wasn’t a time for him to make a scene or to make things even worse than they were.

  I telepathically reached out to him. This was something I’d recently discovered I could do, something that, apparently, most vampires could do. For me, it was still new—and still something I wasn’t comfortable doing.

  Calm, I thought. All is okay. I’m just here to help. I’m not the enemy.

  Junior blinked, and then unclenched his fists. He swayed slightly, looked at me confusedly, then turned and went back to his wife. He took her hand and she looked at him, also confused.

  I stood, and so did Allison.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said to the room in general. “Cal seemed like a good man. But I’ve also been hired to do a job—a job I intend to finish, one way or another. Each of you can expect a visit from me.” I looked at Patricia Thurman, Junior’s wife. “And I’ll be seeing you first.”

  She blinked with the telepathic suggestion I’d also given her, and with that, Allison and I left the room.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  We were back at the bungalow.

  Allison had poured us two glasses of wine and now, once we had dried off and were in some warm clothing, we sat around the small dinette table that also afforded a view of both the back yard and the brick mansion beyond. Rain slanted nearly sideways across the window, like so many silver daggers. We both kept our eyes mostly on the big house.

  Allison was wearing a sweater and jeans and the thickest socks I’d ever seen. “What did you see, Sam?” she asked me.

  Good question. I’d been asking myself the same thing since we’d left the house and dashed through the rain like two schoolgirls at recess.

  “How good are you at seeing auras?” I asked her.

  “Pretty good, but not as good as you. You see details that I can’t—heck, that I don’t think even the best psychics can see. You know, you could make a lot of money as a psychic, Sammie. Just saying.”

  “I’ll pass. So you didn’t see anything unusual about any of the Thurmans’ auras?”

  “Nothing that stood out, why?”

  So, I told her about the shadowy ribbons, or ropes, that wove through all the Thurmans’ auras like so many lassos.

  “Through all of them?”

  “All,” I said, and she must have caught my next thought.

  “You mean all the blood relatives,” she said.

  “Exactly.” I gave her a glimpse of my own memory, so that she could see the shadows for herself.

  “What is it?” she said after a moment, her mouth hanging open.

  “I don’t honestly know.”

  “The black ropes appear to be...binding them,” said Allison.

  “Good point,” I said.

  “Like it’s holding them hostage.”

  I shuddered. Outside, a magnificent bolt of lightning appeared, rending the gray sky in two. The bolt could have come straight from Asgard, hurled from the mighty Thor himself. Or, if I was lucky, from Chris Hemsworth. The bolt was followed immediately by a clap of thunder so loud that Allison jumped.

  After a moment, she said, “What the hell is going on, Sam?”

  “I don’t know, kiddo. But there’s more.”

  Next, I told her about the change I’d seen in Tara, and, subsequently, the change I’d seen in Edwin. And not just changes of the physical kind, but within their auras. I showed her mental images as I spoke.

  Allison nodded along, even as she was looking a little pale. When I was finished, she said, “Yeah, I thought our hostess was looking a little odd. All that freaky smiling. Thought maybe she’d hit the mimosas a little early.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “There’s something else going on here.”

  “What? I’ll admit, I’m lost.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table and watched as the back door to the big house opened and a woman emerged, a woman I wasn’t surprised to see at all. She popped open an umbrella—which was promptly blown free from her hands, to tumble endlessly across the backyard. She seemed confused at first, then threw on her hood, and dashed across the big back yard.

  “I think,” I said, watching the sprinting figure, “that the entity is body-hopping.”

  “Body-hopping?”

  “Or body-jumping, or whatever it’s called.”

  “Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds, Sam?”

  “No more crazy than everything else.”

  “Good point. And this entity isn’t just any entity, is it?” she asked me.

  “No,” I said. “It might just be the strongest of them all.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “Call it a hunch,” I said. “And there’s something else?”

  “What?”

  I nodded toward the window. “We have company.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  We moved to the bungalow’s living room.

  “These places aren’t bugged, are they?” asked Allison.

  “No,” said Patricia Thurman, looking wet and miserable, and nothing like the socialite I knew she was. Her canvas shoes were soaked through and muddy. The hems of her white pants were muddy as well. Her jacket had kept most of the water off, but her face was still dripping wet. She dabbed it with a bath towel that Allison had given her.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” she said.

