Sunglasses After Dark

by Nancy A. Collins

  He entered her, holding his breath lest she break. He needn't have worried. She gasped and moved her hips to meet him, clutching at his buttocks with sharp fingernails. Denise wriggled under him like a wild thing, hissing and moaning with every stroke.

  He was afraid he'd erupt upon insertion—it had been a long time—but after the first few thrusts he relaxed, confident he would go the distance.

  Denise clung to him, her legs wrapped around his hips. Her cries and whispers devolved into moans and shuddering gasps that seemed, at times, to come from someone else. Claude ignored it. He was riding a sleek dolphin, his arms and legs wrapped around its madly gyrating form as it porpoised through the waves. It was frightening and exhilarating and he never wanted it to end. He felt the urgency that heralds orgasm and strove to contain it. He didn't want the ride to end. He opened his eyes, hungry for the sight of Denise's face.

  She didn't have eyes anymore. Lozenges of mirrored glass returned Claude's stare. Her long, blond hair writhed like a sea anemone as it rearranged itself.

  "No!"

  Too late. The darkness was already staining her hair the color of bibles. She smiled, revealing her fangs, but that didn't scare him. What scared him was the fact he was still hard. He should have lost his erection the moment he realized what was under him; it should have deflated like a toy balloon, but it was still stiff. He tried to push himself off her, but Sonja pulled him back down.

  "This is what you wanted all along, wasn't it?" she leered. She moved her hips against his. They were Siamese twins, joined at the groin by a traitorous piece of meat.

  "Kiss me, Claude. Kiss me…" She laced her arms around his neck and tried to drag his face toward her waiting mouth. Her fangs were the color of aged ivory. Claude couldn't decide whether he was going to vomit or orgasm.

  Sonja looked genuinely surprised when he clamped his hands around her throat. His fingers tightened their hold as he brutally thrust himself between her legs. She struggled under him as he strove to squeeze life from her lungs while injecting it into her womb. Her legs flailed and her fingernails sliced into his face, but he refused to stop. He wondered if her head would come off in his hands.

  Trick! Trick! Should have known! It was too good to be real! Bitch! Trying to turn me into a fucking Renfield. I'll kill you for this.

  Sonja Blue's face disappeared as if someone had changed the channels on a television set. Claude stared at the naked, middle-aged woman thrashing beneath him. Despite the smeared makeup, crooked wig, and bulging eyes, she looked familiar.

  Perplexed, Claude loosened his grip on her throat. Before he had time to understand what the hell was going on, he was seized by his own orgasm. He didn't feel it when she reached inside his skull and squeezed his brain.

  Catherine Wheele experienced a moment of Sheer claustrophobic terror when the dead man collapsed on top of her.

  She felt as if she was buried alive under the corpse's bulk, the smell of sweat and jism smothering her senses. She wriggled free, an ululating whine escaping her lips.

  Her lungs were full of broken glass and razor blades. She touched her throat gingerly—it was already the size and coloration of a ripe eggplant. She stared at Claude's body. I should have killed him the minute I saw him. That's what Ezra would have done. But, no, I had to try to make him one of my own. Just in case Thorne got any bright ideas about getting rid of me.

  There was no way she could hurt him enough for what he'd done to her. No one, but no one treated her like that! She opened her mouth and tried to curse the dead man beside her, but there was only pain and an incoherent gargling.

  Her hands flew to her throat, prodding the swollen flesh with shaking fingers. No! He couldn't have! She began to tremble. Her eyes filled with tears. Nononono… Her fear gave way to rage and she threw herself on Claude's rapidly cooling body, pummeling it until she raised post-mortem bruises. Exhausted, she lay sprawled on the rumpled bed, her vision swimming with tears, as the last of Claude's seed trickled down her thigh.

  What had gone wrong? She'd provided the appropriate scenario, the proper stimulation and illusion. So what went wrong? She'd been in control, just like always…

  But that wasn't completely true, was it?

  How did you like it, Kathy-Mae? Did you enjoy your first orgasm?

  She clamped her hands over her ears. She refused to open her eyes. She recognized the voice and was fearful of what might be sitting on the corner of her bed, watching her. She prayed it would go away.

