Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  “You judge yourself too harshly, sister,” Anise smiled, the light in her ruby eyes already starting to fade. “Here, take Lethe. Morgan will be here soon. I can feel him calling to me.”

  Sonja cocked her head to one side. She could hear a faint tone, like the reverberation of a plucked chord, only instead of growing fainter it was becoming louder. She could take him. She was sure of it. But she was equally certain Morgan was not alone. There was also Palmer to take into consideration. He might be able to handle himself in a firefight, but she had her doubts when it came to a full-frontal psychic assault. And if they succumbed to Morgan’s forces, where would that leave Anise’s baby?

  Sonja bent and kissed her sister on the cheek. “Good-bye, Anise,” she whispered.

  “My name is Lakisha,” she replied hoarsely. “Anise was just a dream. And not even my own.” She hesitated for a moment, staring at her daughter as if she was committing every detail of her face to memory before thrusting the infant into Sonja’s arms. “Take her before I change my mind!”

  “Is there anything you want before we go?”

  She nodded her head. “Leave me the gun.”

  Palmer and Sonja exchanged looks, and then he sighed and removed the .38 from its holster and handed it to Anise, who smiled weakly. It wasn’t much of a tradeoff, her child for the gun, but it would have to do.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “There’s the car, milord. She must be inside the motel room,” said the chauffeur.

  “A brilliant deduction, as usual, Renfield,” Morgan sighed from the back seat of the Rolls. He peered over the top of his tinted aviator glasses at the Ferrari parked outside Room 20 of the Parakeet Motel. The automobile was his, although the paperwork and owner’s registration in the glove compartment was in the name of one Dr. Henry Caron. But as Lord Morgan and the good doctor were one and the same, whatever belonged to Henry Caron belonged to him, as well. Including his patients.

  Morgan glanced at the Renfield seated beside him. He was the descendant of a long line of ninja assassins deliberately interbred to cultivate powerful psychic abilities, and possessed a reputation for sanity and stability that was considered rare amongst sensitives. Morgan acknowledged his servant’s unique status by addressing him by his given name.

  “Nasakenai: Scan.”

  The sensitive nodded silently, tilting his head to one side, like a robin listening for worms. “She’s there. Alone.”

  Morgan scowled. “Are you sure? I don’t like to be caught unawares. Something this Sonja creature seems quite adept at.”

  “She is alone,” Nasakenai assured him. “And in great pain.”

  Morgan weighed the information carefully. It was possible Anise’s would-be savior had abandoned her after all, although he was curious as to why she would leave the breeder alive. Then again, all he knew of his newest enemy was what Fell had learned from Anise before she hit him with the ash shovel from the fireplace. The speed with which Anise had turned against him bothered Morgan a great deal. He’d picked her as a potential breeder because of her deep-seated psychological need to be assimilated by the dominant class structure. His programming should have held fast. That a rogue operative could penetrate Ghost Trap’s defenses and undo so much hard work in so short a period of time was troubling. That the intruder enemy had claimed to be one of his own broodlings disturbed even more alarming.

  He had heard rumors circulating amongst the Nobility of something called the Blue Woman stalking the Ruling Class and their minions, but had always dismissed them as the fantasy of decaying minds made paranoid by centuries of intrigue and counterplots. According to the brood-masters who claimed to have had dealings with the maverick, the Blue Woman was neither human nor vampire, but a mixture of both, and possessed immense strength, the ability to walk in daylight and an immunity to silver. Morgan had been amused by the need these pathetic, senile ancients, Pangloss amongst them, seemed to have to create a bogeyman to fear.

  It was from these stories, however, that the idea to create a race of hybrid vampires first arose. With his custom-designed Homo Desmodus under his control, he would soon have the likes of Baron Luxor, the Contessa and Dr. Pangloss kowtowing before him, pledging fealty for all eternity—or however long he saw fit for to allow them to continue. But now his dreams of glory were collapsing, undermined by a creature of his own creation. Morgan savored irony, but not at his own expense.

  “Signal the others,” he said, straightening the cuffs of his Savile Row suit.

