Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  Sonja eased into the spare chair as Eddie busied himself with filling the teakettle and lighting the pilot light. She noticed that Ryan’s bed under the sink was curtained off by a piece of discarded drapery, giving the boy a little privacy.

  “How did it go?” Eddie asked.

  “I got inside both Esher’s and Sinjon’s strongholds. Of the two, Esher is the more dangerous quarry. He is young, as vampires go, and exceptionally ambitious.”

  “A ‘lean and hungry look’, eh?”

  “Exactly. And those are the most dangerous vampires to contend with. They have much to win—and a lot to lose. Sinjon, on the other hand, is what could be called ‘a reasonable monster.’ He has what he wants, but fears losing it. It makes him easier to manipulate. He is a museum piece, but is loath to admit it. I’ve dealt with his kind before: anachronisms clinging to the era that saw their greatest glory. Still, I’d be a fool to underestimate him. Elder vampires such as Sinjon came of age during times far harder and more punishing than most could possibly imagine. His foppery hides a will of iron and a heart of coal.”

  “Sound like real sweethearts, the pair of ’em.” Eddie lowered his voice, glancing over at Ryan’s sleeping nook. “What about Nikola? Did you see her?”

  Sonja nodded. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s alive and more-or-less still human.”

  Eddie raised an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, the kettle began its shrill wail. He quickly snatched the pot off the boil, not wanting to wake the boy. He spooned instant coffee and powdered creamer into a cracked mug that read WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDMA. “She’s that bad, huh?”

  “Do you want it straight?” “Do I have a choice?”

  Sonja ran her fingers through her hair, and for a split second Eddie glimpsed the utter weariness inside her. It was the deep-down tired seen in veterans of heavy trench warfare. “I think I can get her away from Esher. But it might not do any good. She’s heavily mesmerized, plus I think he’s been drugging her—and not with heroin or other street crap. He’s got a bokor working for him.”

  “A what?”

  “Voodoo witch doctor. A mean-ass motherfucker named Obeah that carries a machete.”

  Eddie paled and his coffee mug trembled slightly. “I know the bastard you’re talking about. He’s nasty business. But what’s that have to do with drugs—?”

  “I think Esher’s got Nikola strung out on zombie dust.”

  “Zombies? Aw, c’mon, man! You’re pulling my leg, right?” Eddie laughed.

  Sonja chuckled ruefully. “You’re living in a neighborhood swarming with the living dead, and you don’t believe in zombies? Besides, it’s not like the crap in the movies. Witch-doctors use the neural toxin from blowfish. Normally it’ll paralyze you so thoroughly your heart can’t beat and you can’t breathe. But in the right amounts it’s a powerful drug, and under certain circumstances it can be used to induce a deathlike state.

  “Let’s say a bokor gets mad at some schmuck, and he puts a curse on him in public. Then he goes and slips the zombie dust into the schmuck’s Wheaties. Next thing you know, there’s a dead schmuck—but the thing is, he’s not really dead. He just looks it, right? So the schmuck gets stuck in the ground, and then the bokor digs him up and feeds him the antidote. Next thing you know there’s a dead schmuck walking around—except he’s not really dead. He’s a zombie schmuck. They tend to suffer from brain damage, because of oxygen deprivation from being underground, so they end up a little slow—hell, they’re a lot slow! Zombies can’t feel much in the way of pain, nor can they communicate very well. About the only things they want out of life—if you can call it that—from that point on is food and zombie dust. I guess they’re the only pleasures they can still feel. And they’ll do anything to get those two things. And since the bokor pretty much has the zombie dust thing sewn up, they end up becoming his personal slaves for the rest of eternity.”

  “And this is what Esher’s trying to do to Nikola?”

  “Not exactly. He’s got her messed up on dust, but he doesn’t want to zombify her. He’s looking to Make her his bride.”

  “You mean turn her into a vampire?”

