Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  Palmer snorted in disgust. “Fuckin’ traitor!”

  Sonja nodded in agreement and leaned forward, fixing Howard with her unseen stare. “Do you know what humans such as yourself are called? By your masters, I mean, not your own species. You, Mr. Howard, are a Judas goat; you willingly lead your fellow humans onto the killing floor in exchange for a reward from the butchers. Judas goats like to think themselves immune. But all that means is that, once their usefulness is at an end, they are the last of the livestock to die.”

  Howard scribbled something on a piece of scrap paper and pushed it across the desk toward her. “This is the address of Morgan’s condo in the Marina District,” he said nervously. “For God’s sake, don’t let him find out I told you where to find him.”

  “And what name is he using?”

  “Caron. Dr. Henry Caron.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Yeah, he’s a shrink.”

  The man called Palmer spat in disgust and walked out of the room. As his companion glanced over her shoulder Howard reached for the drawer where he kept his gun. If he was lucky, he could get the drop on both on her and the man. He’d learned enough about creatures like the bitch sitting across from him to know that a bullet in the brain killed them as dead as any human.

  It might look a little funny to the cops, but he could claim they were meth addicts who had shown up at his office, looking for trouble, when he’d refused to rent to them. Yeah, that would wash. If there was too much of a fuss, Morgan could pull a few strings and quiet things down. Yes, he told himself as his fingers wrapped about the grip of the chrome-plated pistol. As his fingers wrapped around it, this’ll be as easy as shooting clay pigeons.

  Suddenly the woman leapt on to the desk, snarling like a leopard freed from its cage. One second she was sitting in a chair, the next she was squatting atop his desk like a gargoyle, her head thrust forward like an attack dog straining against its leash. The hair on her head bristled like a wolf’s hackle. Without realizing in, Howard instinctively wet himself. She jerked the gun out of his unresisting hand, studying it with mild distaste. She barked a humorless laugh as she turned the weapon over in her hands.

  “You’d have to do better than this, buddy, if you want to stop me. I’ve metabolized more .22 slugs than Carter has little liver pills!” She hopped off the desk, leaving deep scratches in the six layers of lacquered finish. After a moment’s contemplation, she tossed the gun back to its owner.

  Howard was too surprised to do more than ham-handedly catch it. He stared at the gun, then back at her before setting the weapon aside. He realized there was no way, even at such close range, he would be able to shoot her and still escape live.

  “You’re holding out on me, Howard.”

  The realtor shook his head in vigorous denial. “I swear I’ve told you everything I know about Morgan. What else do you want?”

  “The truth.”

  “I told you the truth!”

  “Not all of it. You told me what identity Morgan is operating under, yes, and where I can find him when he’s in town. But I want to know where his lair is.”

  “Lair?”

  “Yes, lair. Lions have them. Bank robbers have them. And every Noble vampire has one, where they can retreat without fear of attack.”

  “Look, I told you he has a place in the Marina, just off Fillmore . . .”

  Sonja shook her head. “He moves every few months or so—you said so yourself. These places you mentioned are nests, nothing more. I want to know where he can be found when he goes to ground.”

  “I don’t know where—”

  “Pick up the gun, Mr. Howard.”

  The surgical steel civility was back in her voice. Although he did not want to, Russell Howard picked up the discarded .22 by its muzzle.

  “Place your left hand on top of the desk, Mr. Howard,” she instructed. “That’s right. Now spread your fingers. Yes, like that. Now wider.”

  Howard stared in horrified silence as his left hand did as it was told.

  “Now, hit your left hand with the butt of the gun,” she commanded. “Hard.”

  Howard gave voice to a strangled cry of pain and terror as the butt of the pistol smashed down onto the middle of his hand. Although his fingers writhed like the legs of a crushed spider, he still could not move his left hand no matter how hard he tried.

  “Again.”

  As the gun-butt slammed into his hand a second time, something in his palm snapped like a green twig, and the taste of blood flooded his mouth. It took a few seconds for Howard to realize he had bitten through his lower lip.

