Vampires & Werewolves: Four Novels

by J. R. Rain

  Except I wasn’t some woman.

  Even with the sun still out in the late afternoon sky, my reflexes were better than average. But only slightly better. I still felt weak and sluggish—and that damn sun couldn’t set fast enough.

  The Marine suddenly threw a wild punch that veered off my shoulder and I used that opening to deliver a rocking uppercut. I caught him under the chin and his head snapped up. He might have even lifted off the mat. Either way, he landed hard on his back. The crowd went wild. Alright, maybe not wild, but definitely a few cheers. The Marine got up and we touched gloves in the middle of the ring again. His eyes seemed a little unsteady. The big boy had taken a few hard blows to the head from a very healthy vampire. He raised his fists, did a little boxing dance, and sort of refocused himself.

  And came out swinging.

  Holy crap! Hell hath no fury like a man embarrassed by a woman. His punches were powerful and numerous; some landed, but most missed entirely. I soon found myself backed up against the ropes. Spit and sweat and blood flung from the Marine. His arms were a blur of punches. I heard gasps behind me. Surely this looked horrible to Jacky’s female clientèle: a woman being beaten to a pulp by a hulking Marine. I’m sure Jacky was about to throw in the towel, when it happened.

  I didn’t see it happen, granted.

  But I felt it.

  The late afternoon soon had finally set, and I felt alive.

  So damn alive.

  I slipped under his onslaught and backed into a corner. He was about to follow me in but must have seen something in my eyes and paused. He should have kept pausing. Instead, he charged ahead. As he came at me, I timed my punch perfectly. A hard right to the jaw.

  Too hard.

  Never had I hit something so squarely and so hard. I floored him. No. I lifted him off his feet and over the surrounding ropes. He landed in a heap on the padded floor. Women screamed and rushed over to him. I saw Jacky run over to the Marine, too. He looked at me, horror on his face.

  What had I done?

  I stood dumbly in the center of the ring as the Marine lay on his back, unmoving.

  35.

  I almost killed a man today.

  Tell me about it.

  So I wrote it up for Fang. As usual, he read like a demon on crack, and posted his reply almost instantly.

  The Marine might be re-thinking his boxing career.

  I suddenly felt indignant, perhaps to mask my guilt. Good. He was a pig, and boxing’s certainly no way to make a living. Getting your brains beaten to a pulp day in and day out.

  I see, so by knocking him out of the ring, you actually did a service to him.

  Yes. He could think of it as career counseling.

  Through the school of hard knocks.

  Haha.

  I think you are trying to assuage your guilt, Moon Dance, to justify your actions.

  Okay, fine. I feel horrible! You happy?

  No. At least you can admit your guilt.

  He didn’t deserve what I did to him.

  Probably not. Then again, he sounded like he might have needed to be taught a lesson. Did you really kick him in the balls?

  Argh! I’m horrible!

  Yes, wrote Fang. You were today.

  You don’t let me off easy, do you?

  Do you want me to let you off easy?

  No, I wrote, thinking about it. I want you to always be dead honest with me. It’s why I keep you around.

  Gee, thanks. So what happened to the Marine?

  They took him away in an ambulance. The paramedic said it looked like a concussion. I sent him flowers and a card apologizing.

  Perhaps you should find other outlets for your anger, wrote Fang.

  Perhaps.

  You might have to be a little more, um, discreet with your gifts. You don’t want to keep attracting unwanted attention.

  I think you’re right. I paused. But why call it a gift, Fang?

  It’s how you choose to view it, Moon Dance. You could focus on either the negative or the positive. As in all of life.

  Thank you, Tony Robbins.

  No, I’m not Tony Robbins but I’m certainly as tall.

  Really? What else do you look like? I wrote, eager for more information.

  As usual, he ignored any personal questions. Let’s take a look at these gifts of yours. You have enhanced strength, night vision, speed and endurance. Not to mention the ability to shape-change.

  Whoa! I wrote, sitting back. No one’s ever said anything about shape-changing.

  You’ve never shape-changed, Moon Dance?

  Ever recall me mentioning turning into a bat?

  There was a long pause, then he wrote: Most texts, resources and personal accounts are unanimous about this. You should be able to shape-change. Into what exactly, is open to debate.

  I found myself laughing at my computer desk. Well, if your resources can tell me how to shape-change, then I’ll give it a shot.

  I’ll look into it. Maybe you should look into it, too.

  How?

  Another pause: Maybe you need to look into yourself.

  The doorbell rang. The babysitter was here.

  Goodnight, Fang.

  Goodnight, Moon Dance.

  36.

  It was late and I was restless.

