In the Blood (15 page)

Howard nodded weakly. "Look, I can explain-"

"I'm sure you can. But you needn't bother. I understand all too well. Not all
vampires are bloodsuckers. Only the more primitive species feed in that manner.

Vampires as old and as powerful as Lord Morgan require far more refined
sustenance. They feed on human despair, hate, fear, anger, frustration, greed,
cruelty, madness... And what better breeding ground than some festering hellhole of
a slum, where rats bite babies, old women are murdered for their social security
checks, pregnant women smoke crack, children are abused, women are raped and
beaten by the men they love?" She smacked her lips and patted her belly in a broad
parody of hunger. "That's good eating!"

Palmer snorted in disgust. "Fuckin' traitor!"

Sonja nodded in agreement and leaned forward, fixing Howard with her unseen
stare. "Do you know what humans such as yourself are called? By the Pretending
races, I mean, not your own species. No? You, Mr. Howard, are a bellwether. Some
would prefer the term Judas goat. Bellwethers willingly lead their fellow humans
onto the killing floor in exchange for a reward from the butchers. Bellwethers like to
think themselves immune. But all that means is that, once their usefulness is at an
end, they are the last of the sheep to die."

"He-he's staying in a place near the Marina. Where they're rebuilding from the
quake."

It did not surprise her that Morgan would make his nest close to a scene of
destruction and suffering. The psychic aftereffects of a catastrophe would be as
invigorating as sea air for such a creature.

"And his name?"

"I'm getting to that. He goes by the name of Caron. Dr. Joad Caron."

Palmer and Sonja exchanged glances.
"Doctor?"

"Yeah, he's a shrink."

"Jesus H. Christ!" Palmer turned around and walked out of the room. He had
enough of Russell Howard to last him several lifetimes.

Howard decided it was time for him to make his move. The woman was
preoccupied, staring off into space. He slowly reached for the drawer where he kept
his gun. If he was lucky, he could get the drop both on her and the middle-aged
punk in the front office. He'd learned enough about what the bitch called Pretenders
to know that a bullet in the brain killed them as dead as humans.

It would look funny to the cops, but he could claim they were hopped-up crack
addicts he'd surprised in the act of ransacking his office. Yeah, that would wash. If
there was too much of a fuss, Morgan could pull a few strings-or whatever the hell it
was he pulled-and quiet things down. Like he had during the Harvey Milk fiasco.

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He felt the cool metal grip of the chrome-plated pistol as his fingers wrapped around
it. Yeah, it would be easy. Easy as shooting clay pigeons.

Sonja Blue leapt onto the desk, snarling like a leopard freed from its cage. It
happened so fast it seemed as if she'd materialized out of thin air. One second she
was sitting in a chair three feet away, the next she was squatting in front of him like
a desktop gargoyle. She crouched on her haunches, her arms bent and hands
splayed across the expensive walnut finish. Her head was thrust forward, reminding
Howard of an attack dog straining on its leash. The crest on her head bristled like a
wolfs hackle. Howard wet himself.

She jerked the gun out of his unresisting hand, studying it with mild distaste. A .22

automatic. She barked a humorless laugh as she turned the toylike weapon over in
her hands. "You'd have to do better than that, buddy. I've metabolized more .22

slugs than Carter's has Little Liver Pills!" She hopped off the desk, leaving deep
scratches in the six layers of lacquered finish. After a moment's contemplation, she
tossed the gun back to its owner.

Howard was too surprised to do more than ham-handedly catch it. He stared at the
gun, then back at her. He set the weapon aside. He realized there was no way, even
at such close range, he would be able to shoot her and still live.

"You're holding out on me, Howard."

The realtor shook his head Vigorously in denial. "I swear I've told you everything I
know about Morgan. What else do you want?"

"The truth."

"I told you the truth!"

"Not all of it. You told me what identity Morgan is operating under, yes, and where
I can find him. But not where his lair is."

"Lair?"

"Yes, lair. Lions have them. Bank robbers have them. Every king vampire has one.

It is a place where they can retreat to, without fear of attack."

"Look, I told you he lives in the Marina area, somewhere off Fillmore . . ."

Sonja shook her head. "He moves every six months or so-you said so yourself. This
place you mentioned is a nest, nothing more. I want to know where he can be found
when he goes to ground."

"I told you everything-"

"Pick up the gun, Mr. Howard."

The crisp, surgical steel civility was back in her voice. Without wanting to, Howard
picked up the discarded .22 by its muzzle.

"Place your left hand on top of the desk, Mr. Howard. That's right. Now spread
your fingers. Yes, like that. Now wider."

Howard stared in horrified silence as his left hand did as it was told.

"Now, hit your left hand with the butt of the gun. Hard."

Howard emitted a strangled cry of pain and terror as the butt of the automatic
smashed into the middle of his hand. His fingers writhed, but he still could not move
his left hand no matter how hard he tried.

"Again."

Another powerful, hammerlike blow. Howard felt something like a green twig break

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in the middle of his palm. He tasted blood and realized he'd bitten through his lower
lip.

"Where is Morgan's lair?"

Howard whimpered.

This time the pistol smashed the knuckle of his index finger. Howard wondered if he
would pass out before every finger on his left hand splintered. He was afraid he
wouldn't.

"If you do not tell me what I want to know, Mr. Howard, I will make you pistol-whip your right hand with what remains of your left one. Then, if you're still being
uncooperative, I will have you start on your left hand all over again."

