“Pax?” I ask. “Question for you.”

  She leans back, peering up at me. “Yeah?”

  “How would you feel about... me becoming your foster mom?”

  “Really?” Paxton stares at me. “You’d do that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why are you angry?”

  Whoa. The kid might be an empath. “Thinking about your father and what he did to you.”

  My mama bear mode is going into overdrive looking into this kid’s innocent face and wounded blue eyes. “Do you really think your father intends to hurt you?”

  She fidgets. “I dunno. When he was screaming, he said people like me deserve to die, but I dunno if he’s gonna do it on purpose. Just, you know, get so mad and hit me harder than he means to. He’s huge. And I’m, well, not. Do the math. I don’t wanna live in fear like that all the time. If they send me back there, I’m just gonna run away.”

  This girl is a twig, no doubt. Even a normal adult man hitting her could do serious damage. I’m sure there’s a little fear distortion going on in her mind right now, but her father looks like a weightlifter. He works construction, apparently. Her memories have way too many moments of abuse, though mostly emotional, yelling and so on, but a few cases of violence. Yeah, if he ever hit Paxton out of rage, he’d kill her. I can’t sit back and allow her to go back to an environment like that. Everything in her head convinces me he’s going to kill her, intentionally or not.

  “No, you won’t. You said you’d like to have a mother like me. If you’re serious, I can make it happen.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. But fair warning, if you stay with me, things might get a little… unusual.”

  She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing major… magic, demons, immortals, unpredictable supernatural stuff. It might be dangerous, but I’ve managed to keep my two other kids alive this long.”

  Paxton laughs. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Wait, you’re being serious?”

  “Totally and completely.” I extend my wings.

  “Whoa… they’re so pretty!” She reaches out and touches one. “I could kinda tell you weren’t lying, but wow…”

  I watch her ‘pet’ my wing for a moment, then say, “My life is full of stuff like this. I’m currently at war with demons. Vampires are real. So are werewolves. I’ll do my best to shield you from the strangest stuff, but there’s a chance you’ll see things most people don’t believe in.”

  “It’s okay. I can tell you want to protect me. My dad never felt like you do when I got scared. He just wanted me to stop crying as fast as possible.”

  “Dang.” I sigh. “What happened to your mom?”

  “He said she died in a car accident when I was like two.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. Okay, consider yourself the kitten I couldn’t resist taking home.”

  She manages a feeble smile and makes a soft, “Mew.”

  “Last chance. It’s not fair to spring all this paranormal stuff on you if you aren’t able and willing to deal with it. If you’d rather not, I’ll erase the memory of you seeing my wings, take care of your dad, and get you placed somewhere safe. If you want to be part of my crazy world…” I offer her my hand.

  Paxton grabs it without hesitation, her stare pleading. “I can totally feel how much you wanna protect me. And I don’t have to hide who I am with you, either.”

  “You’re an empath.”

  “I think so.” She shrugs one shoulder.

  A black woman in her late twenties barges in. “There you are! Pax baby, you know you gotta go home. Girl, what you doing?”

  Before I can say anything, Paxton hides behind me. “He’s gonna hurt me. You know he will.”

  The woman sighs. “Cops will haul me out of here if I don’t let them bring you back to your father. But you just call me if he lays one hand—”

  “It’s handled,” I say, happy to see that Paxton has others in her corner.

  “And who are you?”

  I stare into the social worker’s brain. “No one you remember seeing. The police already took Paxton.”

  The woman goes glassy-eyed. A moment later, she walks out.

  “Holy crap,” whispers Paxton. “Was that one of those ‘tricks’ you told me about?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you an angel?”

  “Not sure. I used to be a vampire, but I got better.”

  She chuckles. “Are you teasing me or being serious?”

  “Serious.”

  “I’m happy you got better.”

  “Thank you.” I stand. “Now, go pack up your stuff. Time to go.”

