Sunglasses After Dark

by Nancy A. Collins

  I nodded. Even though Pangloss was a monster that preyed on the weak and helpless, I had no reason to doubt his manners.

  "Were you surprised to hear from me? Do say yes, it would flatter me so."

  "Yes. I admit I was surprised. How did you know where I would be?"

  "Do you think I would waltz away from our last encounter without bothering to keep myself informed as to your whereabouts? I know many things about you, my dear. I know you've taken up with that deluded old fool, and I know all about your 'hunting trips.' Who are you warring against?"

  "What makes you think—"

  "You must be warring against someone. Who is your brood master?"

  "I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

  "Surely you're not that ignorant! Who is responsible for you?"

  "He called himself Sir Morgan."

  Pangloss's mocking smile diminished. "You're operating under Morgan's orders?"

  "His orders!" I didn't bother to restrain my burst of derisive laughter. "I'm looking to kill the motherfucker!"

  Pangloss looked genuinely perplexed. He toyed with his cigarette holder and stared at his shoes. His voice was distant and detached, as if he was thinking aloud. "Morgan… I should have pegged you as one of his gets. All that anger and hate boiling away inside… I'm surprised. He must be getting forgetful in his old age. Foolish of him, really. Seeding a specimen like you…"He saw the confused look on my face, and the sardonic smile returned.

  "What you must understand, my dear, is that we vampires are a prolific race. Like the Greek gods of Olympus, where falls our seed there is life. Or unlife. Every human we drain will rise again. Every schoolboy knows that. And since it wouldn't do to have too many undead running loose, we take matters into our own hands." He pantomimed wringing the neck of a chicken. "Most of us take birth control very seriously. That is not to say I don't have a brood of my own. You're looking confused again. Don't you know anything about… No, I guess you wouldn't.

  "Anyway, every Noble has a brood, those vampires who owe their existence to him. You see, when Morgan took your blood he left some of himself behind"—remaking you in his own image, shall we say? However, it is the strength of your will that decides if you will become a Noble. And we are usually very careful in our choice of prey. It wouldn't do to pick a victim who possesses a powerful will."

  "Who needs the competition?"

  "Correct! You do catch on quickly. The size and quality of a Noble's brood determines his or her social status. Don't look so surprised, child. Our lives are long. What else is there to fill them besides intrigue?

  "There are periodic outbreaks of brood war, where rival nobles command their gets to attack one another in an attempt to rise in the social ranks. That is why we prefer to prey on humans with weak wills; they make compliant gets."

  "Are you saying Morgan is my father?"

  "In a way, yes. That is why I thought you were under orders. But I can see that you are something of a rogue, by our standards. It takes a vampire decades, if not centuries, to break free of his brood master and start thinking for himself. I've only had it happen to me once before. You see, my dear, Morgan was once one of my gets. I guess you could say I'm your grandfather."

  "I'd rather not."

  "Sarcasm suits you, my dear. Try to cultivate it, But this does put a new face on things. You see, your little 'hunting trips' have not gone unnoticed. I have remained silent up to now because it suited my purpose. You have, unwittingly, kindled a brood war between two highly placed nobles. Each has accused the other of participating in hostilities without a formal declaration of war. If things go any further, the entire pecking order will be restructured."

  "And you want me to stop?"

  "Nonsense, my dear! What made you think such a thing? No, feel free to continue what you're doing. By all means, be my guest! You see, my charming young one, by Noble standards I am quite puny. I don't even have a real title. I abhor blatant game playing. I find it so debasing. No, I prefer biding my time, waiting for those brash fools above me to tear each other apart. My betters underestimate me, simply because I prefer to feast on lighter fare.

  "I possess a discerning palate, my dear. I find rage, pain, and fear far too overpowering. They lack subtlety. Where's the finesse in leeching off a Ku Klux Klan rally? While these emotions are, unquestionably, very potent, they lack focus. That is why I prefer the petty jealousies and backbiting found among art movements and intellectual societies. Shattered friendships, bitter denouements, ruined marriages, stormy personal relationships… Ahhh!" He smiled knowingly, like a chef reciting the ingredients for a prize-winning recipe.

