In the Blood (28 page)

"That sting," the ogre grunted, cuffing Palmer with the back of his hand.

It was like meeting the business end of a weighted Louisville Slugger. Palmer sailed
across the double bed, landing on a small table in the corner that collapsed under
his weight.

Palmer struggled to sit up, his vision swimming from the blow. He cringed at the
sight of the ogre lumbering closer, displaying his fearsome shark's grin. Then, to his
amazement, the giant halted.

Keif tilted his head and sniffed the air with wide, gorilla-like nostrils. He beamed an
idiotic smile, a rope of thick saliva dangling from his lower jaw. The ogre's behavior
was gruesomely familiar.

"Baby. Keif smell
baby. "
A gray, forked tongue snapped out of the ogre's gaping

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mouth, licking cracked lips. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Palmer. "You got
baby around here?"

"No! I mean, of course not. What would I be doing with a baby? You must be
smelling the Joneses down the hall. They've got plenty of babies-at least three or
four! Nice big, fat, juicy babies. There are no babies here though! No, sir!"

The ogre didn't seem convinced. "Baby smell
strong."
He snuffled again, casting for
scent like a bloodhound. "Real strong!"

Lethe began to cry.

The ogre grinned in triumph. "Keif right! You got baby!"

"Leave her alone, damn you!"

But it was too late. Keif was already heading toward the connecting door, following
the infant's thin, kittenlike wail. Palmer pulled himself to his feet and staggered
after the ogre, trying to ignore the pain in his head. The door connecting his and
Sonja's rooms now stood wide open, yanked off its hinges.

Gasping for breath, Palmer stared in horror at the sight of the ogre holding the
crying baby upside down by her ankles like a live chicken.

"I said leave her alone! I'll go peacefully if you just leave her alone!"

The ogre didn't seem to hear him. "Yum-yum! Babies good eatin'!" Keif tilted his
head back and dropped his jaw, lifting the frightened infant at arm's length,
lowering her into his gaping maw.

Suddenly Palmer smells copal burning and he is back in the jungle. He is walking
along the narrow path that runs from his people's village to the natural spring that
provides them with their drinking and cooking water. His young son, Tohil, is
several lengths ahead of him. Tohil laughs and tosses rocks and sticks at the
monkeys and birds in the nearby trees. He turns to wave at Palmer with his small
six-fingered hand. Palmer envies the boy his spirit and energy. He has no doubt that
Tohil will grow up to be a fine ballplayer. Before he finishes the thought, the green
parts and jaguar leaps from its hiding place and grabs the startled boy. Palmer sees
the jaguar's sharp fangs sink into his son's shoulder, sees the blood leap from his
son's skin. Palmer hurls his spear at the great cat, but it is deflected by a branch.

Tohil screams his father's name as he is pulled from the path into the jungle. Palmer
runs to where the jaguar ambushed his only son, but all he finds are bloodstains,
bright as rubies, splashed across the broad leaves. The men from the village search
for Tohil the rest of the day, but the boy is never seen again.

"No!"

Grief and rage pulsed through Palmer. He seized the anger coursing through him
and channeled it outward, and it was as if he'd suddenly discovered a third arm,
invisible to him until that moment. Palmer squeezed the ogre's skull just as it was
about to drop Lethe, headfirst, into its razor-toothed mouth.

The ogre grunted as if stricken by a gastric attack. It staggered drunkenly, thick
black blood trickling from its nostrils and ears. Keif gave a bullfroglike croak and let
go of the squalling baby, pointed a trembling finger at Palmer and took an unsteady
step in the detective's direction.

"You..."

A pink fluid seeped from around the ogre's eyes. A froth of blood and mucus

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dripped from the corners of his mouth. Palmer took a step away from the advancing
child-eater.

"Did... this..."

Jesus, what does it take to kill one of these bastards? A direct nuclear strike?

Keif collapsed onto the floor, his brains reduced to a jellied consomme seeping from
his eyes and ears.

Lethe was still crying. Palmer stepped over the fallen giant and checked on the child.

Luckily, when Keif dropped her he'd been standing over the bed. The minute
Palmer picked her up, Lethe's wails died down to whimpers.

"There, there, sweetheart. Bad monster's gone now."

Or was it? If Pangloss was still hot for his bod, he was sure to send other operatives
once Keif didn't show up with the goods. He couldn't stay at the motel-that was
certain. Even if the management had overlooked the hot plate in the room, Palmer
doubted they were willing to ignore gunshots, a screaming baby and an undeniably
dead motherfucker.

Palmer reclaimed his Luger, wrapped Lethe as warmly as he could and put on his
coat. It looked like his only option was to take a cab out to the airport, sans baggage,
and wait things out there.

With Lethe tucked inside the front of his raincoat, Palmer felt like a pistol-packing
kangaroo. He could just imagine what some of his old cronies would have to say
about this. He hurried to the stairway exit just as the elevator down the hall pinged
open. He didn't look to see who-or what-got out.

Four flights later Palmer strolled through the lobby, trying his best to look
nonchalant while gasping for breath like a landed trout. The wizened Asian seated
behind the registration glanced up from a Cantonese newspaper, shrugged and
resumed his reading.

Once outside, the panic Palmer had been suppressing since the ogre had appeared
in his room finally kicked in. He hurried through the shadowy streets, no longer
sure of what he thought he was doing or where he was going. The plans he'd made
back in the hotel seemed to belong to someone else.

