Christmas Moon (A Vampire for Hire Novella) by Rain J.R

Author:Rain, J.R. [Rain, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-12-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

I knocked on the drug dealers’ front door.

I listened with a small grin to the frantic sounds of weed and crack being hidden in everything from toilets to cookie jars, to no doubt deep inside boxers and briefs. I heard a chair fall over. I heard someone curse under his breath. I heard the sounds of shushing and the running of footsteps.

I was tempted to yell, “Police” and really listen to the fireworks within. I might even hear a window crash as one of them makes a run for it.

Instead, I waited, rocking gently back and forth, hands behind my back, just a five foot, three-inch mother of two confronting your neighborhood drug dealers.

My alarm system was jangling, but I mostly ignored it. I knew, after all, what I was walking into.

Finally, I heard footsteps cautiously approach the door.

An acne-covered Caucasian face peered at me through the door’s dirty curtain. The face frowned, and then looked almost comically left and right before he partially opened the door.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But my car broke down and I was wondering if I could borrow your phone?”

“My phone? Yo, fuck off, bitch. This ain’t no Triple Fucking A.” And he promptly slammed the door in my face.

Or tried to.

I stuck out my hand, and the door rebounded off it so hard that it slammed back into the drug dealer’s face. I followed the swinging door in, pushing harder. The young punk reached for his nose and for something under his shirt. And since I didn’t feel like getting shot tonight, I caught his hand in mid-reach, twisted until he dropped to both knees, and grabbed what he’d been reaching for under his shirt.

I came away with a Smith & Wesson revolver.

I swung the gun around and pointed it at the others, who were all reaching inside their own pants. Apparently, this was the official greeting of drug dealers everywhere.

“Hello, boys,” I said. “Hands where I can see them.”

“Fuck this shit,” said a tall black kid who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He pulled up his shirt, revealing the gleaming walnut handle of an expensive revolver, and before his hand got very far beyond that, I fired the weapon. A bullet hole appeared in the kitchen linoleum next to his foot, perhaps just inches away.

He jumped maybe three feet, screaming like a girl. “Holy sweet Jesus! The bitch is crazy!”

I held the gun steady on the trio who were standing around the kitchen table. All three were in their late teens or early twenties. Hardly drug lords.

I said, “Next one who calls me a bitch gets a bullet in their big toe. Got it?”

No one moved or said anything. The guy next to me whimpered a little, and I realized I was still twisting his arm. I let him go and threw him a little at the same time. He skidded across the kitchen floor. Okay, I might have thrown him a lot.

I next had them drop their guns and kick them over to me.

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