"Ghost Trap."

"Beg pardon?"

"Ghost Trap!"

The vampire looked genuinely puzzled.

"It's the name of a house, somewhere out in the Sonoma Valley. Supposed to be
haunted or something. Some crazy millionaire built it back before the Depression."

Howard's face was the same shade of yellow as his tie. Sweat dripped from the end
of his nose in greasy drops. "That's all I know about it. I swear." Tears leaked from
the corners of the realtor's eyes. "Jesus, isn't that enough? Please go away. Go away
and leave me alone."

"Very well. I see no reason to prolong our visit. But remember, Mr. Howard-you
cannot shake hands with the Devil and not get sulfur on your sleeve." With that, she
turned and disappeared into the reception area. A second later, Howard heard the
door to the outer office shut.

He slumped forward, cradling his head in his good hand. He was shivering and
sweating and stank of fear and urine. Part of him wanted to leap up and chase after
the intruders, pistol blazing. But then he remembered the hissing, needle-toothed
face thrust into his own slack, well-fed one, and his heart beat so fast it seemed to
stand still.

He found himself glancing at his Rolex. Only fifteen minutes had elapsed since the
moment he first saw the strangers in his reception room. Fifteen minutes. One
quarter of an hour. That was all it had taken to ruin the last seven years of his life.

Howard picked up the automatic by the grip this time, although it was sticky with
his blood.

Morgan would find out. He had no doubt about that. Although Howard was
without religion or faith, he knew there was a Devil. He knew it with a certainty rare
among even the most devout ecclesiastics. And no matter how fearsome and cruel
the creature that called itself Sonja Blue had been, he knew Morgan would be a
thousand times worse.

"Don't you think we were a little hard on that guy?" Palmer asked as they waited
for the elevator.

Sonja angled her head in his direction, but because of the glasses, Palmer was
uncertain as to whether she was looking at him or down the hall.

She shrugged. "He is a bellwether. A traitor to the species."

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"Yeah, but maybe he didn't really know what Morgan was."

"Oh, he knew. He knew all too well. Just as the president knows what's held in
check within the walls of the Pentagon. He simply found it advantageous to pretend
otherwise. He does not even have a renfield's excuse of having been twisted against
his will."

The elevator arrived empty. As Palmer stepped into the car he heard a muffled
report from the direction of Russell Howard's office. He looked at Sonja, who
shrugged yet again.

"No matter how far up a sheep climbs, it will never get beyond the killing floor."

9

"Are you sure this is the right address?"

Sonja nodded. "It's the only Dr. J. Caron listed in the phone book. What's the
matter? You weren't expecting a gothic castle with gargoyles and a moat, were
you?"

"No, but I thought it'd look, you know,
different
somehow."

Sonja gazed at the building across the street from the rental car. She didn't want to
admit it, but she'd been expecting something different, too. The surrounding houses
reflected the Mediterranean revival architecture popular in the 1920s. The low,
pastel-colored single-family dwellings lining the curving streets hardly looked like
the kind of neighborhood to shelter a lord of the undead.

In the gathering dusk healthy-looking men and women, outfitted in expensive
jogging clothes with Walkman earphones clamped to their heads, shared the streets
with people walking their dogs. A few blocks over, newer, no doubt even more
expensive, buildings were being erected on the site of property damaged by the '89

quake. She had a hard time picturing Morgan strolling down to the corner grocery
for a six-pack of Calistoga Water and a package of squid-ink pasta.

"Wait a minute! Someone's coming out. Is that him?"

Sonja stared at the middle-aged man standing silhouetted on the front porch. He
was dressed in a charcoal gray suit cinched by old-fashioned leather suspenders. The
suit jacket hung over one forearm. His hair was graying at the temples and pulled
into a brief ponytail, his eyes shaded by lightly tinted aviator glasses.

She closed her eyes and pictured him as he'd appeared twenty years ago: a
debonair, jet-set English playboy bent on a wild weekend in Swinging London. His
strong, Gary Grant-like features rippled, revealing glowing eyes and sharp fangs.

She could hear the sound of his laughter as he forced her to take his cold member
into her mouth. She pulled herself free of the memory before she relived the agony
of simultaneous penetration.

She was shivering and her breathing had grown ragged. Palmer stared at her.

"You all right?"

"It's him." She was surprised how hard it was for her to even speak. She felt
strangely feverish. She'd spent the better part of two decades looking for this
creature, and all she could do was stare at him. Now was her chance. She could leap
out of the car and nail him before he had time to reach the Ferrari parked in the
drive. But all she did was shiver and gasp like a malaria victim. It felt as if her

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marrow had been replaced with lead.

Morgan got into his sports car and pulled out into traffic. If he glanced in their
direction, neither Sonja nor Palmer noticed it. The minute the Ferrari disappeared
around the corner, the lassitude gripping Sonja loosened.

"Do you need to go to the hospital? You looked like you were going into shock."

She shook her head angrily, more to clear herself of the paralysis than to deny she
needed help. "I'm okay now... I was afraid something like that would happen."

"What do you mean?"

"Morgan created me. Part of me-the vampiric self-was made in his image. I'm a
member of his brood. The minute I saw him, I wanted to kill him. And I couldn't
move! It was like someone had thrown a switch, shutting off my nervous system."

"You mean you were hypnotized?"