Little Moon: A Samantha Moon Story Read online

  Okay, now I felt a little bad. Samantha Moon, mood killer.

  “Wow, your cheeks are glowing, Sammy.”

  “Say again?”

  “No offense, but you were looking a little pale just a few minutes ago.” Allison stops, stares at me, then looks over at the now obviously subdued foursome. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes I did.”

  She giggles. “Well, they were being a bit obnoxious.”

  “But they didn’t deserve to be... drained.”

  “Maybe not, but what are you going to do, Sam? It’s not like you can order ‘energy’ from the local butchery.”

  Allie is referring to my old standing order with a butchery in Norco, a butchery that delivered blood to my home every few weeks, under the pretense I needed it for gardening or research or something or other. I forget now. Weird how my previous life grows hazier and hazier.

  “So what’s next, Sam? How do you find a bike rack that seemingly appears and disappears at random.”

  “Maybe it’s not so random. Two sightings in four days.”

  “Also two disappearances. But how do you predict where it might appear again.”

  “That, my friend, is the million-dollar question. Oh no... what did I say?”

  “You called me your friend.”

  “I always call you my friend.”

  She gets a dreamy, slightly drunk look to her eyes. “I know... but you really sounded like you meant it.”

  “Okay, we’re cutting you off.”

  4.

  It’s Saturday morning, and I’d arranged to meet Bri and her mom here at the office.

  I asked again if Brenda felt comfortable leaving her daughter with me, and she said she’d looked me up and confirmed I was a highly rated private investigator with few complaints. Good enough for her. Regarding those complaints... yeah, I sucked them all dry. You don’t want to leave a bad Yelp review on a real vampire, energy or otherwise.

  (Yes, I jest.)

  Yesterday, I did some background work on both the park and the empty field in question. A few phone calls later, and I was able to confirm with park maintenance that no one there had moved or removed any bike racks. The park manager I spoke with said he’d never seen the circular design in question. Okay, weird, but maybe little Bri had misremembered? I mean, she had been in a moving vehicle when she spotted the bike rack.

  Moving on to bike rack #2...

  According to country land assessor records, the empty field is owned by a company based on the East Coast. Further digging shows it’s been for sale on and off for the past decade. It’s not part of a park, and there was no reason for a bike rack to be on the property.

  I studied an aerial view of the land, noting no metal rack in the Google satellite pic. Nor did I really expect there to be, especially since it might have only been there for a day or two.

  Tammy arrives at the office, and shortly after that, Bri and her mom. After saying her goodbyes, Brenda veritably peals out of here, and I get the distinct feeling I’d just been roped into a day of babysitting. Hey, the pay is great, so, really, no complaints.

  Soon after that, the three of us are at a Starbucks. Tammy, I note, has a bright look in her eye, despite it still being early for her. These days, my daughter is nearly always up for a little field work. No, she’s not totally sold on following in her ma’s footsteps and becoming a private eye... or so she says. She coulda fooled me. After all, she seriously soaks up everything I do, peppering me with questions. She tells me it’s because she wants to actually help me—not take an easy paycheck. To which, I usually say since when did I start paying you? She usually rolls her eyes and says this intern crap is for the birds.

  Speaking of which, her three month trial period is coming to an end. I’m gonna have to pay up... or lose a most excellent assistant. Based on the fact she had been rousted out of bed at eight a.m. on a Saturday—and had done so without too much grumbling—I’m leaning toward her having found her calling. Am I happy about that? Hey, PI work is a good gig. Granted, it’s made all the more tolerable (and safer) when one has superhuman strength and speed. Then again, she has me, which is the next best thing. If I was a betting woman—and I’m not—I would bet she and I just might be partners in crime for a long time to come.

  Now, with the three of us caffeinated and me crackling with energy (for some reason, I prefer snacking in line at Starbucks), the three of us head out.

  “What’s the plan, Ma,” asks Tammy in the passenger seat next to me.

  “We kick ass,” I say. Behind me, Bri giggles.

