Vampire for Hire

by J. R. Rain

  “Not really,” he said, sucking on his fingers. “I just like donuts.”

  I shook my head while he dug into the bag, coming up with something pink and sprinkled. He said, “I’ve grown rather fond of these donuts.”

  “And how’s your son, by the way?” I asked.

  Sherbet looked at me from over the donut. “I bring out a pink donut and it immediately reminds you of my son?”

  “Yes and no.”

  He chomped into it. Pink frosting coated his thick, cop mustache. “He’s fine, of course. I love him terribly, but there’s something definitely wrong.”

  “Wrong how?”

  “I keep catching him in his mother’s clothing, especially her shoes.”

  “Is it that you catch him, or he likes to wear them?”

  “Both, I think. Makes me want to cry.”

  We were silent, and as the wall clock behind me ticked so loudly that I could practically hear the inner gears grinding together, Sherbet figured out what an ass he was being.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ve got your little one here fighting for his life and I’m bitching because mine likes to dress up like Nanny McPhee.”

  I nodded, said nothing.

  Sherbet reached out and placed his warm hand over my own. He took mine tightly and didn’t flinch from the cold. I think he was getting used to my icy hands.

  “Let’s change the subject, okay?” he suggested.

  I nodded again and looked away. I wasn’t going to cry. I was tired of crying.

  He said, “The guy you found dead in the meth house was murdered.”

  “I’m shocked and outraged,” I said. I was neither, of course. Drug hits were common and quickly forgotten by the police.

  “Execution style, too.”

  “Do we care enough about him to know his name?” I asked.

  “No,” said Sherbet. “We don’t. He was a known user and dealer. Too many suspects, too little time. The place was grand central station for meth and blow...and other things as well.”

  “Prostitutes,” I said.

  “And various child abuses that we need not get into here.”

  “Let’s call it for what it is, detective. Child slavery and prostitution.”

  The detective looked sick. I felt sick, too. He nodded gravely and dropped the unfinished donut in his bag. It’s hard to have an appetite for pink donuts when the talk turns to child abuse.

  He said, “From what we understand, the children are used as...payments, of one sort or another.”

  I nodded, and felt bile rise in the back of my throat.

  Sherbet continued, “Maddie’s mother was no doubt caught up in it. And now she’s dead, apparently.”

  “And little Maddie is alone,” I said.

  Sherbet nodded and we were silent. He turned to me. “You making any headway on the case?”

  “Some,” I said. I decided not to mention Aaron’s hot lead in Simi Valley. Mostly because I didn’t trust the police enough at this point to get Maddie out alive, wherever she was. I trusted Sherbet, certainly, but he was only one man, and Simi Valley was not his beat, not by a long shot.

  “Let me know if you need some help,” he said.

  “You bet.”

  Sherbet was openly staring at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “I was just thinking.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself, Detective.”

  He ignored me. “It’s funny how suspects keep ending up dead on cases you investigate.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Detective?”

  “You were working an angle on the Jerry Blum case last month.”

  “You know this how?”

  “I have friends in the FBI, too, Sam.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You were making inquiries for your client. A Stuart something-or-other.”

  “Stuart Young.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, Jerry Blum has been missing for a month.”

  “Maybe he’s on the lam.”

  “Or maybe he’s dead,” said Sherbet.

  I shrugged.

  “Well, let’s try to keep the body count down this time, Sam.”

  “People die,” I said. “Especially bad people.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  My son made a small sound and turned over in his sleep. As he turned, the black shadow that surrounded him turned with him. My heart sank further.

  Sherbet patted me on the shoulder and stood. He looked down at me long and hard, and then left.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  You there, Moon Dance?

  It was Fang via a text message. With our super-secret identities now revealed, we had graduated from anonymous IM messages to exchanging our cell numbers and texting like real people. Or, at least, like teenagers.

  I was still sitting next to my son. It was coming on noon and I was weak and sad and tired.

  Hi, Fang. :(

  There was a slight delay, perhaps a minute. Texting wasn’t as fast as IMing.

  Why are you sad, Moon Dance?

  It’s my son.

  You mentioned he was sick. Is he not better?

  Worse, I wrote, paused, and then added: He’s dying.

  That was all I could write. And even writing those two words was nearly impossible. The words seemed so unlikely, implausible, unreal. More so than my own vampirism. How could my healthy, happy, quirky little boy be dying?

