Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Hagerty! Get down from there before you bust your skull!”

  Claude started as Sonja’s voice cut through the cotton filled his head, the land for a moment he though Coach Morrison was yelling at him again. Chagrined, he lowered himself back down to the floor, his shoulders aching as if they’d been beaten with a broom handle.

  Once he was safely on the ground, she positioned herself before the bottom rung. “Just put your arms around my neck and hold on tight, okay?” she instructed.

  “But…”

  “Just do it,” she snarled.

  Claude grudgingly looped his arms around her neck, although he felt silly doing so. Here he was, a grown man, riding piggyback on a girl several inches shorter and at least a hundred-twenty pounds lighter than himself.

  Sonja bent her knees and jumped straight up, grabbing a rung fifteen feet above her head, and proceeded to climb the ladder as if she was merely carrying a ten-pound sack of potatoes in a backpack. Claude glanced down at the floor of the loft as it quickly receded beneath the soles of his shoes. Vertigo squirted bile through his esophagus, and he instinctively tightened his grip. Within seconds Sonja had reached the trapdoor set in the ceiling, and a rush of chill, smog-laced air struck him in the face. It felt wonderful.

  They emerged onto the roof of an old building located in what Claude recognized as the city’s warehouse district. It was early evening, judging from the stars overhead. The area was abandoned except for winos and junkies clustered around the down-and-out dives fronting the main traffic artery. Claude collapsed onto the tarpaper beach, staring up at the night sky. His head still ached and his clothes were too thin for the night air, but he didn’t care. He’d escaped the monster’s lair, if not the monster.

  He glanced at Sonja as she peered over the ledge into the alley below. Could she hear what he was thinking all the time? Probably not, or she’d have let him dash his brains out on the floor.

  “So what do we do now?” he asked. “Use the fire escape?”

  “That’s not how I operate,” she said with a shake of her head. “You never know who, or what, might be watching. Rule number one in my business is: Never let ‘em see where you go to ground. Rule number two is: Never use the front door. Besides, there’s no fire escape on this rat trap, anyway.”

  “Then how do you get down...?”

  “You don’t want to know. Just hold on tight, savvy?”

  Claude did as he was told. He realized he was sweating heavily despite the cool air. Sonja sprinted toward the ledge and jumped. Claude glimpsed empty space beneath his toes and, below that, a darkened alleyway full of garbage cans and broken bottles, before being jarred loose by the impact of their landing on the roof of the neighboring building. He lay sprawled on his back and stared up at the darkening sky for a long second, waiting for his heart to resume its beating.

  “Jesus! You could have at least warned, me, girl!”

  “Told you to hold tight, didn’t I?” she chided as she helped him to his feet.

  “Okay, what now?” he asked as he dusted himself off. “Do we rappel down the side of the building into the alley?”

  “You can take the stairs in this building, if you like. After that, you’re free to do whatever you wish. You can go home, if that’s what you really want, but I’m betting Wheele’s got her goons watching the place, in case you turn back up.”

  “What else can I do?” Claude sighed. “I don’t have a job anymore, and I’m lucky if there’s seventy-five bucks in my bank account. Where could I possibly afford to hide that these bastards can’t find me?”

  “Normally I’d be able to stake you enough money to get out of town and start a new life. But it turns out my ex drained my bank accounts while I was locked up. But I know someone who has plenty of money lying around; more than enough to make sure you get away from here.”

  “What about you?”

  She shrugged and smiled without showing her teeth. “I’ll hanging around for awhile. I’ve got payback to attend to.”

  “I think I’ll take you up on that offer to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “It shouldn’t be a problem. I just need to take care of a little business first, though.”

  “What kind of business?” Claude asked warily.

  “Family,” she replied.

  After everything that had recently happened to him, Claude found the menacing shadows and derelict storefronts of one of the worst neighborhoods in the city positively folksy. His surroundings might be potentially dangerous, but at least they were normal, as he understood the term.

