Paint It Black, page 10
part #3 of Sonja Blue Series
The sun would be rising soon. She went to the tomb she'd chosen as her crash space. Since the last occupant had been laid to rest two decades before, she knew she could sleep without having to worry about being discovered by a grieving family member. The memorial sconces were empty and cobwebs hung from the ceiling in delicate tatters. It smelled pleasantly of graveyard mold and dead leaves. She curled up in the darkest corner, setting her watch alarm for four o'clock. As she drifted off into what passed for sleep among her kind, she marveled over how little she'd thought about either Palmer or Lethe. That probably meant they were okay.
7
Palmer couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a sober breath.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved or changed his clothes, either. He was certain he'd been sitting at the kitchen table, naked except for a pair of khaki safari shorts, for several days, but he wasn't sure just how long.
He staggered over to the calendar hanging next to the stove and squinted at it. He'd gotten it from a pharmacia in Medina. The calendar showed a handsomely muscled Aztec warrior, garbed in brilliantly colored feathers and a skimpy loincloth, shooting a bow at the coming twilight while at his sandaled feet sprawled a voluptuous Aztec maiden, wrapped in a diaphanous robe and looking more like a Vargas model than a virgin priestess. Palmer was unfamiliar with the myth the picture was supposed to represent - was the warrior defending the fallen priestess, or was he the one responsible for her death? And what the hell was he shooting at, anyway?
Thinking about the picture on the calendar made his head hurt. Palmer wobbled back to the kitchen table and sat down with an explosive sigh. It took him a few seconds to realize he'd forgotten to count how many days it'd been since Lethe disappeared into the cocoon and his life went into the crapper.
He wasn't sure how long Sonja had been gone, either. He was too drunk to cast his mind for her, but something told him he would not have been able to reach her, even if he were straight. Besides, the possibility of accidentally locking minds with the Other again - no matter how distant - was enough to keep him from trying.
Palmer's gaze fell on the black mask sitting atop a pile of unpaid bills and unfiled invoices. The empty eyes stared up at him, the lips parted as if anticipating a kiss - or a bite. His head continued to hurt, so he rested it on the table.
When he opened his eyes again, it was dark.
Palmer grunted and jerked upright in his chair, knocking the half-empty tequila bottle onto the floor. It shattered, spraying his bare feet and legs with liquid gold. The color of the tequila made him think of Lethe's eyes. And the Cocoon.
The cocoon. Time to check the cocoon.
Palmer lurched to his feet and turned to face the patio door. He always checked the cocoon at night. During the day it didn't seem necessary - but night was different. Strange things happened at night. Plus, he had to admit the cocoon was pretty once the sun went down. The weird glow that suffused it grew more intense, making it look like a piece of amber held in front of a flashlight. Sometimes he could see something moving inside the cocoon - as if someone was swimming around in there.
Palmer opened the door and stepped out onto the patio, expecting to be greeted by the cocoon's mellow glow. Instead, there was only darkness. The second thing he noticed was that its guardian was nowhere to be seen. "Fido?"
He stepped forward hesitantly, looking around for some sign of the seraph's bulky figure. Had it taken Lethe's cocoon someplace else? To a more secure hiding place? Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the dark, he saw something lying on the bricks of the patio.
At first it looked like a big, deflated balloon, the kind used by weather services. It lay there, limp and forlorn, like an octopus cast upon a shore after a storm. As he moved closer, he could make out a faint, yellowish fluorescence. He knelt and poked at the empty chrysalis. It felt like a cross between a freshly shed snakeskin and a wet blanket.
Palmer's head swiveled around drunkenly. "Lethe? Lethe - where are you, darlin'?" He struggled to get to his feet, trying his best not to black out. The adrenaline in his system was now battling the tequila for mastery, but he was too far gone to sober up fast.
"Lethe?"
