The Vampire in the Iron Mask (The Spinoza Trilogy Book 3), Page 6

  “No. I did it,” I said passionately, my voice coming to me in a burst. “I was drunk. Again. Oh my God, I was drunk and I killed you and I will never forgive myself for it. Never...”

  Natassa locked eyes with me now. “For your son’s sake, you must.”

  My boy was fading in and out. I hadn’t seen him in six years. He looked earnestly into my eyes, pleading. What for, I didn’t know.

  “He loves you, Spinoza. He cannot leave this realm because he loves you so. He’s been with you, always. Hurting as you hurt. Weeping as you weep.”

  “I—can’t undo it. There’s nothing I can do.”

  What came next nearly drove me over the edge to insanity. Natassa spoke, and now I was certain it was my son’s voice. “But you have done something, Daddy. You save other kids.”

  I let out a strangled cry, and then found my voice again. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “If I had lived, you wouldn’t be saving other kids, Daddy. Don’t you see?”

  “See what? Please, I don’t understand...”

  And now Natassa blinked and looked at me, and her voice reached me, not my son’s. “Your son gave up his life for others, Spinoza.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “His sacrifice prompted a new direction in your life.”

  “A direction driven by guilt,” I said.

  “Driven by the pursuit of justice, Spinoza. You were brought here to help others, to save others, to give hope...and to find the missing.”

  I digested this, or tried to.

  Suddenly, a rush of memories flooded my thoughts. Visions of the missing children I had found. Reunited with their parents. The joy of love in the families I had helped over the years. I realized my son was sending these visions through Natassa. He had seen me every day. Why hadn’t I known it? I wept harder.

  “I would have been taken from you anyway, Daddy. But any other way wouldn’t have made you into what you are now.”

  I still fought it. “But I’m a monster...”

  “No. You’re a savior. Don’t you see? Can’t you see it?”

  “But I loved you so much, David.”

  “Then remember the love. Not just one day. Remember our life together.”

  Suddenly a rush of warmth streamed through Natassa’s cold hands into mine. Throughout my body. Warmth I’d felt when David would hug me. When I kissed him goodnight. Bought him his first skateboard. Movies and ice cream. All the things I’d done to make my son happy. Because I loved him. Joy. For the first time in years, I felt true joy.

  “I love you, too, Daddy. That’s why I’ve stayed with you.”

  It hit me. He couldn’t go to Heaven. Natassa nodded now.

  “I have to know you’re okay, Daddy.”

  “But I want to make it right...”

  “All is well, Daddy. As it should be.”

  “How did you get so wise...my son?”

  The image of my son smiled. “Watching you, Daddy.”

  That ripped a hole through my heart and I wept harder.

  “I will always be near, Daddy. You know that.”

  I sensed him fading, leaving me, perhaps forever. “Don’t leave me,” I whispered. I heard the pleading in my voice. Yes, I was going insane. A beautiful insane.

  “There is nothing else to do, Daddy, except...”

  “What? I’ll do anything.”

  “Keep helping the others. It’s what you were meant to do.”

  My mind was reeling. Keep helping others. Other kids. My son forgave me. He loved me...I’m dreaming. A long, weird, twisted, beautiful, surreal dream.

  David did smile now. He moved toward me and embraced me with his tiny arms and I could not hold back the tears. I sat there on my knees as my dead little boy hugged the father who had killed him.

  And then something else happened, something even more miraculous. On a night of miracles...and nightmares...as I tried to hug him back, his little spirit entered me. My heart. A spirit that wasn’t so little after all. I sensed his wisdom, his knowledge and his love. Now my heart filled with a joy greater than I had ever known. David was in my heart, cleansing away the pain, the sorrow, the guilt. I let it happen. Deep inside I knew this was it. I wouldn’t see him again, but he was making a special place to dwell within me. Forever, I knew. I let it happen.

  We stayed like this for a timeless moment. Just the two of us. There was nothing else but a father and a son’s love.

  Faintly in my mind, or my heart, I heard, “Oh Daddy! I knew you could do it. I love you...”

  I watched as he moved back out of me, smiling. His innocent eyes shone now, all trace of sadness gone. He was leaving. My son was going to Heaven.

  I still felt the incredible love within.

  And then, I let him go.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It could have taken minutes. It could have taken hours. I didn’t know. I still didn’t care.

  Natassa was smiling at me. For the first time in a long while, I smiled back. A real smile.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You are most welcome. And thank you for saving me.”

  “It’s what I do,” I said, and remembered my son’s words. “What I was meant to do.”

  She let go of my hands. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. Did it happen? Was it real?

  “It was real,” she answered.

  “He was in limbo, all this time,” I said. “Six years, he stayed with me, tormented.”

  “No. Time doesn’t exist in his realm. And he wasn’t tormented. He just never gave up on you.”

  “He loves me.”

  “More than you know.”

  I fought back more tears. I relived the conversation with David in my mind. I turned from Natassa. I didn’t want her to see me cry. Enough tears. Enough pain. My son forgave me, loved me, and was with me always. In my heart. I forced myself back to reality. Whatever that meant.

