Moon Dragon (4 page)

Chapter Seven

It was late.

Although I now existed nicely in the sun, I had gotten used to my late-night hours. My vampire hours. Turns out, working late and private investigations sort of go hand-in-hand. Plus, the night time just...suited me. I felt comfortable under the cloak of darkness...and exposed and vulnerable in daylight. After all, I was just a vigorous hand-washing away from losing my precious amethyst ring down, say, a sink drain, and then where would I be? Back to working the night shift, permanently. And shrieking in the light of day like the pathetic monster I am.

Now, making a mental note to use minimum amounts of soap—I relaxed in the back seat of my minivan and kept a watchful eye on Gunther Kessler’s two-story home.

The lights had been out when I pulled up thirty minutes ago. There was a Dodge Charger parked out front. The home was a turn-of-the-century wooden deal, with a wraparound porch and lots of shutters. A half-dozen wide cement stairs led up to the front door. Very typical for Old Town Orange, an area I loved.

It was past midnight and the kids were asleep. These days, I often left them alone. Tammy was thirteen and Anthony was eleven going on twenty. Meaning, he didn’t look anything like your typical eleven-year-old. After my son had lost his own guardian angel—long story—Ishmael, my ex-guardian angel, had imbued Anthony with all sorts of angelic powers, some of which had caused my boy to grow a bit taller than your average eleven-year-old. And to become far stronger than your average eleven-year-old, too. Hell, far stronger than even your average adult male.

Anyway, now my son acted as his own guardian angel, meaning, he could take care of himself and then some.

Of course, I’m pretty sure Ishmael did all of this to get on my good side, to sort of make up for his negligence in protecting me, back when I was first turned nine years ago.

Truth was, his gesture to help my son did go far. I appreciated it. My life was weird enough without having to worry that my son no longer had his guardian angel.

Now, he didn’t need a guardian angel. Now, my son was a hell of a force to be reckoned with.

And he was only eleven.

Sweet mama.

Now, I was on a quiet street in downtown Orange, near the offices of a private investigator friend of mine, Mercedes Cruz. Mercedes, or Mercy, was a different kind of strange altogether. She was, I was certain, a witch. Of course, she and I didn’t discuss such matters. Nor did we discuss that I was a vampire, although I always suspected she knew. Witches are like that. What we did discuss was our kids, our work, our mutual friends, all while eying each other suspiciously. Anyway, I knew she was doing good work here in Orange, protecting the legal—and illegal—immigrants from those who would take advantage of them. Like I said, good work.

Whether she knew of any local werewolves or not, I didn’t know.

Then again, I wasn’t certain Gunther was a werewolf. I had only the word of my dead ex-husband’s mistress. And even then, he’d only been talking in his sleep.

“What am I doing here?” I said.

Easy. Nancy had caught me in a lull. No pending cases, and certainly no paying cases. And, no, she hadn’t offered to pay me either. Still, try as I might to hate her, I just couldn’t. Truth was, with Danny now dead, most of my anger had died, too. As she’d said, if it hadn’t been her, it would have been another girl at Danny’s strip club.

I know how to pick ‘em.

Earlier, I had run Gunther Kessler’s name through my various databases. Outside of his downtown Orange home, there was nothing to suggest he even owned a home in Arrowhead, where Nancy claimed he had a “killing room.” A place where he turned from human to werewolf on each full moon. And where, apparently, he feasted on the living.

I drummed my pointed fingernails on my steering wheel.

The demoness within me was highly interested in this line of thinking. I could feel her following along, mostly approving of what she was hearing. She enjoyed death and destruction. She enjoyed feasting on the weak. She knew that fear made people less powerful, and her more powerful.

Yesss
, came the single word.

For the most part, I’d been able to contain her in a small section of my mind, but she often figured a way out, slipping back into my consciousness like smoke under a doorway. These days, I didn’t mind when she slipped through. Other than being a psychopath hell-bent on taking over the world, I found her company...less and less annoying.

Shaking my head over the insanity of it all, I continued to watch Gunther Kessler’s home, all the way up through the morning.

Interestingly, not one but two cars sporting big, furry mustaches on their grills drove past me on the street. One was odd enough...but two?

I nearly Googled “cars with furry mustaches” when Gunther’s front door opened and he stepped outside. I knew it was him because Nancy had emailed me pictures of him. Not to mention I had done a Google search on him and found his Facebook page. Yes, even werewolves had Facebook pages.

If he was a werewolf.

Anyway, he was dressed in a suit and tie, with his long hair gleaming wet. A medium-sized man, he headed straight to his Dodge Charger parked in the driveway. He clicked it open, got in, and backed out.

When he was halfway down the street, I forgot about the cars with mustaches and eased away from the curb to follow him.

* * *

I didn’t follow him for long.

