In the Blood (Sonja Blue)

by Nancy A. Collins

  Seward took only three commissions in the five years between his return to public life and his subsequent self-imposed exile, and each was a masterwork, evoking Gaudi and foreshadowing H.R. Giger. Unfortunately, none of these structures remain standing, due to the so-called “Seward Curse. “

  While each of these buildings (two private homes in Minnesota and the old Zorn Publications skyscraper in New York) were incredible works of art and widely praised by the intelligentsia of the time, they proved to be uninhabitable. Those who tried to live or work within these edifices soon found themselves stricken with terrible vertigo and a nameless dread that led them to flee the building in terror. On the few occasions Seward would speak of his later work, he stated that he had discovered, through the use of non-Euclidian geometry and quantum physics, a means of creating lines and angles that would pierce the space-time continuum. Whether this was so, or simply the ravings of a brilliant but sadly unhinged mind, will never be verified. However, it is believed that the newspaper reports of these incidences later provided the fantasy writer H.P. Lovecraft with the inspiration for his short story “The Dreams in the Witch-House.”

  In 1916, shortly before the Zorn Building—with its magnificent chromium gargoyles and eye-twisting zeppelin mooring spire—was scheduled for demolition, Creighton Seward disappeared from the public eye and would not be heard of again until his suicide in 1930.

  It was later discovered that Seward—the heir to an industrial fortune—retired to the Sonoma Valley of Northern California, where he set about creating a personal testament to guilt and madness: the infamous Ghost Trap Manor. Utilizing a previously-existing three-story mansion as what could best be called a nucleus, Seward commissioned a team of carpenters to construct a twisting maze of weirdly shaped and cunningly designed rooms and corridors that would, by the time of his death, cover acres of land and tower over six stories high. Ghost Trap Manor was finally completed in 1925, with Seward paying the workmen to keep the location—and exact nature—of his final masterpiece secret from the world.

  It is uncertain whether Seward spent the last five years of his life in complete isolation, or if he shared the house with servants. All that is known is that there were no signs of a house staff when his nephew and heir, Pierce Seward-Burroughs, had the rambling house searched for signs of his uncle in 1930. It took three days to locate the body, as many of those who entered the house suffered attacks of vertigo and experienced bouts of anxiety and dread.

  The exact manner of Seward’s demise is unknown, although he is believed to have starved to death. Notes found among the architect’s personal effects revealed the behind creating such an unconventional home. Apparently Seward believed the ghosts of his slain family were haunting him. Consumed by guilt and fear, he devised a labyrinth that would effectively “confuse” the pursuing spirits and keep them from finding him, thus explaining Ghost Trap’s bewildering number of blind staircases, doorways that open onto brick walls and windows set into ceilings.

  Seward himself lived in the original “nucleus rooms” at the center of the sprawling mansion. Why the architect would decide to wander into the maze of “ghost rooms” without provisions or a map is unknown. For lack of a better explanation, the coroner listed his death as a suicide.

  For over seventy years Ghost Trap remained shuttered and sealed against the elements as part of the Seward estate. Then, in 2002, it was sold to an unnamed party. Ghost Trap remains closed to the public, although whether anyone currently walks its halls is unknown.

  On the page opposite the text was a partial schematic of the house’s floor plan. Sonja stared at it for a moment before realizing what she was looking at.

  “I’ll be damned!” she exclaimed, pointing at the diagram. “Can you see it?”

  Palmer frowned at the jumble of lines and curves. “It looks like a kid went crazy with a Spirograph.”

  “You’re seeing it with human eyes,” she said disparagingly. “Look harder.”

  Palmer returned his gaze to the blueprint, doing his best to focus his attention on it. To his surprise, the lines writhed as if suddenly taking on life.

  “Holy shit!” he yelped, dropping the book. “What was that?”

  “A Pretender glyph,” she explained. “What you’d call a magic sign, but built in three, possibly four dimensions.”

  “So this Seward guy was a vampire or something?”

  “Very likely,” she nodded. “Although I doubt he was aware of his heritage. There are plenty of half-bloods and changelings out there, living as humans, ignorant of their true nature and powers until something comes along to trigger it. They can be as dangerous as a full-blooded Pretender, though. Take Catherine Wheele, for example.”