  Tammy sighs. “We’re just going to drive around randomly, looking for a phantom bike rack, aren’t we?”

  I raise a finger. “Not randomly. There might be a pattern here.”

  “I know. Every few days. In open or remote spaces. Though, I would argue that by a lake in a park is hardly open or remote.”

  “Depends on what your definition of an open space is,” says Bri from the backseat. “Technically, a lake is the most open space there is, since not much can be built on it.”

  “Based on that logic, then how do we know the bike rack isn’t presently at the bottom of the lake?”

  “We don’t,” I say. “But I think that defeats the purpose.”

  “And what’s the purpose?” asks Tammy.

  “To lock a bike up, of course,” quips Bri from behind us, giggling.

  Tammy sighs. “Fine. So what’s the game plan, guys?”

  “Well, Bri had seen both bike racks in the morning. And both had disappeared by the next day, roughly. Both appeared in semi-empty places within a few days of each other.”

  “So... we’re going to random empty space?” asks Tammy.

  “Bingo,” I say.

  “But there are lots of empty spaces.”

  “True,” I say, “which is why we’re going to focus on spaces between where the two bike racks were seen.”

  “But...”

  “Trust your mother,” I say, winking at her.

  5.

  Earlier, I’d studied Google Maps.

  Like, really poured over it, and found some possible targets, all within about two miles from the last sighting in the grass field. Two miles was key, since that’s the distance from the lake to the grassy field sighting. Yorba Linda sits on the outskirts of Orange County. As such, there is a lot of empty land just beyond the city. However, the two bike rack sightings were well within city limits. As such, a number of targets presented themselves—twenty, in fact.

  Up first was another park, nestled between two single-story condo complexes. We spotted a standard-looking bike rack near a basketball court. This rack could hold about six bikes, and did not sport the all-important circular hoops. We continued on, checking off vacant lots, long stretches of empty land between homes, space behind stores and restaurants. We even stumbled upon promising spots that I had missed on the map.

  No sign of a bike rack sporting three rusted hoops.

  After pulling away from a random softball field that seemed a bit out of place in a housing tract, Tammy asked if that was the last one.

  “For now, yes. Admittedly, it was a bit of a crapshoot today. But that timeline did add up. The truth is, there’s just so much we don’t know about why, when, and where this is showing up.”

  “Are we assuming it’s supernatural?” asks Tammy.

  “Maybe?” I say.

  “Was that a question, Ma?”

  “I think so?”

  Tammy laughs. “Well, I think it is. I mean, whoever heard of a disappearing bike rack?”

  “We just don’t know enough yet.” I look in the rearview mirror at Bri sitting in the backseat. “Let’s check out the two spots where you did see the two racks.”

  Tammy laughs sharply.

  “What?” I ask.

  “If Ant was here and he heard you say, you know...” She blocks her mouth from Bri, and mouths the word ‘racks.’

  I get it, and laugh harder than I probably
should.

  “What?” Bri asks. “Is my breath bad?”

  “No, sweetie. Tammy just made a comment on her little brother, who’s not so little anymore.”

  With that, we head out to Yorba Linda Regional Park.

  6.

  The lake shore offers little evidence, other than to confirm that, yes, there is no indication of a bike rack ever having been anchored here—or even temporarily dragged here.

  I allow my daughter to gently pepper Bri with the “Are you sure we’re in the right spot?” questions. The little detective is confident enough, though she can’t confirm the absolute exact location, since she had first seen the structure from a moving car. But she points to the road where we stand and, yeah, we have a clear shot of the busy road.

  I notice my daughter, Tammy, standing with her arms slightly raised, moving her hands this way and that. I ask what’s up and she says “Not sure.”

  Ooookay.

  We move on from the park and head over to the grassy field, two miles away. On the way, I buy us all another Starbucks. Living in Orange County is nice. Even the outpost city of Yorba Linda has a Starbucks on nearly every corner.