After a brief stop at a Starbucks—where I longed to follow him inside but somehow restrained myself—he soon pulled into the parking lot of American Title in Orange, off Main Street, about a mile away from where Kingsley worked.
Here be monsters.

I stopped along a curb and watched him park near the front of the building. Assigned parking, surely. He got out, went around to his trunk and removed his laptop bag. Then he headed through some smoky glass doors, through which he disappeared.

Other than the longish hair, he didn’t look like much of a werewolf. Kingsley, I could believe. This guy? I didn’t know.

But I would find out.

I pulled away from the curb and hit up the very same Starbucks frequented by Gunther earlier, and ordered myself a venti mocha with extra mocha and extra whipped cream. I also ordered a bagel with extra cream cheese. Go big, or go home, as Anthony would say.

Long ago, I had arranged for a neighbor to take my kids to school, since, back then, I tended to be comatose in the morning. I saw no need to change the schedule. After all, during cases like this one, I might find myself working all night and well into the morning.

Or at Starbucks.

Chapter Eight

We were in the kitchen, us girls.

My sister, Mary Lou, myself and my daughter. It was later that same day, Thursday, which also happened to be our
Vampire Diaries
night. That’s right, as if my life wasn’t crazy enough, I also watched fictional vampires on TV...and loved every minute of it.

Not only did I love the show, I studied it. I seriously think that someone on staff was a vampire. They get so much right. Not everything, granted, but enough that I have learned much, well, about myself.

Now we were making spaghetti with spicy sausages, which happened to be Anthony’s favorite, too. On Thursdays, he mostly made himself scarce, although I often caught him keeping an eye on the TV. I think he was a closet
Diaries
fan, although he wouldn’t admit it. Had the show been called something like
The Vampire Scrolls
, he would have been all over it.
Boys.

Now the three of us girls were in my kitchen, each with a job to do, although Tammy’s job seemed to devolve into leaning against the counter and drinking her grape juice, while watching us with a smirk on her face. Mary Lou and I were drinking wine from goblets. Would a vampire drink wine from anything less?

“Oh, brother,” said Tammy, rolling her eyes. She sipped some more of her drink.

“Oh, brother what?” I asked. I was chopping cucumbers for the salad. Mary Lou had been in the middle of telling me another work story. There was a slight chance I might have zoned out. Slight.

“I’m pretty sure not
all
vampires drink from goblets, Mom. And since when did you start calling yourself a
vampire
, anyway? I thought you hated that word.”

I stopped chopping and looked at my daughter. She knew better than to read my mind when her aunt was around. Or read my mind, period. We had talked about it. Ad nauseam.

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” said Mary Lou, turning on me.

“Mary Lou...” I began.

“No, Sam. It’s bad enough that you and Allison go around reading each other’s minds, but now you and your daughter, too?”

I set my knife down and glared at my daughter.
You’re in trouble, Missy,
I thought. Then to Mary Lou, I said, “It’s not like that...”

“Oh, and what’s it not like, Sam? Not to mention I’m pretty darn certain that you just, you know,
thought
something to your daughter.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what? I thought you couldn’t read family members’ minds, Sam.”

“I can’t, but—”

“I thought we had an agreement, Samantha. No more leaving me out.”

I took hold of her shoulders before she could work herself into a full-fledged tizzy. Behind me, Tammy giggled. I would deal with her later. “I can’t read your mind, Louie. And I can’t read my daughter’s mind, either. But she can read mine. And she can read yours. Unless you learn how to block her out.”

“I can even read Kingsley’s,” said Tammy. “He doesn’t know it, but I can.”

I hadn’t thought of that before. My daughter, being the super mind reader that she was, could potentially read
anyone’s
mind, mortal or immortal.

“Of course, Mommy.”

We’ll, talk about this later, young lady,
I thought.

Meanwhile, Mary Lou didn’t like being held in place by me, but tough shit. She had started this little tirade and I wasn’t letting her go until she calmed down. Luckily, my words were finally sinking in.

“Tammy can read my mind?”

“Yes,” I said.

Mary Lou looked from me to my daughter. Then, for some damn reason, my goofball sister actually smiled. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” I said. “And this makes you happy, why?”

“Because I don’t feel left out now! I feel, you know, like part of the gang.”

“Of course you’re part of the gang, Mary Lou, and I think you’ve had enough wine for tonight.”

“But I just got started...”

“You’ve had a rough day,” I said, and began steering her out of the kitchen and into the living room. “Just sit down and relax. We’ll take it from here.”

She called back over her shoulder. “What am I thinking now, Tammy?”

“Aunt Louie!” giggled Tammy.

I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know where this was going. “Let me guess,” I said, steering her toward the couch. “Damon.”

