In the Blood (31 page)

The two-headed monster stepped forward, hoisting the ax that grew out of its left
wrist in place of a hand. Palmer wanted to turn and flee the abomination before
him, but he remained frozen, unable to move.

Seward's lips were moving; whether he was praying or arguing with its grotesque
twin, Palmer couldn't tell. As if in reply, the ax-murderer's head sneered and
emitted more high-pitched titters. Suddenly Seward's head turned and bit its
neighbor on the cheek, ripping free a wad of flesh. The ax-murderer's head gave a
high-frequency wail that made Palmer's nose bleed, and returned the attack in kind,
scissoring off the ear nearest its mouth. Cowed, Seward's head did not attempt any
further interference.

The ax-murderer's head leered at Palmer and lifted the ax-hand higher, until it
almost brushed the ceiling. Palmer was not sure if the creature standing before him
was flesh and blood or composed of ectoplasm, but it was evident the ax, at least,
was solid enough to do its job. Palmer stared at the fiend advancing on him like a
steer awaiting the butcher's knife.

Just as the ax was ready to fall, a bright light appeared between Palmer and the
two-headed thing. The creature balked, uncertainty crossing the ax-murderer's face.

Steward's head seemed to take strength from the light and plunged the fingers of its
right hand into the ax-murderer's eyes. The beast shrieked even louder than before
and Palmer felt blood seep from his ears.

The two-headed thing was gone. In its place stood a woman dressed in clothing
better suited to an Ibsen play, her back to Palmer.

"Oh, thank God! Lady? Lady, I need your help-"

The woman turned to face Palmer, her left eye swinging loose from its socket.

Palmer screamed and ran. He had to find his way out of the House of Horrors. He'd
been too long at the fair. It was time to go home. He bolted from the death-room
and headed down a corridor lined with doors of varying shapes and sizes, the sound
of his own shouts for help filling his ears.

Suddenly one of the doors opened outward and a golf club cut the air with a wicked
slicing sound.

The last thing Palmer saw before the darkness claimed him was the word DUNLOP.

20

"Home again, home again, jiggety-jig," Sonja muttered as she stepped from the
secret passage into the suite of rooms Fell had once called home.

"I never knew this corridor existed. I don't think Morgan or the renfields did,
either," Fell marveled.

"I suspect it was left over from when the carpenters were working on the house. It's
only natural for a place like this to have secret passages. The building's probably
lousy with them."

Fell picked up a paperback from its resting place on the table next to Anise's old

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easy chair. He fanned the pages and put it back down.

"It's hard for me to believe that she's really gone. I can still smell her . . "

"Fell, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Torture yourself."

He didn't seem to hear her. Leaning his forearms against the mantelpiece, he
studied the room's reflection in the mirror that hung over the fireplace, as if trying
to catch a glimpse of the past in its depths.

"Do you know what the last thing she said to me was?" he asked, nodding at the
room in the looking glass. "She told me this was a cage. A prison. She was right, of
course. I can see the bars now. But for a short while, this was the happiest place on
earth. I..." He shook his head, refusing to look his companion in the face. "Damn
you, Sonja! Why did you have to come into our lives? Why did you force this
knowledge on us?"

"I wish I could say I did it because truth is freedom, and living in ignorance is the
same as living in slavery. But that would be a lie. I did it because I wanted to ruin
Morgan's plans. I wanted to hurt him where he'd feel it. And I wanted you for
myself."

Fell frowned. "Me?"

"And Anise. And the baby. I-I've been alone for a long, long time. I was hungry for
the company of my own kind. Sometimes loneliness makes you do things that are
selfish. Forgive me."

"What's there to forgive? Besides, even if your reasons weren't altruistic, what you
said about ignorance and slavery is still the truth."

"I hate to bring this up, but we can't waste any more time talking about our
feelings. I know coming back here is painful for you, but we've got to dispatch
Morgan as soon as possible. He's here, somewhere in the house. I can feel him."

"I can feel him, too." Fell's mouth pulled into a grimace. "I'm gonna fix that
bastard but good."

Sonja placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Kid, it's good that you hate Morgan.

But be careful with your anger. Don't let it get out of control. Vampires feed on
powerful emotions like hate and rage. It makes them stronger. Remember what
happened at the bar? You've got to shield yourself from Morgan. I can't do it for
you. It will be your will against his. You have to be strong, Fell. As strong as
Morgan-if not stronger."

"I know. I may be inexperienced, but I'm not stupid."

She was here. He sensed her presence in the house the way a spider monitors the
strands of its web. How could he have slept, unaware, when first she walked these
halls? How could he have been insensate to anything so exquisitely lethal?

At first he'd refused to believe she could be one of his by-blows. But now he knew it
to be true. His hand had sown this dragon's tooth. In a perverse way, he was proud
of her. Even from a distance there was no mistaking her potential strength. She was
a thing of fatal beauty, to be feared and admired, like an unsheathed samurai
sword. To know that he had played a role in creating such a fearsome and deadly

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creature was flattering. Such a pity she must be destroyed.

The breeder, Fell, was with her, his presence nearly overshadowed by the female's.

Interesting. There seemed to be something added to the youth's psychic echo-a trace
of will, similar to that in the rogue. But it was only a hint, nothing more. Most
interesting. If the breeders and their gets harbored potential similar to the rogue's,
then Howell's sabotage had, in the end, been in Morgan's favor. What was the
advantage to siring a new race of vampires, only to have them destroy him along
with his enemies?