  Palmer tried to keep his jaw from dropping. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  Sonja’s manner abruptly stiffened. “I’d rather not discuss it. As I was saying, Seward didn’t just design a trap for unwanted ghosts—he created a psychic jamming station! This entire house is a protective charm! No wonder Morgan is using it as his lair! It’s probably the only place on earth he can relax without fear of being attacked on a psychic level. No wonder Malfeis didn’t have any information on Morgan—he’s practically invisible when he’s in there!”

  “Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “It’s clearly working to Morgan’s advantage right now. We’re going to need a powerful countercharm just to get inside the door.”

  “So how do we go about getting one of those things? Open a box of breakfast cereal?”

  “It won’t be that hard. Before we left New Orleans, I checked with Malfeis to find out about reliable dealers in the San Francisco area.”

  “You mean they’re not listed in the Triple-A Guide? Color me surprised. So where do we have to go to find this wizard-for-hire?”

  “Chinatown.”

  Palmer knew they were in for trouble the moment Sonja ducked into the alleyway. Actually, it was less an alley than an over-large space between two restaurants. Since he had no choice, he followed her down its dark, narrow confines. He knew his gut instinct was correct upon hearing scrape of a boot on concrete.

  Three men emerged from the shadows to block their way, emerging from the shadows. Palmer was pained by how young they were. The oldest of the group couldn’t be more than eighteen. The youths wore their hair short and choppy, and Palmer could literally see the aggression rolling off them in crackling waves.

  The tallest of the trio, stainless steel shuriken decorating his leather jacket, stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Palmer. “This is Black Dragon territory. No dogs or whites allowed.”

  Palmer looked to Sonja, who shook her head. She turned to the gang leader and said something to him in Cantonese.

  The youth scowled, as his challenge had been aimed at Palmer. “Why are you looking for Li Lijing?” he replied asked in English.

  “Maybe her geezer boyfriend needs a fix of powdered rhino horn from your uncle so he can get it up, Loo!” one of the gang members chuckled.

  “All we want is to speak with the huli jing,” Sonja said, her voice deceptively calm.

  “Huli jing? You’re talking crazy, white girl!” the gang leader sneered. “There are no foxes in Chinatown.”

  “Loo! Hong! Kenny! Is this how you greet people looking for my shop? No wonder my business has been so poor!”

  The youths jumped at the sound of the old man’s voice, looking more like children surprised at a naughty deed than dangerous street toughs. An elderly Chinese gentleman, leaning on an ornately carved cane, stood at the top of a set of stairs leading to a basement shop.

  “Go play hoodlum somewhere else! I will not have you harassing paying customers! Have I made myself clear?” The old man exclaimed, poking Loo in the ribs with the end of his cane. The boy looked embarrassed but did not protest.

  “Yes, Uncle,” he muttered obediently.

  “Go now before I change my mind about paying you for the work you did straightening up m
y stock room!” The old man watched the leather-jacketed youths retreat, shaking his head in dismay. “The young today! No respect! You must forgive Loo, my friends. He works for me, opening and sorting boxes of herbs from the old country. He is a good boy, but his brain is too often filled with foolish Western nonsense—no offense.”

  “None taken,” Sonja replied with a smile. “I presume I am speaking to the honorable Li Lijing?”

  The old man nodded, smiling cryptically. “And you are the one they call the Blue Woman. Malfeis told me I might expect a visit from you. That is why I was eavesdropping. Loo is a silly boy, but I have a fondness for him. It would pain me to dig a grave for one so young. Ah! It is rude of me to keep you chattering on my doorstep! Please, come inside and make yourself comfortable.”

  The apothecary’s basement shop was dark and close, the ceiling barely a foot above Palmer’s head. Various herbs hung from the low rafters, filling the space with the thick aroma of sandalwood and ginseng. Palmer noticed a stuffed Chinese crocodile hanging suspended in the corner and a bewildering collection of subhuman skulls in an open cupboard—one of which boasted a cyclopean eye socket and a large horn growing from its forehead.

  “You and I certainly do not need it, my dear, but your companion would no doubt appreciate some additional illumination,”Li Lijing said as he lit up a pair of silk lanterns. He then turned to face Palmer, a sharp smile on his long, narrow black velvet snout. “Is that not so?”

