Blood Moon (Samantha Moon Case Files Book 2) Read online

  “What? They’re dying?” I slow to a walk and stare at him.

  “Them two men should’a been dead when they attacked those slaves. If you’da not been here, they would’a been traveling without an escort. Phibe dun took a fatal shot tryin’ ta protect the younger one, an’ the men would’a beat the two deserters plum dead. You bein’ there kept three souls outta death’s claws, but they’s all fated to die.”

  “I don’t believe in fate.” I gaze off into the forest, my vampiric eyes peeling away the shadows.

  George shrugs. “S’pose that’s your thinkin’. But feels like there’s somethin’ outta balance ’round you.”

  I chuckle. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Forgive me, ma’am. My head’s all still a bit addled from being dead and all.”

  “Yeah. Takes a while to get used to, or so I’m told.” I also suspected I was only speaking to an aspect of George Clarke, a sort of split energy. His real self—his actual soul—was long gone.

  He cocks his head at me in confusion for a few seconds before understanding spreads over his features. “About them two deserters, bein’ a ghost an’ all, feels like they missin’ from here. An’ somethin’ ain’t rightly likin’ it.”

  “George… I can’t randomly murder them because ‘it’s supposed to happen.’”

  “You ain’t from this place. Best not be changin’ too much.”

  I watch my boots eat up the terrain for a silent few minutes, debating with myself if I have it in me to “set the universe right” if that means killing two men, unsavory as they may be. I’d most certainly not be able to kill Lanie, and not even those two idiots. About the only way I could ever see myself coming unglued enough to commit actual murder would be exacting revenge on someone who even threatened Tammy or Anthony, let alone something worse. Of course, I made short work of an asshole named Ira Levine, who threatened my kids a few years back. Not even prison could keep him safe from me.

  I stop walking and close my eyes. And so help me, if I even think you ever had anything to do with hurting them, I’m going to fling myself into the sun without this ring on.

  I amend that and think: After I tear to pieces whoever harmed them, of course.

  Elizabeth writhes in the back of my mind. She doesn’t speak, but I get the feeling she’s trying to remind me of the truce she accepted soon after I woke as a vampire. My kids are off-limits. I’ll never forget how horrified I was that day when four-year-old Tammy smelled so appetizing. She crept into the bathroom after the first of many meltdowns I’d have over my death and hugged me, trying to make me feel better. Her neck—so close to my face—set off an explosion of hunger and horror.

  “What will happen if I don’t kill them?” I ask.

  George, hands in his trouser pockets, shrugs. “I don’ reckon entirely, but I figure they both marked as havin’ cheated death. Bad fortune might could find them n’matter what you do. Likely soon.”

  “Does their not being dead harm you in any way?” I ask.

  “No.” George smiles. “I’m still hangin’ ’round ta help you, ma’am. Seein’ as how ya took so kindly ta tryin’ ta tend ta me. Reckon I’ll be here ’til yer affairs are settled.”

  I chuckle. “You’re going to be waiting a while. I’m not planning on dying any time soon… again.”

  “Oh…” He tilts his head at me. “Not meanin’ yer goin’ ta the next world. Meant getting’ back ta yer time. I know what y’are, ma’am. Kin see it clear as you kin see me. My pa used ta talk ’bout things like that, but none of us ever believed him. Kinda surprised you ain’t wanna kill them two, truth be told.”

  “Yeah, well… I’m full of surprises.”

  George laughs. “Aye, ma’am. I do rightly appreciate what you did for me. Them two men yer lookin’ after is holed up in the town o’ Chesterfield, enjoyin’ their loot.”

  “Wow. I guess they’re dumb and predictable. Brothel?”

  You know what’s weird? Watching a ghost blush.

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  “All right. Which way to Chesterfield?”

  George points. “That way, ma’am. Reckon I could show ya if ya like.”

  “That would be mighty kind of you.” I try to pat him on the back, but my hand passes through him.

  He ignores the attempt, nods, and marches off toward Chesterfield.

