In the Blood (Sonja Blue)

by Nancy A. Collins

  “But-but, milord!” the Renfield sputtered.

  “Do it!” Morgan thundered, his voice shaking the very walls.

  The Renfield fled the library, leaving Morgan to fume in silence. The scientist had always been unstable. He should never have trusted Howell. Never. But Howell’s erratic behavior was what had brought him under Morgan’s influence to begin with. As much as it galled the vampire lord to admit it, the mistake was his own. He’d been intimidated by the scientist’s technology and allowed him far more autonomy than was prudent. And now he was paying the price for not keeping the bio-geneticist on a tight leash.

  If news of his humiliation at the hands of a mere human ever reached the ears of other Nobles, he’d be the laughingstock of the Ruling Class! Worse, he would be perceived as weak, thereby endangering his alliances with the more powerful vampires like Baron Luxor and exposing him to another round of brood wars. He might even be forced to surrender his title of Lord! No doubt it would please snapping jackals like Pangloss and Verité to see him brought low.

  This was what his reliance on humankind’s peculiar brand of sorcery, technology and science, had brought him. He should never have relied so heavily on something of human manufacture, yet its inherent power had been too great for him to ignore.

  While Howell might be a necromancer of unparalleled power in his wizard’s workshop, it would do him little good once Morgan got his hands on him. Yes, he had all kinds of interesting things planned for the good doctor. Depriving him of his precious white powder was only the first of many cruelties to be inflicted on the thankless swine, followed by a few judiciously applied medical probes. Of course, Howell would be forced to conduct his own flaying and subsequent vivisection, as Morgan had long since evolved beyond the need to soil his own hands with the blood of his victims.

  But first the conniving jackal had to be caught, and that was not going to be easy. While Brainerd Howell might be devious, vainglorious and ungrateful, one thing he most definitely was not was stupid. The bastard knew that the labyrinth surrounding Ghost Trap’s nucleus was dangerous, especially to those with psychic abilities. What had originally been advantage in Morgan’s favor now was being turned against him, as there were things roaming the halls of Ghost Trap that did not like outsiders, and Morgan was in no hurry to meet them face-to-face.

  “Milord?”

  Morgan glanced up from his reverie to glower at Nasakenai. The psychic stood in the doorway to the library, the right side of his head wrapped in sterile gauze.

  “Is she dead?”

  “Milord, there were— difficulties,” Nasakenai replied nervously. “The rogue called Sonja uncovered our presence and fired upon us with a weapon. My companion was killed outright and I was momentarily... incapacitated.” He gingerly touched the bandage shrouding his right eye.

  “What of Fell? Did she kill him?”

  “I don’t know, milord. The rogue had the upper hand the last I saw.”

  “Is it true that she was a dhampire like the breeders?”

  Nasakenai nodded his bandaged head. “I am sure of it, milord. Her aural configuration was identical to those of Anise and Fell, although much stronger. More importantly, she was absorbing and metabolizing the negative energy generated by her opponent.”

  Morgan frowned. “Are you sure she was tapping him?”

  “I’m positive, milord.”

  Morgan contemplated the information Nasakenai had given him for a long moment. Perhaps it was better that his breeding program had collapsed, after all. His plans had revolved around a race of vampires that lived on blood alone. Tapping into negative emotions was something only the older, more evolved Nobles, such as himself, were capable of, and was the source of their power. It would not do to have such ability amongst the rank and file of his human-vampire army, for fear it might rise up and turn against him.

  “Milord—?”

  “What is it, Nasakenai?”

  The ninja cleared his throat before bowing to his master. “Milord, I have failed you. I offer my life to you, for you to destroy as you see fit.”

  “I can do that any time I want already, Nasakenai,” Morgan said with a smile. “But I appreciate the offer. No, you are too valuable to me, my friend. The eye—is it gone?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Then that is payment enough for your failure.”

  “As you wish, milord.”

  As Morgan watched his maimed lieutenant leave the room, he reflected on the frailty and treachery of mortal flesh. The mere thought that he had once been held hostage by the fear of disease and pestilence, was enough to fill him with disgust.

