Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (113 page)

Jesus, what was I doing?

The weight of the medallion was heavy on my chest. After a moment’s thought, I slipped it inside my t-shirt, where it now lay against my bare chest.

The sky brightened. Birds sang. Lizards scuttled. Sand sprinkled.

And I was doing all I could to calm down.

If I leaped from the ledge and changed into the giant flying creature that I am, I could probably just make it to my minivan. But I would have to do it now. Stand now and leap.

Now.

But I didn’t stand. And I most certainly didn’t leap.

The word “faith” kept repeating itself in my mind. I held on to it like a lifeline.

Faith...faith...faith...

You will know what to do, Sam.

Easy enough,
he had said.

Well, there was nothing easier than wearing the medallion, right? Nothing easier than sitting here now and watching the horizon.

I rocked and maybe even whimpered.

It’s coming,
I thought.
The sun is coming. Hurry now. Back to the minivan. Sure, you might burn a little, or even a lot, but at least you will be safe. At least you will not die. At least you will get to see your kids again.

I rocked and rocked and rocked.

And as I rocked, as I felt the tears appear on my cheeks, as I accepted that everything that I knew and loved could be taken away from me in this moment, I felt something strange.

The need for sleep was dissipating.

I buried my hands over my face. The tears were coming fast and hard. I wasn’t even sure what the tears were for. More than anything, I was afraid to look to the east, afraid to settle my eyes on the distant low hills that led on to forever. But I pushed past my fear, and I took a very different kind of leap of faith.

I lowered my hands.

And for the first time in seven years, I saw something that I didn’t think I would ever see again:

The upper half of the morning sun appearing on the far horizon.

I felt no need for sleep. I felt no pain. In fact, I had never felt more alive in all my life. And as the sun continued to rise, I rose to my feet and stood on the ledge and shielded my eyes and never in my life had I ever seen something so beautiful.

Or perfect.

The End

Samantha Moon returns in:

Vampire Games

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VAMPIRE GAMES

by

J.R. RAIN

Vampire for Hire #6

Vampire Games

Published by J.R. Rain

Copyright © 2012 by J.R. Rain

All rights reserved.

Dedication

To those who care for the animals of this world.

Acknowledgments

A special thank you to Eve Paludan, Sandy Johnston, Elaine Babich and P.J. Day.

Vampire Games

“
And what is a vampire? It is something the creeps but never crawls. It is something that drinks but never feasts. It is something unseen but never forgotten.”

—
Diary of the Undead

Chapter One

Judge Judy was letting this online con artist know what a scumbag he was—and I was loving every minute of it—when my doorbell rang. I nearly ignored it. Nearly. I mean, she was so very close to having this guy in tears.

Except I knew this was a client at the door. And clients paid the bills.

I reluctantly clicked off the show, set aside the Windex bottle and rag I had forgotten I was holding, and headed for the front door. As I did so, I instinctively reached up for the pair of Oakley wraparound sunglasses that were no longer there. My next conditioned movement was to check my arms and face and hands for sunscreen—which wasn’t there, either.

Wasn’t there, and wasn’t needed.

That is, not since I’d donned the emerald medallion two weeks ago. A medallion that had literally changed my life. A medallion that, curiously, no longer existed.

Two weeks ago, shortly after watching my first sunrise in seven years, I had reached down for the medallion, only to discover it was missing. Left behind had been a disc-shaped burn in my skin and the empty leather strap that had been holding the medallion.

Fang had thought my body
absorbed
the medallion. I had thought that sounded crazy as hell. Fang had reminded me that a skin-absorbing medallion was actually one of the least-craziest things to happen to me in seven years.

Now, two weeks later, there still remained a faint outline of the medallion on my upper chest, seared into my skin.

I’m such a weirdo,
I thought, and settled for reaching up and checking on my hair. Since mirrors were still out of the question, I had become a master at feeling my way through a good hair day. At least, I hoped they were good hair days.

As I stood before the front door, a lingering trepidation remained. After all, sunlight had been my enemy for so many years.

You can do this,
I thought.

And I did. I opened the front door wide as sunlight splashed in. Brilliant sunlight. Splashing over me, but my skin felt...nothing. I felt nothing, and that was the greatest feeling of all.

No searing pain. No gasping sounds. No stumbling around and covering my eyes. No shrinking like a monster from the light of the day.