  I knew why she was here, but didn’t say anything. As I’d left the family, of course, I had given her a very strong telepathic suggestion to come see me.

  You devil, thought Allison.

  Our secret, I thought, and turned to Patricia. “Maybe you’re here because there’s something you want to
tell us.”

  “You know, get off your chest,” piped in Allison.

  Patricia Thurman, who was probably forty-eight years old, but looked, after all her plastic surgery, forty-six years old, also appeared flummoxed. She really didn’t know why she had decided to come out into the rain to speak with me. But now that she was here, I could see she was warming up to the idea.

  “Well, I’m not in the habit of discussing my family to strangers, you see.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Your niece hired me to help. She felt she had a good reason to.”

  “And, with Cal dying, maybe she does,” said Mrs. Thurman. She tried on a weak smile for size, but it didn’t last. It faltered and her lower lip quivered. “God, not Cal, too. Honestly, that’s still sinking in.”

  “You liked Cal?” I asked, just to get the conversation moving. Sometimes the simplest questions led to a windfall of answers. We would see, especially since I just encouraged her telepathically to open up to me a little more.

  “Cal was always kind to me, always full of laughter. Always drunk.”

  I smiled. “There’s a lot of drinking with the Thurmans.”

  “Not that there’s any problem with that,” added Allison, which earned her a scowl from me.

  “Aw, yes,” said Patricia, ignoring Allison. “The drinking. The endless drinking. Well, maybe that’s part of the curse, too. Had Cal told you about the curse?”

  “He didn’t have a chance,” I said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind, I’ve said too much as it is.”

  She made a move to stand and I gently prodded her to relax, sending her a comforting thought that should have put her at ease: You are among friends, it’s warm in here, no one will hurt you, we’re only trying to help.

  “Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Thurman?” I asked.

  “Yes, please, that would be delightful.” She smiled and blinked and then frowned a little, no doubt surprised to hear the words issue from her mouth.

  “Allison?” I said.

  “Yeah?” She’d been sitting at the edge of her seat.

  “Could you make Mrs. Thurman some coffee?”

  “Oh, yeah, right. I’m on it.”

  She got up and headed into the adjoining kitchen, working quickly, but listening, I knew, to the conversation going on in the living room.

  “Tell me more about the curse, Mrs. Thurman.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the family isn’t supposed to talk about it.”

  “What happens if someone talks about it?”

  “They die.”

  “Because of the curse?”

  “Because of...something,” she said.

  The smell of fresh coffee soon filled the small bungalow, awakening an old need in me, an old craving. I had once loved coffee more than life itself.

  Mrs. Thurman was closed off to me again, and I prodded her further. But first, I wanted to make sure she was safe talking to me. Yes, I needed information, but, no, I didn’t want to jeopardize her life in the process. After all, I had seen the dark snake rise up through Cal’s solar plexus, to strangle the life from him...from the inside out.

  Which, of course, left no mark.

  Just like with George Thurman in the pool. Allison’s thoughts appeared in my mind as she stepped out of the kitchen with two cups of steaming coffee. One for each of them...and none for me. I sighed.

  I nodded. Which could explain why there were no marks on George Thurman.

  And why the coroner could only conclude he’d drowned accidentally.

  As Patricia Thurman accepted the coffee, looking a bit confused as to why she was still here, when, no doubt, her every instinct told her to leave, I gave her another gentle prodding, encouraging her further to tell me more of the family curse, but without divulging so much as to put herself at risk.

  When she was done sipping her coffee, she smiled sweetly at me, crossed her legs, and said, “You were asking me about the family curse?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if it’s, well, real?”

  She nodded and sipped more coffee and would have looked very elegant, if not for her muddy pants. “Oh, yes. It’s very, very real.”

  “Does the curse extend to you?”

  “No, not directly. Indirectly, maybe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means that if anyone in my family knows that I’m talking to you about the curse, I might not live to see tomorrow.” She smiled at me again then added pleasantly: “And neither will either of you.”

  Allison put down her coffee. That was, apparently, enough for her to lose her desire for the good stuff.

  “The curse is passed down through the blood,” I said. “Which is why you’re not directly affected by it.”

  “Why, that’s very observant, Ms. Moon. I can see why Tara hired you. Yes, the curse has been passed down through the generations.”

  “Dating back to when?”

  “Conner Thurman.”