  Earlier in the day, I’d dreamed of Kingsley again, and now I couldn’t get the big son-of-a-bitch out of my thoughts. In my dream, we were in the woods again, but this time we weren’t playing a game. This time he had captured me early on and I was on my back. I distinctly remembered the pine needles poking into my bare back and the sound of small animals scurrying away in the woods. Scurrying away in fear. Kingsley was in his half man/half wolf mode, dark shaggy hair hanging from his huge shoulders, down his long arms. A tuft of it sticking up along the ridge of his spine like a hairy stegosaurus. He was on all fours and he was above me. I was pinned beneath him, distinctly aware that he was far too strong for me to push off. I was submitting to him. Body and soul.

  In my dream, he was still wearing the medallion, hanging freely from his thick neck, suspended just inches above my face. Whenever I opened my mouth to ask about the medallion, he simply shook his great head and I knew I was not to discuss it, and so I didn’t, although I wanted to. Badly.

  Then he lowered his face to mine, a face that was still magnificently human and handsome, although in bad need of a shave. His breath was hot on my neck, my ears, through my hair. He was touching me with his lips or tongue, I didn’t know which, nor did I care. I only knew I had not felt this good in a long, long time.

  Then the alarm went off, and I could have cried.

  A hell of a dream, I thought. I think you might like the big guy.

  Ya think?

  The question was: what did I do about it? I didn’t know. Even though I knew in my heart my marriage was over, I still felt guilty for having feelings for another man.

  You shouldn’t. Your husband is long gone. You can’t keep living like this, and nor can he.

  But the moment I quit living like this—the moment my husband and I officially separated—would be the moment my kids are taken away from me, and I can’t have that.

  I can’t have that.

  So quit thinking about Kingsley.

  Easier said than done.

  It was late, and I was restless and I couldn’t for the life of me keep Kingsley out of my thoughts. Damn him. What right did he have kissing a lonely and hurting woman? What right did he have of putting me through this?

  I nearly laughed. It had, of course, been just a dream.

  37.

  “You home?” I asked.

  “Of course I’m home,” said Kingsley, “it’s two-thirty in the goddamn morning.”

  “Don’t sound so dramatic.”

  “Dramatic? If anything I sound tired.”

  “I’m coming over. Where do you live?”

  There was a long pause. I wondered if Kingsley had fallen back to sleep. Then a thought occurred to me,
maybe he had a woman with him. If so, I didn’t care. I wanted to talk, and not with a mortal. Either way, last night had been the full moon, so tonight Kingsley should be his old self.

  “Okay,” he said, and gave me directions. “Oh, and remind me when you get here that there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Kingsley lived in Yorba Linda, just a few cities over. At a quarter to three, I drove east down Bastanchury Blvd. The night was still and quiet. To my left were empty rolling hills. Beyond was the county dump, well hidden from curious eyes and sensitive noses.

  Here on Bastanchury was some of the best Orange County had to offer. Beautiful homes slightly removed from the hustle and bustle of the county.

  I turned left into a long driveway, drove through a tangle of shrubbery along a crushed seashell drive. The seashell drive, reflecting the near full moon, was as bright as a yellow brick road to my eyes. The driveway continued for perhaps an eighth of a mile, until it curved before a massive estate house.

  I parked in front of the portico, and briefly admired the huge structure. It was a Colonial revival, complete with two flanker structures on either end. Nearly the entire facade was covered in dark clapboard, and the windows were enclosed with paneled shutters. All in all, a fitting home for a werewolf.

  Shortly after I rang the bell, a porch light turned on and a very tall and dour man appeared at the door, who looked down at me from a hawkish nose. He was frowning. Probably wasn’t in his job description to be receiving guests at 3:00 a.m. There was something disjointed and odd about the man. It took me a second to realize what it was. One ear was clearly larger than the other.

  “This way,” he said. “Master Kingsley is waiting in the conservatory.”

  “With Professor Plum and the candlestick?” I asked.

  Big Ear was not amused.

  38.

  Kingsley was lounging on a leather sofa with a drink in hand.

  He looked like hell: scruffy beard, hair in disarray, serious bags under his eyes.

  “Um, you look good,” I said.

  “Like hell I do.”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  The conservatory was octagon-shaped and faced the expansive backyard which spread out into the hills beyond like a vast estate. Through the French window, I could make out an alabaster fountain gurgling away, depicting a naked nymph blowing water through her cupped hands. The sculptor went a little crazy with her breasts. Men and breasts. Sheesh.

  “Would you like a drink?” Kingsley asked.

  “Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  Kingsley motioned to his butler. A moment later, a drink appeared before me.

  “Thank you, Jeeves,” I said.