  But I can't go away, Kathy-Mae. I'm always here. I'm always with you, like I said I would.

  Why are you here? Why now, after all these years?

  Things are moving. Changing. I came to warn you. You will be having visitors. In fact, one of them is already at the gate.

  Catherine knew she was gone before she opened her eyes. Or was she? Sally was right, though. She could feel her visitor approaching. It was time to receive her guest.

  Sonja Blue stood outside the gates of Catherine Wheele's mansion, studying the brightly lit driveway and the phalanx of armed guards patrolling the green space around the house. Either Wheele was a practicing paranoid or she was expected.

  She slipped over the top of the wall, oblivious to the pieces of broken bottle embedded in the mortar. Such precautions were good for deterring paparazzi and other celebrity-watchers, but not someone back from the dead.

  Wheele chose her sanctum well. The mansion was located in an exclusive suburb situated beyond the zone of shopping malls and fast-food strips that separated the city from its satellite communities. A crushed shell drive, flanked by crepe myrtles, curved toward the front of the house. During the day the estate could pass for yet another stronghold of privilege. But at night… Well, that was a different matter. The manicured lawn shimmered in the light from the floods mounted in the trees, turning the identical guards into sharply defined silhouettes.

  What should it be? Full frontal assault or a sneak approach? What the hell… Why waste time on subtlety?

  The driveway crunched beneath her boots. C'mon, bitch, let me see you try to stop me this time. C'mon, whatcha waitin' for, an engraved invitation?

  The floodlights sputtered and flickered like cheap Christmas lights. She could feel the rage-joy creeping along her scalp, sending sparks from her fingertips. No lights. The darkness boiling in her belly was the antithesis of sight and sound and life. Light would not be tolerated—or exist—in her presence.

  She scented the dog before she saw it. Seventy pounds of German shepherd bounded out of the shrubbery, aimed for her throat. She caught it in midair, holding it by the scruff of its neck like she would a pup. Its death was swift.

  "Shaitan? Shaitan, what is it, boy?"

  The Wheeler stood on the edge of the light, peering into the darkness, his Uzi at ready. He glanced about uneasily when the floods began to stutter.

  "Shaitan? Answer me, boy!"

  The dog's corpse struck the Wheeler full in the face, knocking him to the ground. The short, staccato burst from his Uzi shredded the bushes and shot out one of the faltering spotlights mounted in a nearby crepe myrtle.

  The dazed Wheeler pushed the carcass off his chest. His nose was bleeding and he could taste blood at the back of his throat. Dogs were barking and he could hear the others running in his direction. Someone was bending over him. He looked up and saw twin reflections of his bloodied face. God, he looked stupid.

  They found him dangling from the smooth, twisted branches of a crepe myrtle; his entrails spilled and looped into a hangman's noose. Some of the guards—the ones yet to undergo Heart's Desire conditioning—decided that it was time to desert when they saw him hanging from the tree like a depraved Christmas ornament. Bilking old ladies of their life savings and roughing up investigative journalists was one thing. This was something else entirely. They seemed honestly surprised when the Wheelers opened fire, splashing their insides all over the front lawn.

  The dogs began to howl and snarl, straining on their lea
shes and snapping at one another's flanks. One of the animals, a Doberman, sniffed at the splattered remains of the disloyal guards. Another dog, a German shepherd, nosed the red mess; the Doberman sank his fangs into the other dog's shoulder. Within seconds the dogs were engaged in a fierce melee, tearing at one another's throats and testicles.

  When one of the Wheelers made the mistake of trying to drag his dog free of the tangle and lost three fingers, the others opened fire on the animals, raking them with their automatic weapons. The growls of combat became yelps as the hounds forgot about fighting among themselves and tried to flee the barrage.

  When the smoke cleared, there were four dead German shepherds and three dead Dobermans on the lawn. A fourth Dobie—the one who'd started the fight—was still alive, although a bullet was lodged in its spine. The animal lay among its kennel mates, whining piteously as it tried to get back on its feet. One of the Wheelers finished it off with a short burst from his Uzi.

  The four Wheelers stood and stared at the collection of dead men and animals heaped about them. The lights flickered, dimmed, flared briefly, then went out.