  “Where is Morgan’s lair?” Sonja asked calmly.

  Howard whimpered as the pistol broke his left index finger. He hoped he would pass out before every finger on his left hand splintered, but was afraid she wouldn’t permit it.

  “Ghost Trap!” he screamed.

  “And what, exactly, does that mean?” she asked, a puzzled look on her face.

  “It’s the name of this house in the Sonoma Valley,” Howard sobbed, sweat and tears dripping from the end of his nose in greasy drops. “It’s supposed to be haunted or something. Some crazy millionaire built it back before the Depression. I’ve told you everything I know, I swear. Please, just go away and leave me alone.”

  “Very well,” she said, with a curt nod. “We will do as you ask. But remember, Mr. Howard: you cannot shake hands with the Devil and not get sulfur on your sleeve.” With that, the Blue woman turned and walked out of his office, rejoining her partner in the reception area. A second later, Howard was rewarded by the sound of them leaving.

  He slumped forward, cradling his head in his good hand. He was shivering and sweating and stank of fear and urine. Part of him wanted to leap up and chase after the intruders, pistol blazing. But then he remembered how fast the woman moved, and the sound she made when she snarled at him, and his heart began to beat so fast it seemed to stand still.

  He glanced at his Rolex. Only fifteen minutes had elapsed since the moment he first saw the strangers in his reception room. Fifteen minutes. One quarter of an hour. That was all it had taken to ruin his life. He picked up the automatic, even though the grip was still tacky with his blood. Although Howard was without religion or faith, he knew there was a Devil. He knew it with a certainty rare among even the most devout ecclesiastics. And no matter how fearsome and cruel the creature that called itself Sonja Blue had been, he knew his partner was a thousand times worse.

  “Don’t you think you were kind of rough on that guy?” Palmer asked as they waited for the elevator to take them down to the lobby.

  Sonja angled her head in his direction, but because of the glasses, Palmer was uncertain as to whether she was looking at him or back down the hall. She shrugged. “He is a Judas goat; a traitor to his species.”

  “Yeah, but maybe he didn’t really know what Morgan was in the beginning..?”

  “Oh, he knew, all too well. Just as the President knows what’s held in check within the walls of the Pentagon. He simply found it advantageous to pretend otherwise. He doesn’t even have a Renfield’s excuse of having been twisted against his will.”

  The elevator car arrived, empty of passengers. As Palmer stepped inside he heard a muffled report from down the hall. He looked to Sonja, who merely shrugged.

  “No matter how far up a Judas goat climbs, it will never get beyond the killing floor.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Are you sure this is the right address?” Palmer frowned.

  “It’s the one Howard gave us. What’s the matter? Were you expecting a gothic castle with gargoyles and a moat?”

  “No, but I thought it’d look, you know, different somehow.”

  Sonja gazed at the building across the street from where they sat in the airport rental car. She didn’t want to admit it, but she’d been expecting something different, too. The pastel-colored single-family Mediterranean revival-style dwellings lining the curving street hardly looked like the kind of neighb
orhood to shelter a lord of the undead.

  In the gathering dusk healthy-looking men and women, outfitted in expensive jogging gear with iPhone buds shoved in their ears, shared the streets with people walking their dogs. It was hard to picture Morgan joining his neighbors at the corner grocery to pick up a six-pack of Calistoga Water and a package of squid-ink pasta.

  “Wait a minute! Someone’s coming out of the house. Is that him?”

  Sonja stared at the middle-aged man standing silhouetted on the front porch. He was dressed in a charcoal-colored suit, his hair graying at the temples, his eyes shaded by tinted aviator glasses. She closed her eyes and pictured him as she last saw him: a debonair, jet-setting English playboy bent on a wild weekend in Swinging London. His strong, Cary Grant-like features rippled, revealing glowing eyes and sharp fangs. She heard the sound of his laughter as he forced her to take his cold member into her mouth...