  “You and Guillaume,” I started.

  “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t he try to free you earlier? And why did he choose me?”

  “I can see you’re curious.”

  “To say the least.”

  She stood, motioned me. As I rose, she said, “I will tell you then. But you’re right, we must leave this place.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The four of us headed over to a nearby Denny’s.

  Natassa insisted on a window booth where she could keep an eye on the horse trailer parked just outside. Precious cargo, indeed.

  I learned that Natassa was six hundred years old, but had met Guillaume fifteen years ago in Norway, where they had fallen in love. Still, she kept her secret from him for years, until he begged her to tell him the mysterious truth about her. He turned willingly, drank her blood and vowed to help her hunt those who hunted the innocent. Vampires included. They were quite a team, apparently. They traveled the world, searching, as Veronica did locally, for the dark ones who caused nothing but chaos.

  Eventually they learned about this new coven and came to southern California. They’d only been here a short while, hunting together, when Natassa was caught by the new coven, a coven intent on building an empire. An underground dictatorship.

  Here in Anaheim, she’d met her match. She was caught and held prisoner. The coven had spread lies about her, and turned her reputation into an evil legend of sorts. Guillaume hadn’t yet cultivated the powers she possessed, and couldn’t free her by himself. He stayed by her side at Medievaland, protecting her as best he could. He didn’t know many of his own kind to aid him, but eventually he found out about me, the private eye who knew about vampires.

  “What will you do now?” Veronica asked.

  Natassa didn’t hesitate. “Go on, as usual.”

  “Try to keep the peace?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Her gaze fell on Veronica. “I’m intrigued by your skills,” she commented.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m always looking for competent partners.”
>
  “I’ll think about it.” But Veronica didn’t look nearly as dismissive as she sounded. She was intrigued. They would make a helluva formidable team.

  Natassa merely smiled, and nodded as if she already knew.

  It was three in the morning. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I wanted to reflect privately on the night’s events. All of them. My son...

  Once again, I was grateful for Veronica’s telepathy. She said, “Well, we’ve got to go. This mortal needs his beauty sleep.”

  We rose to leave. I shook hands with Guillaume. It seemed fitting to kiss Natassa’s hand. She reached up and kissed me on the cheek. “Blessings to you, good Spinoza.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I arrived at my humble abode about an hour before dawn.

  There were three messages, all from Roxi. I wanted to be alone, but in all fairness I owed her a call. I did so and assured her I was fine. She was pretty good about giving me my space. I promised her I would tell all, but not until I had a little shut-eye.

  I took my bowl of cereal out to the patio just in time for the sunrise. I don’t care what anyone says, California sunrises are just as spectacular as our sunsets.

  I played the events over in my mind like a film. Took in every detail. I had been pretty kick-ass, true. Hell, I may be old, but I’m still in the game. I wondered if I would ever need the silver semi-automatics now hidden on a shelf in my closet. I kind of hoped I would.

  Once again, I relived every second with my son. The whole thing was just...surreal.

  And beautiful.

  I love you, Daddy. Words I never thought I’d hear again. So proud of you. I didn’t even pretend the tears were from the bright sun shining through the palm trees.

  * * *

  Roxi and I leaned back in our beach chairs.

  The day was cooling off, the gentle breeze bringing on what Californians consider a slight chill. Feet nestled comfortably in the still warm sand, we watched the sun set behind Santa Monica Pier’s ginormous Ferris wheel. I took another whiff of salty air and watched seagulls scavenge the beach for tidbits of food left behind. Most of the crowd had left and we had the place to ourselves.

  We’d spent the night at a motel within walking distance. It was well-earned time off. Last night had rekindled our intimacy. I’d never really treated her the way she should have been treated. Now it was time to make up for lost time. I glanced at my well-satisfied woman. The light wind danced with her hair. Her hand wandered to my thigh, and this time, I didn’t recoil. So, she left it there. It felt good.

  Roxi had already picked my brain about every detail of the case. I told her everything. Including my son. Roxi listened intently, knowing it couldn’t be easy to discuss. She didn’t question this, but apparently she wasn’t satisfied about other specifics.

  “So, this Natassa.”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s a vampire slayer? Like Veronica?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What does that mean, anyway?”

  “It means we’re not in Kansas anymore. Never have been.”

  She laughed. I smiled. “But,” she persisted, “I mean why don’t more people know about this kind of stuff?”

  Why indeed? I supposed most ordinary people wanted to at least imagine they lived in Kansas. People liked myths and legends. But only for stories told around a campfire light. Where they thought they were safe.

  “Watch the sunset,” I simply said. She would figure it out, I was sure.

  I reached into the nearby cooler and came out with a beer. I exchanged it for a Diet Coke and popped it open. I took a swig. Next to Roxi, it was the best thing I’d ever tasted.

  The End...

  ...of the Spinoza Trilogy.