  I know my being here didn’t cause his death, but I still feel guilty. Maybe the problem with our country is how many of us sleep through history class. This kid’s not even seventeen yet and he died for what he believes in (even if those beliefs happen to be backward). Tammy thinks the worst thing in the world is if one of the bands she likes is late in releasing their new album.

  How times have changed.

  At least Anthony’s not a drama king.

  Though he’s been awful quiet lately. Ugh. I need to get home. Stat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dawn approaches right as I reach Chesterfield.

  Great timing. I drag myself over to the nearest house and break into their cellar. Once inside, I take refuge on the bottom shelf below a stockpile of canned fruit that could keep the Confederate Army going for a month. An empty burlap sack makes for a decent bit of concealment. With any luck, no one will notice me in the few hours it takes my forced sleepiness to come and go. Not like I breathe, make any noise, or move at all.

  Just a corpse to the rest of the world, I think sleepily. Albeit, a cute and spunky one.

  It seems as though my eyes close and open in seconds. The only clue that time passed is the former silence is now full of cats yowling and an older woman’s voice trying to calm them down. Great, the first house I pick and it’s the Crazy Cat Lady of 1862. And her furry companions smell something dead in the basement. Not that I stink. Well… I do… but that’s from not having a damn bath in weeks. Being undead, my body doesn’t produce the same sorts of things-that-can-smell like it used to, but there’s still some degree of it. Sweltering heat and wearing the same clothing for days in a row doesn’t help.

  But no, the cats aren’t picking up my physical stink. They’re sensing Elizabeth—or at least my undeadness.

  Right. Time to get out of here before the old lady comes downstairs.

  I kick out of the burlap, lofting a huge cloud of dust into the air, and stand. No sense raising a panic, so I wad up the fabric and toss it out of sight in the corner, then make my way up the cellar stairs outside. And ugh. It’s not even noon yet and it’s already as muggy as my bathroom after a long hot shower. I spend a moment swatting dust from my dress, grateful for the simpler garment. Today is going to be hotter than hell.

  Chesterfield isn’t a big town. It only takes me about ten minutes to locate the brothel, which is pretending to be a respectable boarding house. The three-story white building looks like a massive private home or a small hotel. It’s also a touch on the creepy side, like the sort of place they’d use to film a ghost movie. A huge front porch with dark hardwood boards has several rocking chairs and small tables, none of which hold anything but air at the moment. A pair of double doors with plenty of window does make it look more like a business than a residence.

  Signage on the front announces rooms for rent, by the night, week, or month. Yeah, right. I doubt many people use this place for long-term lodgings. That’s likely only there to appease the town council or whoever else might take issue with having an establishment like this within walking distance of the town square.

  I get a few disapproving looks from nearby pedestrians as I walk up onto the porch. Obviously, there’s only one reason a young woman (or at least someone who appears to be an attractive-enough young woman) would go into this place. Oh, I couldn’t possibly be hunting for a runaway husband, or here to drag my brother home—no, everyone assumes I’m looking for work. Whatever. Not like I’ll have to ever see any of those judgmental pricks again. And I doubt any one of them would believe I’m a thirty-one-year-old mother of two. Okay, not everything about vampirism s
ucks.

  Just the feeding.

  Hah.

  Anyway… I stroll into a parlor full of wingback chairs and divans that all appear fancy and about thirty years old. Great, this is like the secondhand store of booty. There’s only one other person in the room, a late-thirties woman with black hair sitting behind an attempt at a hotel reception desk. She’s more or less asleep, but stirs a little at the sound of my boot heels on the floorboards.

  “I’m looking for two men,” I say to the bleary-eyed woman, and peek into her head. “A pair of soldiers.”

  She remembers them with little opinion attached, though thinks of Pardoe as humorously charming. “Umm. Forgive me, Miss…?”

  “Passing through.” I smile and give her a prompt. “Which room or rooms are they staying in?”

  “They booked room twelve for the night.”

  “Thank you kindly, Miss.” I nudge her back asleep and remove myself from her memory.

  My stomach rumbles. Damn. It’s been a while since I’ve fed. That can wait the few minutes or so it will take me to finish up in here. I’m sure there’s a cow or horse somewhere in Chesterfield willing to help me out, even if it doesn’t want to.