The light came from above, pouring down on him as if someone had switched on a tiny sun right over his head. Palmer cringed and lifted a hand to shield his eyes. His first thought was that someone was hovering over the house in a helicopter, pointing a surveillance light down at him, like they do in Los Angeles. Then he realized that what he thought was the sound of rotors chopping the air was his own pulse hammering away inside his ears. And then the light spoke.
(Daddy.)
The light lowered its wattage, became a steady glow, and Palmer saw the thing at its heart. Its form was that of a young woman - no older than sixteen or seventeen. Her hair was long enough to braid into a rope, floating free like a mantle buffeted by gentle winds. Her skin was dusky, her eyes golden without pupil or iris. Her breasts were full, her hips wide, drawing his eye to the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. She was beautiful. She was woman. She was all women. Unbidden, Palmer felt his penis stir and grow heavy at the sight of the lovely, naked woman suspended above him like a vision of Venus. Or the Madonna.
"L-lethe?"
The glowing woman smiled and when she spoke her lips did not move. Her voice was smooth as velvet, as comforting as a cool hand on a fevered brow.
(My childhood is over. It is time for me to begin my work. I owe you much for keeping me safe - for giving me love and treating me as your own - for showing me what it is like to be human. I owe you all this - and that is why I shall make you the First.)
"First? First what?"
(Father of the coming race.)
Before Palmer could ask her what that meant, Lethe swooped down, catching him up in her arms. He was too drunk and surprised to protest, until he looked down and saw the tops of trees skimming by below his feet.
"Lethe! What the hell do you think you're-?"
He didn't finish the sentence, because Lethe placed her mouth over his, her tongue darting inside his mouth. For a moment Palmer felt himself begin to respond; then he retched and tried to push her away.
"Lethe! Stop that! I'm your father-!"
(My father was a vampire named Fell.)
"You know very well what I mean! Stop this foolishness and put me down on solid ground right this minute, young lady!"
Lethe's face filled his vision, her eyes becoming huge twin harvest moons. Palmer wanted to scream, but there was no breath inside him. The child he had raised for the better part of three years was nowhere to be found in this strange, glowing woman.
(You are the First of my Bridegrooms. The First to engage in the wedding flight. Do not fear me, William Palmer. This is your reward for your years of nurturing. You are being honored.)
Palmer shuddered as he felt his penis stiffen, responding to hormonal cues older than upright posture. He kept telling himself that it wasn't happening; that he wasn't being ravaged against his will by a glowing woman as they sped across the night sky, that he was really passed out in a pool of his own piss in the kitchen. Even as orgasm seized his body and wadded it up like a piece of old newspaper, he kept telling himself it was just a dream, nothing more.
When he woke up, it was to find himself lying in an orchard. He was naked, his safari shorts lost somewhere along the way. His head throbbed with a monstrous hangover and his crotch was sticky and smelled of sex. Palmer rolled onto his stomach and began to sob, tearing at the grass with clawing hands. Then he threw up.
There was the sound of a twig snapping, and Palmer began looking around for something to cover himself. He froze at the sight of the young native girl, a basket of fruit balanced atop her head, staring down at him. He could tell by her diminutive stature and the shape of her eyes and cheekbones that she was one of the Lancondoan - the purebred descendants of the ancient Mayan kings who had ruled the land before the arrival of the conquistadors. The girl regarded him curiously, but did not seem to be afraid or alarmed by his nakedness.
"Are you well, señor?" she asked.
Palmer began to laugh, which made the girl look at him even more oddly. "No. I am not well at all." This made him laugh even harder. Then he threw up some more.
8
She overslept somewhat and nearly missed the funeral. She made it just in time to see Shirley Thorne's casket lowered to its final rest. It was made of mahogany and shone like a burnished shield in the dying sun. A large floral tribute rested atop the coffin, clutching it like a spider. After each of the mourners tossed the traditional handful of sod into the grave, the group broke up and wandered toward the phalanxes of black limos, BMWs, and Rolls-Royces.
