Chapter One
It was early afternoon and I was vacuuming.
Others like me were, undoubtedly, sleeping contentedly in crypts or coffins or castle keeps. Me, I was vacuuming up bits of pretzels and popcorn. Last night was movie night, and the kids had picked Captain America, and I did my best not to drool over the bowl of popcorn I pretended to eat. Yes, I have to pretend to eat around my children. Since I'm unable to eat any real food, I'd become a master of hiding my food in napkins, in the bottom of sodas, and even on others' plates. More than once little Anthony had turned to look at something that I pointed at, only to discover that he had, remarkably, even more fries in his Happy Meal. Miracles do happen.
As I vacuumed, I caught snatches of Judge Judy wagging her finger at a cheating young man who looked like he was on the verge of tears, but then again, that could have just been wishful thinking. After all, there's something special about watching a strong woman reduce a dirtbag to tears.
Maybe it's the devil in me.
Or the cheated-on wife in me.
At any rate, I had just put away the vacuum and straightened the pillows on the couch when the doorbell rang. I flipped down my sunglasses and, after mentally preparing myself for the short blast of sunlight that I was about to experience, I opened the door.
I always gasp when I'm exposed to sunlight, and now was no exception. Even with the shades on. Even with the sunscreen I wear indoors. Even with all the layers of clothing I presently had on. I always gasp. Every time.
Standing in the doorway was a big man. Not as big as Kingsley or even my new detective friend, Jim Knighthorse, but certainly big enough. Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton Police Department was one of the few people who knew my super-secret identity. I hadn't planned on telling him what I was, but the detective was no dummy.
So I had decided to come clean, and he had proven to be a true friend. Not only had he maintained my secret, he sought my assistance.
Like now, apparently.
I absently adjusted my hair. For someone who was insecure at best, not having full use of a mirror was a major setback. Although I could make out the general shape of my face in a mirror if I was wearing enough make-up, my hair, strangely, didn't reflect.
I mean, what the hell is that all about?
I knew the answer, but that didn't make it any easier to accept. On that accursed night seven years ago when I was forever changed, my body had somehow crossed from the natural world into the supernatural world. A world where mirrors were no longer relevant.
"You look fine, Samantha," said Detective Sherbet. "Quit worrying. "
I stepped aside as he moved past me. He was carrying a greasy bag that looked suspiciously like donuts. I quickly shut the door behind him.
I turned and faced him, recovering from the shock of sunlight. "Why did you say that?" I asked.
"Say what?" he asked, easing his considerable bulk down onto my new couch. The couch was one of those L-shaped deals that a mother and her two kids could get comfy in. At least, that was the theory. In practice, getting comfy with Anthony invariably meant dealing with a steady onslaught of gas.
"That thing you said about not worrying. "
Sherbet was already rooting around for his first donut. "Because you sounded worried. "
I leaned a shoulder against the door. "Except I didn't say anything, Detective. "
Sherbet plucked a pink cake donut from the depths of the bag and, looking imminently pleased, was just bringing it to his mouth when he paused. He didn't look happy pausing. "Yes you did, Sam. "
"No, I didn't. "
"You were talking about your hair not growing, make-up and not seeing your hair in the mirror - and I gotta tell you, kid, you nearly bored me to tears. " Now he happily resumed consuming the donut. Watching such a big man, such a distinguished man, eat a little pink donut was, well, cute.
I moved away from the door and crossed the living room, noticing for the first time a pair of Anthony's dirty skivvies jammed into the corner of the couch, maybe two feet away from Sherbet. How and why they got there would be an interesting conversation between Anthony and me later.
For now, though, I sat next to the toxic undies, so close to Sherbet that I was nearly in his lap. The big detective looked at me curiously but didn't say anything. I casually felt for the dirty skivvies, found them, wadded them up and stood. I was certain Sherbet hadn't seen me, although he was watching me curiously. Then he looked at the unfinished pink donut, turned a little green, and dropped it back into the bag, which he promptly set on the floor between his feet.
