by Rain, J. R.
THE SPINOZA TRILOGY
All Three Vampire Mysteries
THE VAMPIRE WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO
THE VAMPIRE WHO PLAYED DEAD
THE VAMPIRE IN THE IRON MASK
by
J.R. RAIN
Acclaim for the novels of J.R. Rain:
“Be prepared to lose sleep!”
—James Rollins, international bestselling author of The Devil’s Colony on J.R. Rain’s The Lost Ark
“I love this!”
—Piers Anthony, bestselling author of Xanth on J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance
“J.R. Rain delivers a blend of action and wit that always entertains. Quick with the one-liners, but his characters are fully fleshed out (even the undead ones) and you'll come back again and again.”
—Scott Nicholson, bestselling author of The Red Church
“Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”
—Gemma Halliday, award-winning author of Spying in High Heels
“Moon Dance is absolutely brilliant!”
—Lisa Tenzin-Dolma, author of Understanding the Planetary Myths
“Powerful stuff!”
—Aiden James, author of Deadly Night on J.R. Rain’s Arthur
“Moon Dance is a must read. If you like Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, be prepared to love J.R. Rain’s Samantha Moon, vampire private investigator.”
—Eve Paludan, author of Letters from David
“Impossible to put down. J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance is a fabulous urban fantasy replete with multifarious and unusual characters, a perfectly synchronized plot, vibrant dialogue and sterling witticism all wrapped in a voice that is as beautiful as it is rich and vividly intense as it is relaxed.”
—April Vine, author of The Midnight Rose
Other Books by J.R. Rain
STANDALONE NOVELS
The Lost Ark
The Body Departed
Elvis Has Not Left the Building
Silent Echo
Judas Silver
Lost Eden
COLLABORATIONS
Cursed! (with Scott Nicholson)
The Vampire Club (with Scott Nicholson)
Dragon Assassin (with Piers Anthony)
Daughters of Eve (with P.J. Day)
Hear No Evil (with Michele Scott)
VAMPIRE FOR HIRE SERIES
Moon Dance
Vampire Moon
American Vampire
Moon Child
Christmas Moon
Vampire Dawn
Vampire Games
Moon Island
Moon River
SAMANTHA MOON SHORT STORIES
Teeth
Vampire Nights
Vampires Blues
Vampire Dreams
Halloween Moon
Vampire Gold
Blue Moon
JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES
Dark Horse
The Mummy Case
Hail Mary
Clean Slate
SPINOZA TRILOGY
The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo
The Vampire Who Played Dead
The Vampire in the Iron Mask
GRAIL QUEST TRILOGY
Arthur
Merlin
Lancelot
ALADDIN TRILOGY
with Piers Anthony
Aladdin Relighted
Aladdin Sins Bad
Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman
WALKING PLAGUE TRILOGY
with Elizabeth Basque
Zombie Patrol
Zombie Rage
Zombie Mountain
HUNTRESS TRILOGY
with Elizabeth Basque
The Vampire Who Knew Too Much
The Vampire in the High Castle
The Vampire With the Golden Gun
FRANKENSTEIN REBORN TRILOGY
with Elizabeth Basque
I, Monster
Of Monsters and Men
Prometheus Rising
BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLADE TRILOGY
with Eve Paludan
Burning
DRACULA BEGINS TRILOGY
with Jackson Stein
The Vampire King
SPIDER SERIES
with Scott Nicholson and H.T. Night
Bad Blood
Spider Web
NICK CAINE SERIES
with Aiden James
Temple of the Jaguar
Treasure of the Deep
Pyramid of the Gods
Curse of the Druids
GHOST FILES SERIES
edited with Scott Nicholson
Ghost College
Ghost Fire
Ghost Soldier
Ghost Hall
Ghost Tattoo
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
The Bleeder and Other Stories
Vampires Rain and Other Stories
The Santa Call: A Christmas Story
SCREENPLAYS
Judas Silver: The Screenplay
Lost Eden: The Screenplay
Spinoza: All Three Vampire Mysteries
Published by J.R. Rain
Copyright © 2013 by J.R. Rain
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo
The Vampire Who Played Dead
The Vampire in the Iron Mask
Reading Samples
About the Author
THE VAMPIRE
WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO
Spinoza Series #1
Copyright © 2010 by J.R. Rain
All rights reserved.
Dedication
To my sweet sister, Bekky.
Acknowledgments
Once again, a big thank you to Eve Paludan and Sandy Johnston for all their wonderful help.
The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo
Chapter One
Her name was Gladys Melbourne and she was crying.
