vampire for hire 02.5 - vampire nights

by J. R. Rain

  I’m getting stronger, I thought. Indeed, my psychic powers now seemed to be increasing daily.

  Anyway, the couple did not seem very happy, and I didn’t think that was a psychic hit. Anyone looking at the pictures could see that. They weren’t holding hands; in fact, they weren’t really standing close to each other. The man was dumpy, but looked strong. Probably in his youth he had been an athlete but had let himself go to hell. He had broad shoulders that were mostly fat now. His mustache seemed to change from picture to picture, growing thicker and longer in some. I had asked for recent pictures, but these were clearly separated by months or even years.

  I was parked on the street outside the gym, on a sweltering day in southern California, where even in the shade the temperature was probably in the high eighties. I probably should have been sticky with sweat but I wasn’t. In fact, I was cold. So damn cold. Vampire cold.

  Her husband’s name was CS Shine, and according to Gertrude’s email that’s all her husband went by: CS.

  Seriously? What kind of pompous ass goes by initials these days? I never understood it and probably never would. Initials did not a name make.

  CS Shine. He sounded like a cruise ship.

  Anyway, CS Dumbass actually worked nearby—at a bakery of all places.

  So I checked the time on my cell, saw that I had another twenty-five minutes before Jacky would start yelling at me to keep my boxing hands up, then started the minivan and headed east on Commonwealth.

  To the only bakery in town.

  And to CS Dipshit.

  Chapter Three

  I’d seen the bakery over the years, but had never made it inside. And since I doubted they served plasma-filled turnovers, these days I had even less reason to go inside.

  For now, though, I parked across the street and took in the scene. We were still technically in downtown Fullerton, but we were pushing it. The buildings here were mostly part of newer chains, with hipster apartments above and clean sidewalks out front. Part of Fullerton’s attempt to commercialize its downtown. For the most part, the idea worked. The older stores had gotten a facelift, and now the whole area was buzzing with activity.

  The bakery had a decidedly old-world feel to it, as if it had been transplanted brick by brick from the back streets of Italy or France. It was tucked between some of the newer buildings, and I could just see the owner, CS Loser, indignantly holding his ground, progress be damned. No doubt he had turned down large of sums of money to buy his bakery, thumbing his nose at the establishment.

  Of course, I could be wrong, but this was a borderline psychic hit. If so, you could take it to the bank.

  Anyway, the windows out front advertised cream puffs and fresh baked breads. There was a yellowed poster of an apple pie in the window. Another displayed a stack of what had once been a fresh-baked batch of cookies. Now they were so faded they could have been a pile of cow pies.

  Undeterred by the shabby window dressings, customers poured in and out of the bakery. Many held pink boxes or white bags. I was willing to bet that Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton P.D. frequented the place. Stereotypical, I know, but the man had a huge sweet tooth. He also had a nice, round belly. The two were not mutually exclusive.

  Through the dusty glass, I could see a man working. An older man wearing an apron. There was also a much younger woman working there, too. A cute younger woman who smiled a lot through the window, and it was obvious that she made every customer feel welcome. I hated her immediately. Home-wrecking bitch.

  Easy, girl. You don’t know that.

  Girls who smiled at everyone made me nervous. Married men responded to those smiles. Married men thought those smiles were directed only at them. Married men acted on those smiles in stupid ways.

  Especially married bosses.

  I watched the scene for the next twenty minutes, absorbing the details of the girl, of the man, the way they seemed to work effortlessly in tandem. Sometimes he appeared out front and graciously spoke to customers. Mostly he worked in the back, no doubt making his pies and cakes and all the things that I couldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

  By the time I left, I was certain the two were a little too chummy, a little too comfortable. Something was up. That much was certain, and Gertrude, I think, had every right to be suspicious.

  Now she just needed proof, and that was the hard part.

  Chapter Four

  Mary Lou and I had just finished our weekly round of drinks at Hero’s. Yes, I still frequented Hero’s. Yes, I still IM’d Fang. Yes, I knew he was a killer.