He said, "Geez, Sam. Talk about your donut buzz kill. "
"What do you mean?"
"The dirty underwear talk. Look, kid, I've got a boy, too, and I've seen my fair share of skid marks. But you sure as hell don't need to go on and on about them while a guy's trying to enjoy a donut, especially after the day I've had. "
"But I didn't say anything, Detective. "
"Or course you did. "
"No, I didn't. Just like I didn't say anything about my hair. "
"I heard it plain as day. "
"No, Detective, you didn't. "
He looked up at me from the new couch. There was a bit of pink frosting already caught in his thick, cop mustache. He looked at me, frowned, and then slowly wiped his mustache clean.
He said, "Your lips never moved. "
"No, they didn't. "
"But I heard that bit about the frosting in my mustache. "
"Apparently. "
"What's going on, Sam?"
"I think," I said, sitting next to him and patting him on the knee, "that you're reading my mind. "
"Your mind?"
"Yes. "
"Ah, hell. "
Chapter Two
After a moment, Sherbet said, "What, exactly, does that mean, Samantha?"
"It means exactly that, Detective. You're reading my mind. "
The detective didn't look so good. He sat forward, rubbed his eyes with a hand that was bigger than even Kingsley's. I noticed scarring on his knuckles that I had missed before. He looked down at his own knuckles, and said, "I used to be a fighter. A brawler, really. A real hothead back in the day. "
"You're doing it again, Detective. "
"But you said - "
"I didn't say anything. "
Some of the color drained from his face. "I feel sick. "
"Hang on, Detective. "
I left him alone for a moment while I tossed Anthony's undies in the laundry room. When I returned, the big detective was apparently over his initial shock. He was not only holding the greasy bag of donuts, but had just consumed the last of the pink donut. All was right in the world.
"Not quite," said Sherbet, licking his fingers, but then suddenly stopped. He looked up at me. "I'm doing it again, ain't I?"
"Yes, you are. "
"What's happening to me, Sam?"
I sat next to him and gave him my "penny for your thoughts" face. He smelled of Old Spice and donut grease.
I said, "You're not losing your mind, Detective. Sometimes those closest to me have access to my thoughts. I also suspect it's because you're one of the few who know what I really am. I've put a lot of trust in you. And you in me. It has something to do with that. " I smiled brightly at him. "So, as you can see, having access to my thoughts is a rare privilege. "
He snorted. "I feel honored. " He was about to turn back to his bag of donuts when a thought occurred to him. "So does that mean you have access to my thoughts, too?"
"It does. "
"I'm not sure how I feel about that. "
"Don't worry, Detective. Your deep, dark secrets are safe with me. Besides, I won't
access your thoughts unless you give me permission. "
"Do you know how crazy that sounds, Sam?"
"I do. "
"Are we both crazy?"
"Maybe. "
Sherbet stared at me. He was an old-school homicide investigator. Strictly by the books. Just the facts, ma'am. Logical, rational, tough, fair, street smart. A skilled investigator. Then one day a vampire appeared in his life - granted, a cute and spunky vampire - and his neat little world came crashing down.
"I wouldn't say crashing down, Sam. Maybe turned upside down a little. And, yes, I know I'm reading your thoughts again. "
I grinned. "Maybe we should get to why you're here. "
He sat straighter. "Gladly. Which is an odd thing to say about a serial killer. "
"He struck again," I said.
Sherbet nodded. "Corona this time. "
"Drained of blood?"
He nodded. "Completely. Same M. O. Massive wound in the neck. Knife wound, we think. Bruising around the ankles. Found this one wrapped in a blanket in a ditch. "
"Female?"
"Male. "
"So he's alternating his kills," I said. "Male, female, male. "
Sherbet thought about that. He also thought about another donut. A moment later he was pulling out a strawberry French cruller that looked all kinds of delicious.