  Kingsley grinned. “His name is Franklin.”

  “Franklin the butler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t have quite the same ring.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Kingsley said, “but he’s a good butler, and can pour a hell of a drink.”

  “It’s true,” said Franklin. “I almost never spill.” His enunciation was clear and precise with a slightly lilting accent that could have been English. When he spoke, his face appeared completely still, as if the muscles were inert, or deactivated. I couldn’t help but notice an ugly scar that ran along his chin and extended back to his hairline, as if Franklin had at one time or another lost his entire head.

  Kingsley said, “Thank you, Franklin. That will be all. Sorry to rouse you out of your sleep in the dead of night.”

  “I am made to serve.”

  “And you do it so well. Off you go. Good night.”

  Franklin the Butler nodded and left. Curious, I watched him go. His strides were long and loping, as if his legs were disproportionate to his body.

  “Franklin is an interesting fellow,” I said when he was gone.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Must have survived a hell of an accident, scarred like that.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “He was recommended by a friend.”

  I sipped the alcohol. It had no flavor at all, and no effect. The ice rattled in the tumbler.

  “What do you know of vampire shape-shifting?” I asked suddenly.

  Kingsley blinked, then thought about it. “Not a whole hell of a lot, I’m afraid. Why?”

  “It’s been coming up lately.”

  “I see.”

  “So, can vampires turn into, you know, things?”

  He laughed, “They can indeed turn into...things.”

  My heart slammed in my chest. “What sort of things?” I asked.

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Would I be asking if I did?”

  “And you’ve never tried shape-changing?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “You could always try jumping off a tree branch and see what happens.”

  “And think like a fruit bat?”

  “Is that the gay bat?”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know how to help. My own transformation sort of takes place uninvitingly.”

  “I understand. So back to the question: what sort of things can vampires turn into?”

  “Vampires turn into...something big and black.” He paused and grimaced as if he had just bitten into something sour. “Something ugly and hideous. Something with massive leathery wings. A sort of hybrid between man and bat.”

  “You’ve seen one?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s all I know.”

  “Who was the vampire?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it right now.”

  “Why?”

  He inhaled. His handsome face was mostly hidden in shadows, although that posed little problems for me. I could see the fine lines of his nose and jaw.

  “Because he killed my wife.”

  I breathed. “I’m sorry, Kingsley.”

  “Hey, it’s in the past.”

  “I ask too many questions. It’s the investigator in me. I don’t know how to turn it off sometimes.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  I wanted to ask him more about his wife. Why was she killed? Was she a werewolf, too? If not, then how did they make their marriage work? How long had they been married? And kids? Moreover, who was this vampire? But I held my tongue, which was something I didn’t do well. Therefore, I found myself thinking of flying around the city of Fullerton like a super-sized bat out of hell. The image was too crazy. I mean, I’m a mother of two. I went to a PTA meeting last week. I washed twelve loads of laundry over the weekend. Real people don’t turn into giant bats, right?

  “So basically,” I said after a suitable time, “I turn into a monster.”

  He eased off the sofa and headed to the bar. He poured himself another drink.

  “You’re not the only one,” he said. “Once a month Franklin keeps me locked up in a special room where I won’t hurt myself or others.” He swirled the contents of his glass. Some of the contents splashed over the rim. He didn’t seem to notice or care. “Only monsters need to be locked up.”

  “But you have taken measures to control the monster within you. In my book, that makes you very much not a monster”

  “By practicing safe-transformation?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Precisely.”

  As he sat, I noticed a particularly thick tuft of hair at the back of his hand. The hair hadn’t been there a few days before. I slipped out of my chair and to his side. I took his hand in my own and ran my fingers through the fur.

  “Just what are you doing?” he asked. He didn’t move. I could feel his pulse in his wrist. His pulse was quickening. I pulled on the fur.

  “It’s real,” I said.

  “Of course it’s real.”

  “You really are a
werewolf.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I call you Wolfy?

  “No.”

  A glint of amber reflected in his irises. I could have been looking into the eyes of a wolf staring back at me from the deep shadows of a dark forest.

  The forest. My dream. His hot breath. His hotter lips.

  I looked away. God, his stare was hypnotic. No wonder he won so many court cases. What juror could resist those eyes? I noticed then that the couch had a light sprinkling of what appeared to be dog hair. The hair was now on my clothing.

  “You’re shedding,” I said.

  “Yes, I tend to do that.”

  “How old are you Kingsley?”

  “You will not be denied tonight, will you, Samantha?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps by understanding more about you, I can understand more about me, about who I am and where I’m going.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’m seventy-nine.”

  “Is that in dog years?”

  “I’m going to bed,” he said.