Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  The fox-headed man sat down behind a low teak desk carved with scenes of kei-lun, the Chinese unicorn, frolicking in the perfumed gardens of K’un Lun, the City of Heaven. “Now, what is it I can do for you, my dear?”

  “I need a countercharm.”

  “I see.” The huli jing pushed aside a scroll of rice paper and his collection of bamboo calligraphy brushes and picked up an abacus. “What kind of spell are you interested in negating? Protection? Ensorcellment? Bedevilment? Containment? There is a difference in the prices, you know.”

  Sonja motioned for Palmer to hand the wizard the book containing the blueprint of Ghost Trap. “You tell me. I’m nowhere as adept at reading Pretender glyphs as you, Honorable One.”

  Li Lijing accepted the compliment by fluttering his pointed ears. “You do me great honor. Now, as to this particular charm...” He pondered the drawing, scratching his muzzle in contemplation. “This is a protective ward of immense potency. You were wise to consult me. Anyone—Pretender or human—trying to violate these lines of power would be risking their sanity, if not their very lives!”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Of course I can do it! Did I say otherwise? It’s just that the preparation of the proper countercharm will not be without some expense... or danger.”

  “I’m willing to pay whatever’s necessary to procure it.”

  The huli jing smiled as if he’d just been handed the key to the henhouse. “Malfeis didn’t lie, for once. You are a class act!” The apothecary barked another laugh and returned to his estimate, the abacus beads rattling like hailstones on a tin roof. “I can have the appropriate countercharm ready within the week.”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  Li Lijing looked down his long black nose at her. “That would quite a bit extra, you know.”

  “Just do it.”

  The abacus beads were flying now. “Very well. Loo will deliver it to your hotel once I have it ready. I advise that your companion here abstain from handling it. Frankly, a charm of this magnitude has no business even being looked at by humans. No offense. Now, as to the matter of my bill…”

  Sonja produced an envelope from inside her jacket and tossed it onto the desk. “I trust this will prove satisfactory. They once belonged to Hitler. I have papers that will verify it.”

  Li Lijing snatched up the packet and dumped its contents—a collection of yellowed human teeth—into his hand. “Such documentation isn’t necessary! Their power speaks the truth. Yes, this is most satisfactory. It is always a pleasure doing business with a client of such refined sensibilities as you, Mistress Blue!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Sonja? You okay?” Palmer asked as he glanced into the rearview mirror. Sonja was sitting in the back seat of the rental car, and in the bright sunshine she looked pale and unhealthy, out of her element. She grimaced and smacked her lips as if trying to rid her palate of an offensive aftertaste.

  “Daylight. Phooey.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t allergic to sunlight.”

  “I’m not. But I am nocturnal. Being awake during the day is...unnatural. Believe me, if I was allergic, you’d know it! Vampires exposed to direct sunlight develop a speedy case of skin cancer; it’s not for the weak of heart— or stomach.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “So what do you want? Or were you just curious to see if I’d dissolve a la Christopher Lee?”

  “I just wanted to see that charm Li Lijing gave you, that’s all.”

  “You heard what he said about humans handling it,” she sighed.

  “I didn’t say I wanted to touch the damn thing, I just want to see it. Is that okay?”

  “I guess so. It might help if you understood the kind of dynamite we’re playing with.”

  “It’s that powerful?”

  “You’ll see. Pull over at the next rest station. The last thing I need is to have you plow the car into the back of a semi by mistake.”

  “I never mistakenly slam into the back of trucks,” he assured her. “It’s always on purpose.” A few minutes later, Palmer pulled the car into a roadside rest area thoughtfully provided by the California Highway Commission. He killed the engine and turned around in the front seat, facing Sonja. “Okay, let’s see this powerful juju.”

  Sonja pulled a package wrapped in blue tissue paper out from under the seat and handed it to the detective. “Remember, you asked for it!”

  Palmer wrinkled his nose as he caught scent of the strong spices as Sonja unwrapped the talisman. Upon seeing the thing, he instinctively drew back as if it was a poisonous spider. He felt a bitter surge of vomit scald the back of his throat, but he could not look away from the candle made from a withered, severed hand that lay nestled in the blue tissue paper like a perverse corsage.

  “It’s horrible! What is it?”

  “It’s a Hand of Glory,” she explained. “Lijing assures me that it is especially potent.”

  “It’s got six fingers!”

  “Yes, that’s supposedly the secret of its power. It once belonged to a Mayan priest-king put to death by the conquistadores. There was one particular royal family that had six fingers and toes. It was considered a sign of divinity. They were known as Chan Balam, the Jaguar Lords. The Hand of Glory allows whoever uses it to enter any kind of locked room of house—making it perfect for our unannounced visit to Ghost Trap.”

  Palmer swallowed the burning knot in his throat and watched an elderly man in tan slacks and a cream-colored windbreaker lead a miniature schnauzer toward a grassy stretch marked “Pet Path.” He suppressed the urge to get out of the car and sprint for the nearest parked car.

  As Sonja prepared to re-wrap the grisly candle, she lost her grip on the Hand of Glory, which fell onto the front seat of the car, next to Palmer.