Morgan rose from the ornately carved rosewood chair in his study and opened the
antique chifforobe with the blacked-out mirror. If this was to be a formal
confrontation, the least he could do was dress for the occasion.

"Who are you? I don't recognize you as being one of Morgan's lickspittle servitors.

Answer me! I didn't hit you with the golf club
that
hard!"

Palmer opened his right eye. He tried to open the left, but it was swollen shut. His
left cheek rested on rough wooden floorboards. He moaned as he struggled to sit up.

"Wh-where?"

"Never mind where you are! Who are you?" A wan, balding man dressed in a grimy
lab technician's coat, a stethoscope looped around his neck like a pet boa
constrictor, thrust his unsmiling face into Palmer's field of vision. The stranger's
forehead bulged slightly, as if his forebrain was slightly too large for his skull. His
eyes, amplified by coke-bottle glasses, regarded Palmer with a detached, insectile
interest. There was something familiar about the stranger Palmer could not quite
place.

"I'm not one of Morgan's renfields, if that's what you're thinking."

The moon-faced stranger grunted in distaste and swiftly shoved his hand inside
Palmer's trench coat, removing his wallet and scanning the identification inside. His
eyebrows lifted slightly at the sight of Palmer's private investigator's license.

"Hey! Whattaya think you're doing?" Palmer reached for his gun, only to find the
holster empty.

"Looking for this?" The stranger extracted Palmer's Luger from one of the
oversized pockets of his lab coat. "I might not be a private detective, Mr. William
Calumet Palmer, but I know enough to disarm a potential enemy." He snorted and
tossed the wallet into Palmer's lap.

"I'd rather you not mention the 'Calumet' part, whoever you are," Palmer sighed,
cradling his bleeding head. He peered up at the smirking man leaning against the
metal table littered with glass beakers and Bunsen burners. "I told you who I am,
now who the fuck are you? And why did you smack me in the head with a golf
club?"

"I am Dr. Howell, late of his diabolical majesty Lord Morgan's service." He bowed
at the waist with the heel-clicking propriety of a Prussian nobleman. "Forgive me
for introducing myself in such a fashion, but I had no way of knowing you weren't
one of Morgan's minions."

Suddenly Palmer realized where he'd seen Howell's face before. "I saw you looking
out of one of the windows the other day while I was surveying the house!"

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"Interesting. And not impossible. But why are you here, Mr. Palmer? This is hardly
a place for sightseeing."

"I'm trying to find someone."

"Indeed. Who might that be?"

"A friend. A woman."

Howell's smile widened as his eyes narrowed. "The same woman who entered the
house earlier? Don't look so surprised-there's little that goes on in Ghost Trap I
don't know about. So, you
are
a renfield!"

"Stop calling me that!" Palmer snapped. "I'm my own man, damn it! Unlike some!"

He groaned as he got to his feet. Howell watched him cautiously but did not
threaten him with the gun. "Now, will you help me
or-Jesus Christ!"

Resting next to Howell's elbow was a ten-gallon jar full of a clear liquid, in which
was suspended the monster-fetus Palmer had seen Anise give birth to- and kill-earlier that same evening, its umbilical cord attached to a pulpy yolk sac. The sight
of the little bastard made Palmer's leg ache.

"Ah! You've noticed my friend, have you? How do you like him, hmmm?" Howell
leaned forward, eyeing the monstrosity in the glass jar with something resembling
affection. "He was the prototype for a parasite I succeeded in sneaking into sweet
Anise's unhallowed womb." He removed a syringe from one of his pockets and
tapped the side of the jar with it. To Palmer's amazement, the fetus opened its eyes,
revealing the cold, needful stare of an insect.

The sight of Howell's face, distorted by the glass and the synthetic amniotic fluids
that sustained it, caused the fetus to pucker and extend its hideous tube-like mouth.

Howell chuckled indulgently. "How cute! It thinks it's feeding time!"

"You're responsible for that... that thing Anise gave birth to?"

Howell gave Palmer a sharp glance. "You saw it?"

"We met." Palmer grimaced, rubbing his wounded calf.

"Hideous as it may be, it was my attempt to make amends for betraying my race. I
bioengineered the creature from the breeders' own sperm and ovum, so there would
be little chance of rejection, then implanted it in Anise during a prenatal exam. I
performed the operation under Morgan's very nose!" Howell's face twisted into a
rueful grimace. "He may be wise in the ways of the supernatural world, but when it
comes to science and the technologies, he's no more than a potato-munching
peasant, fearful of the shaman's magic!

"The parasite was supposed to devour the original and take its place. However, at
my last prenatal checkup, there were still two heartbeats. If necessary, I was
prepared to take care of the little Antichrist myself during its delivery." He leaned
forward, eyeing Palmer intently. "You were there, weren't you? At the birth? The
child is dead, is it not?"

"Yes. It's dead," Palmer lied.

Howell smiled grimly. "Good! Good! Should the breeders' child have thrived,
mankind's future would have been seriously endangered!"

"How so?"

"The breeders can only reproduce with others of their kind, which are- mercifully-rare. But their child would have the ability to mate with normal humans and still

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breed true. Morgan-the preening fool-had no idea of what he was unleashing!"

"And your changeling was an improvement?"

Howell shrugged. "The creatures are designed in such a way that they have no
means of eliminating wastes, once severed from the umbilical cord. The pathetic
little monsters are destined to die of uremia within a day or so of their birth."

Palmer shook his head in an attempt to clear the ringing from it. He groaned as his
vision swam.