In the Blood (Sonja Blue)

by Nancy A. Collins

  Morgan lay curled like a fetus inside the trunk of the Rolls, wrapped in blankets against the rising sun. Although his face still burned, he was certain he’d removed the silver-tainted flesh before the toxin had reached his central nervous system. He touched his left cheek and moaned. It had been lifetimes since he’d last known true pain, the kind only immortal flesh is heir to. The realization that he’d been badly—and permanently—scarred both angered and shamed him. Wounds dealt by silver weapons never truly healed, and they always left ugly scars. But that was not the worst part.

  Broken bones would mend, damaged organs regenerate and even severed limbs would, in time, return to their former state. But there would be no healing for the deepest and deadliest wound she’d inflicted on him, only a gradual spread of infection.

  Lord Morgan, late of the Inquisition and the Gestapo, lay on the floor of his car and contemplated the dreadful sickness that humans called love.

  Epilogue:

  A man’s mind, stretched by new ideas, can never go back to its original dimensions.

  —Oliver Wendell Holmes

  Palmer was hammering together a wooden crate on the porch of his hacienda when the mailman blew his whistle.

  “Tweet, Daddy! Tweet!” Lethe squealed, rounding the corner of the house as fast as her baggy diapers would allow. Judging from the dirty tablespoon she was waving, and her muddy Babar the Elephant shirt, she’d been digging up the back patio again.

  “Whoa, droopy drawers!” Palmer laughed, catching the toddler in his outstretched arms and flipping her upside down. Lethe giggled and wriggled in his grip like a puppy. Not bad for a nine-month-old. “You know you’re not supposed to go near the road!”

  Palmer deposited the child in the macramé hammock he kept strung on the porch and trotted down to the mailbox at the foot of the hill. A dark, ragged form emerged from the hacienda and joined Lethe in the hammock. The little girl’s giggles were soon joined by peals of crystal chimes and the yammering of dolphins.

  Palmer made a mental note to take the Land Rover into the city and buy some fencing material. Although Lethe was advanced for her age, he still had problems with her wanting to run out onto the road every time the mailman made his rounds. That was because Lethe loved getting mail. He sorted through the letters as he walked back up to the house. Two were from boutiques in California and New York, placing orders for three more crates of Day of the Dead tableaux, stuffed toad Mariachi bands and hand painted papier-mâché carnival masks. There was also a package addressed to Lethe with a fistful of Asian stamps plastered across it, and a postcard from Sonja.

  “Look, honey! Aunt Boo sent you a present!” Palmer said as he handed the package to his foster-daughter, who was curled up in the seraph’s lap like a kitten. Within seconds, the porch was littered with tatters of brown paper and Lethe was playing with a rag doll dressed in a red kimono, its dyed corn-silk hair pulled into an elaborate geisha’s coiffure.

  Palmer glanced at the front of the picture postcard— a panoramic view of Tokyo’s Ginza district after dark—then flipped it over to read the message. There was no salutation or signature. There never were.

  Still no sign of M. But I’m getting closer. The chimera is very excited. It smells its old master. The scar makes it harder for M to change identities. There are rumors of atrocities in Thailand. Hope to be home for Xmas. Miss you both.

  Palmer looked up from the card to find the seraph staring at him with its pupil-less golden eyes.

  “No news, Fido.” The seraph nodded, although Palmer had his doubts as to how much the creature understood. “Lethe, sweetie, why don’t you two go play on the patio? I’ve got work to do.”

  Lethe nodded her tiny dark head, her golden eyes flashing in the afternoon light, and hopped out of the hammock, leading the grizzled seraph by the hand. Palmer smiled as the unlikely twosome, nut-brown nature-child and bedraggled street person, disappeared around the corner of the house, Fido shambling after Lethe like a trained bear.

  Even after all these months, Palmer still had a hard time accepting it all. A year ago he was doomed to twenty-to-life sentence. Now he was an expatriate yanqui, making a decent living selling Mexican and Central American folk art to painfully chic boutiques and galleries north of the border. He’d also discovered, to his surprise, he was a damn good father.

