William Palmer woke the same way a swimmer emerges from the sea: gasping for air. He laid on the bed, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling for a long moment before really seeing it, the last of the nightmare bleeding away from the corners of his eyes.
Dream. Thank God. Just a dream.
He’d been dreaming of Ghost Trap again. The house had been built in the early Twentieth century by a gifted, if demented, architect who designed it as protection from the vengeful spirits of his slaughtered family. The mansion had been a crazed conglomeration of rooms without windows, blind stairways, secret passageways, and other mad fancies, using non-Euclidian geometric principles that not only confused the restless dead, but disoriented the living. And for someone like Palmer, who possessed psionic abilities beyond those of normal humans, Ghost Trap was the psychic equivalent of the La Brea Tar Pits.
Two-and-a-half years ago, he had found himself lost in Ghost Trap and at the mercy of the dead that roamed its contorted halls. He’d entered in search of the woman who had helped him learn to deal with his psychic powers while dragging him into her blood-feud with the vampire known as Morgan.
Palmer had survived that night in Ghost Trap—if just barely. He had lived to see the horror house consumed by flames, freeing its spectral occupants, once and for all. Ghost Trap was no more, yet it still existed inside his head, where it housed his nightmares.
Palmer stared up at the ceiling fan mounted over the bed, watching the rotors beat the heavy, humid air in near-silence. No doubt the stickiness and heat had contributed to his bad dreams. It was uncomfortable sleeping inside, but the mosquitoes were too fierce this season for him to retire to the hammock on the front porch.
He sat up, tossing aside the sweat-drenched sheets. He wasn’t going to get back to sleep, at least not anytime soon. He swung his feet onto the floor and stood up with a groan, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror opposite the bed. He ran a hand across the ritual tattoo that covered his entire chest. It was of Mayan design, as were the jade plugs that stretched his earlobes, and was the symbol of the House of the Jaguar Lords.
Palmer didn’t hold with past-life regression therapy, channeling, Space Brothers, or any of the other New Age crap. But it just so happened he was the reincarnation of a pre-Columbian Mayan wizard-king. He was also an ex-private investigator, a pardoned felon, a telepath, and the proprietor of a moderately successful specialty-export business.
Palmer padded down the hallway, naked except for a pair of boxers. He paused at the nursery, quietly opening the door so as not to wake Lethe.
I really should stop calling it the nursery, he thought to himself, not for the first time. It took him a second or two to locate her amidst the stuffed animals and dolls she shared her bed with. Her hair, as dark and sleek as a sable’s, peeked out from between a Raggedy Ann doll and a teddy bear.
He was going to have to get her some new clothes pretty soon. She’d already outgrown the ones he bought last month. She had grown another three inches, practically overnight. Palmer’s eyes wandered to the closet door he used as Lethe’s official growth chart and the series of overlapping pencil marks with crabbed notations as to date and age. As of her last measuring, she stood five foot one. Pretty impressive for a child who wasn’t three years old yet.
One of the shadows near the foot of Lethe’s bed detached itself and moved towards Palmer. Two points of golden light, set about the height of a man’s eyes, suddenly blinked on.
“Don’t worry, Fido. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just checkin’ in,” Palmer whispered.
The hulking apparition, which resembled a mound of dirty laundry sculpted into the form of a human being, nodded dumbly and returned to its silent vigil. During the two and a half years Palmer had spent in the company of the seraph, he still had no idea what the creature thought—or if it thought at all. While it appeared to be Lethe’s appointed guardian, it had never once attempted to communicate with Palmer—at least on a level that he could understand.
Satisfied everything was under control inside the house, Palmer paused at the sliding glass door that led out onto the patio, with its expensive Spanish tile and three-tiered fountain that constantly burbled to itself.
As he stepped outside, he found the humid Yucatan night to provide no relief from the oppressive heat. Instead, it felt as if the world’s largest dog was breathing on him. Palmer wiped at the sweat on his brow and upper lip as he peered up at the moonlit sky.