Such a weirdo.

Maybe. But now, not so weird.

Thank God.

Today, I was wearing torn jeans and a cute blouse, a sleeveless blouse, no less. Most importantly, I wasn’t wearing multiple layers of clothing or one of my epic sunhats. Or satellite dishes, as a client had once called them.

It was just me. And that felt good. Damned good.

The man standing in the doorway was smaller than I expected. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls tank top and basketball shorts and high-top sneakers. He looked like he might have just stepped off the courts or raided a Foot Locker. The detailed tattoos that ran up and down his arms—and even along his neck—seemed to tell a story about something, although I couldn’t puzzle it out at first blush.

“
Russell?” I said.

“
That’s me,” he said softly. “You must be Ms. Moon.”

He dipped his head in a way that I found adorable. The dip was part greeting, part submission, and partly to let me know that he came in peace. We shook hands and I led him to my office in the back of my house, passing Anthony’s empty room along the way. Well, not entirely empty. A pair of his white briefs sat in the middle of the floor, briefs that had seen better—and whiter—days. I reached in and quickly shut the door before my client got a good look at the mother of all skid marks.

Superman had Lex Luthor. Batman had the Joker. I had Anthony’s skid marks.

Once safe in my office, I showed Russell to one of my client chairs and took a seat behind my cluttered desk.

“So, what can I do for you, Russell?” I asked.

“
Jacky says you might be able to help me.”

“
Jacky, the boxing trainer?”

“
Yes,” he said.

“
Jacky say anything else?”

“
Only that you are a freak of nature.”

I grinned. “He’s always thought highly of me. What kind of help do you need?”

He looked at me. Straight in the eye. He held my gaze for a heartbeat or two, then said, “Somebody died accidentally...except I don’t think it was an accident.”

I nodded and did a quick psychic scan of the young man sitting before me. I sensed a heavy heart. Pain. Confusion. I sensed a lot of things. Most important, I did not sense that he was a killer.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

Chapter Two

Russell Baker was a boxer.

A damn good one, too, apparently. He was twenty-five, fought in the coveted welterweight division, had a record of 22-3, and was moving quickly up the rankings. There were whispers that he might fight Manny Pacquiao—or Floyd Mayweather, Jr. His management was presently negotiating a fight on HBO. He’d already fought around the world: Tokyo, Dubai, South Africa. He’d already beaten some of the top contenders in the world. Only the best remained. Only the champions remained. Russell Baker was on top of the boxing world and nothing could slow him down.

That was, until his last fight.

When he had killed a man in the ring.

Russell paused in his narrative, and I waited. He was a good-looking guy, clearly roped with muscle under his thin tee-shirt. His nose was wide and flat, which I suspected was perfect for boxing. A long, pointed nose probably got broken routinely. He was also small, perhaps just a few inches taller than me. Welterweights must be the little guys. If I had to guess, I would have said that he was exactly half the size of Kingsley.

After collecting himself, Russell continued. The fight had been last month, in Vegas. Russell had been working his way through the top ten fighters in his weight class. According to Russell, rankings were influenced by a boxer’s win-loss record, the difficulty of one’s opponents, and how convincing one’s victories were. The ultimate goal was to challenge for a title.

Last month, he’d fought the #7 ranked contender. Russell himself had currently been ranked #8. The fight was aired live on ESPN. The crowd had been full of celebrities. Up through three rounds, it had been a routine-enough fight, with Russell feeling confident and strong.

That is, until the fourth round.

It had been a short, straight punch to the side of the face. A hard punch. One that, if landed squarely, would rock most opponents. And Russell had landed it squarely. His opponent’s head snapped back nicely. Russell had moved in closer to land another punch, but his opponent, Caesar Marquez, was already on his way to the mat.

Russell had been confused. The punch had been solid, sure, but not a knockout punch. But there was Caesar Marquez, out cold, motionless. Russell had celebrated, but not for long, not when Caesar remained motionless and a crowd began swarming around his fallen opponent.

Russell stopped talking and looked away, tears in his eyes. He unconsciously rubbed his knuckles, which were, I noticed, puffy and scarred. An IM message box appeared on the computer screen before me. It was Fang.

You there, Moon Dance?