They both giggled as I deposited my sister in front of the TV. Once back in the kitchen, I again didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that my daughter was acting a little strange. I needed only to be a mother. I snatched her “grape juice” out of her hand and sniffed it.

Uh-oh.

Chapter Nine

It was after
The Vampire Diaries
.

Truth was, I didn’t much enjoy the show this week. Sure, Damon looked sexy. Even Stefan had his moments. The others in the cast were electrifying and gory and funny. The plotline was convoluted but ingenious, and all in all, a great addition to the series.

Except, of course, I was having trouble concentrating on it.

Now with my sister mostly sober and gone home, and still giddy that she wasn’t being left out of the cool group, I sat with my daughter in her bedroom.

Anthony had gone home with my sister, as well. I didn’t want him to overhear us. Turned out, his hearing was getting better and better, too. Too good for my comfort. The kid was turning into Captain America.

Or Captain Skidmarks.

“That’s funny, Mom.”

“Don’t try to get on my good side,” I said. “And yes, that was kind of funny.”

She giggled. I was fairly certain the alcohol hadn’t worn off yet. It had, after all, only been an hour or so. “What have I told you about reading my thoughts?”

“I’m not supposed to. But sometimes, I can’t help it.”

I knew the feeling. I said, “I know you can’t help it, honey. And sometimes, I can’t help it either. But I want you to do your best to not listen in on adult conversations.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And don’t listen in on your brother’s thoughts, either.”

“Gross. I learned my lesson about him, Mommy. Do you know that sometimes all he thinks about, for like ten straight minutes, is boobies?”

My son, of course, was eleven going on an apparently early puberty. I said, “I could have gone my whole life without knowing that.”

“Well, now we both know it,” and she giggled some more and, despite myself, I giggled, too. “Why do boys like boobies so much, Mommy?”

I opened my mouth to answer. “Honestly? I haven’t the faintest idea.”

She found that funny, too, and laughed harder...until she saw the serious look on my face.

“Uh-oh,” she said.

“Uh-oh is right, young lady.”

“You’re mad, aren’t you?”

“Says the girl who can read my mind.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you know darn well that I’m mad.”

“It was just a little wine,” she said. “And it was so good. No wonder you and Auntie love it so much!”

Uh-oh.

“Honey, wine is for adults. You know that.”

“Well, I’m thirteen. I’m a teenager. I’m in middle school. Half the kids in my school drink beer.”

“Half?”

“Well, some. And Angie Harmon’s mom lets her drink at home, on special occasions.”

I rubbed my face. I might have moaned.

“And I figured tonight was a special occasion!”

Now, I was massaging my temples.

“And it’s not like I’m out drinking with friends on some street corner.”

Now I definitely moaned.

“I drank responsibly, Mom.”

I hugged my knees and started rocking on her bed. Rocking and moaning and wishing my sweet, innocent little girl wasn’t saying words like “drinking responsibly.”

“It’s not that bad, Mom. Just a little wine. Sheesh, get over it—”

That’s when I’d had enough. I quit playing the victim and took in a lot of unnecessary air, mostly to clear my mind and to calm myself down, and said, “I will not get over it, young lady. I will get right on top of it. In fact, I will get right inside it.”

“Gross.”

“If I
ever
see or hear of you drinking again, you are going to be in a lot of trouble.”

“I’m a teenager—”

“You are thirteen and far too young to be drinking.”

“But Angie and almost everyone at school—”

“I don’t care about Angie and almost everyone at your school. I care about you. My daughter. Who’s far too young to handle alcohol—”

“But I drank responsibly!”

“If I hear you say, ‘I drank responsibly’ again, I’m going to homeschool you for the rest of your life.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can do anything I want.”

“Then I will tell everyone you’re a vampire! And a killer!”

My mouth fell open. It stayed open for a long, long time.

“I’m sorry, Mommy. I would never do that. Ever.”

“You think I’m a killer?” I finally asked.

Tammy looked away, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I...I don’t know, Mommy.”

“You’ve seen me kill,” I thought. “In my memory.”

“Yes. You’ve done it a few times.”

“You shouldn’t be in there, baby. Ever.”

She nodded, which shook free the tears.

I said, “Mommy had to...do what she had to do.”

She kept on shaking her head.

“Baby, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s okay, Mommy. They were bad men.”

I mentally ran through the horrors of the past few years.
Jesus
, I thought.

I took in some air. “You need to stay out of Mommy’s thoughts, baby. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you promise?”

“I’ll try.” She paused, and what she said next had me laughing harder than it should have. “Now do you see why I was driven to drink?”

When I was done laughing into my hands, tears streaming down my cheeks—and I wasn’t entirely sure if some of those tears weren’t real tears—I grabbed her feet and proceeded to tickle them until she promised to never drink again.

Ever.