Samantha moon phantasm, p.116
Samantha Moon Phantasm, page 116
part #9 of Vampire for Hire Series
Ugh.
“Sorry, baby, “I said. “I will think of something else.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
And so I smiled, preparing to bring up her boyfriend again—because inquiring minds wanted to know—but the little booger leaned forward and asked Kingsley why he hadn’t asked to marry me yet. Stunned, I could only tip my hat to her. Kingsley, blindsided, nearly choked on his tongue. He cleared his throat a few times. Then cleared it again. We all waited for his answer.
“Marriage is, um, a big conversation, Tammy. I, um, yeah...” He cracked his neck. “It’s something that, yeah, I’ve been...”
“Oh, quit yer stammering,” I said, smacking his meaty shoulder. “She just said that to keep me from asking about her new boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. Gawd!”
“Wait a sec, Sam,” said Allison, leaning forward. “I think Kingsley was actually about to say something. Weren’t you, big guy?”
“Well, it’s something that’s been on my mind.” This time he most definitely didn’t stammer.
I blinked. Then blinked again. Wait, what?
“Really now?” said Allison, her voice rising.
“Of course, Allie. I love Sam.”
“Wait... holy smokes,” said Anthony. “Is Mom blushing?”
“How is that even possible?” asked Allison.
“Oh, shut up you two. I have, like, blood. Of course I can blush. It just takes me, you know, longer to get there.”
“You look so funny, Mom,” said Anthony. “Your face is usually white like a ghost. Now it’s all red and splotchy and weird-looking.”
“I can’t hear that enough,” I said. Then took a deep breath. “Kingsley, maybe we can talk about this later? And Tammy, touché. That was a helluva conversation switcheroo.”
“I know, Mom.”
Truth was, we hadn’t talked about marriage. And if we had, it certainly hadn’t been a serious conversation. I knew Kingsley had been married before, twice actually, to a mermaid in Seattle, no less, who was still alive and working as a private investigator. And a first wife—a human wife—who had long since passed. I know I wasn’t in a hurry to marry. Dealing with the devil, my kids, my new wings, demons, and the demands of my job certainly kept me busy. Hell, Kingsley and I were lucky to get a few nights together each week. But when we did, we took advantage of them...
“Oh, gross.” Tammy cringed.
“Wasn’t me,” said Anthony automatically. “But I can’t promise it won’t be me the next time. Or the next. Or the next...”
“We get the idea,” I said.
“Not that.” Tammy pressed her fingers to her temples, eyes closed. “Mom was just thinking a really gross thought.”
“A brief gross thought,” I corrected. “And it’s not that gross. Or gross at all, in fact.”
“Eew, mom. Just, eww. I can only throw up so much.”
“What was the gross thought?” asked Kingsley and Allison in unison.
Tammy shivered. “Never mind...”
“A sex thought?” asked Allison, studying me. “Really? Here?”
“Mom’s blushing again,” announced Anthony.
“Well, I didn’t mean to think it here.”
“She was thinking about what Kingsley said—or almost said—and one terrible thought led to the next,” said Tammy.
“Really now?” asked Kingsley, glancing over his beefy shoulder at us. I could almost, almost hear the collar of his shirt straining.
“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s get back to what you almost said.”
“What did I almost say?” he asked, turning back around and facing forward, both hands gripping the wheel.
“Don’t play dumb.”
“But I do it so well...”
“Tammy,” I said. “What did he almost say?”
“He almost said—”
“I’m not a fan of this game,” grumbled Kingsley.
“Tell me about it…” Anthony rolled his eyes. “You have one single thought about one girl at school, and your sister is yelling at you from down the hallway.”
“It’s not one thought.” Tammy scoffed. “It’s like hundreds of them all day long.”
“Well, that’s normal,” said Anthony. “I have normal thoughts.”
“Sadly, you do.” Tammy smirked. “Maybe more normal than others.”
“Tammy,” said Allison, “is there no way you can turn it off? The telepathy, I mean.”
