Vampire Dawn Part 9

Anthony stuck his head in his sister's room, looked at us on the floor and said, "Lame."

And walked on.

Chapter Twenty.

Hi, Moon Dance.

Hey, big guy.

Big guy?

It's a term of affection, I wrote.

So you feel affection for me?

Of course I do, Fang.

I felt him probing my mind a little, small, s.h.i.+very touches that let me know he was there.

He wrote: I think you love me, Moon Dance.

Friendly love, Fang.

I'll take friendly love. For now.

Good. Now, what's up?

I've got news about your son.

Talk to me.

First of all, is he still becoming stronger?

More so than ever. Tammy said he now routinely wrestles seven boys at once.

So, you could say he's seven times stronger.

Put that way, and I nearly went into a panic. I wrote: Yes, I guess. What does it mean?

I can feel you panicking, Moon Dance. Don't panic.

Please just tell me what's going on, Fang. I can't handle this. I'm seriously freaking out.

Okay, okay, hang in there. According to my sources, the vampire blood that briefly flowed through him hasn't entirely left him.

"Oh my G.o.d," I said out loud to the empty room. More panic gripped me. Nearly overwhelmed me. I wrote: But the vampirism has been reversed, Fang. The medallion...

Yes, the vampirism has been reversed. No, your son isn't a vampire. Not technically.

I found myself on my feet, reeling, staggering, pacing. Jesus, what had I done to my son?

The IM window pinged with a new message. I sat back down. Fang had written: Hang on, Moon Dance. It's not all bad. In fact, it's kind of good news, if you ask me.

Kind of? What the h.e.l.l is going on, Fang? Please tell me.

Sam, your son will have all the strength of a vampire, but none of the weaknesses.

I read his words, blinking through tears. Are you sure?

Pretty sure.

He won't need to consume blood?

We don't think so.

Who's we?

My sources.

Fine, I wrote. I didn't care about Fang's sources. Not now. I wrote: What about the sunlight?

It should not affect him, Moon Dance.

And immortality?

There was a small delay, followed by: Perhaps.

Perhaps what?

There's a good chance your son might be immortal.

I don't understand. Why?

I don't think anyone really understands, Sam. The system was flawed somewhere, broke down. But, yes, we think he will retain the good qualities but none of the bad.

And being immortal is a good quality?

For some, the very best, Moon Dance.

But why did this happen?

Whoever created your kind, and whoever created the medallion, was not perfect. In essence, a mistake was made somewhere along the line. The reverse was not complete.

What do I do, Fang?

It is up to you to make the most of this, Moon Dance, and to help your son make the most of this, too. Think of this as an opportunity, Moon Dance. Not a curse. For both you and your son.

I hung my head for a minute or two, then typed: Thanks for your help, Fang.

So what will you do, Moon Dance?

I'm going to have a talk with him.

When?

I don't know. Goodnight, Fang.

Goodnight, Moon Dance.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Celebrities can hide their electronic footprints a little easier than the average citizen. This is because they can hide behind accountants and handlers. Because of this, my background search on Robert Mason took a little more digging than usual.

And what came up wasn't much.

I had his current residence. Or, rather, his last known residence. He was living in the hills above Fullerton. Nice area. Big homes. Lots of s.p.a.ce. Perfect place to secretly drain someone dry. Or maybe many someones.

Interestingly, I knew of two people who also lived in the hills. Detective Hanner and a very old and very creepy Kabbalistic grandmaster. One was a vampire, and one was a kind of vampire.

Anyway, Robert Mason had no criminal record. An ex-wife of his accused him of abuse. He was never arrested, although a restraining order had been placed on him. I'd only met the guy once, and I wanted to put a restraining order on him, too. He had no kids, only the one marriage-divorced now fifteen years.

His last known professional acting job had been on One Life to Live, five years ago. And, according to the various reports I'd dug up, he'd been fired from his job. The reasons were conflicting, but more than one article suggested substance abuse.

Why he was fired or why he was divorced didn't seem to be of importance presently. That he was a full-blown psychopath now was obvious to me. That he harbored a deep evil was also obvious to me.

As I sat in my office, with my kids asleep down the hallway, I called Kingsley. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hi, baby," he said.

I didn't respond. At least, not with words.

"What's that sound?" he asked.

"I'm panting," I said. "You know, like a dog."

"Oh, brother. But, please, Sam. Say no more over the phone."

"Oh, I'm not saying anything," I said, and panted some more.

"Cute, Sam. Do you actually have something on your mind, or did you just call to make those ridiculous sounds?"

"Both," I said, and stopped panting long enough to catch him up to date on my investigation-in particular, my meeting with Robert Mason.

"Like he said," said Kingsley. "He knows what you are, Sam."

"In so short a time?"

"He must have suspected you were something more, which is why he scheduled the meeting. No doubt his suspicions were confirmed at the meeting." Kingsley paused. I knew he was choosing his words carefully over the open phone line. "We can hide from the majority of the world, Sam, but not from the truly psychic. They tend to see through us. Thankfully, there's not many of them."

"And those who do see us?"

"Well, those who are vocal about it are silenced."

I thought about his words. "I think Robert Mason saw an opportunity."

"To supply blood?"

"Yes," I said.

"No doubt a very lucrative gig."

I asked, "What do you know about blood suppliers?"

"Not much, but I know someone who undoubtedly would."

"Detective Hanner," I said.

"Boy, Sam. It's almost as if you could read my mind."

"I'll never say."

He laughed and we set up a dinner date later in the week, and when we had hung up, I made another call.

To the only other creature of the night that I knew.

Chapter Twenty-two.

We were on her wide, wraparound patio deck.

The deck overlooked the same Fullerton Hills that Robert Mason lived in. And a famous Dodgers manager. And a very creepy old man who bartered in human life.