  She pulled herself free of the memory before she relived the agony and shame of being simultaneously penetrated by both penis and fang. She shivered, her breathing ragged.

  “Are you okay?” Palmer asked, staring at her with concern.

  Sonja opened her mouth to reply, but all she could do was shiver and gasp like a malaria victim. She wanted to leap out of the car and dash across the street so she could drive her silver switchblade through his heart before he could reach the Ferrari parked in the drive, but her legs and arms had suddenly become lead weights. All she could think of was the fact that she had spent decades looking for this creature, and now all she could do was sit there and stare at him.

  Morgan tugged on a pair of leather driving gloves and slid behind the wheel of his sports car. If he glanced in their direction, neither Sonja nor Palmer noticed it. The moment the Ferrari disappeared down the street, headed in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge, the lassitude that had gripped her abruptly loosened.

  “Sonja—answer me,” Palmer said, giving her a jostle to try and wake her from what appeared to be a trance. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was afraid something like that would happen,” she snarled angrily shaking her head to clear herself of the paralysis. “Morgan is my Maker. I was Made in his image, and therefore one of his brood. The second I saw him, all I could think of was killing him—and suddenly I couldn’t move!”

  “You mean you were hypnotized?”

  “No, it was more like my self-preservation instinct had been triggered. It was as if part of my brain considered killing Morgan the same as killing myself.”

  Palmer rolled his eyes in disgust. “Are you saying, after coming all this way, you can’t lift a finger against this guy?”

  “No!” Sonja snapped, her denial harsher and louder than it needed to be. She winced and fought to regain control of her temper. “It’s simply a matter of will. After all, that’s how Morgan broke free of Pangloss, all those centuries ago: he proved himself to have the stronger will.”

  “What about you? Are you up to the job?”

  “I’ll find that one out the hard way, when the time comes,” she replied as she opened the car door.

  “Where are you going?” Palmer asked. “We just saw your guy leave.”

  “Since we’re already here and know the monster of the house is out, I thought we’d pay a little visit,” she explained.

  Palmer sighed and pulled a leather wallet from his raincoat pocket. He flipped it open to display his collection of lock twirls.

  Sonja grinned. “I like a man who’s prepared.”

  It took only a few seconds for Palmer to open the front door. There was a sticker affixed to one of the windowpanes set in a fan near the top of the door: Warning! This house protected by Phlegethon Home Security Systems!

  “You think this place is actually hooked up to a genuine home alarm?” he asked.

  “I doubt it,” Sonja replied. “Morgan isn’t the type to appreciate police—or even rent-a-cops—showing up.”

  Palmer pushed open the door, wincing in anticipation of the high-pitched drone of a home security system. Silence. Sonja walked in ahead of him, moving cautiously into the vampire’s nest, her head swiveling like a radar dish. The living room was devoid of furniture, and to the left was an equally barren dining nook.

  “He’s not much on interior decorating, is he?” Palmer whispered.

  “This isn’t where he dwells. It’s merely a nest, kind of like a vampire equivalent of a place in the city,” Sonja explained. “It’s convenient for maintaining his identity, and can serve as a bolt-hole, if he needs one. Most Nobles have nests scattered all over the world, mostly in metropolitan areas, where neighbors wouldn’t consider an absentee owner unusual.”

  Palmer walked into the stark white kitchen and opened the door of the burnished chrome refrigerator. It was empty save for an open box of baking soda. “Jesus, this place gives me the creeps,” he muttered.

  Sonja sniffed the air. “Do you smell something?”

  “Yeah, I think one of the neighbors is having a barbecue,” he replied, his belly rumbling in response to the aroma of roasting meat.

  As they headed up the stairs to the second floor, the smell grew increasingly stronger. Sonja stopped in front of a closed bedroom door and then tried the knob. It was unlocked. Exchanging glances with Palmer, she opened the door and stepped inside, to be greeted by the odor of roast pork.

  The bedroom was dark, save for the illumination cast by a small color television set atop a plastic milk crate. Sitting opposite in an easy chair was a middle-aged man dressed in a rumpled suit. The man watching the TV slowly turned his head towards his uninvited guests.