  Nasakenai nodded, silently relaying his master’s commands to the occupants of the second car. The doors of the accompanying Mercedes popped open and two figures climbed out.

  One was a Renfield, the other had once been a particularly obnoxious Scientologist who had accused Dr. Caron of being an antisocial enemy of the people. Which he was, of course, but not because he was a psychiatrist. Now his body was home to a fire elemental. The Renfield gave the pyrotic a wide berth to avoid the intense heat it radiated.

  Morgan climbed out of the Rolls, followed closely by Nasakenai. The gravel crunched under his designer Italian shoes as he crossed the parking lot. The door to the motel room was unlocked.

  Anise lay curled atop sheets befouled with the fluids of childbirth. Her pallor was grayish and her eyes deeply sunken in their orbits. She clutched a bloodstained bundle to her breast. She cringed at the sight of her Maker standing in the doorway, flanked by his most trusted and powerful minions.

  “You disappoint me, child,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I’m not your child!” She tried to make her voice hard, but the words came out sounding more petulant than angry. She closed her eyes, trying to subvert the conditioned submissive response his physical presence triggered in her. But simply shutting off the visual cue wasn’t enough. He was all over her—in her mind, her senses, her breath. He was everywhere and everything, unavoidable and undeniable.

  Morgan’s lips pulled into a cruel smile. “If I am not your Father, who is? God? Satan? Some honky from Watsonville out for cheap pussy? I chose you, Anise, to be the mother of a new race, because I something in you. I raised you up from nothing and Made you in my image, so that you could be the Blood Madonna. Only to have you show your gratitude by killing my servants and running away. Is this how a daughter repays her father for all the things he’s done for her?”

  “Done to her, you mean!” Anise retorted. While her lower lip trembled, the hate in her eyes remained undimmed.

  “Come now!” he chided. “This isn’t how I want things to be between us! You’re mixed up and confused. I understand that. You’re still young in the ways of the Real World, and easily impressed by those around you. Like your new friend—Sonja, is it? She abandoned you, didn’t she? She left you alone and helpless, rather than face me. She filled your head with a lot of talk about freedom and free will. Those are very nice, pretty-sounding words, aren’t they? But they’re just words, Anise; simple-minded phrases that deluded humans use to coerce themselves into believing that they are the masters of their fate. The only true freedom is in the blood, Anise; the blood that you and I share. For we are family bound far tighter than any born of human seed.” He opened his arms wide, as if to welcome her home. “Return with me, Anise, and all things will be forgiven and everything will go back to the way it was before.”

  Anise felt her defenses start to melt. Although she still hated Morgan with a white-hot intensity, part of her also wanted to surrender to the protection of his embrace. Thinking for herself was exhausting, even frightening. Things would be so much better if she simply allowed Father to resume control. It would be so easy to say yes and to return to Ghost Trap and Fell and…

  She shook herself, chasing the comforting, numbing thoughts from her head. If she gave up, she would simply be giving him what he wanted. She had to stay angry if she was going to keep him from winning. She has to be strong, if not for herself, then for Lethe.

  “You can’t fool me anymore, ‘Father’!” she spat.
“I’m not going back!”

  The pyrotic, its skin the color of barbecued meat, wandered over to the corner of the room where an old television sat bolted atop a pedestal stand. Although its eyes resembled hard-boiled eggs, this did not seem to impinge it ability to navigate. Suddenly the theme to The Beverly Hillbillies came blaring from the speakers at full volume.

  Morgan spun around, his face livid. “Turn that shit off! Renfield! Get it away from that damn idiot box!”

  As the psychic approached the elemental, the pyrotic made a noise like live steam escaping a radiator. After a tense second or two, the pyrotic stepped aside, allowing the Renfield to turn off the television. Suddenly there was a loud report and one side of the Renfield’s head disappeared in a spray of blood and brains. Morgan, his ears ringing from the gunshot, turned back to find Anise pointing a .38 directly between his eyes.

  “Put the gun down, Anise,” he said sternly.

  She pulled the trigger a second time. However, her hands were shaking so badly the slug struck Morgan in the shoulder instead of the head.

