Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (66 page)

I’m doing very well,
it wrote.
It’s a great day to be alive, is it not?

I thought of my son, and a great pain filled my heart. I had come here now to ask about Anthony, but suddenly I wasn’t sure I really wanted to hear the answers.

My son was showing signs of stabilizing. This should be good news, but it wasn’t. Not to me. I knew better. His black halo was growing. How do you convince a doctor that you need a second or third opinion when the patient seems to be responding to treatments?

Responding for now. I knew that would all change.

I had called children’s hospital after children’s hospital, burning up my phone, demanding to speak to other infectious disease specialists. Few would speak to me, and those who did were generally guarded. I begged them to come see my boy, that I felt something was very, very wrong, and they reassured me that my son’s doctor was one of the best in the business.

One specialist in Chicago told me he would look into it, and later called to tell me that he was flying in to see my son. I thank him profusely, crying nearly hysterically, but in my heart of hearts, I knew he would fail.

Modern medicine would fail. I needed a miracle. And thanks to Fang, I had an idea what that miracle might entail.

For now, though, I simply said, “Am I really alive?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “There are some who believe that beings such as myself are dead.”

More twitching and tingling. More writing.
Do you feel dead, Samantha?

“
No, but I feel very...different.”

Twitch, write.
You should feel different. We are all different.

“
But am I dead?” I asked. “And please don’t say: ‘Do you feel dead?’”

Your body went through a massive transformation, or metamorphosis, Samantha, but it did not die.

“Then why don’t I breathe? Why can’t I eat?”

That’s one of the metamorphoses of which I speak. Or write. Your body, quite literally, is not the same, and thus does not have the same requirements.

“Like food or air.”

Exactly. Yes.

“But I still need blood.”

Of course. This is your new body’s requirement.

“And so my new body is a killer, if it must feast on blood.”

Does all blood need to come from that which is dead?

“No,” I said, and my voice trailed off. I thought about something Kingsley had said earlier, about blood donors. Those who donated willingly...and those who most certainly did not. Blood debt perhaps.

Yes, Samantha, you are a far more powerful being than you were before, but what you make of your new physical form is up to you.

“I could choose to kill. Or not to kill.”

Exactly. Yes. Just like everyone else.

“So I have a new body...but I still have the same moral code.”

You are still you, sweet child, no matter what shape you take.

“Don’t call me sweet child. It makes me want to cry.”

Why?

“Because it sounds like you care about me. That you love me. But I don’t know who you are or what you are.”

Understood. But remember, all you have to do is ask.

“I have asked, but you’ve avoided the question.”

I did not avoid. I simply gave you the answer you were ready for. Are you ready for the answer now?

I thought about that. I looked at my son sleeping on his back. My God, had the black halo actually grown in just a few minutes?

“
Yes,” I said.

We are many, Samantha. There are many of us here who have taken an active interest in you.

“So you are not Sephora?” A sense of alarm rang through me. Who was I talking to? Sephora had been the loving being I had spoken to in my last sessions.

She is here, of course, overseeing this dialogue. She is your personal guide, after all, who has been with you for all eternity.

“And who are you?”

With her blessing, I have come through.

“I don’t understand.”

I am a specialist in the arcane, Samantha.

“Arcane?”

In immortality. In the magicks of your realm, so to speak. Some would call them dark magicks, but they would be mistaken.

“Who are you?”

My hand paused, then wrote:
I am called by many names, through many lives, but I’m most commonly called Saint Germain.

I’d heard of the name, of course. Saint Germain had been a European mystic. An alchemist of the highest order. He supposedly lived for centuries. And, from most accounts, never died. They say he ascended; that is, turned to light. A heavenly being who was just as comfortable in the spirit world as the physical world, often alternating between the two. And helping those in need. Immortal indeed.

And no, Samantha, I’m not a vampire, either.

“
Then what are you?”

A seeker of truth.

“And did you find the truth?”

I found what I was looking for, yes. But there are always bigger questions, with bigger answers.

“So you eternally seek answers.”

“
Forever and ever.”

“
So why are you here with me now?”

You have called out for answers, Samantha Moon. I’m here to help you find them.

“But why you?”

Why not?

“Fine,” I said and rubbed my head. I looked at my sick boy. “I want to talk about my son.”

What would you like to know?

“Is he...is he going to die?”

There was a slight pause and the tingly sensation briefly abated, but then it returned. I realized that maybe I didn’t want to know the answer. My hand moved across the page, and the gel ink flowed freely.

Your son has his own path, Samantha.

“
What does that mean?”

We all follow our own paths, generally agreed on and known before our births.

“Who agrees on this?”

You. And many others.

“Which others?”

Those who care deeply about you. And those who care deeply about your son.

“And what’s his path?” My voice was shaking now.

You know his path, Sam. You have foreseen it.

“Just tell me.”

There was a short, agonizing pause, and then:
Your son’s path will come to an end in this physical plane soon, as it has been decided upon, as he has decided, as well.