‘Where are you?’ his mind whispered into the night The sound of a radio scanning through a thousand different competing signals filled his head. Some were strong, others weak. Some were in languages he understood while the majority was a jumble of nonsense. Some were angry, some were sad, some were happy, many were confused. The signals blurred and clashed, waxed and waned.
‘Where are you?’ He boosted his own signal, hoping to cut through the drift of muted voices that filled the ether. This time he was rewarded with a response made faint and blurry by distance, but still recognizable.
‘In New Orleans.’
He smiled at the sound of her voice in his head. Even though she was not there to see it, he knew she felt it.
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Soon. But I still have work to attend to here.’
‘I miss you.’
‘I miss you, too.’ She smiled then. He could feel it.
‘Any luck?’
‘No sign of him yet, but I have a hunch or two as to where he might be hiding. How is Lethe?’
‘Fine. I guess.’
‘Good. I have to go now. I’m on the hunt.’
‘Sonja—?’
There was no reply, only the squawk and squelch of the minds of a million strangers babbling into the void.
Chapter Three
She had to give the dead boy credit; he had the trick of appearing human nailed down tight. He’d learned just what gestures and inflections to use in his conversation to hide the fact that his surface gloss and glitz wasn’t there merely to disguise basic shallowness, but an utter lack of humanity.
She’d seen enough of the kind of humans he imitated: pallid, self-important intellectuals who prided themselves on their sophistication and knowledge of “hip” art, sharpening their wit at the expense of others. Like the inhuman mimic in their midst, they produced nothing while thriving on the vitality from others. The only difference was that the vampire was more honest about it.
She worked her way to the bar, careful to keep herself shielded from the dead boy’s view, both physically and psychically. It wouldn’t do for her quarry to catch wind of her just yet. She could hear the vampire’s nasal intonations as he held forth on the demerits of various artists.
“Frankly, I consider his use of photo-montage inexcusably banal—if I want to look at bad Photoshop, I’ll log onto Deviant Art!”
She wondered whom the vampire had stolen that particular drollery from. Dead boys of his wattage didn’t come up with witty remarks spontaneously. When you have to spend a lot of conscious energy remembering to breathe and blink, there’s no such thing as top-of-your-head snappy patter. It was all protective coloration, right down to the last double entendre and Monty Python quote.
It would be another decade or two before the vampire, dressed in skinny jeans and an ironic t-shirt and wearing oversized plastic frame glasses could divert his energies to something besides the full-time task of insuring his continuance. Not that the dead boy had much of a future in the predator business.
She waved down the bartender and ordered a beer. As she waited its arrival, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror backing the bar. To the casual observer she looked to be no more than twenty-five. Tricked out in a battered leather jacket, with a stained Joy Division t-shirt, patched jeans, mirrored sunglasses, and roughly chopped dark hair, she looked like just another Goth girl checking out the scene. No one would ever guess she was almost sixty years old.
She sucked the
cold suds down, participating in her own form of protective coloration. She could drink a case or three of the stuff with no effect outside of pissing like a racehorse. Beer didn’t do it for her anymore. Neither did hard liquor. Or cocaine. Or heroin. Or crack. She had tried them all, in dosages that would have put the entire US Olympic Team in the morgue; but no luck. There was only one drug that plunked her magic twanger: the Deep Red.
Yeah, the dead boy was good enough to fool another vampire. But he didn’t.
She eyed her prey speculatively. She doubted she’d have any trouble taking the sucker down. She rarely did, these days. At least not the lesser undead that lacked major psionic muscle. Sure, they had enough mesmeric ability to gull the humans in their vicinity, but little else. Compared to her own psychic abilities, the hipster vampire on her radar might as well have been packing a pea-shooter. Still, it wasn’t smart to get too cocky. Lord Morgan had dismissed her in such a high-handed manner, and now he was missing half his face.