  After helping myself to the bundle of keys on the desk in front of her, I swoop around a pair of cream-colored divans and head up an ornate staircase to the second floor. One thing about the past—the buildings are beautiful. None of those cheap corner-cutting monopoly houses that developers put up by the dozens.

  And yeah, this is definitely the kind of place that should be harboring more than a few ghosts. Though, considering I’m currently in 1862, perhaps those ghosts haven’t been killed yet. Creepy old houses don’t come with hauntings from the moment they’re built. The corridor is remarkably clean, with ornate wallpaper and white-painted doors. Small, black hand-painted numbers identify the rooms.

  Room twelve is at the far end of the hall, the door facing me instead of on either side. Once there, I start working my way through the keyring until I find the one that opens the lock. It’s a large room with two beds and a tiny fireplace. A collapsible privacy barricade leans against the wall on the left by a small wardrobe cabinet. Pardoe and Chisholm are both sound asleep and mercifully covered up by their bedclothes. Though, Pardoe looks like he’s come down with a bit of nasty fever. Fate seriously doesn’t mess around.

  While I don’t need to worry about such things, I still give him a wide berth and proceed to rummage the room. Other than a stack of Confederate paper money, which even now is of dubious worth, they don’t have anything that appears to belong to Delacroix. My expectation that they likely sold the ring and went straight to the nearest pub or brothel appears to have been proven true. Damn.

  I grab Chisholm by a fistful of chest hair and shake him until he comes around. He stares foggily up at me for a few seconds before a dumb grin spreads over his lips. Oh, he thinks I’m here to entertain him. The anger radiating from my eyes chases his smile away in seconds.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asks.

  “You don’t remember me?” I tsk at him. “I’m hurt.”

  He squints. Somewhere, deep in his brain, a thought-mouse scurries around a giant empty chamber hunting for a crumb, but doesn’t find anything. Undoubtedly, they’d been a little drunk when they attacked the escaped slaves. Chisholm doesn’t even remember the ass-kicking I delivered to his associate.

  “No, but you’s a mighty fine piece.”

  I wish I still had my Glock. I’d show him what a piece really is. “You attacked a man and stole several things from him. Where is his ring?”

  The name Abner Wilkins flashes across his mind.

  He squints at me, yawns, then mutters, “What ring?”

  “Who is Abner Wilkins?” I ask.

  Chisholm blinks. Some of the hangover-red fades from his cheeks. He’s afraid to say anything right away, but his thoughts give away the general store in town. “I… umm… sold it. Thing paid for the best night of mah life.”

  I look around at the disheveled room, uniforms and underthings littered around, empty bottles on the nightstand, and the stink of sweat in the air. “You’ve had a sad life if this is the peak.”

  He stares at me, blank-faced.

  Pardoe gurgles in his sleep, launching into a series of phlegmatic coughs. The wad of mucous doing backflips in his throat brings my mind around to what George Clarke said about these two having one foot in the grave already. While the ghost didn’t explicitly say he thought I should kill them, the implication hung there anyway.

  I frown at Chisholm. They may be unsavory, and perhaps the world wouldn’t miss them, but I’m not Fate’s assassin. Shaking my head, I leave the men to their beds and head downstairs. The woman at the front desk doesn’t notice me return the keys, nor does she stir as my boots thunk across the floor to the exit.

  Oppressive heat slaps me in the face when I reach the street. I squint at the near-cloudless sky and the fuming ball of pain and suffering hanging in the air. Or, as some call it, the sun. Who’s to say that any of what happens is preordained? I reckon if Fate existed, those two clowns would already be goners.

  A sigh leaks out my nose. I seriously just used ‘reckon’ and not on purpose.

  Yeah. I really need to get my ass home.

  And not just my ass. All of me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Once I’m out of the vicinity of the brothel, passing townsfolk’s dark looks and head-shaking gives way to smiles and polite nods.

  I do, however, get a few lingering stares. While I’m not entirely sure about the social mores of 1862 and what wearing a plain sundress out and about town could potentially imply about me, I like to think that the other women bustling about in their layers and layers are simply jealous. They don’t have to know that the reason I’m not dripping with sweat is I have no body temperature.

