“Seems like an expensive and not a very funny prank.”

  “Unless it was filmed,” I said.

  “Which might be why your inner alarm was bonging.”

  “Hardly a bong,” I said. “Barely a blip.”

  “Well, maybe the detective is onto something. Maybe your inner alarm was warning you that something was off—just not something life-threatening.”

  I thought about that as I took my turn on the abdominal crunch machine. As usual, Allison slipped the key ring to the lowest hole on the stack. And, as usual, I crunched or lifted or pulled the heaviest weight with casual ease. Truth was, lifting weights did little for me, except getting me to sweat. And I always liked to sweat for some reason. Sweating felt so... human.

  When I was done, I’d caught the attention of two older men. Both were chatting among themselves and looking over at us and no doubt working up the nerve to come over and hit on us. I gave them both a suggestion to mind their own business.

  “Hey, they were kind of cute,” said Allison.

  “And I kinda have a boyfriend. Besides, they’re way too old.”

  “How old?”

  I slipped into their minds again. “Fifty-five and fifty-one.”

  “They sound rich!” said Allison.

  “Oh, brother,” I groaned. “Can we get back to the subject of me?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. Lord help any of us if we happen to stray from all things Samantha Moon.”

  “That’s better,” I said. “And lose the attitude. You know you love to talk about me.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. Then closed it. “I do,” she said. “Dammit, I really do.”

  “I know, sweetie.”

  “But I have a life, I swear.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Don’t patronize me. I’m part of a triad of witches, dammit.”

  “I know you are. And it’s a very, very powerful triad.”

  “You’re such a bitch sometimes.”

  “Just sometimes?”

  “Yes, just sometimes. If you were a bitch all the time, I wouldn’t be your friend.”

  “Yeah, you would.”

  “Yeah, I would. And I hate myself for that. Just be nice to me, okay? Friends like me don’t come around too often.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” I said, and was about to finish off my set, when I yelped and released the rubber grips, both of which had melted in my hands. Smoke hissed off my reddening palms. I looked at Allison and noted the wicked gleam in her eye, a gleam I didn’t see often enough. I kinda liked it. In fact, I liked when she stood up for herself, even if it was standing up to me. Especially when it was standing up to me. White smoke curled up from her index finger, the nail of which still glowed softly.

  “You were saying, Sam?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

  ***

  We were having smoothies in the gym juice bar. Mine was heavenly, and I powered through brain freeze after brain freeze—all of which tended to last only a few nanoseconds—until I’d sucked down nearly all the smoothie.

  “You didn’t come up for air once,” said Allison.

  “Don’t need to,” I said.

  “There oughta be a medical review board for people like you,” she said. “I mean, actual verifiable studies.”

  I shrugged. “Would take the fun out of it, I think. It’s kind of nice not knowing your limits. And what’s with the ‘people like me’ crack? You’re not too far off the mark, either, you know.”

  “I know. But witches are human, Sam. We live and die and make babies.”

  “I can make other vampires. Does that count?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I can die, too.”

  “I know, Sam. But your death is... different.”

  I nodded. “There are some who say we cease to exist.”

  “By some, do you mean Fang?”

  “Fang knows his stuff.”

  “Fang’s a little too creepy for me.”

  “So says the witch who melted the rubber off the crunch machine.”

  “You had that coming, missy. Be glad I didn’t melt off the tip of your nose, too.”

  “You’re kinda badass for someone so needy.”

  “Jesus, will you quit saying I’m needy. I like you, dammit. And I like being your friend. Is that so needy?”

  “Maybe I never had a friend like you.”

  “Well, friends can be needy. Get used to it.”

  “Am I needy?” I asked.

  “Not often. But you will be, someday. And if so, I will be there for you.”

  “Jesus, are you trying to make me cry?” I said.

  “Did it work?”

  “No.”

  “Dammit.”

  “Back to the dying thing,” I said. “Can you make heads or tails of it? I mean, why wouldn’t I go to heaven, or even hell? Why would I cease to exist if, as they say, the soul is immortal?”

  “I don’t know, Sam. Is there someone you can ask?”

  I thought about that. I doubted any of my mortal or immortal friends would have the answers. Ishmael, my one-time fallen angel, might have a clue. Then again, there was always—

  “Automatic writing,” Allison and I said together.

  The juice bar was tucked away down a side hall, which gave us some privacy. I’d already commanded the juice bar girl to forget anything she might overhear between Allison and me.

  “You know that would be a great title: The Ghost in the Hallway.”

  “That was random,” I said.

  “I was thinking about your case. Hey, maybe I should write it. Do you think I would be a good writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Such a bitch.”

  I chuckled at that. Truth was, one never knew who might be a writer... much less a good one. I would never have pegged Charlie Reed to be one of the better ones, and yet his book had been so rich, so beautiful, so alive...

  “Oh, I want to read this book!” said Allison.

  “Join the club. It’s not finished. I’m not finished with it either. Still have a few hundred pages to read.”

  “And it’s a fantasy?”

  “Yup.”

  “Like a sex fantasy?”