  "We have to get back to the house. We're useless out here without the lights."

  "What about Dennings?" whispered the one with the maimed hand, his face pale from shock.

  The others looked to their eviscerated partner dangling from the crepe myrtle.

  "Shouldn't we, you know, cut him down or something?"

  "Fuck that. Dennings's not going anywhere."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "But what?"

  "Where's his gun?"

  The Uzi fire ripped through them as if they were plastic bags full of foam rubber and strawberry jelly. Sonja marveled at the chaos chattering away in her hands. No wonder they're so fond of these things. She kept firing until the clip jammed, then she tossed the gun away. The site resembled an abattoir more than an exclusive suburban front lawn.

  The porch .light flared, doubling its intensity, the moment she touched the steps. There was a sharp pop! and a shower of frosted glass fell from above.

  She passed a large mirror set in a gaudy mock-rococo frame. Blank-eyed, baby-fat cherubs smiled at her amid a welter of gilt grapevines. She paused to stare at her reflection.

  She was Shiva. She was Kali. She was all that is dark and terrible in nature, adored and scorned, worshiped and reviled. She was sheathed in a transparent caul of darkness the color of a fresh bruise. The caul rippled and roiled like a jellyfish and, while she watched, extruded a tendril that groped blindly in the air as if scenting prey. She knew that it was seeking, and the knowledge neither thrilled nor dismayed her.

  She felt no guilt or remorse; the evil that radiated from her wasn't the evil incarnate conjured forth by centuries of theologians in an attempt to shift the blame. It was human evil, nothing more. Granted, it had been recycled and refined until it was the psychic equivalent of rocket fuel, but its source was mortal, not diabolic.

  Nobles could live for years on such stored power before requiring a recharge. But Sonja was an unfinished vessel. She couldn't property synthesize the emotions she drained from others. She was in danger of overloading and spontaneously combusting. She had to release the charge before that happened. But no matter how she did it, it would still prove dangerous.

  She remembered the rumors of how the Nazi camps, the Stalinist purges, and the Khmer Rouge reeducation farms were the side effects of similar blow-offs. Nothing happens in the Real World that is not mirrored in the half-life of human existence, and part of her was still unwilling to unleash evil on the innocent.

  She extended her fangs and grimaced at the mirror. That's better. There's no point in pretending anymore, right? Where are you, bitch? Come out and fight face to face, like a real monster.

  (I'm in the study. Third door on your left.)

  Sonja started, the mirror and its reflection forgotten. The voice had been loud and clear, as if Wheele had been at her elbow. So she was ready, huh? Good.

  She felt like a Viking berserker, stoned on bloodshed and the inevitability of death. She noticed that she was sweating heavily and that her hands trembled. Fire on the outside and fire on the inside. It would be so simple to surrender to the anger that frothed and foamed in her and charge into battle, screaming like a hell-bound soul…

  She had to be careful and use her brain. The last time she'd surrendered to mindless savagery it'd come close to costing her what sanity she had left. Still, the temptation was strong. The power filled her until she felt like a balloon made out of skin, stretched to capacity. What would happen to her—and those around her—should she explode?

  The lights were off in the study, although it made little difference to her. It might have been high noon with the drapes open.

  Catherine Wheele sat perched on the edge of the huge oak desk that dominated the room. She was dressed in a silver lame pant suit with a pink cravat knotted around her neck. Her aura shimmered like heat rising from the sidewalk on a summer's day. The hate that emanated from her was nearly enough to make Sonja swoon.

  (You've caused me no end of trouble. I should have killed you right, like Thorne suggested.)

  Sonja flinched. She had to be careful and keep herself screened. Wheele had been inside her head and knew how to twist the knife for maximum effect. They were within easy striking distance of each other, not that it mattered. The attack, when it came, would not be on a physical level.

  "Why didn't you? Kill me, that is. Why keep me around? Was it just simple greed?"

  Wheele looked uncomfortable and plucked absently at the scarf knotted under her chin.

  "Or was it something else? Was it because we have something in common?"

  Wheele stiffened, her eyes slicing into Sonja like scalpels. Her voice detonated in Sonja's head. (Shut up! Silence, Abomination!)