  “I never realized how huge the house was before,” Fell whispered in awe as he counted the ninety-nine lightning rods that decorated the spires and turrets of Ghost Trap. “I mean, I knew it was big, but I never truly comprehended its scale.”

  “Look, once we’re in there I want you to stick close to me, understand?” Sonja said earnestly. “This place was designed to confuse and trap the dead, and it also does a good job scrambling the synapses of anything more complicated than a worm. If regular humans have a hard time dealing with it, you can imagine what it’ll do to us. I still have the protective charm I used earlier, but I can’t guarantee it’ll extend itself to include you. Have I made myself clear?”

  Fell swallowed hard and nodded. Sonja surprised herself by giving the boy a brief hug. Then she turned around and put her fist through one of the downstairs windows, reaching inside to open the lock.

  “No wonder Morgan wouldn’t let us wander around,” Fell said in a low, reverential whisper as they entered Ghost Trap’s rambling confines. “You could get lost and never find your way out again!”

  “That’s not the only thing you have to worry about,” Sonja warned him. “There are things that walk these halls. Most people would call them ghosts.”

  “But ghosts can’t hurt you, can they?” he asked hopefully.

  “Normally, no,” she replied. “But Ghost Trap is hardly what I’d call ‘normal’. Just keep a look-out for anything that looks like a little girl or a woman dressed in old-timey clothes.”

  “Are they ghosts?”

  “No, they’re fuckin’ tour hostesses!” she sighed in exasperation. “Of course they’re ghosts! But I’m pretty sure I can find my way back to the fire room without them—”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind. Just keep your mouth shut and your eyes open for ghosts, okay?” She suddenly halted and tilted her head. “You hear that?”

  “Hear what? I don’t—” Fell’s jaw dropped open as the faint, but unmistakable sound of someone whimpering grew louder. Is that a ghost?”

  Sonja shook her head. “The dead tend to be mute.” She motioned for him to follow her, moving stealthily through the shadows and dust of the empty rooms, following the source of the whimpering to a room down the hall.

  A dropped flashlight lay in the middle of the room, throwing its beam against the nearest wall, which sparkled faintly in the dwindling light. Sonja reached out and touched the sandpaper-like wall covering, made of flecks of gold and crushed crystal. She then picked up the flashlight and turned its feeble beam on the person who had dropped it.

  A balding, middle-aged man dressed in a dark, rumpled suit and wearing thick, blocky glasses was huddled in the far corner of the room, his face pressed against the wall. One side of his face was bloody from where he’d been rubbing it against the crystal-flecked wallpaper. He’d recently wet himself and twitched and whimpered like a kicked puppy.

  “I recognize him,” Fell whispered. “He’s one of the Renfields. But what’s he doing in the outer house? Do you think he was looking for us?”

  “I doubt it,” Sonja muttered. As she took another step towards the Renfield, he stopped shivering and bared his teeth, foam flecking the corners of his mouth. “Renfields aren’t terribly stable to begin with, so I’m not surprised this one’s completely lost it. Still, he might be of some use to us...”
>
  Suddenly the Renfield shrieked and launched himself at Sonja, his fingers clawing at her glasses. She cursed and smashed the butt of the flashlight against his skull, dropping him like a pole axed steer. Sonja tossed aside the shattered flashlight and bent down, lifting the freshly-killed Renfield by his suit lapels.

  “Waste not, want not,” she growled, sinking her canines into his still-warm throat. Once she was finished, she motioned for Fell to take her place: “Here. Drink.”

  Fell’s eyes widened in horror. “No. I can’t.”

  “You’re no virgin,” she reminded him. “You said so yourself. Drink—you’re going to need the energy.”

  Fell meant to protest further, but he’d already caught the scent of blood. His mouth began to water. He quickly battened onto the dead man. Although the blood was already dropping below body temperature, it was enough to sustain him. By the time he had finished, the bruises covering his face had faded away to nothing.

