Vampire Dawn

by J. R. Rain

  "For a dead girl?"

  "You're very much alive. "

  "Well, that's good news. "

  He planted a big, wet kiss on my lips that I didn't want to end. At least, not for the next two or three hours. When we separated, I noticed an old man watching us. Hell, I would have watched us, too.

  "You hungry?" asked Kingsley. I noticed his five o'clock shadow was looking more like a three-day growth. The surest indicator that a full moon was rising.

  "Hungry enough to suck you dry," I said.

  Now he shivered. "With talk like that, we might just skip dinner. "

  We were seated immediately at our favorite table near the front window. The waiters here knew my preferences and, after giving us one of their finest white wines - one of the few non-hemoglobic beverages I can enjoy - they brought us our meals. Salmon for Kingsley. Steak for me. Rare.

  Very, very rare.

  Rather than use a knife and fork, I used a spoon, and, as casually as I could, I dipped it into the warm blood that had pooled around the meat and brought it to my lips. I tried not to feel like the ghoul that I was.

  Just a girl with her man, I told myself. A man, of course, who just so happened to be bigger than most men. And far hairier. Especially at this time of the month.

  Kingsley, suffering from no such eating restrictions, went to work on the salmon. Although the defense attorney dressed immaculately, he ate like a pig. And, yeah, I was jealous as hell.

  The waiter came by and filled my wine glass. Since I had taken precisely three sips, the filling part didn't take long. Kingsley ordered another beer, and when the waiter was gone, I said to him, "I found another medallion. "

  "Another what?" he mumbled around his salmon. Or, rather, I think he said.

  "Medallion. You know, like the one before. But this one is inlaid with emerald roses, rather than ruby. "

  Kingsley's lips were shiny with grease. His impossibly full lips. His longish hair hung just below his collar. He was the picture of the maverick attorney, who just so happened to look like a ravenous wolf, too. "Tell me about it," he said.

  And I did. I told him about the case I had taken on around Christmas, a case in which I had helped a sweet man find a family heirloom, of sorts. A sweet man who just so happened to be a hoarder, too. For payment, I was permitted to pick anything I wanted from his piles of junk. I had cheated. I had used my intuition to hone in on something particularly valuable, something that had lain hidden and mostly forgotten under piles of crap.

  A box. With a medallion.

  A medallion that was a near-exact replica of the one I had owned six months ago. And that medallion had contained powerful magicks. So powerful, in fact, that it had reversed vampirism.

  "So the question is," I said. "Can this medallion do the same?"

  During my recounting, Kingsley had finished his salmon and was now working on his cubed rosemary potatoes. The fork in his hand looked miniature. "Do you have the medallion with you now?" he asked.

  I did. I showed it to him. Kingsley immediately frowned. A frown for Kingsley meant his bushy eyebrows came together to form one long incredibly bushy eyebrow. "You should have left it at home," he said, glancing around.

  "And miss seeing your bushy eyebrows come together?"

  "I'm serious, Sam. Stuff like this. . . " he lowered his voice. "You, of all people, know the lengths some people - "

  "Or vampires. "

  His long eyebrow quivered. "Yes, Sam. Vampires. Some vampires will kill - "

  "And kidnap. "

  "Yes, and kidnap for these things. "

  I set it on the table and mostly covered it with my hand. "And what is this thing? Another immortality reverser?"

  Kingsley shook his head sharply. "No. There was only one of those made. "

  "And you know this how?"

  "I know some things," he said.

  "Because you've been around longer than me. "

  "A lot longer than you, Sam. "

  "Fine. So only one of those were made. Then what's this?" I moved my hand aside, revealing the shining medallion again. It caught the overhead chandelier light and returned a thousandfold, and the three emeralds within twinkled like green stars. Or like lime jello. Which so happened to be Anthony's and Tammy's favorite jello.

  Kingsley glanced briefly at the medallion before reaching across the table and covering my hand with his own. Hell, he covered most of my wrist, too. And some of my napkin and plate. Big hands.