  She gathers a few items of clothing from a small dresser, stuffing everything in a backpack as well as a plastic trash bag, likely the same one she used to bring her stuff here.

  “What’s your old address?” I ask.

  “Why?” She freezes. “Are you gonna hurt him?”

  I rub my chin. “Tempted to throw him down the stairs, but nah. It wouldn’t solve anything and wouldn’t really make me feel better. No, I’m going to compel him to sign away his parental rights. Plus, we need to get the rest of your stuff from your old room.”

  Paxton stands, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “What about judges and social workers?”

  “My boyfriend is a lawyer. He’ll handle everything. Oh, and he’s a werewolf.”

  She opens her mouth to say something, but emits an “Eep!” before gazing around at the ceiling.

  “Oh, he’s not so bad. Think of a big fluffy dog.”

  “No, not that. I eeped because I’m hearing voices now.”

  OMG, Mom, says Tammy. She’s like totes adorbs.

  I chuckle. “That voice in your head? Say hi to your new sister, Tammy. She’s telepathic.”

  “Wow, you weren’t kidding about the supernatural stuff, were you?”

  “I was not.”

  Paxton gives me her old address.

  I pull it up on Google Maps via my phone, pop down to street view, and get a look at the front of the house.

  When I hold my hand out again, Paxton grasps it.

  I summon the dancing flame.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Peace

  We appear on the front lawn.

  The small, two-story house has a full porch with four steps. The bottom three still have blood on them. Paxton nearly faints at the sudden change of scenery.

  I hold her up. “Sorry, I should have warned you.”

  “So weird,” whispers Paxton. “Did we really just do that?”

  “We did. How do you think I got to the shelter so fast?”

  “Oh, right.” She turns her head to look at me. “He isn’t gonna be here now. Still at work.”

  “Okay. Good chance to get your stuff then. I can come back and deal with him later.”

  She still has keys to the place in her backpack. Paxton opens the front door and walks into the most bachelory bachelor pad I’ve ever seen. He’s practically built a second La-Z-Boy out of empty Heineken beer cans. Paxton crosses the living room, but becomes strangely rigid halfway to the stairs.

  “Pax? What’s wrong?”

  “Coffee table.” She keeps walking past it, then gingerly goes up a set of hardwood stairs as if afraid to slip. It’s the same stairs I saw her go down face-first in her memory.

  I walk over to the actual recliner—not the beer can pile—and peer past it at the coffee table. Several pamphlets for conversion therapy sit on top of a pile of fantasy football magazines.

  “Ignore it,” I say.

  She continues upstairs, and I follow.

  Her bedroom is both adorable and a mess. Fluffy white bed, a handful of stuffed animals, lots of white and pink… but it also looks like a bar brawl happened in here. Two holes in the pink-painted drywall look about the size of a man’s fist.

  “We can keep whatever you want,” I say.

  “Cool. Even the bed?”

  “If you want. Though it’s not going to be easy to teleport with that sucker. Grab the basics for now. We can come back with a moving van later.”

  “Okay.” She darts around, gathering stuff of high importance. Clothes, simple jewelry, favorite dolls and fluffy slippers… you know, vitals.

  Wham. The entire house shakes.

  Paxton yelps, then stares at me with pure dread, whispering, “He’s home. Must’ve got off work early.”

  “Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter how big he is.”

  “Someone up there?” bellows a man. “Pax? Those idiots drop you off alone?”

  “Not exactly,” I holler back, and step into the hallway.

  A muscular bald guy, a touch shy of six feet tall, stomps up the stairs. He sees me and pauses, confused. “You a social worker?”

  “In a way. I’m here to take custody of Paxton from you.”

  “The hell you are.” He storms over and grabs my shirt.

  “Mr. Deering, that’s assault.”

  “You’re in my damn house. You’re lucky I don’t—”

  I punch him in the chest, hard enough to knock the wind out of him and send him flying over backward but not break anything. At least, I don’t think.

  Paxton gasps.