  Aaron Parker, aka Fang, raised serious moral issues with me, moral issues that I often struggled with. That he was a headcase, there was no doubt. Anyone who grew up in the environment in which he had grown up, in the circumstances in which he had grown up, would have had similar issues. Or not. Perhaps it was a perfect storm of craziness and circumstance.

  Either way, at age seventeen, a very delusional Aaron Parker had killed his girlfriend, sucking her dry. His story had been a sensational one. Even more sensational, was that the young man had escaped a high-security psychiatry ward, killing two more men in the process.

  That had been almost two decades ago. Aaron Parker, of course, now went by an assumed name, and as far as I could tell, he had had some facial reconstruction surgery. He was still a wanted man, and he just so happened to be our bartender and my confidant.

  No, I hadn’t known about his past. I didn’t know who the hell he was, truth be known, until six months ago, when we had met for the first time. Or, rather, when he had re-introduced himself. Turns out that he had stalked me and found out who I was and where I lived.

  And this is where I struggle. Fang had proven time and again, to have my best interests at heart. That he was obsessed with vampires was another thing entirely. Another thing that I chose to ignore. In fact, I chose to see only his good side, a side that had been touching and human and endlessly informative.

  Therein lies my quandary.

  I had grown close to him over the years—very close. It wasn’t until six years had passed that the truth came out. I should have been pissed. I should have felt violated. To be sure, I had flirted with both emotions. Mostly, in the end, I saw him as a deeply troubled man.

  Not to mention, we had a psychic connection that I couldn’t quite place my finger on. No doubt the connection was rooted in our close friendship. Indeed, the closer I got to people, the more I could read their minds. The interesting thing about Fang was this: he could also read my mind.

  I hadn’t been ready for that.

  He liked to remind me that we are both flawed. That we had both killed. That we are both victims of circumstance. He liked to remind me that he never intended to kill his girlfriend. It had been an accident. Two people had gone too far in the throes of lovemaking. And one of them had ended up dead.

  Yes, Fang and I were friends. Yes, he had wanted much more, but I had questioned his motives. It seemed to me that he loved me for my gifts. Like a star-crossed fan. I questioned his motives, especially when he asked me to turn him into a vampire.

  No, I hadn’t turned him, but we remained friends, even while I continued to date Kingsley.

  So, when we left the bar on this quiet evening, with Fang and I having made small talk both audibly and inaudibly, I saw something that surprised the hell out of me. Something made me turn back and pause, and as I did so, I spotted CS Dipstick working his way through the bar. I stood there with my sister and tried not to stare as the older baker worked his way out of the bar, passed us, and headed outside. A strong plume of vaporous alcohol trailed behind him.

  The man certainly didn’t look like an adulterer. He looked tired, worn down, and at his wits’ end.

  Maybe because of all the extramarital sex, I thought. The thought really didn’t stick. Frowning after him, I excused myself from my sister and followed him out.

  Chapter Five

  CS Numbnuts was walking down a fairly busy sidewalk.

  I t
railed behind him a dozen feet, keeping my head down and my hands in my pockets. I passed a half dozen well-dressed couples, ranging from old to young. Some of the younger couples veered off into Hero’s. I slid behind an older couple who were laughing and walking while holding hands. Little did they know they were being used as my cover. Or that an honest-to-God vampire was just steps behind them.

  If so, I doubted the woman would have nonchalantly reached down and squeezed the older guy’s buns. Or what passed as buns, since there was nothing really there. Still, he laughed uproariously, and I was beginning to suspect that someone was going to pop a little blue pill tonight.

  The older couple moved at a much slower pace than I would have liked, especially now that the woman had found her man’s non-ass, and as they strolled and squeezed and laughed, the baker made a right turn through some buildings and disappeared into the shadows.

  Shadows weren’t a problem for me. Hell, I specialized in shadows. With my target out of sight, I quickly slipped past the horny old couple. But before I did, I squeezed the man’s ass to see what the fuss was all about. At least I think I squeezed it. I might have hit all bone. Either way, he yelped and jumped about two feet and the woman shot me a furious look.

