Wild Moon (Vampire for Hire Book 27), page 1
WILD MOON
Vampire for Hire #27
by
J.R. RAIN
MATTHEW S. COX
The World of Samantha Moon
VAMPIRE FOR HIRE SERIES
Moon Dance
Vampire Moon
American Vampire
Moon Child
Christmas Moon (novella)
Vampire Dawn
Vampire Games
Moon Island
Moon River
Vampire Sun
Moon Dragon
Moon Shadow
Vampire Fire
Midnight Moon
Moon Angel
Vampire Sire
Moon Master
Dead Moon
Lost Moon
Vampire Destiny
Infinite Moon
Vampire Empress
Moon Elder
Wicked Moon
Winter Moon
Moon Blade
Sasquatch Moon
Wild Moon
Moon Magic (Coming soon)
SHORT STORY SINGLES
Teeth: Fang’s Story
Vampire Nights
Vampire Blues
Vampire Dreams
Halloween Moon
Vampire Gold
Blue Moon
Dark Side of the Moon
Vampire Requiem
Moon Love
Vampire Alley
Moon Musings
Moon Beast
Vampire Widow
Moon Maze
Silver Hammer
When Sam Met Santa
One Swallow
Little Moon
SAMANTHA MOON ADVENTURES
Banshee Moon
Moon Monster
Moon Ripper
Witch Moon
Moon Goddess
Moon Blaze
Golem Moon
Moon Maidens
SAMANTHA MOON CASE FILES
Moon Bayou
Blood Moon
Parallel Moon
SAMANTHA MOON ORIGINS
New Moon Rising
Moon Mourning
Haunted Moon
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Moon Tales
Moon Shots
Moon Cases
Spin-off Series
ALLISON LOPEZ
The Witch and the Gentleman
The Witch and the Englishman
The Witch and Huntsman
The Witch and the Wolfman
The Witch and the Hangman
ALEXIS SILVER
Silver Light
Deep Silver
Silver Quarrel
Silver Crucible
Silver Heart
J.R. Rain’s Vampire for Hire World
STANDALONE TALES
Fire Warrior
Fang
I, Samantha Moon
Vampires She Wrote
Dragon Lessons
Dead Ahead
Wolf Moon
Crystal Moon
Vampire Apocalypse
CHRONICLES OF THE IMMORTAL COUNCIL
Vampire Abduction
Vampire Exodus
Vampire Sovereign
Vampire Magic
Vampire Vacation
Vampire Reflections
Vampire Enigma
Vampire Spirit
Vampire Regent
Vampire Intuition
VAMPIRE CRIMES SPECIAL UNIT
Moon Hunt
Moon Gone
Moon Crimes
Moon Castle
BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLADE
Burning
Afterglow
Radiance
SAMANTHA MOON, GUARDIAN VAMPIRE
Twisted Sister
Harvest Moon
Moonbow
Wild Moon
Published by Rain Press
Copyright © 2022 by J.R. Rain
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. All rights reserved.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Reading Sample: Wrath of the Gods
About J.R. Rain
About Matthew S. Cox
Wild Moon
Chapter One
Just Another Day
Weird has become normal for me to the point that true normal feels weird.
I’m not sure if it’s an unusual side effect of immortality, but my life prior to that night in Hillcrest Park feels more like a hazy faded dream that may or may not have really happened. On some intellectual level, I know there used to be a scrappy little girl named Sam who used to sneak onto the neighbor’s big company farm to steal food. She had three brothers and a sister, a mother with better things to do than spend time on her kids and a dad who kinda sorta tried—when he wasn’t either away on some crazy dream project or high.
She eventually survived to adulthood, got married, had two kids… and then everything went bonkers.
When I say it feels like my entire life has been one calamity after another, it’s not me trying to exaggerate. The ‘my entire life’ part covers from the night I turned into a vampire forward. All the mundane stuff before that has become so distant in my mind it feels more like a book or movie about someone else I vaguely recall reading or watching.
Earlier today marked a first for me. Paxton had a meltdown over some cosmetics she desperately wanted being out of stock. The makeup was to complete an outfit she’d come up with for a talent show at school. Anyway, not a bratty Veruca Salt ‘I want it now’ sort of meltdown, more a ‘the world is over’ sobbing kind of meltdown. The kid is almost fourteen now and she’s so girly it hurts. Tammy would never have thrown such a fit over cosmetics. I couldn’t help myself and found it adorable to watch Paxton come apart over something so trivial, especially when we still had plenty of other stores to check. Thankfully, the girl’s an empath, so when I couldn’t stop smiling, she knew I wasn’t making fun of her.
By the way, I smiled because her emotional reaction to makeup being out of stock told me she felt safe. Poor kid never would’ve been able to let that out if she still lived with her biological dad—who will likely spend the next several decades in prison, but that’s another story entirely. Short version is, he killed her mother years ago in a fit of drunken rage.