"It will be," he said, reading my mind again without realizing it. "And I suppose the killer is. Three males, and three females. As you know, that doesn't fit the typical profile. Serial killers tend to stick to one gender. "
"Unless they're after something besides kicks. "
"They? You think there might be more than one killer?"
"Like you said, it doesn't fit the profile. "
"Same pattern, though. "
"All drained of blood," I said.
"The work of a vampire?" he said.
"The work of someone," I said. I found myself watching his every move as he worked on the cruller. Crullers had been my favorite. "Vampires don't need that much blood. "
Sherbet stopped chewing. "And how much blood does a vampire need?"
"Sixteen ounces or so, every few days. "
At least, that's how much were in the packets of animal blood I received monthly from the Norco butchery.
Sherbet stared at me openly, even forgetting to close his mouth as he chewed. Still, seeing the half-masticated cruller did not kill my brief donut craving. He asked, "And what happens if you don't get your blood?"
I shrugged. "I turn into a raving, blood-sucking maniac who prowls the streets looking for victims. Prostitutes mostly, but sometimes hipsters at Starbucks, or those young guys who dance around street corners holding signs pointing to furniture stores going out of business. "
"Are you quite done, Sam?"
"Quite. "
He reached inside his light jacket and removed some folded papers. "Here are my notes on the latest victim. Read through them, see what you can find. "
"Will do, Detective. "
Months ago, when the case had turned from weird to weirder, Sherbet had hired me to be an official consultant on the case. His fellow detectives didn't like it; after all, why hire a private dick? Well, what they didn't know wouldn't kill them.
Sherbet eased his bulk off the couch and stood, knuckling his lower back. "You're one freaky chick, you know. "
"Words every chick wants to hear. "
He quit knuckling and looked at me with so much compassion that tears nearly came to my eyes. He reached out and pulled me in for the mother of all bear hugs. He said, "I'm sorry all this happened to you, Sam. "
I hugged him back. "I know. "
"You're going to be okay, kid. "
"Thank you. "
He stepped away. "Now, let's catch the son of a bitch who's doing this to these people. "
"We will, Detective. "
He seemed about to do something, then nodded and left, gripping his bag of donuts like a lifeline.
Chapter Three
At 3:30 p. m. on an overcast Tuesday afternoon, lathered in Aveeno SPF 100 sunscreen, I dashed out my door and sprinted across my front yard as if my life depended on it.
And I'm pretty sure it did.
Despite the gray skies, the thick jacket, and the layer of greasy sunscreen, my skin still felt like it was on fire. My garage is not attached. Back in the day, my ex-husband didn't think we needed an attached garage. Houses with unattached garages were cheaper.
Thanks, asshole.
Of course, little did he know that one day the sun would be my enemy and I would have to endure daily torturous mid-afternoon sprints.
Anyway, at the garage, I fumbled with the Masterlock until I got the key in and opened the sucker. I noticed my hands were already shaking and reddening. Any longer and they would begin blistering.
I'm such a freak.
I yanked open the garage door far harder than I probably should have. The thing nearly tore off its rusty tracks. Once open, I dashed inside and breathed a small sigh of relief, even though there was never really any relief for me. Not during the day, at least. Not when I should be sleeping in a dark room with the blinds pulled shut and dead to the world.
I started the van, cranked up the AC, and let it cool my burning flesh. Finally, I backed out of the garage and headed for my kids' school.
Just another day in the neighborhood.
* * *
After picking up the kids and spending the evening helping them with their homework, I called up a new sitter I'd been using lately, a very responsible sixteen-year-old girl. Luckily, she was available, and when she arrived, I hugged my kids and kissed them and told them to be good. Mercifully, neither shuddered at my cold touch. Cold lips, cold fingers and cold hugs were the norm in our family. Still, Anthony promptly wiped his kiss off.
