Vampire Moon (6 page)

 
      
 
Down boy.

 
      
 
I was still looking out over the black ocean, which, to my eyes, wasn’t so black. The air shimmered with light particles which flashed and streaked across the night sky. I often wondered what these streaking lights were. I didn’t know for sure, but I had a working hypothesis. I suspected I was seeing the physical manifestation of energy itself. Perhaps I was being given a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the workings of our world.

 
      
 
Then again, I’ve been wrong before.

 
      
 
Kingsley was still looking at me, still fighting what he most wanted to do. And what he most wanted to do was ravage me right here and now on this lifeguard pier. But the brute held himself in check. Smart man. After all, I gave him no indication that I wanted to be ravaged.

 
      
 
“Not yet, Kingsley,” I said calmly, placing my own hand lightly on his knee. “I’m not ready yet.”

 
      
 
He nodded his great, shaggy head, but said nothing. I sensed his built-up energy dissipate in an instant. Hell, I could practically see it zigzagging away from his body, caught up by the lunar wind and merging with the silver spirits surfing the California night skies.

 
      
 
He exhaled and sort of deflated. Poor guy. He had gotten himself all worked up. He rested his own hand lightly on mine, and if my own cold flesh bothered him, he didn’t show it.

 
      
 
And while we sat there holding hands, with me soaking in the tremendous warmth of his oversized paw, I told him about my latest case.

 
      
 
When I was finished, he said, “Jerry Blum is a dangerous man.”

 
      
 
“I’m a dangerous girl.”

 
      
 
From far away, emerging from under the distant Huntington Beach Pier, was a lone jogger. Even from here, the jogger appeared to be a very big man. The man was easily a hundred yards away.

 
      
 
Kingsley, who had been looking down at my leg, suddenly cocked his head, listening. He then turned and spotted the jogging man. The man, as far as I could tell, wasn’t making a sound.

 
      
 
I was intrigued. “You heard him?”

 
      
 
“Yes and no,” said Kingsley, still looking over his shoulder at the approaching man. “But I could hear his dog.”

 
      
 
I looked again. Sure enough, running along at the man’s feet, about the size of a rat on steroids, was something small and furry. A dog, and it looked miniscule next to the running man. I smiled. For some reason, I found it heartwarming to see such a big man running with such a little doggie.

 
      
 
Kingsley said, “So what, exactly, is your client hiring you to do? Does he want you to take down one of the most dangerous criminals on the West Coast?”

 
      
 
“Taking him down will be extra.”

 
      
 
“Taking him down will be dangerous for both you and your family, Sam. Remember, this guy doesn’t play nice.”

 
      
 
“I won’t put my family in harm’s way,” I said. “And besides, who says I play nice, either? I’ve been known to bite.”

 
      
 
“Very funny. But I don’t like this, Sam. This isn’t your typical P.I. gig. Hell, the FBI still hasn’t figured out a way to nail this guy, and you’re just one woman.”

 
      
 
“But a
helluva
woman.”

 
      
 
“Sure, but why am I more concerned about your safety than you are?” he asked.

 
      
 
“Because you like me a little,” I said, blinking daintily.

 
      
 
“I would like you more if you stayed away from this case.”

 
      
 
Something small and furry and fat suddenly appeared in the sand beneath our feet. It was the same little dog, now trailing a leash. It was, in fact, a tea cup Pomeranian, and it was about as cute as cute gets. Maybe even cuter. It wagged its tail a mile a minute and turned in a half dozen small circles, creating a little race track in the sand. It never once took its eyes off Kingsley.

 
      
 
“It likes you,” I said.

 
      
 
“Go figure.”

 
      
 
Kingsley made a small noise in his throat and the little dog abruptly sat in the sand in front of him, staring, panting, wagging.

 
      
 
And from out of the darkness, sweating through a black tee shirt and rippling with more muscle than two or three men put together—that is, if those men weren’t Kingsley—was the same tall man we had seen a few minutes earlier. He approached us with a small limp that didn’t seem to bother him.

