Paint It Black, page 2
part #3 of Sonja Blue Series
For those of us with more refined palates, there is the gourmet delight found in human suffering. It is to blood what crack is to table wine. However, it is not the female's pain that thrills me, delightful though it may be. It is the anguished horror of her partner, as I force his body to batter his lover's skull into an oozing mess of matted hair and bone fragments. There are no words in the mortal lexicon to describe the exhilaration and gratification I receive from such raw, unfiltered emotions.
The female is dead, or so close to death it doesn't really matter. I have the male release her and stand before a mirror mounted on the wall. As he watches, locked within his own flesh, more helpless than the day he was born,
I command his hands to snap the nostril holes of his mask shut. Then I zipper the mouth shut.
I feel panic swell within him as he realizes what I plan to do. The screaming inside his skull doubles in intensity as I seal first the right eye, then the left, leaving him to darkness.
Even after everything is sealed, the mask is far from airtight. It takes the male over half an hour to suffocate. I sit in my chair and watch, savoring the alternating surges of fear, terror, rage and despair, as the dying human first realizes and then rejects his fate. His last cogent thought is that the police will kick open the door and rescue him in the nick of time, just like on TV. Then he dies.
I frown at the dead man's body, then at the battered corpse of the female, still tethered to the radiator pipe. I had hoped this would be enough, but it is not. I close my eyes, trying to block her image from my mind, but to no avail.
I can still see her. Something in my chest aches, reminding me of my emptiness.
* * * * *
Dawn is close at hand, but I do not fear the intrusion of its rosy fingers, here in the mirrored security of my Rolls. I am not a lowly revenant, scuttling from the sun's rays for fear of being reduced to a pile of oozing sores. I evolved past such worries decades before the invention of the steam engine.
My powers are somewhat diminished during the daylight hours, that is true. And, like all of my kind, I find it necessary to lapse into a deathlike "sleep" in order to restore my vitality and heal wounds dealt me in combat. But I am far from helpless, as the legends would have humans believe.
My driver cruises the streets of the Lower East Side. He asks me if I have a destination in mind - I almost give him an address of a low dive in Five Points, then I remember that the neighborhood was demolished close to a century ago. Too bad. A brothel in that area, operated for and by children, often provided me with great amusement in the past. Instead, I direct him to Allen Street.
The whores who ply their trade along this particular boulevard are, at best, careworn. Most of them are crack addicts or junkies, the ravages of their addictions obvious even to the most obtuse of human gazes. Even if I were prone to the human sexual urge, I would never dream of mating with one of these horrors. They are rarely beautiful, and often they aren't even women. But they are expendable and when one disappears no one notices. That is what I find the most attractive about them.
I see what I need and I order the driver to stop the car. A small knot of whores stand in a doorway, fidgeting expectantly as they eye the Rolls. The night must have been slow - or their drug consumption immense - if they are still loitering on the streets this close to daybreak. One of them, a bottle redhead dressed in a polyester miniskirt that reveals her unwashed legs almost to her crotch, saunters forward as I power down the window.
"Lookin' for someone, mister?" she coos, her breath redolent of gum disease, as she bends down to look into the interior of the car. When she smiles, I see that she is missing most of her lower teeth.
I say nothing, stabbing a finger over her shoulder to one of the girls standing behind her. She is tall, with dark hair and high, vaguely Indian cheekbones. She is too thin and too dirty, dressed in high-cut denim shorts and a halter top, but she will do for now.
The redheaded whore swears and moves out of the way to let the other girl by. I open the door and she hops in with an excited squeal that could almost pass for delight. The Rolls is already pulling away before the door closes, but not before I have reached inside the tiny, crabbed minds of my victim's compatriots, erasing any memories they might hold of either me or the car.
"My name's Cheryl," the whore says, rubbing the front of my pants with all the finesse and speed of a Girl Scout trying to make a fire without the aid of matches. When I look at her I can see the virus gestating within her, eating away at the T -cells in her blood.
