Paint It Black, page 4
part #3 of Sonja Blue Series
Judd pokes at his iced coffee with a straw. "If I'm not getting too personal - what was last night all about?"
I study my hands as I speak. "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 poking into 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 - is there someone else?"
"Yes. Yes, there is."
"A husband.'"
I have to think about that one for a few seconds before answering. "In some ways. But, no; I'm not legally married."
Judd nods as if this explains something. It is obvious that some of what I've said bothers him, but he tries to play it cool. I wonder what it is like, living a life where the worst things you have to deal with are jealous lovers and hurt feelings. It seems almost idyllic from where I am.
After we finish our iced coffees, we hit the Quarter. It is after midnight, and the lower sector of Decatur Street, the portion located in the French Market, is starting to wake up. The streets outside the bars are decorated with clots of young people dressed in black leather, sequins, and recycled `70s rags. The hipsters mill about, flashing their tattoos and bumming cigarettes off one another, as they wait for something to happen.
Someone calls Judd's name and he swerves across the street toward a knot of youths lounging outside a dance bar called the Crystal Blue Persuasion. I hesitate before following him.
A young man dressed in a black duster, his shoulder-length hair braided into three pigtails and held in place by ivory beads carved in the shapes of skulls, moves forward to greet Judd.
Out of habit, I scan his face for Pretender taint. Human. While the two speak, I casually examine the rest of the group loitering outside the club. Human. Human. Human. Hu -
I freeze.
The smell of vargr is strong, like the stink of a wet dog. It radiates from a young man with a shaved forehead like that of an ancient samurai. The hair at the back of his head is extremely long and held in a loose ponytail, making him look like a punker Mandarin. He wears a leather jacket, the sleeves of which look as if they've been chewed off at the shoulder, trailing streamers of mangled leather and lining like gristle. He has one arm draped over the shoulder of a little goth chick, her face made deathly pale by powder.
The vargr meets my gaze and holds it, grinning his contempt. Without realizing it, my hand closes around the switchblade.
"I'd like you to meet a friend of mine-"
Judd's hand is on my elbow, drawing my attention away from the teenage werewolf. I struggle to keep the disorientation of having my focus broken from showing in my temper.
"Huh?"
"Sonja, I'd like you to meet Arlo, he's an old buddy of mine...."
Arlo frowns at me as if I've just emerged from under a rock, but offers his hand in deference to his friend. "Pleased to meet you," he mumbles.
"Yeah. Sure."
I shoot a sidewise glance at the vargr twelve feet away. He is murmuring something into the goth girl's ear. She giggles and nods her head, and the two break away from the rest of the group, sauntering down the street in the direction of the river. The vargr pauses to give me 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 grinning hell-hound's going to do with that girl. You can't offend loverboy here by running off to do hand-to-hand combat with a werewolf, can you?
"Shut the fuck up, damn you," I mutter under my breath.
"You say something, Sonja?"
"Just talking to myself."
After leaving Arlo and his friends, we head farther down Decatur. This is a part of the French Quarter that few tourists wander into after dark, populated by gay bars and less wholesome establishments.
As we pass the Monastery, a seedy bar that caters to the late-night hardcore alcoholic trade, someone's mind calls my name.
A black man, his hair plaited into dreadlocks, steps from the doorway of the Monastery. He wears a black turtleneck sweater and immaculate designer jeans; a golden peace sign the size of a hood ornament dangles from a chain around his neck.
"Long time no see, Blue."
"Hello, Mal."
The demon Malfeis smiles, exposing teeth that belong 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...."
Just then the demon notices Judd. "Got yourself a new renfield, I see."
"Shut up!" I hiss, my aura crackling like an electric halo.
Mal lifts his hands, palms outward. "Whoa! Didn't mean to hit a sore spot there, girly-girl."
"Sonja? Is this guy bothering you?" Judd is hovering at my elbow. He gives Mal a suspicious glare, blind to the demon's true appearance.
"No. Everything's cool." I turn my back on the grinning demon and try to block the sound of his laughter echoing in my mind.
"Who was that guy?"
"Judd-"
"I know! I promised I wouldn't pry into your past. But you can't expect me to just stand by and not say something-?"
"Mal is a - business associate of mine. That's all you need to know about him, except that, no matter what, never ask him a question. Never."
We walk on in silence for a few more minutes, then Judd takes my hand in his and squeezes it. We stop at the corner and he pulls me into his arms. His kiss is warm and probing and I feel myself begin to relax. Then he reaches for my sunglasses.
I bat his hand away, fighting the urge to snarl. "Don't do that!"
"I just want to see your eyes."
"No." I pull away from him, my body rigid.
"I'm sorry-"
"I better leave. I had a nice time, Judd. I really did. But I have to go."
"You'll call me, won't you?"
"I'm afraid so."
* * * * *
Why don't you fuck him? He wants it bad. So do you. You can't hide that from me.