We were sitting together in my office, with the door closed. Outside, the street sounds came through my partially open window. A particularly loud Harley rumbled by so loudly that the fillings in my teeth nearly rattled out.
Gladys ignored the Harley. She was looking away and wiping tears from her high cheekbones.
Women crying in my presence wasn’t something new to me, and so I calmly waited it out. Meanwhile, my natural shyness to people in general prevented me from saying the soothing words she no doubt needed to hear.
I waited. She buried her face in both hands. I looked at the ceiling and sat back in the chair, and silently wished I could find it within me to say something, anything.
She continued crying.
Outside, a street person yelled something. I thought I recognized the voice. I knew most of the street people. When I’m feeling generous, especially when work is steady, I usually gave abundantly to the local homeless.
A bird squawked outside my window. I was sure it was a crow, although it could have been a raven. I wasn’t sure which was which, although both struck upon some primal fear within me. Perhaps in a past life I had my eyes pecked out by such a bird. A black, soulless, pitiless bird.
Gladys’s shoulders quaked. A tissue appeared in her hands. She used it to dab her eyes. She looked up at me and I promptly looked away.
Her breathing was harsh and ragged. She was still not ready to speak.
On my desk was a closed laptop, a clear plastic cup of half-finished iced coffee, a pen, my car keys and my cell phone. Next to the laptop was a picture of my dead wife and son. As I lo
oked at them, I smelled again their burning flesh. I would never, ever forget the smell, or the image of their blackened bodies. I kept the pictures up on my desk to remind myself that they were so much more than blackened lumps of charred flesh.
But it never worked. Always, I saw them burning, burning.
I closed my eyes. The smoke stung them all over again.
As I rubbed my eyes, I finally remembered the forgotten dream I had had just this morning, the haunting memory of which had been plaguing me all morning. And so now the memory of it came blazing back into my consciousness, awakened by the woman’s heartbreak and the psychosomatic scent of burning flesh....
I was in a forest with my son, holding his hand. Massive tree trunks punctuated the earth, rising up like magnified hair follicles. A sticky mist lay over the forest and the sound of falling water was nearby. We were heading to the falling water. I sensed our great need for water. For hydration. No, I sensed it for my son’s benefit. He needed the water. Desperately. And now I was recklessly crashing through the forest like a bear drunk on fermented elderberries, dangerously towing my son behind me. I looked down at him but his sweet, angelic face was blank, his lips parched and dry and white. The forest opened into a clearing and there before us was a beautiful waterfall, cascading down through the mist as if falling from heaven itself. And when I looked down again, I saw that I was holding my son’s dead and blackened hand. The water crashed idyllically just a few feet away. I held his scorched hand and sat in the high grass and wept.
The woman in front of me was breathing normally again. When I came back from the forest, when my wet vision cleared again, I saw that she was watching me curiously. I tried to smile, but smiling never came easy to me.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I need help.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry for crying.”
She needed encouragement. She needed to know it was okay to cry in my presence, that everything would be okay. I said nothing. I was never very good at small talk. I was never very good at much, and sometimes nothing was okay. Sometimes things crashed around you, and they kept on crashing for years to come.
“My granddaughter ran away,” she said. “Step granddaughter.”
I sat back. I thought the woman was going to cry again, but she held it together. Thank God. Instead, she gazed at me steadily, her wet eyes unwavering.
She went on, “I was told you specialize in finding the missing. Missing children, in particular.”
I did find them. And sometimes I found them dead. But I did not tell her that. With a runaway, there was still hope.
“When did your granddaughter run away?” I asked quietly, taking out a notepad and a pen from my top drawer.
“A week ago. Six days ago, to be exact.”
“Who told you I could help you?”
“Detective Hammer. He said it wouldn’t hurt to see you. That you had a knack for this sort of thing.”
I did. When it came to finding missing children, one needed to be dogged and relentless. No stone left unturned. Having good instincts helped, too. But the funny thing about instincts was that one never knew when they would kick in. That’s where the dogged and relentless part came in.
“How old is your granddaughter?” I asked. Always use the present. Never, ever refer to a child in the past tense.
“Sixteen or seventeen. I’m not really sure. Her birthday is next month.”
My son’s birthday would have been next month, too, but I didn’t say anything about that. There was enough heartache in this room without bringing that up. He would have been thirteen. Instead, he died when he was nine.
At the thought of my son’s birthday, my breath caught, and I was briefly back in the forest, sitting in the short grass, holding his charred hand as the nearby water bubbled with life.
Presently, a small breeze made its way through the open window behind me. Los Angeles smelled of exhaust and oil and burned rubber.
“Has she run away before?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you have a photo of her?”
“Yes.”