“None that I can find.”
“Honey,” I said. “Would you like for me to ask Max for some advice—”
“Actually,” said Tammy. “I would like for you to ask you-know-who.”
I paused, my breath catching. Yes, I knew who she was talking about. Intimately, in fact. Then again, not intimately enough that we’ve had long conversations. Long conversations tended to embolden the dark master within me. I didn’t want to embolden her. I wanted her weak and forgotten.
“Yeah, yeah, Mom. But she might be able to help me.”
“Help you how, exactly?”
“She might be able to, you know...”
And just like that, my daughter burst into tears. It was a good minute or two before Tammy got control of herself again.
“I’m sorry,” I said, hugging her.
“It’s not your fault. Not really.”
“I know it’s hard...”
“Mom... you have no idea. My thoughts... sometimes I don’t know which are mine, or from whom or where the thoughts are coming from. Sometimes I just sit there with my mind spinning, my head full of noise, wishing I had the guts to just end it.”
I gasped, totally not prepared to hear those words. Was my daughter actually considering suicide because of her remarkable gifts? Gifts bestowed upon her because of her close proximity to me? I knew she could hear my thoughts, but mercifully, she sat quietly in my arms... in Allison’s arms too, who sat on the opposite side of her. We sat like that for a few minutes.
“The good news,” I said, finally releasing her, “is that you used ‘whom’ correctly.”
“What? Oh, Mom. You’re such a dork.”
But she giggled at that, and that was a sound I could listen to all day long, 24/7, on a friggin’ loop.
I noted that Elizabeth had perked up. I knew this because I could feel an inky presence appear at the back of my thoughts, looking out from the shadows. Elizabeth, of course, had been a helluva telepath in her day, perhaps one of the strongest ever, as evidenced by her son’s and my daughter’s abilities. Max the Alchemist was as gifted as they came, but not even he, I knew, could turn it off. Could Elizabeth help my daughter? Would she help my daughter? And what would she want in exchange? I don’t know, but I had to find out.
I’m going to need my head on straight when I talk to her, baby, I thought. And it’s not on straight. Not with Annie missing.
It can wait, Mom. And no, I don’t really want to kill myself. I just need a break... just every now and then.
I patted her head and pulled her into me, which meant I pulled Allison into me too, since she was still hanging on from the other side. We ended up in a pile on my side of the van, and we huddled like that for the rest of the trip. I was in heaven, even if Allison was heavier than I would have guessed.
“Hey,” she said.
Tammy giggled.
“And don’t think I forgot about you, Mr. Kingsley Fulcrum,” I said. “You have some splainin’ to do.”
He shook his big, shaggy head, and we all settled in for the drive to Santa Barbara.
Chapter Three
With the crew chillaxing at the hotel in Santa Barbara—two super-nice suites courtesy of Kingsley and his millions—I headed out alone to meet with the parents of the missing girl.
As I approached the front door of a modest family-style home with an immodest view of the Pacific Ocean, I considered my inheritance. Was I really the owner of a mansion? A dilapidated mansion, mind you, but a mansion nonetheless. The short answer was... yes.
Yes, I was.
“Wow,” I whispered again. The full effect of my inheritance had been eclipsed by the letter from J.C. Yes, that’s short for Jeffcock. And, yes, I refused to call my one-time father by his given name. I just... can’t.
Nope, nope.
J.C. it is.
Anyway, now that both the letter and the inheritance have sunk in, especially after many minutes of quiet contemplation in my Allison/Tammy pile in the back seat... yeah, wow. I owned a mansion. A big ass, haunted ass mansion.
Okay, maybe I didn’t have words yet to express the shock.
I stepped up to the front porch, briefly admired the view of the Pacific Ocean it afforded, and realized all over again that this bastard, the Red Rider (as my one-time father had called him) had been abducting witches—young witches mainly—for the past five centuries.
Centuries.