"Gross, Mom," he said, never taking his eyes off his video game, giving it far more concentration than he ever did his homework. As an added precaution, he absently raised his shoulder, using it to wipe his cheek clean.
Now, with the sun mercifully far behind planet Earth, I found myself heading east on the 91 Freeway. Me, and nearly all of southern California, too. I settled in for the long commute, tempted, as usual to pull over and take flight.
Instead, I sat back and turned up the radio and tried to remember what life was like before I became what I currently am.
But I couldn't. At least, not really, and that scared the hell out of me. My new reality dominated all aspects of my life, all thoughts and all actions, and as I followed a sea of red taillights and bad drivers, I realized my humanity was slipping further and further away.
I hate when that happens.
Chapter Four
The crime scene wasn't much of a crime scene. It also wasn't too hard to find. At least, not for me.
Using Sherbet's notes, I soon found an area of road that had recently seen a lot of activity. The dirt was grooved deeply with tires, and there was even some crime scene tape left behind in one of the sage brushes.
I parked my minivan off the side of the winding road and got out. Yes, there are actually winding roads in southern California. At least, up here in these mostly barren hills. Winter rain had given life to some of the dried-out seedlings that baked during the spring, summer and fall seasons, which, out here in the high desert, was really just one long-ass summer. The stiff grass gave the hill some color, even at night. At least, to my eyes.
I shut the door and beeped it locked. Why I beeped it locked, I didn't know. I was alone up here on the hillside, parked inside a turnout, hidden in shadows and what few bushes there were.
Which made it even more remarkable that the body had even been found in the first place.
According to Sherbet's notes, a city worker making his routine rounds had come upon the body. He might not have found it, either, if not for the turkey vultures and the foul smell.
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Predictably, it hadn't been a pretty sight.
Like the others, this one was rolled up in a dirty sheet and tied off on both ends. The same type of sheet, every time. A sheet commonly sold at Wal-Mart, of all places. The vultures had gotten through the sheet, using their powerful beaks. Apparently, they had made a meal of the intestines, but that's as far as they got before the worker showed up.
I had seen a handful of corpses back in my days as a federal agent. But, mercifully, I had never seen a human body eaten by vultures. I was glad Sherbet spared me the photos.
Yes, even vampires get queasy.
The air was cool and crisp. I was wearing jeans and a light jacket, although I really didn't need a jacket. I wore it because I thought it looked cute. Really, when you're as cold on the inside as the weather is on the outside, jackets are a moot point.
Unless they're cute.
The air was heavy with sage and juniper and smelled so fresh that it was easy to forget that bustling Orange County was just forty-five minutes away.
I studied the crime scene. It was a mess. What few plants there were had been trampled. Footprints everywhere. Tire prints. And deeper gouges into the earth that I knew were from the Corona mobile command. A trailer they hauled out to process evidence, or as much as they could, right there on the spot. I even found two deep ruts in the road that I seriously suspected were from a helicopter's skids. It was a wonder the rotor downdraft hadn't erased all the other tracks.
I scanned the area, looking deeper into the darkness than I had any right to see, seeing things that I probably shouldn't. I'm talking about energy. Spirit energy. Even in the desert I sense and see energy. Small explosions of light that appear and disappear. These are faint. Mere whispers.
What I wasn't seeing was perhaps more telling. There was no lost spirit here. No lost human spirit.
Which told me something. It told me that I was either completely insane and lost my mind years ago and was currently babbling away at some mental hospital, or that the victim had been killed elsewhere.
I was hoping it was the latter. Although, trust me, there were times I actually hoped it was the former.
Anyway, what I didn't see is the bright, static energy that often makes up a human spirit. That is, one who has once lived and passed on. The newer the spirit, the sharper they come into focus. I've gotten used to seeing such spirits these days. I'm a regular Sylvia Browne, although you won't find me on Montel Williams. At least, not yet. Maybe if he asks nicely.