Anyway, her meltdown wasn’t entirely about the glitter-infused face paint or whatever it is she wanted… she’s all sorts of nervous about getting up in front of her entire class for a talent show. Anxiety can be like a partially frozen lake: all it takes is one little crack or imperfection and the entire surface shatters.
Locating some makeup is hardly the most apocalyptic job I’ve ever undertaken. Not exactly killing a dragon here. Just have to go to a couple other places until we find the stuff. Her outburst also reassured me with its normality. One does not raise kids without having to navigate the occasional irrational emotional storm. I wasn’t one of those moms who desperately wanted a girly girl or anything in particular from my kids. Early on, I never insisted Anthony play sports or not play sports (though later I recognized he had an unfair supernatural advantage and pulled him from competition), or pressured Tammy into gymnastics or dance class or karate. Whoever they happened to be, I would love them all the same. Can’t say I was too thrilled with those few years of ‘the world and everyone in it sucks’ goth Tammy, but she’s out of that phase.
Paxton, however, is much higher maintenance than my other two ever were.
Honestly, as soon as Anthony no longer required diapers, he really didn’t need much effort from me or Danny to keep him going. I’d say my son was abnormally low maintenance for a kid, but it all kinda makes sense now. Far be it for me to attempt to explain how the cycle of life works, but I still can’t wrap my head around how a seven-year-old boy can accomplish all he needed to accomplish in life and be ready to move on. It’s like his previous life went into overtime and only needed a few more years to finish off.
I objected, of course.
Maybe I shouldn’t have but… he’s my son. I’d be damned if I didn’t do everything in my power to keep him safe. Turns out, things ‘within my power’ happened to reach into the alchemical and magical realms, far beyond the abilities of ordinary mothers to protect their kids from inexplicable diseases.
Anyway… weirdness aside. The day started off with Paxton in tears as bad as if someone she loved just died, but now we’re completely normal. Costume cosmetics crisis solved. The stuff she wanted wasn’t even expensive… just a bit on the rare side. Her mood is back. She’s sorta-singing in the Momvan, practicing her routine for the talent show. Soon, we’re on our way into the store to grab groceries for the week. Unlike Tammy—who at this age would scowl at everyone who dared make eye contact—Pax is thrilled to go shopping with me.
Truth is, I don’t blame Tammy. Our family had some… issues going on back when Tammy was thirteen. Being moody because her mother dragged her off to do grocery shopping was hardly anything for me to panic about. Teenagers get moody over the smallest things.
Crazy how fast Paxton can go from crying to giggling at everything.
We make our way around the store like any other mother/daughter pair navigating the aisles. At least half the items on my list are from Anthony. He’s gotten more and more into the cooking thing, I think as some kind of homage to Danny. It started with spaghetti sauce—really the only thing Danny ever made from scratch. It’s strange to me how my son has this association between his father and being a chef. Danny was not a chef. The only thing he ever really cooked was the spaghetti sauce. Of course, he made amazing sauce.
Anyway, the boy is trying all sorts of recipes he finds on TikTok. My personal feelings about my ex-husband aside, cooking reminds Anthony of his dad… and he seems to enjoy doing it, so I’m not going to stand in his way. Hey, there’s a future in it, right? Gordon Ramsay isn’t exactly destitute.
Roughly fifty minutes after entering the store, we’ve gotten all the stuff we need and make our way toward the front, past tables loaded with all sorts of baked goods strategically placed there in hopes of triggering an impulse grab.
All of a sudden, Paxton stops talking. She’s been chattering away the whole time we’ve been in the store. The kid is a bundle of energy and happiness, and it often leaks out her mouth in the form of continuous talking. If she abruptly falls silent, it usually means she’s spotted an insect of some kind, had a sudden, shocking thought… or a nearby person’s emotions are so strong they overwhelmed her.
Since she didn’t scream, the silence is not the fault of anything with more than four legs.
She’s walking a little behind me on my left as I’m pushing the cart, so I twist to peer back at her. Paxton’s staring off to her right, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Before I can ask what’s wrong, she scoots forward and cling-grabs my arm.
“Mom!” she whisper-shouts. “That guy’s gonna do something bad. His emotions are seriously out of control.”
I follow her stare to a man standing behind the second register from the door. Looks like he just walked into the store and stopped there maybe fifteen feet from the entrance. He’s glancing to either side repetitively as if he’s on the side of the road waiting for traffic so he can cross. It’s kinda warm out today, but the guy’s wearing a long black raincoat. He’s mid-thirties with shaggy brown hair, fidgety. The sort of person in-store security would start following as soon as they entered the place.