  “Yeah,” she replied with a nod. “When vampires decide to take a bride, they often select a human with a strong dark side, one they feel has the potential for evil, and groom them before the transformation. Sometimes the humans respond eagerly, but other times the human’s dark side is buried so deep they commit suicide rather than let it out. I suspect that is the reason she’s being drugged. Esher wants to keep her susceptible to his influence, but fears what she might do to herself when he’s not there to control her.”

  “Then if that’s the case—there might be some hope for her, after all,” Eddie pointed out.

  “Perhaps. But as long as Esher is nearby, she’s completely his creature. That kind of mind control does serious damage. If I get her away from him, she may still remain—how shall I put it?—’highly susceptible’ to those with a stronger personality. And at this point, Barney the Dinosaur has a stronger will than she does.”

  “You don’t exactly paint a rosy picture, do you?” Eddie grunted. “You asked for it straight.”

  “Yeah. I did, didn’t I?” he sighed, draining the last of his coffee. “So what do you propose doing?”

  “The only way both Ryan and his mother will be safe is if Esher is well and truly dead.”

  Eddie lowered the mug, eyeing her as if she’d suddenly grown a second head. “You’re planning on killing him?”

  “That was my intention all along, even before I met you and Ryan.”

  “Honey, you don’t happen to have an army I might have missed stashed in that gym bag of yours, do you?”

  Sonja stifled a yawn as she stood up, stretching like a cat. “Killing him will be easy. Not getting myself killed in the bargain—that’s the tricky part! Now, if you’ll excuse me—it’s been a long night, and I need my rest if I’m to keep on top of what’s going down tonight. Are there any other people in this building?”

  “Not anymore. Since things started jumpin’ round here, most of the squatters moved to the outer fringes of Deadtown. No one wants to be in the thick of it.”

  Sonja gathered up her belongings and headed for the door. “I’ll bunk down in the attic, if it’s all the same to you. I like being close to rooftops. They’re handier than back doors, when you have unexpected visitors.”

  Eddie frowned and fidgeted with the keys. “Its daylight out there, you know.” “I’m well aware of that,” she replied.

  “But the sun’s up!”

  “It usually is when it’s daylight.”

  “Are you sure you wanna go out right now?”

  “Eddie, I appreciate the concern, but open the fuckin’ door, okay? I’m not gonna catch fire.”

  Eddie looked unconvinced, but he unlocked the door anyway. Sonja patted his shoulder as she slipped past the threshold into the morning sunshine. “Don’t worry about me,” she chided. “I’ve got my sunscreen on.”

  The attic smelled of dust, rat turds, dry rot and mildew. The middle of the room was tall enough for a man to stand upright, while the far corners would make a mouse hunchbacked. It wasn’t the Taj Mahal, but it was far from the worst place that she’d used as a crashpad. She dragged a stained mattress out from under the eaves, displacing a pile of discarded needles and empty crack vials. The mattress reeked of piss and other secretions, but it would have to do.

  The only way in or out of the attic was an oculus window set on a hinge, which she kept tilted open for ventilation. As she dropped onto her haunches to root through her gym bag, she glanced out the window—and found herself staring at a bell tower. Although at least a few blocks away, since the surrounding tenements were only three or four stories tall, the view was unobstructed. She dimly remembered passing what might have been a church on her way to the Bl
ack Lodge the night before, but had not realized it was so close to Eddie’s squat.

  Although strong light was bothersome to her, if not painful, her eyesight was still five times sharper than the average human’s. As she squinted against the sun, she could see that the church bells had long since been removed. Something moved in the deep shadows of the belfry—something too large to be a bird or a bat. Whatever the skulker might be, it certainly couldn’t be undead.

  She was too tired to let the problem of the belfry peeper’s identity occupy her for more than a few seconds. Although she could move around during the day and was immune to sunlight, that didn’t mean she relished it. She needed to go to ground in order to recharge her energy stores and allow her body to repair whatever damage may have been done to it. Besides, she’d put in a long, exhausting night’s work, and she needed her rest.

