Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (47 page)

“
Us?”

The undead.

“Fine, so you’ve met me. Now who the fuck are you?”

The werewolf growled a deeper growl, a sound which seemed to resonate from deep within its massive chest.

I am called Maltheus.

I did my best to wrap my brain around what I was hearing. “You are a separate entity that lives within Kingsley?”

Not always within, no. But I do visit him once a month. He’s such a gracious host.

I sensed sarcasm. “And what, exactly, are you?”

I am many things, vampire.

“
How is it that you can take possession of Kingsley? How is that you can turn into this
thing?”

This thing, as you call it, is my physical incarnation. And I took possession of my dear fellow Kingsley because he allowed me inside him.

“He
wanted
to be bitten by a werewolf?”

No. He wanted death. He wanted revenge. He was full of hate and despair and emptiness.
The voice paused; the werewolf stared down at me, breathing heavily through a partially open mouth. Its lips were pure black.
I exist to fill that emptiness.

“
I don’t understand.”

You will someday, vampire. And we will meet again. Of that, you can be sure.

In a blink of an eye, moving faster than any creature that size had a right to move, the werewolf turned its massive shoulders and dashed through the shattered door and leaped off the stucco balcony.

I ran over to the edge and watched as it dropped nine stories, landing softly and gracefully. It didn’t throw back its head and let loose with an ear-splitting howl, nor did it dash off into the night on all four legs.

No, it simply sniffed the air, scratched behind its ear, and walked calmly away.

Chapter Fifty-three

It was late and my IM chat window was open. So far, there was no sign of Fang.

I had spent the past three hours cleaning my room, picking up glass and scrubbing clean the blood and other bodily fluids that had been dripping from Kingsley. With the place clean, now all I had to do was come up with a convincing story about the broken glass. I decided on going the drunken, divorced mother route. I had been drinking on the balcony, when I stumbled through the glass door. Could happen to anyone.

Now, with my hotel suite smelling like coconut butter and rotted corpse, I was sitting in front of my computer, waiting for Fang to log on.

I buzzed him again.

And again.

Twenty minutes later, I saw what I wanted to see: a flashing pencil had appeared in the message box. Fang was writing me a message. I felt overjoyed and relieved. I had come to rely on Fang more than he realized.

More than
I
realized.

A moment later, his words appeared:
You are persistent tonight, Moon Dance.

I have news.

Of that, I have no doubt.

Were you asleep?

I might have been dozing, but I always have time for you, Moon Dance.

My heart swelled.
Thank you, Fang.

He typed a smiley face and then asked:
So what’s your news?

I saw a werewolf tonight.

Your old client and new lover?

I hesitated.
Yes.

Tell me about it.

And so I did. I relayed everything that had happened and what was said to the best of my ability. As I typed, Fang waited patiently. Then again, he might have fallen back to sleep.

Nope. I had barely sent my message, when his response appeared nearly instantly.

I’m not surprised. It is commonly believed that werewolves feast on corpses.

Well, if he thinks he’s ever going to kiss me with those ghoulish lips again, he’s got another think coming.

Isn’t that a bit like the teapot calling the kettle black?

I don’t eat corpses, Fang.

Point taken. So you say this entity claimed to be living inside your friend?

Yes,
I wrote.

Fang paused, then wrote:
There are some who believe that werewolves and other such creatures of the night are, in fact, the physical manifestations of highly evolved dark masters.

I’m not sure I’m following.

These beings, these powerful entities, are forbidden to incarnate on earth. But they have found, let’s call them, loopholes.

And one such loophole is to incarnate once a month, as werewolves.

Exactly. But they don’t consider themselves wolves. You are, in fact, looking at the physical expression of the darkest of evils.

I shuddered.

And how do they find...a host?

No doubt the usual ways. Being bitten by such a being would be one way. But generally, and I think your ex-client is proof of this, they attach themselves to a willing host.

I’m lost,
I wrote.
As usual.

I have no doubt that your ex-client, the attorney, did not pointedly ask to be a werewolf. But he projected weakness, anguish, pain, despair. Such extreme emotions attract the attention of these highly evolved dark masters. It was just a matter of time until a werewolf-like creature found its way to your friend. Either that, or death.

So they saw my friend as a good host.

You could say that.

So, in effect, he is possessed.

Exactly. But he’s possessed by something very dark, and very, very evil.

The sun will be up soon,
I wrote.

Spoken like a true vampire. So are we still on for Sunday night?

That was two days from now. My heart slammed in my chest.
Yes.

Where would you like to meet, Moon Dance?

You are in Southern California?
I asked.

Yes.

Are you familiar with Orange County?

Yes.

Do you know where the Downtown Grill is in Fullerton?

There was a pause.
Yes.

Okay, I will see you there at midnight.

The vampire’s hour. So midnight it is, Moon Dance.

Goodnight, Fang.

