Moon Child (Vampire for Hire #4) (19 page)

I gasp and step back. I realize then that
he’d been watching me this entire time.

He holds my gaze, and then smiles. As he does
so, more blood bubbles out from his broken mouth. How much blood
can a body hold? A single drop of it falls free from his swollen
lips, and I watch in fascination as it twists and turns in the
driving wind.

Falling toward me.

Now I see I’m holding an ancient silver
chalice in one hand and a glowing sword in the other. With the
chalice, I catch the falling drop of blood, and with the sword, I
turn and face the angry crowd. And as they charge, I hold my
ground.

And that’s usually when I wake up.

Weeping...

Chapter Two

Glastonbury, UK

Present Day

It was coming on evening when my taxi arrived
at the Number Three Hotel in Glastonbury, England, legendary
location of King Arthur’s Camelot. At least, that’s what my travel
guide told me, the signs along the way told me, and even my taxi
driver told me. Hell, I was practically expecting a knight or two
on horseback to escort us.

But no knight appeared and soon the cab
pulled up in front of an ivy-covered doorway that led to an
ivy-covered courtyard. Beyond was a large Georgian townhouse that
doubled as a bed and breakfast.

The driver hopped out and ran around to the
trunk and removed my bags, which he energetically stacked on the
curb. I gave him a tip. Perhaps too big, because he suddenly smiled
brightly, tipped his hat and I could practically hear him thinking,
“Stupid American,” and quickly drove away, perhaps before I
realized how many pounds I had given him.

Pounds or money was the least of my problems
these days. Now, my sanity was another story entirely.

I briefly watched the vehicle’s tires bounce
and wobble over the cobblestone road, and, with an undeniable
feeling of impending doom, turned and looked up at the massive
edifice that was the bed and breakfast.

The impending doom part might be an
exaggeration. Okay, it probably was an exaggeration. But say that
to my damn dreams. Dreams that have been plaguing me for the past
three months or so.

Dreams that seem to be centered here, in
Glastonbury.

Dreams that seem to be centered around a
goblet. A chalice.

A grail.

The Holy Grail, in fact.

You’re crazy, you do realize that?

Crazy or not, the dreams had nearly become
nightmares. Interestingly, it was only when I began making actual
plans to come here to Glastonbury that my nightmares finally
ceased.

Relieved, I was about to cancel the trip when
the nightmares returned two-fold, stronger than ever. Rocking my
world and my life. Consuming me completely with their haunting
images.

I thought of this now as I stood there under
gloomy skies as a light rain began to fall.

I’m here, I thought. So now what?

Yes, here I was in England, on what was
officially a research trip for my next novel. After all, I had to
justify the trip: to myself, to others, and to the tax man.

Unofficially, it was something else.
Unofficially, I was here to put an end to my dreams. Something
wanted me here badly enough to invade my nights and haunt my
days.

No, not just something.

As the rain picked up, pelting my upturned
face, I thought of the Holy Grail. The silver goblet filled with
Christ’s blood. I was holding it in my dreams.

Holding it triumphantly.

Insane, I thought. I’m going insane.

If anything, you’re here to save your sanity,
if it’s not too late.

Granted, others didn’t need to know I was
going insane. No, that honor was reserved for me and me alone; or,
at least, until my insanity was so obvious I couldn’t hide it
anymore. Anyway, calling this a research trip—rather than, say, a
fool’s errand—seemed the safest route to take, even if it confused
the hell out of my editor.

Especially since my next novel was supposed
to be a supernatural thriller about ghosts, tentatively titled
Ghosts. Yeah, I know. I’m not great with titles.

Well, I had begun the ghost story, and had
gotten quite a bit into it, when something unusual happened:

I hit a wall. I just couldn’t write it
anymore. I discovered I was tired of writing about murder and
mayhem. And I was tired of thinking up new and creative ways of
killing people.

So I decided to take a break from writing
about murders.

And that’s when the dreams started.

* * *

Yeah, you’re losing your mind, James, I
thought again, looking at the old-world, bed & breakfast before
me.

And with the sun setting behind a row of
gnarled elms, plunging the cobblestone street and hotel in shadows,
I took hold of my two suitcases and headed for the ivy-covered
courtyard door.

What awaited me within, I didn’t know.

But I was about to find out.

Chapter Three

The old hotel was haunted.

I was sure if it. Then again, I had ghosts on
the brain these days.

Actually, the hotel looked haunted. There’s a
difference. The long entry hall consisted of an ornate marble
floor, wing-back chairs, antique bureaus and elaborately-designed
wallpaper. Fresh-cut flowers were everywhere, and the hotel, I
felt, had a decidedly turn-of-the-century feel to it. Heck, it had
a decidedly turn-of-the-millennium feel to it. As in, one thousand
years ago.

Then again, I grew up in Southern California,
and any building older than, say, fifty years was deemed an
important historic monument.

Anyway, an old man behind an older front desk
smiled at me warmly, his teeth surprisingly straight. I gave him my
name. He punched it in, found my reservation, confirmed my credit
card info, and told me where to find my room.

Following his directions and fumbling a bit
with the key card, I soon found myself standing in an ornately
decorated room, complete with a fireplace, loveseat and a massive,
decorative curtain hanging just beyond the headboard. I wasn’t sure
what the curtain was all about, but it looked nice enough. I
happened to know that this was called the Winston Room. As in
Winston Churchill, who had not only stayed here but had even lived
here for a brief period.

Yeah, I felt special.

I generally don’t immediately unpack and hang
my clothes on hangars. I’m on vacation, after all, right? Granted,
an alleged research vacation, but a vacation nonetheless. And when
I’m on vacation, wrinkled clothing is acceptable.

Who are you kidding? I thought. I’m here to
see what the dreams are about. Plain and simple.