  As she dropped onto the mattress, her blood pressure plummeted like a stone, as did her respiratory and heart rate. To all outward appearances, she was dead—at least until the sun went down.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In her dreams, she sees herself climb into the car while looking down from above, like a hovering angel. Only, it’s not really her: it’s Denise Thorne, the person she used to be. She watches, mute and intangible, as her former self plods steadily onward toward her fate, helpless to change the course of events. Surely, she thinks, this is a taste of what Hell is like.

  She sees the dashing and debonair gentleman playboy, Lord Morgan, metamorphose into a leering monster, red of tooth and claw. She bears silent witness as the pallid, ruby-eyed monster takes the terrified Denise’s young mind and body and rapes both with cruel abandon. She looks on as the vampire slakes his unnatural lusts by flooding her womb with dead sperm while contaminating her bloodstream with the venom from his fangs, in a grotesque parody of human reproduction. She watches her own creation as she is born, full-grown, from the shattered mind and destroyed soul of Denise Thorne, like Athena springing from Zeus’ forehead, while Morgan tosses her naked body from the back of the Rolls-Royce as if she were an empty fast-food wrapper, leaving her for dead in the gutters of London’s East End. She is only moments old, but already she is beginning to learn the name of the game: Survival of the Fittest.

  Her surroundings warp and time speeds up, as it does in dreams. Now she is standing atop the Empire State Building. Decades have passed, and Denise is long gone. Now there is only Sonja Blue. She is there with Lord Morgan—only he is no longer the dashing debonair playboy. His face is scarred, his lips pulled into a permanent, disfiguring sneer, and his left eye is as white as a pearl. Sonja watches as she caresses the vampire lord’s ruined face as gently as a lover’s—only to bury her fangs in his throat. Morgan looks surprised, then scared, as she drains him of his life force. He struggles and tries to escape her embrace, but it’s no use—his limbs are already starting to wither. He screams and flails his wasted arms in protest as she reduces him to a dried-out husk. The sky above them turns the color of a ripe bruise and lightning stitches the bellies of immense thunderclouds. Sated, she discards his now-desiccated remains. Lord Morgan now looks more like a scarecrow than a man. Drained of his very essence, the Noble still pleads for mercy. Sonja watches dispassionately as she brings the heel of her boot down on the vampire lord’s skull, snuffing out a malignancy that has stretched seven centuries.

  As she observes these things, Sonja realizes she should feel exaltation, joy, or, at the very least, a perverse pleasure in delivering the ultimate justice to the bastard who stole her humanity. Instead, all there is only rage: the churning fury of the whirlwind.

  She looks up into the rippling dream-sky, with its ominous thunderclouds, and sees a pair of eyes. They are blood red and without pupil or white—just huge, blood-filled eyes. She understands then, as dreamers always know things that go unspoken in their dreams, that she is looking into the eyes of the Other: the vampiric side of her own personality; the part of her that revels in the pain of others, that delights in the suffering of enemies. It is the side of her she fears and yet needs if she is to survive.

  The Other looks down on her and its voice shakes the heavens. Sonja claps her hands to her ears, even though she knows she is dreaming.

  “Beware,” it intones. “Beware the warlock.”

  Crimson wells from the Other’s eyes and spills from the sky. Wherever the bloody tears strike steam rises up, accompanied by the hissing of snakes. Some of it splashes onto her hand, scalding it. Sonja cries out and draws back in pain …

  Only to find Ryan’s pale face before her, his eyes wide with fear. With a gasp of shocked surprise, she let go of the child’s throat.

  “Sorry, kid,” she rasped, trying her best to conceal the shuddering that racked her body like a junkie. “I must have been having a bad dream.”

  The boy scuttled over to the window, watching her cautiously as he massaged his neck. She groaned under her breath and wondered if there was a way to possibly feel worse than she did at that moment. Despite his street-toughness, Ryan was only a child, and a sorely used one, at that. She rolled off the mattress in a single, fluid moment, picking up her leather jacket as she did so.

  “I thought you said you aren’t like them,” the boy said accusingly.

