Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (123 page)

“
I mean, no one would believe me.”

I nodded encouragingly, waited.

“You’re the first person who I think I can trust with this information...and perhaps the first person who wouldn’t laugh me off immediately. Maybe you are a godsend.”

I wondered what God thought of that, but said, “Well, drinking someone’s blood has that effect.” I didn’t mention that she also knew my super-secret identity, which bonded us further. Or condemned her.

She took in some air and plunged forward, “Caesar was never the same after that punch.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
He was different. Not entirely...there. He seemed to have suffered a concussion, of some sort, but the doctors who checked him out said he wasn’t showing typical concussion symptoms—nausea, blurred vision, vomiting, stuff like that.”

“
So what was wrong?”

Allison thought about that, pursuing her lips. “Well, everything, actually. He rarely talked. Rarely slept. I would often find him sitting in the dark alone. He spoke in a monotone. He rarely laughed, and when he did, it seemed forced. My last memories of him are not good ones. My last memories of him—namely the two weeks leading up to his fight in Vegas—were filled with constant worry and concern.”

“The doctors couldn’t pinpoint anything?”

“
The doctor didn’t think anything was wrong.”

“
And you think the punch had something to do with his death?” I asked.

Allison held my gaze. I suddenly felt as if I’d known her for a long time. As if this wasn’t our first meeting. I shook off the feeling.

She said, “I know the punch had something to with his death, Sam.” She got up and moved over to her sliding glass window and looked down at the street below. “I just know it. And he should never have fought Russell Baker.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
He wasn’t ready for the fight. He was still out of it. I mean, Jesus, he was
sleeping
before the fight. Sleeping. He never sleeps before a fight. He was usually bouncing off the walls.”

Her words triggered a memory. “Romero told me he had to calm Caesar down before the fight.”

“Usually. Romero was always good at getting Caesar to focus, to channel his energy, so to speak.”

“
But not this last fight?”

“
No. Caesar was already calm. So calm that he was sleeping.”

I nodded and thought about all of this, and kept thinking about it all the way home.

Chapter Twenty-seven

It was late.

I was at home, looking into Allison’s allegations. Unfortunately, there was no video of the charity fight anywhere. That would have been nice to see. The karate champion in question was Andre Fine, and he was generally recognized as the best in his weight class, holding various titles and many degrees of black belt. Apparently, he was the baddest of the bad.

I found his website and studied his many pictures. I also found many YouTube video clips of his fights. He was, from all appearances, lightning fast, and tended to really hurt his opponents. More than one went down and stayed down.

I sat back and rubbed my eyes out of habit. Truth was, they didn’t hurt. Truth was, they never hurt and I had perfect vision. Especially after a day like today.

When I had consumed fresh human blood.

Human blood from a more-than-willing donor.

The small amount that I had indeed consumed from Allison’s finger was more than enough to sustain me for a day or two. Human blood has that effect: long-lasting and filling. Even small amounts of the stuff went a long way.

I thought of Allison again, a woman who loved to have her blood consumed. And I mean
loved
to have it consumed. And here I was, a woman and vampire who knew the benefits of human blood. The supernatural, unparalleled benefits. It was hard not to see that this could be a match made in Heaven.

Or, more accurately, in one of the outer rings of Hell.

Andre Fine. He looked like a tough dude. He knew how to punch. How to guard. He seemed to have an almost supernatural grasp of what his opponent would do next. From the footage I saw, no one had gotten close to him. No one had hurt him, and all were beaten—badly.

Except, he didn’t strike me as something supernatural. He wasn’t a particularly big man, and, according to Kingsley the Buttface, I now knew that werewolves actually grew in size as time went on. Kingsley himself had started out as a much smaller man, which made me wonder how big Kingsley would eventually get. Or, if there was a capping-off of size.

Then again, maybe I didn’t care, at least, not about Kingsley.

But I did care. I did care that he had cheated on me, and it was all I could do to not drive over there, kick his door in, and then kick his face in.

But he had been set up.

So what?

Easy excuse.

Jerk off.

Perhaps Andre Fine was a
new
werewolf, then, not yet old enough to achieve the bigger size. Kingsley, after all, possessed such quickness and strength. But Andre Fine was slight, even. He was, in fact, often smaller than his opponents...although clearly faster and stronger and more skilled.

I shifted gears, and within a few minutes, I had all his personal information in front of me, as well. I now knew his last three residences, including his current one in Malibu. He was single, no kids, and had an interesting rap sheet. He’d spent time in county jail for beating a man nearly to death in a barroom brawl. His hands were registered as lethal weapons, so the fight was considered a felony. He also seemed to like to beat up his various girlfriends. Three different complaints from three different women. No arrests, warnings only. I looked up his birth certificate, and confirmed that he was not an immortal who had lived hundreds of years, although he certainly fought like an immortal. He was thirty-four.