  "I don't know yet," he said. "But I can tell you one thing. "

  "And what's that?"

  "It's valuable as hell. Which means. . . " And his voice trailed off.

  Unfortunately, I knew the ending to this sentence all too well. "Which means some people will kill for it. "

  "Some people," said Kingsley, "or some vampires. "

  Chapter Ten

  "You tampered with evidence. What were you thinking, Sam?" scolded Detective Sherbet.

  "I was thinking about finding our killer. "

  We were in his glass office. Some of the officers on duty were watching us from outside the office. One or two were shaking their heads in a way that suggested they did not approve of me or of the department using my inferior services.

  "Your men don't like me," I said.

  "They see it as a slap in the face, a blow to their ego," said Sherbet, sitting back in his chair. He laced his thick fingers over his rotund belly. The rotund belly was looking a little more rotund these days. This time, however, I shielded my thoughts from him. He didn't need to know what I thought of his belly. He went on, "They don't understand why I brought you in, so they see you as a sort of indictment on their own abilities. "

  "If they only knew," I said.

  "Truth is, sometimes I wish I didn't know, Sam. I mean, isn't this kind of stuff supposed to just be in books and movies?"

  I said, "Someone told me recently that if enough people believe in something, put their attention on something, then that something becomes a reality. "

  Sherbet immediate shook his head. "That doesn't make sense," he said, which didn't surprise me much. Detectives lived and died by things that made sense. Cold hard facts. "Who told you this?"

  "My guardian angel. Actually, my ex-guardian angel. "

  Sherbet blinked. "Please tell me you're kidding. "

  "Sadly, no. He visited me over Christmas. Expressed his undying love for me, in fact. "

  "Please stop. There's only so much I can handle. " Sherbet massaged his temples. "We sound crazy, you know. "

  "Maybe we are," I said.

  "Crazy, I can accept. Guardian angels, not so much. Can I really can read your mind, Sam?"

  "Yes. "

  "And you can read my mind?" he asked.

  "If I wanted to. "

  "My head hurts, Sam. "

  "I imagine it does. "

  He looked at me some more. As he did so, his jowls quivered a little. His nose was faintly red. "How do you do it?" he finally asked.

  I didn't have to be a mind reader to know what it was. I said, "One day at a time. One minute at a time. "

  "If it were me, I would go bugfuck crazy. "

  We were quiet some more. The smell of coffee seemed to permanently hang suspended in the air of his office, although I could see no coffee cups. Outside his glass office wall, I could hear phones ringing, phones being answered, the rapid typing on keyboards.

  "Back to you tampering with evidence," said Sherbet. "Officially, I have to ask you to never do that again. "

  "And unofficially?"

  "Unofficially, I have to ask you what you learned. "

  "He's not a vampire," I said. "At least, I don't think he is. "

  "Then what is he? Why does he drain the bodies of blood?"

  "Think of him as a supplier. "

  "A supplier? Of what? Blood?"

  "Yes. "

  "For who?"
r />   I didn't say anything. I let the detective think this through. As he studied me, I glanced around his small office. There was a picture of his wife next to his keyboard, a lovely woman I'd met just this past Christmas, a woman who was easily twenty years younger than Sherbet.

  You go, Detective.

  Finally, he said, "Are you implying he supplies blood to. . . vampires?"

  "Maybe. I don't know for sure. "

  "Which begs the question: where do vampires get their blood?"

  "We get it from all over, Detective. I get mine, as you know, from a local butchery. "

  "Animal blood. "

  "Right. "

  "So, this guy supplies human blood. "

  "Right. "

  "Have you ever heard anything like that, Sam?"

  "Not quite like that. "

  "What have you heard?"

  "That some people act as donors. "

  "Willing donors?"

  "Some of them," I said.

  "And some not so willingly?"

  "Would be my guess," I said.

  Sherbet started shaking his head, and he didn't quit shaking it until he spoke again. Finally, he said, "So, what else do you know about our killer?"