“
He’s only a little boy, goddammit. What the hell does he know about anything?”

A little boy now, in the flesh, certainly. But a very wise old soul eternally.

I covered my eyes with my free hand. Tears poured between my fingers. It was all I could do to not throw the clipboard across the room.

“
Why, why would he decide to end his life now? Who would decide such a thing? Why take him from me?”

There are many, many reasons, Sam. And most of those involve the growth of his own soul, and the growth of the souls around him.
Adapting to loss is a big step toward growth.

“
It’s a horrible, cruel step toward growth. How could you take my boy?”

I’m not taking him, Sam. No one can take. Leaving this world is his choice and his choice alone.

“But he’s just a boy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and don’t give me that crap that he’s an old soul. He’s not. He’s just a little boy. A little, sick boy.”

A little, sick boy with a highly evolved soul, Samantha. He understands his purpose here at the soul level, even if not at the physical level.

“Fuck you.”

I’m sorry, Samantha.

I wept hard for a few minutes, barely able to control myself. Finally, when I could speak again, I said, “Are you there?”

Always.

“I have a question.”

We are here for answers.

“Okay. Okay.” I took a deep breath, and plunged forward. “Is there anyway that I can save him?”

He does not need to be saved, Sam.

“Please.”

We all have free will, Sam. You can do anything you want.

“So there is a way to save him?”

Of course there is. The body can heal itself immediately if it so chooses. What your doctors call miracles.

“The doctors are going down the wrong path,” I said. “They think they’re helping.”

The doctors have diagnosed your son correctly, Samantha. There is nothing left for them to do. Although considerable, they have exhausted their collective expertise.

“But I know of another way.”

I know, Sam. There are often many ways. The key is finding the one that feels the best.

“So my way is such a path.”

Of course. But ask yourself: does it feel right?

“It feels right to me,” I said quickly, although doubt ate at me.

Then so be it.

I took a deep breath. “Well, you haven’t told me not to do it.”

I would never tell you not to do anything, Samantha. This is called a free-will universe for a reason.

“But would you caution against it?”

I would caution against doing anything that doesn’t feel right, Samantha. Always ask yourself if the choices you are doing feel right, and act according to your feelings. Then you will know you are on the right path. Always.

“But how do I know how I feel if I’m truly confused?”

You always know, Sam. Always.

Chapter Forty-six

I was driving.

My mind was still reeling from the phone call with Maddie. My mind was still reeling from my conversation with Kingsley. Reeling from my conversation with Saint Germain. Reeling from the possibility that my son could be saved. Possibly.

I was doing a lot of reeling and no doubt a lot of erratic driving, too. I forced myself to calm down. To focus.

It was early afternoon. My sister and daughter were with Anthony. I had work to do, and this was my time to do it, even if I was a royal mess.

I could head out to Simi Valley now, but I suspected I would be waiting a long, long time in the casino before anyone of note showed up. It was better to wait, and head out there later.

For now, I knew where to go. And it just so happened to be right around the corner, too.

* * *

I parked at the Wharton Museum and dashed across the parking lot, past the rich and not-so-famous dining at the Wharton outdoor cafe, and ducked into the main building, gasping for breath I didn’t need, and feeling as if I had just run across hot coals.

“You okay?” asked the security guard at the door.

“
I’m fine,” I lied. Actually, I felt like shit.

He asked if I wanted some help and I waved him off and did my best to walk with some dignity toward the side offices, all too aware of a slight burning smell wafting up from my skin.

I’ve never felt sexier.

A few minutes later I was seated across from a shell-shocked Ms. Dickens. The old lady didn’t look well, and I didn’t blame her. A lot of bad luck had come her way. Granted, not as bad as the night guard I had found stuffed in an oversized Igloo.

“I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” she said. She was holding her forehead in her hands.

I nodded.

“No more hiding the fact that the sculpture was stolen.”

“
Sometimes there’s more important things than stolen sculptures,” I said. “Like dead people.”

She looked up at me briefly, parting her hands slightly to do so. Her blank stare told me that perhaps she didn’t subscribe to my philosophy. A stolen crystal egg, apparently, meant more to her than human life.

“Yes,” she said, reluctantly agreeing. “I suppose so.”

After a few more minutes of our strained silence, I asked her if I was still on the job. After all, part of my job description had been to help find the missing art piece before the official opening this weekend.

“Yes, of course,” she snapped. “We still need to find it. We will just have to deal with the backlash of the theft and death. We’ve overcome tragedy before, and we will overcome this, too. The Wharton will be world famous someday. World famous. Mark my words.”

I nearly stood up and cheered.

Now that we’d established that I still had a job, I thanked her for her time and left her at her desk, where she didn’t move or acknowledge my departure.

The police had come and gone in the wee hours of the morning. With their initial investigation completed, the museum had opened on time and business was as usual. To a degree. The place was mostly empty; I felt as if I had it all to myself.