Paint it black, p.18
Paint It Black, page 18
part #3 of Sonja Blue Series
This afternoon the only people in the restaurant besides the owner, his wife and the kitchen staff were Wretched Fly's bodyguards, Bing Yan and Zhong Ming. Both were young, energetic, stupid, and sadistic. No doubt they would go far in the gang. Out of habit, Wretched Fly scanned the minds of those around him. No one was thinking anything dangerous to him. And some, such as his bodyguards, were not even thinking at all. Good. That suited Wretched Fly just fine.
Then the elevator doors pinged open and a cloud of hate as thick as a swarm of angry hornets boiled into the room.
Sonja Blue stepped out of the elevator into the main dining room of the Black Lotus Restaurant. Despite the intense hatred radiating from her, her physical manner was quite nonchalant - almost insulting. Her hands were in the pockets of her leather jacket, her shoulders slumped. The owner of the restaurant, dressed in a suit and bowtie, stepped forward, smiling nervously and clutching a menu as if it were a shield.
"Yes? One for dinner? Smoking?"
Sonja shook her head and pointed at Wretched Fly. "No thanks. I'm here to see that man sitting over there."
The owner's smile faltered and his eyes flickered in the direction of Wretched Fly. "That not possible."
Sonja slid past the owner as if he didn't exist. Bing Yan and Zhong Ming moved to block her path. They were dressed in cheaper, less fashionable versions of their headman's suit, which did little to disguise the bulges made by their shoulder holsters. Bing Yan wore wrap-around sunglasses, while Zhong Ming chewed an ivory toothpick.
"You go now. This not your place," said Bing Yan, who was the more proficient in English. "You stay, you get hurt maybe yes."
Sonja stroked her chin and nodded to herself, as if weighing the wisdom of the thug's words. "You know - you've got a point there, buddy." She began to turn, as if she'd thought better of her actions. Bing Yan and Zhong Ming exchanged knowing smirks.
Sonja's fist caught Zhong Ming in the side of the head, sending the ivory toothpick in his mouth lying across the room, accompanied by a shower of teeth and blood. Bing Yan caught a spray of his friend's blood in the face and cried out in alarm and disgust, wiping at his eyes with one hand while going for his gun with the other. To his surprise, his holster was empty. Then he saw his gun in the hand of the strange woman.
"Lost something, laughing boy?" Sonja asked as she slammed the butt of the gun directly between Bing Yan's eyebrows, dropping him like an ox. The owner's wife came out from behind the register, screaming hoarsely into her hands, her eyes starting from her head. The owner held her by the shoulders, his eyes fixed on Sonja. He was too frightened to be anything but concerned for his wife.
"Get out of here!" she told them. They stared at her, their English destroyed by their terror. She repeated herself, this time in Cantonese, and they bolted into the kitchen.
Zhong Ming was still crawling on the floor, spitting up pieces of molar and bicuspid like they were mah jong; tiles. As Sonja moved toward Wretched Fly's table he clawed frantically at his shoulder holster. The steel tip of Sonja's right boot caught him in the side, lifting him off the carpet and filling his lungs with broken ribs.
Wretched Fly did not stand to greet her, but nodded his head in acknowledgment. "So. We meet again, halfling."
"I see you remember me."
"One does not forget being maimed," he said, lifting a hand to caress the velvet of his eyepatch.
"You know why I'm here, Wretched Fly."
"I will not tell you where he is - even if he demanded it himself. But please, be seated, Ms. Blue-" He gestured to the chair opposite him.
Sonja sat down, never taking her eyes off him. "You would disobey him? You have changed, haven't you?"
"My loyalty is without end. It is because of this that I would keep you from him."
"You must not have much faith in your master's power if you fear a `halfling' such as myself."
Wretched Fly's remaining eye flashed angrily. "You wounded my master. You ruined that which was without flaw. But I must share the blame - for if I had succeeded in killing you that night in San Francisco, my master would never have been harmed. My punishment for failing was being blinded."
"Let's get to it, then."
Wretched Fly placed his hands, palms downward, against the table. Sonja did the same. And the battle began.
