Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (132 page)

“
Good point,” I said.

“
And how long would it have taken the police to get there?”

“
Another good point.”

“
So perhaps their assessment was wrong, or based on false information.”

I looked at my sister. “You would make a good investigator.”

“But a terrible vampire,” she said.

I winced a little and looked around. We were alone on this segment of the boardwalk. Our shadows stretched before us. Mary Lou’s shadow involved a lot of bouncing.

“Who says I’m a vampire?” I said.

She looked at me. “Still in denial, Sam? What else could you be?”

“I don’t like that word vampire. I’m just...different.”

She shook her head. “Whether you like that word or not, I’m pretty sure you’re one, Sam. I mean, I never believed in them until you got attacked...but I sure as hell do now.”

“Fine,” I said. “So, why would you be a bad you-know-what?” I still couldn’t say the word.

“
Vampire?” she said again.

I cringed again.

She laughed and said, “Well, it’s not that I would be a bad vampire. I would be a
bad
vampire, if you catch my drift.”

Now I laughed. “Like an evil vampire?”

“Sure,” said my sister. “I mean you can’t go to hell, because you don’t die. You can be as evil as you want. I think I would probably kill off most men.”

“
Most?”

“
I would leave the pretty ones.”

“
Oh, brother,” I said.

Chapter Three

We were on our third date.

Russell Baker was twenty-four and a professional boxer. I wasn’t twenty-four. In fact, according to my driver’s license, I was thirty-five. Thanks to the vampire in me, literally, I looked twenty-eight and possibly younger.

We were at Roy’s Restaurant in Anaheim, a bustling place that consisted mostly of Disneyland tourist spillovers. Still, a nice restaurant with great ambiance and just enough background noise to make it seem like we were alone.

Russell Baker was dressed in tight gray jeans and wore a tight black Ralph Lauren shirt open wide at the collar, revealing some of his muscled upper chest. He wore his own type of medallion. It was a golden scorpion inside a golden disk, in homage to his birth sign. I’d heard about Scorpios. I’ve heard they could be the best lovers. The thought, perhaps not surprisingly, sent a shiver through me.

“
You okay?” asked Russell.

“
Just a little cold,” I said, which was a half-truth. I was always cold. Always.

Russell seemed especially perceptive of me, and I was beginning to suspect the reason why. By our second date, I was certain he was picking up stray thoughts of mine here and there. Faster than what usually happens with most people who get close to me. After all, it had taken Detective Sherbet nearly a half a year to get to this point. Then again, Russell and I were getting close, fast.

Russell stood and plucked his light suede jacket from the back of his chair and came around the table and slipped it over my shoulders. He sat opposite me again, smooth as a jungle cat.

“
Better?” he asked.

His jacket smelled of good cologne and of him, too. Essence of Russell. For me, it was a wonderfully exhilarating scent.

Despite the jacket doing nothing for me, I said, “Yes, much better.” Which, again, was a half-truth. I loved his scent, and I loved his concern for me.

For me, dinner dates were a challenge. Salads were great to order for someone like me. They scattered nicely about the plate and gave the impression and appearance that I was eating my food. The wadded-up napkin in my hand contained half-masticated lettuce and carrots and beets. Anytime Russell headed for the bathroom, or checked his cell, or called over the waiter, that wadded-up napkin was gonna disappear into my purse. Lickety-split.

And so it went with me. A creature of the night—yes, a vampire, I supposed—attempting to date in the real world. Cold to the touch, unable to actually eat real food, and giving away her thoughts as if they were free.

“
You’re not like other girls I’ve dated, Sam,” said Russell.

“
Oh?” I wasn’t exactly delighted to hear this. Lord knew I’d tried to be just like the other girls. Perhaps too hard.

And once again, I thought,
Geez, what am I doing?

It was so much easier to be a single mom. Kingsley Fulcrum had quit calling—or trying to win me back—although I suspected I hadn’t heard the last of him. Fang was gone, having disappeared with Detective Hanner, a fellow freak of the night herself. To where, I didn’t know. According to Sherbet, Hanner had requested a three-month leave from the Fullerton Police Department.

Three months to turn Fang into a monster.

That thought alone turned my stomach. Then again, it could have been that stray bit of vinaigrette dressing escaping down the back of my throat. Yeah, that was gonna cause me some cramps later.

Russell was looking at me, frowning. “Who’s Fang?”

My heart leaped. “Pardon?”

“You said something about a fang. I’m sorry, I’m lost.”

“
Oh, right,” I said, thinking fast. I hadn’t said anything about Fang, of course. Russell had officially picked up on my thoughts, unbeknownst to him. I said, “Oh no, I said ‘dang.’ As in dang this salad is good.”

“
You said dang and not fang?”

“
Uh-huh,” I said, looking away and shielding my thoughts. Too early to shield my thoughts from Russell. We were connecting—and deeply.

“
Could have sworn you said something else.”

“
Well, it’s kind of loud in here. So, you were saying I was different than the other girls?” I said, praying like hell we would change the subject.

That is, of course, if God heard my prayers.