Yeah, this piece of shit was going down. One way or another, he was eating the Devil Killer. And if the Devil Killer couldn’t get him, I would figure out another way. But I suspected the Devil Killer would do the trick. Oh, yes.
Earlier, I had contacted Detective Sherbet to cross-check the information I’d been given in the Occult Reading Room. Not that I doubted what the angels and the Alchemist had revealed, but I needed some cold hard facts. Yes, a girl had been reported missing a week ago. The police in Santa Barbara were on it with all hands on deck. Sherbet had been keeping an eye on it himself, and, amazingly, had been tempted to call me if things went on for another day or two.
I’d asked what made him think of me, and he said it had been something in the missing person report. The parents had talked about their child being gifted, in touch with nature, magical almost. It had made him think of me. And it had made him suspect there might be a paranormal element to all this. I told him he had no idea. He’d asked how bad it was. I told him the worst. He asked if I would look into it. I had told him the child’s guardian angel had beat him to it. He’d raised a bushy eyebrow (okay, I might have imagined that, since we were on the phone) and said ‘Guardian angel?’ I said yep and Sherbet asked why a guardian angel would need my services.
I told him I’d gotten involved because the abductor was a 500-year-old Inquisition executioner who concealed himself in the higher frequencies, beyond even where angels tread. Sherbet remained silent. I asked if he was still there. Sherbet grunted. I asked if he was okay. He grunted again. I asked if I should hang up. And he grunted a third time. But before I did, he said to call him if I needed anything, especially if I needed backup. He said he was always there for me. I told him he was a brave man, and he said I had no idea. Well, I had some idea.
Now here I was, standing outside the small but beautifully positioned home overlooking the glittering ocean, a home that had been wrecked, undoubtedly, with the disappearance of a young girl.
I took in some worthless air, centered myself, and knocked on the front door.
***
We sat in the kitchen dinette area.
Opposite me were a man and a woman who had seen better days. The home was cute, but the mood inside was dark. I found little if any spirit energy, which I considered as a good sign their daughter was still alive. Some believe spirits are bound to the place of death. I have discovered there are no rules when it comes to spirits. Some are bound because they believe they are bound. Others can flit about, coming and going. Most are just aspects of the soul... memories of the living, with the soul themselves having gone on to the afterlife. In the case of Danny Moon, he had fled the devil and sought refuge in my son, while an aspect of him had hung around an underground cavern. Long story.
The parents told me the police had just left, as had some of their friends, and that this was the first time in days they’d been alone. Except now that they were alone... they hated it because it seemed like, well, they might be alone forever. That their little girl might really be gone. And they didn’t even know why they were telling me this. Who was I again? I’d eased their concerns with a few gentle suggestions. Except my suggestions weren’t really sticking, so distraught were they.
Anyway, had I seen the spirit of a young girl in this house, I would likely have to give the parents the bad news that their daughter had passed. Then again, not all ghosts return to sit with distraught parents, especially if the corporeal body had been killed elsewhere. Some spirits were bound to certain places for reasons I could never quite understand.
Although the parents weren’t out of the woods, not seeing her spirit gave me some hope.
I had introduced myself at the door, and they had been confused at first, until I gave them both the impression that it was okay to let me in, that they could trust me, that I was here to help. I wasn’t sure if my impression/suggestion would push through the pain and fog, but it had, temporarily. Wordlessly, they had stepped aside and showed me into the kitchen.
Allison had wanted to come, but I asked her to stay behind at the hotel. I do my best work one on one with a client, even though these people weren’t paying clients. Had they known the child’s guardian angel, among a legion of other angels, had sought my help, they would perhaps both be elated and dismayed. After all, it was never a good sign when your guardian angel loses track of you.
I pushed a little harder inside the mother’s mind... and still found no cracks. Just confusion and pain and suffering and loss and hate and fear and more hate and more fear. Wow, Rita was looping. I gave her a small suggestion to calm her down a little, and she settled into her chair and cried softly into her hands. At least the looping stopped.
