Sunglasses After Dark (Sonja Blue)

by Nancy A. Collins

  “While the Aegrisomnia may prove useful now and again, I’m sure you’ve noticed that it’s far from comprehensive. There is so much I could show you, if only you’d put aside this irrational hatred of our species. You deny what you are by destroying that which is like you. It’s a futile gesture. You seem to think that being human is something exalted, something to be proud of. As the years pass, you’ll see them for what they really are: myopic beasts intent on destroying their world. Why, if it weren’t for us, the human race would have nuked itself out of existence years ago.”

  “You mean the fleas are keeping the dog alive?”

  “If that’s how you choose to see it, yes. Humans are little more than cattle in a mad race to the slaughterhouse, and they don’t care whom they stampede along with them. Must we stand by and watch as they destroy both their world and ours?”

  “You make it sound so noble and self-effacing. I thought you enjoyed human pain and suffering?”

  “That is true, in most cases. But where is the percentage in killing off the entire human race, just for the sake of a good dinner? Don’t be naïve, girl. There is no need to orchestrate atrocity—Mankind is perfectly capable of monstrosity without our help. In fact, up until the last century or so, we have remained in the background. It wasn’t until humanity stumbled across a means of obliterating the entire world that we felt compelled to step in and manage things.”

  “I’m having difficulty picturing you as a protector of the human race.”

  “‘Husbander’ is a better word,” Pangloss said with a shrug. “Would a farmer stand idly by and watch his herd die of hoof-and-mouth? It is in our best interests that the human race continues. Of course, that doesn’t mean their future will be a pleasant one. But you are re avoiding replying to my proposal. Will you join me?”

  “And what would you expect from me in exchange for learning at your feet?” I asked dryly.

  “Nothing that you are not already doing.”

  “Except that I leave your gets alone, I take it?”

  “Precisely. Think about it, Miss Blue. In time, you could become a countess, perhaps even a duchess!”

  “You might as well bribe me with Monopoly money.”

  A look of incomprehension flickered across Pangloss’s face at the thought of a vampire turning down a chance at advancing in social position, forcing him to change tactics. “If that is not incentive enough, then how about this: I know where Morgan is.”

  My heart jumped at the words and I began to sweat. It was tempting . . . very tempting. There was nothing I wanted more than the opportunity to tear that bastard to shreds with my bare hands. And here was Pangloss, offering to take me to him, if only I agreed to work for him.

  Suddenly The Other was whispering eagerly into my inner ear. Go ahead and do it. You’ll finally be amongst your own kind. You wouldn’t have to worry about being a freak anymore. You will be accepted for what you are.

  I looked at Pangloss, dressed in his fancy silk shirt and fashionable trousers, with his well-manicured hands and carefully coiffed hair. I closed my eyes and reopened them to see a wizened mummy with no lips and skin the color of rancid tallow.

  Among your own kind . . .

  “Go to hell,” I growled.

  “Most of my closest friends are from there,” Pangloss sighed wearily. “I’d hoped you would be cooperative, but I can see there is too much of Morgan in you. Very well. I’ll have Cesare escort you back topside.” He turned and called for the psychic, but there was no response. Pangloss’s second shout rattled the bones of the forgotten dead. “Cesare!” When there was still no answer, Pangloss brushed past me to investigate the corner his flunky had crawled into.

  Cesare was on his haunches, propped against one of the lower death shelves. The candle and spoon he’d used to cook his fix lay at his feet, along with a spilled flask of mineral water. The candle had burned itself out, snuffed by a pool of its own wax. The bottom of the spoon was black with carbon from the flame. The rubber tubing was still knotted above the psychic’s elbow, the empty syringe dangling from his forearm by its needle. Vomit dripped slowly from the corner of his mouth.

  Pangloss clucked his tongue in dismay, like a housewife trying to estimate the correct patent medicine dosage for the family pet. “I’m afraid that last batch was a tad too pure for the poor boy. Humans are so fragile.”

