Sonja smiled and returned the old general’s bow. “I thank you, Hu Zhao. Perhaps some day soon we can sit and drink tea and gossip. But as of now I have much to do.”
“Be careful, my friend,” he said cautiously. “The White Powder Ghosts are indeed fierce enemies.”
“So am I,” she replied with a smile.
Nasakenai sat with his back to sharks and sipped a cup of fragrant tea. He liked to conduct business at the Red Lotus Restaurant because one entire wall of the establishment was a huge saltwater aquarium tank filled with dog-fish, blowfish, jellyfish, and other colorful denizens of the deep. In the last year, he had turned the Ghosts from a gang of scruffy drug runners into a force to be reckoned with in Chinatown—as well as Tokyo and Hong Kong.
Dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit and equally expensive hand-made shoes, with his hair slicked back and his right eye covered by a black velvet patch embroidered with a dragon, he looked like something out of a Triad movie. It was an appearance he worked hard to cultivate and maintain. He also worked hard to make sure the rumor that he was a black sorcerer was widely known.
Most of the men he commanded were of ethnic Chinese descent and resented having a Japanese leader, so fear was an important part of keeping them in line. But it also helped that it was not a lie—he really did possess powers beyond those of ordinary men. He was descended from a long line of psychics born, or so family legend had it, of a tryst between a peasant girl and a high ninja master. His bloodline had served the Chrysanthemum Throne from the days of Emperor Motohito until the death of Emperor Mutsuhito.
Nasakenai’s ancestors made a point of breeding within the clan in order to cultivating some of the world’s finest psychic talent. Unlike most human sensitives, those of his lineage were known for their mental stability and valued not only by the Imperial Court but the Nobles as well. Whether this had to do with genetics or the rigorous physical and mental training based on the teachings of that long-ago ninja master, not even Nasakenai could say.
The truth of the matter is that the minds of his fellow men were as transparent to him as the aquarium at the Red Lotus—and filled with similar beasts. He could look at someone and within seconds know his hopes, his dreams, his deepest fears and darkest sins. And, if he did not like what he saw within the heads of those around him, all he had to do was reach out and crush them without lifting a finger. He had done so twice–first to the leader of a group of Vietnamese thugs attempting to muscle in on Ghost territory, the second time to a lieutenant he had discovered working a deal with the Hongmen to try and kill him. He had left each victim hemorrhaging liquefied brains from their eyes, ears, and nose.
Of course, no one that he served a master far more powerful than any Triad boss in Hong Kong or Yakuza kumicho in Shinjuku. Nasakenai had served Sir Morgan ever since he won him during a brood war with a Mandarin vampire named Shou Xi, fifteen years ago. Nasakenai was completely and utterly devoted to his master. There was nothing he would not do for him—nothing he had not done. He had even lost his eye in the service of his lord. It was Morgan who had decreed that Nasakenai take control of a struggling Chinatown gang and turn it into one of the most feared and powerful in the city, and Nasakenai dutifully complied. The reason for Sir Morgan taking over the Bot Fun Guey by proxy was simple: he fed far better on the curdled hope of the human cargo smuggled into the country from China than he did on blood.
Nasakenai eyed the main dining room of the Black Lotus, mentally scanning everyone present. The restaurant was on the top floor of a business tower on the edge of Chinatown, a stone’s throw from the Tombs, and the only way in or out was via the elevator that faced the main dining room. Nasakenai always made sure he was facing the elevator. It was late, and the only people still left in the restaurant besides the owner, his wife, and the kitchen staff were his bodyguards, Yuchun and Juda, both who were young, stupid, and sadistic. The only difference between the two was that Yuchun used too much product in his hair while Juda liked to chew an ivory toothpick. No doubt they would go far in the gang. As far as he could tell, no one was thinking anything dangerous—at least in regards to him.
And then the elevator doors pinged open and a cloud of hate boiled into the restaurant like a swarm of angry hornets.