  Sonja clutched her head, her vision momentarily dimmed by the thunder inside her skull. If she does that again, my brains are going to leak out my ears, vampire or not. But, what the hell…

  "Yeah, not all the monkeys are in the zoo, are they? And maybe all the monsters aren't locked up, safe and sound."

  Another bolt of white-hot pain surged through her and she narrowly missed biting her tongue in two.

  "I'm not drugged and disoriented this time, Wheele. You've got power—I'll admit that—but you don't have knowledge." She smiled bitterly, hearing an echo of Pangloss's infernal wisdom. "What have you chosen to do with your abilities? You bilk sick and deluded humans into giving you their money and—if you're careless—their lives. How pathetic! It's like using a laser to engrave postcards."

  Wheele did not move to repudiate her harangue, but her thoughts bristled with anger and embarrassment.

  "Why don't you speak?" she asked, exposing her teeth. She grinned even wider at the sight of Wheele's blanched face. "And where's Hagerty? The orderly your zombies snatched. Where is he?"

  Wheele's answering smile was unpleasant.

  (Why, he's right here… waiting for you.) She gestured to the oversized swivel chair behind the desk. Sonja touched the chair, causing it to turn toward her. She knew what was waiting for her. She did not want to see, but she could not bring herself to look away. Wheele's voice became white noise.

  (Too much… bastard… crushed larynx… easy to reach inside his head and squeeeeze the aneurism. It burst like an overripe tomato. Did him a favor, really. It could have ruptured anytime, anywhere; he could have been driving a car when it happened, could have ended up crashing into a school bus or something…)

  Claude was sprawled, nude, in the chair. His flesh possessed a bluish tinge, the blood having settled in his buttocks and legs. He looked horribly vulnerable, his face slackened and his privates shriveled by death.

  Sonja closed his eyes, her fingers lingering on the cool surface of his brow.

  (He watched over you and you tried to return the favor. But you failed.)

  Sonja jerked her head in Wheele's direction. Wheele's face was replaced by a lump
of shimmering white light that seemed to grow with every heartbeat. Sonja felt her own energy coalesce itself into a protective hood, like that of a cobra.

  Long, snakelike tendrils emerged from the force field surrounding Catherine Wheele. She resembled a Gorgon transfixing her prey. The creepers hovered in the air for a second, then snapped like whips at Sonja's head, sinking their barbs into the bruise-colored glow.

  The castle was very old. It sat on top of a foreboding mountaintop, looking down into a cheerless ravine, at the bottom of which wound a gray ribbon of cold alpine water. It was storming around the castle, its dark corridors erratically lit by sheets of lightning. All the rooms were full of heavy, ornate furniture covered with sheets. The huge portraits on the walls were coated with dust three inches thick. Cobwebs hung from every corner like tattered mosquito netting, fluttering lazily in the breeze.

  The vampire killer stood in the main hall, holding the carpetbag that contained the tools of her trade. The peasant coach driver had deposited her at the foot of the road leading to the castle, then driven away as fast as he could, leaving her to walk the rest of the way. Now it was twilight. Soon it would be dark. She had to find the monster and stake it in its lair before it was too late. Hundreds had suffered the beast's leprous touch. The time had come to put an end to its unholy reign of terror.

  The vampire killer made her way to the dungeons, where legend had it the family crypts were located. The lightning seared the darkening sky, throwing everything into stark shadow. She made her way down the winding stair, one hand holding aloft a kerosene lantern, the other gripping her bag.

  The dungeons were dark and smelled of mold and damp earth. She could hear the rats as they scurried away from the lamplight. Clusters of bats, hanging from the stone arches like bananas, chittered and squeaked as she passed.

  She came to an imposing wrought-iron gate, locked and bound with heavy chain. Beyond it lay the ancestral vaults, where the monster slumbered during the day and from which it traveled each night to sate its unnatural lusts and spread its loathsome contagion among the weak and the innocent. Setting aside the lamp, she opened her carpetbag and produced a mal let and chisel. She worked the chisel's point into the lock and began hammering. After the fifth stroke the lock broke and the gates swung inward on rusty hinges.