  Yeah, a lot of things can change in the space of a year, he mused, fingering his jade ear-plug.

  Lethe had re-appeared a couple of weeks after he and Sonja had set up housekeeping in the Yucatan. One minute the patio had been empty, the next Lethe and the seraph he now called Fido were there. Although the baby was barely a month old, she was already crawling and babbling. When it became evident the seraph was not going to leave, Sonja decided it was time to continue on her hunt for Morgan. Palmer suspected the seraph made her nervous. As it was, it had taken him a few weeks to get used to the creature’s presence. But after he started calling it Fido, he began to relax.

  Every so often Sonja would appear on the doorstep, unannounced but always welcome, loaded down with exotic toys for her “niece.” Although she adored Lethe, she could not tolerate being around Fido for more than a few days. During her brief visits, she and Palmer would lay curled together in the hammock and listen to the night birds call. In its own strange way, their relationship was idyllic.

  The last time Sonja had come home she’d been amused to see the ritual tattoo on Palmer’s chest. “What’s this? Have you decided to go modern primitive on me?” she chuckled as she ran her hands over the raised markings covering his pectoral muscles.

  “I decided to get a tattoo to hide the scar from my surgery,” he explained. “Besides, it matches the scars you leave on my back.”

  She was silent for a long moment before she spoke again. “Do you still have the dreams about your past life?”

  “Sometimes. They’ve gotten stronger since Lethe arrived.”

  “So what is this tattoo supposed to represent?”

  “The old Mayan guy who did it says it’s the seal of the Chan Balam, the Jaguar Lords.”

  In the three months since that conversation he had acquired the ability to speak fluent Lancondoan, the tongue of the children of Quetzalcoatl, and that he had stopped smoking cigarettes in favor of the burrito-sized hallucinogenic cigars once favored by the Mayan wizard-kings. He wondered what Sonja would have to say about his new lower-lip plug.

  Palmer resumed his work on the packing crate, pausing every now and again to sip from a pitcher of lemonade. From his vantage point on the porch, he saw a campesino trudging his way along the unpaved road that ran past the house. The peasant, dressed in the traditional loose-fitting white cotton pants and tunic, a machete hanging from his belt, was headed in the direction of the paved highway three miles away, where a rattle-trap bus carried locals into the city.

  Palmer stiffened at the sight of the stranger. He scanned his thoughts and studied his aura for traces of Pretender taint. Luckily for the campesino, he was exactly what he looked like—a simple farmer on his way to town. He would live to ride the bus to Mérida. Palmer heaved a sigh of relief. He disliked killing, even Pretenders. But he knew he could not allow his vigilance to flag, even for a moment.

  For as every good parent knows, the jungle is full of jaguars hungry for the blood of children.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Sonja Blue Novels

  Chapter One

  ‘I see the world through ancient eyes.

  ‘But they are not the eyes of an old man, dimmed by age and clouded by cataracts. And, unlike humans, while my mind is always filled with memories, I am rarely lost in the fog of recollection of the lassitude that accompanies the Ennui. My time on earth has been tenfold that of the oldest living man. But I, myself, am no relic. I stand outside that which ages mortal flesh and turns bones brittle as glass and makes teeth snap like chalk. I need never fear that my world will telescope down to what little light and sound can be strained through failing senso
ry apparatus.

  ‘I often look upon some of the aged creatures I once sported with, years ago, and marvel at their irretrievable descent into decay. A breast that was once succulent and firm becomes a withered dug.

  A proud penis, rampant and full of the malt of life, is now only good for the elimination of waste—all what seems to be the blink of an eye.

  ‘For this is mankind’s heritage. It’s destiny. All of humanity’s triumphs and advances –its art, science, technology, and philosophy – in the end, can be summed up as nothing more than an attempt to escape death through sex.