  "He's got blue eyes. "

  "That's it?"

  "That's it. "

  "No other psychic hits?"

  "He hangs the bodies upside down to drain. "

  "Like a butcher. "

  "Yes," I said.

  "Which makes sense if he's a blood supplier; after all, he wouldn't want to waste a single drop. "

  "Blood is money," I said.

  "Jesus. Where did he kill his victims?"

  I shook my head. "Hard to know. Brian Meeks regained consciousness while hanging upside down. "

  "Jesus," he said again. "And you saw this, what, through his eyes? From touching his stuff?"

  "That's how it seems to work. "

  "Do you have any fucking idea how crazy we sound?"

  "Some idea," I said.

  Sherbet shook his head. "Did he - or you - see anything else while he was hanging upside down?"

  "Yes. "

  "Don't say it, Sam," said Sherbet, and I think he caught a glimpse of my thoughts.

  "More bodies," I said.

  "I asked you not to say it. "

  Chapter Eleven

  With the body now identified and most of the Fullerton Police Department looking deeply into Brian Meeks's personal and professional life, Detective Sherbet had asked me to lay low for a while and let his boys think they were doing some actual work.

  I told him no problem, smiled warmly, and promptly looked into Brian Meeks's personal and professional life.

  Since I knew the cops were currently turning his small apartment upside down, looking for anything and everything that could help identify the killer, that left his professional life.

  Which is why I found myself outside the Fullerton Playhouse. Turns out that Brian Meeks had been an actor here in Fullerton, working primarily with local theater and community colleges. Which might explain why he lived in a one-bedroom apartment.

  The Fullerton Playhouse is located on Commonwealth, near the Amtrak train station, and near what had been one of my favorite restaurants, back when my diet wasn't so one-dimensional. The Olde Spaghetti House will always have a special place in my heart. The fact that I would never again eat mizithra cheese spaghetti again was a crime in and of itself.

  I parked in the mostly empty parking lot next to the wooden playhouse. A marquee sign out front read, "Elvis Has Not Left the Building: The Musical. " Under the sign were the words: "The King is Back!"

  Boy, was he ever. Last year, while searching for a missing little girl, I had teamed up with, among others, an investigator from Los Angeles. An investigator from whom I had received a very strange psychic hit. An investigator who vaguely looked and sounded like the King himself.

  Turned out, the old guy had secrets of his own, secrets I would take with me to my grave, whenever the hell that might be.

  Now as I sat in the parking lot in my minivan, shrinking away from the daylight, I closed my eyes and cleared my mind and cast my thoughts out and directed them toward the theater. Yes, I was getting good at this sort of thing.

  Now, as my thoughts moved through the theater, I could see various people working together in small groups or individually. Actors and stage hands and set designers, anyone and everyone needed to put on a show.

  So far, no hit. Nothing that made me take notice.

  I pushed past the main stage to the backstage. Still nothing. I meandered down a side hallway and into a storage room. Props were everywhere. Rows upon rows of wardrobes hung from racks and hangers. Still nothing. I was about to snap back into my body when something appeared at the back of the theater.

  A shadow.

  It appeared suddenly from the far wall, scurried up to the ceiling, then down a side wall, then huddled in a dark corner, where it waited. I sensed that it always waited, that it was always afraid.

  I shivered. Jesus, what the hell was that thing? I'd seen my fair share of ghosts and spirits, but never a shadow. Never this.

  And it came from the mirror hanging from the back wall. No, not the mirror. Behind the mirror. There was a doorway there. A hidden doorway.

  I tried to push through the secret door, but I was just too far away. My range is limited, and I was at the far end of it.

  I snapped back into my body and, briefly disoriented, gave myself a few moments to get used to seeing through my physical eyes again. The sun was still out, which meant that the next few moments were not going to be very fun. When I had mentally prepared myself, I took a deep breath and threw open my minivan door. I dashed across the parking lot, keeping my head down, leaping over cement parking curbs like a horse at a steeplechase.