  Sonja sighed and combed her fingers through the unruly tangle of her hair. “I try to keep the bad part of me under control—but sometimes it gets out. And when that happens, I don’t want anyone I care about around me, because I’m afraid I’ll hurt them. That’s why I decided to camp out up here, instead of with you and Eddie.”

  Ryan tilted his head. “Do you care about me?”

  “Yeah, I guess I do, because I sure don’t want to hurt you. Not now, not ever. That’s why I’m going to free your mother from Esher.”

  The boy darted forward, wrapping his arms about her waist, burying his face into her stomach. Despite his slight build, he had a grip like an anaconda. It had been a long time since a child had hugged her like that. Too long.

  “Don’t get your hopes up just yet, okay?” She smiled as she stroked his hair. “I’ve got a lot of strings to pull on this one, and I need your help to make sure everything works out.”

  “I’ll do anything you tell me to!” Ryan promised, tilting his head back to look at her.

  “I don’t doubt it. You’re a brave kid. And you’ll need every last ounce of that courage if you want to get your mother away from Esher. I have to send a message to Sinjon as to what Esher is up to—and I’ll need you to take it to the Black Lodge. Don’t look so scared—Sinjon has promised to place you under his protection, which will keep you safe while I’m not around. But just to be on the safe side, I’m going to give you this.”

  She reached inside the neck of her Cramps T-shirt and withdrew a thin silver chain from around her neck. At the end of the chain hung a silver crucifix fashioned to resemble briar thorns. She looped it about the boy’s neck.

  “Vampires fear silver above all else. None of them will dare touch you while you wear this.”

  Ryan moved to the attic window to study the necklace in the last of the dying light. As Sonja looked past the boy to the church bell tower, she remembered the shadowy figure she’d glimpsed before we went to ground.

  “Ryan—what is that building over there?”

  “Eddie says it’s a church. Saint Ever-Ready or something.”

  “Does anybody live there?”

  “There’s an old guy who stays inside it, I think. He wears a long black dress with a white thing sticking up in front. Cloudy says he’s a father, but I never see any kids with him. The only time he comes out is to go to the liquor store. I think he’s kind of crazy, but not bad crazy, like some of the homeless guys kinda are. He used to leave me scraps, back when I was on the streets.”

  Sonja returned her gaze to the bell tower. A priest? In Deadtown?

  How interesting.

  As So
nja strode through the House of Esher’s twisted corridors, she could feel its master drawing her towards him, as a magnet attracts an iron filing. As unwelcome as that connections was, it at least enabled her to traverse the diabolical funhouse unescorted. When she last spoke to Eddie, she had neglected mentioning that she had been forced to surrender some of her blood to Esher in order to carry out her plan, for fear that it would erode what trust he had in her. While she was secure in her own willpower, she had to admit that Esher possessed a great deal of charisma. It was easy to see why the weaker, less secure vampires flocked to him.

  She found the Noble in his audience chamber, holding court surrounded by his brood, most of whom looked to have started unlife as drifters or unwary tourists—the easiest prey for today’s urban vampire. Unremarkable in Life, they remained equally anonymous in Undeath, watching their master’s every nuance avidly, like starving men outside the window of a bakery. Sonja scanned the room and noticed that Nikola was nowhere to be seen.

  “Tonight we are on the cusp of great change!” Esher announced. “The results will be far-reaching—inside and outside of Deadtown!”

  There was muttering among the gathered vampires. One of them, who looked like a junior executive, spoke up: “What is the nature of this great change, milord?”

  “That is none of your concern,” he replied sternly. “All I will say is that it will benefit all who have sworn allegiance to me.” The recruits fell to talking among themselves again, but Esher silenced them with a clap of his hands. “Enough talking! All of you go to the club and await my orders!” The brood bowed as one, and began filing out of the audience chamber. As Sonja moved to follow them, Esher’s voice rang out. “A moment, if you please, Sonja. I would speak with you.”

  “As you command, milord,” she replied, forcing a smile.