Paxton squeezes against me. “He’s really angry… and he also wants to die.”
Those two emotions existing at the same time are not a good thing… unless he’s a Chicago Cubs fan, in which case it’s pretty much their normal state of being. In all seriousness though, this guy already set off my ‘we have a problem’ instinct. At Paxton telling me he’s simultaneously raging and suicidal, I find myself reflexively starting to reach for a gun I haven’t carried since I resigned from HUD.
Old training comes back to me in an instant. Body posture and bulges in the fabric make it obvious to me he’s concealing a rifle under that coat. The way he keeps looking back and forth takes on a new, darker meaning. He’s watching people… perhaps waiting for there to be a lot of targets in close proximity before he whips his coat open and raises whatever weapon he’s got under there.
Oh, hell no.
“Get down,” I say in a low voice. “If I start dragging the guy out of the store, call 911.”
Paxton forces herself to let go of my arm and sorta-crouches behind our cart, then nods.
I told her to wait for me to drag the guy out before calling just in case this turns out to be a misunderstanding. Don’t want to invoke the cops on a man who’s just having an emotional crisis. Then again, I’m ninety-five percent sure he’s got a gun, and this is about to turn into a horror show.
I fast walk down the open space between the shopping aisles and the register, heading toward the guy but not directly at him while making it look like I’m focused on the non-food section in the far corner and totally unaware of his existence. He looks at me, but my ‘rushing to grab something I forgot’ act appears to work. The man disregards me in a second, once more watching the open area between aisles and registers.
My course toward the non-food area passes about ten feet from the guy. At the point where one more step would begin to move me away from him, I take advantage of my inhuman speed and rush him, moving so fast he doesn’t even react to my sudden swerve until I’ve got my arm around him like I’m meeting an old friend.
My grip pins his right arm—and the rifle concealed under his coat—to his side. Now that I’m in contact with the guy, any doubt whatsoever about him having a weapon is gone. The hard, metal object is obvious to the touch. I don’t want him raising it… and I don’t want him in the store. At this point, it’s clear he’s a real threat and the cops should be involved, so I haul him off his feet like I’m the store manager repositioning a mannequin.
Hopefully, Paxton is watching me, sees this, and is already calling 911.
The sheer absurdity of a woman my size picking him up so casually appears to short-circuit his brain. He doesn’t say or do anything for a few seconds as I hurry him toward the store exit. Right when we’re in that space between the inner and outer doors—Anthony used to call it an ‘airlock’—the guy finally freaks out, forcing me to wrap my other arm around him to hold on.
Since his shouting will certainly draw attention, I stop holding him so high off the ground that it’s obvious I’m carrying him. Can’t let his shoes touch pavement, though. I don’t weigh much. If this guy gets any leverage, he can wrench me off my feet pretty easily. The nice thing about grocery store doors—they’re self-opening, so I don’t need a free hand. Two large aluminum-and-glass panels slide obligingly out of my way as I drag the screaming, flailing guy out onto the concrete tarmac between the storefront and the parking lot.
All the people out there stop short, staring at us.
A couple small kids make curious faces. Seeing children so close spikes my anxiety through the ceiling. Neither I nor any of the people watching me haul this guy outside have the time to speak before the loud bang of his rifle firing sets off a wave of panicked screaming.
I’m vaguely aware of a high-pitched zing as the bullet strikes pavement a few inches in front of us and ricochets pretty much vertically into the air.
Not wanting to give the dude the chance to squeeze off another round that could possibly hit someone, I fling him onto his face, drop a knee on the middle of his back, and rip most of the right half of his coat away to expose an AK-47 rifle with a collapsed metal stock, as well as a handgun on his belt.
Perhaps I’d been a bit less than gentle introducing him to the ground. Blood trickles from his lips and he’s stammering nonsense in a dazed tone of voice. He’s too stunned to pull the trigger again in the few seconds it takes me to shred the coat and yank the weapon out of his grasp. After sliding the rifle across the parking lot well out of his reach, I yank the handgun from the holster as well, toss it aside, then pin his right arm against his back while searching him for more surprises.
Nothing but ammo. He’s got five AK mags taped to his back and seven spares for the handgun on the belt. Good grief, this guy was planning for a siege.
Since he fired a shot and there are now two very obvious firearms in view, I’m sure Paxton isn’t the only person on the phone with 911. The screaming has made its way into the store. People inside sound as if they’re hitting the deck and/or searching for hiding places.
“Get off me!” yells the guy, struggling to throw me to one side.
It’s less that he’s not strong enough to move me—he is—but between the leverage of being on his back and a little pain compliance wrist hold, he’s not having much luck. This, right here, isn’t anything supernatural. Pure technique. It only takes a little pressure in the right places to cause pain sufficient to make a guy stop struggling.