  “I know this sounds horrible,” he said as he let the drained corpse drop, “but I feel like I’ve got my second wind.”

  “Good boy!” She grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, all we have to do is—”

  A loud scream broke the silence, bouncing through the rooms like a rubber ball before being cut off in mid-note. Sonja and Fell exchanged looks and headed in the direction of the noise. They found a second Renfield in the hall Sonja recognized as the Fire Room. The gas jets were still blazing as they entered. The Renfield lay sprawled in the middle of the room, his skull smashed like an overripe pumpkin.

  “This little girl and lady you mentioned—are they, uh, good ghosts or bad ghosts?”Fell asked nervously as Sonja tried to locate the secret panel.

  “They’re ambivalent, like most dead,” she replied. “But if you’re asking if they killed our friend here, no, I don’t believe they’re responsible for this.”

  “Then who—?”

  “Found it!” Sonja crowed in triumph as the secret door pivoted open. “C’mon!”

  Fell gave the mutilated remains a final glance over his shoulder before following Sonja into the secret passage.

  The car Sonja and Fell had taken was parked on the south side of the house, its hood still warm. His own transport, a BMW he’d ‘borrowed’ back in San Francisco, was in no shape for a return journey. Steam seeped from under its hood, while something dark dripped from its undercarriage. Despite its claim to four wheel drive, it clearly had not been designed to navigate Sonoma County back roads at high speeds.

  Now that he was here, all Palmer had to do was catch up with them. Spying an open ground-floor window, he checked to make sure his Luger was securely holstered before climbing over the sill.

  Three steps into the Ghost Trap, he realized he’d made a big mistake. If he’d found the exterior of the mansion disorienting, it was nothing compared to the interior. He remembered how, as a child, he’d pestered his parents into allowing him to enter the House of Horrors at the state fair. He’d promised them that it wouldn’t give him nightmares, that he was too old to be scared. Finally, they’d weakened and allowed him to go inside. His previous self-assurance instantly vanished the minute the wooden double doors of the attraction swung shut behind him, cutting off all contact with the world where light, parents, and rational thought ruled. Surrounded by dry-ice mist, black lights and prerecorded screams and rattling chains, he’d shrieked at the sight of a department store mannequin dressed to look like Frankenstein. He’d been so scared he wet himself and had to be escorted outside by a pimply-faced teenager dressed in a hunchback costume. His father promptly called him a sissy, and they’d been forced to leave the fair early because of his “accident.” Now, thirty years later, the same paralyzing terror he’d experienced in the House of Horrors was close to claiming him again. His scalp prickled and his bladder ached as if full of ground glass.

  He trudged through the oddly designed rooms; barely noticing in his disoriented confusion such oddities as doorways set three feet off the ground, windows that opened onto blank walls and fireplaces that served as staircases. With every room, he found it harder and harder to think straight. Why was he here? Why had he entered this horrible place? He knew he must have had a good reason to do so. Now if he could only remember what it was...

  Palmer staggered as the floor abruptly dropped out from under him, the walls seeming to bow inwards as if made from rubber. He retched while leaning against a sharply canted doorway, the acid burning his throat. His dad was really going to yell at him now. He shouldn’t have eaten all those corndogs before riding the Tilt-A-Whirl. Now they were going to have to leave. But going home, at that moment, didn’t sound like such a bad idea. He had already been too long at the fair. Now if he could only remember where… the car was... parked…

  He collapsed onto his hands and knees as dry heaves shook his body. His forebrain throbbed like a jazz drummer. I’m gonna die in here. The thought bubbled up suddenly from the murky confusion that filled his head. I’m gonna wander around lost inside this hellhole until it kills me. Just like it killed the man who built it...

  He lifted his head and found himself staring at a small boy. The child looked to be no more than three years old and was dressed in an old-fashioned sailor’s suit, the type that was popular for children to wear at the turn of the last century. The child held a teddy bear in his left arm because his right one ended in a knob of bone and bloodless flesh protruding from his mangled shoulder. Although the child’s face was still round with baby fat, his eyes were solemn. It took Palmer a long moment to also realize that the child was transparent.