  “For crying out loud,” he groaned in disgust. “Why don’t you just mount it on the dashboard so everyone can enjoy it?”

  The idea of touching the Hand of Glory was repugnant beyond belief, but if anyone got a good look at what was on the front seat, every CHIPS officer north of Los Angeles would be breathing down their necks. Grimacing in distaste, Palmer picked up the talisman.

  Suddenly he was somewhere warmer, where the screeching of macaws and the screams of howler monkeys echoed from the lush green canopy outside. A naked brown child sat framed in the doorway, playing with a baby spider monkey on a leash. The child’s forehead was oddly shaped, sloping backward. At first Palmer thought the boy was mentally handicapped, but then the child smiled and turned his face toward him, revealing dark eyes that sparkled with a natural wit. Confused, Palmer scanned the room he found himself in, frowning at the detailed charcoal renderings of Mayan dignitaries offering sacrifices to the gods decorating the whitewashed stone walls. Above his head hand-woven nets full of museum-quality Pre-Columbian pottery hung from brightly painted, ornately carved rafters. The naked child laughed at his pet’s antics, lifting a six-fingered hand to his mouth. Palmer glanced down at his own body and saw he was seated, cross-legged, on a stone bench carved in the likeness of a jaguar. He stood up and walked to the doorway. He was wobbly on his feet and had to steady himself by placing six-fingered hand against the wall. He brought his other hand to his face and felt the stingray barb piercing his lower lip and the ritual scars on his cheeks. His gaze dropped to his borrowed body. He knew he should be alarmed by the sight of a second stingray barb skewering his penis, but, instead, felt strangely disconnected from the mutilations done to his flesh. The child looked up at Palmer from his place on the stoop and smiled. The baby spider monkey squatted on the boy’s shoulder, chattering to itself as it searched its master’s hair for vermin. Suddenly William Palmer, never married and an avowed enemy of small children, knew how it felt to be a husband and a father. Somewhere in the jungle, a jaguar screamed.

  “Palmer! Palmer, are you all right? Answer me, damn it!”

  Sonja was in the front seat of the rental car, shaking him by the shoulders. She actually loo
ked scared. Palmer wondered if he should feel honored or worried.

  “Damn it, Palmer! Say something! Don’t make me come in there and get you!”

  “What happened?”

  “You’re back. Good. Where did you go?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I was in a jungle somewhere in Central America a long, long time ago. What’s that taste in the back of my mouth?”

  “Blood,” Sonja replied as she pulled a linen handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to the dazed detective. “You had some kind of seizure. Blood started running out of your nose. I was afraid you were going to swallow your tongue. Now, what’s this about you being in Central America?”

  Palmer shook his head in disbelief as he dabbed at his upper lip. “It was weird. It wasn’t like a dream. It was more like being there, or remembering being there. I was sitting in a stone house and I could hear the birds and monkeys outside, just like in the Tarzan movies. There was a boy...” He frowned as he tried to recall more of his vision, but it was already fading.

  “Palmer, do you believe in reincarnation?”

  “I never really gave it much thought, to tell you the truth. Just like I never gave much thought to vampires and werewolves.” His smile wavered and Sonja saw the fear in his eyes. “Is it true, then?”

  “To a point. There is such a thing as reincarnation. But not every human being is reincarnated. I don’t know how it works—nobody does for sure, unless it’s the seraphim, and they’re not talking. But there are always a number of humans who are preborn. The Pretenders call them Old Souls. Most never know who—or what—they were before, and that’s as it should be. But every now and again, they receive a glimpse of their previous selves, usually when a random incident cues a buried memory. Or, as in your case, apparently, you accidentally touch the remains of a previous incarnation.”

  Upon hearing this, Palmer hunched forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

  “You spoke while you were in your trance,” Sonja said gently. “Are you aware of that?”

  “What did I say?”

  “It sounded like ‘Tohil.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  Palmer closed his eyes and the sound of macaws calling to one another from jungle perches filled his ears. “Yes. It was my son’s name.”

  “So that’s Ghost Trap. The guy who built it really was crazy!” Palmer exclaimed as he peered through binoculars at the valley below. Not that he needed them to see Creighton Seward’s fevered brainchild, as the rambling mansion filled the small dell to the point of overflowing.

  “You can still make out the original house in the middle,” Sonja said, pointing to the center of the grandiose concoction of towers, turrets and flying buttresses. “It looks like a spider squatting in the middle of a web. See anything?”

  Palmer shook his head and lowered the binoculars. “Sealed up like a fuckin’ drum. All the shutters are closed. But I spotted an old stable off to one side with Morgan’s sports car in it. Our boy’s here; no doubt about it.”

  “I never thought otherwise,” Sonja muttered darkly. “I can feel him.”

  “Just looking at that house is making my head hurt.” Palmer said, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I can’t imagine anyone actually living in that monstrosity!”

  “Creatures like Morgan don’t live,” Sonja scowled. “They exist.” She glanced up at the afternoon sky, careful not to look directly at the sun. It had taken them three hours, following narrow asphalt roads that twisted through the hills like black snakes, before finally locating the isolated valley that separated Ghost Trap from the rest of the world. . There were still several hours to go before sundown, when Morgan would stir from his daily coma. Still, in a place like Ghost Trap, where daylight rarely pierced its heart, the vampire lord could very well be up and about inside its labyrinth-like belly.

