Sunglasses After Dark

by Nancy A. Collins

  He carefully rearranged his clothing. "I'm human, don't you worry. As if that bleedin' means anything. I know some things. I know yer not human, but y'ain't one of them, either."

  "You… you can see them? You see the Real World?"

  "If that's what y'call it… Yeah, I see shit. Used t'think me mum was balmy, rattlin' on about th' old lady down th' row bein' a werewolf. Until I started seein' things, too." He grinned, revealing National Health teeth.

  I didn't like standing in the open discussing the Real World, and I especially didn't like the leering youth who'd come out of nowhere, claiming to know my secrets. The Other whispered that there was a quick and bloody solution to my problem.

  Fear flickered across his face, only to be replaced by a crafty grin. "Yer lookin' t'kill them beasties, ain'tcha? I mean, th' very sight of 'em makes you want to heave, right? But y' got way too much mojo, luv. They can spot y' half a mile off. See?" He produced a small pocket mirror from inside his jacket and held it so I could glimpse my reflection. I'd avoided looking in mirrors ever since the night my reflection had taken a life of its own. I realized it'd been a mistake.

  I was surrounded by a crimson nimbus that strobed and pulsed with my heartbeat. I looked like an Eastern Orthodox saint. "That's why th' minute you show yer lovely face, they split. What you need is a Judas goat, see? Someone t' lure 'em away and set it up so's you could snuff 'em easy, eh?"

  "Go on. What would you get out of this? Besides money?"

  He grinned and I was suddenly aware that he was an extraordinarily handsome man. "Y' got a good head f' business, luv. First rate. Let's just say I'm in th' market for a wee bit of protection. There's this bloke—couple of them, really—that's hot for me. Think I burned 'em on a business deal. They're wrong, of course."

  "Of course," I echoed, retracing my steps out of the mews. My companion fell in beside me, still talking.

  "I've checked y' out. Yer good. Real good. So what d' ya say, luv?"

  "My name is not luv."

  "Fair enough, luv. So what's it gonna be? We gotta deal?"

  "What's your name?"

  He came to a stop and scowled, his eyes fixed on something in the fog.

  "Bloody hell!" He turned to flee back into the mews. The toughs emerged from the fog, as swift and silent as sharks. They were husky skinheads, dressed in the tatters of American denim jackets and leather pants. Their wrists bristled with chrome-studded black leather.

  "Y'ain't gettin' away from us this time, y' lit'l soddin' queer," growled one of the skinheads as he snagged a handful of lizard-green jacket. "Stig, take care of th' bird."

  "Like hell you will!" I grabbed the one called Stig, twisting his arm in a way it was not meant to go. His scream revealed him to be younger than he looked.

  The first punk was pounding my newfound partner's head into the pavement. Since he didn't have any hair, I grabbed his ears. One of them came off in my hand; just don't make 'em like they used to, I guess.

  Blood leaked from the sensitive's nostrils and his left eye was swollen shut. I lifted him in a fireman's carry and headed for my digs at a dead run. I could hear the shrill cry of a bobby's whistle from somewhere close by.

  "Now, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, what's your name?"

  "Geoffrey Chastain… Look, call me Chaz, okay?"

  The seven years I spent in the company of Chaz, waiting for Morgan to resurface, were… educational. I got to know every lowlife dive and sleazy after-hours club in the kingdoms, associating with the trashiest bastards ever to draw the dole. Don't get me wrong; I learned a lot from Chaz.

  Although his telepathic abilities weren't up to Pretender standards, he'd mastered them to an amazing degree. He knew how to dampen his reception so he wouldn't be "on" tweaty-four hours a day, and claimed that half the schizophrenics walking around complaining of "voices" in their heads were sensitives unable to turn down the volume. He also knew how to shield himself from other sensitives. Bright boy. A complete and utter prick, but still a bright boy. He was my only friend.

  I hadn't realized how much I missed having someone to talk to, someone I didn't have to Pretend with. Chaz was my friend and confidant—and, at times, my lover.

  He peddled dope on the side—"I know what you need" was his favorite come-on with the junkies—without fear of reprisals from disgruntled customers or rival dealers. Word on the street had it that Chaz was under the protection of someone—or something—mean enough to shit plutonium.

