Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  Sonja grinned and clapped her hands, rocking back and forth on her haunches. “I knew that’d burn your ass, dead or not! Now piss off! I’ve got better things to do than play charades with a dead hustler!”

  Chaz yowled like a baby dropped in a vat of boiling oil and disappeared in a swirl of dust and ectoplasm, leaving Sonja alone with Judd’s phone number still clenched in her fist.

  Hell, if Chaz doesn’t want me to call the guy, then it must be the right thing to do, she thought as she reached for her cell phone.

  Their rendezvous place was an all-hours establishment in the French Quarter that had, over the course of the last fifty years, been a bank, a show-bar, and a porno shop before finally becoming a coffee house. They sat at a small table and sipped iced coffee, staring out the window at the late-night traffic on Decatur Street.

  Judd’s hair was freshly washed and he smelled of after shave, but those were the only concessions made to the mating ritual. He still wore his ear-plug, as well as a t-shirt that had been laundered so often the silkscreened image was starting to flake off. He poked at the iced coffee with a straw. “If I’m not getting too personal — what was last night all about?”

  Sonja studied her hands as she spoke. “Look, Judd. There’s a lot about me you don’t know — and I’d like to keep it that way. If you insist on asking about my past, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave. It’s not that I don’t like you—I do—but I’m a very private person. And it’s for a good reason.”

  “Is there someone else?”

  “Yes. Yes, there is.”

  “A husband?”

  “No, I’m not married.”

  Judd nodded as if this explained something. It was obvious that some of what she said was bothering him, but he was trying to play it cool. Sonja wondered what it was like, living a life where the worst things you had to deal with were jealous lovers and hurt feelings. It seemed almost paradisiacal.

  After they finished their drinks they hit the Quarter. It was after midnight and the streets outside the bars were decorated with clots of young people dressed in black leather, sequins, and recycled Seventies rags. The hipsters milled about, flashing their tattoos and bumming cigarettes off one another as they waited for something to happen.

  Someone called Judd’s name and he swerved across the street toward a knot of people lounging outside the Crystal Blue Persuasion. Sonja hesitated before following him. A young man dressed in a black duster, his shoulder-length hair braided into three pig tails and held in place by Tibetan prayer beads moved forward to greet them. Out of habit, Sonja scanned his face for Pretender taint. Human. While Judd and his friend spoke, she casually examined the rest of the group loitering outside the club. Human. Human. Human. Hu—

  She froze.

  The smell of vargr was strong, like the stink of a wet dog, and it radiated from a young man with long hair wearing a leather jacket with sleeves that looked like they’d been chewed off, leaving streamers of mangled leather like strings of gristle. He had one arm draped over the shoulder of a young girl.

  The werewolf met Sonja’s gaze and held it, grinning his contempt. Her hand automatically closed around her switchblade.

  “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine—”

  Judd’s hand was on her elbow, drawing her attention away from the teenage werewolf and his prey. “Sonja, I’d like you to meet Arlo, he’s an old buddy of mine...”

  Judd’s friend looked at Sonja as if she’d just crawled from under a rock. “Pleased to meet you,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah. Sure,” she grunted in reply as she shot a sideways glance at the vargr twelve feet away. He was murmuring something into the girl’s ear. She giggled and nodded her head and the two broke away from the rest of the group, sauntering down the street in the direction of the river. The werewolf paused to give Sonja one last look over his shoulder, his grin too wide and his teeth too big, before disappearing into the shadows with his victim.

  That’s right. Pretend you didn’t see it. Pretend you don’t know what that hell-hound’s going to do with that girl. You can’t offend lover boy here by running off to snuff a werewolf, can you?

  “Shut the fuck up, damn you,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I beg your pardon?” Arlo asked stiffly.

  “Just talking to myself, that’s all,” Sonja replied hastily.

  Judd bid his friends good night and they headed farther down into the French Quarter. As they passed one of the seedy bars that catered to the hardcore alcoholic trade, someone called out Sonja’s name.

