Sunglasses After Dark

by Nancy A. Collins

  "Who paid you, Chaz?"

  "Sonja, my hands hurt…"

  The Other was losing its patience. Chaz felt a shadow flicker through his forebrain, like a pig rooting for truffles. He wasn't so far gone she could invade him as easily as that. Besides, he had every intention of telling. But he had to do it right. He raised a barricade and the dark thing in his head hissed its displeasure.

  The shield would not hold for long, but it didn't have to.

  "Who paid you, Chaz?"

  "Jacob Thorne."

  There was a heartbeat's worth of silence. Then the face below the sunglasses writhed. Chaz was pleased to see how deeply he had hurt her.

  "Liar!"

  She grabbed Chaz by the throat and dragged him from his seat. She shook him, determined to flail the truth out of his pale, wasted body. Chaz's head lolled backward, the weight of the skull no longer supported by the neck. The bastard was smiling.

  Hustled again.

  Lise finished cleaning the countertop and tossed the damp bar rag into the sink. God, what a slow night. The only customer in the joint was that Brit, Chaz. Lise still wasn't sure what to make of him. He was kind of creepy and he hung out with sleaze like the Blue Monkeys. She always felt like she was naked when he was around. But he was sort of good-looking, in a Keith Richards kind of way. And no American girl's completely immune to a British accent, even one by way of the council blocks. Besides, he tipped well and occasionally offered a little crystal meth if the service was good. She'd screwed guys for less than that.

  Time to check up on him. He was bound to have finished his gin and tonic. She winced. Her head felt like it was about to split open. Probably her sinuses again. Oh, well, Chaz no doubt had something for a nasty headache.

  As she approached the table, she noticed Chaz was slumped in his chair, hands folded in his lap. His chin was propped on his chest, a shock of dirty blond hair obscuring his face. Lise groaned aloud. The asshole was strung out. Rocky didn't like the customers nodding out before they settled their bar tabs, and he didn't like Chaz, straight or not.

  "Hey, Chaz! Hey, man. You want Rocky to see you?" She grasped his shoulder, her hopes for a big tip and a free line of meth rapidly disintegrating. "C'mon, man, wake up!"

  His head rolled forward, the eyes turned up so only the whites were visible. His mouth flopped open. Blood and saliva dribbled onto the floor.

  Her screams were audible from the street.

  He was walking through a featureless maze. There was no sky. Every turn led him down a corridor that looked the same as the last. Claude did not know where he was or how he got there.

  He realized he was being led through the identical passageways. At his side walked a huge lion with a long black mane. The lion guided him as a seeing-eye dog would a blind man, except that it held Claude's right hand in its mouth. Claude could feel the gentle pressure of its jaws against the flesh of his palm. Although Claude was not afraid, he was somewhat perturbed to find his hand in the mouth of a lion. The beast showed no signs of harming him and it seemed to know the way. Still, it was a lion…

  He awoke in darkness. What time was it? Three o'clock? Or had an entire day slipped past without his being aware of it? No. Only a couple of hours, he was certain. Something had woken him up. But what?

  Somewhere in the dark, a door closed.

  That was it. His enigmatic hostess had returned. He sat up in the narrow cot, fumbling with the orange crate that served as a nightstand. His hands closed on a plastic cylinder.

  How considerate. After tucking him back into bed, the vampire left him a flashlight in case he had to find the John in the middle of the night. He bit back another fit of hysterical giggles and thumbed the flashlight on.

  The beam wasn't very strong and did little to illuminate the blackness of the loft. The painted animals on the screens seemed to move in the weak light as if stalking him.

  He found her leaning against a brick wall, her back to him. Claude noticed for the first time the rungs sunk into the brick face and the trapdoor set in the ceiling. He watched for a couple of minutes as the shoulders of her leather jacket hitched in short, sharp spasms before realizing what she was doing.

  She's crying.

  Claude stepped forward, lifting the flashlight so he could see her better. He felt awkward and intrusive, but he could not stop from trying to comfort her.

  "Denise?"