  Palmer let out a startled yelp and stepped back from the humanoid fox standing before him. “You didn’t say anything about him being a werewolf!”

  Li Lijing shook his pointed ears in disgust, a pained look on his vulpine face. “I am huli jing, not vargr! Would you compare a panda to a grizzly bear? A stallion to a mule? A samurai to a priest?”

  “Forgive my companion, Li Lijing,” Sonja apologized. He is new to the Real World and has yet to meet a huli jing, much less a vargr. He meant no offense.”

  The huli jing snorted as he hobbled through the shop, using his cane to balance himself on his crooked legs. “I have come to expect such ignorance from humans. Still, it is a sore spot with me. But I cannot find it in myself to dislike their species. I have lived long among humankind. Why, I even took a couple as wives!” He made a barking sound that Palmer assumed was laughter. “I will tell you a secret! Loo is not my nephew, but actually my great-grandson! Not that he knows this. As far as he is concerned, I am merely a good friend of the family who arranged for his father to escape the Mainland. He calls me Uncle out of respect, but is ignorant of his blood. I favor the boy, as he reminds me of my son—his grandfather—who was lost to me during the invasion of Manchuria. Ah, but I must be old and foolish to succumb to such sentimentality, yes?”

  The fox-headed man sat down behind a low teak desk carved with scenes of kei-lun, the Chinese unicorn, frolicking in the perfumed gardens of K’un Lun, the City of Heaven. “Now, what is it I can do for you, my dear?”

  “I need a countercharm.”

  “I see.” The huli jing pushed aside a scroll of rice paper and his collection of bamboo calligraphy brushes and picked up an abacus. “What kind of spell are you interested in negating? Protection? Ensorcellment? Bedevilment? Containment? There is a difference in the prices, you know.”

  Sonja motioned for Palmer to hand the wizard the book containing the blueprint of Ghost Trap. “You tell me. I’m nowhere as adept at reading Pretender glyphs as you, Honorable One.”

  Li Lijing accepted the compliment by fluttering his pointed ears. “You do me great honor. Now, as to this particular charm...” He pondered the drawing, scratching his muzzle in contemplation. “This is a protective ward of immense potency. You were wise to consult me. Anyone—Pretender or human—trying to violate these lines of power would be risking their sanity, if not their very lives!”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Of course I can do it! Did I say otherwise? It’s just that the preparation of the proper countercharm will not be without some expense... or danger.”

  “I’m willing to pay whatever’s necessary to procure it.”

  The huli jing smiled as if he’d just been handed the key to the henhouse. “Malfeis didn’t lie, for once. You are a class act!” The apothecary barked another laugh and returned to his estimate, the abacus beads rattling like hailstones on a tin roof. “I can have the appropriate countercharm ready within the week.”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  Li Lijing looked down his long black nose at her. “That would quite a bit extra, you know.”

  “Just do it.”

  The abacus beads were flying now. “Very well. Loo will deliver it to your hotel once I have it ready. I advise that your companion here abstain from handling it. Frankly, a charm of this magnitude has no business even being looked at by humans. No offense. Now, as to the matter of my bill…”

  Sonja produced an envelope from inside her jacket and tossed it onto the desk. “I trust this will prove satisfactory. They once belonged to Hitler. I have papers that will verify it.”

  Li Lijing snatched up the packet and dumped its contents—a collection of yellowed human teeth—into his hand. “Such documentation isn’t necessary! Their power speaks the truth. Yes, this is most satisfactory. It is always a pleasure doing business with a client of such refined sensibilities as you, Mistress Blue!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Sonja? You okay?” Palmer asked as he glanced into the rearview mirror. Sonja was sitting in the back seat of the rental car, and in the bright sunshine she looked pale and unhealthy, out of her element. She grimaced and smacked her lips as if trying to rid her palate of an offensive aftertaste.

  “Daylight. Phooey.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t allergic to sunlight.”

  “I’m not. But I am nocturnal. Being awake during the day is...unnatural. Believe me, if I was allergic, you’d know it! Vampires exposed to direct sunlight develop a speedy case of skin cancer; it’s not for the weak of heart— or stomach.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “So what do you want? Or were you just curious to see if I’d dissolve a la Christopher Lee?”

