In the Blood (25 page)

Morgan's lips pulled into a thin, cruel smile. "If I am not your father, who is? God?

Satan? A honky from Watsonville out for cheap pussy? Is this how you show your
gratitude? By running away and killing my servants? Is this how a daughter repays
her father for all the things he's done for her?"

"Done
to
her, you mean!" Her lower lip was trembling, but the hate in her eyes
remained undimmed.

"Come now, my child! This isn't the way I want things between us! You're mixed-up. Confused. You don't know what to believe, do you? Your friend abandoned you,
didn't she? Left you alone and helpless. She talked about freedom and free will,
didn't she? Those are nice, pretty-sounding words, aren't they? But they're just
words, simple-minded phrases deluded humans use to coerce themselves into
believing themselves masters of their destiny. They are meaningless!" He opened his
arms wide. "Come home with me, Anise, and all things will be forgiven."

Anise felt her defenses start to melt. She still hated Morgan, but part of her wanted
to rush into his strong, protective arms. Thinking on her own and deciding for
herself was exhausting, even frightening. Things would be so much better if she
refuted the pretense of free will and let Morgan take control. It would be so easy to
say yes and surrender, to become like him__

No! That's what he wants! That's what he's betting on! Stay angry! Stay angry! Don't

let him win! Be strong, woman! If not for yourself, for Lethe!

"You can't fool me anymore, Morgan. I can see you for what you really are. I'm not
going back!"

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The pyrotic, its skin the color of barbecued meat, wandered over to the corner of the
room where an old black-and-white Zenith television sat bolted atop a pedestal. The
pyrotic's eyes resembled hard-boiled eggs, but this did not seem to impinge on its
ability to navigate. It punched the television's ON button and stepped back.
The

Beverly Hillbillies
theme song blared from the TV's speakers at full volume:

"Come and listen to my story 'bout a man named Jed, Poor mountaineer barely kept

his fam'ly fed... "

Morgan spun around, his face livid. "Turn that shit off! Renfield! Get that damned
elemental away from that accursed idiot box!"

The pyrotic showed its displeasure by making a noise like live steam escaping a
radiator. The renfield grunted and moved to turn off the television. There was a
loud crack and the side of the renfield's head disappeared.

Morgan spun to face Anise, his ears ringing from the gunshot. The muzzle of a .38

was leveled directly between his eyes.

"Put the gun down, Anise."

"My name's Lakisha!"

Morgan pretended not to hear her. "I said put down the gun,
Anise. "

She fired the gun a second time, but her hand was shaking too hard. The slug struck
Morgan in the shoulder instead of the head.

"Nice try, Anise. But no cigar."

"I told you my name's Lakisha, asshole!" she hissed, and shoved the gun in her
mouth and pulled the trigger. Her head opened like a cracked piñata, spraying the
wall with the raw material of memory. Morgan stared at the mess dripping from the
walls as if divining omens.

Wretched Fly removed the bloodstained bundle from the bed and held it out to his
master for inspection. Morgan grimaced at the sight of the mutant baby's hideous
puckered mouth and skeleton nose and snatched the offending corpse from
Wretched Fly, shaking it like a rag doll.

"This is Howell's doing! He promised that the child would be able to pass for
human! The bastard lied to me! Lied! I'll make that junkie pay for this!" He hurled
the dead baby at its mother's corpse, turning his back on the tableau in disgust.

"Torch it!"

The pyrotic stepped forward. Its mouth dropped open and a gout of liquid flame
leapt free, consuming the bed and its lifeless occupants. The smell of burning
mattress and roasting meat filled the room.

Morgan stepped outside Room 20, scowling at the night sky without seeing it. His
mouth tasted of ash. There was only one thing that could wash away the bitterness
of failure-the blood of his enemy.

"Hey, you! Keep your hands where I can see "em!"

An elderly man armed with a double-barreled shotgun hurried across the parking
lot from the motel's office. His bathrobe flapped open, exposing faded pajama
bottoms and a stained T-shirt.

"What in hell's going on here? I heard gunshots! Where's the Smiths?"

"Smiths?" Morgan raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"You know who I'm talking about-the young couple that rented Number 20. You

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better answer me, fellah, or I'm liable to blow a hole in you! I ain't one to be fucked
with!"

"Indeed."

Wretched Fly and the pyrotic stepped out of the motel room to stand beside
Morgan. The motel manager frowned and took an automatic step backward. His
eyes widened as he caught sight of the flames reflected in the windows.

"You crazy bastards set fire to my motel!"

Morgan, bored with the confrontation, turned his back on the man. "Take care of
him," he yawned, waving a languid hand at his servants.

"Where you think you're going, asshole?" The manager's voice wavered as he
fought to control his anger. He stepped forward, shouldering the shotgun. "You're
staying put until the state police get here!"

The pyrotic belched and a fireball the size of a ripe cabbage struck the old man in
the chest. He dropped his weapon and clawed at the flames eating his clothes and
skin, spreading it to his hands and upper arms.

Screaming like an angry blue jay, the old man threw himself to the ground and
rolled in the dirt and gravel, spreading the fire to his pajama pants and hair. During
his final, conscious moments, he tried to drag himself back the way he came, his ears
filled with the sound of his own flesh hissing and crackling like bacon fat in a frying
pan.

He succeeded in crawling nearly six feet before he was completely consumed.

The pyrotic squatted next to the smoldering remains and inhaled the blue-white
flames back into his nose and open mouth. The intense heat had reduced the old
man's skull to the size of an orange. Wretched Fly signaled impatiently for the
elemental to get back in the Mercedes.