  He walked a step or two behind his escort, who strode down the street with her hands jammed into the pockets of her leather jacket. She looked preoccupied, so he didn’t offer any small talk. Without saying a word, she swerved and headed down a dimly lit alley a platoon of marines would have had second thoughts about entering. Claude hung back for a second, warily eyeing the foul-smelling passage. Sonja did not miss a step, her boot heels measuring out a steady tap-tap-tap as she continued on her way. To her this was just another shortcut, nothing to be worried about. Claude hurried after her, breathing through his mouth in an attempt to keep the alley’s pungent aroma from overpowering him.

  It was so dark he almost collided into her before he realized she had come to a halt. She lifted a hand for silence and stood perfectly still, tilting her head to one side, like a robin listening for earthworms. She was holding something in her right hand, but Claude couldn’t make out what it was. Although he could not see or hear anything unusual, he was certain they weren’t alone.

  There came the sound of an empty bottle rolling across pavement and the scrape of a garbage can being pushed aside. Sonja shifted in the direction the noise, putting herself between Claude and whatever was in the darkness. There was a low hissing sound, like the laughter of snakes, as a pair of figures emerged from the shadows.

  The taller of the two was an African-American who stood about six feet tall, although his badly stooped shoulders made his exact height impossible to guess. He was extremely thin and his hairless head resembled a burnt-out light bulb. He was dressed in filthy castoffs and his feet were bare. His companion was considerably shorter, older, and hairier, with a snarled white mane the color of dirty ivory and a discolored beard that looked like it belonged on a goat.

  “Look what we got here, brother,” wheezed the stoop-shouldered wino, pointing a spidery finger at Claude and Sonja. “We got a trespasser.”

  “Tresssspasssser” agreed the goaty-looking wino, who appeared to be the source of the snake-laughter.

  “If you wanna come this way, sister, you gots to pay the toll,” the taller wino said with a grin that exposed pointed teeth. “Ain’t that right, Old Ned?”

  The goatish wino grinned, exposing equally sharp fangs in an otherwise toothless mouth. “Yessss. Toll.” Claude suddenly felt an overpowering need to piss his pants.

  “Cute,” Sonja said with a snort of derision. “Since when do vampires and revenants work together?”

  The taller of the two looked confused. “Don’t know what you mean by that, sister. Old Ned an’ me’s been together forever. We was partners before, an’ saw no reason to end such a bee-yoo-ti-ful friendship later, eh, Ned?” The vampire asked, regarding the bearded revenant with something close to affection.

  “Friennndssss,” echoed Old Ned.

  “Don’t see how you can kick, sister. By the looks of him, there’s more than enough to go ‘round.”

  Claude made a choking sound and took a step backward. Sonja quickly repositioned herself upon realizing Old Ned was trying to outflank them. There was the efficient click! of a spring-loaded mechanism and Claude saw the glint of twisted silver in her hand.

  The stoop-shouldered vampire shook his head sadly. “I was hoping you’d be more friendly, sister. Open to negotiation. Guess you’ll have to learn to share the hard way.”

  Claude tried to scream as Old Ned slammed into him, but no sound came out of his mouth. A sq
uealing rat wriggled out from under him as he fell amidst a collection of garbage cans and overflowing plastic trash bags. His reflexes from years of handling mental patients were the only thing that kept the goat-faced revenant from burying his fangs in his throat.

  Claude grabbed Old Ned’s thin neck and squeezed as hard as he could. The revenant’s face was inches from his own, its saliva dripping onto his face and eyelids. The undead bum stank of soured wine, dried feces, and rotten meat, and Claude did not want to greet eternity with that stench in his nostrils. Suddenly a feminine hand emerged from the darkness and grabbed a fistful of Old Ned’s greasy hair, yanking him free of Claude. Hagerty rolled out from under the struggling revenant in time to see Sonja’s silver blade slice the air.

  Old Ned’s body stood upright for a few seconds, the hands clawing at the spurting stump where its head used to be for a couple of seconds, before finally toppling into the surrounding garbage.