* * * * *
She was standing in the middle of a Chinese watercolor, the kind found on calendars. In the distance were hazy mountains, green blobs against a pale blue sky. There was the suggestion of a waterfall, the artful representation of bamboo - but none of it was real. It was a clever approximation of place - nothing more than stage dressing. Sonja knew that they were in the no-man's land known as the Place Between Places - the limbo where all psychic rattles were fought.
There was the sound of silk banners snapping in a high wind, and something hurtled down out of the painted sky, knocking her to her knees. A bolt of pain shot through her right arm, and Sonja stared at the hole ripped in the right sleeve of her leather jacket. Blood welled up from deep scratches scoring her flesh. Although she was not physically harmed, she knew all too well that wounds dealt and suffered during psychic combat were all too real, in their own way.
She looked up and saw her attacker framed against the sun, fluttering like a kite. An Oriental storm-dragon grinned down at her. Thunder clouds poured from its flared nostrils, giving the illusion that it was wearing mustaches. Its razor-sharp talons glistened with her blood.
The storm-dragon spoke to her, and its voice was that of Wretched Fly. (You are strong, halfling. I give you that. But you lack finesse. You are like a child, destroying what it doesn’t like. In this word, I am the one who is to be feared - not you.)
As if to prove the point, the storm-dragon went into a power dive, extending its claws like landing gear. Sonja tried to run, but it was no use - the dragon was too fast. It caught her from behind, snatching her up like a hawk would a rabbit. Wretched Fly's imago tightened its grip, sending talons deep into her belly and back. Sonja kicked and hammered her fists against the dragon's claws, coughing blood as she cursed Wretched Fly at the top of her lungs.
(It ends now. You have caused my master much trouble, halfling. With you dead, Morgan will be as he once was. His love will be mine, and mine alone, as is my right.)
Sonja opened her mouth and Wretched Fly wondered if she thought to beg for mercy. He hoped so. He would like it if she begged. But as her mouth continued to stretch, growing wider than it ever could in the world of flesh, he glimpsed three pairs of eyes staring at him from inside her. A three-headed tiger with the tail of a scorpion leapt from the vampire's mouth, roaring in angry chorus.
While Wretched Fly was expecting trickery, he was unprepared for the horrible rush of recognition that came when he saw the chimera. Although it had been vomited up by the halfling, the beast was Morgan's. It was more than a familiar of the vampire lord - it was an actual piece of him. And Wretched Fly had been conditioned from birth never to raise his hand against his master- no matter what the Situation.
Sparks flew from the chimera's multiple Mouths and its roar was that of swords striking shields. Wretched Fly screamed as the chimera's venomous tail delivered several stings to his dragon-body in rapid succession. The stormdragon flickered, became transparent, revealing Wretched Fly coiled within its belly. The chimera pounced on the cowering psychic, sinking its fangs deep into his neck and worrying him as a farm cat would a field mouse.
When it was finished, the chimera returned to Sonja and rubbed its left head against her thigh, purring like a bus left in low gear. Sonja stroked its middle head and wiped the blood from the right head's muzzle.
"Good kitties."
* * * * *
When she opened her eyes she found Wretched Fly lying face down on the table, blood seeping from his ears, nose, and remaining eye. Wretched Fly had been a worthy opponent. She couldn't deny him that. And he had, indeed, proved himself loyal to his master. She still had no clue as to Morgan's whereabouts in the city. Abstractedly, she noticed that all the fish in the wall tank were dead or dying as well. She watched a two-foot-long dogfish thrash out its final agonies, then go still, drifting in the captive current. She pushed back her chair and stood on wobbly feet, scanning the room.
The owner stood framed in the door of the kitchen, watching her the way she imagined the first mammals must have watched the tyrannosaurs as they thundered by. He eased out from behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen, staring in horrified silence at the bodies littering his dining room. When he turned to look at Sonja, she fixed his mind in place as neatly as she would a butterfly with a hat pin.
"The On Leong did this," she told him in Cantonese. "Retaliation against the Bot Fun Guey for muscling in on their territory."