She shifted her vision from the human to the Pretender spectrum, studying the vampire’s true appearance. She wondered if the art aficionados clustered about him, their heads bobbing like puppets, would still consider his pronouncements worthy if they knew his skin was the color of rotten sailcloth, or that his blackened lips were so shriveled that his fangs were perpetually visible in a death’s head grimace. No doubt, if they could see him for what he truly was, the would drop their little plastic cups of cheap wine and back away in horror, their surface glaze of urbanite sophistication replaced with honest, old fashioned monkey-brain terror.
Humans need masks in order to live their day-to-day lives, even amongst their own kind. Little did they know that their dependence on such artifice provided the perfect hiding place for a raft of predators, such as the vampire pretending to be a hipster? Predators like her self.
“Uh, excuse me?”
She jerked around a little too fast, startling the young man at her elbow. She tightened her grip on the switchblade in her jacket pocket. She was so focused on her prey she had been unaware of him until he approached her. Sloppy of her. And dangerous.
“Yeah, what is it?” she snarled.
The young man blinked, taken aback by her brusqueness. “I, uh, was wondering if I might, uh, buy you a drink?”
She automatically scanned him for signs of Pretender taint, but he came up one hundred percent USDA Human. He was taller than she was by a couple of inches, his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and an acrylic plug in the lobe of his right ear. Despite the body jewelry, he was quite handsome.
She was at a loss for words. She was not used to being approached by normal people in public. She tended to generate a low-level psychic energy that most humans found unnerving, if not actively antagonistic. In layman’s terms, she tended to either scare people away or piss them off without even having to open her mouth. She shot her prey a glance out of the corner of her eye. Shit! The bastard was starting to make his move, hustling one of his more entranced hangers-on out of the club.
“I realize this is going to sound like a really cheap come-on,” he said with a shy smile. “But I saw you from across the room—and I just had to meet you.”
“There’s something I have to take care of—I’ll be right back! I promise!” she blurted. “Don’t go away!”
And with that she dashed off in pursuit of her target for the night.
She scanned the parking lot, checking for signs of the vampire’s passage. Hopefully she wasn’t too late. Once a bloodsucker seduced a human away from the herd, they tended to move quickly. She knew that from her own experience at the hands of Lord Morgan, the undead bastard responsible for her own transformation.
She found the vampire and his prey sitting in the backseat of silver BMW with heavily tinted windows; their blurred silhouettes moving like shadows reflected in an aquarium. There was no time to waste. She’d have to risk being spotted.
The imitation hipster looked genuinely surprised as her fist punched through the back window, sending tinted safety glass flying into the car. He hissed a challenge, exposing his fangs as he whipped about to face her. His victim sat beside him, as motionless as a mannequin, eyes unfocused and fly open, his erect penis vibrating like a tuning fork.
She grabbed the vampire by the collar of his ironic t-shirt and pulled him, kicking and screaming, through the busted back windshield. The mesmerized human didn’t even blink.
“Let’s get this over with, dead boy!” she snapped as she hurled the snarling vampire onto the parking lot gravel. “I got a hot date waiting for me!”
The vampire launched himself at her, talons hooked and fangs extended. She moved to meet the attack, flicking open her switchblade with a snap of her wrist. The silver blade sank into the vampire’s exposed thorax, causing him to shriek in pain. The vampire collapsed, his body going into spasms as his system reacted to the silver’s toxin.
She knelt and swiftly removed the vampire’s head from his shoulders with her switchblade. The body was already starting to putrefy by the time she locked it in the trunk of the car and tossed the keys down a nearby storm drain.
Sonja looked around, but there were no witnesses to be seen in the darkened lot. She moved around to the passenger side and opened the door, tugging the hypnotized human out of the car. He stood propped against the bumper like a drunkard, his face slack and his penis dangling from his pants like a deflated party balloon. She pushed down her sunglasses and took his chin between her thumb and forefinger and tilted his head so that his eyes met hers.
“This never happened. You do not remember leaving the bar with anyone. Is that clear?”
“N-nothing h-happened,” he stammered.