  Sonja held the revenant’s severed head aloft like a demented Diogenes, studying it with mixture of distaste and fascination. Old Ned’s eyes flicked back and forth, as if looking for direction from his companion. The mouth continued its ineffectual biting motions for a few more seconds until the brain registered its final death. Claude was reminded of rattlesnakes, and how they’re capable of delivering a deathblow even after decapitation. Then he blew his lunch all over the alley.

  “Damn revenants are as bad as Gila monsters,” Sonja muttered in the same tone of voice used by homeowners to complain about termites. “Still, that’s the first time I’ve seen ‘em work together like that. Revenant and vampire, that is. Pretenders are loners by nature. Unless one of them’s a Noble, it’s almost unheard of for them to team up. Good thing, too, or the human race would be confined to cattle pens by now.” She tossed Old Ned’s head, which was beginning to resemble an overripe cantaloupe, into a handy dumpster.

  The stoop-shouldered vampire lay sprawled in the garbage, his head twisted all the way around so that he was looking over his own shoulder.

  “He’s still alive,” Claude marveled, staring in sick fascination at the crippled vampire as its fingers wriggled like the legs of a dying spider.

  “So he is,” Sonja grunted.

  As she knelt to finish the vampire off, Claude saw its lips but could not hear what it said. Sonja rammed her switchblade into the base of the vampire’s skull in response. She then stood up and she aimed a kick at the head. It was like kicking a rotten pumpkin.

  “I ain’t your fuckin’sister!” she hissed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A lot of men Jacob Thorne’s age and station in life have their vices. Some drink too much; others are addicted to various white powders, while still others involve themselves in illicit love affairs with women young enough to be their granddaughters. Jacob Thorne’s addiction was work. That’s why he lived atop Thorne Tower.

  There were larger, grander homes salted across three continents, but Thorne never really felt comfortable at the villa on the Cote d’Azur or at the ski chalet in Aspen. What he liked most about the tower penthouse was that he could lock himself in his office and be immersed in the very heart of his empire, concentrating on mergers, takeovers, insider trading and the like, while his wife went quietly mad in her own quarters.

  He lay in their shared marital bed, listening to his wife mutter as she slept. She was taking more and more Xanax, but it didn’t seem blot out the dreams. Shirley had always been delicate. That was part of what had attracted him, all those years ago. She’d been the eldest daughter of a respected banking family, while he was an audacious young upstart, the son of Swedish parents who’d had their name ‘Americanized’ from Thorensen to Thorne by the officials at Ellis Island. It was just like the Hollywood versions of the American Dream said it would be. Shirley was four years his senior—which, at the time, was almost as scandalous as her marrying beneath herself—and it took three years before she conceived.

  Unable to sleep, he eased himself out of bed and glowered at the digital clock on the night table. He put on his robe and slippers and headed downstairs to his office. Maybe an hour or two of paperwork would take the edge off and allow him to finally get some shut-eye.

  Shirley’s pregnancy had been difficult, resulting in a dangerously premature baby. Thorne could still recall Denise’s earliest days. He remembered the feeling of frustration when he realized that no matter how much money he had, he was as powerless as some poor schmuck of a charity-ward father.

  He didn’t sleep the first week of his daughter’s life. All of his time was split between the board room and peering through the maternity ward’s plate-glass window, watching his newborn child in her incubator. She was as tiny, pink and fragile as a little bird. Thorne had been overwhelmed by a desire to protect her and make sure nothing bad ever happened to her. He watched the nurses’ every move, fearful they might prick his baby while changing her diapers.

  When Denise was finally allowed to come home, he scandalized his in-laws by refusing to hire a nurse for their grandchild. For the first six months of his daughter’s life he changed diapers, walked the floor, and administered three o’clock feedings, just like any other father would. He was proud of that. So was Shirley. Thorne cherished those memories, but he resented them as well, for they made the years since his daughter’s disappearance all the more empty. But at least he could forget what had become of Denise by submerging himself in his work. His wife, poor thing, did not have that option.