I slap her hands away and I see a flare of fear spark in her eyes as she gets her first good look at my face. I reach inside my jacket and produce a roll of twenty-dollar bills the size of an infant's doubled fist. The whore's eyes widen and she licks her lower lip.
"Do you want this?"
"Yeah. `Course I want it. What I gotta do t'get it?"
"Nothing much. All you have to do is come home with me and play a little game."
"What kinda game?" She bites her lower lip but does not move her eyes away from the money.
"Dress-up."
* * * * *
My renfields have the costume laid out in anticipation of our return. I lead the whore into a large room, empty except for a marble table lit from below by a mauve light.
The whore frowns down at the leather jacket, stained t-shirt, ripped jeans, and scuffed engineer boots, obviously perplexed. She had, no doubt, been expecting something far more exotic.
"Is this it? Is this what you want me to wear?"
I say nothing, but simply smile. She shrugs and peels out of her working clothes. The room is cold and I watch with detached interest as her flesh creeps and her nipples harden. She is awkward and it takes her a few minutes to complete the change. Finally she shrugs into the leather jacket, which creaks with her every movement.
"So, do I look okay? Is there anything else?" she asks, holding her arms up and out, modeling the costume for me
"Just two things. You'll find them in the interior breast pocket of the jacket."
The whore sticks her hand inside the jacket and removes the items, looking puzzled. "A pair of mirrored sunglasses and a switchblade–?"
"Put them on. Put them on now." The excitement is starting to stir within me, and the words come out as a breathy whisper.
The whore is confused, perhaps even a little bit frightened, but she is unwilling to forfeit the money I promised her. She puts on the glasses.
She is dirty and smells of rank jism and vaginal secretions. Her hair is too long and oily. Her motions tack grace and suppleness. But there is a resemblance, tenuous as it may be, and that is enough. She is not the one I want, but she will do for now.
I move closer to the whore, my arousal growing acute as the image of the one I want shimmers behind my eyes.
"Show me the knife." It is all I can do to keep the shiver out of my voice.
"What?"
"The knife! Show me the blade!"
"Huh?"
"Just do it!" I snap, grabbing the girl by her shoulders. Not too tightly, but roughly enough to reawaken the fear.
The blade leaps from its hilt like a minnow darting through shallow water. The whore holds the knife cautiously, but not without some familiarity, I notice. Perhaps she and the object of my desire are not so disparate after all. "Now what?"
"Stab me."
"What? Are you fuckin' crazy?" The fear recedes, replaced by indignation. This is kinkier than she had bargained for. She'd figured me for some deformed pervert, one who wanted to be pissed on or made to roll around in her shit. But this was too much. Even Allen Street whores, apparently, have their limits.
"Stab me!"
I have lost all patience with this trollop. If she will not give me what I want, then I shall use force. I grab her by the throat and her eyes bug out as she realizes I mean business.
She raises her hand. I catch a glimpse of metal as her fist smashes into my chest. There is a cold sharpness as the blade enters me. I continue to squeeze her throat. Again she stabs me. And again. Blood spurts from my wound, spattering both her face and mine. I close my eyes in order to savor the illusion that it is not she, but my beloved who is ramming the knife into my heart again and again. The fear that radiates from her as I slowly choke the life from her is among the best I have experienced in recent years. I groan in ecstasy as I hold her death-cry in the palm of my hand.
I open my eyes, half expecting to see my love's face before me, contorted in death. Instead, all there is is a dead whore, her blackened, swollen tongue protruding lewdly between painted lips. The sunglasses have come loose during her struggle, dangling by one ear. The dead whore's eyes - filled with burst blood vessels - start from their sockets like those of a grotesque insect. Disgusted, I let the corpse drop.
I realize that the switchblade is still lodged in my chest. I stare down at the hilt protruding between my ribs. My white silk shirt is now the color of port wine. Chuckling to myself, I pull the knife free.