He'd become so distraught, he didn't realize he'd gotten lost until he turned a corner
and found himself at the end of a blind alley.

Palmer stared at the peeling movie posters and graffiti scrawls for a moment before
seeing them. His heart was beating way too fast and his breathing sounded ragged.

He wanted a smoke real bad, but he'd left his Shermans back at the hotel room.

Lethe, curled inside his coat, was a ball of warmth pressed against his belly. Feeling
her there reassured him and helped him swallow the fear rising inside him. Behind
him, a bottle skittered across pavement and broke.

There were several of them blocking the entrance to the alley, huddled together like
mounds of ambulatory garbage. Palmer felt the tension drain as he realized he was
looking at street people and not Pangloss's hirelings. Lethe stirred against him and
gave out a kittenish mew.

A man dressed in filthy castoffs with newspapers swaddling his feet shuffled
forward. To Palmer's surprise, the vagrant responded to Lethe's call with his own,
slightly deeper version. The others grouped behind him grew excited and muttered

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among themselves.

Palmer took a tentative step forward. "Uh, look, I know this sounds weird, but can
anyone here tell me where I am?"

An old woman, her hair the color and consistency of a dirty string mop, sidled closer
to him. She wore several layers of sweaters over a dingy, printed housedress. She
smiled, displaying bare gums and golden pupil-less eyes that glowed in the dark.

"Shit!" Palmer jumped back from the old woman, his skin tingling as if he'd just
received a mild electric shock. Although he'd never really seen them, he knew these
were what Sonja had referred to as seraphim.

The seraph with its feet wrapped in newspapers made a reassuring hand gesture,
then it spoke. From cracked, filth-caked lips rushed a mixture of crystal chimes, bird
song, silver bells and crashing tide. The beauty of the seraph's language brought
tears to Palmer's eyes. And even though he could not make out a single word, he
understood perfectly.

Nodding his assent, Palmer unbuttoned his coat and held Lethe so the assembled
seraphim could see her. They grew agitated and crowded in closer so that they could
touch her dusky baby flesh with their callused, dirty hands. Lethe did not seem to
mind and responded to their strange, ethereal language with her own, babyish
version.

The sweater woman made a sound like a dolphin and began spinning in place, like a
bedraggled whirling dervish. Soon the others joined in her dance. Palmer watched
in dumb fascination as blue-white sparks leapt from the twirling seraph's
outstretched hands and hair. Within seconds the ragged street people had been
transformed into pure light, spinning around him like luminous dust devils.

Palmer was so dazzled by the beauty of what was happening, he was caught off
guard when one of the light-beings danced forward and plucked Lethe from his
hands.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing! ? Give me back my baby!"

Lethe giggled and clapped her hands as she was lifted high into the air on a pillow of
colored lights. The other seraphim joined in, transforming themselves from electric-blue tornadoes to rainbow-colored clouds.

One of the seraphim twined about Palmer's shoulders, whispering to him in its
strange nonlanguage.

He need not fear for the child. She would be returned to him when it was safe.

Palmer tried to snare the bright intelligence with his own mind, but it was like
trying to trap quicksilver in his bare hands. The seraph eeled its way free of his
grasp, more amused than insulted by such a clumsy attempt at interrogation.

Lethe bobbed in the night air, smiling down at Palmer like an infant saint taken up
by angels. Within moments she had drifted away from view, like a balloon caught in
a jet stream.

Palmer knew he had nothing to fear from the seraphim. If anything, Lethe was safer
with them than with him. Now he was free to follow Sonja. Provided he could find
ready transportation.

As he left the alley he scooped up a loose brick, hefting it experimentally. It'd been a
long time since he'd boosted a car without his tools. Not since the Sex Pistols'

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American tour, at least.

The Tiger's Cage

Thou who, abruptly as a knife,

Didst come into my heart; thou who

A demon horde into my life

Didst enter, wildly dancing, through

The doorways of my sense unlatched

To make my spirit thy domain.

-Baudelaire,
The Vampire

19

Fell sat beside Sonja while she drove, his posture rigid. In his faded denims and
loose-fitting cotton shirt, he could almost pass for a college boy, provided you
ignored the bruises and dried blood on his face.

"I'm sorry I did those things to you, kid."

Fell started, blinking rapidly. "Huh? Oh. Don't worry about it. I understand what
you were trying to do." His hand strayed to where his ear had been. "Besides, it'll
all grow back, won't it?"

"In time. Your regenerative powers at this stage aren't so advanced that you'll
recover overnight, though."

"How long, then?"

"Give it a couple of days. Maybe a week."

Fell grunted and glanced at his warped reflection in the windshield. "What about
my eyes? When will my eyes be like yours?"

Sonja shrugged, trying to pretend it didn't matter. "Hard to say. It took mine
several years to mutate. Maybe yours never will. Maybe it's different with different
people. Who knows?" Sonja cleared her throat. "Uh, there's a few things I need to
know about Morgan's setup at the house, if you don't mind talking about it."

"Sure. Go ahead."

"Anise mentioned someone called Dr. Howell. Who is he? Another vampire?"

Fell looked back down at his hands. Without his realizing it, they had become fists.

"No. He's not a vampire. He's human."

"A renfield?"

"I've never given it much thought before, really. But, no, he's not a renfield. I guess
he's just a normal human. If you could call Doc Howell normal." Fell snorted. "He's
Morgan's pet mad scientist, although they don't get along too well-and Howell
openly loathes the renfields."

"Interesting. If that's the case, what hold does Morgan have on him?"