  He rolls onto his side, gawping for air.

  Okay, I lied. Hitting him made me feel a lot better. I stoop over him, grab his shirt collar, and pull him up to make eye contact. He goes limp the instant my mental powers hammer his brain. Yeah, he totally lied to get out of jail, claiming Paxton had a tantrum and tripped down the stairs trying to run away from home. Digging deeper, I discover he accidentally killed his wife eleven years ago by hitting her too hard in the kitchen during an argument. Some of his buddies helped him stage a car accident.

  Oh, you son of a bitch.

  Fortunately, he’s not planning to kill Paxton on purpose, but I can see the guy easily losing control if she refuses to ‘straighten’ up. And, yeah, living with this guy is going to completely mess her up for life.

  I crack my knuckles, implanting a command for him to go to the nearest police station and confess to killing his wife. Then, he’s going to admit he hurled Paxton down the stairs, dragged her across the living room, and literally threw her out of the house. The only reason Paxton’s girlfriend escaped injury is she climbed out the bedroom window.

  Instead of venting my anger at this guy with physical violence, I pour it into the strength of the mental commands.

  Wait a second. Sherbet’s homicide.

  I alter my command so this guy goes to Sherbet’s precinct. Pretty sure he’d be willing to take lead on the investigation into the death of Paxton’s mother. Also kinda have a feeling he won’t be too fond of a suspect who brutalized his daughter for being gay.

  Once I’m done with mind surgery, I go back into the pink bedroom.

  Paxton’s curled up on the floor between the bed and the wall, hiding and crying.

  “It’s okay. He won’t be a problem.”

  She looks up at me in total shock. “But how…?”

  “Supernatural stuff, kiddo.” I grin. “Got everything you need for a couple days?”

  Paxton exhales, wipes her face, and stands. She’s totally bewildered that her father didn’t beat the crap out of me, and thinking she might just like all this ‘supernatural stuff’ after all.

  I hold out a hand. “C’mon, Pax. Let’s go home.”

  She gathers up her things, hurries over, and takes my hand.

  Eyes closed, I picture my living room—and summon the dancing flame.

  The Moon family just became a little bigger.

  And I couldn’t be happier.

  The End

  Samantha Moon returns in:

  Vampire Train

  Vampire for Hire #22

  Coming soon!

  ~~~~~

  (To read about Sam’s trip back into time, click here.)

  (To read Sam’s origin trilogy, click here.)

  (To read Sam’s eight-story trip to Europe, click here.)

  (To read Sam’s first eight short stories, click here.)

  (To read Sam’s second collection of eight stories, click here.)

  (To read Sam’s bonus scenes and outtakes, click here.)

  (To read Sam’s poem, click here.)

  (And to read even more novels set in the world of Vampire for Hire, click here. Please note, these “Vampire for Hire World” novels are non-canon; as in, unofficial... but still fun!)