  He relied on me to save his ass whenever he got in trouble, which proved to be a regular occurrence. In '83 he nearly got us both killed, thanks to his involvement with a Scottish gangster named Edward "Thick Eddie" Magruder.

  Thick Eddie was famous for his brutality and intolerance of betrayal. Chaz had skimmed several hundred quid worth of cocaine during a deal he'd set up for the mob boss, and Thick Eddie wasn't about to let Chaz go around bragging about it.

  Thick Eddie sent the prerequisite goons around to rough up Chaz. They were large, squarish men dressed in cheap suits. I had no intention of letting Chaz be hurt, but I'd grown somewhat weary of his reliance on me. Chaz's tendency toward self-destruction showed in his taste for rough trade and the habit of making enemies of the wrong people. So I took my time before rescuing my Judas goat from Magruder's agents.

  Since Magruder had a legitimate grievance, I let his men off easy with a broken arm apiece. Magruder didn't see it that way and within twenty-four hours there were two more chunks in cheap suits coming around Chaz's digs, only this time they were armed.

  One of the hit men ended up in the hospital with a fractured skull, two broken arms, and a ruptured spleen. The second was dumped in front of Magruder's "legitimate" business, which happened to be wholesale carpeting. I should say the Other dumped the body there, for she was the one who killed him.

  I remember nothing of my second confrontation with Thick Eddie's men, beyond one of the squarish men pulling his gun on me. I regained my senses hours later, only to find myself miles from where I last remembered being, soaked in blood and aching from broken bones and internal injuries. My right shoulder throbbed fiercely, meaning I'd taken a bullet.

  I found Chaz at my flat. He'd fled his own digs when Thick Eddie's men jumped us the night before.

  We both knew Magruder wasn't the type who'd take kindly to having his employees murdered. I suggested that Chaz give Thick Eddie restitution for the cocaine he'd stolen. Chaz wasn't thrilled with the idea, but finally agreed to do it under the condition that I accompany him.

  Using underworld channels, Chaz sent his proposal to Thick Eddie, stating that he would meet him if he came alone. Magruder refused to meet anyone, including his own mother, alone, so Chaz grudgingly agreed to the presence of a "personal bodyguard."

  The rendezvous point was an old warehouse facing the Thames. The place stank of dead fish and less wholesome flotsam. Magruder was already there by the time we arrived. He sat on an old shipping crate, smoking a smelly cigar and reading the evening paper. The headline read boy trapped in refrigerator eats own foot.

  Thick Eddie glanced over the top of the paper at us, chewing his cigar speculatively. "I dinna believe th' lads a' first, when they told me 'twas a lassie. Me lads are brave 'uns. Not th kind t' run scared an' tell wild tales, they are." Magruder fixed his eyes on me. "Then, things 'tain't always what they seem, eh? Me gran, she were alms sayin' that."

  Of all the people in the United Kingdom he could choose from, Chaz would have to pick a Pretender crime boss to piss off! Actually, Thick Eddie was only part Pretender. Although his ogrish heritage was evident in his heavyset frame and coarse features, he was, essentially, human.

  "Why didn't you tell me Magruder was part ogre?" I hissed into Chaz's ear.

  "I didn't know! I've never seen him in person before." For once I had no reason not to believe Chaz's excuse.

  Chaz cleared his throat and stepped forward. "I, uh, got yer money right here, Eddie." He hoisted a small overnig
ht bag as proof. "I hope yer'll, uh, see fit t' let bygones be, uh, bygones, eh? It were all a misunderstandin'."

  Thick Eddie stared at the proffered bag, his heavy-lidded eyes resembling those of a basking lizard. "Yew know I make more'n that every hour, lad. 'Tain't th' money that's important. Nay, 'tis th' principle o' th' thing. If I let yew go now, every punk in London'll be thinkin' he can pull a fast'un on Eddie Magruder. That's why I decided t' call in some help." Magruder motioned with his cigar, and a chunk of shadow separated itself from the darkness of the warehouse. "I'd like yew t' meet me cousin, Jo'die."

  The ogre towered over his mongrel kinsman. Despite the differences in their heights and builds, there was a marked family resemblance. The ogre growled something in his native tongue and Magruder lifted an eyebrow.

  "Aye, now? It seems Jo'die finds yer lady friend a wee bit familiar."

  The ogre pushed the brim of his hat back with a taloned finger the size of a small sausage, his brow furrowed by unaccustomed brainwork. It was the ogre monk.