  “Put a sock in it,” she muttered to the Other as it whined for the seven hundredth and fifty-second time that the sunlight was making it sick.

  Palmer looked up from his binoculars. “What did you say?”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” she replied tersely. She was loath to admit it, but she agreed with the Other. She was tired and in bad need of recharging. She used to be able to function perfectly well during the day, but at that exact moment she felt like she’d just come off a weeklong drunk. It was all she could do to fight the urge to crawl inside the trunk of the car and enjoy a quick nap.

  “There’s no point in putting it off,” she sighed. “I’m going down there.”

  Palmer sucked on his lower lip. “You sure it’s safe?”

  She barked a humorless laugh. “It’s never going to be safe! But I stand a better chance going in while the sun is out. Hopefully, he won’t be expecting anything. And if Lijing’s talisman does what it’s supposed to, they won’t know I’ve breached their defenses until it’s too late to do them any good. What about you? You packing?”

  Palmer pulled a loaded .38 special out of his waistband and held it up so she could see. “Figure this’ll do the job?”

  “Honey, you shoot anything in the brain—human or not—with that damn thing, you’ll kill it!”

  He nodded and returned her smile. Sonja gave him a thumbs-up signal and began walking down the hillside toward the mansion. Palmer watched as she moved into the trees and made her way down the rugged hillside. When he could no longer see her, he focused his binoculars back on Ghost Trap. He quickly scanned the windows and turrets for signs of movement. He soon learned that if he let his eyes linger too long on any particular architectural detail it made his eyes water and his head hurt.

  Suddenly his attention was caught by a fleeting glimpse of a pale, moonlike face glowering from a fifth-floor window. His heart thumped a 4/4 beat as he fiddled with the binoculars’ field of focus for a closer view. But by the time he could refocus, the face was gone, the window once more shuttered—assuming it had been open in the first place. Perhaps it was an illusion created from staring too long at the weirdly contorted house. And if had been real, whose face was it? It certainly wasn’t Morgan’s. He contemplated trying to call Sonja on her cell phone and tell her what he’d seen, but he’d lost service at least two valley back.

  Just then he saw a shadow emerge from the tree line near the mansion’s ruined gardens and flit through the surrounding rosebushes, which had grown into a thorny tangle. He watched, awed by Sonja’s supernatural grace as she deftly avoided empty goldfish ponds and crumbling statuary and made her way to what had once been the coal cellar.

  “That’s m’girl!” he grinned as she yanked the heavy padlock off the cellar doors. A second later she was gone, swallowed by Ghost Trap. Whatever dangers lay hidden within the mansion’s sprawl, she would have to face them alone. And maybe, if he was lucky, she would never come out.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sonja took a deep breath and paused to orient herself against the wave of nausea that hit her the moment she entered the confines of the house. The empty coal cellar tilted under her feet, as if the ground were made of Indian rubber. Something in her jacket twitched.

  She removed the Hand of Glory and saw that the position of the six fingers had changed. Hoping that was a good sign, she returned it to her pocket. She took a cautious step toward the stairs leading to the rest of the house, then another. The nausea was gone, although she was unable to shake the feeling of disorientation.

  The first floor was dark, the bare wooden boards furry with dust. As she walked through the series of oddly shaped interconnected rooms, it became clear to her that they had never ever been furnished. Some rooms hadn’t even been plastered and painted, the exposed wooden pining giving the smaller rooms an austere, almost monkish appearance.

  Everywhere she looked, the demented genius of Ghost Trap’s creator was on display, as her eyes were drawn to lines that both originated and intersected beyond the field of normal vision. She doubted a normal human could withstand more than an hour’s sustained exposure to Ghost Trap�
��s peculiar brand of architectural design without losing consciousness or going mad. The weirdly angled doorways and out-of-kilter rooms reminded her of the starkly rendered expressionist scenery from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.

  The second floor was much like the first, as was the third. The house was indeed as huge and maze-like as she’d feared. Judging from the thickness of the dust coating the floorboards and banisters, she doubted that the section of Ghost Trap she found herself in had seen any visitors—human or Pretender— since the day Creighton Seward’s body had been recovered.

  Still, she could feel Morgan’s presence, hidden somewhere within the massive sprawl of zigzagging walls and staggered staircases. However, whether the vampire lord was hiding in the attic, the basement or the room next door was impossible for her to divine. She hoped if Morgan was equally conscious of her intrusion, that he was just as helpless in pinpointing her exact location.

  As she left a sitting room with faded, green patterned wallpaper and an upside down fireplace made from Italian marble, she glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye. Turning to get a better look, she found herself staring at a little girl no more than five.

  Sonja knew the child to be dead because she could see through her. The ghost-child wore old-fashioned clothes and held a porcelain doll in her chubby arms. Both the girl and the doll had golden hair that fell to their shoulders in ringlets. The face of the china doll was marred by a hairline fracture that ran from its brow to the bridge of its nose.