  ‘Denied immortality as individuals, humans must seek eternal life as a species. Highborn king or lowly beggar, they are all nothing more than a lump of sweating flesh, straining on a nameless bed. And while I consider such attempts at eternity laughable, I must admit that their relentless breeding has succeeded in maintaining a certain continuity.

  ‘As for me, what memories I have of my life as a human are nothing more than faded ink on crumbling pages. The sentiments, dreams, and fears expressed in those earliest entries belong to a creature forever beyond my ken, thanks be to the forces that Made me. I have kept a journal for over five hundred years. There are literally a thousand volumes, stored in a hundred different hiding places. Why do I continue to write my thoughts down in such a manner? For no other reason that it has become a habit; and one I am loath to break.

  ‘Now where was I? Ah, yes. Humans. Of course, they provide my kind with sustenance: that deep red vintage that is so much sweeter when stolen. That much goes without saying. But there are more subtle, more rarefied pleasures to be had at their expense, as well.

  ‘Dawn is close at hand, but I do not fear its intrusion. I am not some lowly revenant, scuttling from the sun’s rays for fear of being reduced to a pile of oozing sores. I evolved past such worries decades before the invention of the steam engine. True, my powers are somewhat diminished during the daylight hours, and, like all of my kind, I find it necessary to lapse into a death-like ‘sleep’ in order to restore my vitality, but I am far from helpless during the daylight hours.

  ‘My driver cruises the streets of the Lower East Side. He asks me if I have a destination in mind. I almost give him an address of a low dive in Five Points, only to remember that the neighborhood was demolished over a century ago. Too bad. There was a brothel there operated for and by children that provided me with great amusement now and again.

  ‘The whores who are still out this ‘late’ are, at best, careworn. Most of them are crackheads or junkies, the ravages of their addictions obvious even to the most obtuse human gaze. Even if I were still prone to the human sexual urge, I would never dream of copulating with one of these horrors. They are rarely beautiful, and often they aren’t even women. But they are expendable, and when one of them disappears no one notices. That is all I require of them.

  ‘I order my driver to stop the car. A prostitute stands in a nearby doorway, fidgeting expectantly as she eyes the Rolls. The night must have indeed been slow—or her habit immense— if she is still working the streets this close to daybreak. She is tall with dark hair and high cheekbones, and is too thin and too dirty, but she will do for now. She saunters forward as I power down the window.

  ‘“Need a date, mister?” She coos, her breath redolent of gum disease, as she bends down to look into the interior of the car. When she smiles, I see that she is missing some of her teeth. She has what the humans call ‘meth mouth’.’

  ‘I say nothing as I open the car door. She hops in with an excited squeal that could almost pass for delight. The Rolls is already pulling away before the door closes.

  ‘“I’m Cheryl,” the whore says, rubbing the front of my pants with all the finesse and speed of a Girl Scout trying to make a fire without the aid of matches. When I look at her, I can see the virus gestating within her, eating away at the T-cells in her blood. I slap her hand away, and I see fear spark in her eyes as she gets her first really good look at my face. I reach inside my jacket and produce a roll of twenty dollar bills the size of my fist. The whore’s eyes widen as she licks her lips.

  ‘“Do you want this?” I ask.

  ‘“What I gotta do t’get it?”

  ‘“All you have to do is come home with me and play a little game.”

  ‘“What kinda game?” She asks hesitatingly but does not take her eyes off the money.

  ‘“Dress up,” I reply.’

  ‘Nasakenai, my Renfield, has the costume laid out in anticipation of my return. I lead the whore into a large room, empty save for a marble-topped table. She frowns at the leather jacket, stained T-shirt, ripped jeans and scuffed engineer’s boots awaiting her. She had, no doubt, been expecting something without a crotch.

  ‘“Is this it? Is this what you want me to wear?”

  ‘I say nothing, but simply smile. The whore shrugs and peels out of her working clothes. The room is cold, and I watch with detached interest as her flesh creeps and her nipples harden. She is awkward, and it takes her a few minutes to complete the change. As she shrugs into the leather jacket, it creaks with her every move.