  "Fuck this!" shrilled Chaz, hurling the bag of money at Magruder and fleeing in the direction of the exit.

  The ogre roared like a lion and bounded after Chaz. It only took three strides of his long, oaklike legs for Jordie to catch up.

  Chaz shrieked as the ogre grabbed him by the back of the neck, dangling him like a puppy.

  "I'd see aboot that, if I were yew, lass," suggested Thick Eddie as he bent to retrieve the bag Chaz had abandoned. "Jo'die may just be a wee bit peckish right now."

  Cursing the ogre and the northern climes that produced such changeling bastards as Thick Eddie Magruder, I sprinted to Chaz's rescue.

  Jordie had reversed his grip and was now holding Chaz by his ankles. I slammed into the ogre just as he began to lift his apelike arms. Ogres like to eat their prey headfirst. I don't know why, they just do. Jordie let go of Chaz and swatted me with a hand the size of a telephone directory. Chaz didn't waste any time getting to his feet and leaving me alone with Magruder's cousin. Jordie, seeing his prey making its getaway, moved to follow.

  "Jordie!" The ogre's huge, hairless head swung toward me, momentarily distracted from its victim. "Remember me, Jordie? In Rome? At the villa?"

  I could almost hear the cogs turning in the bullet-shaped head as his brows furrowed and unfurrowed. Comprehension dawned in his orangish-brown eyes, and his lips pulled back to expose a mouthful of knives.

  I leapt to meet his charge, moving inside his reach in order to drive my knife deep into his side. The blade tore through the ogre's outer garments. However, it slid along the monster's ribs as if his skin were made of rubber. Not even a scratch!

  Jordie bellowed his hunting cry, his throat sacs swelling like a howler monkey's. He locked me in a simian embrace, and began to squeeze. His brutish face was inches from mine as he crushed my bones. Black sunbursts filled my eyesight as the ogre laughed, exhaling a fetid breath that was like standing downwind of a slaughterhouse on a hot August day.

  I was still clutching my knife, although my arm was pinned to my side. I squirmed frantically in his grip, trying to work my knife hand free. This seemed to amuse and excite the ogre, and he licked my face with a long, rasplike tongue. I received an explicit mental image of myself being ravaged, then devoured. He was still trying to decide whether to kill me before or after the rape.

  I voiced my disgust with ogrish courting techniques by wrenching my arm free and driving my switchblade to the hilt in his right ear. It slid in beautifully, like they were made for each other.

  The ogre yowled, dropping me in favor of clawing at the weapon embedded in his brain. I assessed my damage: only a few broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Jordie crashed about, flailing his arms and squealing like a frightened sow before finally collapsing faceforward, his cries halted in midsqueal. Blood seeped from his nose, mouth, and ear. I retrieved my blade, making sure to give it an extra twist, just in case, and hurried away before Thick Eddie came looking for his kin.

  Luckily, Eddie Magruder didn't have time to send for any more of his family. For reasons unknown, his car mysteriously exploded two days after our "business transaction" in the warehouse. The wholesale carpeting business can be very cutthroat at times.

  That's funny. I'm having trouble visualizing Chaz. The face is there, but it's blurred, like an old movie that's jumped its sprockets. Everything's jerky…

  I remember the last vampire I killed in London. Chaz went to a gay bar in one of the seedier districts. There were always plenty of vampires to be found in the bars, not to mention vargr and incubi. True predators, they found those living on the periphery of human society the perfect victims: homosexuals, prostitutes, junkies, and the homeless make up the Pretenders' staple diet.

  Chaz had picked up a handsome young man dressed in exquisitely pressed chinos with neatly rolled cuffs and a tight-fitting white T-shirt. Chaz led the vampire into an abandoned house; the place was partially demolished and there was a gaping hole where the first-floor ceiling should have been. I crouched upstairs, watching my Judas goat as he lured the sacrificial victim deeper into the trap.

  I jumped, savoring the split second of free-fall before I crashed on top of the startled vampire. I pinned him to the floor, straddling his chest.

  He was a strong one, and as vicious as a rutting tiger. I managed to stick him once, twice. Then he rolled over and I saw his face for the first time. I froze, the knife poised for the killing thrust.

