Moon Dragon (5 page)

Chapter Ten

The Occult Reading Room wasn’t empty.

A man was doing just that: reading in a chair in the far corner, very near the darkest, creepiest of the books. The books that seemed to possess a dark intelligence. The books that seemed, in fact, to be alive.

I heard their whisperings now as the man read. The whisperings sounded more excited than usual. In fact, they hardly seemed to notice me at all. They were, in fact, focused on the man reading.

“You hear them, too, right? The books?” I asked the Librarian, whose real name was Archibald Maximus. He was Max to me sometimes. Or even Archie. Other than my daughter, Max was the only other entity alive who seemed capable of reading my thoughts. He also seemed to have all the answers, which is why I came around. That he was easy on the eyes had nothing to do with it at all. I swear.

“Yes, Sam. I hear them. In fact, I hear all of them.”

“All of them?”

“They each speak, Sam. Some louder than others.”

“But...how?”

He looked at me, then at a book stacked on a nearby counter, and said, “As you know, these aren’t your average books. These books have been imbued with intent, some even written in blood.”

“So, you’re saying they’re...haunted?”

“Not quite, Sam. But energy is attracted to them. Sometimes dark energy, but usually, just an
aspect
of that energy.”

“Not the entire entity.”

“Right, Sam. Just like not all of you is contained within your physical vessel.”

“An aspect of me?”

“An idea of you, Sam. Your soul. Your real soul lies in the energetic world, observing all of this with interest.”

“So, who am I, then?”

“Think of yourself as a representative of who you really are.”

“Are you trying to hurt my brain?”

He laughed. “Some of this is not easy to understand. Much of it was never really meant to be understood, except by those who seek answers or...”

“By those of us who are forced to find answers.”

“Yes, Sam. For most of the world, the search for spiritual truth is a personal journey of their choosing. For you, your spiritual journey was thrust on you.”

“And by thrust,” I said, “you mean forced upon me, when I was attacked and turned into what I am now.”

“Your attack has left you seeking bigger answers, and has exposed you to the world of spirit. And often, the underbelly of the world of spirit. For there is darkness out there, Sam. Great darkness. Powerful darkness, as you are well aware.”

“I
am
the darkness,” I said.

He shook his head. “They might have made a very, very big mistake coming after you, Sam. They might have unleashed their own undoing.”

“I’m just a mom...”

“With a powerful bloodline.”

“Lucky me,” I said.

“Perhaps unlucky for them. They have taken a chance by making you one of their own.”

“Because they need me...”

“Yes, Sam. But the person they most need...is the very person who can destroy them.”

“You do realize that I’ll be picking up my kids in thirty minutes, right? I won’t be destroying anyone anytime soon.”

He laughed. “Let’s consider it a process.”

“Fine,” I said. “Back to the books. Are you saying they’re possessed?”

“In a way, yes.”

“Well, they’re possessed enough to beckon me.”

“I imagine they do, Sam.”

“Why?”

“Because the energy within some of them recognize the thing that is within you.”

“That thing being your mother,” I corrected.

“
Was
my mother,” he said. “She hasn’t been my mother for a very long time.”

I thought I detected a note.

“There is no note, Sam.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. I said, “Do you miss her?”

“It’s hard to miss a monster.”

Another note, whether he wanted to admit it or not. “Do you still love her?”

“Fine,” he said. “Yes, I love the memory of her, back when I was young, back when there was some semblance of good within her. Back before she was lured...”

“Don’t say it...”

“To the dark side.”

“You said it,” I said, and grinned.

He did, too, then sighed heavily. “Melodramatic, I know. But true. She was different back in the day. She was a real mother.”

“What turned her?”

“That’s a story best told another day, Sam.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I want to know. After all, your mother is very much a part of me now.”

He looked at me long and hard. “I know.”

“She wants me to let her out. She wants to talk to you. She wants to apologize for all that she’s done—”

“You can’t let her out, Sam. Ever. Remember that. The moment she gets out, you will no longer be able to control her.
Ever.
”

“What...what do you mean?” I asked, gasping slightly. His mother’s presence was strong in me, stronger than I had ever felt before. Pulsing at my temples. My head literally felt like it might explode.