  I shook my head. “Sword and sorcery.”

  “I’m not really into that.”

  “You like Game of Thrones?”

  “I love Game of Thrones—oh wait.”

  “Bingo,” I said.

  “It’s like that?” she asked.

  “Better.”

  “Okay, now I really have to read this book!”

  “Get in line, sister. Meanwhile—”

  “Meanwhile, you want my impressions of the ghost, too.”

  “I do, yes. And why are you smiling?”

  “I just love when you need me.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  Allison grinned and closed her eyes, no doubt probing the crap out of my mind. Her own mind was permanently closed to mine, as one of the witches in her triad considered me—or, rather, vampires—to be their enemy. And she might have a point. The demon bitch inside me was very much their enemy. She was, quite, frankly, everyone’s enemy, which is why I did all I could to bottle her up, especially since Elizabeth herself could hear and see everything I could hear and see. She was dangerous if ever let loose. And each day, while I slept, she was let loose, slipping out of my physical form to join her fellow dark masters... somewhere. Where, exactly, I didn’t know. But it was another world, I think. A parallel world, perhaps.

  “Your mind is busy, Sam.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Okay, I found her. Yes, she is beautiful. Wow. And that nightgown. It’s old, Sam. Real old.”

  “How old?”

  “Medieval maybe. Either way, her dress isn’t from around here. And probably not from this time, either.”

  “Maybe she was killed at a renaissance faire or something?” I asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “But that doesn’t really explain her unreal appearance.”

  “Jealous much, Sam?”

  “I’m not jealous. Did you have a look at her eyes, her mouth, those long legs?”

  “I did, Sam, and she’s beautiful.”

  “Don’t you think they are just, I dunno, a smidge off?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I am only getting, at best, a now slightly blurry memory from you. Hell, even you are beginning to doubt your own memory of her.”

  Allison was right about that. The more I thought about the “ghost,” the more I questioned what I had seen.

  “You need to see this ghost again, Sam. And maybe you need me to tag along with you.”

  “You’re half right,” I said.

  Allison scrunched her eyebrows together, then stuck out her tongue at me. “You’re mean.”

  “What do you expect from a bloodthirsty fiend?”

  “Fine, whatever. I just think you could use me—wait! You’re going there tonight.”

  “I am.”

  “And you want to be left alone so that you can read that damn book.”

  “You caught me.”

  “Let me come, Sam. Pleeeease. I will be good. I just wanna read a few chapters. Puh-lease!”

  “You sound worse than my kids.”

  “Please, please, please!”

  “Fine, you can come.”

  She threw her arms around me and gave me a big fat kiss on my cheek.

  “Gross,” I said, wiping it off with the back of my hand.

  “You’re telling me. It was like kissing a dead—”

  “Don’t say it,” I said. “Or I won’t bring you tonight.”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t think it either,” I said.

  “I already did.”

  “Now who’s the bitch?” I asked.

  Chapter Eight

  With the events of the last few months, events that had made national headlines, Tammy had made it a point to pick up Anthony from school each and every day.

  This was both sweet and scary and rewarding for me. Rewarding to see their bond growing. Scary because I was not there to do the picking up part myself. And sweet because it freed up my afternoons. I knew his school had installed even more cameras and added three or four security guards. The security guards were privately keeping an eye on my son. I knew this because I had commanded them to do so. My son was about as safe as a boy could be at school.

  Additionally, Archibald Maximus, the alchemist to the stars (that’s a joke) had since forged magical rings for my kids, rings that would render their “silver cord” invisible. A neat trick. Now, the baddies out there who feasted on the pure Hermes bloodline of little Light Warriors, couldn’t find them. Nor would other Light Warriors, too, but that was less of a concern. The bottom line was: my kids were safe, their auras were hidden, and I could breathe easily again.

  For now.

  And what had become of the teacher behind my son’s abduction, the sick bastard who had planned to watch the whole bloody show from high above? Well, he had disappeared completely... only to reappear in Kingsley’s safe room. And by safe room, I meant safe for the rest of us. Kingsley, with each full moon, was about the biggest and baddest werewolf alive, and the teacher, as far as I knew, had been torn to shreds, since Kingsley preferred his meat rotten, not fresh. Undoubtedly, Franklin had long since burned the man’s remains.

  The werewolf pack that had gathered that night to feast upon my son had all met nasty ends, too, thanks primarily to my son—and thanks to the entity my son had summoned, the Fire Warrior. My son still wasn’t right, and I didn’t blame him. After all, he had killed those who wished to do him harm. Werewolves were men, too, after all. And this haunted my son to no end.

  I also knew Anthony hadn’t fully come to terms with the fact that he had, in effect, switched bodies with another entity, an entity he fully controlled. Hell, I wasn’t fully used to it either, with Talos. That the entity he became seemed to be an unstoppable warrior that wielded a fiery sword and stood nearly ten feet tall was all sort of badass that, at present, was lost on my son. He would come around, I knew. Someday, he would understand that in our world—the world of freaks and monsters—that it was kill or be killed. And he had lived to fight another day. Nothing wrong with that.

