Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Jesus Christ, woman, there’s no way you can go up against that goon with just a knife!”

  She waved him silent, never taking her eyes off the hulking figure filling the doorway. “Keep quiet! I know what I’m doing!”

  Kief made a rumbling noise deep in his throat and stepped forward, sniffing the air like a hunting dog. He glanced at them suspiciously, his nostrils flaring, but did not offer to attack. Instead, his attention seemed fixed on Renfield’s dead body. Saliva dripping from his lower lip in thick ropes, Kief abruptly emitted a loud squealing sound, like that of a hog at a trough, and pounced on the corpse.

  Sonja motioned for him to head for the door, following after him, her eyes fixed on the drooling goon as he Palmer heard fabric rip as the giant tore at the dead man’s clothes like an eager opening a Christmas present.

  “What’s he doing’?” Palmer whispered.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Chapter Five

  Palmer sat on a bar stool, a glass of bourbon in his hand, and tried to piece together the insanity now he found himself mired in. He had always prided himself on his ability to adapt to adverse conditions. After all, he learned how to cope when his family kicked him out of the house at the tender age of seventeen, didn’t he? He’d survived three hellish months on an Alabama work gang, back when being a hitchhiker with weird-looking hair was a criminal offense. He’d watched friends unwilling to admit they were no longer as young as they used to be succumb to drugs and disease. There was no percentage in denying the inevitability of change. Evolve or die: he should have it tattooed on his forehead.

  He took another swallow, glancing over the rim of his drink at his savior. She sat on the stool next to him, scanning their surroundings to make sure they hadn’t been followed. Palmer was uncertain as to whether he trusted the mirror-eyed woman, but did not see he had any choice.

  “Is Pangloss really your grandfather?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “In a way. But if you’re asking if he is my biological grandfather? No, he is not.”

  “That what I thought,” Palmer grunted. “He’s nowhere near old enough to have a grandchild your age.”

  “Pangloss is at least fifteen hundred years old, Mr. Palmer.”

  “So I’m lousy at guessing ages.”

  “You seem rather calm, considering what you’ve just experienced.”

  “After talking to the dead, discovering I possess psychic powers and being brain-raped by a crazed telepath, being told my employer is a vampire is rather anticlimactic.”

  “You spoke with the dead?” she frowned.

  “Actually, it was more the other way around. Your old boyfriend is a real chatterbox.”

  “You saw Chaz?”

  Palmer nodded, watching her for signs of a reaction. If the news affected her in any way, it did not show in her demeanor.

  “And what, exactly, did he have to say?”

  “That I should avoid you like the plague and get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “It seems death has given him some smarts,” she said with a humorless laugh.

  “He also said you killed him.”

  “The dead don’t lie,” she replied. “I have been a murderer for a very long time, Mr. Palmer. Killing is a habit of mine. Chaz was my partner for some years. He was like you—a sensitive. He was a small-time hustler when I met him, rooking drug dealers and petty criminals. We clicked. It was good-for a while. Then there was trouble. Chaz ended up selling me out, even going so far as betraying me with a kiss—he always did have a flair for the theatrical. I ended up spending six months locked away in a madhouse because of him. I do not expect loyalty from humans, but treachery is another matter altogether. His death was not just, but it was fair.”

  “There was also a boy...” Palmer’s throat tightened at the memory of Jimmy Eichorn’s blood. “A boy with blue hair.”

  “Yes, I remember. He was one of the Blue Monkeys. I take it he is still alive?”

  “If you want to call it that.”

  She shrugged. “He possessed information, and I was, well, let’s just say I was in need at the time, and leave it at that.”

  “But he was only fifteen—” Palmer protested.

  “And already guilty of gang rape and second-degree murder,” Sonja countered. “Do not waste your sympathy on him, Mr. Palmer. Like I said, what I do is not just, but it is fair.”

  It was a couple hours before dawn when Sonja showed him to his room. She lived in a large attic apartment on the far end of Decatur Street, overlooking the French Market. The room’s furnishings consisted of a narrow bed and nothing else.

