Christmas Moon

Chapter One

  All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  To H. T. Night, for all his invaluable help.

  Merry Christmas, little brother.

  Christmas Moon

  Chapter One

  I was cleaning house in the dark and watching Judge Judy rip some cheating ex-husband a new one, when my doorbell rang. Enjoying this more than I probably should have, I hurried over to the door and opened it.

  My appointment - and potential new client - was right on time. His name was Charlie Anderson, and he was a tall fellow with a short, gray beard, bad teeth, nervous eyes and a peaceful aura. In fact, the aura that surrounded him was so serene that I did a double take.

  I showed him to my back office where he took a seat in one of the four client chairs. I moved around my desk and sat in my leather chair, which made rude noises. I might have blushed if I could have.

  I picked up my liquid gel pen and opened my pad of paper to a blank page. I said, "You mentioned in your email something about needing help finding something that was lost. "

  "Stolen, actually. "

  I clicked open my pen. "And what was that?"

  "A safe," he said.

  I think I blinked. "A safe?"

  "Yes. A safe. It was stolen from me, and I need your help to find it. "

  He explained. The safe had been handed down through his family for many generations. It had never been opened, and no one knew what was inside. Charlie's father, now deceased, had left the safe to him nearly twenty years ago. Recently, a gang of hoodlums had moved into Charlie's neighborhood, and soon after, some of Charlie's things had gone missing. A gas can, loose change from the ashtray in his car. If he was a betting man - and Charlie assured me he wasn't - he would bet that these punks had stolen his safe.

  I made notes. Charlie spoke haltingly, often circling back and repeating what he'd just said. Charlie was a shy man and he wasn't used to being the center of attention. He was even shy about being the center of attention of a smallish woman in her small back office.

  "When was the safe stolen?"

  "Two days ago. "

  "Where was it stolen from?"

  "My home. A mobile home. A trailer, really. "

  I nodded. I wasn't sure I knew what the difference was, but kept that to myself. "And where did you keep the safe in your trailer?"

  "I kept it behind the furnace. "

  "Behind?"

  "The furnace is non-functional. "

  "I see. "

  "If you remove the blower, there's a space to hide stuff. "

  I nodded, impressed. "Seems like a good hiding spot to me. "

  "I thought so, too. "

  "Any chance it could have been stolen a while back, and you only recently noticed?"

  He shrugged. In fact, he often shrugged, sometimes for no apparent reason. Shrugging seemed to be a sort of nervous tic for Charlie. He said, "A week ago, maybe. "

  "Were you alone when you checked the safe?"

  "Yes. "

  I studied my notes. . . tapping my pen against the pad. My house was quiet, as it should be. The kids were at school. As they should be. I looked at the time on my computer screen. I had to pick them up in about twenty minutes.

  At about this time of the day, my brain is foggy at best. So foggy that sometimes the most obvious question eludes me. I blinked, focused my thoughts, and ignored the nearly overwhelming desire to crawl back into bed. . . and shut out the world.

  At least until the sunset. Then, I was a new woman.

  Or a new something.

  I kept tapping the tip of the pen against the pad of paper until the question finally came to me. Finally, it did. "Why would the thieves know to look behind the furnace? Seems a highly unlikely place for any thief to ever look. "

  He shrugged.

  I said, "Shrugging doesn't help me, Mr. Anderson. "

  "Well, I don't know why they would look there. "

  "Fair enough. Did you ever tell anyone about the safe?"

  "No. "

  "Did anyone ever see you, ah, looking at the safe?"

  "I live alone. It's just me. "

  "Any family members know about the safe?"

  "Maybe a few do, but I don't keep in touch with them. "

  "Do you have any children?"

  "Yes. "

  Bingo. "Where do your kids live?"

  "The Philippines, presently. I'm a retired Navy vet. My ex-wife is from the Philippines. The kids stay with her most of the time. "

  "But some of the time they stay with you?"

  "Yes?"