  "I've sampled them all, mind you, and I must say that the best still remains a toss-up between the modernists and the fin-de-siècle school. On one hand you had Pound, Picasso, Modigliani, and Stein, but then there's Beardsley and Wilde. Although I must admit the Pre-Raphaelites were a tasty lot—Rossetti in particular, although his sister had her good points." Pangloss smacked his lips and rubbed his palms together, as if he was a wine connoisseur discussing his favorite vintage. "But I digress. When I sent Cesare looking for you, I'd originally planned to discover which Noble you were working for and plan my strategies accordingly. But now that I know that you're a free agent, I can offer you something far more profitable; I am willing to take you on as my pupil, seeing how grossly ignorant you are of the basic facts of unlife. You'll never learn anything from that doddering old fool. You need me, my dear, if you wish to survive for long in the Real World."

  "I have the Aegrisomnia."

  Pangloss snorted. "Ah, yes, Ghilardi's holy writ. While it may prove useful now and again, I'm sure you've noticed that it's far from complete. Ghilardi knows nothing of its true origins. Its author was a brilliant fellow by the name of Palinurus. Lived in the thirteenth century, if I remember correctly. He composed the original text and illustrations while afflicted with a strange fever of the brain, dying a few days after its completion. Come now, do you suppose we'd allow something like that to fall into Ghilardi's hands if it was of any real use? It suits our purposes that he be ridiculed as a member of the lunatic fringe. We have long believed the best hiding place is directly under the human nose.

  "There is so much I could show you, if only you'd put aside this irrational hatred of our species. You deny what you are by destroying that which is like you. It's a futile gesture, my dear. You seem to think that being human is something exalted, something to be proud of. As the years pass, you'll see them for what they really are: myopic little beasts intent on destroying their world. Why, if it wasn't for us, the human race would have nuked itself out of existence nearly thirty years ago."

  "You mean the fleas are keeping the dog alive?"

  "If that's how you choose to see it. Humans are little more than cattle in a mad race to the slaughterhouse, and they don't care who they stampede along with them! Must we stand by and watch as they destroy both their world and the Real one?"

  "You make it sound so noble and self-effacing. I thought you enjoyed human pain and suffering?"

  "That is true, in most cases. But where is the percentage in killing off the entire human race, just for the sake of a good dinner? Don't be naive. There is no atrocity mankind has perpetrated on itself that was the direct result of a Pretender command. In fact, up until this century we have remained fairly passive. It wasn't until humans stumbled across a means of destroying themselves en masse and forever that we felt compelled to intervene."

  "I'm having difficulty picturing you as a protector of the human race."

  Pangloss shrugged. " 'Husbander' would be a better word. Would a farmer stand idly by and watch his herd die of hoof-and-mouth? No! It is in our best interests that the human race continue. Of course, that doesn't mean their future will be a pleasant one. You're avoiding answering my proposal. Will you join me?"

  "And what do you expect from me in exchange for learning at your feet?"

  "What you're already doing."

>   "Except that I leave your gets alone."

  "Precisely. Think about it, my dear. I'm offering you a chance for a title. You could become a marchesa, perhaps even a duchess!"

  "You might as well bribe me with Monopoly money."

  A look of incomprehension flickered across Pangloss's face. It was unnatural for a Noble to turn down a chance at advancing in social position. "Extraordinary," he murmured. "I can lead you to Morgan."

  My heart jumped at the idea and I began to sweat. It was tempting… very tempting. There was nothing I wanted more than the opportunity to tear Morgan to shreds with my bare hands. And Pangloss was offering to take me to him. If…

  The Other was eager to accept his invitation. You'd be among your own kind. You wouldn't have to worry about being on the outside, of being a freak. You would be accepted for what you are.

  I looked at Pangloss, dressed in his fancy silk shirt and fashionable trousers. I looked at his finely manicured hands and carefully coiffured hair. I looked at him and saw a wizened, mummified dead man with no lips and skin the color of rancid tallow.