  “Sorry I can’t offer you posher accommodations, but I normally don’t entertain guests,” she explained. “But you’ll be safe here. I’ll be keeping guard to make sure Pangloss’s pet ogre hasn’t caught your scent and tracked you down again.”

  “Ogre?” Palmer said with a disbelieving laugh. “Is that what you call that thing?”

  “It certainly wasn’t a tooth fairy,” she replied drily. “Ogres are big and dumb and have some seriously nasty dietary habits. They could get away with eating children and looting villages back in the Dark Ages, but nowadays it tends to attract attention. That’s why most of them sign on as muscle for big shots like Pangloss. They serve as walking garbage disposals, taking care of their masters’ ‘empties’. This is how Renfield planned to make you ‘disappear’, if you haven’t figured that out by now.”

  “But why would Pangloss want to kill me?”

  “He doesn’t want you dead, Palmer,” Sonja replied. “That was Renfield’s goal, not Pangloss’. No, the Good Doctor wants you twisted.” Sonja replied. “For you to be of any use to him, he has to completely destroy your ego so that your needs and desires are focused on him. You must be willing to live-and die-for your master. Any vestige of human emotion, except those required by your master, is systematically erased. Obviously, Renfield was under orders to twist you, so you could be added to Pangloss’ stable of servants, so to speak. But he became jealous of you and rebelled. You’re lucky he wanted to kill you, or you’d be Pangloss’ mind-slave right now.”

  “Yeah. ‘Lucky’ was just the word I was looking for,” Palmer said sourly.

  Sonja peered out the window of her attic apartment, searching the early morning shadows for signs of the ogre. She doubted it had the brains to come looking for them without being told to do so, but she’d learned the hard way never to underestimate the Good Doctor. She plucked Pangloss’s letter from inside her jacket, flattening the paper against the windowsill.

  There is much I must tell you concerning Morgan.

  Her hands balled themselves into tight fists as she read his name. She exhaled a nervous, shaky breath. She had spent the better part of her unlife searching for the vampire who had raped a teenaged girl, tainted her blood, and turned her into something that called itself Sonja Blue.

  Now Pangloss, the vampire responsible for Morgan’s creation, was tempting her with information concerning his whereabouts. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried such a tactic. The last time had been under the streets of Rome, in a catacomb held sacred to the shadow races that manipulated mankind. She had been too proud to agree to Pangloss’s ‘business proposition’, back then, and it was lucky to have escaped his wrath. What was the old bastard planning this time? It was not in his nature to volunteer information freely. He wanted—or, more likely, needed—something from her in exchange.

  You can contact me through the human, Palmer.

  It was obvious Pangloss intended to use the private investigator to lure her closer, since he knew she would never allow a twisted sensitive or a Pretender within striking distance. But it was equally clear that once Palmer had finished his purpose, Pangloss would see to it his mind was suitably broken in order to use him as a replace for the not-so-dearly departed Renfield. So what was she to do with Palmer? Part of her, that which she thought of as the Other, knew what it wanted to do with him, but she refused to li
sten to its counsel.

  Palmer moaned in his sleep, shifting uneasily on the narrow bed. Renfield’s pasty face, as wide and pale as the moon, filled his dreams. The dead man’s eyes were as flat and black as buttons, his lips thin and blue. Palmer could hear Renfield’s voice, even though the satellite-sized face’s mouth remained caught in a rictus grin.

  She’s going to make you like me. A lap dog. Lap dog. Lap, dog, lap!

  Palmer sat up, the sweat running into his eyes. His mouth was dry, his head aching as if the lobes of his brain were dividing like amoebas. He stared at the circular window set in the wall above the bed. He got up and swiveled the window open on its pivot, inhaling a deep breath of Mississippi River-saturated air. Somewhere in the distance, a barge sounded a long, mournful note.

  “Will-yummmm.”

  No. It couldn’t be. He leaned his forehead against the peeling paint on the wall, trying to find some reassurance that he was, indeed, awake. He knew it.