  I turned away from the scene, as I found the sight of a fresh corpse among the ancient dead oddly disconcerting. There would be no more voices for Cesare. A chill worked its way through my body as I realized the psychic had probably died while Pangloss was discoursing on Pretender sociology. I wondered if he knew all along that the heroin was uncut? The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to be free of the subterranean maze of vaults and dead things.

  “Oh, bother. This means I must escort you back myself,” the vampire sniffed, heading toward one of the narrow passageways that opened onto the cubiculum.

  “Wait! What about him?” I asked, pointing to Cesare’s body, crouched in a rough semblance of devotion.

  Pangloss glanced around the burial chamber and shrugged. “He’s in good company.”

  The passageway was close and dark and smelled of dust and cobwebs. Pangloss walked just ahead of me, keeping up a constant chatter about the foibles and vices of famous dead people. I found being in such close quarters with a vampire unpleasant, but I was dependent on him to lead me to the surface. After we had been walking for some time, he stopped and turned to face me, his tone conversational.

  “Do you remember when I told you that the catacombs are neutral ground? Well, we’re no longer within its borders.”

  The low-wattage bulbs strung along the ceiling suddenly surged, burning at three times their strength before bursting in a chain reaction of pops! Pangloss was on me within half a second, his fingers closing around my neck like steel bands. I could see his eyes, glowing like a rat’s in the darkness, as I drove my knife into the good doctor’s chest. He howled in pain and rage as the silver blade sank deep into his flesh and the surrounding dead trembled at the sound. I slashed again, only to find him gone.

  I got to my feet, shuddering like a winded racehorse. I put a hand to my throat and it came away bloody. I had been bitten. I heard what sounded like a panther in heat, shrieking its way down one of the myriad galleries that extended from the main corridor. Holding my knife at the ready, I proceeded forward, following the light bulb shards strewn about the floor of the tunnel, like Hansel or Gretel following the trail of bread crusts through the woods.

  I was alternately freezing and sweating; my joints ached horribly and my head felt like it was coming apart at the seams. Had Pangloss injected me with some kind of poison? Perhaps the Morgan inside of me was battling with Pangloss for possession of my body. I had a vision of them locked in mortal combat deep within my stomach, aristocratic jet-setter versus effete intellectual, and began to giggle.

  I don’t know how long I wandered the catacombs in a delirious stupor, but I somehow managed to stay in the right passageway. I stood and stared at the heavy door in front of me for some time before realizing I had reached the end of my journey. I tried the handle, only to find it locked. Unmindful of whether there might be an ogre on the other side or not, I used my knife to pick the lock from the inside. It wasn’t very difficult; the door was very old and the locking mechanism crude by modern standards.

  I slowly opened the door, knowing at any minute the ogre would reach out and snare me by my hair. I experienced a vivid image of myself being held aloft by my ankles and lowered, head-first, into the creature’s waiting jaws. I shook off the vision and peeked around the jamb into the basement, only to find it empty. The ogre’s place beside the door was deserted.

  Relieved, but still cautious, I pushed open the door all the way open and entered the basement. Judging by the light angling through the windows set at ground level, it was late afternoon. I hurried up the stairs, unmindful of their creaks and groans. I had to get out
of there before the ogre came back.

  Upon reaching the first floor I looked up the crumbling remains of a curved stairway and caught sight of an open door. It had been closed when Cesare first escorted me through the old villa. Even though I was weakened by fever and my bones felt like they had been hollowed out and filled with lead, I felt compelled to investigate.

  It felt like I was being dragged up the stairs by a force I was helpless to resist or comprehend, like the toy skaters that pirouette atop their mirror lakes. I did not want to see what was in the room. I wanted to escape the villa and its monstrous guard, but still I mounted the stairs one by one, my eyes focused on the half-open door.

  Back when the villa was alive, the room had been a nursery. It was light and airy and I could still make out the fairy-tale characters that capered across the walls. There were toys scattered throughout the nursery: some new, some antique, all of them broken. An Edwardian rocking horse, its back snapped and saddle askew, stared at me from the gathering shadows.

