Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (62 page)

I wasn’t clear yet; I was still conflicted.

But now wasn’t the time for that. I had had a long day and an even longer night, and now all I wanted was a warm hug, a warm smile, and a warm body.

It was no surprise that Kingsley came immediately to mind, although I had flirted with the idea of contacting Fang. The idea didn’t stick. Fang was a whole new jigsaw puzzle of confusion that I still needed to piece together, and I just wasn’t up to it, not now. Not with everything else going on. Kingsley, although a bastard, was familiar and loveable and warm as hell.

The banging in the kitchen stopped, and a few moments later Franklin appeared in the living room with a tray of drinks. He set a goblet in front of each of us and stood back. Franklin wasn’t happy. He was also a piece of work. Literally. The man, I was certain, had been pieced together from many different men. Where Kingsley met him, I didn’t know. Why such a creature served as a werewolf’s butler, I couldn’t imagine. But there was a hell of a story here, somewhere. Kingsley had promised he would tell me the butler’s tale. Someday. And if and when I was done being pissed at Kingsley, maybe I would finally hear it.

“
Is that all?” asked the butler. His slightly melodic accent was nearly impossible to place. It could have been British, but it wasn’t any British accent I had ever heard. The words
Old English
came to mind, too. As in old,
old
English. This, I’m certain, was a psychic hit, but I could have been wrong. Just how old Franklin was remained to be seen.

“
Thank you, Franklin. That will be all,” said Kingsley, waving him off.

The butler nodded. “If you and the lady need anything else, please do not hesitate to rouse me from a deep and satisfying sleep.”

“We won’t, Franklin. Now, off you go!”

Franklin bowed and turned and loped off, his legs seemingly not quite working together. Almost as if they had been two different legs from two different bodies. A theory that I was beginning to accept.

Kingsley reached for his wine. “Drink up, dear.”

I reached for my own drink, but it wasn’t wine. It was chilled hemoglobin, and if I didn’t hurry and drink, the surface layer would coagulate.

I picked the cold glass up with both hands and brought it to my nose, inhaling deeply the strong coppery scent. Metallic, rich, alive. I brought the goblet to my lips and that first dribble of blood sent a shiver through me that was akin to a smoker’s high.

It had taken me a long, long time to actually acquire a taste for blood. To actually enjoy it. But it depended on the blood. The finer the plasma, the more I enjoyed it. The purer the hemoglobin, the better the experience. The more pleasurable the experience. The more beneficial, too. Fine blood gave me extra energy, added strength, and a better life experience.

But my blood of choice—or of necessity—comes from a butchery in nearby Norco, where I had a running account with them. Once a week they delivered the stuff to my door, no questions asked, although they believed it was for scientific purposes. The blood was often filled with fur and skin and other floaties that I couldn’t quite place. Didn’t
want
to place. It was utterly disgusting, but it nourished me and no doubt kept me alive.

This blood was different. This blood was heavenly. This blood, I was certain, was from a human. There were no impurities in it. It was silky smooth and fresh and filled with a life force that absolutely electrified me.

“Thirsty?” asked Kingsley.

I opened my eyes. I found myself staring into the empty goblet, whose interior was coated now with a thin film of blood.

“Very,” I said. “Would you think less of me if I licked the inside?”

“
Waste not, want not, I say.”

I ran my tongue inside, licking hungrily, and only then did I realize how ghoulish I looked. “Did that look as ghoulish as I think it did?” I asked.

He grinned. “Worse.”

“
Great.” But that didn’t stop me from using my index finger to swipe at the last few drops of blood.

Kingsley watched me with a bemused expression. He was wearing a robe and not much else. His legs were hairy as hell, but also roped with muscle. His toes, I saw, were extraordinarily long. And hairy, too. He wiggled them at me when he saw me looking at them. They looked like ten frightened mice.

“I’m getting more and more used to drinking blood,” I said.

“
It was bound to happen.”

“
I mean, I’ll always hate the animal blood, but this human blood was nearly orgasmic.”

“
Do you feel stronger?”

“
In every way, but it’s late, or early, and I feel myself getting tired.”

“
No worries. The blood will more than sustain you for a few days. Much more so than that polluted pig and cow crap you drink.”

I had experienced this before. Human blood revitalized me unlike anything else. So much so that I realized that I was
meant
to drink human blood. I was meant—designed—to kill humans.

“
So whose blood is this?” I asked.

“
Do you really want to know?”

“
No. Yes. Shit.”

Kingsley got up, and as he did so, he flashed me the goods. Whether he meant to or not, I don’t know...but holy sweet Jesus. Did I really just see that? My God, how did he walk around with that thing?

Kingsley, defense attorney, werewolf—and now, apparently,
pervert—
sat next to me and gave no indication that he had just given me the mother of all peep shows.

“
I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” he said, and knocked back the rest of his wine like it was booze-flavored Kool-Aide.

“
It’s not a secret,” I said. “And it ain’t little.”

“
Excuse me?”

“
Never mind.”

But I caught the smallest of shit-eating grins on his face.

“Go on,” I said, shaking my head. “And this time try to keep the robe closed.”