  "How long ago has it been since they were last with you?"

  "A month ago. "

  More notes, more thinking. I put the pen aside. I had asked just about everything my dull brain could think of. Besides, I had to start wrapping this up.

  "I can help you," I said. "But under one condition. "

  "What's that?"

  "I get half of whatever's in the safe. "

  "What about the retainer fee?"

  "I'll waive the fee. "

  "And if you don't find the safe?"

  "You owe me nothing," I said.

  He looked at me for a good twenty seconds before he started nodding. "I've always wondered what the hell was in that thing. "

  "So, do we have a deal then, Mr. Anderson?"

  "We have a deal," he said.

  Chapter Two

  I picked up the kids from school and, as promised, we made a dollar store run. Once there, I gave the kids each a hand basket and told them to have it.

  They had at it, tearing through the store like game show contestants. Tammy crammed some packages of red velvet bows in her hand basket and moved onto the jingle bells, shaking them vigorously. I chuckled as I watched little Anthony grab some scented Christmas candles. The candles filled up at least half his hand basket. Now, what did an eight-year-old need with Christmas candles? Nothing. He simply grabbed them because it was the first of the Christmas items he'd seen. I was fairly certain that he would later regret his choice.

  As the kids attacked the many holiday rows, I smiled to myself and strolled casually through the mostly-clean store, trying like hell to ignore the way my legs shook, or the way my skin still burned from the five-second sprint from the minivan to the store.

  Sadly, even with the winter-shortened days, we were still about two hours from sunset.

  Two hours.

  That thought alone almost depressed me.

  Since my transmutation seven years ago, I'm supernaturally aware of the location of the sun in the sky. I can be in any building at any time and tell you exactly where the sun is, either above or below the Earth. Even now I could feel it directly above me, angling just over my right shoulder, heading west.

  I powered through the shakiness and heaviness, and worked my way down an aisle of discounted hardback novels. I paused and flipped through a historical mystery novel, read a random paragraph, liked it, and dropped it into my own hand basket. For a buck, I'll try anything. Hell, the Kindle app on my iPhone was filled with free ebooks and . 99 cent ebooks that I had snagged in a buying frenzy a few days ago. Now, all I needed to do was to find the time to read them. I'm sure the one about the vampire mom - written, of all people, by a guy with a beard - should give me a good laugh.

  I continued down the aisle. I didn't often shop at the dollar store, but when I did, I made the most of it. And the kids, I knew, had been waiting all week for this trip.

  It was, after all, a Christmas tradition with us. Each year about this time, the kids were given an empty basket and told to fill them with Christmas decorations. At a dollar a pop, no one was going to break the bank, and
once home, together we hung or displayed the decorations. Usually with cookies baking in the oven. Of course, this was the first year we were doing it without Danny, but so far, neither of the kids had mentioned the exclusion of their father, and I sure as hell wasn't going to say anything.

  Seven months ago, just after a rare disease nearly cost my son his life, I had filed for divorce. Just last month, the divorce had been finalized. I was technically single, although my relationship with Kingsley Fulcrum had taken on legs. Or teeth. We had grown closer and more comfortable with each other, and for that I was grateful to him.

  The famed defense attorney - never known for his moral compass, nor morals of any type - had suddenly developed a conscience. Now, he was a little more selective with his defense cases, a little more discerning. He winnowed out the obvious slimeballs. Of late, he seemed to choose his clients with some care.

  He did this, I knew, for me.

  After all, I had found it nearly impossible to get too close to a man who actively defended murderers and cutthroats, rapists and all-around jerk-offs. He got it. If he wanted me in the picture, he was going to have to change.

  And he did.

  Yeah, I'm still amazed and a little in shock.