  There was no furniture in the room save for a soiled mattress in one corner covered with filthy blankets. The room smelled like a lion’s cage, and there were urine stains at the height of a man’s head. I crossed the threshold, stepping across a battalion of painted lead soldiers bent into clothespins.

  The walls near the ogre’s bed were pasted with illustrations torn from children’s books. My foot nudged something. It was a large Raggedy Ann doll, its red yarn hair askew and shoe-button eyes yanked out. Stuffing dribbled from the gaping hole between its candy-striped legs.

  Grunting in disgust, I turned to leave the monster’s boudoir. My boot struck something, and I looked down and saw an arm belonging to a baby doll. Then I saw the knob of bone that had once fit into a tiny shoulder socket. No. Not a doll.

  I vomited copiously, ridding myself of Pangloss’s contagion. I was so busy purging my system, I didn’t hear the monster come home until I heard something like a cross between a bear’s growl and the squeal of a hog from downstairs. The entire villa began to shake as the ogre stormed up the stairs.

  The door flew open, smashing into the wall so hard it sagged on its hinges. The ogre filled the threshold, his monk’s hood pushed back to reveal his inhuman face. He glared at me, his gorilloid nostrils flaring, and a dim flicker of recognition sparked deep within his eyes. Then he charged, claws outstretched, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  I sidestepped the five hundred pounds of enraged ogre, and he crashed into the nursery wall hard enough to shake the house to its foundations. Rotting plaster fell from the ceiling and a huge crack marked his collision. The ogre spat out a curved tooth, ignoring the trickle of blood seeping from his nose.

  There was no way I could go toe to toe with such a monster. I wasn’t even sure if ogres had weak spots. My back was to a double casement that faced the rear of the house. Without bothering to see where I might be landing, I smashed through the windows and plummeted into the unknown.

  I landed in the overgrown garden attached to the villa and somehow succeeded in scaling the wall before the ogre located me. I managed to escape with only a broken arm and some busted ribs. I still felt like shit, though, and it took several days to fully recover from the effects of Pangloss’s bite. At one time I thought I heard him talking to me inside my head, telling me to join him. But it might have been simply been an auditory hallucination.

  I returned to Geneva, but I could not bring myself to tell Ghilardi of my encounter with Pangloss and the revelations he’d made concerning The Aegrisomnia. It would have ruined his book.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1978: Ghilardi suffered a massive stroke while trying to find a publisher for his new work. Upon receiving the news, I curtailed my hunting expeditions and remained in Geneva. When I first met Ghilardi, his eyes were the color of sapphires held to the light, but after the stroke they started to fade, growing paler every day. It was hard to watch him die like that, but I was equally curious. For all the killing I had done, I had never witnessed a natural death.

  He died June 2nd. I was with him when it happened. By that time his eyes were so pale they were without color, like those of a child fresh from the womb. The left side of his face was slack and his left hand a useless snarl of meat and bone. I noticed that he seemed more alert than usual that day.

  “Sssonja ...” he slurred. “Do you see it?”

  “See what, Erich?’ I scanned the bedroom on all levels. As far as I could tell, we were alone. I turned back to look at him just in time see his eyes close. I didn’t need to touch him to know he was dead. I sat there for a long moment, my sense of loss so overwhelming it couldn’t register as an emotion, and stared at what was left of my friend and tutor. Once again, I found myself alone in the world.

  I was named Ghilardi’s principal heir and executor of his will. I inherited the house, the grounds, the family fortune and a professionally forged set of documents that provided Sonja Blue with a certifiable past and identity. I also inherited all his notebooks and the typewritten manuscript concerning his greatest discovery: me. This was the book that would put to rest his reputation as a crackpot.

  I burned every last page in the central hall’s marble fireplace.