  “Sorry,” I said, speaking over my shoulder. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Although technically a parking lot, this was really nothing more than a glorified alley, overflow for the bar. At the far end, a pair of brake lights flashed. I ducked between two cars and crouched, watching as a beat-up van backed out slowly and carefully. I caught the profile of the baker as he worked the gear shift in the darkened alley. His profile came sharply into view, alight with the glowing particles that someone like me can somehow see. He was an old, tired man. Too tired for an affair, if you ask me.

  So, what the hell was going on?

  Shortly, he must have found the drive gear, because now he was rolling forward and quickly picking up speed, moving opposite me to the far end of the alley. I briefly debated what to do, since he was now heading in the opposite direction of my parked minivan, which was in the bar’s main parking lot a half block away.

  I could run to my minivan, but I risked losing him.

  Or I could run after him...and risk looking like a freak.

  I thought about this, chewing my lower lip, and as he reached the far end of the alley—and actually turned on his blinker—I made a decision.

  As he hung a right and headed up Amerige Street, I dashed after him.

  Let the freak show begin...

  Chapter Six

  I quickly covered the space between the alley and the street.

  I slowed when I came up to Amerige Street. I rarely spoke of or utilized this particular talent, one that I had discovered years ago: the ability to move fast. I had the ability to cover ground so quickly that at times I thought I was flying.

  I mean, how often did one need to dash down a street? I wasn’t a superhero. I wasn’t a cop. I didn’t chase down bad guys. And I wasn’t in an Adam Sandler movie, where I would use my speed to win track races and collect babes. It was just something I could do, something I could tap into when needed.

  And tonight, caught between an alley and blocks away from my minivan—and not knowing where CS Adulterer was headed—well, I had little other choice.

  I was wearing my Nike running shoes, a cute pair with a yellow swoosh that matched the yellow ribbon in my hair. I doubted the Nike designers ever conducted a field test like this before.

  Amerige is a quiet street that runs north and south, paralleling Harbor Boulevard, itself running through the heart of downtown Fullerton.

  A car was coming from my left, and there was a couple walking toward me a half block down. I ducked my head and hung a right, spying the van’s taillights in the far distance. CS Asshole was easily three blocks ahead of me, having clearly caught a few green lights.

  I jogged at first, my legs feeling strong and mechanical, two pistons attached to a five-foot, three-inch frame. I stepped off the sidewalk and jogged along the street next to a row of parked cars. I picked up speed gradually, keeping the van in sight.

  The couple whipped past me, a blur really. I saw the man’s head snap around, following. Or trying to follow me. No doubt his jaw had dropped open, too.

  I chuckled and lowered my shoulders, picking up speed. Street signs, small trees, and fire hydrants all whipped past me. A small dog barked at me from an open car window, but its yipping receded behind me almost instantly.

  I came to the first intersection, and I was in luck. A green light. I debated slowing. The debate didn’t last long when I spied the van hang a left far ahead.

  I hit another gear entirely. A gear I didn’t know I had.

  Lights blurred past me so fast that I shouldn’t have been able to control my body. I should have been completely out of control, slamming into whatever crossed paths in front of me. But it was the opposite. I had complete control of my body—and I saw everything with clarity. Perhaps even supernatural clarity, nearly predicting where cars and people would be.

  Wind thundered over me, plastering my clothing to my skin, whipping my hair into a crazed frenzy.

  My legs felt so damn strong. My energy endless.

  I could do this all night. All the way to the rising sun.

  I’m not sure what people saw, or what they think they saw, or even if they actually did see me. I was through the intersection so fast that if someone looked down, or looked away, or even blinked, they would have missed me.

  I felt movement to my right and veered away just as a car pulled rapidly away from the curb and hung a U-turn. The driver never saw me, I’m sure of it.

  The light at the next intersection was red. I slowed down gradually, reluctantly, coming up behind a row of cars. I side-stepped smoothly onto the sidewalk and wove quickly through a group of women who were much too loud and drunk. I suspected I was in the midst of one of those “girls’ nights out” that I’m always hearing about. Does drinking with my sister count?

  By the time I reached the sidewalk, the light had turned green. I crossed with the others, except, unlike the others, I was already on the far side of the street before they had taken a few steps. I heard gasps behind me, and saw many heads turn, but they were now so far behind me that I didn’t care and I’m sure they were doubting their own sanity.

