VAMPIRE DAWN.

by J.R. RAIN.

Vampire for Hire.

Dedication.

To Scott Nicholson and Aiden James.

Great friends, great writers.

Acknowledgments.

A special thank you to the following readers: Beth Lidiak, Kathy Woodard, Leslie Whitaker, Lori Lilja, Holly Sanders, Rhonda Plumhoff, Sandy Gillberg, Andrea DaSilva, Amanda Winger-Stabley, Carmen Vazquez-Rodriguez, Mary Adam-Dussel, Vicki Dussel and Mich.e.l.le Craig Sanders. Thank you all for your help!

Author's Note.

I've included a copy of Christmas Moon with this publication of Vampire Dawn. Why? Although my intention was to write a fun and lighthearted holiday story featuring Samantha Moon and the gang, Christmas Moon ended up being, among other things, a continuation of Samantha's storyline. So, for anyone here who missed it, just click the link below and head over to Christmas Moon first, before reading Vampire Dawn. (And please note: due in part to the addition of Christmas Moon, Vampire Dawn now concludes at approximately the 65% point.) Happy reading.

-J.R. Rain.

Click here to read Christmas Moon.

Vampire Dawn.

Vampire for Hire #5.

"They had forgotten the first lesson, that we are to be powerful, beautiful, and without regret."

-Interview with A Vampire.

"I can smell the sunlight on your skin."

-True Blood.

Chapter One.

It was early afternoon and I was vacuuming.

Others like me were, undoubtedly, sleeping contentedly in crypts or coffins or castle keeps. Me, I was vacuuming up bits of pretzels and popcorn. Last night was movie night, and the kids had picked Captain America, and I did my best not to drool over the bowl of popcorn I pretended to eat. Yes, I have to pretend to eat around my children. Since I'm unable to eat any real food, I'd become a master of hiding my food in napkins, in the bottom of sodas, and even on others' plates. More than once little Anthony had turned to look at something that I pointed at, only to discover that he had, remarkably, even more fries in his Happy Meal. Miracles do happen.

As I vacuumed, I caught s.n.a.t.c.hes of Judge Judy wagging her finger at a cheating young man who looked like he was on the verge of tears, but then again, that could have just been wishful thinking. After all, there's something special about watching a strong woman reduce a dirtbag to tears.

Maybe it's the devil in me.

Or the cheated-on wife in me.

At any rate, I had just put away the vacuum and straightened the pillows on the couch when the doorbell rang. I flipped down my sungla.s.ses and, after mentally preparing myself for the short blast of sunlight that I was about to experience, I opened the door.

I always gasp when I'm exposed to sunlight, and now was no exception. Even with the shades on. Even with the sunscreen I wear indoors. Even with all the layers of clothing I presently had on. I always gasp. Every time.

Standing in the doorway was a big man. Not as big as Kingsley or even my new detective friend, Jim Knighthorse, but certainly big enough. Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton Police Department was one of the few people who knew my super-secret ident.i.ty. I hadn't planned on telling him what I was, but the detective was no dummy.

So I had decided to come clean, and he had proven to be a true friend. Not only had he maintained my secret, he sought my a.s.sistance.

Like now, apparently.

I absently adjusted my hair. For someone who was insecure at best, not having full use of a mirror was a major setback. Although I could make out the general shape of my face in a mirror if I was wearing enough make-up, my hair, strangely, didn't reflect.

I mean, what the h.e.l.l is that all about?

I knew the answer, but that didn't make it any easier to accept. On that accursed night seven years ago when I was forever changed, my body had somehow crossed from the natural world into the supernatural world. A world where mirrors were no longer relevant.

"You look fine, Samantha," said Detective Sherbet. "Quit worrying."

I stepped aside as he moved past me. He was carrying a greasy bag that looked suspiciously like donuts. I quickly shut the door behind him.

I turned and faced him, recovering from the shock of sunlight. "Why did you say that?" I asked.

"Say what?" he asked, easing his considerable bulk down onto my new couch. The couch was one of those L-shaped deals that a mother and her two kids could get comfy in. At least, that was the theory. In practice, getting comfy with Anthony invariably meant dealing with a steady onslaught of gas.

"That thing you said about not worrying."

Sherbet was already rooting around for his first donut. "Because you sounded worried."

I leaned a shoulder against the door. "Except I didn't say anything, Detective."