  Over the years Thorne had watched Shirley grow more and more obsessed with attempting to locate their daughter. After the private investigators ran dry, she began frequenting psychics, dowsers, spiritualists, and other sleazy con artists. By the time he decided it was time to step in and try to get professional help, it was too late: the Wheeles had their hooks in her. Thorne had hoped the faith healer’s sudden death would set his wife free, but he hadn’t counted on the widow. Catherine Wheele was a thousand times worse than her slime-ball husband ever thought of being.

  He chastised himself for letting the Wheele woman get him upset yet again. There was no point in worrying about that witch and her threats right now. He smiled to himself as he glimpsed the reassuring outlines of his office, familiar even in the dark. His hand brushed the light plate inside the door and the room’s details jumped out of the shadows.

  There was a man sitting in his chair.

  Thorne shook his head in order to clear it. The man remained seated in his green leather executive’s chair behind the mahogany desk. The man was large and resembled a football player gone to seed, and with close-cropped hair. He looked to be in his late thirties, as his blocky chin was covered in dark stubble flecked with gray. Thorne could plainly see that the intruder in his office had also been the recipient of a very bad, fairly recent beating.

  “Who are you and how the hell did you get in here?” Thorne snapped as he stepped into the room, too outraged by the intrusion to be frightened. It was the same instinct that had helped him amass millions of dollars over the years.

  “He’s with me, Mr. Thorne,” a feminine voice said from behind him. “And we got in here because I was gambling that you would keep the access code on the private elevators as a sort of keep-the-home-fires-burning gesture.”

  Thorne turned to see the Blue woman, dressed in a black leather jacket and mirrored sunglasses, step out from behind the door. He went pale, grabbing the edge of the desk in order to steady himself.

  “Oh, God ... no ...”

  She smiled, revealing her fangs. “Hello, Mr. Thorne.”

  The big man with the bruised face got up and helped a visibly shaken Thorne into the vacated chair.

  “You better fix Mr. Thorne a brandy and soda, Claude. The wet bar’s over there,” the Blue woman said, gesturing to a bookshelf in the corner. “I’ll close the door. I’d hate to have our little business meeting interrupted.”

  Thorne stared at the Blue woman with open fear and disgust. “She promised me you’d never escape,�
�� he growled.

  “You mean Catherine Wheele?” There was something in the woman’s voice that made her heavy-set companion look up from the bar.

  “Yes, her,” Thorne grunted, shaking his head. “That bitch. I don’t know who is worse, her or the Brit. They’ve both been blackmailing me.”

  “Well, you won’t be hearing from Chaz anymore,” she said sarcastically. “I just want to know—why did you have me locked away?”

  “I used to pray someone could prove Denise was dead,” Thorne said as he accepted the drink Claude handed him. “That way I could get it over with. Grieve and be done with it, you know? That’s a horrible thing to pray for, isn’t it? Proof of your only child’s death? I had my prayer answered, all right.” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “My daughter’s dead. But it was Wheele’s idea to stick you in the mental hospital, not mine. She wanted to make sure she had me on a short leash.” Thorne let his head drop into his hands, and suddenly he was no longer a self-made business tycoon, but just another tired old man. “I may have buried my Denise years ago, but my wife is another story. Wheele threatened to tell her about you if I didn’t meet her demands. If Shirley knew the truth about Denise, it would completely destroy her. I couldn’t allow that.”

  Something flickered across the Blue woman’s face, softening her features. She took a tentative step forward, as if to touch him. “Daddy,” she whispered.

  Thorne snapped back to attention, glaring at her from beneath steel-gray brows. “Don’t call me that! Never call me that again!” His hands trembled but his voice remained steady. “I didn’t believe Wheele, at first, when she told me about you. It seemed like nothing but a load of psychotic hogwash ...or so I thought. She showed me pictures, but pictures can be Photoshopped. Then she sent me the video.”