Sonja stood at a distance, screened from view by a weeping angel. She scanned the milling crowd, trying to spot the faces of family and friends, but to no avail. The only person she recognized was Jacob Thorne.
He looked considerably older than the last time she'd seen him, five years ago. The iron will and steely resolve that had made him a millionaire several times over had succumbed to rust. Jacob Thorne - once the mightiest industrialist this side of Howard Hughes - had become an old man. When the last mourners shook his hand and muttered their sympathies, Thorne did not move to join them in leaving the cemetery. Instead, Denise's father stood by his wife's open grave, hands clasped before him, peering down into the hole as if he could see the future in its depths. No doubt he did.
Sonja moved from her hiding place, gliding between the headstones as if maneuvering across a dance floor. She knew he was not her father. At least not the "her" that called itself Sonja. She opened her mouth to call his name, to say "Mr. Thorne"; but what came out was:
"Daddy-?"
Jacob Thorne looked up from his wife's grave. He did not looked surprised to see her. But neither did he looked pleased. His brow furrowed and his scowl deepened.
"Somehow I knew you'd be here."
"Mr. Thorne-? Is everything all right?" Thorne's chauffeur made his way toward the gravesite. He was a big man with an obvious holster bulge inside his jacket.
Thorne dismissed his bodyguard with a wave of his hand. Sonja could see it was covered with liver spots. "It's okay, Carl. I know the young lady."
She joined Thorne at the lip of the grave. It was very dark down there. And lonely.
"I - I'm sorry. Did she - did she suffer?"
Thorne shrugged, his shoulders looking thin and narrow in his suit. "In her way. But that was always Shirley's prerogative - suffering. She was designed for martyrdom. Agonizing over Denise was the one thing that kept her going." He looked at her, his eyes hard. "You killed her, you know that? Whatever it was you did to her mind that night - the night she finally accepted Denise's death - that was the beginning of the end for her. She just gave up living after that."
"Please believe me when I tell you I meant only to help her - to free her from her madness. I never intended to harm her. She - she was my mother."
Thorne's pale features suddenly grew red and he began to tremble. He pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and used it to blot his face. "The hell she was! I don't know who - or what - you are, but you are not Denise!"
"No. I am not Denise anymore. But once - a long time ago. A lifetime ago..." Sonja bent and gathered a handful of dirt. It felt damp and rich between her fingers. It struck the lid of her mother's casket with a dull thud. "Mr. Thorne, I did not ask to come into this world. Nor did Denise ask to leave it. I did not choose to be what I am."
Thorne looked at her again, the hardness leaking from his eyes. "No. I guess you didn't."
"I - I have memories now and again. Some are dim. Others are quite vivid. There is one of a birthday party - there were other children, a clown, a man giving pony rides...."
Thorne barked a laugh, sounding both surprised and pleased by the memory. "You couldn't possibly remember that! You were only two years-" He cut himself short, his hands fisting the handkerchief into a ball. "I mean, Denise was only two years old at the time."
"Your wife was wearing a dress with a Peter Pan collar and a big skirt - she was so pretty. And happy. And the birthday cake was vanilla with pink icing...”
"Why are you telling me this?" Thorne's eyes gleamed with anger and tears. His voice was tight, wavering on the verge of breakdown. "Isn't it enough I've lost my wife? Do you have to make me relive the loss of my daughter as well?"
"Mr. Thorne - there is another place beyond this world. Several, actually. Every man, woman and child holds the keys to heaven and hell within them. There are as many different paradises as there are living things. Just as there are infinite varieties of damnation. I just want you to know that your wife is happy now."
"That's what the minister said," Thorne sniffed contemptuously. "`She's in a better place, Jacob. She's beyond the pain of this world.' Hmph!"