Sherbet plucked a pink cake donut from the depths of the bag and, looking imminently pleased, was just bringing it to his mouth when he paused. He didn't look happy pausing. "Yes you did, Sam."

"No, I didn't."

"You were talking about your hair not growing, make-up and not seeing your hair in the mirror-and I gotta tell you, kid, you nearly bored me to tears." Now he happily resumed consuming the donut. Watching such a big man, such a distinguished man, eat a little pink donut was, well, cute.

I moved away from the door and crossed the living room, noticing for the first time a pair of Anthony's dirty skivvies jammed into the corner of the couch, maybe two feet away from Sherbet. How and why they got there would be an interesting conversation between Anthony and me later.

For now, though, I sat next to the toxic undies, so close to Sherbet that I was nearly in his lap. The big detective looked at me curiously but didn't say anything. I casually felt for the dirty skivvies, found them, wadded them up and stood. I was certain Sherbet hadn't seen me, although he was watching me curiously. Then he looked at the unfinished pink donut, turned a little green, and dropped it back into the bag, which he promptly set on the floor between his feet.

He said, "Geez, Sam. Talk about your donut buzz kill."

"What do you mean?"

"The dirty underwear talk. Look, kid, I've got a boy, too, and I've seen my fair share of skid marks. But you sure as h.e.l.l don't need to go on and on about them while a guy's trying to enjoy a donut, especially after the day I've had."

"But I didn't say anything, Detective."

"Or course you did."

"No, I didn't. Just like I didn't say anything about my hair."

"I heard it plain as day."

"No, Detective, you didn't."

He looked up at me from the new couch. There was a bit of pink frosting already caught in his thick, cop mustache. He looked at me, frowned, and then slowly wiped his mustache clean.

He said, "Your lips never moved."

"No, they didn't."

"But I heard that bit about the frosting in my mustache."

"Apparently."

"What's going on, Sam?"

"I think," I said, sitting next to him and patting him on the knee, "that you're reading my mind."

"Your mind?"

"Yes."

"Ah, h.e.l.l."

Chapter Two.

After a moment, Sherbet said, "What, exactly, does that mean, Samantha?"

"It means exactly that, Detective. You're reading my mind."

The detective didn't look so good. He sat forward, rubbed his eyes with a hand that was bigger than even Kingsley's. I noticed scarring on his knuckles that I had missed before. He looked down at his own knuckles, and said, "I used to be a fighter. A brawler, really. A real hothead back in the day."

"You're doing it again, Detective."

"But you said-"

"I didn't say anything."

Some of the color drained from his face. "I feel sick."

"Hang on, Detective."

I left him alone for a moment while I tossed Anthony's undies in the laundry room. When I returned, the big detective was apparently over his initial shock. He was not only holding the greasy bag of donuts, but had just consumed the last of the pink donut. All was right in the world.

"Not quite," said Sherbet, licking his fingers, but then suddenly stopped. He looked up at me. "I'm doing it again, ain't I?"

"Yes, you are."

"What's happening to me, Sam?"

I sat next to him and gave him my "penny for your thoughts" face. He smelled of Old Spice and donut grease.

I said, "You're not losing your mind, Detective. Sometimes those closest to me have access to my thoughts. I also suspect it's because you're one of the few who know what I really am. I've put a lot of trust in you. And you in me. It has something to do with that." I smiled brightly at him. "So, as you can see, having access to my thoughts is a rare privilege."

He snorted. "I feel honored." He was about to turn back to his bag of donuts when a thought occurred to him. "So does that mean you have access to my thoughts, too?"

"It does."

"I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"Don't worry, Detective. Your deep, dark secrets are safe with me. Besides, I won't access your thoughts unless you give me permission."

"Do you know how crazy that sounds, Sam?"

"I do."

"Are we both crazy?"

"Maybe."

Sherbet stared at me. He was an old-school homicide investigator. Strictly by the books. Just the facts, ma'am. Logical, rational, tough, fair, street smart. A skilled investigator. Then one day a vampire appeared in his life-granted, a cute and s.p.u.n.ky vampire-and his neat little world came crashing down.

"I wouldn't say crashing down, Sam. Maybe turned upside down a little. And, yes, I know I'm reading your thoughts again."

I grinned. "Maybe we should get to why you're here."

He sat straighter. "Gladly. Which is an odd thing to say about a serial killer."

"He struck again," I said.