Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (103 page)

So, you could say he’s seven times stronger.

Put that way, and I nearly went into a panic. I wrote:
Yes, I guess. What does it mean?

I can feel you panicking, Moon Dance. Don’t panic.

Please just tell me what’s going on, Fang. I can’t handle this. I’m seriously freaking out.

Okay, okay, hang in there. According to my sources, the vampire blood that briefly flowed through him hasn’t entirely left him.

“Oh my God,” I said out loud to the empty room. More panic gripped me. Nearly overwhelmed me. I wrote:
But the vampirism has been reversed, Fang. The medallion...

Yes, the vampirism has been reversed. No, your son isn’t a vampire. Not technically.

I found myself on my feet, reeling, staggering, pacing. Jesus, what had I done to my son?

The IM window pinged with a new message. I sat back down. Fang had written:
Hang on, Moon Dance. It’s not all bad. In fact, it’s kind of good news, if you ask me.

Kind of? What the hell is going on, Fang? Please tell me.

Sam, your son will have all the strength of a vampire, but none of the weaknesses.

I read his words, blinking through tears.
Are you sure?

Pretty sure.

He won’t need to consume blood?

We don’t think so.

Who’s we?

My sources.

Fine,
I wrote. I didn’t care about Fang’s sources. Not now. I wrote:
What about the sunlight?

It should not affect him, Moon Dance.

And immortality?

There was a small delay, followed by:
Perhaps.

Perhaps what?

There’s a good chance your son might be immortal.

I don’t understand. Why?

I don’t think anyone really understands, Sam. The system was flawed somewhere, broke down. But, yes, we think he will retain the good qualities but none of the bad.

And being immortal is a good quality?

For some, the very best, Moon Dance.

But why did this happen?

Whoever created your kind, and whoever created the medallion, was not perfect. In essence, a mistake was made somewhere along the line. The reverse was not complete.

What do I do, Fang?

It is up to you to make the most of this, Moon Dance, and to help your son make the most of this, too. Think of this as an opportunity, Moon Dance. Not a curse. For both you and your son.

I hung my head for a minute or two, then typed:
Thanks for your help, Fang.

So what will you do, Moon Dance?

I’m going to have a talk with him.

When?

I don’t know. Goodnight, Fang.

Goodnight, Moon Dance.

Chapter Twenty-one

Celebrities can hide their electronic footprints a little easier than the average citizen. This is because they can hide behind accountants and handlers. Because of this, my background search on Robert Mason took a little more digging than usual.

And what came up wasn’t much.

I had his current residence. Or, rather, his last known residence. He was living in the hills above Fullerton. Nice area. Big homes. Lots of space. Perfect place to secretly drain someone dry. Or maybe many someones.

Interestingly, I knew of two people who also lived in the hills. Detective Hanner and a very old and very creepy Kabbalistic grandmaster. One was a vampire, and one was a kind of vampire.

Anyway, Robert Mason had no criminal record. An ex-wife of his accused him of abuse. He was never arrested, although a restraining order had been placed on him. I’d only met the guy once, and I wanted to put a restraining order on him, too. He had no kids, only the one marriage—divorced now fifteen years.

His last known professional acting job had been on
One Life to Live
, five years ago. And, according to the various reports I’d dug up, he’d been fired from his job. The reasons were conflicting, but more than one article suggested substance abuse.

Why he was fired or why he was divorced didn’t seem to be of importance presently. That he was a full-blown psychopath now was obvious to me. That he harbored a deep evil was also obvious to me.

As I sat in my office, with my kids asleep down the hallway, I called Kingsley. He picked up on the second ring.

“
Hi, baby,” he said.

I didn’t respond. At least, not with words.

“What’s that sound?” he asked.

“
I’m panting,” I said. “You know, like a dog.”

“
Oh, brother. But, please, Sam. Say no more over the phone.”

“
Oh, I’m not saying anything,” I said, and panted some more.

“
Cute, Sam. Do you actually have something on your mind, or did you just call to make those ridiculous sounds?”

“
Both,” I said, and stopped panting long enough to catch him up to date on my investigation—in particular, my meeting with Robert Mason.

“
Like he said,” said Kingsley. “He knows what you are, Sam.”

“
In so short a time?”

“
He must have suspected you were something more, which is why he scheduled the meeting. No doubt his suspicions were confirmed at the meeting.” Kingsley paused. I knew he was choosing his words carefully over the open phone line. “We can hide from the majority of the world, Sam, but not from the truly psychic. They tend to see through us. Thankfully, there’s not many of them.”

“
And those who do see us?”

“
Well, those who are vocal about it are silenced.”

I thought about his words. “I think Robert Mason saw an opportunity.”

“To supply blood?”

“
Yes,” I said.

“
No doubt a very lucrative gig.”

I asked, “What do you know about blood suppliers?”

“Not much, but I know someone who undoubtedly would.”

“
Detective Hanner,” I said.

“
Boy, Sam. It’s almost as if you could read my mind.”

“
I’ll never say.”