"Mr. Thorne, would you say that I might be something of an authority on the supernatural?" Thorne looked at her oddly, as if it had never occurred to him that a vampire might actually be evidence of the existence of something beyond the worm and the tomb and the winding sheet. "Mr. Thorne, your wife is at peace. You see, heaven means different things to everyone. And for your wife - heaven was an afternoon in 1955, celebrating the birthday of her only child."
Thorne nodded his head. "Yes - yes, I can see where it would be. I - I - Oh, God-“
Tears began to run down his cheeks. No doubt they were the first real ones he'd shed since his wife died. His shoulders shook so violently he looked as if he were about to topple headlong into the open grave. "Dear God - Denise-"
He reached for her with his trembling, old-man's hand, but she was already gone.
9
By the time she got back, everything had turned to shit. She could smell a psychic taint the moment she got off the plane in Cozumel. The closer she drew to Merida, the more powerful the reek became. She had no idea what had happened during her absence, but, obviously, it had not been good.
She arrived to find the front door unlocked. She walked in, scanning for signs of life, and came up empty. The kitchen table was covered with unpaid bills, unopened mail and empty tequila bottles. Lots of tequila bottles. Sonja went out onto the patio, searching for signs of Lethe's cocoon - but all she found was something that looked like pieces of snake molt, made brittle and black from exposure to the sun.
"Lethe?" Sonja called out, looking around, half expecting her stepdaughter to come rushing from some hiding place, giggling in delight at having tricked her.
There was no answer.
"Lethe?"
Silence.
She went back into the house and headed for the nursery. She stared at the plush stuffed animals and coyly smiling rag dolls that lined the shelves and filled every corner of the room. Something behind her eyes began to pulse and ache. She could hear Shirley Thorne's voice singing "Happy Birthday To You."
Sonja waded into the sea of stuffed toys, tossing them aside as she searched for Lethe. Panic and confusion and self-loathing rose in her gut. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have walked off and left the child'. Was this how Shirley Thorne felt when she'd received the news that her daughter had disappeared? No wonder the poor woman had retreated into madness.
"Lethe, this isn't funny anymore! Come out where I can see you!" Failing to get any response with her voice, Sonja called with her mind.
(Lethe!)
"Lethe doesn't live here anymore."
Palmer stood slumped in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching her with unreadable eyes. He looked rough, but he was wearing clean clothes and was freshly shaven. Nor was he drunk. The odor of dead love came off him in waves.
He'd come up behind her without Sonja picking him up on radar. Which meant either she'd been really out of it - or he was screening himself. Probably both.
(Bill-?)
She stepped toward him and he drew back, hugging his elbows as if afraid she was going to try and touch him.
"Talk with your mouth," he rasped. "I don't want you in my head."
"What do you mean she doesn't live here anymore? Where the hell is she?"
Palmer laughed, only it sounded more like a hiccup. He hugged himself tighter. "I don't know where she is. Nor do I want to."
"What th-? Bill, we're talking about Lethe here! She's only three years old! Where the hell could she go?"
Palmer shrugged and laughed that weird laugh again.
"Palmer - dammit, what's wrong with you? Where's Lethe? She couldn't have just flown away!"
Palmer's laughter now had an edge of hysteria to it. He guffawed until he couldn't catch his breath and dropped to his knees, doubling over to cradle his heaving stomach. Sonja reached down to touch him, but he recoiled from her, shaking his head frantically as he forced himself to speak between bursts of giggling.
"Don't - touch - me-"
"Palmer, what the fuck is going on-? For the love of God, straighten up, man!" She grabbed his elbow, helping him back to his feet. He snarled and lashed out at her with his mind. Had she been a normal human, he might have crippled her, but Sonja was far from human. Palmer's attack was the same as that of an angry child, hammering at the legs of his mother with chubby fists. And Mother had had enough of it.
She pinned him to the floor with her mind as easily as she might mount a butterfly on a piece of velvet. He lay at her feet, his muscles twitching and jerking as he tried, in vain, to regain control of his body.
"I don't want to play rough, Palmer, but you're leaving me no choice. Now stand up."