  Chaz was shrilling, "Kill him! Kill him! Fer Chrissakes, kill him!" But I couldn't. I was paralysed. I knew the bastard!

  The vampire writhed under me, spitting and clawing like a rabid cat, but I couldn't drive the blade home. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been behind the wheel of a Rolls Royce the color of smoke, dressed in the livery of a chauffeur.

  "Where is he? Where is he?" I didn't recognize the voice as my own. I tasted bile and blood rising in my throat. My rage bordered on euphoria. "Where is he? I know you're one of his gets. I saw you with him!"

  The vampire twisted his head from side to side, babbling incoherently. My paralysis ended and I smashed my fist into his mouth. I didn't feel his fangs as they shredded my knuckles. His blood was thick and dark, like dirty motor oil. All I could see was his demonic leer as Denise beat on the glass partition in the back of the Rolls. I brought the switchblade across his face, laying his handsome features open to the bone.

  The vampire chauffeur screamed and put his hands to his ruined face, pushing me off his chest.

  Chaz was shouting at me to stop him before he escaped as the vampire staggered toward the front door.

  Blind in one eye, he tumbled down the front steps and landed on the street. There were viscous smears on the steps and his white shirt was the color of old ketchup. The vampire got to his feet, clinging to a nearby streetlight for support. He looked like a music-hall drunk.

  I charged out of the building, Chaz on my heels. I had every intention of dragging the thing back inside and finishing my interrogation, even if it meant skinning him layer by layer.

  The knife had sliced away the vampire's upper lip and left cheek, exposing his teeth and upper jaw. He looked like he was leering at me again. Maybe that's what made me lose control.

  The vampire raised his hand in a feeble attempt to deflect the next blow and said, "No…"

  Perhaps he was trying to tell me he didn't know Morgan's whereabouts. Maybe not. I'm no longer sure. I was beyond caring. I was in the backseat of a Rolls Royce with a chauffeur whose grin was impossibly sharp. The switchblade impaled his right eye, burying itself in the spongy softness of the frontal lobes, severing left brain from right. I made sure to twist the knife.

  The vampire slid off the blade and lay sprawled in the gutter under the streetlight. I felt as if I was emerging from heavy sedation. I was vaguely aware I was standing on a London sidewalk with a rapidly bloating corpse at my feet. Blanched faces watched me from behind the curtains of a dozen windows.

  Chaz tugged on my sle
eve, his voice urgent. "C'mon, Sonja! What's wrong with you? Cor, y' really fucked it this time!"

  That's how I returned to the land of my birth. The last time I was in America I'd been a pampered rich kid with her whole life laid out for her like a party frock draped across the foot of her bed. Now I wasn't even me anymore.

  Socialite, hooker, vampire hunter, and vampire—no one could accuse me of leading a dull life.

  Chaz came along at the last minute. Turned out to be a mistake. The scuzziest down-and-out dive on Skid Row was too wholesome for him. No sense of history.

  All he did was bitch about how much he missed the clubs in Soho. He was the one who brought Catherine Wheele to my attention.

  Shit! What's wrong? Everything's jumping and rolling like the picture on a cheap TV set. The weird part is that it's so familiar… like it's supposed to do that. I can't even think about Catherine Wheele without the signal trying to scramble.

  We control the horizontal. We control the vertical.

  Like fuck you do! What's going on here? Damnit, if this is your doing…

  Me? Why should I keep you from continuing your boring little monologue? I've only heard it every sleep for the past six months. "Poor pitiful me, I've become a big bad monster." Give me a break! No, as much as I'd love to change channels, I'm not the one behind your technical difficulties. You gotta dig deeper.

  Deeper?

  Just tell your story. You'll find out.

  Chaz showed me the article in a cheesy supermarket tabloid he'd brought home. It had Sister Catherine Wheele, dressed in a red-white-and-blue spangled jumpsuit, holding a microphone. Her makeup was running. A smaller photo was cropped and inserted into the lower right-hand corner. The photo was of Shirley Thorne, wife of industrialist Jacob Thorne and mother of missing heiress Denise Thorne.

  The article claimed Mrs. Thorne was funneling a small fortune into the Wheele ministry in an attempt to contact her long-lost daughter.

  I sent Chaz to scout out Wheele, to see if there was any truth to the rumors behind her being a wild talent. He was gone a long time. It's getting hard to think…