  She whirled about, startled by his presence. Claude heard himself cry out as if from somewhere far away. Her mouth was smeared with blood, but that wasn't the bad part. The bad part was she didn't have her sunglasses on.

  The whites of her eyes swam with blood and were red as fresh wounds. There were no irises, just overexpanded pupils the size of shoe buttons. There was no humanity in them. They were the eyes of a wild thing.

  She recoiled from the light, lifting a forearm to shield her horrible, flat eyes. The hiss that escaped her made Claude's testicles crawl.

  "Don't look at me! Don't touch me! Don't talk to me! Just leave me alone!" She struck out blindly, knocking the flashlight from his hand.

  Claude watched the beam of pale-yellow light as the flashlight cartwheeled through the darkness before shattering on the floor. He felt her jacket brush his elbow and then she was gone, swallowed by the labyrinth of rice paper.

  Claude stood in the dark and massaged the fingers of his right hand. They were numb from where she'd knocked the flashlight out of his grip, but otherwise he was unharmed.

  Somewhere in the loft, Sonja Blue wept dry tears of frustration.

  * * *

  RESURRECTION

  BLUES

  * * *

  This year I slept and woke with pain

  I almost wished no more to wake.

  —Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  « ^ »

  She lay silent and still, hands folded on her chest in mimicry of the dead. Her pulse slowed itself, her breathing becoming so shallow her chest did not rise and fall as she entered the sleep of the undead. But vampires are denied the luxury of dreams. They can only remember.

  I do not remember being Denise Thorne.

  I can recall events, dates, and names from the time before, but they are not my memories. They are dry facts, summoned from an impersonal computer file, snapshots from someone else's life.

  Her dog's name was Woofer.

  Her best friend in the third grade was Sarah Teagarden.

  The chauffeur's name was Darren.

  The names have faces and information attached to them, but the emotion is gone. I feel nothing for them.

  Except for her parents.

  I am amazed there is still a spark of emotion left for them. I'm not certain if this is anything to celebrate. That is where the pain comes from.

  I remember her last hours vividly; I guess that's because they are the hours of my conception and lead directly to my birth in the backseat of a Rolls Royce. No human can claim such memories. Guess I'm one lucky bitch.

  I remember the discotheque with the loud psychedelic music—the Apple Cart—and the pulsating amoe-bas on the wall and the bored-looking girls in mini-skirts dancing in cages suspended from the ceiling. Really Swinging London, man.

  Denise splurged on champagne cocktails. No society child is a stranger to alcohol, but she had yet to master it. Being treated like an adult and ogled by men was intoxicant enough. She was giddy. And careless. And stupid.

  I do not recall the exact moment Morgan made himself known. He was just there, as if he'd been present all along. He was tall, distinguished, and looked early middle-aged. He was elegant and debonair and Gary Grantish, with streaks of silver at his temples and an impeccable Saville Row suit. He called himself Morgan. Sir Morgan. He was an aristocrat. The way he carried himself, the way he moved, his tone of voice, made it evident he was a man used to issuing commands and having them obeyed. He looked out of place in the club, but no one would have dared challenge his right to b
e there.

  Sir Morgan plied her with champagne and produced an endless stream of urbane banter. Despite her millions, Denise was a teenage girl and, therefore, susceptible to romance and fantasy. She imagined herself the Poor Little Rich Girl and Morgan was her Prince Charming. Unaware of her fortune, he had picked her, out of all the older, more experienced women in the nightclub, to be his companion. Stupid little get.

  A girl with savvy would have pegged Morgan for an upper-class rake with a taste for squab. She would have been wrong, but that was closer to the truth than the romantic sap sluicing through Denise's overheated imagination.

  She could not take her eyes off him. Every time he looked at her, she was certain he saw all the things she kept secret inside herself. She wanted to fuck him real bad.

  I'm certain he did not know who Denise Thorne really was. Careless of him. If he'd known, he would never have approached her. Had things gone as planned, the resulting headlines would have spoiled everything and eventually spelled not only his death, but the ruination of centuries of careful planning.