“Right,” he said, looking at me sideways a little. He then looked down at his food and played with his fork a little. Russell had very big hands, and heavily scarred knuckles. He had already told me he’d spent a childhood fighting on the streets of Long Beach. Finally, he said, “I guess it’s because I feel like I can open up to you. Tell you anything.”

“
Is that a good thing?” I asked.

He reached across the table and took my hand. And to his credit, he didn’t flinch at the cold. In fact, he never flinched at the cold. “A very good thing.”

As he continued holding my hand and looking into my eyes, I think something inside me just might have melted.

I hated when that happened.

Chapter Four

The kids were at Mary Lou’s and I was packing for my weekend trip when my cell rang.

“
You’re going on a trip,” said the voice on the other end when I picked up.

I dropped my folded tank top in the suitcase. “How the devil did you know that?”

“I’ve been feeling it all day,” said Allison. “A strong feeling that you were going away and that you needed me. I’m kinda psychic, you know. Not the full-blown type, but I think spending time with all of you vampires has sort of rubbed off on me.”

I had met Allison on my last case, the girlfriend of another boxer. A murdered boxer. Allison and I had shared a...
moment
. A highly unusually moment.

Two moments, in fact,
I thought.

She and I had connected, or bonded instantly. She had quickly seen through my façade, having dated a vampire herself. And the next thing I knew, she was allowing me to drink from a wound in her hand. A wound that had quickly healed once I was done drinking.

My life is so weird.

We’d talked often since, although we had yet to meet again. She had quickly become like an old girlfriend to me. A sister.

A blood sister.

“
Yes, I’m going on a trip,” I said, now reaching for some jeans in my closet, cradling the phone against my shoulder and ear.

“
See? I knew you were going on a trip. I’m coming with you.”

“
No, you’re not.”

“
Yes, I am, Sam. You need me.”

“
Need you how?”

“
This is a business trip, no?”

“
Yes, but—”

“
I sense very strongly that you are going to need my help, if you know what I mean.”

Actually, I did know what she meant. I stopped reaching for my jeans as I stood there in front of my open closet. A closet, I might add, that was quickly filling up with clothes. Now that I could actually go into the light of day, I needed a whole new wardrobe, right? Like that tank top I had just dropped in the suitcase. Many cute tank tops, in fact. And shorts. And sandals.

Allison was, of course, referring to fresh human blood—fresh, as in, straight from the source. A living, human source. Such blood energized me unlike anything I’d ever had before. Yes, I’d had human blood—but never hemoglobin straight from a willing source.

And Allison had been very, very willing. Apparently, she loved the experience.

I said, “I don’t think my client will allow you to come.”

“
Say I’m your assistant.”

“
I doubt she’ll—”

“
She will, Sam. Trust me. And trust me when I say you will need me. I’m here now at the airport.”

I think my mouth dropped. Correction, I know my mouth dropped open. “What airport?”

“LAX. The 4:40 flight. Lucky for me they had one seat left.”

“
Let me guess...” I said.

“
Row 17, Seat C.”

I glanced down at my ticket next to my suitcase. Row 17, Seat B.”

“You’re freaking me out,” I said.

“
I get that a lot,” she said. “Now, chop-chop.”

And with that, she hung up.

Chapter Five

I was halfway to LAX, fighting traffic on the 105 Freeway, when a text message came through.

Oprah had a point about not texting and driving. Oprah, as far as I knew, wasn’t a vampire with cat-like reflexes and an inner alarm system that alerted me to danger.

I glanced down at my iPhone, and was not very surprised to see that it was Kingsley. Secretly—or perhaps not so secretly—I had hoped it was Fang.

Jesus, Fang...where are you?

Still, seeing the text from Kingsley warmed my heart a little. The guy was trying soooo hard to be nice. He knew he’d screwed up and screwed up royally. He also knew there was probably a very good chance I would never even see him again.

Still, he kept at it. Kept being sweet. And the big oaf was worming his way back into my life. One sweet text at a time.

Full moon tonight,
his text read.
Franklin and I are gonna get our freak on.

I shook my head and texted back:
I don’t even want to begin to know what that means, goofball.

Hey, I’ll take goofball,
he wrote back a few minutes later.
Better than what you’ve called me in the past.

You’re still a jerk.

I know. And soon I will be a hairy jerk.

Just try not to rob any graves tonight,
I wrote, texting rapidly. Supernaturally fast, I might add.
That’s really, really gross, by the way.

Kingsley, as a werewolf, had a taste for corpses. That is, when and if he ever escaped the safe-room his butler Franklin locked him into each full night. A butler who was, of course, so much more than a butler.

I know,
wrote Kingsley.
What’s the deal with that anyway?

In fact, I knew exactly what the
deal
with that was. Kingsley and I, although two very different creatures of the night, were not so different after all. Each of us harbored what I’d come to understand was a highly evolved dark master, an entity banned from this world, but returning through a loophole, so to speak.

And we’re the loopholes.

These dark entities gave us our lives—our eternal lives, that is—and existed within us side by side, or, if not side by side, somewhere deep within us.

I shuddered again at the thought.

And so, it was the thing within Kingsley that hungered for the flesh of the dead. And it was the thing within me that hungered for blood.

After a moment, I texted back:
I think we both know what the deal is, Wolfman. Just be a good boy tonight.