There are always young pilgrims wandering through Père Lachaise, the majority of them tripping their brains out. Normally, vampires avoid such well-trafficked areas, preferring to haunt lonelier locations.
I was lured to Paris by the rumors circulating among the counterculture die-hards that Morrison's ghost wandered Père Lachaise at night in search of groupies. While in a nearby bar I overheard a gang of teenage fans discussing "visiting Jim" that night. I followed them from a safe distance.
There were four pilgrims, three boys and a girl, full of wine and acid and exhilarated by the prospect of glimpsing their idol's ghost. Since they'd never seen him in concert, this was as close as they'd ever get to actually meeting him in the flesh.
I followed them over the fence into the graveyard, watching as they wove through the field of tilting stones. It was obvious they had made the trip dozens of times; they threaded their way through the maze of marble and granite with the surefootedness of Sherpas.
Why not? This was their shrine and as much a part of their lives as the prayer wheels of Kathmandu.
Of the four, the oldest couldn't have been more than fourteen at the time of their messiah's death. It was a chilly October night and they were outfitted in American jeans and sneakers; two of the boys wore leather jackets while the third shivered in a flannel shirt that was no protection against the autumnal wind. The girl wore a heavy denim jacket with an intricately embroidered slogan on the back that read NO ONE HERE GETS OUT ALIVE.
The boy in the flannel shirt carried a large wine bottle, which he stopped to drink from every few steps. His companions hissed at him to keep up. Looking cold and disgruntled, he hurried after them.
One of the boys in the leather jackets had a knapsack with him, which he proceeded to empty once they reached the grave site. He produced several candle stubs, two more bottles of wine, and several joints.
"Think we'll see him?" whispered the girl as she hugged her elbows for warmth.
The older boy nodded. "Sure. Philippe—you know, Jean-Michel's cousin?—he saw Jim just last week."
The boy in the flannel shirt snorted derisively, shifting from foot to foot in order to keep from freezing. "Philippe sees lots of things. He virtually lives off acid and Vichy water."
The girl's tone was colder than the wind knifing through the graveyard. "I don't think you want to see him, Pierre. You're going to ruin everything."
Pierre looked wounded. It was painfully obvious that the only reason he was standing in the middle of a cemetery in the middle of the night, waiting for a ghost to put in an appearance, was because she was there. "Céleste…"
The boy who'd unloaded the knapsack arranged the candles into a lopsided circle atop the marble slab covering Morrison's grave. "Céleste is right," he said, touching each wick with his lighter. "If you don't want to see him, you won't. You can't think negative, Pierre, or you'll scare him away."
The candles flickered wildly in the wind gusting through the cemetery, throwing strange shadows on the disfigured bust situated at the head of the grave. The group uncorked the remaining wine bottles and huddled around the meager light. Soon the odor of marijuana mingled with the smell of lichen and dead leaves.
After a half-hour's vigil, Pierre stood up and kicked at the extinguished candles. "This is bullshit! I'm going to end up with pneumonia because Philippe Daigrepoit thought he saw something while he was tripping!"
The other members of the group shifted uneasily, but it was evident they had each come to similar conclusions.
"I don't know about you"—this was addressed to Céleste alone, although she was unaware of it—"but I'm going home to… Oh, my God!" The half-empty wine bottle slid from his numbed fingers, smashing onto the grave slab. Pierre stared down the narrow alley that wound between the tombs opposite the Morrison site.
His companions turned to see what he was staring at. Céleste gasped aloud and put her hands over her mouth.
"It's… it's him. It's Jim!"
From my hiding place among the monuments, I could see a slender masculine figure standing a hundred yards away, its skin as pale as moonlight. I felt a momentary shock of recognition as I stared at the face of the dead rock star. Was it possible? Was Morrison a Pretender?
The Lizard King, resplendent in jeans and a leather jacket, beckoned with one languid hand but did not come any closer. Despite the cold, he was bare-chested underneath the jacket.
"Céleste, he wants you," whispered the older boy. "He wants you to go with him." His voice contained awe and envy.