  After succeeding in separating her from the herd, Morgan suggested a midnight ride through the streets of London. How romantic. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

  The Rolls was the color of smoke. The chauffeur opening the door wore livery so black it didn't reflect light. The windows in the rear of the car were also heavily tinted. For privacy, he assured her. A bottle of champagne awaited them, nestled in a bucket full of ice. Denise felt like she was in a movie. All it needed was a soundtrack.

  After her second glass of champagne things began to go wrong. The interior of the car rippled and warped. It was very warm and close. It hurt to breathe. She had trouble keeping her eyes from rolling like greased ball bearings.

  But worst of all, Sir Morgan… changed.

  He opened his mouth and his canines grew, extending a full inch. His tongue flicked over his teeth, wetting the razor-sharp points. His eyes seemed to shimmer. The pupils wavered, like candle flames caught in a draft, then narrowed into reptilelike slits. The whites surrounding his eyes looked like they were bleeding.

  Denise screamed and threw herself against the car door. She clawed at the space where the handle should have been, then pummeled the wall of glass that separated her from the driver. The chauffeur glanced back at her and smiled, displaying sharp teeth. She dropped back against the upholstery, clutching her elbows. She was too frightened to scream. All she could do was shiver.

  Morgan smirked and shook his head. "Silly girl."

  She felt his will enter her, hot as pig iron. She started to cry as Morgan pulled her to him without using his hands. He reached into her head and ordered her to crawl across the backseat, and her body obeyed.

  She struggled against him the best she could, but Morgan was far too old and far too powerful to be denied by a sixteen-year-old girl. Her body was a marionette fashioned of meat, and Morgan the red-eyed puppet master.

  Her prayers were incoherent by the time she reached his lap, her fingers numb as she opened his fly.

  His penis was huge and marble-white. It was erect, yet empty of blood. It was cold in her mouth and felt dead, despite its pretense of life. Her facial muscles cramped and it felt as if her jaw would dislocate. Her fear turned into shame, then blazed into hate. She tried to force her teeth down onto the meat violating her throat, but her body refused to cooperate. She nearly choked on her own vomit when the glans of his penis struck her tonsils.

  Morgan eventually grew bored with oral rape and retracted his control over her flesh. Denise collapsed in midstroke. Her throat was scalded by bile and her face ached. Her cheek lay pressed against the wool blend of Morgan's pant leg. His crotch was stained with her tears and saliva. She could hear the Rolls purr as it wound its way through the streets of London with no particular place to go.

  Morgan flipped Denise onto her back. She was in shock, beyond reacting to what was done to her. She watched him shred her clothes with detached interest. His hands were cold. Dead man's hands.

  He lifted one of her arms, turning it so the inner forearm was exposed. He ran cool, dry lips over the pulse point in her elbow. He drove his fangs into her arm the instant he shoved himself between her legs.

  Denise cried out once. Her scream was so shrill the dogs in the neighborhood the limo rolled through howled in sympathy.

  The horror of what was being done to her broke through the shock barrier her mind had erected to protect itself. Everything that was Denise Thorne disappeared, raped into oblivion by her demon prince.

  And I was born.

  My first sensation was pain—pain as Morgan punctured my forearms with his blood kisses, pain as his ice-cold dick rammed into my blood-slick vagina. His jism burned like battery acid. He slammed against my bruised and bloodied crotch for a few more minutes after his orgasm before finally growing bored with the game.

  I ceased to exist the moment he disengaged his dick. He was too busy buttoning up to notice I was alive.

  I couldn't move. I was still weak from being born. I noted his clothes were covered with blood, mucus, and sperm. Morgan enjoyed a sloppy fuck.

  The car rolled to a stop and the doors unlocked themselves. Morgan threw me into the gutter like a passing motorist tossing out a fast-food wrapper. I heard a bottle shatter under me, but I couldn't feel anything. I was dying.

  Death's funny. It fans whatever spark of self-preservation is left in your carcass into an inferno. Somehow, I found the strength to pull myself onto the sidewalk. I dug my fingers into the cracks in the pavement and hauled myself along the concrete an inch at a time. The blood kept making me lose my grip.