Despite the intensity of the hatred radiating from the woman called Sonja Blue, her physical manner as she stepped out of the elevator into the main dining room was not just nonchalant, but almost insultingly so. The owner of the restaurant stepped forward, smiling nervously and clutching a menu as if it was a shield.
“Very sorry. We are closed. Come back tomorrow, yes?”
Sonja shook her head and pointed at Nasakenai. “I don’t want dinner. I want to speak with that man sitting over there.”
The owner’s smile faltered. “Sorry. Not possible.”
“Take your people and go home,” Sonja said quietly as she slid past him.
Yuchun and Juda stepped forward, blocking her path. They were dressed in cheaper versions of their headman’s suit, which did little to hide their shoulder holsters.
“You go. This not your place,” said Juda, who was the more proficient of the two in English. “You stay; you get hurt, maybe, yes?”
Sonja stroked her chin, weighing the wisdom of the thug’s words. “You know, you’ve got a point there, buddy.” As she turned around, Juda and Yuchun exchanged knowing smirks.
Her fist caught Juda in the side of the head, sending the ivory toothpick in his mouth flying across the room, accompanied by most of his teeth. Some of his friend’s blood splashed Yuchun in the face, causing him to swear and wipe at his eyes with his forearm while trying to go for his gun. To his surprise, his hand closed on nothing but air. He gaped in disbelief at his empty holster, and then looked up to find himself the strange woman pointing his own gun at him.
“Lost something?” she sneered as she slammed the gun-butt between the eyes, dropping him like an ox in a slaughterhouse.
The owner’s wife, standing behind the register, screamed hoarsely into her hands, her eyes starting from her head. The owner ran to her side and grabbed her, pulling her toward the doors that lead to the kitchen.
“I said get out of here!” Sonja said, repeating herself in Cantonese.
The owner and his wife nodded their understanding and bolted for the kitchen, side-stepping Juda. THE bodyguard was kneeling on the floor, spitting up pieces of broken bicuspid like they were Mah Jongg tiles. As Sonja walked past him, the bodyguard clawed at his shoulder holster, only to have her kick him in the side so hard it lifted him off the floor and drove broken ribs into one of his lungs.
Nasakenai glowered darkly at Sonja as she pulled out the chair across the table from him and sat down. “What do you want, rogue?”
“How nice,” she smiled crookedly. “You remember me.”
“One does not soon forget being maimed,” he replied, caressing his velvet eye-patch.
“You know what I want, Renfield,” Sonja said grimly. “Tell me where he is.”
“I will not tell you that, even though he has commanded me to do so.”
Sonja raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You would disobey your master?”
“My loyalty is without question,” Nasakenai replied stiffly. “That is why I defy my master by keeping him safe from you.”
“You must not have much faith in your master if you fear me to such a degree,” Sonja said with a humorless laugh.
“You wounded my master.” Nasakenai’s remaining eye flashed angrily as he spoke. “You ruined that which was without flaw. But I share that blame, for if I had succeeded in killing you that night in San Francisco, he would have never been harmed. I will not fail him a second time.”
“Let’s get to it, then,” Sonja said, placing her hands, palms facing down, onto the table.
“Hai,” Nasakenai replied as he followed suit.
And the battle began.
She was standing in the middle of a Japanese woodblock print. In the distance w
ere hazy mountains, green blobs against a pale blue sky. Closer by was the suggestion of a waterfall, the artful representation of bamboo—but none of it was real, merely a clever approximation of place, nothing more. It was all set-dressing for the no man’s land known as the Place Between Places, the limbo where psychic battles are fought.
There was the sound of silk banners snapping in a high wind and something hurtled down out of the painted sky, knocking her to her knees. There was a blossom of pain and Sonja stared at the hole ripped in the right sleeve of her leather jacket and at the blood welling up from deep scratches scoring her flesh. Although her physical body showed no sign of being harmed, she knew all too well that wounds dealt during psychic combat were all too real.