  A black man, his hair plaited into dreadlocks, stepped from the doorway of the Monastery. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and immaculate designer jeans, a gold peace sign the size of a hood ornament slung around his neck.

  “Long time no see, Blue.”

  “Hello, Mal.”

  The demon Malfeis smiled, exposing teeth that belonged in the mouth of a shark. “No hard feelings, I hope? I didn’t want to sell you out like that, girlchick, but I was under orders from Below Stairs.”

  “We’ll talk about it later, Mal...”

  The demon noticed Judd. “Got yourself a new Renfield, I see.”

  “Shut up!” Sonja hissed, her aura crackling about her head like an electric halo.

  Mal lifted his hands in supplication. “Whoa! Didn’t mean to hit a sore spot there, girly-girl.”

  “Sonja? Is this guy bothering you?” Judd gave Mal a suspicious glare, blind to the demon’s true appearance.

  “No. Everything’s cool.” Sonja turned her back on the grinning demon and tried to block out the sound of his laughter echoing in her mind.

  “Who was that guy?”

  “Judd—”

  “I know! I promised I wouldn’t ask about your past.”

  Sonja shrugged. “Mal is a—business associate of mine. That’s all you need to know about him, except, no matter what, never ask him a question. Ever.”

  They walked on in silence for a couple more minutes, and then Judd took her into his arms. His kiss was warm and probing and she felt herself begin to relax. Then he reached for her sunglasses.

  She batted his hand away, fighting the urge to snarl. “Don’t do that.”

  “I just want to see your eyes.”

  “No,” she hissed as she pulled away from him.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No, there’s nothing you need to be sorry about,” she assured him. “I had a nice time, Judd. I really did. But I have to go—”

  “You’ll call me, won’t you?” he asked anxiously.

  “God help me, I’m afraid I will.”

  Why don’t you fuck him? He wants it bad. So do you. You can’t hide that from me.

  The Other’s voice was a nettle wedged into the folds of her brain, impossible to dislodge or ignore. Sonja opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of whole blood; cracking its seal open like she would a beer.

  Not that bottled crap again! I hate that shit! You might as well go back to drinking cats! Wouldn’t you rather have something nice and fresh? Say a good B negative mugger or an O positive rapist? There’s plenty of time to go trawling before the sun comes up...

  “Shut up! I’ve had a belly full of you tonight already!”

  My-my! Aren’t we being a touchy one? Tell me, how long do you think you can keep up the pretense of being normal? You’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be human. Why torture yourself by pretending you’re something you’re not simply to win the favor of apiece of beefsteak?

  “He likes me, damn it. He actually likes me.”

  And what exactly are you?

  “I’m not in the mood for your fuckin’ mind games! Let me have this. Let me be normal, for once.”

  Congratulations! You’re finally one of us. You’re a Pretender.

  Sonja shrieked and hurled the half-finished bottle of blood into the sink. She picked up one of the few pieces of furniture in the loft—a rickety card table—and smashed it to the floor, jumping up and
down on the scattered pieces. It was a stupid, pointless gesture, but it made her feel better, and it shut up the Other. At least for a little while.

  She kept calling him. She knew it was stupid, even dangerous, to socialize with humans in such a manner, but she couldn’t help herself. There was something about him that kept drawing her back, despite her better judgment. The only time she’d known such compulsion was when the thirst was on her. Was this love? Or was it simply another form of hunger?

  Judd, unlike Chaz and Palmer, was not a psychic, sensitive to the unseen world of the Pretenders. He was a mere human, blind and dumb to the miracles and terrors of the Real World, just like poor, doomed Claude. Exposure to the Real World could very well drive him mad or, worse, pervert his psyche, and Sonja had no intention of allowing that to happen.

  Their relationship, while charged with an undercurrent of eroticism, was essentially chaste. She wanted him so badly she did not dare do more than kiss or hold hands. If she should lose control, there was no telling what might happen. To his credit, Judd had not pressed the sex issue much. He was not happy with the arrangement, but honored her request that they “take it slow.”