Still, how could a single punch have an effect a month later?

I didn’t know. But I knew someone who might. I picked up my cell and called Chad Helling, my ex-partner with HUD. He answered on the second ring.

“Better?” he asked.

“
I like being a second-ring kind of gal,” I said.

“
You do realize we’re not partners anymore, Moon Shine,” he said, using one of his trillions of nicknames he had for me. “I’m not obligated to pick up at all. In fact, my life would be a lot easier if I just let your calls go to voicemail.”

“
Then why don’t you?”

“
I said my life would easier.”

“
So that means you still love me.”

“
No, I love Monica. I put up with you.”

“
Good enough,” I said.

“
So, how can I plunder the government’s resources for you this time, Sunshine?”

“
Not the government’s resources. Your gray matter. I’m calling to pick your brain. I need your expertise.”

“
In beer?”

“
Fighting,” I said, knowing that Chad Helling was an amateur MMA fighter.

“
Sometimes they’re one and the same,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. I told him about my case and about Allison’s theory. And to my complete surprise, Chad didn’t laugh immediately, which is what I had expected.

When I finished, he said, “Andre Fine is a bad dude.”

“
That’s what I gathered.”

“
No, I mean a bad dude.”

“
Okay, you lost me,” I said.

“
I mean, the guy is legendary in the fighting community. Not only is he the reigning karate champion, but he has been for the last five years in a row.”

“
But why is he legendary?”

“
Did you catch the part about being champion for five straight years?”

“
I did,” I said. “But I also noted something else in your voice.”

“
Geez, Moon River, I can’t keep anything from you.”

“
Nope. Now, out with it.”

“
Okay, here’s the dope.”

“
Dope?”

“
It’s like the new catch phrase these days.”

“
Fine. Give me the dope.”

“
Ugh.”

“
Ugh what?” I said.

“
Doesn’t sound right coming from you. Sounds too mom-ish.”

“
Well, I am a mom. Now tell me what you know or I’ll shove my mommy sneaker up your ass.”

“
Now that’s the Samantha Moon that I remember.”

“
Chad...”

“
Right. Fine. Look, some of this isn’t easy to talk about. I mean, it’s kind of crazy, actually.”

“
Crazy, how?”

“
You know about Bruce Lee, right?”

“
Sure,” I said. “Kung fu guy?”

“
Well, he was much more than just a kung fu guy, but yeah, him. Anyway, he died of cerebral edema caused by pain medication. A bad reaction, you know? He died at age thirty-two.”

“
So what about him?” I asked.

“
In 1985,
Black Belt Magazine
stirred up some controversy when it suggested that Bruce Lee had, in fact, been killed by a
dim mak
.”

“
Dim mak
?”

“
Death touch.”

“
Of course,” I said.

“
You might laugh but there are lots of fighters and martial artists out there who think the
dim mak
is real.”

“
And how might one die from a
dim mak
?”

“
That part isn’t so easy to explain. But it has something to do with stopping life flow or life force, or what some call
prana
.”

“
Did you just say
prana
?”

“
I know. New Age-y, woo-woo stuff. But think of it as the opposite of acupuncture, which encourages the flow of energy through a body.”

“
And the
dim mak
discourages the flow of energy?”

“
That’s the theory.”

“
On Google, do I just type in
death touch
? Or
touch of death
?”

“
Like I said, Moon Glow, you can laugh, but there are many who believe it’s real—and a few who claim they’ve seen the
dim mak
in action. And those who are reputed to have the skill are given a wide berth.”

“
Let me guess...” I said.

I could almost see Chad nodding his squarish head over there on his side of the line. “Yes,” he said. “Andre Fine is one of those who’s reputed to know the
dim mak
.”

“
Lucky him,” I said.

Chapter Twenty-eight

I was sitting at my desk, drumming my fingers, listening to my children sleeping from down the hallway, thinking about damned “touches of death” when it happened.

It was a vision.

A powerful vision, so powerful that I knew it could have only come from Fang. It filled my waking thoughts completely, blurring my vision enough for me to believe that what was happening to
him
was happening to
me
.

This happened to us sometimes. If Fang was experiencing something powerful enough, emotional enough, or exciting enough, it nearly always flooded my thoughts.

As it did now.

Usually, I can switch off the image, and leave Fang to his privacy. But as I sat back in my desk chair, the image I saw in my mind made me gasp.

It was of Detective Hanner. And she was hovering over Fang, straddling him. She was wearing next to nothing. The light shifted. His eyes shifted. Correction. She was, in fact, wearing nothing. Standing over him, naked.

I shouldn’t be watching this,
I thought.

I could turn off the image. Block it, so to speak.

But I didn’t. I continued watching, like a voyeur through a bedroom window. I watched because I suspected I knew what was going to happen. I knew it, but I wanted to be sure. I wanted to see it for myself.