The Other's voice is a nettle wedged into the folds of my brain, impossible to dislodge or ignore. I open the refrigerator and take out a bottle of whole blood, cracking its seal open as I would a beer.
Not that bottled crap again! I hate this 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 still plenty of time to go trawling before the sun comes up.... Or you could always pay a visit to loverboy.
"Shut up! I've had a bellyful of you tonight already!"
My-my! Aren't we being the 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 yourself. Why torture yourself by pretending you're something you're not simply to win the favor of a piece of beefsteak?
"He likes me, dammit. He actually likes me."
And what, exactly, are you?
"I'm not in the mood for your fuckin' mind-games!"
Welcome to the fold, my dear. You're finally one of us. You're a Pretender.
I shriek and hurl the half-finished bottle of blood into the sink. I pick up the card table and smash it to the floor, jumping up and down on the scattered pieces. It's a stupid, pointless gesture, but it makes me feel better.
* * * * *
I keep calling him. I know it's stupid, even dangerous, to socialize with humans, but I can't help myself. Something about him keeps drawing me back, despite my better judgment. The only other time I've known such compulsion is when the Thirst is on me. Is this love? Or is it simply another form of hunger? Our relationship, while charged with an undercurrent of eroticism, is essentially sexless. I want him so badly I dare not do more than kiss or hold hands. If I should lose control, there is no telling what might happen.
Judd, unlike Palmer, is not a sensitive. He is a human, blind and dumb to the miracles and terrors of the Real World, just like poor, doomed Claude Hagerty was. Rapid exposure to the world I inhabit could inflict immense damage.
To his credit, Judd has not pressed the sex issue overmuch. He is not happy with the arrangement, but honors my request that we "take it slow."
This, however, does not sit well with the Other. It constantly taunts me, goading me with obscene fantasies and suggestions concerning Judd. Or, failing to elicit a response using those tactics, it chastises me for being untrue to Palmer. I try to ignore its jibes as best I can, but I know that something, somewhere is bound to snap.
– from the diaries of Sonja Blue
* * * * *
Kitty wiped at the tears oozing from the corner of her eye, smearing mascara all over her cheek and the back of her hand. It made the words on the paper swim and crawl like insects, but she didn't care.
She loved him. She really, truly loved him. And maybe now, after she did what she had to do to save him, he'd finally believe her. Proof. He needed proof of her love. And what better proof than to rescue him from the clutches of a monster?
Dearest Judd,
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 her for what she truly is the moment I first saw her, and she knew I knew! Her hands and mouth drip blood! Her eyes burn with the fires of Hell! She is surrounded by a cloud of red energy. Red as blood. She means to drag you to Hell, Judd. But I won't let her. I love you too much to let that happen. I'll take care of this horrible monster, don't you worry. I've been talking to God a lot lately, and He told me how to deal with demons like her. I Love you so very, very much. I want you to Love me too. I'm doing this all for you.
Please Love Me.
Kitty
* * * * *
Judd woke up at two in the afternoon, as usual. He worked six-to-midnight four days out of the week and had long since shifted over to a nocturnal lifestyle. After he got off work he normally headed down to the Quarter to chill with his buddies or, more recently, hang out with Sonja until four or five in the morning.
He yawned as he dumped a couple of heaping scoops of Guatemalan into the hopper of his Mr. Coffee machine. Sonja. Now there was a weird chick. Weird, but not in a schizzy, death-obsessed, art-school-freshman way like Kitty. Her strangeness issued from something far deeper than bourgeois neurosis. Sonja was genuinely out there, wherever that might be. Something about the way she moved, the way she handled herself, 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 - not even Arlo, whom he'd known since high school - liked her. 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 an envelope shoved under his front door. He retrieved it, scowling at the all-too-familiar handwriting.
Kitty.
Probably another one of her damn fool love letters, alternately threatening him with castration and begging him to take her back. Lately she'd taken to leaving rambling, wigged-out messages on his answering machine, ranting about Sonja being some kind of vampire out to steal his soul. Crazy bitch. Sonja was crazy, too, but hardly predictable.
Judd tossed the envelope, unopened, into the trash can and staggered off to take a shower.
* * * * *
I greet the night from atop the roof of the warehouse where I make my nest. I stretch my arms wide as if to embrace the rising moon, listening with half an ear to the sound of the baying dogs along the riverbanks. Some, I know, are not dogs.
But the vargr are not my concern. I've tangled with a few over the years, but I prefer hunting my own kind. I find it vastly more satisfying.
The warehouse's exterior fire escape is badly rusted and groans noisily with the slightest movement, so I avoid it altogether. I crawl, headfirst, down the side of the building, moving like a lizard on a garden wall. Once I reach the bottom I routinely pat-check my jacket and pockets to make sure nothing has fallen out during my descent.
There is a sudden hissing sound in my head, as if someone has abruptly pumped up the volume on a radio tuned to a dead channel, and something heavy catches me between the shoulder blades, lifting me off my feet and knocking me into a row of garbage cans.