  I do hope you enjoyed his tales.

  ~~~~~

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  Temple of the Jaguar

  Nick Caine Series #1

  Written with Aiden James

  Chapter One

  Ruinas, Honduras

  Present Day

  I found the ceremonial blade in the unmarked grave of some poor sap who had seen better days.

  We’d been digging all day in this remote section of the rain forest, sweat pouring down our bare torsos, hands blistering despite the gloves. It was the golden reflection that first caught my eye—that wonderful golden flash that brings a smile to all of us who call ourselves looters. Although, I prefer the term ‘creative archaeologists’.

  I used the trowel to scrape away the remaining dirt, revealing more of the blade, which consisted of a jade hilt, an emerald capstone, and six inches of pure gold. And if I wasn’t so tough, I could have cried right there.

  “That will fetch a pretty penny,” said Ishi from behind me in his native Tawankan tongue. Actually, in his native tongue, this was translated to mean that the knife could be exchanged for many shiny coins.

  “Yes, Ishi,” I said. “Many shiny coins.”

  I reached down between the ribs, plucked the knife by its hilt and hauled it out, letting the smattering of sunlight refract off its near-perfect finish. That drop of clear liquid on its golden blade was either a tear or sweat. Maybe I’m not so tough after all.

  Ishi helped me out of the hip-deep grave, which I was only too glad to leave behind. Any grave robber worth his salt is always happy to leave a grave behind.

  We sat back in the shade of a mangrove tree and I lit a cigarette and studied the knife, rolling it back and forth in the little sunlight that made its way to the jungle floor. The crimson glow of the cigarette tip reflected deeply within the blade. It was a rare find, indeed.

  “He was a warrior,” said Ishi, squatting next to me and drinking from a water jug. “Perhaps a very highly-esteemed warrior. The knife was for his protection.”

  I thought about that, then stood and moved over to the exposed grave. I unbuckled my pickaxe and dropped it down into the pit. I returned a moment later and sat down next to the Indian youth. “Can’t leave the old chap without any protection.”

  Ishi was smiling. “You are not like the others.”

  “We all steal,” I said, inhaling on the cigarette.

  “But you steal with a conscience.”

  “I know. It’s a terrible thing.”

  “At least you have not angered the spirits.”

  “Yes,” I said, “there’s always that. C’mon, let’s re-bury this poor bastard and get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  As Ishi drove through the thick jungle on a road that really wasn’t much of a road, I checked my voice mail on my looting hotline. One new message. Oh, fun. It was from a woman named Marie Da Vinci. She wanted to speak with me ASAP. Unless my ass was on the line, I rarely did anything ASAP, which is one of the reasons I became a self-employed looter. It was either that or open a smoothie shop in a strip mall.

  I listened to the message again. The voice was strong but firm, breathy and sexy. She wanted to meet me today at four, in the outdoor cafe at the Copan Rio Hotel, of which I happened to live on the fifth floor.

  After a moment’s contemplation, I dialed the number. It rang twice, and then went straight to voice mail. I heard the same sultry voice. I left a message: I would meet her at the hotel restaurant at four. I clicked off the phone.

  “Hot date?” asked Ishi. Actually, this was translated to mean: a formal assembly between two possible mates for the continuation of one’s paternal bloodline.

  “Yeah,” I said, “something like that.”

  “Does she know you’re a thief?”

  “She called me on my looting hotline,” I said. “So I’m thinking yes.”

  Ishi smiled and said to himself, “Looting hotline. Shit.”

  I lean
ed back in the front seat, closed my eyes and listened to the slapping of branches against the hood and fenders, the call of the distant howler monkeys, the chirping of hundreds of tropical birds.

  Breathy and sexy? Oh boy.

  Chapter Two

  Juan Esteban examined the knife closely, making excitable little noises that didn’t seem all that appropriate for the circumstances.

  He was using a jeweler’s glass, examining every inch of the artifact, and making notes on a small pad. Then he placed the knife carefully on a white cloth and moved over to his logs, pulling one from his shelf and flipping through the pages.

  We were alone in his shop. The shop itself was in Coco, a little town north of the Copan ruins. For all intents and purposes, Juan’s shop looked like a run-down pawnshop. There were a half dozen glass cases cluttering the store, most of them with broken doors, filled with very cheap watches and fake jewelry and rusted pistols from Honduras’s colonial days. I moved around the shop and examined a rifle that actually appeared to be bent, completely useless.

  This wasn’t exactly the famous “black market” people hear about, but Juan usually unloads any of the jewelry or specialty items I may find. The golden dagger would be considered a specialty item.

  “You sell junk,” I told him again.

  “Of course. It keeps the thieves and policia away, although sometimes they are one in the same.”

  I pointed to the bent rifle. “Have you ever sold any of this crap?”

  He chuckled. “Last week a tourist came by. She liked a plastic ring. I told her it was folk art.” He snapped shut his ledger, came back and sat behind his desk. “I’ve only seen one other dagger like this. Appears to be from the Mayan post-preclassic. Ceremonial. Never used for actual battle, of course. A jade hilt and an emerald capstone, and although the gold is low-grade, like most Mayan gold, it is a very rare find and very valuable indeed.”

  “I’m surprised, Juan. You’re not up to your old tricks. By now you’ve usually told me how worthless an artifact is.”