 
      
 
“Kill, Ginger,” said the man easily, grinning. Ginger turned in two more circles and sat before Kingsley again. The man reached down and gently patted its little head. “Good girl.” He looked up at us. “Were you two at least a little afraid for your lives?”

 
      
 
“Terrified,” said Kingsley.

 
      
 
“I might have wet myself a little,” I said.

 
      
 
The man stood straight and I might have seen his six-pack through his wet tee shirt.
Hubba
,
hubba
.

 
      
 
“She doesn’t usually come up to strangers,” said the man. “In fact, I’m fairly certain she’s terrified of her own shadow. Of course, it’s a pretty fat shadow. Scares me a little, too.”

 
      
 
Kingsley slipped off the wooden platform, landing softly in the sand, too softly for a man his size. Ginger didn’t move, although her tail might have started wagging at close to the speed of light. The attorney reached down and scratched the little dog between turgid ears. Ginger, if anything, looked like a star-crossed teenager at a rock concert. Or me at a Stones concert.

 
      
 
“Okay, that’s a first,” said the man, looking genuinely surprised. “Took me three months before I was anywhere near those ears.”

 
      
 
Kingsley, still petting the dog, said, “She probably had a bad experience when she was a pup. If I had to guess, I would say she was beaten and abused before she found her new home. Probably by a man about your size, and so she doesn’t like men, but she does like you, even though you run too fast for her little legs, and you don’t give her near enough treats.” Kingsley gave Ginger a final pat and stood. “Like I said, it’s just a guess.”

 
      
 
“Good guess. And spot on. She had been abused before my girlfriend rescued her. Of course, there was no rescuing the man who abused her. Let’s just say when I was done with him, he had a newfound respect for every living creature.”

 
      
 
Kingsley and I grinned. I had no doubt that the man in front of us could have inflicted some serious damage on someone.

 
      
 
He went on, “And if I gave Ginger any more treats I would have to roll her on my runs.”

 
      
 
I snickered and Kingsley laughed heartily. He reached out a hand. “I know you from somewhere.”

 
      
 
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” said the man as he scooped up the little dog, who promptly disappeared behind a bulging bicep muscle that had my own eyes bulging.

 
      
 
Kingsley’s eyes narrowed. His thinking face. “You used to play football for UCLA.”

 
      
 
“Is there any other school?”

 
      
 
The attorney snapped his fingers. “You were on your way to the pros until your broke your leg.”

 
      
 
“Don’t you just hate when that happens?” said the man lightly. “And you are, of course, Kingsley Fulcrum, famed defense attorney and internet sensation.”

 
      
 
Kingsley laughed; so did I. Indeed, a few months ago, someone had tried to kill the attorney outside of a local courthouse. It was a bizarre and humorous incident that had been captured on film and seen around the country, if not the world.
Kingsley, the man who couldn’t die.
The world watched as his assailant shot him point-blank five times in the head and neck.

 
      
 
The two men chitchatted for a bit, and I realized, upon closer inspection, that both men were exactly the same height. Although the stranger was muscular and powerful-looking, Kingsley had a beefy savagery to him that no man could match. Even ex-football players.

 
      
 
After all the silly football talk, I soon learned that the tall stranger now worked as a private eye. I perked up. Kingsley mentioned I was one, too, and the man nodded and reached into his sweat pants pocket and pulled out a brass card holder. He opened it, gave me one of his cards.

 
      
 
He said, “You ever need any extra help or muscle, call me. I can provide both.”

 
      
 
I looked at the card. Jim
Knighthorse
. I might have heard the name before, perhaps on some local newscast or something. On his card was a picture of him smiling, really
cheesin
’ it up for the camera. I had a very strong sense that Mr.
Knighthorse
just might have been in love with himself.

 
      
 
“
Helluva
picture,” he said, winking. “If I do say so myself.”

 
      
 
I was right.

 
      
 
Chapter Seven

 
      
 
It was far too early in the morning for me, but I didn’t care.