“Think of it like a neural pathway. Once established, she will always be able to access it again and again.”

I took a deep breath, and, using all my willpower, pushed her back down, back into the mental box I envisioned her trapped inside. I even threw up another mental wall or two, sealing her in.

Once done, I opened my eyes, blinking hard. Even the muted light within the Occult Reading Room seemed too bright. I shied from it, turning my head. As I did so, I noticed the man who had been reading was gone. I blinked, sure I was seeing things...but there was no one there.

“You okay, Sam?”

“Your mom’s a bitch.”

“Tell me about it.”

“She...she almost got out,” I said. “I almost let her, just to release the pressure.”

He nodded and released my hand. “Maybe it was a bad idea bringing her around me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, but I did push back my black hair. My forehead was sweating. My temples still throbbed.

“You’re right, of course,” he said after a moment. “I’m not just keeping an eye on her.”

I waited. My head still hurt, reminding me what a headache felt like, since I hadn’t had one in nearly nine years.

“She’s pivotal for stopping all of this,” said Maximus.

“All of what?”

“The infusion of dark masters into our world.”

“In the form of vampires and werewolves,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “And others.”

“What others?”

“There’s more under the sun, or moon, than just vampires and werewolves, Sam. The dark masters take many forms.”

“Like the soul-jumping demon,” I said, remembering my memorable vacation on a small island in the Pacific Northwest.

“Right,” he said. “But that’s not important now.”

“Sure,” I said, still rubbing my head, and looking over at the now-empty reading chair. “Why worry about all sorts of monsters roaming our streets?”

“There are not as many as you might think, Sam.”

“Seems that way.”

“As they say, like attracts like. The dark masters gravitate toward each other.”

“Sounds like a party,” I said.

“A dead man’s party.”

“Good one, Max. So, what’s this about your mother being pivotal to stopping all this craziness?”

“She and one other,” said the Librarian.

“Dracula,” I said, remembering our conversation from last year. Dracula, who was the first vampire.

The Librarian nodded. “Indeed. The son of the dragon.”

I knew my history, limited as it was.
Dracul
, of course, meant House of the Dragon. Dracula meant, in turn, son of the dragon.

“Very good, Sam,” he said, picking up my thoughts. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet.”

“That doesn’t sound promising,” I said.

He pressed his lips together and looked at me, then looked away, then looked at me again.

And then it hit me. “Oh, no,” I said.

“Oh yes,” he said.

“You’re not going to tell me...”

He nodded. “They were in love, Sam. At least, I think it was love. For all I know, it could have been a convenient bonding. A convenient union of dark masters.”

“Wait, are you telling me...”

“Yes, Sam. The entity that’s within Dracula is and forever will be, in love with my mother.”

“Ah, shit,” I said.

“Ah, shit, is right.”

Chapter Eleven

I met Sheriff Stanley at a coffee shop in a small mountain town called Crestline, gateway into the San Bernardino Mountains.

The coffee shop had probably been any number of shops over its lifetime. The building was old and nestled under a Mexican restaurant that sported, I noted on a chalkboard near the wooden stairs leading up to it, wine-a-ritas.

“First off,” I said to the sheriff, after he shook my hand and I sat opposite him, “what’s a wine-a-rita?”

“A margarita made with wine,” he said. Sheriff Stanley was a young guy who sported an old-school mustache.

I understood quickly enough. “They lost their liquor license.”

“Hard liquor.”

“Are the wine-a-ritas any good?”

“I tried it once.”

“And?”

“I think I vomited a little in the back of my mouth. But then,” he shrugged and rubbed his mustache, “I dunno, they kind of grow on you. I guess they’re not the worst thing in the world. Still, kinda makes my stomach turn a little just thinking about them.”

“Let me get you a coffee,” I said.

“Black,” he said. “Blacker than black.”

“Says the guy who ordered a wine-a-rita.”

“I don’t know you well enough for you to bust my chops.”

I shrugged. “Never stopped me before.”

I slid out of the booth and ordered our coffees.