  “Why won’t you look at me, baby?” Lola purred. “Aren’t you glad to see me, honey?”

  Palmer bit his lip as the familiar burning tore at his chest. His scar throbbed and pulsed as if he’d been branded with a red-hot coat hanger. He wouldn’t look at her. She wasn’t real. She was a dream. He was awake. He had to be. He opened his eyes, staring out the window for proof that he was, indeed, in the waking world.

  To his horror, he saw that New Orleans was on fire; the city wrapped in sheets of flame, yet no one seemed to notice. Burning children ran up and down the streets, smoke and laughter billowing from their lobster-red mouths. Women dressed in crackling aprons swept their stoops clean of ash. Business executives dressed in smoldering Brooks Brothers suits paused to check the melted slag strapped to their wrists before hurrying on their way, smoking attaché cases clenched in their roasted hands. On the balcony opposite Palmer’s window two lovers embraced, oblivious to the blisters rising on their naked flesh, while their wrought iron bower softened and dripped like licorice left in the sun.

  The pain grew stronger in his chest, forcing an involuntary cry from his lips. There was no use in denying her. She was going to have her way, no matter how hard he tried to stop her. Groaning, Palmer turned to face Lola’s horrible love.

  The smell of the marui roused Sonja from her thoughts. Then she heard Palmer’s stifled cry. She kicked the door to the bedroom open, growling at the sight of the ill-formed creature crouched atop the sleeping man, its claws buried in his chest.

  The marui screeched in alarm and spread its membranous wings as it attempted to take flight. Sonja’s fingers closed on its slippery flanks and the creature’s high-pitched squealing became ultrasonic.

  Suddenly Palmer was awake, staring in confusion at the combatants wrestling beside his bed.

  “Don’t just sit there gawking!” Sonja shouted. “Help with this thing!”

  “How?”

  “Grab its neck!”

  Palmer took one look at the creature’s mouthful of barbed teeth and shook his head. “Like hell I will!”

  “Just do it, damn it!”

  Palmer grimaced as his hands closed on the thing’s whip-like neck. Its flesh was slick and sticky, as if the wildly struggling beast was composed of animated phlegm. Once its biting end was under control, Sonja was able to pin the rest of the creature to the floor.

  “What in the name of hell is this thing?” he gasped in horror.

  The beast, weakened by the scuffle, was no longer trying to escape and lay crumpled on the floor like a damaged kite. Palmer stared at its twisted, almost human musculature and tattered, bat-like wings. The nightmare creature’s neck looked like a loop of umbilical cord, its bald, old man’s head dominated by large, fox-like ears and bristling barbed teeth. Just looking at the thing made his scar tighten.

  “They’re called marui, “she explained, resting her foot on the brute’s neck. “They also go by night-elves, or le rudge-pula, depending on the part of the world you happen to be in. They batten onto sleepers, manipulating dreams in order to feed on the fear born of nightmares. Judging by its size, this one’s been feasting on you for some time. They only take on corporeal form while they feed.”

  “You mean this thing’s a nightmare?”

  “Bad dreams exist for their own reasons; marui simply benefit from the negative energy that is released. But they’re not what you’d call smart.” She applied pressure on the creature’s neck, smiling as it wailed in distress. “My guess is that Pangloss sicced this little darling on you, hoping to make Renfield’s job easier when the time came. Isn’t that so, Rover?” She applied more pressure to the marui’s throat. The creature squealed in Lola’s voice:

  “Will-yummm, help meee.”

  Palmer brought his heel down on the thing’s skull, grinding it into a sticky paste. The marui shuddered once and began to dissolve, the ectoplasm evaporating like dry ice.

  “I trust you slept well.”

  Palmer put down his mug of chicory coffee and turned to look at Sonja. She was standing in the kitchen door, dressed in a green silk kimono embroidered with tiny butterflies the color of smoke. Her hair was hidden by a clean white towel wrapped about her head turban-style. She was still wearing mirrored sunglasses. It had never occurred to Palmer that vampires took showers.