You mean good morning.

Ha-ha.

Sweet dreams, Moon Dance. See you soon.

Chapter Fifty-four

I got up earlier than normal to take care of the sliding glass door with hotel management.

Groggy, weak, and feeling less than human, I walked the short, stocky and highly disapproving woman through my fictional drunken escapade last night, which culminated in me supposedly crashing through the glass door. She clucked her tongue numerous times, and in the end, after taking a few photographs of the damages, she seemed to buy my story. An hour or so later, a work crew stopped by and replaced the glass.

As they worked, I wondered if it was finally time for me to find my own place. Of course, I already had my own place. It was the house Danny and I had purchased together. The house he was currently using to fuck his secretary in.

I had been at the Embassy Suites for two months now. Surely, it was time for a change. And with that thought in mind, as I sat in the center of my bed while the work crew positioned the big piece of glass in the balcony doorway, I realized what I
hadn’t
seen in the seedy strip club in Colton.

Heart pounding, I fired up my laptop. I jacked into the hotel wireless service and did a quick search for the club. As I expected, there was no mention of it. No mention of it, in fact, anywhere.

As the work crew finished, one of them suggested that next time I fall
away
from the glass door when I was shit-faced drunk. I told him I would keep his suggestion in mind (asshole), and when they were gone, so was I.

Covered in sunscreen and heavy clothing, sporting my cool sunhat and shades, I grabbed my keys and hit the road.

*  *  *

Along the way to the Riverside County Courthouse, my cell phone rang. It was Kingsley. I picked up immediately.

“Hey,” he said.

“
Hey.”

“
I’m sorry about last night,” he said.

“
Last night was a little terrifying. At least I no longer doubt that you really are a...you know what.”

Kingsley hated for us to talk about our super secret identities on the phone. He actually laughed. “This coming from a...you know what.”

“We all have our hang ups.”

He was silent as I drove along the congested freeway. Mercifully, the sun was behind me.

Finally, Kingsley said, “Am I to understand you took care of my client the other night?”

“
You are to understand anything you want.”

I could almost see him nod. “I should be very pissed off at you for that.”

“You should thank me. I lessened your workload.”

“
That was very reckless, Sam.”

“
These are reckless times.”

He was silent some more. I suspected he was in his massive office, surrounded by piles of files.

“So what do we do, Sam?”

“
About what?”

“
About us.”

“
I don’t know,” I said.

“
I like you. A lot.”

“
I’m a very likable person,” I said.

He chuckled. “Sometimes. But now you’re being distant and cold.”

“I feel distant and cold, so no surprise there.”

“
It’s because of what I do,” he said.

“
I hate what you do.”

“
Sometimes I help people, Sam. Not everyone belongs in prison.”

“
And not everyone should be freed on a technicality.”

“
We can argue this forever,” he said.

“
And forever is a very long time for...us.”

He chuckled lightly again. “Can I see you tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night I have plans.”

He made a noise on the phone. I know he wanted to ask who my plans were with but he held back. “I see. Perhaps next week?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“
I’ll call you later.”

I said okay and we hung up.

*  *  *

My cell rang again. I checked the number and ID on the faceplate. The number came up “Restricted”. It was either a creditor or one of my pals with law enforcement. My finances had gotten a little out of hand these past few months. My hotel room hadn’t been cheap and Danny wasn’t helping me. I took my chances and clicked on.

“I don’t have any money,” I said.

“
Hello? Sam, it’s Mel.”

Oops. It was my DNA biologist friend from the FBI Crime Lab. Definitely not a creditor, although he did accept deposits in blood. My heart immediately slammed hard against the inside of my ribs. His call could only mean one thing.

“What’s shaking, Mel?”

“
I have the results to your blood work up, Sam.”

I took a deep breath, held it, and then said, “Okay. Lay them on me.”

Chapter Fifty-five

Danny’s firm took up the entire second floor of the office building. The building itself wasn’t much to write home about. Squarish and ugly and immediately forgotten. A couple of years ago, I had jokingly referred to the building as “Ambulance Chaser Headquarters”, and Danny had refused to speak to me for two days.

The big baby.

With the sun still a few hours from setting and myself not at my strongest, I climbed the exterior stairs and pushed through the smoky glass doors. Four leather chairs sat empty to one side of the door. A thick, square mohair carpet spanned the length of the office. A bubbling fountain gurgled in the corner to my left, projecting an aura of zen-like calm in these troubled, accident-prone times. On the walls were the paintings I had picked out with Danny at a swap meet years ago. Big, fake, cheap stuff.

And directly in front of me, sitting behind a kidney-shaped desk, with her shiny, tan legs crossed and absently texting on her cell phone, was my ex-husband’s new secretary. The woman he had cheated on me with. The woman he was currently fucking. The woman he entertained at our house, in our bedroom, in our bed. The woman he had introduced to our children.