  Palmer gasped aloud at the sight of the man’s lobster-red skin, as if he’d been boiled alive. The man did not stand up from his chair, but instead opened his blackened lips and let his mouth drop onto his chest as if the muscles in his jaw had been severed. Sonja instantly began to backpedal into the hallway.

  Palmer stared in horror as smoke began to leak from man’s ears and nostrils, like an old cartoon, who then coughed out a ball of flame, which flew across the room and struck the wall a foot from Palmer’s head. The heat was so intense he could smell the hair on that side of his head starting to crisp.

  Sonja grabbed him by the arm and jerked him out of the doorway and into the hall as the burning man got to his feet in preparation of vomiting another ball of fire. Palmer looked over his shoulder in time to see the burning man lumber into the hallway after them, moving as if unused to operating arms and legs. He also seemed to be sweating bullets, and then Palmer realized that he was actually dripping fat like a hot candle. The odor of frying meat was everywhere as the creature followed them down the stairs.

  “We’re leaving! Okay? We’re leaving!” Sonja shouted.

  The burning man halted its clumsy advance and stared in their direction with the opaque eyes of a baked fish. It was still staring as the slammed the door shut behind them.

  “I said I’m sorry, okay?” Sonja grunted as she watched Palmer apply Solarcaine to the first degree burn on the side of his face. “How was I to know he was using a fuckin’ pyrotic as a burglar alarm?”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this shit! I knew it!” Palmer exclaimed indignantly. “But do I listen to myself? No! So I end up nearly getting flash-fried by an escapee from a sideshow!” He winced as he daubed the last of the antibiotic cream onto his temple, which now throbbed in time to his pulse.

  “C’mon, it’s not that bad,” she chided. “You’ve taken worse hits.”

  “You could have gotten us killed!”

  “No, I could have gotten you killed,” she corrected. “And for that I deserve the rebuke. I guess I was trying to prove I wasn’t scared of the bastard. I ended up being careless and stupid and you got hurt. That’s not something I want to happen.”

  “You and me both,” Palmer said acerbically.

  Palmer tried to find the strength stay mad at her. At first the pain and fear had been enough to keep his anger fueled, but now
that the immediate danger was gone, it was starting to fade. He wanted to stay upset, because being angry at Sonja was a lot safer than liking her.

  “I have trouble reminding myself how frail humans are,” Sonja said as she sat, Indian style, on the bed. “I keep forgetting you can’t regenerate like I do.”

  “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but ‘frail’ wasn’t one of them,” Palmer said with a grudging smile. “I notice you keep saying ‘human’ like it’s a brand name. Don’t you still consider yourself to be like us? You’re not like Pangloss—there’s still something alive in you.”

  “You know, most vampires would consider being favorably compared to humans a gross insult,” she said with a laugh.

  “Are you? Insulted, that is?”

  She smiled again. “No, because I’m not an actual vampire.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, I’ve got all the traditional vampire signifiers: fangs, a taste for the ‘forbidden vintage,’ nocturnal habits, the powers of hypnosis and all that jazz. But I’m not a true vampire. I never died, you see. I’m a freak: a species of one.”

  Palmer blinked in surprise. He’d assumed Sonja’s shunning of the daylight was because she would burst into flames if she stepped outside while the sun was up. It hadn’t occurred to him that she slept all day because she’d been awake all night.

  “So you’re a living vampire?”

  “In a way, yes.” She tilted her head, studying him from behind those unreadable mirrored lenses. “Do you like me, Palmer?”

  His cheeks colored at the unexpected question and he suddenly became very interested in counting the tiles in the ceiling. “Well, uh, it’s just that I...

  “I understand,” she sighed and uncurled her legs in order to stand up. “I’ll leave you alone…”

  “Yes, I like you,” he replied, surprising himself with what he now realized was the truth. “How could I not? You’ve saved my life more times in the last few days than anyone I’ve ever known.”