  But we were taking things slowly. I had to move slowly. Anything faster, and I would have seriously freaked out. So I only saw the big lug a few times a week, sometimes only once a week. He never stayed over. . . and only rarely did I stay over at his palatial estate. Half the time, he took me out. The other half, I cooked for him. It took me months before I formally introduced my kids to him. And even then, I only did so as my "friend. "

  I knew the friend comment hurt him, but he went with it. Anthony, I knew, had never seen a man this big in his life, and Kingsley was immediately the designated jungle gym. I couldn't help but laugh every time Kingsley showed up, especially in his two-thousand-dollar Armani suits, only to watch Anthony climb all over him.

  I chuckled at the recent image of Kingsley sighing resignedly as Anthony used the defense attorney's massive bicep as a pull-up bar. To Kingsley's credit, he always let Anthony play, and never once did he mention his clothes. I figured that someday he would wise up and show up in jeans and a tee shirt.

  We'll see.

  I had just spotted an end-cap stacked with organic soup. Granted, I couldn't eat organic soup, but my kids could. And at a dollar a pop, I eagerly started scooping them up.

  As I did so, I sensed someone behind me and paused and turned.

  And gasped.

  Okay, a small gasp. After all, I wasn't expecting to see such a beautiful man there, leaning casually against a shelf full of cheap spatulas, and smiling warmly at me. His eyes even twinkled, and I couldn't help but notice the soft, silvery aura that surrounded him. Never before had I seen a silver aura, and never an aura so alive and vibrant.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  I didn't know, but one thing was for sure: I was especially not expecting him to say my name, but that's exactly what he did.

  He crossed his arms over his massive chest, and said, "Hello, Samantha. How are you?"

  This time, I definitely gasped.

  Chapter Three

  A peaceful calm radiated from the tall man.

  His silver aura shimmered around him like a halo. His warm smile put me immediately at ease. My inner alarm system, too, since it was as silent as could be. He wore a red cashmere turtleneck sweater, very Christmassy looking, with relaxed fit jeans and hiking shoes. His shoes looked new. His fingers, which curled around his biceps, were long and whitish, capped by pinkish, thick nails.

  "Do I know you?" I asked.

  "Not directly," he said.

  "Indirectly?"

  "You could say that. "

  I wracked my brain. Had he been a client? A high school boyfriend? A friend of a high school boyfriend? Was he the boy I kissed behind the backstop in the fourth grade? Or the boy I kissed at the bus stop? Other than realizing that I showed a predisposition for love triangles at an early age, my mind remained maddeningly blank, although something nagged at me distantly.

  "You got me," I said. "How do you know me?"

  He continued leaning against the shelf, watching me. "Through my work. "

  "Your work?"

  He nodded. "Yes. "

  "And what kind of work is that?"

  "I'm a. . . bodyguard of sorts. "

  Technically, so was I. As a licensed private investigator in the State of California, I could legally work as a bodyguard, too. Granted, at five-foot three inches tall, I couldn't cover much of anyone's body. Still, I bring other. . . skill sets to the table.

  Despite sensing no danger, my guard was up. I instinctively looked over at my kids, who were presently fighting over a huge Styrofoam candy cane, apparently the only one in the store. The candy cane promptly snapped in half like a wish bone. Anthony let out a wail. Tammy gave him her broken piece and slinked away. I would deal with her later. The kids, at least, were fine.

  "I'm sorry," I said to him, "but I don't remember you. "

  "I wouldn't expect you to. "

  He spoke calmly, assuredly, with no judgment in his voice. If anything, there was a hint of humor. He watched me closely, his blazing eyes almost never leaving me. Whoever he was, I had his full attention. I nearly just wished him a merry Christmas and turned and left, but something made me stick around.

  "So, what's your name?" I asked.

  "Ishmael. "

  I almost made a Moby Dick joke, but held back. Truth be known, I was a little freaked out that this guy knew me, and I hadn't a clue who he was.

