Vampire for Hire (28 page)

 
      
 
But a grieving mother contemplating giving her son eternal life was another matter altogether.

 
      
 
I said, “I can’t do it, Fang. I could never do that to him. How could you even suggest that?”

 
      
 
“You didn’t let me finish. Or, for that matter, speak, since you read my thoughts.”

 
      
 
Yes, I knew there was more. I knew he was eager to continue with this, but my own wildly spinning emotions prevented me from picking up on his additional thoughts. In fact, they still did.

 
      
 
“Go ahead,” I said.

 
      
 
“The medallion, Moon Dance.”

 
      
 
And that’s all he needed to say; in an instant I knew what he meant and what he was getting at.

 
      
 
The medallion, or amulet. Or whatever it was. Worn by my attacker six years ago, and hand-delivered to me by the vampire hunter who killed him.

 
      
 
The medallion, that, according to Kingsley, could
reverse
vampirism.

 
      
 
Fang was speaking, but I was having a hell of a time focusing. He said, “Heal him with vampirism, Moon Dance, and then return him to mortality with the medallion.”

 
      
 
“But how?” I said. “How does it work?”

 
      
 
“I don’t know...but someone out there does.”

 
      
 
“I gotta go,” I said suddenly, and clicked off.

 
      
 
Chapter Forty-one

 
      
 
Kingsley Fulcrum had a new secretary. No surprise there since I watched the last one die a few months ago, shot to death by none other than Detective Sherbet. And, since killing together has a way of bonding people, perhaps that’s why the good detective and I got along so swimmingly.

 
      
 
It was a working theory.

 
      
 
This new secretary wasn’t as sexy as the last. Which was probably a good thing. Maybe after a century or more, the big bad wolf was finally learning to keep it in his pants, or tucked away in his fur.

 
      
 
Anyway, this slightly older and plainer secretary (although still cute in her ruffled cardigan sweater) told me that Kingsley was with a client. Kingsley’s clients were often murderers with a lot of money.

 
      
 
I could give a fuck about his clients.

 
      
 
As I marched past her and down a hallway, I heard her rapidly punching buttons on the intercom. She must have successfully buzzed Kingsley, because as I threw open his door he was just reaching for the phone with what appeared to be a look of irritation. The mighty attorney didn’t like to be disturbed, apparently. The look of irritation quickly turned to one of dumbfounded shock when he saw me.

 
      
 
The big guy cleaned up well. He was looking absolutely debonair in a black Armani suit, a pair of over-the-top and beyond stylish
Berluti
shoes, and hair so slicked back that a girl might break a nail scratching behind his ears.

 
      
 
Unless that girl, of course, was a vampire.

 
      
 
“Sam,” he said, standing slowly from behind his desk. “This isn’t a good time.”

 
      
 
His client turned to me. Another man dressed in a nice suit. A man who looked bored and rich and entitled. Okay, it’s hard to look entitled, but that was the feeling I was getting from him. I also got a very strong hit that he was a murderer. A cold-blooded murderer. I got another hit...he had strangled his own wife in her sleep. I heard her last strangled gasps as I stood there in the doorway and he sat there looking bored.

 
      
 
Sweet Jesus my hits were getting stronger and stronger.

 
      
 
I walked over to the guy and pulled him out of his chair. He didn’t go willingly. He tried to push my hands away but couldn’t. As I pulled him out of his chair, Kingsley ran from around his desk, his Armani suit
swooshing
.

 
      
 
“Hey!” shouted the guy as I held him in front of me.

 
      
 
Kingsley shouted something similar.

 
      
 
The guy tried again to shove me away, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I had him by the collar of his nice suit. And now that he was on his feet, I slammed his face hard onto the table.

 
      
 
“You killed her, you worthless piece of shit. You strangled her in her sleep, you fucking coward, and then you lit a Cuban cigar after a job well done. An
illegal
Cuban cigar.”

 
      
 
He struggled to get up, but I held him down on the table and all the anger and frustration and pain and confusion and despair I had felt over the past few days came flooding out of me. I lifted his face and slammed it again into the table. Blood immediately pooled around his eye socket. I had split the skin along his upper orbital ridge. Poor baby.

 
      
 
“I will personally see to it that you rot in hell, you fucking—”

 
      
 
And that’s when Kingsley pulled me off the man. Kicking and screaming, I didn’t go willingly. But Kingsley happened to be one hell of a strong guy.

 
      
 
Chapter Forty-two

 
      
 
“What the hell was that, Sam?”

 
      
 
I was sitting in an empty side office. Apparently, Kingsley Fulcrum made so much blood money representing rich, murderous scumbags that he could afford to have empty offices.

 
      
 
“What was what?” I asked. I was still fuming, and I was having a hard time looking Kingsley in the eye. The big son-of-a-bitch was really bothering me these days. I had come here for a completely different reason, but I had let my emotions get the better of me.

 
      
 
Hey, I’m only human.

 
      
 
Or something.

 
      
 
“Playing Whack-A-Mole with my client’s head, Sam. That’s what.”

 
      
 
“Whack-A-Mole?” I asked, and I started laughing, nearly hysterically, and then I was crying, definitely hysterically, harder than I had in quite a long time. Kingsley stood apart from me, watching me, and then he came over and gave me a big hug, wrapping those huge arms around me, patting my back and rubbing my shoulders, and telling me everything would be okay.

 
      
 
* * *

 
      
 
I was calmer. We were back in Kingsley’s office, minus the murderous scumbag, who had apparently left holding a bag of ice to his face. Someone had cleaned the blood off the table, although I could still smell the sharp hemoglobin radiating off the freshly polished wood surface. Must be the vampire in me.

 
      
 
My stomach growled, and I hated myself for that.

 
      
 
“You can’t keep killing my clients, Sam,” said Kingsley. His right butt cheek was sitting on the corner of his desk. I was sitting in one of his client chairs. Everywhere around me were depictions of moons: moon photographs, paperweights, lamps. Even a moon screen saver. The moon bookends, each by itself a half moon, seemed to be the newest edition to his office.

 
      
 
Yeah, the man had a moon obsession, which stands to reason. His obsession was also how he had found me in the phone book so many months ago. Under “Moon”, of course.

 
      
 
“Well, your clients are scumbags,” I said.

 
      
 
“Be that as it may, they deserve a fair trial.”

 
      
 
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, big guy.”

 
      
 
“Why are you here, Sam?”

 
      
 
I stared at him...no doubt icily. He calmly returned my gaze. We did this for about ten seconds before I finally lowered my eyes and looked away. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That wasn’t cool. I guess I’m desperate.”

 
      
 
“A desperate vampire is a sight to see.”

 
      
 
“A desperate mother is worse.”

 
      
 
He nodded and eased off the corner of his desk. He sat next to me and adjusted the drape of his pants. Kingsley, as always, smelled of fine cologne and that special something else. Something wild. He waited. As he waited, I gathered my thoughts.

 
      
 
Finally, I said, “The medallion that’s in my possession...”

 
      
 
He looked at me sideways, turning his head just a fraction of an inch. “What about it?”

 
      
 
“Is it really true that it can reverse vampirism?”