I close my eyes again and see my love moving like a panther tracking its prey, her eyes burning in the darkness. She wants me. Passion radiates from her like a dark halo. But what she lusts after is not my touch, my kiss, my seed. No, what she desires is my death.
When I look into her mirrored eyes I know fear and joy. So beautiful. So deadly.
I stand in awe of her: my lovely, lethal masterpiece.
Is this how Pygmalion felt when his Galatea stepped from her pedestal? Granted, he did not have to worry about his creation chasing him about the studio, armed with a hammer and chisel, bent on his murder. And she came close, so very close, to killing me the last time we were together. I have suffered countless mutilations during my seven centuries of existence, including amputation, but I shall carry the wounds she dealt me forever.
She split my face open with a silver knife. And I loved it.
I touch the scar that pulls the right side of my face into a rictus and think of my fatal beauty. I close my remaining eye and see her standing there, naked except for the mantle of power that crackles about her like foxfire, and the scar over my heart puckers.
Gods of the Outer Dark: help me.
I love her.
And that is why I must destroy her. Again. And again. And again. Until I am certain I can bring myself to do the deed for real.
- from the journals of Sir Morgan, Lord of the Morning Star
2
William Palmer woke the same way a swimmer emerges from the sea: gasping for air.
He lay flat on the bed, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling for n long moment before really seeing it, while the last vestiges of the dream bled away from the corners of his eyes.
Dream. Thank God. Just a dream.
He'd being dreaming of the house again. The house called Ghost Trap. It had been built earlier in the century by a gifted, if demented, architect who had designed it to keep him safe from the vengeful spirits of his slaughtered family. The mansion was a crazed conglomeration of rooms without windows, blind stairways, secret passageways and other mad fancies, built according to non-Euclidean geometric principles that confused and disoriented both the dead and the living. For someone such as Palmer, possessing psionic abilities beyond those of normal humans, Ghost Trap was the psychic equivalent of the LaBrea Tar Pits.
Nearly three years ago, Palmer had found himself lost in Ghost Trap, at the mercy of the dead that roamed its halls. He'd entered in search of his friend and lover, Sonja Blue: the woman who had helped him learn to deal with his psychic powers - and who had dragged him into her battle with the master vampire, Morgan.
He'd survived that night in Ghost Trap - but just barely. He'd lived to see the horror-house consumed by flames, releasing its damned occupants once and for all. Ghost Trap was no more, Yet it still lived within his mind, playing host to his nightmares.
Palmer stared up at the ceiling fan mounted over the bed, watching the rotors beat the heavy, humid air in near silence. No doubt the stickiness and heat had contributed to his bad dream. It was too uncomfortable to be sleeping inside, really, but the mosquitoes were too fierce this season for him to try using the hammock on the front porch.
He sat up, pushing aside the sweat-drenched sheets. He wasn't going to get back to sleep - at least not for awhile, anyway. He swung his feet onto the floor and stood up with a groan, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror opposite the bed. He ran one hand across the ritual tattoo that covered his entire chest. It was of Mayan design, as were the jade plugs that stretched his earlobes. It depicted the symbol of the House of the Jaguar Lords.
Palmer didn't believe in past-life regression therapy, channeling, Space Brothers, or any of that other New Age crap. It just happened that he was the reincarnation of a pre-Columbian Mayan. In a previous life, he had been one of the six-fingered wizard-kings of the Chan Balam, who saw their deformity as a sign of godhood. He was also an ex-private investigator, a pardoned felon, a telepath, and the proprietor of a successful specialty export business.
Palmer moved toward the hallway, only to freeze when something the size and shape of a large tarantula skittered out from behind the door. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw what it really was - a mummified six-fingered hand, amputated at the wrist.