Céleste's eyes had the glaze of someone discovering her fondest fantasy brought to life. "Me… he wants me . . ." Her voice was dreamy and detached, as if she was talking in her sleep. She stepped forward, eager to embrace her one true love.
"Wait a minute, Céleste! Hey, are you going to stand there and let her go with that thing?" Pierre stared at his friends, then at Céleste. He sounded genuinely frightened and more than a little jealous. He grabbed her forearm, trying to force her to look at him. "Céleste! Céleste, listen to me. Don't go with him. You can't!"
"Let go of me, Pierre." Her gaze remained fixed on the Lizard King.
"No!"
"What are you worried about? It's only Jim. He won't hurt me."
"Céleste…"
She wrenched herself free of his grasp, hurrying toward the dead singer.
I moved from my place in the shadows, bowling over the leather-jacketed youths. I saw the Lizard King touch her cheek and take Céleste by the hand. He was going to lead her deep into the necropolis, where he could feast undisturbed. If he disappeared into the labyrinth of crypts and tombstones, I'd never find them in time.
I tackled the retreating vampire, knocking it free of Céleste. The thing thrashed violently underneath me, but couldn't break free of my hold. On closer inspection I could see the leather jacket and jeans he wore were filthy, the jacket moldering. Morrison's face snarled at me, but the vampire wasn't the dead singer resurrected.
Vampires are the chameleons of the Real World; they can remodel their faces into any semblance they choose. It's the supernatural equivalent of protective coloration. And this vampire had chosen the semblance that would ensure him good hunting. The vampire's features were exactly the same as those on the funerary bust—right down to the smashed nose. At a distance of a hundred yards, the illusion was good enough to attract prey; and by the time they were close enough to notice something was wrong, the vampire had them securely tranced.
The Lizard King hissed, exposing his fangs; I kept one hand clamped on his throat, pinning him to the ground, as I reached for my knife.
"Leave him alone. You're spoiling everything!" Céleste brought a memorial vase, filled with rank water and withered daffodils, crashing down on my head. I fell back, momentarily stunned.
"Jim! Oh, Jim, sweetheart! Are you all right?" She helped the vampire to his feet.
The Lizard King grinned at her, his eyes glowing and fangs unsheathed.
"Nooooo!" Her denial was thin and high-pitched, like a child refusing to go to bed.
The Lizard King grabbed her by the hair, pulling her closer to his mouth. Céleste struggled, her screams bursting from her like the cries of frightened birds.
Although blood from my head wound was trickling down behind my shades and dripping into my eyes, I got to my feet.
"Let her go, dead boy."
The Lizard King snarled again, tightening his grip on the girl. Céleste sobbed hysterically, too frightened to scream.
"Céleste! Merciful God…"
It was Pierre. The boy was still there, even though his companions had fled the minute the girl began to scream. The youth stood just beyond reach of the vampire. I could tell the young idiot was getting ready to jump the monster.
I stepped forward, hoping to draw the Lizard King's attention from the boy. It worked. The vampire snapped his head in my direction, baring his teeth like a cornered rat. I could hear the keeper's hounds baying close by. So did the vam
pire, his stolen face registering fear. There were too many witnesses. He'd have to abandon his catch. He propelled the hysterical girl into Pierre's arms. The boy did not bother to question his luck and ran in the direction he and his companions had come from, Céleste in tow.
The Lizard King turned and ran, but I was right after him. He sprinted through the graveyard like a broken field runner, but I managed to keep up with him. I caught him by the iron fence. He was clambering over the ancient iron spikes when I buried the knife to the hilt in the meat of his left calf.
I'd discovered that while I was impervious to silver, most Pretenders were hyper-allergic to it. The vampire screamed as silver penetrated flesh and muscle, but succeeded in boosting himself over the wrought-iron fence. I could tell the vampire's nervous system was already affected by the silver toxins in his bloodstream; he dragged a rapidly degenerating left leg as he plunged into a knot of late-night party-goers, bleating and waving his arms. Luckily, they thought he was just another geek visiting Jim Morrison's grave. I took my time killing the bastard when I caught up to him.