I saw in their thoughts what I wanted to see: loving parents who cherished their unusual child. They called her their “forest baby” because she was always out in the woods, always sitting with her bugs, which she particularly loved, to the chagrin of her mother. “No, the bugs are important, mama” I heard her say, over and over again, in her mother’s mind, a repeating memory. Rita hated herself for coming down on her child who loved nature so much that she even loved the bugs and spiders and worms, and would sit with them and protect them and help them when she could. This kid who wept when mosquitoes and flies got caught in webs, and ran out into the rain to help the flooded earthworms find their way back home again.
Truthfully, I was with the mom. Eww.
But something also pulled at me, too. Nearly forgotten memories of being a kid and being enchanted by all of nature, too—yes, even the bugs. My adult self didn’t like bugs. My child self... well, she was a different story. I grew up in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. California, to be exact. I had been a tomboy, and my parents were straight up hippies. We had lived simply, sometimes even living off the land itself, growing and stealing crops... even while Dad grew a distinctly illegal crop. At any rate, I have many memories of my endless fascination with the forest critters, with insects among them. Mostly, I had been fascinated with owls, of all things. We had a number of them in the forest around us, and I would sit for hours and watch them high up in the tree branches, their heads turning nearly 360 degrees, their hoots filling the forest. I found their sheer size fascinating. Big as eagles, but with faces unlike any other avian. Little did I know that someday I would turn into a flying creature myself, as a strangely flat, stub-nosed entity that I had at first assumed to be a giant bat, only to learn it was closer to a dragon. Now, I wonder if it—if Talos—looked, in fact, like the great grey owl in the Pacific Northwest. Hard to say. Then again, how could I have known that someday Talos would be in my life?
My one-time father, J.C., informed me that I’d spent a period of my existence not in this world, but somewhere else entirely, on a world where dragons flew. It had been, perhaps, the strangest thing of all in his letter to me. My one-time father who had mastered seeing beyond the veil, so to speak, the lives between lives. And if I read J.C.’s letter correctly, I had mated with another such flying creature.
Talos, I was sure of it.
What were the chances that the creature I had mated with would be the very creature I turned into? I didn’t know, but there was something going on here, something I would get to the bottom of soon enough.
Meanwhile, Annie’s parents seemed as loving as two parents could be when faced with a child who didn’t play video games or text her friends or watch cartoons. They knew she was different and they loved her uniqueness, even if they didn’t know what to make of it. Most importantly, they weren’t hiding anything nefarious, which I never truly suspected, nor was it mentioned by the child’s guardian angel.
“Who are you again, Miss?” asked Rita.
“Samantha Moon,” I said. “I’m a private investigator in Orange County.”
“Where in Orange County?” asked Gene.
“Fullerton.”
“A long way from here,” he said.
“I feel like you told us, but my brain... it’s a bit foggy. Can you tell us why you are here again?” asked Rita.
“I’m here to find your daughter,” I said, saying the words a helluva lot more confidently than I felt them.
“Who... who hired you again?” asked Gene, frowning and looking at his wife.
They were, of course, both still feeling the effects of my light suggestion, a suggestion which I never intended to stick for long.
I considered how to answer. I considered giving them the suggestion that, in fact, I had already given the answer, and that they were satisfied with the answer. But this was their daughter, and she was in trouble, and I wanted them to know what had happened to her, and why, and what I planned on doing about it. If they couldn’t handle it, well, I could always wipe their memories clean of it.
But as I opened my mouth to begin the tale of witches and guardian angels, of the Inquisition and the Red Rider, I closed it again. Not only would the story take too long—and time was of the essence—I discovered I just couldn’t get the words out. Not to this couple, already so broken. And so I told them that I was a specialist in finding the missing and that the police had reached out to me for help. That I was on the department’s payroll (which I was, even though it was the wrong department). I told them just enough to satisfy their curiosity, and I followed it all up with a simple suggestion for all of this to be believed and accepted without question.