She looked up into the sky and saw her attacker framed against the heatless sun, fluttering like a kite. The storm dragon grinned down at her, thunderclouds pouring from its flared nostrils as her blood dripped from its razor-sharp talons.
You are strong, Blue Woman, the storm dragon said in Nasakenai’s voice. I grant you that. But you lack finesse. You are like a child, destroying what angers it. In this world, I am the one who is to be feared—not you!
To prove his point, the storm dragon went into a power dive, extending its front claws like landing gear. Sonja tried to run, but it was no use—Nasakenai’s imago was too fast. The dragon snatched her up like a hawk would a fleeing rabbit, sending its talons deep into her belly and back. Sonja kicked and hammered her fists against the imago, coughing blood as she cursed Nasakenai at the top of her lungs.
It ends now. The Renfield’s voice echoed inside her head. You have caused my master much trouble. You not only stole my eye, you stole my master’s love. Once you are destroyed, Morgan will be as he once was. And his love will be mine, and mine alone.
Sonja’s belly abruptly swelled like a balloon, and her throat expanded as well. She opened her mouth as if to scream, her jaws stretching far wider than they could in the world of flesh. Then, with a mighty cough, a three-headed tiger with the tail of a scorpion leapt from the vampire’s mouth, roaring in angry unison.
Sparks flew from the chimera’s multiple mouths, and its roar was that of swords striking shields. The storm-dragon screamed as the chimera’s venomous tail stung its body repeatedly. The coils of the flying serpent flickered and became transparent, revealing Nasakenai hidden within its belly. The chimera pounced on the exposed psychic, sinking its fangs deep into his neck and shaking him like a farm cat killing a field mouse.
Once it was finished, the chimera returned to Sonja and rubbed its left head against her thigh, purring like a bus left in low gear. Sonja stroked the middle head while wiping the blood from the right head’s muzzle.
“Good kitties,” she said with a smile.
When Sonja re-opened her eyes Nasakenai was lying facedown on the table, blood pouring from his ears, nose, and remaining eye, and cerebral fluid trickling out from under his eye-patch. Behind him, the fish in the salt-water wall tank were dead or dying as well. She watched a two-foot-long dogfish thrash out its final agonies and then go still, drifting in the captive current. She pushed back her chair and stood on wobbly feet, scanning the room.
The restaurant owner stood framed in the door of the kitchen, watching her the way the first mammals must have regarded the Tyrannosaurs as they thundered by on their murderous business. She met his terrified gaze and fixed his mind in place as neatly as she would a butterfly with a hat pin.
“The On Leong did this,” she said in Cantonese. “They had to save face because the Ghosts muscled in on their territory.”
The owner of the Red Lotus nodded his head, sounding as if he was talking in his sleep. “Tong war. Most unfortunate.” He then shook his head as if to clear it, staring in horrified silence at the bodies littering his dining room. Thankfully, the On Leong assassins responsible for the massacre were long gone.
He hurried back into the kitchen to check on his wife and the rest of the staff, all of whom were hiding in the walk-in freezer. He had to call 911, but first he needed to calm down his wife. She was not used to the ways of the Americans yet, and it would not do to have her babbling about a demon woman with mirrors for eyes while the police tried to investigate a gang hit.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jen sat astride one of the lions guarding the central branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, grinning like a demented bareback rider. It was after midnight and the library had long since closed its doors.
“I got your message,” Sonja said. “What do you want?”
“I heard about Nasakenai. Very impressive, milady. I always found Nasakenai a particularly loathsome specimen, always pretending he was better than the other Renfields because he could control his telepathy without the benefit of drugs.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
Jen leaned forward, resting his chin atop the lion’s chiseled mane. “My, you are unsociable. You really must brush up on your small talk, milady. A little chitchat now and again never hurts.”
“Is there some point to this?” she growled. “Or did you summon me here simply to praise my disposal of a one-eyed psychic?”