  ‘“So, do I look okay? Is there anything else?” she asks, holding her arms up and out, modeling the costume for me.

  ‘“You just need two more things for the costume to be complete. You’ll find them in the inside breast pocket of the jacket.”

  ‘She reaches inside and removes the sunglasses and the switchblade. Her frown deepens upon seeing the knife. “What am I supposed to do with these things?”

  ‘The excitement is starting to stir within me, and my words come out as a breathy whisper. “Put the glasses on. Put them on now.”

  ‘The whore is confused, perhaps even a little frightened, but she is unwilling to forfeit the money I promised her. She puts on the sunglasses.

  ‘She is dirty and smells of her previous johns. Her hair is too long and very oily. Her motions lack grace and suppleness. But there is a tenuous resemblance, and that is enough. She is not the one I want, but she will do for now. I move closer, my arousal growing acute as the image of the one I desire shimmers behind my eyes.

  ‘“Show me the knife.” It is all I can do to keep the shiver out of my voice.

  ‘“What?”

  ‘“The knife!” I snap, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Show me the blade!”

  ‘The switchblade leaps from its hilt, like a minnow darting out of shallow water. She holds the knife cautiously, but, not without some familiarity. Perhaps she and the object of my desire are not so different, after all.

  ‘“Now what?” she asks.

  ‘“Stab me.”

  ‘“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” There is genuine indignation in her voice. This is far kinkier than she bargained for. She had figured me for some garden variety pervert, the kind who wants to drink piss or be shat upon; but this is too much. Even whores have their limits.

  ‘“I said stab me!” I have lost all patience with the trollop. If she will not willingly give me what I want, then I shall bring it about by force. I grab her by the throat and begin to squeeze. She raises her knife-hand. I catch a glimpse of metal as her fist drives into my chest. There is a cold sharpness as the blade enters me. I continue to squeeze her throat. Again she stabs me. And again. Blood sprays from my wound splattering both our faces. I close my eyes, imagining it is she who is ramming the knife into my heart.

  ‘The fear that radiates from the prostitute as I slowly choke the life from her is amongst the sweetest I have enjoyed. I groan in ecstasy as I hold her death rattle in the palm of my hand. I open my eyes, half expecting to see my beloved’s face before me, contorted in death. Instead, there’s nothing but a dead whore with a blackened, swollen tongue protruding lewdly between her painted lips. The sunglasses have come loose during her struggle, and I can see her eyes, filled with burst blood vessels, starting from their sockets like those of a grotesque insect. Disgusted, I let the corpse drop.

  ‘
It is only then that I realize that the switchblade is still lodged in my chest. I stare down at the hilt protruding between my ribs. My white silk shirt is now the color of port wine. Chuckling to myself, I pull it free.

  ‘I close my eyes again and see my love moving like a panther tracking its prey, her eyes burning in the darkness. She wants me. Her passion for me radiates from her like a dark halo. But what she lusts after is not my touch or kiss. No, what she desires is my death.

  ‘When I look into her mirrored eyes I know fear and joy. She is so beautiful and so deadly. I stand in awe of her; my lovely, lethal masterpiece. To think that I was responsible for creating such a terrible beauty is both humbling and exhilarating. Is this how Pygmalion felt when he saw his Galatea step down from her pedestal—? But in my case my creation split my face open with a silver knife for good measure.

  ‘I touch the scar that pulls the right side of my face into a rictus grin and think of my fatal beauty. I have suffered countless mutilations throughout my existence, and have recovered from them all. But I shall carry the wounds she dealt me forever.

  ‘I close my remaining eye and I see her standing there, naked save for the mantle of power that crackles about her like fox fire. The scar over my heart puckers.

  ‘Gods of the Outer Dark help me. I love her.

  And that is why I must destroy her. Again. And again. Until I am certain I can bring myself to do the deed for real, and obliterate my darling Sonja Blue, once and for all, from the face of the earth.’

  —From the journals of Sir Morgan, Lord of the Morning Star.

  Chapter Two