  “Nice try, Anise. But no cigar.”

  “My name’s Lakisha, asshole!” she snarled as she shoved the muzzle of the under her chin and fired a third and final time. Her head opened like a piñata, spraying the wall with the raw material of memory.

  Nasakenai removed the bloodstained bundle from the bed and held it out to his master while Morgan stared at the mess dripping from the walls as if divining omens.

  The vampire grimaced at the sight of the mutant baby’s hideous puckered mouth and bat-like nose. Enraged, he snatched up the offending corpse and shook it like a rag doll.

  “This is Howell’s doing! He assured me the child would pass for human! The bastard lied to me! Lied! I’ll make that junkie pay for this!” He hurled the dead baby at its mother’s body, turning his back on the tableau in disgust. “Torch it! I don’t want any evidence left behind!”

  The pyrotic nodded its understanding and stepped forward. A gout of liquid flame leapt from its mouth, like the stream from a flamethrower, coating the bed and its lifeless occupants. Within seconds the odor of burning mattress and roasting meat filled the room.

  Morgan stepped outside and scowled at the night sky. His mouth tasted of ash and failure, and there was only one thing that could wash it away: the blood of his enemy, the woman called Sonja.

  “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em!”

  Morgan turned to see an elderly man armed with a double-barreled shotgun hurrying towards him from across the parking lot. The inn-keeper’s bathrobe flapped open, exposing faded pajama bottoms and a stained T-shirt.

  “What in hell’s going on here?” the old man demand. “I heard gunshots! Where’s the Smiths?”

  “Smiths?” Morgan raised an eyebrow in amusement.

  “ You better answer me, fellah, or I’m liable to blow a hole in you! I ain’t one to be fucked with!”

  “Indeed,” Morgan agreed.

  Just then Nasakenai and the pyrotic stepped out of the motel room to stand on either side of Morgan. Although neither man was armed, the motel manager frowned and took an automatic step backward. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the flames reflected in the windows.

  “You crazy bastards set fire to my place!”

  Morgan, bored with the confrontation, turned his back on the man. “Take care of him,” he yawned.

  “Where you think you’re going, asshole?” The manager’s voice wavered as he fought to control his anger. He stepped forward, shouldering the shotgun. “You’re staying put until the state police get here!”

  In response the pyrotic belched forth a fireball the size of a cabbage, which struck the old man square in the chest. He dropped his weapon and frantically clawed at the flames eating his clothes and skin, only to spread it to his hands and upper arms. Screaming like an angry blue jay, the old man threw himself to the ground and rolled in the dirt and gravel, spreading the fire to his pajama pants and hair. During his final, conscious moments, he tried to drag himself back the way he came, his ears filled with the sound of his own flesh hissing and crackling like bacon fat in a frying pan. He succeeded in crawling six feet before he was completely consumed.

  The pyrotic squatted next to the smoldering remains and inhaled the blue-white flames back into his nose and open mouth. The intense heat had reduced the old man’s skull to the size of an orange. Nasakenai signaled impatiently for the elemental to get back in the Mercedes.

  Morgan slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari, sneering at Anise’s crude hotwiring job. Within seconds he was speeding down the highway, the Rolls and Mercedes following in his wake. The night was young and there was much to do.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What the hell are we gonna do with a baby, for crying out loud?” Palmer exclaimed. “I don’t know the first thing feeding them, do you?”

  Lethe, nestled in an impromptu bassinet made from clean towels and an open bureau drawer, waved her arms and kicked her legs as if semaphoring her agreement with Palmer’s statement.

  “Well, here’s where you’re gonna learn,” Sonja replied, tossing a box of disposable diapers at him like a medicine ball.

  “If you think I’m taking care of that, you’re crazy!” he snorted.

  “You can’t just stick the kid in a tube sock and hose her off once a week,” Sonja pointed out. “I bought enough canned formula from the market down the street to last her a few days, plus a couple of bottles and a pacifier. You can heat up her formula in the guest microwave. We promised Anise we’d take care of her…”

  “You promised, not me!” Palmer said with a shake of his head. “I’ll fight fuckin’ monsters for you, babe; I’ll even engage in breaking and entering. But I am not changing diapers! Besides, how do you know she won’t turn into something like the first one?”