“
I do my best to keep it closed.”

I patted his meaty knee. “Well, do better, big boy. Now, what is it that’s such a big secret?”

He sat back, but this time he kept the robe closed well enough. “The blood is from a donor, Sam.”

“
A donor?”

He nodded.

“A willing donor?” I prodded.

“
Willing enough,” he said.

“
I don’t like the sound of that.”

“
It’s not as bad as it seems.”

“
But it’s still bad?”

“
Gruesome, perhaps. Macabre.”

“
Perhaps you should just tell me what you know.”

“
There’s a world of vampires out there, Sam, that you haven’t been introduced to yet. At least, I don’t think you have.”

I thought back to Detective Hanner. Whether or not she was a vampire, I didn’t know, and I most certainly hadn’t been officially introduced to other vampires.

The defense attorney went on. “You’re not the only one of your kind, Sam, and the vampire who attacked you wasn’t the last.”

Knowing this set off alarm bells within me. I didn’t like knowing there were others like me, truth be known. I knew
me
. And I trusted me. I didn’t trust others. “How many more are there?” I asked.

“
Not many; in fact, very few.”

“
Are we talking thousands?”

“
Hundreds, perhaps. Scattered around the world.”

And yet there were two in Fullerton, I mused, but didn’t say anything. The one who had attacked me (and was subsequently killed by a vampire hunter a few months back...the same hunter who later came looking for me), and now perhaps Detective Hanner. If you add me into the mix, that’s three in Orange County alone. Hell, three in Fullerton alone.

Kingsley went on: “There’s a larger than normal grouping of vamps here in Southern California; particularly Los Angeles.”

“
I might have met one.”

“
Who?”

I hesitated, wondering if I might be giving away Detective Hanner’s secret. After all, I wasn’t sure if there couldn’t be some weird, age-old vampire/werewolf feud going on. (And if there was, why hadn’t I gotten the memo?)

Kingsley reached over and laid his warm hand on my knee. I inwardly sighed. I craved warmth. And other than the snuggling hugs of my kids, the warmth from a man was the next best.

He said, “Don’t worry, Sam. Many of the local vampires are friends of mine.”

“Friends?”

“
Close acquaintances. We sort of naturally gravitate to each other.”

“
And there’s no, like, war or something going on?”

He chuckled. “War?”

“You know, like on
Twilight
or
Underworld
.”

He squeezed my knee a little. “And what would we be fighting over?”

“Dominion over the earth? The blood of humanity?”

“
There are others who control the earth, Sam, and they are very human. And, hell, even I’m afraid of them.”

I told him about the Fullerton detective. As I did, Kingsley nodded and smiled. “An old friend.”

“How old?”

“
Older than you and I combined. Anyway, Hanner, like other immortals, has taken precautions to discreetly blend in with society.”

“
So they don’t run around killing people.”

“
Not as often as you would think.”

I said, “And that’s where the donors come in.”

“Right.”

“
And who are these donors?” I asked.

“
Selected humans.”

“
And how are they selected?”

“
Most are lovers. Some are enemies. And a few are simply unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with a hungry vampire.”

“
Do these donors know they are donating to real vampires?”

“
My guess would be yes and no. Perhaps a few of the more trusted ones do.”

“
And the others?”

“
The others are, I imagine, giving their blood most unwillingly.”

“
Then why call them ‘donors’?”

“
It sounds better, don’t you think?”

I turned the empty goblet in my hand. What little of the red stuff remained had long since dried. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. So whose blood had this belonged to? I may never know.

A sudden wave of weakness hit me. The sun was coming. “I need a place to crash,” I said.

“
Mi bed es su bed.”

“
That’s some of the worst Spanish I’ve ever heard.”

He squeezed my knee harder. “I’m getting up now anyway. You can have the bed to yourself.”

My heart sank a little.

“
Is something wrong, Sam?”

I still hadn’t forgiven Kingsley, but I did miss his touch. “Would you...” I paused, then tried again. “Would you lay with me until I fall asleep?”

He smiled brightly. “Would be my pleasure. And I’ll wake Franklin up and have him vampire-treat the windows with some blankets or something.”

“
Oh, great,” I said, as the first wave of exhaustion hit me. “Give him even more reason to hate me.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Although I generally need to crank my alarm clock as loud as it gets to rouse me from my sleep, I found myself emerging from the blackest of depths at the sound of my cell phone ringing.

By the fourth ring, I was almost alive again.

By the fifth, I had fumbled for it on Kingsley’s nightstand. I had a brief glimpse of the time: 10:18 a.m. I also had a brief glimpse of the caller: Aaron King, the old L.A. detective with the killer smile.

I answered the phone. At least, I think I answered the phone. I touched a button on the cell and hoped for the best.

“
Hello?”

“
Did you just say ‘hello’?” said Aaron King.

“
I think so, yes.”

“
You sound like a dying frog.”

“
You’re closer than you think.”

“
I’ve got news,” he said.

“
Don’t tell me you’ve been working all night.”

“
There’s no rest for the wicked. Besides, I don’t sleep well these days.”