  “I just wanted to see that charm Li Lijing gave you, that’s all.”

  “You heard what he said about humans handling it,” she sighed.

  “I didn’t say I wanted to touch the damn thing, I just want to see it. Is that okay?”

  “I guess so. It might help if you understood the kind of dynamite we’re playing with.”

  “It’s that powerful?”

  “You’ll see. Pull over at the next rest station. The last thing I need is to have you plow the car into the back of a semi by mistake.”

  “I never mistakenly slam into the back of trucks,” he assured her. “It’s always on purpose.” A few minutes later, Palmer pulled the car into a roadside rest area thoughtfully provided by the California Highway Commission. He killed the engine and turned around in the front seat, facing Sonja. “Okay, let’s see this powerful juju.”

  Sonja pulled a package wrapped in blue tissue paper out from under the seat and handed it to the detective. “Remember, you asked for it!”

  Palmer wrinkled his nose as he caught scent of the strong spices as Sonja unwrapped the talisman. Upon seeing the thing, he instinctively drew back as if it was a poisonous spider. He felt a bitter surge of vomit scald the back of his throat, but he could not look away from the candle made from a withered, severed hand that lay nestled in the blue tissue paper like a perverse corsage.

  “It’s horrible! What is it?”

  “It’s a Hand of Glory,” she explained. “Lijing assures me that it is especially potent.”

  “It’s got six fingers!”

  “Yes, that’s supposedly the secret of its power. It once belonged to a Mayan priest-king put to death by the conquistadores. There was one particular royal family that had six fingers and toes. It was considered a sign of divinity. They were known as Chan Balam, the Jaguar
Lords. The Hand of Glory allows whoever uses it to enter any kind of locked room of house—making it perfect for our unannounced visit to Ghost Trap.”

  Palmer swallowed the burning knot in his throat and watched an elderly man in tan slacks and a cream-colored windbreaker lead a miniature schnauzer toward a grassy stretch marked “Pet Path.” He suppressed the urge to get out of the car and sprint for the nearest parked car.

  As Sonja prepared to re-wrap the grisly candle, she lost her grip on the Hand of Glory, which fell onto the front seat of the car, next to Palmer.

  “For crying out loud,” he groaned in disgust. “Why don’t you just mount it on the dashboard so everyone can enjoy it?”

  The idea of touching the Hand of Glory was repugnant beyond belief, but if anyone got a good look at what was on the front seat, every CHIPS officer north of Los Angeles would be breathing down their necks. Grimacing in distaste, Palmer picked up the talisman.

  Suddenly he was somewhere warmer, where the screeching of macaws and the screams of howler monkeys echoed from the lush green canopy outside. A naked brown child sat framed in the doorway, playing with a baby spider monkey on a leash. The child’s forehead was oddly shaped, sloping backward. At first Palmer thought the boy was mentally handicapped, but then the child smiled and turned his face toward him, revealing dark eyes that sparkled with a natural wit. Confused, Palmer scanned the room he found himself in, frowning at the detailed charcoal renderings of Mayan dignitaries offering sacrifices to the gods decorating the whitewashed stone walls. Above his head hand-woven nets full of museum-quality Pre-Columbian pottery hung from brightly painted, ornately carved rafters. The naked child laughed at his pet’s antics, lifting a six-fingered hand to his mouth. Palmer glanced down at his own body and saw he was seated, cross-legged, on a stone bench carved in the likeness of a jaguar. He stood up and walked to the doorway. He was wobbly on his feet and had to steady himself by placing six-fingered hand against the wall. He brought his other hand to his face and felt the stingray barb piercing his lower lip and the ritual scars on his cheeks. His gaze dropped to his borrowed body. He knew he should be alarmed by the sight of a second stingray barb skewering his penis, but, instead, felt strangely disconnected from the mutilations done to his flesh. The child looked up at Palmer from his place on the stoop and smiled. The baby spider monkey squatted on the boy’s shoulder, chattering to itself as it searched its master’s hair for vermin. Suddenly William Palmer, never married and an avowed enemy of small children, knew how it felt to be a husband and a father. Somewhere in the jungle, a jaguar screamed.