  And now I was running so fast that I wasn’t entirely certain that my feet were touching the ground. Wind blasted me. Lights streaked. Bugs were obliterated.

  The next light was green and I was just a blur. I felt like a blur, too. I felt inhuman. I felt elemental. Like the wind. Something from the sky, the earth.

  Cars came and went. People came and went. I swerved, I dodged, I hauled ass, and finally I hung a left and was nearly upon the van, which was just turning into a warehouse.

  I swerved to the other side of the street and spent a few seconds coming to a full stop. I might be immortal, but I still had to contend with physics. Well, sort of. Cars are manufactured with brakes. Bi-peds? Not so much.

  From behind an old-school station wagon, I watched the van come to a complete stop along the side of the building. The baker emerged from the van, and as he did so, a car door opened from another vehicle parked near the warehouse.

  His pretty young assistant stepped out and met him with a warm hug. Bingo!

  Together they slipped inside the dark building through a side door. My mind raced. What was this place? What the hell was going on? I didn’t know the answers to either question, but one thing I did know: Men were fucking pigs.

  Chapter Seven

  I stepped up to the building and scanned it.

  So what kind of building was this? Why were they here after hours? Was this some kind of underground sex club? Were unspeakable sexual acts being performed just behind these doors? I pictured a sea of naked bodies, all undulating rhythmically to hypnotic music, drugs everywhere, naked limbs everywhere, penises and breasts and sex toys galore.
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br />   But I knew this wasn’t right. This was just my imagination running wild. Far different than a psychic hit.

  Still, I listened for music, for the thumping of bass, for anything, but heard nothing other than a faint, echoing hammering sound which could have come from anywhere.

  No. Wait. Laughter. Yes, I just heard laughter coming from within the building.

  The bastard. He had no business laughing with another woman, not with a dying wife waiting for him at home.

  The bastard.

  I stepped back and scanned the facade. Nothing to indicate what the building was. I had a thought and removed my iPhone. I Google-mapped the area and a moment later the same city street popped up on my screen. This time in bright daylight.

  Ah, there we go. According to Google Maps, the area was known as Al’s Auto. I pocketed the phone and did some frowning.

  Al’s Auto? What the hell?

  I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew one thing: a married man had met his cute assistant in an apparent abandoned building late at night, leaving his sick wife to die alone.

  Yeah, men are fucking pigs.

  Of course, I was a little biased these days.

  Keeping to the shadows of a pathetic tree rising up from a trash-strewn sidewalk planter, I closed my eyes and utilized some of my newfound skills, clearing my mind and doing my best to remove some of the burning hate that I was feeling for the cheating bastard. With eyes closed, I expanded my awareness. I imagined this as a glowing arc, widening around me like ripples in a pond. The glowing arc was my feelers, my tentacles, my supernatural eyes and ears and hands and feet. It kept widening. I sensed a nearby mailbox. There was a rat watching me from a drain grate. Correction, three rats, all with glowing eyes, attracted to me for reasons I couldn’t quite understand. There was also an orange tabby that had made its way from the alley to sit under the baker’s van. The tabby was watching the rats, its tail swooshing spasmodically. I could almost—almost—hear the growling of its stomach. Maybe I sensed its hunger. Anyway, the arc continued out, widening, now reaching its curious supernatural feelers deep into the Al’s Auto. I saw a simple front office. Two simple front offices, actually. Computers. Desks. Filing cabinets. Pictures of sports cars on the walls. The building wasn’t abandoned. It was perfectly functioning. I sensed a hallway that led into the back of the shop. I pushed through a doorway into a brightly lit room. Lots of images here. Murky images. Clear images. Cars lined up. Cars on lifts. Another bigger image under what appeared to be a tarp. But I was reaching the end of my range. The images were getting murkier, fuzzier, more scattered. I was certain there was a man lying on the ground. Correction: two men lying on the ground. Or perhaps kneeling; it was hard to tell. Were they dead? Again, impossible to tell. And now I saw something else. Or someone else. A woman was squatting over one of them. The images were distorted at best. What they were doing exactly was impossible to tell. What I inferred they were doing was another story.