And then it hit me all over again, harder
than ever, perhaps because I was here. I was finally here:

I had traveled halfway around the world
because of a few crazy dreams.

No. Not a few crazy dreams.

Wildly incessant dreams. Persistently
haunting dreams.

Sighing, I dropped my bags and did what I had
been itching to do since first touching down in England. I jacked
in my laptop, went on-line, and checked my email.

There were a few dozen Facebook notifications
(someday I’ll figure out how to stop those from blasting my
emails). There was an email from a publisher in Turkey interested
in buying the Turkish rights to one of my vampire books. I tried to
remember if the book had been published in Turkey but for the life
of me, I couldn’t. I forwarded the email to my agent. He would deal
with it. There was an email from an up-and-coming writer wanting to
work with me on a project. I politely declined. I have more books
to write than I have time.

And there was an email from my editor, Rita,
asking me if I had arrived safely. I replied that I had not, that,
in fact, the plane was currently spiraling out-of-control. She
would be my last email ever, and did she feel privileged?

My editor liked me. I liked her, too. We had
a nice working relationship, probably because I mostly stayed on
deadline and she didn’t edit the crap out of my books. I also made
my publisher a lot of money, and that reflected positively on her,
even while it reflected damn positively on my bank account. Making
lots of money smooths a lot of wrinkles.

With the advent of the persistent dreams,
something interesting started happening to me creatively. I started
losing my taste for mystery novels. In particular, for death and
destruction. So much so that it affected my writing output and I
had to stop work on my ghost thriller.

Rita my editor hadn’t been pleased.
Especially when I informed her that I was thinking of writing a
different kind of book, one that featured a decidedly lower body
count. Now, the book idea had been brewing since the dreams began
plaguing me. No surprise there. Any writer who suddenly starts
dreaming of Christ, King Arthur and the Holy Grail is bound to
start thinking about plot, structure, and theme.

Yeah, I was thinking about writing a King
Arthur novel.

“King Arthur?” said Rita. I noted the mild
hysteria in her voice.

“But not just any King Arthur book,” I said.
“A spiritual King Arthur book.”

“Spiritual?”

“Yes,” I answered. “A sort of spiritual
adventure.”

“What, exactly, do you mean by spiritual
adventure?” she asked. She enunciated each word slowly and
carefully.

“You know, something in the tradition of The
Alchemist or The Celestine Prophecy.”

“Those books were flukes.”

“The authors would beg to differ.”

“I mean publishing flukes. It’s like hitting
the lottery.”

“I’m not looking to hit the lottery,” I said.
“I’m looking to write something that heals, rather than hurts.”

Rita snorted. I didn’t blame her. This was a
lot to absorb, especially coming from a guy who’s last book
featured a machete-killing high school teacher and his cult of
honor student followers.

“Your audience will never go for it,” she
said. “They want murder mysteries, James. They want a thriller.
They don’t want God on Harley, or whatever the hell you’re thinking
of writing about.”

“The Holy Grail.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Deep breaths, Rita.”

“Will you at least consider putting some sort
of murder mystery in it?” she asked, nearly pleading.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Please, James. One corpse.”

“Probably not.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus....”

“Keep breathing, Rita.”

And it had gone on like that for some time:
her begging for bodies and hyperventilating and me holding my
ground. She finally hung up when I promised to at least add some
blood.

But before she hung up she asked, “Any chance
King Arthur can be a vampire?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

Now in the hotel room, I finished my email to
Rita by telling her that the plane had miraculously pulled out of
its dive and that, after this near-death experience, I had had a
vision of me writing historical romance novels. I typed a winkie
face and could almost see her fainting. Poor thing.

I dashed off a few more emails, snapped shut
my laptop and took a brief nap.

Big surprise, I dreamed of Christ hanging
from the cross, a bloody goblet, and, just to mix things up a
little, a surging underground river. I woke up and checked the time
on my cell phone. I had been asleep for just under twenty
minutes.

A lot of dreaming for just twenty
minutes.

Surprisingly rested, I pocketed the hotel
room key and headed down to the dining room for some dinner.

A surging river?

Lord help me.

The Return of Aladdin #1

by

J.R. Rain

and Piers Anthony

(read on to sample the first three
chapters)

Chapter One

The Middle-East,

A Forgotten Desert

She was a fine beauty with almond-shaped
eyes, high cheekbones and lips so full they could hardly close. She
stepped into my tent and shook out her hair and slapped the trail
dust from her overcoat.

I had been dozing lightly, one foot propped
up on a heavy travel chest, when I heard a woman’s voice asking for
me. With my foot still hanging over the ornately-engraved chest, I
had turned my head with some interest and watched as a dark-haired
woman had poked her head in my open tent. My tent was always open.
After all, I was always open for business. Once confirming she had
the right tent, she had strode in confidently.

And that’s when I sat up, blinking hard. It
was not often that such a beauty entered my humble tent. Granted,
there had been a time when I was surrounded by such beauties, but
that seemed like a long, long time ago.

“Do you always sleep during the day?” she
asked. As she spoke, she scanned my simple tent, wrinkling her
nose. She stepped over to a low table and looked down at a carving
of mine. She nodded to herself, as if she approved of my handiwork.
She looked around my tent some more, and when she was done, she
looked at me directly, perhaps challengingly.

“Only until the sun goes down.”

She had been looking at a pile of my dirty
robes sitting in one corner of my tent. She snapped her head
around. “I hope you’re joking.”

“And why would you hope that?”

“Because I will not hire a sluggard.”

She was a woman of considerable wealth, that
much was for sure. She also did not act like any woman I had even
seen, outside of the many courtyards and palaces I had once been
accustomed to. She reminded me of all that was wrong with wealth
and royalty and I immediately took a disliking to her, despite her
great beauty.