  I knew the name. “George’s and Cal’s father.”

  “Yes, the bastard who caused this mess,” she said and turned to Allison. “Do you have any sugar, dear?”

  “Um, I dunno. Let me check.”

  While Allison went searching for the sugar, I asked Patricia to elaborate on Conner’s involvement with the curse. Which she did.

  And what a curse it was.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “It all began ninety years ago,” Patricia revealed.

  “Conner Thurman was an ambitious businessman. Perhaps too ambitious. He’d always looked for an edge over his competition. He’d come upon a secretive club of elite world leaders, corporate leaders, politicians and celebrities. Not exactly the Masons or the Illuminati, per se, but certainly a group of rich and powerful people who enjoyed their elite status. They called themselves ‘The Society’.”

  Admittedly, I was riveted to Patricia’s unfolding tale.

  “Conner Thurman wasn’t quite in their elite status yet. Yes, he’d had some success in the hotel industry, but certainly nothing that would have given him a golden ticket into The Society. After all, few ever got the golden ticket.

  “Conner was enamored by them. He wanted to rub elbows with them. And he did, sometimes. Just enough to whet his appetite further. The occasional golfing trip. The occasional dinner with some of the others. Always occasionally. Never was he fully immersed. Never was he truly one of them.”

  This was getting good. I nodded at her to go on.

  “And, yes, he very much wanted to be one of them. Joining The Society meant that nothing would stop him or his business. He would crush his competition. He would gain the only competitive edge he would ever need: he would have The Society on his side.

  “That’s all he would need.

  And so, he hung around. He accepted their meager offerings and not-so-secretly wished for more. He wished very hard for more.”

  “As we all do,” I said.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” said Patricia, raising her empty cup, indicating that she wanted more coffee. I looked at Allison. Allison looked at me.

  “Fine,” said my friend grumpily. She snatched Mrs. Thurman’s mug from her hand.

  “Your assistant has a bit of an attitude,” said Mrs. Thurman, and not too quietly.

  A coffee cup banged. The coffee pot banged. The refrigerator slammed.

  “Here, madam,” said Allison a moment later—and a little bit too sweetly.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Thurman, rolling her eyes.

  “You were saying,” I said, prodding her mentally. “Something about wishes...”

  “Yes, Conner Thurman would get exactly what he wanted...and his family, even to this day—and perhaps forevermore—will continue to suffer because of it.”

  She went on. “Conner had been invited to a secret ritual. He had been told that it wa
s an initiation ceremony. Conner was beside himself. Was he really, finally, truly going to be one of them? He hoped to God—and so he went with great expectations.”

  Initiation ceremony? Now it was starting to really sound like a creepy cult.

  “And then?” I said expectantly.

  “The ceremony was held outdoors at a private retreat. A gated, private retreat, complete with armed guards. It was the first time Conner had ever been to the Retreat. He would never divulge its location. But it was somewhere in upstate New York.

  “Excuse me,” said Allison, breaking in. “How do you know all this?”

  “Because I’m one of them, dear. I may not be blood, no, but I am very much one of them.”

  She smiled sweetly and drank her coffee. Actually, not so sweetly. There was a darkness in her eyes. This woman, I suspected, had a cold-hearted streak in her.

  She went on as I shuddered slightly.

  “The ritual quickly got out of hand. There were dozens of men in various stages of dress. Naked prostitutes. An altar covered in blood. Fresh blood. Conner felt sick and turned to leave but was not permitted to. No, he had already seen too much. His choices were simple: become one of them, or join the fate of the others.”

  “He still wanted to be one of them?” I asked.

  “Badly. After all, what were a few prostitutes?”

  Sick, I thought.

  Patricia Thurman continued, “One such prostitute was splayed out on the altar. Naked. Screaming. Begging for mercy. Conner was given a stone blade that he was told was imbued with supernatural power. He was told to use it to kill the screaming woman, to silence her, to sacrifice her.”

  I had a good idea what had happened from that point on. Patricia kept talking.

  “He had looked at her only briefly, and then turned his face away as he drove the dagger deep into her chest while she shrieked and fought and finally died. His hands were soaked with her blood and he wanted to break down and weep. He wanted to plunge the dagger into his own heart, too. How could he do this to an innocent human being?”

  Patricia was on a roll now. I don’t think she could have shut up if she’d wanted to.