Morgan slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari, sneering at Anise's crude hotwiring
job. Within seconds he was speeding down the highway, the Rolls and Mercedes
following in his wake. The night was young and there was much to done.

17

"What the hell are we gonna do with a baby, for crying out loud? I don't know the
first thing about what they eat or nothing!"

Lethe, nestled in an impromptu bassinet made from clean towels and an open
bureau drawer, waved her arms and kicked her legs as if semaphoring her
agreement with Palmer's statement.

"Well, here's where you're gonna learn. I went down to the all-night drug store on
the next street and picked up this crap." Sonja tossed a box of disposable Pampers
at him like a medicine ball.

"You think I'm taking care of that, you're crazy!"

"You can't stick the kid in a tube sock and hose her off once a week. I bought
enough canned formula to last her a few days, plus a couple of bottles and a pacifier.

You can cook her formula on this hot plate..."

"The hotel rules say no cooking in the rooms."

"The old gent behind the desk didn't bat an eye when we came back from our

'winery tour' with a newborn baby. What makes you think the management is going

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to notice a lousy hot plate? Look, we promised Anise we'd take care of her- "

Palmer held his hands up, palms outward, and shook his head from side to side.

"You
promised, not me! I'll fight fuckin' ugly monsters for you, babe. I'll even allow
myself to be involved in breaking and entering and murder charges. But I am not
changing diapers!"

"Palmer!"

"Just because I fucked you doesn't mean I want to start a family, especially like this.

Besides, how do you know she won't turn into something like the first one?"

"She's just a baby!"

"If she's just a baby, what is it with her eyes?"

Lethe gurgled and kicked and waved her arms even more. Sonja plucked at her
ward's makeshift blankets. She'd had little experience with children, especially ones
so young, but she was certain Lethe was unusually active for a baby not even a day
old. She'd be damned if she was going to mention that to Palmer. He was spooked
enough as it was. Lethe peeked out of her swaddling with golden, pupil-less eyes and
gave Sonja a toothless grin.

"So, okay, her eyes are screwed up! Is that a fuckin' crime?"

"No, but you weren't the one her evil twin tried to turn into Gerber's strained
beef!"

"I'm not asking you to take her to raise, damn it! I'm just asking you to baby-sit. If
we're going to be on a jet to the Yucatan within the next twelve hours, I've got to
check with a few of my... connections. And I sure as hell can't do it dragging around
a papoose."

"Okay, I'll do it. But just this once!"

"Great. I'll try to be quick about it. Everything you need for fixing her bottle should
be in the bags. Just read the labels on the can-they're pretty self-explanatory."

Palmer grimaced at Sonja's back, then turned his disapproving gaze to Lethe.

"Sure, you're cute
now.
But if you try anything funny, you're going out the fuckin'

window. You got that, munchkin?"

Lethe cooed and yawned, exposing soft pink gums.

"Yeah, well, don't you forget it."

The pay phone stood on the corner of Guerrero and Twenty-First Street, opposite a
television repair shop with dusty windows full of half assembled or partially
demolished Philcos and Zeniths. The black-and-chrome face of the phone was
covered with graffiti, the coin box had been forced and a yellow adhesive strip
bearing the legend out OF order was plastered over the coin slot.

Sonja scanned the corner. Across the street, a couple of young men dressed in
bomber jackets and tight-fitting leather pants strolled arm in arm, walking their
Pomeranian, while an intense-looking middle-aged man with heavy eyebrows
ducked into an espresso bar. Somewhere a police siren wailed, throwing echoes
against the hills.

Satisfied the area was clean, she sauntered from her watching place inside a
doorway and picked up the dead receiver. The plastic was cold and hard in her
hand. Sonja placed the earpiece to her head and casually stabbed the pay phone's

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push buttons. There was stone silence, then the sound of a receiver half a country
away being lifted off its hook.

"Yeah?" A heavy, almost liquid voice.

"I want to talk to Malfeis."

The voice on the other end slurped. "Yeah. Sure. Who should I say is calling?"

"The Blue Woman."

"Sonja! Chicky-baby! Sorry 'bout the slug. Breakin' in a nephew-what can I say?

So, what can I do for you, sweet thing?"

"Got tired of being a skatepunk already, Mai?"

"Hey, what can I say? I like innovation as much as the next guy, but a classic's a
classic!"

"Mai, I need help . . "

"Help?"

"Mai, I'm between your cousin and the deep blue sea! I've put my foot in it big
time! I need magic, man!"

"What about Li Lijing?"

"He's just an alchemist, Mai. I'm talking serious mojo!"

"Uh, look, sweetie, I wish I could help you out, but-"

"But what?!"

"I don't know what you did out there, cupcake, but Morgan's stock's falling like a
lead turd in the Mariana Trench! And a lot of the big boys in the First Hierarchy
aren't exactly overjoyed, if you catch my drift. I'm in deep with the family over this,
Sonja. I'm not supposed to give you the time of day, much less tell you where to
score."

"Mai! Damn you, you know I'm good for it! I can get you Ed Gein's brain- pureed.

How about Mengele's jawbone? The real one, not that fake they dug up in South
America. C'mon, man! I'm not shitting you-I gotta score!"

"Okay. Tell you what-since you've been such a good customer in the past, I'm
gonna help you out. But just this once,
capisce?
I don't want it getting around I'm a
soft touch."