  The grass field, meanwhile, isn’t very interesting, though Bri is more confident about its exact location, having actually touched the damn thing. She points out the exact spot where it sat and I lean down for closer inspection. Yup, nothing. And as I straighten, feeling the blood rush to my head—yes, I still have blood movement in my body, even if my heart rate is super duper slow—I notice Tammy doing the weird hand thing again.

  “Okay, what gives?” I ask.

  It’s nearing noon and I’ve been out in the sun for darn near half a day. No, the sunlight doesn’t affect me like it used to, but my body still doesn’t love it. And, no, I no longer need my protective emerald “day ring,” though I still have it in my safe at home, just in case there’s another shift in the world and I need it. So, yeah. The sun and I are on good terms, but we’re not besties... or even pals. I suspect the sun might fry me to a crisp if given half a chance.

  And yeah, I still wear my sunblock and presently sport a baseball cap. I can feel my ears burning as I watch my daughter’s strange behavior.

  For an answer, she asks, “Can you still see ghosts, Mom?”

  I shake my head. When Elizabeth literally exploded out of me, that ability to see energy left with her. Not so terrible, really. I mean, I seriously didn’t want to spend eternity ignoring entities popping up randomly in my life—and my home.

  “Well, I feel like there’s one out here, now. Come here and feel. It’s so cold right here.”

  I do. So does Bri.

  “Holy moly!” says the girl. “It’s ice cold. Wait, does that mean there’s a ghost here?”

  My skin prickles into gooseflesh. Cold, even for an energy vampire.

  “I felt it at the previous location,” says Tammy. “Wasn’t sure until now.”

  “Wait,” says Bri, “are you telling me both places are... haunted?”

  “Hmm” is all I say, not quite convinced. The cold, after all, is steady. No movement, no flow.

  “Appears so,” says Tammy.

  “Why is a ghost following us?” asks Bri.

  “Is it haunting, or just swinging by?” I ask.

  “What’s the difference?” asks Bri.

  “Swinging by means a spirit is curious and sorta checking things out. Haunting means...”

  “Stuck,” says Tammy.

  We are silent as we process this information. The air is cold in and around the spot where Bri tells us the bike rack had sat. Too big for a ghost—and far too steady.

  “Did someone die here?” asks Bri. “Or maybe near the lake?”

  Tammy glances at me. “Google?”

  I nod. “Let’s Google the crap out of this.”

  Bri looks at us. “Me, too?”

  “But of course.”

  7.

  Cell phones have done wonders for my business.

  In fact, they have damn well turned everyone into a detective. Gone are the days of looking at microfiche for anything that might lend a clue in a case. Now, with a few choice keywords, anything can pop up.

  “Anything yet?” I ask from the driver’s seat. No, I’m not driving. We’re parked at a McDonald’s parking lot, sipping iced teas and munching chicken nuggets.

  Tammy shakes her and pops in one shaped roughly like the state of Texas. “Nothing so far.”

  I’ve tried all the keywords I can think of, but murder, bike rack, Yorba Linda, and death are turning up zilch.

  “Guys,” says Tammy. “I typed in ‘random bikes’ and got a hit on an artist named Banksy. Have you heard of him?”

  I nod but Bri shakes her head. Tammy quickly explains. Banksy is an anonymous street artist who often leaves behind stenciled artwork of social commentary on sides of buildings and walls. I’ve seen a number of his pieces, especially the one that self-shredded at a live auction. Okay, that was ingenious. Banksy, you see, is against anyone profiting from his art, especially at fancy auction houses. After the final bid, a loud thrumming noise erupted from the painting itself. Turned out Banksy himself had hidden a shredder inside the painting’s frame. Though the auction house had managed to disable the machine, it resulted in a partially shredded Banksy... thus making it even more desirable and valuable. Well, be it as it may, he got his point across, and thus his legend continued to grow.

  “Well, Banksy left behind a random painting of a bike in London. Here’s the pic—”

  “Already have it,” says Bri, holding up her phone. Wow. Kids today and their technological know-how. “But this is a painting, Tammy. Not a bike rack.”