  Among your own kind…

  "Go to hell."

  "My child, most of my closest friends are from there." Pangloss sighed. "I'd hoped you would be cooperative, but I can see there is too much of Morgan in you. Very well. I'll have Cesare escort you back the way you came." He called for the sensitive. "Cesare!" There was no response. "Cesare!" Pangloss's shout rattled the bones of the forgotten dead.

  Cursing under his breath, Pangloss brushed past me to investigate the corner where his flunky had crawled to do his fix.

  Cesare squatted on his haunches, propped against one of the lower death shelves. The candle and spoon he'd used to cook his fix lay at his feet, along with a spilled flask of mineral water. The candle had burned itself out, snuffed by a pool of its own wax. The bottom of the spoon was black with carbon from the flame. The rubber tubing was still knotted above the youth's elbow, the empty syringe dangling from his forearm by its needle. Vomit dripped slowly from the corner of his mouth.

  "I'm afraid that was a little too pure for the poor boy. Humans are so fragile." Pangloss sounded like a housewife trying to estimate the correct patent medicine dosage for the family pet.

  I turned away from the tableau; the sight of a fresh corpse among the ancient dead was oddly disconcerting. There would be no more voices for Cesare. A chill worked its way through my body; the youth had died while Pangloss discoursed on Pretender sociology. Had he known all along that the heroin he'd given his servant was uncut? The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to be free of the subterranean maze of vaults and dead things.

  "Bother. I guess this means I must escort you back myself," sniffed Pangloss, heading toward one of the narrow passageways that opened onto the cubiculum.

  "Wait! What about him?" I pointed to Cesare's body, crouched in a rough semblance of devotion.

  Pangloss glanced around the burial chamber, then shrugged. "He's in good company."

  The passageway was close and dark and smelled of dust and cobwebs. Pangloss walked just ahead of me, keeping up a constant chatter about the foibles and vices of famous dead people. I found being, in such close quarters with the leering vampire unpleasant, but I was dependent on him to lead me out of the catacombs.

  After we had been walking for some time, Pangloss stopped and turned to face me, his tone conversational.

  "Do you remember when I told you that the catacombs are sacred neutral ground? Well, we're no longer within its jurisdiction."

  The low-wattage bulbs strung along the ceiling suddenly surged, burning at three times their strength before bursting in a chain reaction of pops!

  Pangloss was on top of me, his fingers closing around my neck like steel bands. I could see his eyes, glowing like a rat's, in the pitch black as I drove my knife into the good doctor's chest. Pangloss howled as the silver blade sank deep into his flesh and the surrounding dead trembled at the sound. I slashed again, but Pangloss was gone.

  I got to my feet, panting and shuddering like a winded racehorse. There was blood on my shoulder. I'd been bitten. I heard something that sounded like a cat in heat, shrieking and cursing from one of the myriad galleries that extended from the main corridor. I must have wounded Pangloss more than I thought. Holding my knife at the ready, I proceeded through the catacombs, following the lightbulb shards. I felt like Hansel or Gretel, following the trail of "bread crusts after the evil stepmother left them in the woods to starve. I thought about the ogre waiting on the other side of the door and began to giggle.

  I was alternately freezing and sweating; my joints ached horribly and my head felt like it was coming apart at the seams. Had Pangloss infected me with some kind of poison? I remembered what he'd said about vampires injecting part of themselves into their victims. Maybe the Morgan inside of me was battling with Pangloss for possession. I had a vision of them locked in mortal combat: deep within my stomach, aristocratic jet-setter versus effete intellectual.

  I don't know how long I wandered the catacombs in a delirious stupor, but I managed to stay in the right passageway. I stared at the heavy door for several minutes before recognizing it as the end of my journey. The hinges were on the outside and there was no handle on the inside, only a keyhole.

  Beyond caring whether the ogre heard me, I used my knife to pick the lock from my side of the door. It wasn't very difficult; the door was very old and the locking mechanism crude by today's standards.