The owner nodded his head, his voice sounding as if it were coming from miles away. "Tong war. Such things happen all the time."
The owner blinked and shook his head to clear it. Horrible. So horrible. He hurried back into the kitchen to check on his wife and his cooks, who were hiding near the freezer unit. He needed to call 911 and report what had happened, but first he had to calm down his wife, who was babbling about a demon-woman with mirrors for eyes. His wife was not yet accustomed to the ways of the Americans. It wouldn't do to have her babbling about demons while the police were investigating a gang hit.
16
Jen sat astride one of the lions guarding the central branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, grinning like a demented bareback rider. It was close to midnight and the library had long since closed its doors.
"I got your message, Jen. What do you want?"
"I heard about Wretched Fly. Impressive, milady. Truly impressive."
“So?“
Jen mock-pouted and leaned forward, resting his chin atop the lion's chiseled mane. "My, you are unsociable. You really must brush up on your small talk, milady. A little chit-chat now and again never hurts. Besides, I meant what I said. I'm genuinely impressed. I always found Wretched Fly a particularly loathsome specimen - always pretending he was better than the other renfields because he could control his telepathy without the benefit of drugs."
"Is there some point to this? Or did you summon me here simply to praise my disposal of a one-eyed psychic?"
Jen sighed, reached into his overcoat and pulled out a single, long-stemmed black rose and a sealed envelope, which he tossed at her feet. "I was told to deliver these to you."
"Is this Luxor's doing?"
"I have more than one employer-when it suits my needs," Jen replied, and without further comment jumped off the back of the lion and vanished into the surrounding night.
Sonja bent down and retrieved the rose and envelope. On closer inspection, she saw that the stem of the rose was made from braided strands of barbed wire and that the petals were fashioned of black velvet. The wax seal on the envelope bore the symbol of Fenris swallowing the Moon. Inside was a folded piece of parchment on which was written in a spidery hand: Meet me at the Cherub Room.
The Cherub Room was a trendy nightspot just off Columbus Circle. It catered to the bridge-and-tunnel crowd that poured into the city each weekend in hopes of rubbing elbows with the rich and famous or, failing that, experiencing what would pass for decadence in Hackensack. The overall decor was that of leopardskin, pink vinyl, gold paint and winged babies. And lots of `em. Pudgy little dead babies were everywhere: shouldering cornucopias with speakers hidden inside them, cuddling bunnies, holding aloft mirrors, peeing champagne into silver basins. Gilded baby dolls outfitted with cardboard wings hung from the ceiling. The overall feeling was not unlike being sealed alive inside a box of Valentine's Day chocolates.
The club was crowded and the music cranked up loud enough to render normal conversation impossible. Suspended over the dance floor were a couple of dancer cages, where young women and men dressed in silver lame thongs and tinfoil halos gyrated to the techno beat.
Sonja was uncertain why Morgan would have chosen this place, of all the clubs in Manhattan, for their rendezvous. Maybe, she pondered, he was afraid of what she might do to him without witnesses.
She felt him the minute he entered the room. It was a strange sensation, as if someone had thrown a switch and completed a current, bringing longdormant machinery humming to life. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and her lungs felt suddenly heavy, as if the oxygen in the room had been miraculously transformed into mercury. The space between them ignited with the energy that exists between Maker and Made, Creator and Creation. It was as if they were two powerful magnets-both pulling and pushing against one another. Sonja scanned the room and saw him standing in the far corner, beside an oversized papier-mâché Cupid armed with an actual bow and arrow.
Although she knew she had marked him during their last confrontation, her mental image of Morgan was still that of the smiling, debonair bon vivant who had first swept Denise Thorne off her feet twenty-five years earlier. She was shocked to see the full extent of his wounding. The left side of his face was pulled into a permanent sneer, and the eye was as gray and sightless as a baked fish's. Where once his hair had been dark, now a shock of white sprouted from his left temple. He still wore an expensive and exquisitely tailored suit, which somehow glamorized his scars, turning mutilation into a fashion statement.