That was also the year I noticed I'd stopped aging… at least to human eyes. For some reason, my metabolism decided twenty-three was the ideal time of life, and stayed there. That was also the year I began buying black-market blood. After years of living off the blood of animals, the thirst upped the stakes.
1977: In Rome people walk the most chaotic streets in Europe, unaware that twenty-two feet below the soles of their shoes lies a kingdom that extends nearly six hundred miles, with an estimated population of six million.
I was seated at a sidewalk cafe, nursing a glass of red wine while I watched the evening crowds, when the messenger arrived.
He was a thin, pasty-faced young man with unhealthy purple blotches under his eyes. I divined by the flicker of his aura that he was a human sensitive. He was also quite mad.
"You are Blue?" His English was execrable, but I knew no Italian.
"What do you want?" I stared at the black halo crowning his head; the rays emanating from his skull snapped and fluttered like banners caught in a high wind. The sensitive's eyes were wet and bright, the pupils oscillating to a secret beat. He was dressed far too warmly for a Roman spring. Not only was he a crazed esper, he was a junkie as well. What a combination!
"He say tell you come." The sensitive's eyelids twitched as he dry-washed his hands.
"Who told you?" I didn't relish the idea of tapping into the junkie's mind to get my information. God only knows what lay coiled behind those eyes.
"He say you know. Tell me say: Pangloss."
The smell of old death came back to me. "Very well. I'll go."
The sensitive grinned, revealing crooked teeth. Was this pathetic creature Pangloss's Renfield?
I followed the sensitive through a series of twisting back streets that took us deep into the city's oldest neighborhoods. I could feel myself being watched by scores of dark, suspicious eyes as we hurried through the narrow alleys. I glanced skyward. Although my view was hampered by a Jacob's ladder of laundry lines, I could see the moon of Islam hovering over Christendom's city.
The sensitive led me to an ancient, crumbling villa with an overgrown garden. The ground floor was deserted of life and furniture, but the door to its cellar stood open. The young man hurried down the stairs without bothering to see if I was following.
The basement had a dirt floor and smelled strongly of mildew. The only light came from a flickering candle jutting from a Chianti bottle perched atop a card table. The card table was situated against the far wall, alongside a small, narrow oaken door with old-fashioned hinges. Sitting behind the table was a huge figure dressed in the hooded robes of a monk.
The monk did not see us enter for his head was lowered, as if in prayer. The motion of his right arm, however, was far from sacred.
The sensitive snarled something in Italian and the monk pulled his hand free of his cassock. Pangloss's messenger made a withering remark, then gestured first to me, then to the door.
The monk got to his feet, the peak of his hood brushing the low ceiling. I bit my tongue to keep from gasping aloud, my heart banging against my ribs like a hammer. Whatever his religious beliefs and vices might be, it was obvious the monk who stood guard in that empty cellar was not human.
The ogre's lambent eyes glowered from under beetling brows, his nose wide and flat like a gorilla's. His jaw jutted strangely, as if the lower mandible did not match the rest of his skull. The skin was coarse and large-pored, with a grayish complexion that made him look like he needed a good dusting. He was massively built, his hands large enough to conceal a cured ham in each palm. I could tell he was bald underneath the hood he wore, and I caught a brief glimpse of pointed ears set flush against his head. The folds of his vestments camouflaged his twisted physique, although it accentuated the unnatural width of his shoulders.
The ogre studied me warily, then spoke to the sensitive, his voice a bass rumble that sounded like rocks being ground together; I saw rows of sharp, inward-curving teeth, like little Saracen blades, set in pink gums. While they were occupied, I looked at the book the ogre had left open on the table. It was a volume of nursery rhymes, lavishly illustrated with pictures of plump, apple-cheeked children dressed in sailor suits and pinafores jumping candlesticks, fetching pails of water, and going to bed with one shoe on. My gorge began to rise and I quickly averted my gaze. The ogre fondness for veal is well-known, but it seemed this one liked playing with his food.