* * *

Sweet nectar of the gods,
I thought.

The gift of coffee might have been the greatest gift that Maximus—and his rings—could have given me. After eight years of not having the stuff, now, I couldn’t get enough of it, especially since the caffeine didn’t have any effect. Nor did alcohol. My body neutralized both equally.

Luckily, my addiction for coffee went beyond the caffeine high. It was the taste. The aroma. The experience. Coffee made me feel human. And humanity is what I needed most if I wanted to keep the thing inside me at bay.

“Should I, uh, leave you alone with your coffee?” asked Sheriff Stanley.

“Now, who’s busting whose balls?”

“Hey, I’m not the one moaning and groaning over my coffee.”

“You would,” I said, “if you had the day I had.”

“Look, Miss—”

“Ms.”

“What the fuck is the difference?”

“
Miss
implies a woman who’s never been married.
Ms.
is an indefinite title for a woman whose marital status is unknown.”

“Well, you ain’t wearing a wedding ring. Just those other rings.”

I set the coffee mug down. “
Ms.
is also an appropriate title for a divorcee, which I happen to be.”

He wanted to say something smart-alecky, or rude, or show me how tough he was since he now regretted owning up to drinking the wine-a-rita. He opened his mouth and I was prepared for more bluster. After all, I was used to such bluster, having spent much of my professional life working in the male-dominated field of law enforcement. Instead, he closed it again and sort of rebooted.

“Sorry about the divorced part,” he said. “I’m going through that right now. It really sucks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

He nodded, sighed.

“Any kids involved?”

He shook his head. “Elise and I were talking about having kids, until...”

“Until what?”

“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t know you well enough to burden you.”

I nodded and dipped into his mind and—right there at the forefront of his thoughts—I saw him opening the door to his bedroom and seeing his wife with another man. Then the scene looped again. And again.

“She cheated on you,” I said.

Sheriff Stanley was a young guy, maybe thirty-two. I caught a glimpse of something else in his thoughts. Something he had dreamed about often. I saw three kids running. I saw him playing with them, a sort of game of hide-and-seek. Two girls and a boy. Now, he was rolling in the grass with them. A golden retriever bounded between them, licking indiscriminately. Someone had seen one too many episodes of
Full House
. Kids were fun, but maybe not that fun. Scratch that. Anthony was a hoot. And so was Tammy, in her way. It’s just that...well, it’s just that it’s not all fun and games.

Anyway, I could have laughed at his innocent, almost naïve approach to having a family. In fact, I might have if I didn’t feel his overwhelming sense of loss. He wanted a family, and he had thought it would be with the woman he’d caught cheating.

He nodded. “That obvious?”

I held his gaze and felt his loss and heard him crying inside. He didn’t know I could hear the sobs that echoed through his memories. “Lucky guess,” I said softly, and reached out and patted his hand.

His aura sort of reached out to me. That man needed a hug in a bad way, but then, it recoiled and he pulled back his hand. “I don’t really wanna talk about it, you know?”

“I know,” I said.

After a moment, he said, “Did your old man cheat on you, too?”

“He did,” I said.

“Pretty shitty thing to do to someone who loves you, huh?”

“About as shitty as it gets,” I said. That, and trying to kill them, too, which was what Danny had tried to do in the end, with the help of a vampire named Hanner.

I saw something else in his mind. I saw his wife apologizing over and over. I saw her weeping, begging. I saw her phone calls and the texts. Her appearing at his work, at the apartment he had moved into.

“Who was the guy?” I asked.

“Her old boyfriend. A friend of mine, too. We go back to high school, all of us.”

“Are they together now?”

“No,” he said quickly, and looked very uncomfortable talking to me. “Elise said it was a mistake.”

Relax,
I thought.

He nodded and took a deep breath, cracked his neck, and sank a little deeper into his seat. We could have been two friends lounging on a couch, playing X-Box in our basketball shorts.

Not that relaxed,
I thought.

He nodded and sat up a little, unaware that I was prompting him with my suggestions.

“Why did she do it?” I asked, and added telepathically:
It’s okay to talk to me, I’m a friend.