  “Never slept better,” he said. And it was the truth. For the first time in weeks, his sleep had been free of nightmares, allowing him to awake that afternoon genuinely refreshed and rejuvenated.

  “I trust you kept yourself entertained while I was... indisposed throughout the day.” Sonja opened the refrigerator and removed a bottle full of dark red liquid. She cracked the seal and brought the bottle to her lips, only to halt upon seeing the look on Palmer’s face. “Forgive me—where are my manners?” She said as she put the blood aside.

  “There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” he said. “After all, it’s your place. I’m just a guest here; I have no right to judge.”

  Sonja tilted her head to one side, regarding him with her one-way gaze. “You’re quite adaptable for a human.”

  “Look, it’s pretty obvious that I’m at a huge disadvantage right now. Everything I ever thought was real has been turned upside down. I need help trying to figure where I fit into all this craziness. I’d like to make a business proposition: I need help with this ham radio set in my skull, right? You need help with Pangloss, right? How about we team up-just for a little while? You could teach me how to use what I got, and I could do whatever it is you need me to do.”

  “Mr. Palmer, do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

  “Not really. But I know that if I don’t get help, and get it soon, I’m going to go nuts. I can’t handle walking around seeing things I know are real, but no one else can.” He could feel his hands start to tremble as he spoke, but he refused to look at them. “Look, I can’t lie to you. You scare me, lady. But it’s like my Uncle Willy used to say: better the devil you know.”

  Compared to the day before, the French Quarter was practically deserted. Bourbon Street was open for business, as usual, but the barkers, for once, seemed uninterested in luring the handful of tourists wandering the garbage-strewn streets into their dens of iniquity. The overall mood was a mixture of exhaustion and relief, as if the city was recovering from a bout of fever.

  Palmer trailed after Sonja, trying to ignore the stares that followed them down the narrow streets. Sonja moved swiftly and purposefully through the clustered shadows, her hands jammed into the pockets of her leather jacket. She seemed preoccupied, but Palmer had no doubt that she was very much aware of the looks aimed at her. The fear and loathing that radiated from the hustlers, pushers and other Quarter habitués was strong enough to make Palmer feel like someone had liberated an ant farm in his underwear. He ran through the mental exercises for blocking ambient emotions Sonja had taught him before leaving the apartment that evening, and his skin stopped crawling.

  “It appears you’re not very well-liked aroun
d here,” he observed.

  She shot him a glance over her shoulder. “Get used to it. Most humans have an instinctual dislike of Pretenders and sensitives.”

  Palmer recalled his own immediate, gut-level reaction to Renfield and winced. “You’ve used that word before: Pretenders. What does it mean?”

  “Ever read Lovecraft?”

  “Back in high school,” he replied with a shrug.

  “Remember that stuff about how mankind is only a recent development, as far as the earth is concerned, and how giant ugly nameless horrors are just sitting around on their tentacles, waiting for when the time is ripe to take over the world?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s kind of like that, except this shit is real.”

  “I don’t think I want to know any more.”

  “Too late,” she said with a humorless laugh. “Do you believe in hell?”

  Palmer blinked, taken aback. “If you mean the Christian hell, where people are tortured by guys with pitchforks and pointy ears, no, I don’t believe in that.”

  “Me neither. But I do believe in demons. And that’s where we’re going—to make a deal with a devil.”

  “You mean Satan?”

  “Are you kidding? He’s way too expensive. No, the guy I go to is reasonably priced.”

  Palmer decided at that point that it might be better if he stopped asking questions.

  The Monastery was a small, dark bar that had, in a fit of perversity, decided on an ecclesiastical decor. The booths lining the wall had once been pews, and fragments of stained glass, salvaged from various desanctified churches, had been soldered together to create a disjointed jigsaw collage in the skylight. Plaster saints and icons in varying states of decay were scattered about, including a blackened Madonna and Child, smudged by exposure to too many votive candles, who stared down at the Monastery’s denizen’s with flat, robin’s egg blue eyes from their perch over the liquor supply. A battered Rockola jukebox played 1970s era Rolling Stones through a pair of decrepit speakers.