Vampire Moon (31 page)

 
      
 
Or did it? Maybe there was some truth to everything that goes bump-in-the-night. If so, where did it end? Were there fairies? Angels? Aliens? Demons? Keebler elves? And weren’t elves, in fact, fairies? Or was it the other way around?

 
      
 
I didn’t know.

 
      
 
More than likely Kingsley was exactly what he claimed to be: a werewolf. I had seen the excessive hair on his forearms a few times now. I had also seen him survive five bullet shots to the head. Not to mention, he didn’t even bat an eye when he found out that I was, in fact, a vampire.

 
      
 
Still, that didn’t a werewolf make.

 
      
 
The moon burned silver above me. I wondered if I could fly all the way to the moon. I wondered if I could fly to other worlds, too.

 
      
 
Maybe someday I will fly to the moon.

 
      
 
Dance on the Moon.

 
      
 
I hadn’t spoken to Kingsley in a few nights now, not since I had discovered that he was, in fact, responsible for getting Ira out of jail. Jesus, how do you respect a man who does that for a living?

 
      
 
An icy wind blasted me, but I held my course. I flapped steadily, powerfully into the night.

 
      
 
Granted, not all of
Kinglsey’s
clients were killers. Some were innocent. Some he legitimately helped. Others, not so much. Others were evil and wretched and should stay in jail. Kingsley knew damn well that he was releasing animals back into society, that he was putting killers back onto the streets.

 
      
 
But I had known this about Kingsley already, hadn’t I? It hadn’t really bothered me until now.
Until it hit close to home.
So why should I hold it against him now? Kingsley had done nothing wrong. Hell, he was just doing his job. Like he said, if it hadn’t been him, it would have been another defense attorney getting Ira out of jail.

 
      
 
So perhaps I should be angry at the system, not Kingsley.

 
      
 
Perhaps.

 
      
 
Below me was my destination. It was a massive multi-storied structure in Chino, California. It lay sprawled before me in a hodgepodge of auxiliary wings and isolated buildings. My target was one of those isolated buildings, located on the north side of the prison.

 
      
 
The Death Row Compound.

 
      
 
It was a large, grim, three-story structure that housed hundreds of condemned inmates. A lethal, electrified fence encircled the compound. Guard towers were everywhere.

 
      
 
I circled the bleak structure once, twice, getting a feel for the place. I circled again a third time, and as I did so, I felt a pull for a particular area. I focused on that area as I circled the structure again.

 
      
 
The pull grew stronger.

 
      
 
I rarely used my new-found psychic ability in this way. In the past, I just sifted through various hits as they came, rarely directing my heightened senses.

 
      
 
Now I directed them.

 
      
 
I was searching for one inmate in particular. One inmate currently housed in Death Row. One inmate
who’s
time had come.

 
      
 
As I circled the structure a fifth time, I felt a very strong pull toward a corner wall on the second floor.

 
      
 
There he is,
I thought.

 
      
 
I knew it. I felt it. I believed it.

 
      
 
But what if I was wrong?

 
      
 
I let the question die in me unanswered; I didn’t have the luxury of being wrong.

 
      
 
As I circled back from my fifth fly-by, I tucked in my leathery wings and dove down, fast, the wind howling over my flattened ears.

 
      
 
Chapter Forty-three

 
      
 
As I rapidly approached the building, I was suddenly filled with doubt. Was I doing the right thing? Should I veer off now and forget this whole crazy, horrific, stomach-turning plan? Was I even heading toward the right section of prison?

 
      
 
I shook my head and blasted aside the self-doubt.

 
      
 
The decisions had been made hours ago, and I knew, in my heart, they were the right ones.

 
      
 
Now, of course, it only remained to be seen if I was heading towards the correct section of prison wall.

 
      
 
We’ll see
, I thought.

 
      
 
I flew faster. The west side of the wall grew rapidly before me. I adjusted my wings slightly, a flick here, a dip there, and angled toward a particular spot on the second floor, near the corner of the building.

 
      
 
It just feels right.

 
      
 
I picked up more speed. The massive, oppressive structure grew rapidly in front of me. Behind those walls were the worst of the worst. Killers, cutthroats, and the not very kind. Wind thundered over me, screeching across my ears.

 
      
 
There was a final moment when I could have chosen to veer away, and avoid the building altogether.

 
      
 
I didn’t veer away.

 
      
 
Six years ago, I was busting loan swindlers and thieves and low lives. Now I was hurling my nightmarish bat-like body at a maximum security prison.

 
      
 
Would this kill me? I didn’t know, but I was about to find out.

 
      
 
My last thought before I struck the wall were:
I love you Tammy and Anthony...if I don’t make it, I’ll see you on the other side.

 
      
 
The gray wall appeared directly before me. I could see the fine details of thick cinder blocks and heavy bricks. I lowered my head and turned my body slightly and struck the building with such force that I suspected the whole damn building shuddered.

 
      
 
* * *

 
      
 
I sat up in a pile of rubble.

 
      
 
My thick wings were draped around me like a heavy, dusty blanket. Chunks of wall continued to fall and clatter behind me. I should have been dead many times over. I should have been flattened outside on the wall itself. I should have been many things...but here I sat, in a prison cell, surrounded by massive chunks of cement, bent re-bar, and bricks that looked better suited for a medieval dungeon.

 
      
 
As I sat up, and as the dust still settled around me, I closed my eyes and saw the single flame in my forethoughts. I next saw the woman in the flame, standing there impatiently, and quickly I felt the familiar
rush
towards her....

 
      
 
And when I opened my eyes, there I was. My old self again—completely naked in a maximum secure prison in a cell on Death Row.

 
      
 
Outside, through the massive hole in the prison wall, I heard dozens of men shouting and a cacophony of running feet. A moment later, a siren wailed, so loud that it hurt even my ears.

 
      
 
I stood slowly. Dust and debris slid off my flesh.

 
      
 
Had I guessed right? Was this the right cell? Had my sixth sense led me to the man I wanted?

 
      
 
My eyes needed no time to adjust to the darkness.

 
      
 
There, huddled at the far end of the single cot, was Ira Lang, staring at me with wild, disbelieving eyes.
Believe it, buddy boy.
Ira was a royal mess. His face and forehead were nearly covered in bandages, and if it weren’t for his signature bald head, with its deep grooves and odd lumps, I might have wondered if I had the right room. His face, what little of it I could see puffing out between the bandages, was horribly swollen and disfigured. A multitude of pins and bolts and screws were holding the whole thing together.

 
      
 
What a waste,
I thought,
of all that work.

 
      
 
There was no way of knowing what Ira was thinking. Hell, what could he be thinking? One moment he was lying in bed, no doubt plotting his ex-wife’s death, or perhaps sleeping, and dreaming of her death, and the next a massive hole appears in his jail cell, filled by a hulking, nightmarish creature. A creature who then turned into a woman. A woman he loathed.

 
      
 
I didn’t know what he thought, nor did I care.

 
      
 
I brushed off some dirt and smaller chunks of concrete from my shoulder and shook out cement dust from my hair. A small, grayish cloud briefly hovered around me, and then drifted to the floor.

 
      
 
People were shouting within the prison itself, their voices echoing along what I assumed was a long hallway just beyond. Lights were still out. No one could see me. No one, but Ira.

 
      
 
Now he was blinking at me hard. He then sat forward a little, straining to see through the dark and dust. He breathed
raspily
through his misshapen and swollen mouth.