  I opened the door slowly, knowing at any minute the ogre would reach out and snare me by my hair. I experienced a vivid image of myself being held aloft by my ankles and lowered, headfirst, into the creature's waiting jaws. I shook off the vision and peeked into the basement, only to find it empty. The ogre's place beside the door stood deserted.

  Relieved, but still cautious, I pushed open the door and entered the basement. Judging by the light angling through the windows set at ground level, it was late afternoon. I hurried up the stairs, unmindful of their creaks and groans. I had to get out of there before the ogre came back.

  I was on the deserted first floor, at the foot of the crumbling remains of a curved staircase, when I caught sight of the open door at the top of the stairs. It had been closed when Cesare first escorted me through the old villa. Even though I was weakened by fever and my bones felt like they had been hollowed out and filled with lead, something in me had to investigate the room at the top of the stairs.

  I was being dragged up the stairs by a force I was helpless to resist or comprehend, like the toy skaters that pirouette atop their mirror lakes. I did not want to see what was in the room. I wanted to escape the villa and its monstrous guard, but I mounted the stairs one by one, my eyes focused on the half-open door.

  Back when the villa was alive, the room had been a nursery. It was light and airy and I could still make out the fairy-tale characters that decorated the molding near the ceiling. There was no furniture except for a soiled mattress in one corner covered with filthy blankets. The room smelled like a lion's cage. There were urine stains on the wall at the height of a man's head.

  There were toys scattered throughout the nursery, some new, others antique, all of them broken. An Edwardian rocking horse, its back broken and saddle askew, stared at me from the gathering shadows.

  I crossed the threshold, stepping across a battalion of painted lead soldiers bent into clothespins. The walls near the ogre's bed were decorated with illustrations torn from children's books. My foot nudged something. It was a large Raggedy Ann doll, its red yarn hair askew and missing one shoe-button eye. Stuffing dribbled from the gaping hole between its candy-striped legs. Grunting in disgust, I turned to leave the monster's boudoir when I stumbled. I looked down and saw what looked to be the dislocated arm of a baby doll. Then I saw the knob of bone that had once fit into the shoulder socket. No. Not a doll.

  I vomited loudly and copiously, ridding myself of Pangloss's contagion. I was so centered on my purging I didn't hear t
he monster come home. There was something like a cross between a panther's snarl and the shriek of a bat from downstairs, then the villa began to shake as the ogre stormed up the stairs.

  The door flew open, smashing into the wall so hard it sagged on its hinges. The ogre filled the threshold, his monk's hood pushed back to reveal his hideous, inhuman face. He glared at me, his gorilloid nostrils flaring, and a dim flicker of recognition sparked deep within his eyes. Then he charged, hands outstretched, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  I sidestepped five hundred pounds of enraged ogre as he crashed into the nursery wall hard enough to shake the house. Rotting plaster fell from the ceiling and a huge crack marked where he'd collided with the wall. The ogre spat out a curved tooth, ignoring the trickle of blood seeping from his nose.

  There was no way I could go toe to toe with such a monster. I wasn't even sure if ogres had weak spots. My back was to a double casement that faced the back of the house. Without bothering to see where I might be landing, I smashed through the windows and plummeted into the unknown.

  I came to in a nearby alley with a broken arm and some busted ribs. I'd landed in the overgrown garden attached to the villa and somehow succeeded in scaling the wall before the ogre located me. I still felt like shit and it took several days to fully recover from the effects of Pangloss's bite. At one time I distinctly heard him talking to me inside my head, telling me to join him. But it might have been an auditory hallucination.

  I returned to Geneva, but I could not bring myself to tell Ghilardi of my encounter with Pangloss and the revelations he'd made. It would have ruined his book.

  1978: Ghilardi suffered a massive stroke while trying to find a publisher for his new work. I curtailed my hunting expeditions and remained in Geneva. When I first met Ghilardi, his eyes were blue fire, the color of sapphires held to the light. After the stroke they started to fade, growing paler every day. It was hard to watch him die like that, knowing the vitality he'd once had, but I was equally curious. I had never participated in a natural death before.