"Dammit, Lefty! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Palmer chided, nudging the thing with his foot. He'd grown fond of the gruesome relic over the months. It really wasn't so surprising that he should develop an attachment to it. After all, it had once belonged to his previous incarnation.
Palmer padded down the hallway, naked except for a pair of boxers, Lefty skittering after him like a faithful pet. He paused at the nursery, quietly opening the door so as not to wake Lethe.
I really should stop calling it the nursery, he thought to himself, not for the first time. She's really too old for that.
It took him a second or two to locate her amid all the stuffed animals and dolls she had in bed with her, but then he spotted her hair - as dark and sleek as a sable's pelt - poking out from between a Raggedy Ann and a Paddington Bear. As he watched, she mumbled something in her sleep.
He was going to have to get her some new clothes pretty soon. She'd already outgrown the ones he'd bought less than a month ago, having shot up another three inches literally overnight. Palmer's eyes wandered to the closet door he used as Lethe's official growth chart, scanning the series of overlapping pencil marks and their accompanying notations as to date and age. As of her last measuring, Lethe stood close to five foot one. Not bad for a child who had yet to reach her third birthday.
One of the shadows near the foot of Lethe's bed detached itself and moved toward Palmer. Two points of golden light, set about the height of a man's eves, suddenly blinked on.
"Don't worry, Fido. Nothing's wrong. I was just checkin' in," Palmer whispered.
The hulking apparition, which resembled a mound of dirty laundry sculpted into the form of a human being, nodded dumbly and returned to its silent vigil. During the two-and-a-half years Palmer had spent in the company of the seraph, he still had no idea what the creature thought - or if it thought at all. While it was obviously appointed to guard Lethe, it had never once attempted to communicate with him - at least on a level that he could understand.
Satisfied everything was under control, Palmer continued his nocturnal perimeter check. He paused at the door that led to the patio, with its expensive Spanish tile and a small three-tiered fountain that constantly burbled to itself.
Palmer stepped outside; the humid Yucatan night was no relief. It felt as if the world's largest dog were breathing on him. Palmer wiped at the sweat on his brow and upper lip as he peered up at the moonlit sky.
Where are you? his mind whispered into the night.
The sound of a radio scanning through a thousand different competing signals filled his head. Some were fairly strong, others weak. Some were in languages he understood; most were not. Some were angry, some were sad, some were happy - but most were confused. The signals blurred and clashed, waxed and waned.
Where are you? He boosted his own signal, hoping to cut through the drift of muted voices that filled the ether. This time he was rewarded with a response - a voice made faint and blurry by distance, but still recognizable.
I'm here. In New Orleans.
He smiled at the sound of her voice in his head; even though she was not there to see it, he knew she felt it.
When are you coming home?
Soon. But I still have work to attend to here. I miss you.
I miss you, too. She smiled then. He could feel it. Any luck?
No sign of him yet, but I have a few hunches as to where he might be hiding. How is Lethe?
Fine. I guess.
Glad to hear everything's okay. I have to go now –
Sonja-? Sonja, we need to talk ...Sonja?
There was no reply, only the squawk and squelch of the minds of a million strangers babbling into the void.
3
I have to give the dead boy credit; he has the trick of appearing human nailed down tight. He's learned just what gestures and vocal inflections hide the fact that his surface glitz isn't there to disguise basic shallowness, but an utter lack of humanity.
I've seen enough of the kind he imitates: pallid, self-important intellectuals who pride themselves on their sophistication and knowledge of what's "hip," sharpening their wit at the expense of others. Like the vampiric mimic in their midst, they produce nothing while thriving on the vitality of others. The only difference is that the vampire is more honest about it.
I work my way to the bar, careful to keep myself shielded from the dead boy's view, both physically and psychically. It wouldn't do for my quarry to catch scent of me just yet. I hear the vampire's nasal intonations as it holds forth on the merits of various artists.
"Frankly, I consider his use of photo-montage to be inexcusably banal - I've seen better at Olan Mills!"