  “She’s just a baby! There’s nothing to be worried about.”

  “If she’s ‘just’ a baby, what is it with her eyes?”

  Sonja plucked at her ward’s makeshift blankets, Lethe peeked out of her swaddling, regarding her with golden, pupil-less eyes, and gave Sonja a toothless grin.“Okay, so her eyes are screwed up. Is that a fuckin’ crime?”

  “You weren’t the one her evil twin tried to turn into Gerber’s strained beef!” Palmer countered.

  Lethe gurgled and kicked and waved her arms even more. Sonja had to admit she had very little experience with children, especially ones so young, but she was certain Anise’s child was unusually active for a baby not even a day old. She’d be damned if she was going to mention that fact to Palmer. He was spooked enough as it was.

  “Look, Palmer, I’m not asking you to take her to raise. I’m just asking you to baby-sit for a couple of hours. If we’re going to catch a jet to Yucatan, I have to check with a few of my...associates. And I sure as hell can’t do it dragging around a papoose.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” he sighed. “But just this once.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try to be quick about it,” Sonja promised him as she headed out the door. “Everything you need to fix her bottle should be in the grocery bag. Just read the labels on the can—they’re pretty self-explanatory.”

  As the door closed behind her, Palmer grimaced and turned his disapproving gaze to Lethe in her sock-drawer bassinette.

  “Sure, you’re cute now. But if you try anything funny, you’re going out the fuckin’ window. You got that, munchkin?” he warned, waving a finger at the newborn for emphasis.

  Lethe cooed and yawned, exposing soft pink gums, and wrapped a tiny hand around his finger.

  “Yeah, well, don’t you forget it.”

  The pay phone stood on the corner of Guerrero and Twenty-First Street, opposite an electronics repair shop with dusty windows full of half assembled or partially computer monitors. The black-and-chrome face of the phone was covered with graffiti; the coin box had been forced open and a yellow adhesive sign bearing the legend OUT OF ORDER was plastered over the coin slot.

>   Sonja scanned the corner. Across the street, a couple of young men dressed in matching leather jackets and pants strolled arm in arm, walking their Pomeranian, while an intense-looking middle-aged man with heavy eyebrows ducked into an espresso bar. Somewhere a police siren wailed, throwing echoes against the buildings that lined the street. Satisfied the area was clean, she sauntered from her post inside a nearby doorway and picked up the dead receiver. The plastic was cold and hard in her hand.

  She placed the earpiece to her head and casually stabbed the pay phone’s push buttons. There was stone silence, then the sound of a receiver half a country away being lifted off its hook. “Yeah?” said a heavy, almost liquid voice.

  “I need to talk to Malfeis.”

  The voice on the other end slurped. “Yeah. Sure. Who calling?”

  “The Blue Woman.”

  Suddenly Malfeis was on the line. She could tell by the clicking of dentures that he had exchanged the skate punk for something older. “Sonja! Chicky-baby! Sorry ‘bout the slug. Breakin’ in a nephew—what can I say? So, what can I do for you?”

  “Mal, I’m between your cousin and the deep blue sea out here. I need magic.”

  “What about Li Lijing? Can’t he hook you up?”

  Sonja shook her head. “This is out of his league. I need serious mojo.”

  “Uh, look, sweetie, I wish I could help you out, but…”

  “But what?” she frowned.

  “I don’t know what you did out there, cupcake, but Morgan’s stock’s falling like a lead turd in the Mariana Trench! And a lot of the big boys in the First Hierarchy aren’t exactly overjoyed, if you catch my drift. I’m in deep with the family over this, Sonja. I’m under orders not to give you the time of day, much less tell you where to score.”

  “Mal! Damn you, you know I’m good for it! I can get you Mengele’s jawbone! The real one, not that fake they dug up in South America. C’mon, I’m not shitting you—I gotta score!”