  When I finally ducked under the marquee and into the blessed shade, I was gasping and clutching my chest and maybe even whimpering a little. The sun was truly not my friend. And that was a damn shame.

  When the burning subsided enough for me to think straight, I pushed my way into the theater's main entrance.

  Chapter Twelve

  The theater looked much the same as it had in my thoughts, except for the details.

  The same crew was on stage, hammering and sawing away on a wooden cut-out of a pink Cadillac. The same group of actors were going over lines off to the left of the stage.

  No one noticed me. No one cared. And why should they? They were all busy putting on a stage show about Elvis, and what could be cooler than that?

  With murder cases, you always interviewed those closest to the victims, then worked your way out. I would let the police interview any family members, although precious few showed up in my preliminary research. Still, most people tended to open up to an official murder investigation. Not everyone opened up to private eyes.

  Go figure.

  So as I stood there and surveyed the darkened theater, watching workers carry props and pull cables, actors read and re-read lines, and various stage hands in group meetings, I realized why I was here. Why I had jumped the gun and come here on my own. Against Sherbet's wishes, no less.

  He's here, I thought. The killer is here.

  Before me, the stadium seating sloped downward. The Fullerton Playhouse wasn't huge. I would guess that it could seat maybe one thousand. The seating itself was arranged into four quadrants, with two aisles leading down and aisles on each side. I was standing on a platform near a metal railing. Wheelchair seating, if my guess was correct. Various lights were on throughout the theater, but certainly not all of them, as much of the seating was in shadows.

  A quick count netted me twenty-four people. And one of them was the killer. I was sure of it.

  How I knew this, I no longer questioned or doubted, and as I stood there scanning the theater, I felt that something was off. And I was pretty sure I knew wh
y.

  There was more than one killer.

  It takes a certain kind of personality to be an actor, or even hang around the theater. You had to love masks, the ability to pretend to be something other than what you were. Which was a pretty useful trait for a killer, too.

  As I stepped forward, a small man appeared out of the shadows to my left. Holding a clipboard and mumbling to himself, he nearly ran into me before looking up. He was exactly an inch taller than me.

  I held out one of my business cards. "Hi. My name's Samantha Moon, and I'm looking into the murder of Brian Meeks. "

  He looked at the card and blinked twice. "Are you with the police?"

  "I'm a private investigator. " One of the stipulations with Sherbet was that I was never, ever, to state that I was working with the police. It was a gray area he wanted to avoid. My official employer was the City of Fullerton. In fact, my checks had been issued by the city clerk's office.

  "Working for whom?"

  "An interested party. "

  He finally took my card. "What are they interested in?"

  "Finding the killer. " I tried not to be sarcastic, because that never helps. What did he think, the cops wanted to know his favorite picks to win the Oscars? "Can I ask you a few questions about Brian Meeks?"

  He looked at my card, looked at me, looked over at the stage. I sensed his hesitation, his pain, and finally his resolve. "Okay, but only for a few minutes. We're putting on a show in a few days. Opening night. Crazy as Lady Macbeth here. "

  "Gotcha. We'll hurry this along. Did Brian Meeks work here as an actor?"

  "For a few years now. "

  "Did you know him personally?"

  "Not necessarily personally, but professionally. Then again, in the world of theater, personal and professional lines tend to get blurred. We're all so close. "

  "I bet. Are you an actor?"

  "Director only. "

  "Gotcha. Did you direct anything Brian was in?"

  He nodded. "Our last show, Twelfth Night. Brian was supposed to be in this new show, but. . . "

  "He's been missing. "

  The little director rubbed his face. "Right. Missing. Until we heard the news this morning that he was found dead. Murdered. "

  "Did Brian have many friends?"

  "Funny you should ask. . . I was just trying to think who his close friends were. I was thinking of doing some sort of memorial for him. Something either before or after our opening show this weekend. . . "

  "And?"