“Excellent! Now go back in the bar and have a good time. Oh, and stick that thing back in your pants! You don’t want to get busted for indecent exposure.”
She was buzzing by the time she re-entered the bar. The adrenaline from the battle was still sluicing around inside her; juicing her perceptions and making her feel as if she was made of lightning and spun glass. It wasn’t as intense as the boost she got from blood, but it still felt good.
Someone jostled her and she looked into the face of a mousey young woman, her face set into a scowl. She paused, taking in the schizophrenia that radiated from the other woman’s skull like a martyr’s halo. The scowling woman blushed, drew her shoulders in, ducked her chin, and hurried away as if she’d suddenly woken up and discovered herself sleepwalking. She shrugged and continued scanning the bar for the young man who spoke to her earlier.
Give it up, he’s forgotten you and found another bimbo for the evening.
Sonja fought to keep from cringing at the sound of the voice inside her head. She had managed to go almost all night without having to endure its commentary. Hopefully it wouldn’t try and start trouble for her.
She found him waiting for her at the bar. She made a last minute spot-check for any blood or telltale ichors that might be clinging to her person before moving to join him. “You still interested in buying me that drink?” she asked.
The young man’s smile was genuinely relieved. “You came back!”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
“I like a woman of her word,” he said as he offered her his hand. “I guess I should introduce myself: I’m Judd.”
She took his hand and smiled without parting her lips. “Pleased to meet you, Judd. I’m Sonja.”
“What the hell’s going on here?!”
Judd’s smile faltered as his gaze went beyond Sonja’s right shoulder. She turned and found herself almost nose-to-nose with a young woman dressed in a skin-tight black sheath, fishnet stockings, and way too much make-up, as well as a psychosis that covered her face like the caul on a newborn infant, with pulsing indentations marking her eyes, nose and mouth.
Judd closed his eyes and sighed. “Brittany, look, it’s over! Get a life of your own and let go of mine!”
“Oh, is that h
ow you see it? Funny, I remember you saying something different! Like how you’d always love me! Guess I was stupid to believe that, huh? You’re not getting away that easy, asshole! “ Brittany’s rage turned the madness covering her face an interesting shade of magenta that swirled and pulsed like a lava lamp. “And who’s this—your new slut?” she snarled, pushing Sonja’s leather-clad shoulder to back her away from Judd.
Sonja grabbed the other woman’s wrist, careful not to break it in front of witnesses. “Don’t touch me,” she said icily.
C’mon, snap the crazy bitch’s arm off, The Other purred. She deserves it!
“I’ll fucking touch you anytime I want! Just you stay away from my boyfriend, bitch!” Brittany tried to yank herself free of Sonja’s grip, with no success. “Let me go!” She made to strike her rival with her free hand, only to have that one grabbed as well, forcing her to look directly into Sonja’s face.
Brittany’s features grew pale and she stopped struggling. Sonja knew then that the other woman was seeing her—truly seeing her—for what she was. Only three kinds of human can perceive the Real World: psychics, poets, and lunatics. And Brittany definitely fit the last category.
Sonja released the girl, who turned and hurried away, nearly tripping over her own high heels as she fled.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Judd apologized. “Brittany’s a weird girl. We lived together for a few months, but she was incredibly jealous. It got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore, so I moved out. She’s been dogging my tracks ever since. She scared off my last two girlfriends.”
Sonja shrugged. “I don’t scare easy.”
He wasn’t afraid of her. More importantly, she did not detect the self-destructive darkness that usually attracted humans to her kind. Judd was not a suicidal moth drawn to her flame, nor was he a Renfield in search of a master. He was simply a good-natured young man who found her physically attractive. The novelty of his normalcy intrigued her.
He bought her several drinks, all of which she downed without effect. But she did feel giddy, almost lightheaded, while in his company. To be mistaken for a desirable, human woman was actually quite flattering; especially since she’d stopped thinking of herself as human some time ago.
In the Blood (Sonja Blue) Page 24