Vampire Moon (37 page)

 
      
 
“Good evening, Sephora,” I said. “How are you?”

 
      
 
I’m well. And I can hear you just fine.

 
      
 
I smiled. “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you earlier.”

 
      
 
There is no reason to feel sorry, Samantha. Remember, I’m always here.

 
      
 
“Yes, you said that. And where is here?”

 
      
 
Where do you think it is?

 
      
 
“Heaven?”

 
      
 
Close. Let’s call it the ‘spirit world’.

 
      
 
“And what’s that like, the spirit world?”

 
      
 
Oh, you know it well.

 
      
 
“I do?”

 
      
 
Indeed, a very significant part of you still resides in the spirit world.

 
      
 
“You totally lost me.”

 
      
 
You are much more than your physical body, Samantha. Do you understand the concept of a soul?

 
      
 
“Yes. I just don’t know if I believe in the concept of a soul.”

 
      
 
I understand. You live in this physical world of time and space. There isn’t, admittedly, a lot of evidence of a soul. Then again, there isn’t a lot of evidence for vampires, either. But both exist.

 
      
 
I nodded and sipped my ice water. The coffee had quit letting off steam. Quickly, when no one was looking, I poured a little out onto the table and then mopped it up with my napkin. Now the coffee at least appeared to have been sipped. I wrapped another napkin around the sopping wet napkin. The things I do to appear normal. Sigh.

 
      
 
“So some things are taken on faith, is that what you’re saying?”

 
      
 
Something like that, Samantha.

 
      
 
“You can call me Sam.”

 
      
 
I’ll do that...Sam.

 
      
 
“So what did you mean that a significant part of me still resides in the spirit world?”

 
      
 
The easiest way to describe this, Sam, is to say that not all of your soul is focused in your current physical body. Some of your soul—a large portion of your soul, in fact—still resides in the spirit world.

 
      
 
“And what’s it doing in the spirit world?”

 
      
 
Watching you, closely.

 
      
 
“This is a lot to take,” I said. “And weird.”

 
      
 
I understand. So take things slowly. There’s time. There’s no rush.

 
      
 
“And who are you, exactly?”

 
      
 
Just a friend, Sam.

 
      
 
“A good friend?”

 
      
 
The best.

 
      
 
“Okay, that makes me feel better,” I said, and as I said those words quietly, I felt a slight shiver course along the entire length of my body. Oddly, it was a comforting sensation. There was a good chance I might have just been hugged.

 
      
 
I’m glad you feel better, Sam.

 
      
 
“I want to ask you more about me, about what I have become, but maybe that can wait until another night.”

 
      
 
I’m always here, Sam.

 
      
 
And just like that, the electrified sensation left my body. I closed the notebook, put the pen back in my purse (along with the sopping napkin, which I had wrapped another napkin around), and paid my bill and left.

 
      
 
Chapter Fifty-one

 
      
 
The more I thought about delivering Orange County’s most notorious crime boss into the hands of the mild mannered Stuart Young, the more I realized I had given my perfectly bald client a death sentence.

 
      
 
And so I spent a lot of that night thinking about what I could do about this dilemma. I thought long and hard, and somewhere near the break of dawn, I came up with an idea.

 
      
 
* * *

 
      
 
I spent all the next evening researching the plane crash; in particular, the victims on board. Because this was a military crash and because most of the victims were key witnesses to an important trial, getting the names wasn’t easy. I used every available contact I had in the federal government until finally a list was provided to me.

 
      
 
And once I had the list I went to work.

 
      
 
* * *

 
      
 
Two days later, on the night of the full moon, with Kingsley howling away deep inside his safe room—I hoped—I alighted on Jerry Blum’s wonderfully ornate alabaster balcony.

 
      
 
I tucked in my massive, leathery wings, focused my thoughts on the woman in the dancing flame, opened my eyes, and found myself standing naked on his stone balcony.

 
      
 
Naked but not without a plan.

 
      
 
My talons might be hideous and scary as hell, but they were good at carrying smaller objects. And one of them, this time, had been my daughter’s extra backpack. The backpack was full of, let’s just say, crime fighting gear.

 
      
 
Below me, I heard the muted sounds of men talking quietly among themselves. So far, I hadn’t been seen. The sliding glass door in front of me was wide open. Apparently, Jerry Blum never expected a giant vampire bat to alight on his balcony. From within the room, I heard the sounds of muffled snoring.

 
      
 
I stepped into his darkened bedroom. My eyes did not need adjusting. His spacious room was electrified with shining filaments of zigzagging light. Ghost light. Vampire light. There was a lone figure sleeping in a massive four poster bed. White gossamer sheets hung from the bed’s cross beams. Very
un
crime
lord-like.

 
      
 
The figure sleeping in the center of the bed was snoring softly, peacefully, contentedly. There was no evidence that this son-of-bitch stayed awake over the crimes against humanity he had committed.

 
      
 
There was a white cotton robe hanging over the wooden sleigh bed footboard. I slipped it on and assessed the situation. I was certain there were guards somewhere nearby, although none seemed directly outside the door. I didn’t hear them, nor was my sixth sense jangling. My sixth sense was telling me that, for now, I was safe.

 
      
 
Carrying the backpack, I went over to the side of the bed and looked down at the man who had presumably killed Stuart’s wife, a man who was powerful enough to bring down a government-owned airplane. There was a reason why I didn’t confront him directly and openly. He would have gone after me and everything I loved, too. I had to hunt him from afar.

 
      
 
I had another reason for being here. Before I condemned the man to death, I had to know if I had the right man. Sure, Jerry Blum was a bastard. But was he the bastard I wanted?

 
      
 
Well, let’s find out.

 
      
 
“Wake up, asshole,” I said.

 
      
 
Jerry Blum’s eyes popped open instantly. His hand snaked beneath his pillow, a practiced motion. He was fast, but I was faster. In a blink, his arm was pinned up over his head, driven into the mattress by my own hand, and I found myself leaning over him, staring down into his startled face. It was a face I had seen often: in the news, in books, and even in magazines. He was a celebrity crime lord, if ever there was one. Celebrity or not, he was a son-of-a-bitch. He was also quite handsome. Blum was in his late fifties, but he could have passed for his early forties. There was some gray at his temples, and there were fine lines that creased from the corners of his eyes and reached down to the corners of his mouth. These were not laugh lines. Worry lines, no doubt. Jerry Blum was not a big man, but I could feel his muscular body beneath me. Shockingly, amazingly, I found myself slightly turned on by the position I found myself in: pinning down a handsome devil in his bed in the middle of the night.

 
      
 
I shook off the feeling as soon as it registered.

 
      
 
He quit struggling, perhaps realizing it was doing him no good, and we stared at each other for a heartbeat or two. Ambient light made its way in through the open French doors. Laughter reached us from somewhere on his grounds, but not very close. A girl giggled. An airplane droned high overhead.

 
      
 
Jerry Blum had thin lips. Too thin for me. He breathed easily, his nostrils flaring slightly. He smelled of good cologne and something else. Lavender. But the scent wasn’t coming from him. It was coming from his bed; in fact, it was coming from his pillow. I knew something about aromatherapy. One sprinkled lavender on one’s pillow to ensure a good night’s sleep. No doubt Mr. Blum had been plagued by a lifetime of nightmares. Or not.