I barely have time to roll out of the way before something big and silvery smashes down where my head was a second before. I cough and black blood flies from my lips; a rib has broken off and pierced my lungs.
Kitty stands over me, clutching a three-foot-long silver crucifix as if it were a baseball bat. While her madness gives her strength, it is obvious the damn thing is still heavy. I wonder which church she managed to steal it from.
The dead channel-crackling in my head grows louder. It is the sound of homicidal rage. Shrieking incoherently, Kitty swings at me a third time. While crosses and crucifixes have no effect on me - or any vampire, for that matter - if Kitty succeeds in landing a lucky blow mid snaps my spine or cracks open my skull, I'm dead no matter what.
I roll clear and get to my feet in one swift, fluid motion. Kitty swings at me again, but this tine I step inside her reach and grab the crucifix, wresting it from her. The crucifix is at least three inches thick, the cross beams as wide as a man's hand. At its center hangs a miniature Christ fashioned of gold and platinum. Kitty staggers back, staring in disbelief as I heft the heavy silver cross. She waits for my hands to burst into flames.
"What the hell did you think you were going to solve, clobbering me with this piece of junk?" I snarl.
Kitty's eyes are huge, the pupils swimming in madness. "You can't have him! I won't let you take his soul!"
"Who said anything about me stealing-“
"Monster!" Kitty launches herself at me, her fingers clawing at my face. "Monster!"
I hit her with the crucifix.
Kitty drops to the alley floor, the top of her skull resting on her left shoulder. The muscles of her neck are the only things still holding her head onto her body.
Way to go, kiddo! You just killed loverboy's bug-shit ex-girlfriend! You're batting a thousand!
"Damn."
I toss the crucifix aside and squat next to the body. No need to check for vital signs. The girl is d-e-a-d.
What to do? I can't just toss the corpse in a dumpster. Someone is hound to find it, and once the body is identified, New Orleans Homicide will no doubt bring Judd in for questioning. Which means they'll be looking for me, sooner or later. And I can't have that.
I've got an idea, croons the Other. Just let me handle it.
* * * * *
Stealing the car is easy. It's a `76 Ford LTD with a muffler held in place with baling wire, sporting a Duke for Governor sticker on the sagging rear bumper. Just the thing to unobtrusively dispose of a murder victim in New Orleans' outlying bayous during the dead of night.
I take an exit off the interstate leading out of New Orleans East. Originally it was to have connected a cookie-cutter housing development, built on the very fringes of the marshlands, to the rest of the world. The contractors got as far as pouring the concrete slab foundations before the recession hit. The condos were never built, but the access road remains, although there is nothing at its end but an overgrown tangle of briars and vines that has become a breeding ground for snakes and alligators.
I drive without lights. Not that I need them. I can see just fine in the dark. Having reached my destination, I cut the engine and roll to a stop. Except for the chirring of frogs and the grunting of gators, everything is quiet.
I climb out of the car and open the trunk with a length of bent coat hanger. I stand for a second, silently inventorying the collection of plastic trash bags. There are six: one for the head, one for the torso, and one apiece for each limb. I've already burned Kitty's clothing in the warehouse's furnace and disposed of her jewelry and teeth by tossing them into the river.
I gather up the bags and leave the road, heading in the direction of the bayou. I can hear things splashing in the water, some of them quite large.
I pause for a second on the bank of the bayou. Something nearby hisses. I toss the bag containing Kitty's head into the murky water.
"Come and get it!"
The assembled gators splash and wrestle among themselves for the tender morsels, like ducks fighting for scraps of stale bread.
I am tired. Very tired. After this is over I still have to drive the stolen car to a suitably disreputable urban area and set it on fire. I look down at my hands. They are streaked with blood. I absentmindedly lick them clean.
When I am finished, the Other looks through my eyes and smiles. The Other isn't tired. Not in the least.
- from the diaries of Sonja Blue
* * * * *
It hadn't been a very good night, as far as Judd was concerned. He'd been chewed out concerning his attitude at work; Arlo and the others treated him like he had a championship case of halitosis; and, to cap the evening, Sonja pulled a no-show. Time to pack it in.
It was four in the morning by the time he got home. He was in such a piss-poor mood he didn't even bother to turn on the lights.
His answering machine, for once, didn't have one of Kitty's bizarro messages on it. Nothing from Sonja, either. He grunted as he removed his shirt. Was she mad at him? Did he say or do something the last time they were together that ticked her off? It was hard to figure out her moods, since she refused to take off those damn mirrored sunglasses.
Judd wondered, not for the first time, how she could navigate in the dark so well while wearing those fuckers.
Something moved at the corner of his eye. It was the curtain covering the window that faced the alley. Judd frowned as he moved to close the window. Funny, he didn't remember leaving the window open...
She stepped out of the shadows, greeting him with a smile, displaying teeth that were much too sharp. She could smell the adrenaline coursing through him as his system jerked itself into overdrive. He was about to yell for help; then he recognized her. Or thought he did.