Jen sighed and produced a single, long-stemmed black rose and a sealed envelope and tossed them at her feet. “I was told to deliver these to you.”
“By who? Luxor?”
“I told you—I have more than one employer,” Jen replied as he jumped off the back of the lion and disappeared into the surrounding night.
As Sonja retrieved the rose and the envelope she could see that the stem of the flower was made from braided strands of barbed wire and that petals were fashioned from black velvet. As for the envelope, it bore a wax seal embossed with the symbol of a wolf swallowing the moon. Inside the envelope was a folded piece of parchment that bore the message: The Cherub Room @ 2.
The Cherub Room was a trendy nightclub near Columbus Circle that catered to the Bridge and Tunnel crowd. The overall decor was leopard skin, pink vinyl, gold paint and winged babies—and lots of ’em. The pudgy little fucks were everywhere, whether shouldering cornucopia with speakers hidden inside them, holding aloft mirrors, peeing champagne into silver basins, or simply dangling from the ceiling. The overall feeling was not unlike that of being sealed alive inside a box of Valentine’s Day chocolates. Sonja was uncertain why Jen’s employer, whoever he or she might be, would want to meet at such a place—unless they were afraid of what she might do without being surrounded by witnesses.
The thumping of the music and the sickly sweet smell of mixed drinks reminded her of when she first met Morgan. Except it wasn’t her, precisely. It had been Denise, the naive young heiress who made the mistake of getting a little too drunk and allowing herself to be separated from her friends, and then compounded it by getting into a car with a strange man who was not what he appeared to be.
Denise and her friends had gone to the nightclub for a taste of the forbidden fruit of adulthood. They were on vacation in a foreign city, and it made them even stupider than sixteen year old girls already are in the first place. And when Morgan looked at her, Denise felt so beautiful and unique. And not just because of her daddy’s millions, but because Morgan was royalty. He loved her. Just her and nothing else.
Before that night, Denise had known the clumsy kisses of and fumbling hands of boys her own age, but Morgan was something else entirely. He was older and more sophisticated. He promised true romance, the kind every woman dreams of. It was just like the storybooks she had read as a child: she was the ash-pail princess, and he the noble knight. So when he promised to treat her to a night unlike any other, Dennis had eagerly accompanied him into the back of his chauffeured Rolls. Where he then raped her, drank her blood and threw her, naked and dying, onto the streets of London.
As horrible as they were, all of these events were more like recollections of a movie she had once watched instead of something she had experienced herself. All, that is, save for one, the memory of which was so raw and white
-hot it could never fade. It was Denise’s final memory—and Sonja’s first as she emerged from that terrible crucible, like Athena from Zeus’ brow: it was of Sir Morgan’s sneering face and the sound of his laughter as he hurled her body into the gutter. It was the one experience she and Denise Thorne truly shared, welding the past to the present.
Suddenly the hair on the back of Sonja’s neck prickled, and her lungs became heavy as if the oxygen in the room had been transformed into mercury. It was only then that she realized the identity of Jen’s mysterious employer. She had felt the same sensation before, years ago. It was the energy that exists between Maker and Made.
She frantically scanned the room and found him standing in the far corner beside a statue of Cupid stringing his bow. Although she knew she had marked him during their last confrontation, she was startled to see the extent of his wounding. The left side of his face was pulled into a permanent sneer, the eye as gray and sightless as a baked fish’s. Where once his hair had been dark, now there was a shock of white starting at his left temple. He was dressed in an understated, exquisitely tailored suit, which somehow succeeded in glamorizing his scars, turning mutilation into a fashion statement.
As she stared at the man responsible for her very existence, she waited for the hate that had been her constant companion and motivating force for so many years to fill her guts with its familiar heat. It did not come, but in its place was a sense of grim satisfaction in knowing that the snip of a girl he had tossed away like so much trash had repaid him for dismissing her so callously.
Morgan stiffened as she drew near, his perpetual leer belying the caution in his remaining eye. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her presence.
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