  Outside the room, a doctor rushed quickly by. I heard shouting from somewhere. Two orderlies quickly followed behind. Doctors risked their lives more than people realized.

  You would never say that lightly, wrote Fang. So it must be true.

  I spent the next few minutes catching him up to date on my son’s health and the black halo surrounding his body.

  There was a long period of silence from my phone, which I had set to vibrate. I adjusted my weight on my hip and reached out and stroked my son’s face. He was burning up.

  The phone vibrated. Do the doctor’s know what’s wrong with him?

  They’re saying it could be Kawasaki’s Disease.

  Hold on.

  And I knew Fang was looking up the disease. I ran my fingers through my son’s hair for the next five minutes. My phone buzzed again.

  There’s only a 2% mortality rate, Fang wrote.

  2% is enough, I wrote.

  I’m sorry, Moon Dance. I wish there was something I could do.

  I was about to write to him, when another message appeared from Fang. It was simple and to the point:

  Actually, Moon Dance, I think I know of a way to save your son.

  Don’t go anywhere! I’m calling you.

  Chapter Forty

  I was outside of St. Jude’s, huddled under the eve of the main entrance, as deep in the shadows as I could be. Still, I could literally feel my skin burning.

  I could give a damn about my skin.

  Fang answered my call immediately. “Hello, Moon Dance.”

  I found myself pacing, turning small circles in front of the hospital entrance. The automatic door kept sliding open. The information nurse working the front desk gave me a nasty look. I ignored her.

  “Talk to me, Fang.”

  “I’m talking,” he said, and I could hear the excitement in his voice. “There is a way to save your son.”

  “What way?”

  And the moment I asked the question, I knew the answer. Fang and I were deeply connected and I either picked up on his thoughts or intuited his meaning. I think I gasped and nearly choked.

  “No,” I said. “No fucking way. I’m not doing it.”

  “You read my mind, Moon Dance.”

  “Of course I read your fucking mind. I have to sit.”

  There was an alabaster bench just inside the shade that I would risk, and as I sat, I regretted doing so almost immediately. I could practically smell my burning skin, despite my long sleeves and heavy sunscreen.

  I ignored the pain and buried my fa
ce in my hands. People were looking at me, sure, but a grieving mother outside of a children’s hospital wasn’t anything new.

  But a grieving mother contemplating giving her son eternal life was another matter altogether.

  I said, “I can’t do it, Fang. I could never do that to him. How could you even suggest that?”

  “You didn’t let me finish. Or, for that matter, speak, since you read my thoughts.”

  Yes, I knew there was more. I knew he was eager to continue with this, but my own wildly spinning emotions prevented me from picking up on his additional thoughts. In fact, they still did.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “The medallion, Moon Dance.”

  And that’s all he needed to say; in an instant I knew what he meant and what he was getting at.

  The medallion, or amulet. Or whatever it was. Worn by my attacker six years ago, and hand-delivered to me by the vampire hunter who killed him.

  The medallion, that, according to Kingsley, could reverse vampirism.

  Fang was speaking, but I was having a hell of a time focusing. He said, “Heal him with vampirism, Moon Dance, and then return him to mortality with the medallion.”

  “But how?” I said. “How does it work?”

  “I don’t know...but someone out there does.”

  “I gotta go,” I said suddenly, and clicked off.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Kingsley Fulcrum had a new secretary. No surprise there since I watched the last one die a few months ago, shot to death by none other than Detective Sherbet. And, since killing together has a way of bonding people, perhaps that’s why the good detective and I got along so swimmingly.

  It was a working theory.

  This new secretary wasn’t as sexy as the last. Which was probably a good thing. Maybe after a century or more, the big bad wolf was finally learning to keep it in his pants, or tucked away in his fur.

  Anyway, this slightly older and plainer secretary (although still cute in her ruffled cardigan sweater) told me that Kingsley was with a client. Kingsley’s clients were often murderers with a lot of money.

  I could give a fuck about his clients.

  As I marched past her and down a hallway, I heard her rapidly punching buttons on the intercom. She must have successfully buzzed Kingsley, because as I threw open his door he was just reaching for the phone with what appeared to be a look of irritation. The mighty attorney didn’t like to be disturbed, apparently. The look of irritation quickly turned to one of dumbfounded shock when he saw me.

  The big guy cleaned up well. He was looking absolutely debonair in a black Armani suit, a pair of over-the-top and beyond stylish Berluti shoes, and hair so slicked back that a girl might break a nail scratching behind his ears.