The ogre monk produced an antique key fashioned of iron and unlocked the worm-scored door. The sensitive had to stoop in order to cross the threshold and I nearly banged my head on the lintel. The ogre grunted noncommittally and locked the door behind us.
I found myself in a narrow, sloping passageway lit by a string of low-wattage bulbs attached to the roof of the tunnel.
Most of the catacombs are located near the Appian Way, in what had once been the farthest reaches of the city. I was not aware of such extensive catacombs in that particular section of Rome.
We passed row upon row of loculi, the narrow shelf graves cut in the soft stone that house the bones of the poor. The surrounding rock formations were porous and there was little moisture found in the catacombs, the end result being that even the oldest bodies were surprisingly well-preserved. The dead, dressed in the remains of their winding-sheets, watched with empty sockets as we traveled deeper into their realm.
After walking for a half-hour and descending three levels, the corridor emptied into a cubiculum, one of the larger and more elaborate burial chambers reserved for the wealthy dead.
I stepped in the vaulted chamber, staring at its grisly decor. The cubiculum had been turned into a shrine of some kind, although I had a hard time imagining who might be so desperate as to seek solace in such a place.
The far wall was studded, from floor to ceiling, with human skulls embedded in its mortar. The skulls—all of them missing their lower mandibles—were stacked one atop another. The heads of adult males rested, upper plate to crown, alongside those of women and the unfinished craniums of infants.
The skulls surrounded a reliquary recessed into the wall. The reliquary's interior was composed of thousands upon thousands of painted tibia, finger and toe bones fitted into a gruesome mosaic. Although the colors had faded over the centuries, I could still make out the figures of a man and a woman, one hand lifted in greeting while the other hid their genitals. A withered, mummified arm—whole from the shoulder—rested in the shrine, apparently fixed to the shelf by a large metal bolt in its palm. I was uncertain whether the relic was an obscure saint or an unlucky pilgrim.
Chandeliers made from bones and wire hung from the ceilings. Candles burned in upside-down skulls, casting warped shadows throughout the burial vault.
The walls that weren't dedicated to the skull shrine were pocketed with larger versions of the shelf graves the poor had been unceremoniously dumped in, resembling bizarre multiple built-in bunk beds.
Some of the dead holy men clutched the rusted remains of swords, while others fingered rosaries. I wondered if they were there to keep the occupants of the catacombs from being molested or escaping. Most of the dead sentinels possessed enough skin to cover their bones, although it was as stiff and yellow as parchment. Some seemed to laugh, others to cry, their black tongues exposed between toothless jaws. The ones who still had their faces were the worst; their lips twisted into parodies of a kiss.
One of the dead things stepped forward and fit an ebony cigarette holder between his grinning jaws.
"Miss Blue. Delighted you could make it."
My vision wavered and the walking corpse became Dr. Pangloss, international scholar and bon vivant. Although he was dressed in the latest Italian fashion, his eyes obscured by Mastroianni-style sunglasses, he looked perfectly at home among the inhabitants of the catacombs.
The sensitive blurted something in Italian, his manner anxious. He dry-washed his hands, watching Pangloss expectantly.
"Yes, I can see that she's here," the vampire snapped in English. He said something more in Italian, then reached inside his breast pocket, producing a small packet of white powder.
The sensitive snatched the heroin from the vampire's hand, scurrying into the shadows.
"You must forgive Cesare," apologized Pangloss. "He is a telepath with no control over what he receives. Imagine having a radio in your head that you are helpless to turn off. He depends on me to provide him with the means to escape the voices, the poor lad."
"How humanitarian."
Pangloss arched an eyebrow. "Yes, isn't it." He brushed past me to perch on the edge of a sarcophagus. "This place"—he indicated our surroundings with a languid wave of the hand—"was forgotten by the Christians after the eighth century, anno domini, and has yet to be rediscovered by the human world. Pretenders, however, never forget. These catacombs are held sacred by the Pretending races. It is one of the few locations where we can meet without fear of vendetta. It is a neutral territory, so to speak. You need not fear violence from me while we are here. I trust I can expect the same from you?"
Sunglasses After Dark Page 13