  “Little boy...”

  The child did not waver or disappear.

  “Little boy... I need... help...”

  A young girl clutching a china doll joined the boy, both of them watching Palmer with interest. The girl leaned toward her brother and muttered something that Palmer could not make out. Moving together, the children grasped Palmer by his arms and pulled him back onto his feet. He gasped and felt a strong chill run through his body at the touch of their tiny fingers on his flesh.

  The children were in front of him now, motioning for him to follow. Shaken and weak, Palmer lurched after them. He had no way of knowing if these creatures were friend or foe, but anything was better than crawling around in circles in his own vomit.

  Suddenly the children froze like fawns scenting the approach of a hunter. The boy and his sister disembodied, transforming themselves into fist-sized globs of light. The change was so abrupt it looked to Palmer as if the children had rolled up like window shades. Palmer pressed his hands to his eyes, even more disoriented than before. What had happened to his tiny spirit guides? Or had he imagined the whole thing? In any case, what was it that had frightened them away?

  The scream ripped through him like a bullet, only to end abruptly, cut off in mid-shriek. The echo was so distorted it was impossible to tell if it had been a male or female voice.

  Palmer weaved his wave in the general direction of the scream. His brain churned and stretched inside his head, pressing against the plates of his skull. Sonja. He had to find Sonja. That’s why he’d come into the House of Horrors. Once he found Sonja she’d make the pounding in his head go away and help him escape this terrible place.

  Palmer stared at the thing with the ax for a long moment before realizing he’d discovered the source of the scream. The creature was shaped like a man, only taller, and carried a large, cruel-looking ax, which it was using to dismember what was left of a man in a dark suit. Palmer was not sure if the creature standing before him was flesh and blood or composed of ectoplasm, but it was evident the ax, at least, was solid enough to do its job.

  The thing made weird tittering noises as it hacked away at its prey. The victim’s head had been cracked open from the top of his skull to his upper palate. As the thing halted in mid-swing and turned to look at the new intruder, Palmer’s bladder let go, just as it had in the House of Horrors, all those years ago. Only this time he kn
ew there was no way he would be escorted to safety by a sympathetic teenager tricked out in monster drag.

  The thing that stood before him had two heads. The head on the left was the larger of the pair, boasting a bat-like snout, a mouthful of jagged teeth, and pupil-less eyes the color of fresh blood. The head on the right was that of a man in his mid-thirties, the eyes brimming with a grief that extended beyond anything Palmer had ever seen. With a start, he recognized the face as that of Creighton Seward, Ghost Trap’s master architect.

  The two-headed monster stepped forward, hoisting the ax that grew out of its left wrist in place of a hand. Palmer wanted to turn and flee the abomination before him, but he remained frozen, unable to move. He could see that Seward’s lips were moving; whether he was praying or arguing with its grotesque twin, was impossible to tell. As if in reply, the monster’s head sneered and emitted a string of high-pitched titters.

  To Palmer’s surprise, Seward’s head suddenly turned and bit its neighbor on the cheek, ripping free a wad of flesh. The monster’s head gave a high-frequency wail that made Palmer’s nose bleed, and returned the attack in kind, scissoring off the ear nearest its mouth. Cowed, Seward’s head did not attempt any further interference.

  The monster-head leered at Palmer and lifted its ax-hand on high, until it almost seemed to brush the ceiling. Palmer stared at the fiend advancing on him like a steer awaiting the butcher’s knife. Just as the ax was about to fall, a bright light appeared between Palmer and his would-be murderer. The monster balked, uncertainty crossing its hideous. Seward’s head suddenly seemed to rally and plunged the fingers of its right hand into the creature’s eyes. The thing shrieked even louder than before and Palmer felt blood begin to seep from his ears.

  Suddenly the two-headed thing was gone, and in its place stood a woman dressed in clothing better suited to an Ibsen play.

  “Oh, thank God! Lady? Lady, I need your help-”

  The woman in the long skirt and high-collared blouse turned to face Palmer, her left eye swinging loose from its socket.