  Unless that girl, of course, was a vampire.

  “Sam,” he said, standing slowly from behind his desk. “This isn’t a good time.”

  His client turned to me. Another man dressed in a nice suit. A man who looked bored and rich and entitled. Okay, it’s hard to look entitled, but that was the feeling I was getting from him. I also got a very strong hit that he was a murderer. A cold-blooded murderer. I got another hit...he had strangled his own wife in her sleep. I heard her last strangled gasps as I stood there in the doorway and he sat there looking bored.

  Sweet Jesus my hits were getting stronger and stronger.

  I walked over to the guy and pulled him out of his chair. He didn’t go willingly. He tried to push my hands away but couldn’t. As I pulled him out of his chair, Kingsley ran from around his desk, his Armani suit swooshing.

  “Hey!” shouted the guy as I held him in front of me.

  Kingsley shouted something similar.

  The guy tried again to shove me away, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I had him by the collar of his nice suit. And now that he was on his feet, I slammed his face hard onto the table.

  “You killed her, you worthless piece of shit. You strangled her in her sleep, you fucking coward, and then you lit a Cuban cigar after a job well done. An illegal Cuban cigar.”

  He struggled to get up, but I held him down on the table and all the anger and frustration and pain and confusion and despair I had felt over the past few days came flooding out of me. I lifted his face and slammed it again into the table. Blood immediately pooled around his eye socket. I had split the skin along his upper orbital ridge. Poor baby.

  “I will personally see to it that you rot in hell, you fucking—”

  And that’s when Kingsley pulled me off the man. Kicking and screaming, I didn’t go willingly. But Kingsley happened to be one hell of a strong guy.

  Chapter Forty-two

  “What the hell was that, Sam?”

  I was sitting in an empty side office. Apparently, Kingsley Fulcrum made so much blood money representing rich, murderous scumbags that he could afford to have empty offices.

  “What was what?” I asked. I was still fuming, and I was having a hard time looking Kingsley in the eye. The big son-of-a-bitch was really bothering me these days. I had come here for a completely different reason, but I had let my emotions get the better of me.

  Hey, I’m only human.

  Or something.

  “Playing Whack-A-Mole with my client’s head, Sam. That’s what.”

  “Whack-A-Mole?” I asked, and I started laughing, nearly hysterically, and then I was crying, definitely hysterically, harder than I had in quite a long time. Kingsley stood apart from me, watching me, and then he came over and gave me a big hug, wrapping those huge arms around me, patting my back and rubbing my shoulders, and telling me everything would be okay.

  * * *

  I was calmer. We were back in Kingsley’s office, minus the murderous scumbag, who had apparently left holding a bag of ice to his face. Someone had cleaned the blood off the table, although I could still smell the sharp hemoglobin radiating off the freshly polished wood surface. Must be the vampire in me.

  My stomach growled, and I hated myself for that.

  “You can’t keep killing my clients, Sam,” said Kingsley. His right butt cheek was sitting on the corner of his desk. I was sitting in one of his client chairs. Everywhere around me were depictions of moons: moon photographs, paperweights, lamps. Even a moon screen saver. The moon bookends, each by itself a half moon, seemed to be the newest edition to his office.

  Yeah, the man had a moon obsession, which stands to reason. His obsession was also how he had found me in the phone book so many months ago. Under “Moon”, of course.

  “Well, your clients are scumbags,” I said.

  “Be that as it may, they deserve a fair trial.”

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night, big guy.”

  “Why are you here, Sam?”

  I stared at him...no doubt icily. He calmly returned my gaze. We did this for about ten seconds before I finally lowered my eyes and looked away. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That wasn’t cool. I guess I’m desperate.”

  “A desperate vampire is a sight to see.”

  “A desperate mother is worse.”

  He nodded and eased off the corner of his desk. He sat next to me and adjusted the drape of his pants. Kingsley, as always, smelled of fine cologne and that special something else. Something wild. He waited. As he waited, I gathered my thoughts.

  Finally, I said, “The medallion that’s in my possession...”

  He looked at me sideways, turning his head just a fraction of an inch. “What about it?”

  “Is it really true that it can reverse vampirism?”

  Although I wasn’t looking at him, I knew he had narrowed his eyes. Kingsley was nearly impossible for me to read psychically. I wondered if it was like that for all other immortals, too.

  He said, “That’s the legend about it.”

  “What else do you know about it?”

  “I know that a lot of people are looking for it.”

  “People? Or vampires?”