He laughed and we set up a dinner date later in the week, and when we had hung up, I made another call.

To the only other creature of the night that I knew.

Chapter Twenty-two

We were on her wide, wraparound patio deck.

The deck overlooked the same Fullerton Hills that Robert Mason lived in. And a famous Dodgers manager. And a very creepy old man who bartered in human life.

Detective Hanner was a beautiful woman. She was also a vampire. Perhaps a very old vampire.

We talked a little about the case as we sat back in wicker chairs, drinking from glasses just like regular people. My ankles were crossed and my pink New Balance running shoes couldn’t have looked cuter. Detective Hanner was barefoot. Her talon-like toenails came to sharp points. Almost enough for one to lose one’s appetite.

Almost.

But not quite. After all, we were both drinking from massive goblets of blood. We were sipping casually. Or trying to sip casually. Generally, there were long beats of silence as we each glugged heartily, since drinking blood is really a race against time and coagulation. It was all I could do to not make yummy smacking sounds. The blood was human, that much was obvious. It was also fresh. So very, very fresh.

Straight-from-the-vein fresh.

So who am I drinking?
I wondered.

But I didn’t ask. Not at the moment. At the moment, I was consumed by the blood, the taste, the high, the joy, the pleasure, the satisfaction.

Detective Hanner and Kingsley had slowly introduced me to the decadent pleasure of human blood. I hadn’t liked it, not at first, and each time felt like a depraved journey into ecstasy.

That’s a lie. You always liked it. A little too much.

And here I was again, indulging all my cravings with a vampire far older and more experienced than I was. It felt natural, probably the way any addict feels when they tap the needle or pop a cork. Like this was what I was made to do.

But I didn’t have to enjoy its thick, sweet texture so much, did I?

Finally, I managed to pull away. I knew some blood was running down the corners of my mouth. Now, as I wiped my chin and licked my fingers, I could only imagine what I looked like.

Like a monster,
I thought.

Hanner watched me from over her own goblet, her wild eyes shining with supernatural intensity. I noticed that she rarely blinked, and when she did, it almost seemed an afterthought. A reminder to look human.

I said, “I think our killer is a blood supplier.”

She nodded. “It’s easy to assume that.”

“What do you know of blood suppliers?”

“
Mortal or immortal?”

“
What do you mean?” I asked.

“
Vampires supply blood to other vampires. Like I just did you.”

“
Mortal,” I said.

She held my gaze for many seconds. I couldn’t read her mind, or even get a feel for what she was thinking, but I suspected she was debating how much to tell me. Finally, she said, “Yes, some are killers, although many get their supply from hospitals or mortuaries.”

“Mortuaries?”

She nodded. “Of course. Why let all that valuable blood drain away when it could be put to good use?” She held up her nearly-finished goblet. “But fresh human blood is always preferable.”

“How fresh?”

“
Straight from a living source, even if that living source dies shortly thereafter.”

I shuddered. Even though I knew most of this already, it always chilled me to think about it. And a cold-blooded vampire like me is hard to chill. “Why a living source?”

“Because blood is suffused with life force, Sam. Energies that vibrate at the cellular level. The residual energy left behind in animal blood—or that from a human corpse that’s been deceased for an extended period—doesn’t vibrate at the same frequency. Such blood is not in tune with who you are, Sam.”

“
So the fresher the blood...”

“
The stronger we are. The healthier we are. The more extraordinary we are.”

“
How many mortal blood dealers are there?”

“
Not many.”

“
Do you know of any?”

She stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time. “I have found having a living donor in my house to be more ideal. A ready source, as they say.” She grinned. “Sometimes, many ready sources.”

I wondered if she used her looks to lure her living donors. Some guys would do anything to be with a woman as beautiful as her. Anything.

As we sat back in the wicker chairs, aglow with fresh blood, I realized that Detective Hanner hadn’t really answered my question.

Now, why was that?

Chapter Twenty-three

My alarm clock blared.

It did this for a full five minutes before I emerged from whatever black abyss I descend into when asleep. Another five minutes before I could move my legs enough to sit up in bed. Truly, I was the waking dead.

As I sat there on the edge of the bed, wishing like hell I was back in that abyss, my cell phone chimed with a text message. I flopped my hand onto night stand, felt around until I found my phone, brought it over to my half-open eyes.

A text from Danny, my dear old ex-husband, only not so dear anymore. It was simple and to the point and aggravated me to no end:
Coming over. Need help.

“
Shit.”

And just as I deleted his message—as I do all his messages—there was a loud knocking sound on the front door.

“Shit,” I said again. Definitely not how I wanted to start my day.

Ever.

I hauled my ass out of bed, stumbled through my room, then plodded barefoot to the front door. Along the way, I grabbed my sunglasses from the kitchen table, put them on, and opened the front door.

It was, of course, Danny. In all his pitiful glory, silhouetted against the glare from the afternoon sunlight. Too much sunlight, especially after just awakening. I backed up, shielding my eyes, feeling like something out of a Bela Lugosi movie.

“Sam, can we talk?”

“
Do I have a choice?”