  “I know, but it got me thinking. What if this is actually art being left behind by an artist? You know, a street artist trying to make a name for himself or something?”

  “Or what if it’s Banksy himself!” says Bri.

  I chuckle. So does Tammy, who, I know, follows the artist in her Instagram account. “He rarely does sculptures,” she says. “Besides, these racks aren’t getting any kind of press. As far as we know, only you and your mother have seen them.”

  “Guys, I just typed in ‘random sculptures’ and got a hit about these metallic monoliths appearing around the world,” says Bri. “Apparently, the first one was found by some park rangers in Utah in the middle of nowhere.” She shows us a picture on her phone of a tall metallic structure, completely smooth and shiny.

  “Didn’t they disappear, too?” asks Tammy.

  “They did,” says Bri. “They appeared, then they all disappeared.”

  I study the picture, scan the article. “Well, we’re hardly dealing with a pristine nine-foot megalith. The bike rack is old and rusty.”

  “That also appears and disappears,” says Bri. “That’s the key.”

  “Hmm. Maybe. Okay, kids. Let’s call it a day.”

  8.

  It’s late and I’m flying.

  Yes, a lot has changed in my life, but not everything. The ejection of Elizabeth had nothing to do with my dragon friend. Indeed, Talos and I are likely connected for all eternity.

  At present, I’m circling high above Yorba Linda. Below, the city is quiet and dark and mostly quiet. A few cars roll along the bigger streets. These days, I’m usually asleep at this time, but it’s not necessary. I really don’t need the shut-eye... not like before when I couldn’t stop my eyes from closing with the appearance of the morning sun.

  So, yeah. Nowadays, I sleep when I want and eat what I want. Not too shabby. Granted, I still need energy from an outside source. The sun doesn’t work, though I’m still experimenting with that. Small animals don’t work either. Bigger animals, sorta. But I’m not really around bigger animals, unless you count Kingsley... heh heh.

  Healthy adult humans are my targets. If I draw enough energy from someone, I risk having them drop on the spot. Ugh, don’t want that, unless I’m fighting for my life. The good news is, I get a sense of when I’ve had
enough—along with a sense of when the giver has given their fair share. It’s a nice symbiosis, even if my target hasn’t a clue why they’re yawning and yearning for a catnap.

  Luckily, I only need to fill up every few days... similar to when I was a bloodsucker. Being an immortal has its quirks. Apparently, feeding from others is one of them. Hey, I don’t make the rules.

  Hello, Talos.

  Hello, Sam. A fine night for flying.

  It is. What did I catch you doing, back in your world?

  It is night in my world, too. I was resting on my favorite perch, overlooking Zoxa Duur, my city.

  Crazy to think I’ve been there.

  Indeed. An eventful visit.

  I laugh, which comes out as a blasting squawk from his mouth. To say the least! What’s crazier is to think that I’m with you now.

  You are presently sitting by my side, safe and sound.

  The intricacies of transforming into Talos are pretty extensive, even if they happen instantaneously. His true body stays in his world, while a sort of astral projection of it appears in mine. Granted, a very physical projection of it. I don’t have to have a great reason to summon him. Case in point, searching for a mysterious bike rack. Meanwhile, my actual body does travel through the portal within the flame, appearing in his fourth dimensional world, where I’m protected from disintegration, thanks to his own magic. Fourth dimensional worlds and three-dimensional worlds don’t mix, you see. Well, not for long, anyway.

  Like I said, the intricacies are complicated... but it works. And so far, Talos and I have kept on making this work. Should Talos, say, be attacked right now, at this very moment, yeah, we might have an issue.

  You are working, Sam. Mind if I take a peek at what?

  Peek away!

  A half-minute later, his voice resumes in my head. A most unusual case, Sam. If not for the pictures and her mother’s testimony, I would be inclined to believe the child made up the story.

  The cynic in me feels the same way. A part of me thinks the mother is humoring the daughter. She did, after all, pawn her off me for nearly a full day.