  ~~~~~

  Finally, if you enjoyed Vampire Empress, please help me spread the word by leaving a review. Thank you!

  ~~~~~

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Also available:

  Cursed

  A supernatural thriller by

  J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson

  (read for a sample)

  Chapter One

  Orange County, California, is the kind of place where you never expect a sudden, inexplicable chill.

  Even in my part of it, Fullerton, too far from the beach and away from the glitz and big money, everybody is cool but very rarely chilled. The sidewalk was crowded, with the skater punks and lacrosse moms and students wearing backpacks, and way too many guys like me in suits and ties. We were all on a mission for food.

  Lunch was serious business around here. I had only thirty minutes to grab my grub, consume it, and get back to my claims. I work as an insurance investigator for American Insurance, and since it had rained hard over the past few days, my desk had as much traffic as the highways. Not that I minded the additional work. I liked being busy. Being busy has a way of keeping your mind off other things. Things like divorce. Things like lost lovers.

  Things like an overwhelming need for a strong drink. Many strong drinks.

  And lately, the need had been stronger and more overwhelming than ever.

  So when the sudden, inexplicable chill came, I chalked it up to the booze. I didn’t have time for symptoms. I barely had time to order lunch, let alone actually eat it.

  The chill came again. So strongly that I actually shivered and paused in mid-step. The day was bright. Hell, this was southern California at the cusp of summer...the days were always bright. There was no reason for a sudden chill, and it wasn’t the work of a hangover, since last night I’d been too depressed to really get rolling with the booze.

  Still, tell that to the small hairs on the back of my neck, which were standing on end. Not to mention my spine, which felt as if it had been dipped in a bucket of margaritas.

  What the hell was going on?

  Maybe I needed a stiff drink worse than I thought. Or, more accurately, maybe I needed to stop drinking.

  The words appeared in my thoughts as if scrolling across a movie screen. I saw them, and I knew them to be true: Someone’s watching you.

  My subconscious had picked up on it. My thoughts had only been on lunch and claims and drinking and my failed marriage and Amanda. I hardly had room in there for paranoia.

  So who the hell would want to watch me? I didn’t know. Of course, I could be wrong, too. Maybe no one was watching me. Maybe I was losing my mind. These past few months had been stressful, to say the least. Try divorcing my wife and you’d know what I mean. Hell, try being married to her.

  Still pausing, even as my precious lunch ticked away, I scanned the busy street corner. Even the homeless people were on the move. No one seemed to be noticing me; no one seemed to care.

  Then why had I felt like I had suddenly been thrown on stage with hundreds of eyes on me, like a Lindsay Lohan rehab photo shoot during sweeps week?

  No, not hundreds of eyes. Just one big, blinding spotlight, and I was inexplicably sure, just one person was watching me.

  What the hell was going on?

  I surveyed the street, wondering if I should cross. Cars in gridlock. People chatting importantly behind smoky restaurant windows. Busy people looking busy. Busy people looking important. Unimportant people looking better than me. Shades. Tans. Nice clothing.

  I started forward again, frowning, wondering what the hell was going on. I hadn’t touched any booze today, although that would change the instant I got home. It was truly just a matter of how fast I could change out of my work clothes, throw on some sweats, and uncap the booze. If I didn’t break down at lunch and have a few, which was sounding like a better idea by the second.

  I shivered again. The sun was high and hot. The air was still. Exhaust from cars was thick and cloying. No reason to feel a chill.

  Maybe I was getting sick. Or maybe a goose walked over my grave. Hell, a whole flock. Maybe a dozen flocks, taking a crap on my final resting place and flying North for the summer. I wondered idly if I had any vitamin C at home, and decided to stock up on some after work.

  No. No stocking up. That would mean delaying my drinking. I needed to drink. I had to drink. If I didn’t have vitamins, then tough shit. Besides, booze has alcohol, and alcohol was known for killing germs.

  Well, I couldn’t stand there any longer. I was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, although the sleeves were rolled up to my elbows, and now the chill was giving way to sweat. I darted around the slower pedestrians, begging their pardons as I went. I had wasted precious minutes standing there on the street corner, playing silly mind games and denying I had a problem. And lunch was serious business.

  With only thirty minutes, I had to coordinate my time wisely. Today I had chosen Chinese food, because it was fast in and fast out, in more ways than one. And I knew that once I made a decision I had to stick with it, because there was no turning back. Not with thirty minutes. Certainly no time to stand around cracking up or breaking down.

  Focus, Al. You can do it.

  I checked my watch: twenty-four minutes to go. I cut around a slow-moving rag man pushing a shopping cart and mumbling incoherently to himself. Fullerton is a typical southern California suburb, boasting old brick buildings mingled with newer ones made of glass and steel. Downtown had everything—antique shops, banks, restaurants, and even a local community college. I strode down the busy street, atypical for most Orange County streets because of the foot traffic. Downtown changed all that. There were enough businesses and restaurants within walking distance of each other to remove the need for driving. Or at least the need to drive to lunch.