  Then again, that my thirteen-year-old son would have to live by such a motto was a terrible price that I paid every day, over and over and over...

  At present, I was sitting in my minivan—not very far from where I had just downed a smoothie in record time. My windows were cracked enough to let in the fresh air, but not so much that anyone could overhear the conversation I was about to have. That is, a one-sided conversation, with me doing the talking and my hand doing the writing.

  Who did the writing remained to be seen. In the past, it had been everyone from my spirit guide named Sephora, to a highly-evolved master named St. Germaine, to even an entity that I considered Mother Earth. So, truthfully, I hadn’t a clue who would come through—or if anyone would. Since I hadn’t used automatic writing in a while, I wasn’t sure who I was plugged into these days, quite frankly.

  I kept a small notebook in my purse, not for automatic writing, but for taking statements. I clicked on my pen and opened my small notebook to a blank page. I moved the pen to the top of the line and closed my eyes and heard a small breeze force its way into the cracked window. The same breeze then moved over the skin of my arm. Of course, I could have been sitting here with the windows rolled up, but I liked fresh air, even if I didn’t have to breathe it. Fresh air was comforting and, well, yummy.

  The bitch inside me didn’t like words like yummy or fresh. I could sense her discomfort, like a curmudgeonly old woman trying to get comfortable in a new recliner.

  Hey, you picked me, lady, I thought.

  Indeed, greater forces were at work as to when and how and why I was chosen to be a vampire. In the big picture, I was the perfect confluence of bloodline and reincarnated witch and, well, I was also kind of a badass in this life too. In the smaller picture, I had been set up by my angel and an old vampire for reasons unknown to me to this day. Of course, that same old vampire was now dead, thanks to a silver arrow from a vampire hunter named Rand. But my angel was still around. Maybe I would ask him someday.

  Either way, I had been viciously attacked and seemingly left for dead. But I hadn’t died. Quite the opposite. I had lived, and, from all appearances, I would live forever. Or, rather, had the potential to live forever. A silver bolt in my own heart would readily put an end to any talk of immortality.

  “And then what?” I asked. “What happens to me then? When I die?”

  As I asked the question, I emptied my mind. I even locked away Elizabeth good and tight. I didn’t need her influence. I needed real answers. It was time.

  I wasn’t sure how long I sat there in the front driver’s seat, just outside the YMCA, with the occasional person walking by, sometimes accompanied by the rattle of a dog’s tags on his collar, or the squeaky wheels of a stroller. I was reclining back, but not all the way. The notepad was positioned on the center console, my hand hovering lightly over it. The hovering over it part was what kept me from falling asleep, no doubt. This was midday. I should have been asleep.

  More time passed and I nearly gave up on the automatic writing. Maybe it didn’t work for me anymore. Maybe it had never worked. Maybe it was always just my own subconscious talking to me. Or maybe it had been Elizabeth talking to me. No, it hadn’t been because previous sessions had dealt with love and forgiveness and hope. Anyone who cringed at the word yummy would flee for the hills from the word love.

  I had just made the decision to sit up when my hand twitched. I knew that twitch. I’d felt that twitch in years past. I waited and focused my breathing and calmed my mind further, and, after a few minutes, my hand twitched again. Then again. And now I felt a slight pressure as the tip of the pen was guided down to the paper, and my hand went from twitching to flowing as the words came out.

  I cracked my eyes open and saw two words at the top of the page, two words that flowed in beautiful penmanship. Perhaps even perfect penmanship.

  “Hello, Samantha.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Hello,” I said aloud, feeling a little foolish talking to my hand.

  A strong tingly sensation came over my entire arm, and I watched, with amazement, as words flowed from the pen and into my notebook. “You have some questions for me, I see.”

  “Questions, concerns, complaints...”

  “Complaining only brings more of the same,” wrote my hand, after being galvanized by what was, in essence, small electrical impulses firing upon various muscles primarily in my forearm. The sensation was not unlike when Kingsley massaged my arms, his touch surprisingly soft, considering his skillet-sized hands. Of course, Kingsley’s hands didn’t stay long on my arms or shoulders—or on anything that wouldn’t be hidden by a bikini.

  The difference here was that I could actually see the muscles in my forearms being stimulated. I watched them undulate and quiver and spasm and pulse. All while my pen flowed, seemingly with a mind all its own over the notepad.

  I said, “Well, I either complain now or forever hold my peace.”

  “And forever is a long time for a vampire.”

  “And even longer for a dead vampire,” I said. “First off, with whom am I speaking?”

  “A good question, Sam. I go by many names.”

  “Well, pick one, preferably one that I can pronounce.”

  “Let’s go with Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just Jack?” I asked.

  “I could pick another—”

  “No, Jack is fine. We’ll go with that. So, Jack, what are you? An angel? My spirit guide? A highly-evolved master? Father Time?”

  “Yes,” wrote my hand.

  I waited, but apparently, that was all I was going to get.

  “Just ‘yes’?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought about the implications. “You are all of these things?”