  After I’d consigned Ghilardi’s reputation to the flames, I went and stood on the shores of Lake Geneva. I stared at the same waters on which Jean-Jacques went boating with his beloved dullard, Marie-Therese, and where, fifty years later, a poet’s wife gave birth to a monster. I was certain I would not find Morgan in Europe.

  I rang Ghilardi’s solicitors, liquidated my inheritance, save for two books, and bought a one-way ticket to Tokyo.

  I went to Japan, hoping its saffron-robed holy men and black-garbed assassin priests might know more of the Real World than the scientists and occult investigators of the West.

  While waiting for the bullet train that would take me into Tokyo from the airport, I noticed a young girl dressed in the drab uniform the Nippon educational system had copied from German private schools earlier in the century. She looked to be no more than twelve or thirteen, although the roundness of her face made her seem even younger. She was chewing gum and paging through a comic book the size of a telephone directory. I glimpsed a woman, naked except for strategic shadows, cowering before a hulking giant. The giant was covered with scars and tattoos. A poisonous snake with dripping fangs was wrapped around the monster’s erect penis; rather, it was wrapped around where the giant’s erect penis would have been, if the censors hadn’t airbrushed it out. The schoolgirl extruded a bubble the color of flesh, flipped the page, and continued reading. And the giant pressed his thumbs into his protesting victim’s eyes, I realized finding Morgan here would not be as easy as I’d first thought.

  I soon discovered that coming to Japan had been a mistake. I stalked the human beehives of Tokyo, frustrated in my search for Pretenders. Everyone in the city wore a mask; it is a part of their culture. Their thoughts formed an impenetrable wall I was neither skilled nor ready enough to understand. I felt even more alienated than I had in Europe.

  Still, it wasn’t a complete loss. I was in a mammoth downtown Tokyo department store one busy afternoon where it seemed the entire country had picked that day to come and shop. Despite the crowds, I was able to maintain suitable personal space. I was unsure whether their reluctance to come too close had to do with my being gaijin or Pretender. Either way, I followed the path of least resistance, allowing myself to be buoyed along in the general direction of the shoppers. The Japanese equivalent of Muzak blared from hidden speakers, mixing with the roar of a thousand voices speaking in a foreign tongue.

  I found myself standing near a bank of elevators. There were two young girls dressed in feminine versions of the department store uniform posted outside the cars. Both wore spotless white gloves and spoke in artificial falsetto voices like cartoon mice. The elevator girls smiled fixedly, bowing to the customers with machinelike precision and made what appeared to be ritual hand gestures. Their arms rock
ed back and forth like metronomes, indicating which lifts went to which departments. I watched the women as they repeated their robotic gestures over and over for an endless stream of shoppers, their smiles never faltering. I was suddenly overcome by the need to weep. I was baffled by the surge of emotion, as I hadn’t cried at Ghilardi’s funeral.

  As I turned away, I was surprised to see a small, bowed man with the wrinkled face of a sacred ape looking up at me. At first I thought I was being accosted by some exotic variation of Pretender. Then I realized I was looking at a very old man.

  “You come away from this,” he said in English. “Not good for you.” He gestured with a crooked finger and began threading his way through the dense packing of consumers. Intrigued, I followed him. The old man’s aura was roseate, but I could not divine if he was of Pretender origin or not.

  He eventually led me to a traditional Japanese house, sequestered from the bustle of the street by ancient stone walls. He showed me his garden, with its intricate patterns raked in the sand, and later shared tea with me. He said his name was Hokusai, and he was a descendant of Shinto wizards and samurai sword smiths. He had been trained in the art of “seeing beyond” by his grandfather and was adept at identifying people and places of power.

  “You shine very strong. Maybe too strong. And sometime there is darkness at the edge of the bright.” He frowned, unable to fully explain himself in English. I suspected that even if I spoke fluent Japanese he would still have trouble finding the right words.

  “Why did you ask me to follow you here?” I asked.

  “I watch you watch elevator girls,” he replied. “The dark was eating the bright.”