He looked at me, cocked his head slightly, nodded. He really didn’t want to talk about it. In fact, I was fairly certain, outside of a few close guy friends and family, he hadn’t talk about it at all.

“We were fighting. I left in a huff. I said something stupid.”

“How stupid?”

“I told her I should never have married her. That it was a mistake, and that I might go look up an old girlfriend.”

“That’s a whole lot of stupid in a row,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” he said. “So then, Elise calls her ex-boyfriend.”

“And the rest is history,” I said.

He nodded.

“And now, you won’t forgive her?” I asked.

“Did you forgive your old man?”

I shook my head. “He didn’t give me a chance. He moved on. But I have forgiven someone else...and it’s not easy.”

“My mom says once a cheater, always a cheater.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe not. No one knows the future. People make mistakes. People learn from their mistakes.”

He shrugged, still uncomfortable despite my mental prompting. As we sat there, and as I considered what to say to him, if anything, three entities materialized in the booth behind him. Small entities, although they were too fuzzy to make out any real details.

Kids, I realized. Unborn kids. Which was a first to me. I had seen the spirits of the departed...but never the not-yet-born. Until now.

“You wanted to build a family with her.”

“Yes.”

“Her and only her,” I said.

“Elise was my everything,” he said. “I screwed it all up. And she sure as hell didn’t help.”

Now the smallish spirits slipped over the both and pushed up next to him. One sat on his lap, except he didn’t know it, of course. I watched in amazement as another crawled up onto his shoulder and the third, the girl, curled under his arm. He shivered.

“Do you still love her?” I asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” he said. He looked away, fighting the tears, jaw quivering. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

“Maybe I’m easy to talk to.”

“Maybe.”

It’s okay to cry,
I told him.

And he did now, but not very hard. It wouldn’t be very becoming for the town sheriff to weep loudly at the little coffee shop. But the tears flowed anyway, silently; he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

“Yeah, I love her, but I can’t...” He cried a little harder now, and this time, he did reach up to wipe his cheeks and eyes. “I can’t forgive her, Ms. Moon. I can’t. I don’t know how to. I just don’t...know how...”

One or two people looked over at us. I telepathically told those one or two people to mind their own business. They did, turning their backs to us.

I considered what to do, even as the spirits swarmed around the grief-stricken man.
Their future father.
One even tried to wipe the tears from his face, and I knew what I had to do.

* * *

Give me your hands,
I told him.

He blinked rapidly, eyelashes beaded with tears, then held out both of his hands. Thick, calloused hands.

Look at me. Good. Now, can you hear me?

“Yes.”

Speak to me only in your mind.

Like this?

Yes. Good.

I slipped deeper into his consciousness, and pushed through the pain and confusion and lost and hurt, deeper than I had any right to be.

There, buried under the jealousy and grief was something bright and glowing and spinning slightly. I knew what this was from my experience with Russell, my boyfriend from two years ago, the man who had inadvertently become my love slave. Of course, finding Russell’s higher self or soul had been a lot harder, for it had been buried deep, deep beneath the curse that was, well, me.

Sheriff Stanley was only a few layers down, although his grief was real and, if left unchecked, it would be lifelong. Grief like this would, I assumed, give him issues for the rest of his life, from distrust of other women to never feeling secure and loved and worthy.

And so, I spoke to him directly, to this higher aspect of himself. I told him to find the courage to let it all go, to find the courage to forgive her and to accept the responsibility of his own actions. I reminded him that he had a family to build with her, and with my words, I flamed his love for her back to life. The love was real, and it was deep, and it was easy to flame to life.

Most important, I told him to forget he ever met me. When I was done, when I slipped back out of his mind and found myself sitting across from him again, I released his hands and sat back.

He blinked, blinked again, then said, “I have to go.”

“Figured you did,” I said, and grinned.

He stopped as he was getting out of the booth. “Wait, who are you?”

I waved him away. “I’m not really here, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

And then, he was gone, dashing through the coffee shop to, I assumed, his wife. The three staticy, small entities trailed after him. They were holding hands and skipping.