  As to be expected, this did not sit well with the Other. It constantly taunted her, goading her with obscene fantasies and suggestions concerning Judd. Sonja tried to ignore its gibes as best she could, but she knew that something somewhere was bound to snap.

  Chapter Five

  Brittany wiped the tears from her eye, smearing mascara all over her cheek and the back of her hand. Crying made the words on the computer screen swim, but she didn’t care. She loved him. She really, truly loved him. And perhaps now, after she did what she had to do to save him, he’d finally realize it. He needed proof of her love. And what better proof than to rescue him from the clutches of a monster?

  Dearest Darling,

  I tried to warn you about That Woman. But you are blind to what she Really Is. She is Evil Itself: a Demon sent from Hell to claim your Soul! I knew what she was the moment I saw her, and she knows I know, too. Her hands and mouth drip Blood! Her eyes burn with the fires of Hell! She if surrounded by a cloud of negative energy Red as Blood! She means to drag you to Hell, but I won’t let her. I Love You too much to let that happen. I’ll take care of this horrible Monster. I’ve been talking to God a lot Lately, and He told me how to deal with Devils like Her. I Love you so very, very Much. I want You to Love Me too. I am doing this all for You. Please Love Me.

  Brittany

  Judd woke up at two in the afternoon, as usual. Since he worked six-to-midnight four days a week, he had long since adopted the nocturnal lifestyle. After he got off work he usually headed down to the Quarter to chill with his buddies or, more recently, hang with Sonja until four or five in the morning.

  He yawned as he dumped a couple of heaping tablespoons of Guatemalan into the hopper of his coffee maker. Sonja. Now there was a weird chick. But not in a schizzy, death-obsessed art school drop-out way like Brittany. Her strangeness issued from something far deeper than bourgeois neurosis. Sonja was genuinely out there, wherever that might be. There was something about the way she moved, the way she handled herself, which suggested she was plugged into something Real. And as frustrating as her fits of mood might be, he could not bring himself to turn his back on her and walk away. Still, it bothered him that none of his friends liked her—not even Arlo, whom he’d known since high school. In fact, some even seemed to be scared of her. Funny. How could anyone be frightened of Sonja?

  As he shuffled in the direction of the bathroom, he noticed he had a new email message on his laptop. He paused to check it, only to freeze upon seeing the all-too-familiar email address in his inbox.

  Brittany.

  Probably another one of her psycho love letters, threatening him with castration while begging him to take her back. Lately, she’d taken to leaving rambling, wigged-out messages on his voice mail, ranting about Sonja being some sort of vampire or succubus out to steal his soul. Crazy bitch.

  Judd hit a button on the laptop keyboard, consigning the message, unread, to the trash folder and staggered off to the bathroom to take a shower.

  Sonja greeted the night from atop the roof of the warehouse, stretching her arms as if to embrace the rising moon. She listened with half an ear to the sound of the baying dogs along the riverbanks. Some, she knew, were not dogs. But the vargr were not her concern. She had tangled with a few werewolves over the years, but she preferred hunting her own kind as she found it far more satisfying.

  The warehouse’s exterior fire escape was badly rusted and groaned noisily with the slightest movement, so she made a point to avoid it. Instead, she crawled, head-first, down the side of the building, moving like a lizard on a garden wall. Once she was within ten feet of the alleyway, she jumped down, pausing to pat-checked her pockets to make sure nothing had fallen out during her descent.

  There was a sudden hissing sound in her head as if someone had pumped up the volume on a radio tuned to a dead channel, just as something heavy caught her between the shoulder blades, knocking her into a row of garbage cans. She barely had time to roll out of the way before something silvery smashed down where her head had been a second before. She coughed, and black blood flew from her lips; a rib had broken off and pierced her lung again.

  Brittany stood over her, clutching a three-foot high, solid silver altar cross like a baseball bat. Even though her attacker’s madness gave her strength, Sonja could tell the damn thing was heavy. She wondered which parish church she’d stolen it from.