  I mean, my body can sweat, but it usually doesn’t unless I overexert myself like at the gym. And, as best I can figure out, that only happens because I subconsciously think it ought to. One of those “trying to appear normal and blend in” things.

  Oh, and contrary to what you might hear in certain parts of Southern California, clamping one’s lips around a cow’s neck is not “trying to appear normal and blending in.” That’s not going to happen in plain sight. It’s a lot easier to lure a person into a secluded spot for feeding than it is to sweet-talk a cow into a hotel room—so I need to find a source of food that’s already in an out-of-the-way place.

  Though, honestly, drinking blood right from a live cow or horse is significantly tastier than the stuff I get in modern times that’s been drained from an already-dead animal. Of course, I can’t argue the convenience of feeding in the privacy of my annoyingly detached garage. My best chance to find an inconspicuous meal is not happening inside town. I’ll deal with Abner Wilkins first and grab a bite at one of the outlying farms.

  The Chesterfield General Store is like something out of a low-budget Western movie. In a hundred years, this store would undoubtedly be filled with Twinkies and Slurpee machines. For now, I head past shelves of various items, mostly in tins or jars, and approach the counter along the left side of the room. The man behind it is somewhere between over-the-hill cowboy and retired Confederate Army soldier. Pale blue shirt, gray trousers, long brown hair, fluffy mustache tinged with silver, and a black ten-gallon hat.

  Oy. I gotta remember this is normal here. Back home, I’d be snickering under my breath at this getup.

  “Can I help ya, missus?” asks the man.

  “You Abner Wilkins?”

  His eyes narrow. “Who’s asking?”

  “Just little ol’ me,” I say, trying to convey friendliness. “Some rather unscrupulous individuals stole something of mine and have confessed to selling it to you. I’m looking for a thick-banded gold ring with an interesting pattern… oh, and a red opal.”

  Abner’s mustache twitches side to side. I half expect him to start singing Froggy Went A-Courtin’, but
he only sighs. “Sorry, missus. Ya missed it by a couple hours. Thing caught the eye of a young corporal, bought it right up earlier this mornin’.”

  Eyes closed, I lean my head back and seethe in silence. This poor guy doesn’t deserve my wrath.

  “You all right, missus? Bit of heat out there today.”

  I stare at him. “It’s important that I find this ring. What can you tell me about the man who purchased it? Where is he going?”

  “Hmm.” Wilkins rubs his chin. “Think the man’s name was Cokely. Godfrey Cokely or somethin’ of that nature. That ring of yours caught his eye right quick like, an’ he figured it a good-luck charm. Light-haired man, ’bout your age. P’raps even as old as twenty-five.”

  “Oh, pshaw,” I say, feigning a blush. “You’re too kind. Do you reckon where he went?”

  Abner raises an eyebrow. Wow, he really thinks I’m like twenty or so. Must be his age showing. I know the feeling. The older I get, the more adults younger than me look like kids. “Uhh, the boys took off outta here like a bat outta hell. Headin’ northward. They’s gonna give them Yanks the what for.”

  Dammit! I’m going to be chasing this stupid ring around so long I might as well just head out to California and bide my time until the calendar catches up. Blinding frustration triggers a rush of bad thoughts, everything from kicking over these shelves to tearing out Abner’s throat.

  Whoa.

  Slow down there, Sam. That’s Elizabeth talking.

  “Heh,” says Abner, reacting to the visible anger on my face. “I get riled up jes’ hearin’ the word ‘Yanks,’ too.”

  I give him the side-eye. “Yeah… So this Cokely left town with a lot of men?”

  “Yes’m. The whole lot of ’em came up from Carolina what I hear.”

  “And they left town this morning?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yes’m.”

  Well, a large number of soldiers can’t be that difficult to find.

  “Thank you kindly.”

  I scan his thoughts thoroughly, in particular, the youngish, handsome face that keeps popping up in Abner’s forethoughts with every mention of Cokely’s name. Once I’ve committed the face to memory, I offer a slight nod and hurry out.