  Even though I was horribly bashed up, I kept thinking about how badly my teeth hurt. The pain in my upper jaw overwhelmed my other injuries.

  I remember hearing a man yell, "Oi!" And I can remember the pavement vibrating under my belly as he ran toward me. But the very last thing I recall before I slid into my coma was a weird tingling in my fingertips, like bugs were crawling all over them. It wasn't bugs.

  It was my fingerprints changing.

  I woke up nine months later. But that's not the point. The thing is, I woke up empty.

  I wasn't a complete tabula rasa; I knew that two plus two equaled four, I could still speak and understand English, and I knew all the words to "Strawberry Fields Forever." But as to who I was and where I came from, I drew a blank.

  That didn't bother me, at first. When I came to, I was lying on my side in a hospital bed with tubes up my nose and an IV stuck in my arm. I woke up thinking, I gotta get outta here. I didn't know my name, or even how old I was, but I did know I couldn't stay in that place anymore. Time to leave.

  I sat up for the first time in nine months, my joints cracking like dry timber. Pain bit into my calves and spine as I forced my muscles to flex and bend, but the pain seemed very far away. Numb fingers pulled at the tubes sunk into my nostrils. There was a brief sunspot of pain, then blood streamed from my nose. I ignored the warmth dripping off my upper lip and clawed at the needle sunk beneath the surface of my wrist. Another flash of cold light and the smell of saltwater flooded the room.

  I fumbled with the protective railing for a couple of minutes. There was a click and the side collapsed. I felt a quick jolt of hurt in my crotch. I had just performed a rather crude decatheterization on myself.

  I felt giddy and numb. Maybe I was dreaming of escape. I lowered myself to the floor and stared at my surroundings, wobbling on thin, uncertain legs like a newborn colt.

  I was in a hospital ward. Beds were lined up to the left and right of me, each housing a silent, motionless mound of blankets and meat. I tottered toward the door, peering through the gloom at my wardmates. They lay curled in their beds like giant fetuses, umbilical cords emerging from their arms. It was night and the lights were off, but that made little difference to the sleepers. It was always night in that ward.

  I passed through the door into a corridor. I hesitated on the threshold, blinking back tear
s. The light in the hall hurt my eyes, but I hunched my shoulders and continued to stagger along. I did not see a single doctor, nurse, or patient, but I could feel their presence nearby. I did not want to be discovered. I did not want to stay in that antiseptic, brightly lit place any longer. I rebounded off the door to the fire escape before I saw it. The fading letters on its surface read fire exit. I pulled on the handle with both hands, painfully aware of how weak I was.

  A gust of cold air mixed with light rain struck my face. I stumbled onto the landing and sucked in a lungful of fresh air. Old cigarette butts littered the metal floor. The interns no doubt used it for quick smokes while on duty. I might be found out if I stayed too long.

  I began the long climb down to street level, my body finally starting to wake up. The pain and discomfort were no longer ghost sensations. Blood and phlegm leaked from my nostrils, and my hands were stained orange by a mixture of blood and rusty metal. It was bitter cold and all I had on was a faded hospital johnny. My legs cramped violently and I was afraid I would overbalance and fall over the railing into the alley below.

  After what felt like an hour, I reached the bottom of the fire escape. My legs trembled and I felt feverish. I was ten feet above street level and couldn't figure out how to work the mechanism that released the ladder. I rattled the escape ladder, tears of frustration running down my face. I was terrified of being caught.

  I tried lowering myself to the sidewalk. My arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. Probably were. Everything went gray and my fingers slipped. Then I was lying on my back in the middle of some garbage cans. All I saw was a tiny strip of night sky sandwiched between two old buildings. It was drizzling and raindrops dripped on my face.

  I got to my feet and stumbled away. I had no idea of where to go, but I knew I had to get away. London is an ancient city, full of crooked streets and dead-end mews. It's easy to get lost there. I don't know how long I wandered the back alleys, avoiding the lights and traffic, but it was dawn when I collapsed in the doorway.