  The dead channel-crackling in Sonja’s head grew louder. It was the sound of the homicidal rage radiating from Brittany. Shrieking incoherently, the madwoman swung at her again. Sonja quickly got to her feet in one swift, fluid motion. While crosses and crucifixes had no effect on her— or any vampire, for that matter—a snapped spine or broken neck would still prove fatal to her. Brittany struck at her one more time, but Sonja stepped inside her reach and grabbed the cross, wresting it from her hands.

  Brittany staggered back, staring in disbelief as Sonja hefted the silver-plated cross. No doubt her attacker was waiting for her to burst into flames, just like in the movies.

  “What the hell did you think you were going to solve, clobbering me with this piece of junk?” she snarled.

  Brittany’s eyes were huge, the pupils swimming in madness. “You can’t have him! I won’t let you take his soul!”

  “You mean Judd?” Sonja frowned.

  “He’s mine!” Brittany screeched, launching herself at Sonja, her fingers hooked into claws. “Be belongs to me!”

  Sonja instinctively swatted her attack aside with the hand holding the altar piece.

  Brittany dropped to the alley floor, her head hanging at an impossible angle as the febrile madness drained from her eyes. No need to check for vital signs. The girl was d-e-a-d.

  Way to go, kiddo! You just killed lover-boys bug-shit ex-girlfriend! The Other crowed in amused delight. You’re batting a thousand! Pun intended.

  Sonja groaned in annoyance as she tossed the cross. She couldn’t toss the corpse in the dumpster; someone was bound to find it. Once the body was identified, the cops would drag Judd in for questioning, which meant they’d come looking for her, sooner or later. And she couldn’t have that.

  I’ve got an idea, crooned the Other. I know how you can get rid of her. It’ll be like she never existed at all…

  Stealing the car was easy. It was a twenty year old Ford sedan with a muffler held in place with baling wire and a faded Duke for Governor sticker on the sagging rear bumper. It was the perfect vehicle for disposing of a murder victim in the surrounding swamps during the dead of night.

  She took an exit off the highway that went through what was left of New Orleans East, a sprawling area east of downtown, which had been slammed hard by the floodwaters of Katrina. Now it was a shadow of its former self, with huge swathes of demolished and abandoned homes. She drove without headlights, not that she needed them.
She could see just fine in the dark, even with her sunglasses. The road she was on had once been a cookie-cutter development built on the very fringes of the marshlands. Now all it was visible were overgrown concrete slabs where the houses once stood. What had once been suburbia was now a breeding ground for snakes and alligators.

  Upon reaching her destination, she cut the engine and rolled to a stop. She climbed out of the car and opened the trunk with a length of bent coat hanger. She stood for a second, doing a silent inventory of the plastic trash bags. There were six, total: one for the head, one for the torso, and one for each limb. She’d already burned Brittany’s clothing in the warehouse furnace and disposed of her jewelry by tossing it into the river.

  She gathered up the bags and left the road, heading in the direction of the swamp. She could hear things splashing in the water, some of them quite large. She paused for a second on the bank of the bayou. Something in the darkness hissed like a steam valve. She tossed the bag containing Brittany’s head into the murky water.

  “Come and get it!” she called.

  The gators splashed and wrestled amongst themselves for the tender morsels like ducks fighting for scraps of stale bread.

  Sonja was tired. She still had to drive the car she’d stolen to a suitable area and set it on fire. She looked down at her hands. They were streaked with blood. She absently licked them clean.

  When she was finished cleaning herself, the Other looked through her eyes and smiled.

  The Other wasn’t tired.

  Not in the least.

  It had been a shitty night, as far as Judd was concerned: he’d gotten chewed out at work; Arlo and the others had treated him like he had a championship case of halitosis; and, to cap off the evening, Sonja had decided to pull a no-show.

  It was four o’clock when he got home. He was in such a piss-poor mood he didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. His laptop, for once, didn’t have one of Brittany’s bizarre emails waiting for him in its inbox. But neither was there anything from Sonja, either.