She waited for the expected surge of hate to fill her, but in its place was something else. She had hurt him. Humbled him. The snip of a girl he had tossed away like so much trash had left her mark on him, repaying him for dismissing her so callously. There was no rage inside her - only a grim sense of satisfaction and something that felt almost like - pity?
The thumping of the disco, the flashing of the lights, and the smell of sickly sweet mixed drinks reminded her of the night she'd first met him. The night a naive young heiress made the mistake of getting a little too drunk and allowing herself to be separated from her friends, then made the mistake of getting into a car with a strange man. She'd gone to the bar for a taste of the forbidden fruit of adulthood, only to find herself swept away on the wings of storybook romance.
She'd known the clumsy kisses of school friends, but Morgan was something else entirely. What he promised was true romance - the kind every woman dreams of. She was the ashpail princess and he the noble knight. When Morgan looked at her she felt so beautiful, so special.... And it had nothing to do with her daddy's millions, since he was rich himself. He loved her. Just her, and nothing else.
When he promised to treat her to a night unlike any other, she eagerly accompanied him into the back of his chauffeured Rolls. Where he raped her and drank her blood and threw her, naked and dying, onto the streets of London.
Sonja began moving in his direction, wondering with each step when the hate that had been her constant companion would boil forth, filling her guts with its familiar beat.
Morgan stiffened as she drew near, his leer belying the caution in his remaining eye. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her presence.
"I'm glad you're here."
Sonja sensed the chimera - the part of Morgan's self she had absorbed years ago - shift inside her head. It sensed its old master. She felt as if thousands of ants were crawling over her skin. She had to fight to keep from twitching and shaking like a junkie in need of a fix. Being so close to Morgan made her muscles vibrate like the cables on a suspension bridge in a high wind.
As if in response, the hate finally made its appearance, circling her brow like a crown of thorns, the weight of it digging through her skull and into her brain.
Kill him, whispered the Other, its voice urgent. Kill him now and get it over with. Sonja was amazed to feel fear surging through her vampiric half. She wiped at the cold sweat heading her upper lip. "I'm going to kill you, Morgan."
"You'll try. But not here." He gestured to the dance flour. "It's far too crowded to be discreet."
Screw discreet, nail him now. Nail him before he tries to call the chimera back.
"Why do you insist on fighting me, child?" Morgan's voice was mellifluous, the tone as soothing as a cool hand on a fevered brow.
"You know damn well why."
"You still consider your condition a curse? I gave you immortality - freedom from the ravages of old age and disease!"
"I didn't ask to be made into one of you. I didn't ask for any of this-" Morgan arched an upswept brow. "Didn't you? There are those humans our kind hunt down as prey - and there are those who seek us out. You know that as well as I do, child. You responded eagerly to my seduction. I used no beguilement, no mind control."
"You can't blame me! You can't blame me for what happened!" she hissed.
Morgan's smile tried to be charming, but the scars twisted it into something else. "I'm not blaming you, child. After all, you are not the girl who followed me into the London night, are you? You are not Denise Thorne - but a creature of my seed, shaped in my image, born within her dead flesh."
"She never died."
"Then where is she now?"
Sonja blinked, uncertain of how to answer.
Stop playing word games and kill him! The Other's voice was close to hysteria. He's playing with you - trying to lull you off guard! He's trying to throw a glamour over you!
Morgan reached into his breast pocket and produced a small jeweler's case. "I realize now that what I did was wrong, horribly wrong. I don't mean turning you. That I do not regret. However, I was a fool to throw away such an exquisite thing as you. I must have been deluded indeed to not recognize you for what you are-" He held the case out to her, flicking it open with his thumb. Lying on the red velvet interior was a crucifix made of sterling silver, fashioned to look like entwined thorns. "Please, I want you to take this as token of my shame - of my idiocy. What I did in London was a cruel and thoughtless thing. I was your sire and I turned my back on you. You have every right to hate me for bringing you into a world without pity. But I want to try to change that, my child."
Sonja stared at the crucifix and the length of black velvet ribbon that held it. Morgan's voice was thick and sweet in her ears, like honey dripping from the comb.