I leaned forward and tapped a few keys:
I am, but working. Talk soon, okay?

The butler did it, Moon Dance. Always the butler.

I shook my head and closed the box. Admittedly, I was mildly surprised that the box appeared. Fang always seemed to know when I was working—and respected my time with my clients. I frowned at that as I turned my attention back to Russell.

“
May I ask how your opponent died?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“
That’s a good question, Ms. Moon.”

“
Please call me Sam.”

He nodded. “Officially, they called it brain damage. Unofficially, they found nothing.”

“How do you know this?”

“
The M.E. told me. He personally called me up and told me that he couldn’t find anything other than some bleeding—enough to officially label it a brain hemorrhage, but not enough to cause death. At least, not in the opinion of the medical examiner.”

“
Yes.”

“
So, why are you here, Russ?” I asked, trying out a nickname to get him to spill more details.

He continued rubbing his knuckles. His foot, which was crossed over his knee, was jiggling and shaking. Now he rubbed the back of his neck. The bicep that bulged as he did so was...interesting.

“I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“
Yes, you do,” I said. “Why are you here, Russell?”

“
Because I don’t think I killed him.”

“
If you didn’t kill him, then who—or what—did?”

“
I don’t know, Sam. I guess that’s why I’m here. I want you to help me find out how he died.”

I sat back and folded my hands over my flattish stomach. Flat enough for me, anyway. I sensed so many emotions coming from Russ that it was hard to get a handle on them. Sensing emotion and reading minds are two different things. I wasn’t close enough to Russ to read his mind, but his emotions were fair game to anyone sensitive enough to understand them.

Mostly, I sensed guilt coming off him. Wave after wave of it. I sensed that Russell hadn’t been able to move forward from this fight and had been unable to deal with what had happened last month.

He needed answers. Real answers. Not the suspicious whisperings of a medical examiner.

“And what if I discover that you really did kill him, Russell?” I asked.

“
Then I can live with that, but I need to know,” he said, wiping his eyes and looking away. “I need to know for sure.”

“
Knowing is good,” I said.

“
Knowing is everything,” he said, and I didn’t doubt it for a second.

I nodded. “I’ll need names and contact info.”

He said he would email me everything I needed. We next discussed my retainer fee and, once done, he handed over his credit card. I spent the next few minutes embarrassing myself until I finally figured out how to use my iPhone credit card swiper. If I could have turned red, I would have.

We next shook hands, and if he noticed my cold flesh, he didn’t show it. Or was too polite to show it.

As he left my office, I couldn’t help but notice the dark cloud that surrounded him. His aura.

Guilt, I knew, was eating him alive.

He needed answers.

Badly.

Chapter Three

When Russell had gone, I brought up Google and researched the hell out of him.

In particular, I found the fight in question. The fight with Caesar Marquez had been a big deal, apparently. Both fighters were considered front runners to eventually contend for the welterweight title. Both fighters were roughly the same age. Same height. Same records. Same everything.

Except, now one was dead.

And the other was living with punishing, crushing guilt. I knew this. I had felt it from Russell, coming off him in wave after wave.

The crushing guilt was the least of my concerns. The black halo that completely surrounded his body was a different matter. A very serious matter.

Perhaps it was not so serious to others, but to me, I knew the implications. Russell needed help. He also needed protection. And, considering the vast amount of guilt he was dealing with...perhaps he needed protection from himself.

No, he hadn’t appeared suicidal, but I was also no expert in psychological issues. And since I wasn’t close enough to him to read his thoughts, all I had to go on were my gut impressions.

And my gut told me that he had a very heavy heart.

Baker vs. Marquez hadn’t been a big pay-per-view event, but HBO had hyped it up pretty good. All in all, the fight had lasted four rounds. Up through three rounds, two judges had scored the fight in favor of Russell, but one had it in favor of Caesar. Pretty even.

That is, until “the punch.”

I wanted to see the punch for myself. It turned out that YouTube had some pretty grisly videos on their website. In fact, there were easily a half dozen such boxing death videos. I first watched Russell’s fight, then forced myself to watch the other five, too, for comparison.

Most of the videos showed two guys hammering each other in the ring. Generally, one guy was doing a lot of hammering, and one guy was doing a lot of receiving. At least that was the trend. In five of the six fights, one opponent was clearly dominating the other opponent.