  "Where do you know me from, Ishmael? And give it to me straight. No more double speak. "

  "I'm afraid you wouldn't remember me, Samantha. But I can say this: you know my client. "

  Ishmael was an unusual-looking man. He seemed both comfortably relaxed and oddly uncomfortable. He often didn't know what to do with his hands, which sometimes hung straight down, or crossed over his chest. He radiated serenity, but every now and then, perplexingly, a black streak of darkness, like a worm, would weave through his beautiful, silver aura. Amazingly, my inner alarm system remained silent.

  "And who's your client?" I asked.

  He continued to watch me. Now, he held his hands together loosely at his waist. I think the guy would have been better off utilizing his pants pockets. Another streak of blackness flashed through his aura, so fast that I nearly didn't see it. Then another.

  He smiled at me in a way that few men have ever smiled at me: knowingly, lovingly, comfortably, happily, sexily.

  Finally, he said, "The client, Sam, was you. "

  Chapter Four

  We had spent the evening baking cookies and generally making a mess of the kitchen. Flour, cinnamon, sprinkles, and sugar dusted the floor, our three sets of footprints overlapping on the tile, like some mad Family Circus diagram. But what's Christmas for, if not to bake with children?

  Then we all cuddled up on the couch. I had put in the Groundhog Day DVD and we watched it with a fresh batch of cookies and milk. Of course, I only pretended to eat my cookies, which I promptly spit back into my milk. Ah, but those few seconds of sugary delight were heaven. . . but I would pay a price for it. . . Anything not blood, no matter how minute, would cause me severe cramping and the dry heaves later.

  When the kids were in bed and I had gotten caught up on my office paperwork and billing, I grabbed my laptop and curled up on one corner of the living room couch.

  You there, Fang?

  No doubt, other creatures of the night were out running around. . . doing whatever it was that creatures of the night do. I knew what I did. I worked. And besides, tonight was a school night. And, despite being a professional private investigator who works the late shift, I couldn't leave my kids alone at night unless I could find a sitter.

  That was why being married had been so convenient. Danny, my ex-h
usband, would watch the kids while I worked late. That is, until he started staying late himself, for reasons that weren't so admirable.

  I drummed my fingers along the laptop case, waiting for Fang to reply. At the far end of the hallway, I could hear Anthony snoring lightly, even through his closed door. Along with my condition came an increased perception of many of my senses. Hearing and sight were two of them. I could hear and see things that I had no business hearing and seeing. The sense of taste and touch, not so much, which was just as well. I couldn't eat food anyway, and I certainly didn't need inadvertent orgasms every time someone touched my shoulder. The jury was still out on my sense of smell, although it might have increased a little. Not necessarily a good thing with a gaseous eight-year-old around. Anyway, I had always had a good sniffer, so it was kind of hard to tell for sure.

  Ah. . . there he was. The little pencil icon appeared in the chatbox window, indicating that Fang was typing a response.

  Good evening, Moon Dance. Or, more accurately, good middle-of-the-night.

  Good middle-of-the-night to you, too.

  He typed a smiley face, followed by: So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Moon Dance?

  Fang was my online confidant. He was also a convicted murderer and escaped convict with serious psychological issues. But that's another story for another time. Over the years, though, he had proven to be loyal, knowledgeable and extremely helpful. After six years of anonymously chatting, Fang and I had finally met for the first time six months ago. The meeting had been interesting, and there had been some physical chemistry.

  But then came "The Request. "

  Again, six months ago, back when my son was losing his battle with the extremely rare Kawasaki disease, Fang had asked me to turn him into a vampire.

  Now, that's a helluva request, even among close friends. At the time I was dealing with too much and had told him so. He understood. His timing was off. He got it. We hadn't discussed his request for a while now, but it was always out there, simmering, seething just below the current of all our conversations. We both knew it was out there. We both knew I would get around to it when the time was right.

  And what would be my answer? I didn't know. Not yet. The question, for now, was bigger than I was. I need time to wrap my brain around it. To let it simmer. Percolate. Brew.

  But someday, perhaps someday soon, I would give him my answer.

  I wrote: I have a question.