She reached into an oversized purse and pulled out a manila file. “At Detective Hammer’s suggestion, I put together a package for you. Everything about her is in here, pictures, friends, her likes and dislikes, favorite places to hang out, anything and everything I could think of. There’s even a list of her favorite books. All vampire books.”
I took the proffered file, flipped through it. I got to the list of vampire books. She seemed to prefer one author in particular.
“Thanks,” I said. “This will help a lot.”
Gladys nodded. “I have some more information that might help you, Mr. Spinoza.”
I waited.
“Her parents were killed three years ago. She’s lived with us off and on ever since.”
She waited, as if expecting a reply. None came. She went on awkwardly. “Yes, well, there’s something else you should know about her. Something that worries me a great deal.”
I waited some more, although I did nod encouragingly.
She went on, “Veronica is a little...different.”
“Different how?”
I was imagining a slower child. Perhaps one with autism. Some sort of disability. Gladys was looking increasingly uncomfortable. She took in some air and leveled her stare at me.
“She sort of lives in her own fantasy world, Mr. Spinoza.”
“What does that mean?”
“She calls herself a slayer.”
“A slayer?” I said. “As in dragons?”
“No, as in vampires.”
Gladys blinked slowly, but didn’t look away. I think my mouth might have opened, but no words came out. Finally, I nodded.
“You mean like in Dungeons & Dragons,” I said. “Or that World of Witchcraft, or whatever it’s called. A slayer is like her—what do they call it?—her avatar?”
Gladys smiled gently. “I’m not sure I understood half of what you just said, Mr. Spinoza, but what I do know is that she really thinks she’s a vampire slayer.”
“Do you have her on any medication?”
Gladys shook her head. “She won’t see a doctor, and won’t go to school.”
“So she just stays with you?”
“Yes.”
I thought about that. “How did you meet her, Gladys?”
“Veronica just...appeared at our house one day. Bloodied and in a horrible mess. She always refused to talk about where she came from or what happened to her. But I later understood her parents had been in a horrible accident.”
I rubbed my temples. If I had known that by putting a simple ad in the Yellow Pages I would be meeting the world’s whackos, I might never have gotten into this business.
Not true, I suddenly thought. Getting into this business was something I had to do. Needed to do. Looking for the missing was, in fact, the only thing I could do.
I asked, “Are you on medication, Gladys?”
“Many,” she said, smiling. “But not the kind you’re thinking of. I assure you, Mr. Spinoza, everything I have told you is true.”
“And this girl is sixteen?”
“Give or take a few years.”
“What does that mean?”
“She would never tell us her exact age.”
I thought about that. “When she appeared at your house, did you report her to the authorities?”
“She warned us that if we did, she would run away and we would never see her again.”
“And you didn’t want her to run away.”
“No. It was so...nice having someone in the house with us. Jack is in a wheelchair, you see, and she was always so helpful, even from the beginning.”
“You enjoyed her company,” I said.
“We loved having her around. She was a breath of fresh air, despite...despite her problems.”
“Problems?”
“You know, typical teenage stuff. Alway
s sad, depressed. Of course, back then we didn’t know why she was so sad and depressed. But later we figured it was about her parents. We didn’t ask her too many questions. She didn’t like questions.”
“And you didn’t want her to run off because you liked her company.”
“We loved her company. We loved her. She was like a real granddaughter to us.”
“Do you have any kids, Gladys?”
“One. But we do not speak anymore. She disowned us decades ago. All over a fight. One single fight.”
And now she did weep again, although softer than before. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, which squeaked under my considerable weight.
“Veronica was our last chance to do it right, and she was our gift from God.”
We were silent. Outside my office window, the streets of Los Angeles weren’t silent. I studied Gladys. She seemed sane enough. But I have been fooled before.
She went on, “Since we didn’t know her exact age, my husband and I agreed that she was at least eighteen, and so we felt comfortable about not reporting her. Of course, we would have preferred to contact the proper authorities, or her parents, but she wasn’t giving us many options. In the end, we wanted her safe and well fed and properly cared for.”
I nodded, wondering if Veronica’s best interests were really being considered. I looked down at my notes. “And Veronica has lived with you for the past three years?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“Sometimes? What does that mean?”
“It means that sometimes she disappears for a few days and nights.”
“Days and nights?”
“Yes.
“Where does she go?” I asked, and already I was dreading the answer. My feelings of dread weren’t unfounded.
“Hunting vampires,” said Gladys. She said the words so calmly, so conversationally, so pleasantly, that I nearly burst out laughing. Hearing the words “hunting vampires” come out of this sweet, elderly lady nearly made me question my own sanity.
